According to Oxford University’s criteria, I’m a big ol’ racist.

April 23rd, 2017 by Socially Extinct


The sheer unrepentant lunacy of institutions of so-called “higher learning” continues unabated, and in fact, continues to pick up the steam of pure ludicrousness, as evidenced by new guidelines bequeathed by the go-gooders from Oxford University’s “Equality and Diversity Unit.” (If you can persist past that galling bureaucrat-ese that has gone into plopping such a departmental moniker out of the collective asshole of academia).



Students who avoid making eye contact with their peers could be guilty of racism, according to Oxford University’s latest guidance.


The university’s Equality and Diversity Unit has advised students that “not speaking directly to people” could be deemed a “racial microaggression” which can lead to “mental ill-health”.



I avoid eye contact when at all possible.  On the train, in hallways at work, at the supermarket; fuck eye contact. I don’t care for people, and I sure as hell don’t need to be looking at them if there is no pragmatic reason to do so.


I maintain my own private, Rock of Gibraltar frame in most public realms. It’s a conscious choice of misanthropic derision and has nothing to do with latent autism or racism. My refusal to look at people is a source of strength and power and general refutation of all that is normal and safe.  It is me.


But I never knew. I guess I should thank the obsequious denizens at Oxford for labeling my predicament.





Peak Chelsea.

April 22nd, 2017 by Socially Extinct


I knew the time was coming.  It couldn’t persist in a “sane” world. The Junior Wenchess, who has long grated on the nerves of those of us on the Right, has begun wearing on the Left’s welcome as well.


This mug. This smug Clintonian bullshit and that platitude-spewing trap.


Is it possible someone could possibly be more intolerable and abrasive to the psyches of reasonable men everywhere than Hillary herself?


Turns out, it is possible;  and only possible from the spawn of the demoness herself.





How much of Chelsea will we be expected to endure?


Thankfully her Grand Canyon-sized piehole appears to be wearing thin on many people, including Vanity Fair’s T.A. Hank.


He writes:


Amid investigations into Russian election interference, perhaps we ought to consider whether the Kremlin, to hurt Democrats, helped put Chelsea Clinton on the cover of Variety. Or maybe superstition explains it. Like tribesmen laying out a sacrifice to placate King Kong, news outlets continue to make offerings to the Clinton gods. In The New York Times alone, Chelsea has starred in multiple features over the past few months: for her tweeting (it’s become “feisty”), for her upcoming book (to be titled She Persisted), and her reading habits (she says she has an “embarrassingly large” collection of books on her Kindle). With Chelsea’s 2015 book, It’s Your World, now out in paperback, the puff pieces in other outlets—Elle, People, etc.—are too numerous to count.



The crude conventional wisdom is that Bill Clinton craved adoration and Hillary Clinton craved power. But Chelsea Clinton seems to have a more crippling want: fashionability—of the sort embraced by philanthropic high society.



But let’s have a reality check. No one bothers George W. Bush’s daughter, Barbara Bush, who quietly works on her nonprofit, Global Health Corps. On the other hand, if you’re posing for magazine covers, granting interviews, doing book tours, placing your name on your parents’ multi-million-dollar foundation, and tweeting out daily to 1.6 million people, then—guess what—you’re a public figure. And if you’ve openly entertained the possibility of running for office if “it was something I felt called to do,” then assurances to the contrary aren’t quite good enough. You’re a public hazard.



Just when you thought perhaps the dark gaping yaw that portends yet more rampant Cult of Chelsea chanting from the mindless legions has finally closed up, there is always more.  Much more.


But perhaps reason is beginning to settle in and Chelsea’s spell is waning…


Now there is some hope I can get behind.



The lonely, skinny man.

April 21st, 2017 by Socially Extinct


I shall begin with a Shakespearian snippet from Julius Caesar.  Please humor me as we listen to Julius’ prescient appraisal of Cassius.




Let me have men about me that are fat;
Sleek-headed men and such as sleep o’ nights:
Yond Cassius has a lean and hungry look;
He thinks too much: such men are dangerous.


Fear him not, Caesar; he’s not dangerous;
He is a noble Roman and well given.


Would he were fatter! But I fear him not:
Yet if my name were liable to fear,
I do not know the man I should avoid
So soon as that spare Cassius. He reads much;
He is a great observer and he looks
Quite through the deeds of men: he loves no plays,
As thou dost, Antony; he hears no music;
Seldom he smiles, and smiles in such a sort
As if he mock’d himself and scorn’d his spirit
That could be moved to smile at any thing.
Such men as he be never at heart’s ease
Whiles they behold a greater than themselves,
And therefore are they very dangerous.
I rather tell thee what is to be fear’d
Than what I fear; for always I am Caesar.
Come on my right hand, for this ear is deaf,
And tell me truly what thou think’st of him.



And humor me a snippet of the life of Socially Extinct as he reached the train station this morning and realized he was empty-handed.


Of lunch.


