LARP In The Time Of Comfort

We live in a time of unprecedented interconnectedness, mixed with atomized loneliness. This globalized individualism and excess of opportunity must be resisted with hand-me-down leftist bromides, mixed with some pictures of Nazi statuary and quotes from George Fitzhugh.

"Propaganda is to a democracy what the bludgeon is to a totalitarian state." - George Fitzhugh
“Propaganda is to a democracy what the bludgeon is to a totalitarian state.” – George Fitzhugh
I am the Modern Prometheus.

I awake at 10 AM, stale Doritos and defeat on my breath. It’s not happening. Again.

Ennui wraps around my soggy, shitty figure as I blunder into the bathroom. I can hear the pernicious, hook-nosed businessmen cackling over their piles of reserve notes, as I again submit to their infantilizing hygiene ritual. I submit to being another flowery cog in their crushing, Capitalist machine.

The microwaved Hot Pocket tastes of molten cheddar and a benighted age. I burn my tongue, and chastise myself for allowing Consumerism to erode my self-restraint. I must resist my inevitable fall to Modernity.

I prostrate myself before the fiber-optic Jew, booting up the Social Network. I bear witness to hundreds of narcissists, unaware of the punishment they are receiving. Unaware of the world they are missing.

The Hot Pocket has finally cooled, though my burned tongue blunts the sensation of mass-produced flavor. A blessing and a curse.


I decide to update my status with an Aleksander Dugin quote. At least, I am pretty sure it was originally written by Dugin. Does originality even exist anymore, or are we not merely copies of copies of copies? Is there really a point to read or learn, when all we have is regurgitation?

I note that Pornhub is down, and accept that I must settle for XHamster. Another compromise in a world without absolutes.

After several hours of gaming I return to find that three people have liked my Dugin post. Four men against the world. A grim prospect, indeed.

I take a shit.

Another day over, I retreat to my dingy bedroom. I have survived another day, though I’m not entirely sure how.

Laying in my bed, nasheeds playing in the background, I mourn the death of man, the utter subjugation of the noble savage by Modernity. Nietzsche’s Blonde Beast, reduced to a soulless beta, a salaryman.

Technology has alienated and all but destroyed the social bonds of a more primitive golden age. Material excess has rendered the human actor all but obsolete. Truly, everything is meaningless. The Left has won. Reality has been supplanted by Absurdity.

Somehow, I find myself freed by this knowledge. I emerge from the existential crisis a better man. For tonight, at least.

I drift into a dreamless sleep. My EBT is refilled tomorrow.


Author image
Bulbasaur is a blue collar worker and part-time polemicist from the Southern U.S.