The future is wasted on the now.

Tell me it isn’t so.

Prove me wrong.



We are lazy-asses.

The human species is lazy and slovenly and would rather dream about untested idyllic scenarios than to subvert the weight of its oppressive ego, if even for the moment.


Children as “meaning” for this vile thing called Life.

This is a rather clever meme. Despite the fact I don’t agree with it…completely.



There are, undoubtedly, many people who have children for that ethereal reason. And given this as the reason to spawn, I would presume it is not the most effectual manner of procreating.

Many, most, of us, have children in order to perpetuate our heritage, our family, our values and our culture. Perhaps this isn’t how most people would define or articulate their reason to have children, but it is the elemental motivation behind most pregnancies. Perhaps children give us “reason to live” after the fact, but surely, we don’t have children simply for such reason.

And besides, the Ponzi scheme metaphor presumes we all share this “give life meaning” value. A Ponzi scheme is dependent on the fact that everyone shares the same endgame aspiration.  But this is not the case.

Many of us simply don’t believe, or care, that life has any semblance of meaning. Seeking to imbue life with “meaning” by a conscious symbolic act of breeding is selling our significance short. The Ponzi scheme, in this case, dies upon the first entrant into the pool who does not care about squandering “meaning” on this vehicle called life.

Such people will have children for other reasons.  Who’s to say which reason is best, or worst, or most gracious?

Incel Chronicles: semantics of despair


I think back to my own elemental Incel stage of life which was eventually halted and spurned when I was about 26.

Wow!, sorry to hear that. So, I got ten more years of poon than you! And, at those young ages, sometimes as often as 3 times per day!

Yep, sad to say, I was Incel before Incel was cool.  So very hip of me.

Why are we so acronym-crazy in 2018?   I suspect it’s owing to our vocabulary laziness and impatience perpetuated by the expectation of instant results and answers.   Who has time to say involuntarily celibate when “incel” sounds so much slicker (and takes that much less time to say)?

In 1982, there were many men who lived quiet lives of involuntary celibacy.

That is an ageless affliction that spans back as long as males and females diverged along genetic differentiation (which was probably Day 1).  In 1982 we were just horny, blue-balled geeks who no one paid attention to, least of all women.  It was involuntary, it was celibacy, and it was ugly and pathetic.  There was no term for it;  we, everyone, simply knew what it was.  We were virgin losers who possessed no game, no looks, no attraction, for the opposite sex.

We were outcasts but our hate was channeled elsewhere in real life (which is all there was, really);  the internet is the greatest cathartic release valve mankind has ever invented.  If I had the internet in 1982, I suspect I would have been a wildly different man.  But instead, I learned to drink, I amused myself with video arcades, slasher movies, photography, my Commodore 64, baseball, and to a certain extent, carnal fantasy which provided very short-term satisfaction and release.  My life was full of the detritus of my asocial despair for I could not bare examining my stark loneliness for long without sinking into violent despair.

Today’s young men now have the entire world up their ass and in their business simply because they lack the good fortune to play a vibrant role in the mating game.  The repressed madness recirculates like a stale AC unit and alienation is amplified until the lunacy drives men to the violent ends of despondency.  Whereas women are now empowered, emboldened, men are subverted, imprisoned, voided of relevance.


It was 1982 or 1983.  A sunny afternoon.  I was sitting at one of those outside concrete benches that lined the trees of Cal Poly, Pomona.  It was a slow afternoon and I saw 2 girls walking in my direction from afar.  They seemed to be looking at me.  I turned away and acted like I was reading something.  As they approached, I heard one of them laugh as she told the other girl, “He looked better from far away.”

That quip clung to my soul like a fish hook for the greater part of my early 20’s.


Incels are not monsters.  They are lonely men who can’t compete in the mating dance.  They are lonely men castrated of masculinity with no options granted by this feminized society whereby they can reclaim their primal state.  We all must revert when progress is robbed from us.


Incel Chronicles: in praise of immorality, the path to freedom and self-sufficiency.