I pulled into the stall, grabbed my courier bag, slammed the door shut, and sped off toward the train platform, and then the dread hit me.  Aw shit…don’t tell me.  My heart (and my stomach) thudded, bottomed out.


I ran back to my car and confirmed the passenger seat was indeed empty.  My lunch bag, with its sleek ice pack, nowhere to be seen.  In my head, an image intruded:  my forgotten lunch, sitting on the kitchen counter, smoldering, forgotten, uneaten, and all I had to my name for today’s weak feeding roster was a 7.5 ounce Braeburn apple and a peeled banana (4.2 ounces) hastily shoved into a small square Tupperware.


I would have fruit today, for lunch.  Is all.


The apple, about 100 calories, the banana, about 105.  I would consumer 205 calories in addition to the 483 I consumed at breakfast.


I was not crushed at the prospect of having nothing to feast on tis afternoon.  It’s only food.


Most people would resort to buying lunch in similar circumstances;  the possibility of missing one meal is alarming to most overfed Americans.  I was more crushed and irritated that I was wasting good food (ie, $$), though in reality, I should be able to salvage the 2.2 ounces of sweet potato, 3.4 ounces of green beans and cauliflower, 2.5 ounces of Brussels sprouts and 3.1 ounces of cucumber.  The lentil/brown rice concoction I cooked this weekend, not so fortunate.


All told, today’s caloric count would amount to about 690, short of my usual 900-1000 by the time I head home for the evening.  I splurged and had a Reese’s Peanut Butter “stick” – a wafer dipped in that timeless hybrid stew of chocolate and peanut butter, that of advertising lore.  Add another 110 calories for that extravagance.  Final tally:  800 calories.  This is my life.  I’m furiously OCD about my food consumption’s caloric value.  I’m not on a diet, I simply am hyper aware of what I eat and how much of it.


I’m severely thin right now;  not underweight but that is only because I lift weights and the muscle mass I’ve accumulated pushes me slightly over the 18.5 emaciation threshold.  I’ve more or less straddled skinny all my life.  Not always, but my natural, ectomorph physique tends toward the direction of skinny as long as I don’t consciously overeat.




>be skinny as shit and reclusive and a nervous early teen and with a bad case of acne vulgaris and if that’s not bad enough, the dr tells you and your mom that you’re too skinny and your chest is sunken and you should lift weights



Best damned advice I received as a pubescent 13-year-old runt, ever.


I had no idea what I was doing but I tackled those weights that my dad occasionally used in the garage.


I had no idea what sets or PR’s or laddering were, but I pushed some puny weights when I started lifting. Religiously, as I am prone to do. I devote myself to an activity and will pursue and maintain it with a fanatical allegiance.  I have never stopped lifting since.


>still skinny but continue to lift weights, gain weight in college, but it’s beer flab and around the midsection, and muscle, but I’m not overly concerned with muscle yet

>lose weight again, revert to “normal” frame skinny as shit 26-year-old and the girl who I’m pursuing, her friends tell her I’m too skinny we don’t click anyways, sayonara.


Being fat, obese, is never to be construed as advantageous in our world, but skinny works well for women, not so much for men. Men shouldn’t be skinny. Culture is more forgiving of a man’s extra heft but it does not humor very thin men and if you’re quiet and serious, you’re doubly cursed. Skinny and quiet are the twin towers of emasculation.



>be quiet be married be thinner and get fatter, be trying to bulk up and eat protein shakes and meat and everything and get fat, and weights increase, but can’t tie shoes without being slightly winded, become a sloppy fat-ass once the bulking regimen goes haywire like a cancerous cell



I eventually threw in the bulking towel.  I realized that looking beefy is a crappy look for short ectomorphs.


I embraced the skinny twirp waiting to be unleashed and I proudly buckled down on my nutritional intake.  I followed my instinct and only humored that which truly humored me;  I eschewed the superficial gluttony of hedonism and shallow excess that I wore like an expanding waistline.


To be thin was to be meticulous, rigid, vaguely humorless, morose, eagle-eyed, that which was me.


Skinny is not an isolated deviancy (especially in today’s world) but part of a broad tool-set of characteristics that render a man slightly aloof and disdainful and perhaps a little caustic.  The skinny man with nary a twinkle in his eye makes for a convenient villain.  Not jolly, not soft, but angles and cold bones and jutting edges contrived from within his angular frame.  This is the not the man people want to know, much less trust or commiserate with.


He’s the lonely, skinny man.







L.A. idiocy…is that redundant?

April 19th, 2017 by Socially Extinct


There’s lots of it to choose from here in these parts.


This is no country for smart men.






April 19, a day of frivolity and blood.

April 19th, 2017 by Socially Extinct




April 19 is a bleak day. It sets me on edge, even in good years.


There is nothing supernatural or otherworldly about it; just stark human nature which is prone to temporal symbolism.


April 19 is a fine day in the neighborhood. It’s a great day for frivolity and blood!


2017 is assuredly not a “normal” year.