It’s a rare occurrence when a photograph is the kernel behind a post on Social Extinction.  Sure, there is that ever-expanding (sadly, alarmingly) plethora of meme posts, but I don’t consider those posts in the same vein because there is little prose.  The typical meme post is about the snapshot, and little else.  I have nothing to lend to the image, and like all good memes, nothing needs to be said.  The meme phenomenon is one which speaks for itself with little augmentation from human writers required, or desired.

My meme posts therefore are not to be considered “normal” posts.  Most of my posts, like 99.7% of them, are instigated by an idea, a thought, an experience, an event, outside the purview of readers.  So when a photograph comes along that strikes me as something metaphorical and symbolic of a concept that I’m driven to write about, I consider this a rare event.

And today’s rare event is this photograph I spied earlier.


Oh, this; just a dog fucking a pig.


Now, for some reason, the deviancy and absurdity of the dog humping the not-so-eager sow made me think of the plight of young Incels everywhere.

For, I too, when younger, before it had a name, was a fledgling Incel.   I will write more about that in another Incel Chronicles post, but for the purposes of this post, I’d like to simply say that I, Socially Extinct, was well on my way to Incelhood throughout most of the 1980’s, a period which equates to my late teens into my late 20’s.

The image of a dog humping a pig does not strike me as desperate, or hard up.

It strikes me as horridly immoral and vile.  The dog’s instinctive mounting drive, so strong and resolute, knows no boundaries of species or futility, but still the drive must be realized, unabated in the face of reason and anatomical genetics.  There is refusal to recognize naturally evolved limits to the animal’s innate urge to procreate.   This is immoral, if dogs can be accused of being “immoral,” a whole discussion in itself.

I think back to my own elemental Incel stage of life which was eventually halted and spurned when I was about 26.  The reason, the impetus behind my refusal to sublimate myself to a lifetime of pathetic, hopeless celibacy?

Why, immorality, of course.

I’m a very immoral person, but I believe I was even more immoral when younger.  My immorality has matured, tempered, mellowed.  My immorality is weathered and no longer robust, and in its frayed absence I now possess greater measures of morality which have thankfully stepped in and rescued my soul from perdition.

Ultimately, I believe too many of today’s Incels are battered by ineffectual levels of immorality.

Immorality is the key…the exit path whereby these young men may finally discover escape and a sense of sordid fulfillment, however distorted it may be.  Incels are too moral.  Excessive morality, perhaps heroic and virtuous in most respects, will do a young man no favors in his haste to manifest his manhood.

Oh…one thing.



Incel Chronicles: sheep gathering round the fire.

I’ve conspicuously (or perhaps, inconspicuously) refrained from writing about the Incel rage that is sweeping the country since the normies began paying attention when Alek Minassian, the “incel terrorist,” ran down and killed 10 people in Toronto on April 24. Since then I’ve witnessed people reacting with aghast dramatics upon learning the mechanics of the Incel phenomenon, courtesy of the MSM which harbors absolutely no agenda (snicker).

The histrionics go something like this:



Much pompous self-righteous shock is feigned and feathers are melodramatically ruffled in rhythmic unison with other like-minded drama artistes. Oh my, they whelp. Their tiny little mouths expand in disdainful sanctimoniousness as they exclaim familiar refrains of soulless shock.

And then the peanut gallery begins chiming in, a perfect dance of harmony and conformity and arrogance and book-licking.



The blind condescension and bullying arrogance are what I find truly “flabbergasting.”  So-called “dickish” behavior does not occur in a vacuum and it doesn’t take even a second-rate Psychology degree to understand that much distasteful behavior (especially in young people) is not a cause or elemental trait, but a reaction, or reflection, to poor treatment from authorities, peers and strangers in general.

The ingratiating patronizing of the masses to be witnessed in this Facebook post spawns mistreatment of those its condemns.

The dirge continues.



Some Eva cunt goes so far as to presume, “White dudes man,” despite the fact many of the high-profile “Incel killers” in the news have not been truly “White” in the sense her victimized liberal ass would rail against. Much of the newest anti-Incel rage is politically-grounded, specifically anti-Trump, as there is a general presumption that Incel-types are one-and-the-same with the alt-right.

The next comment drops a nugget:  he cites an anti-masculinity blog, We Hunted The Mammoth, as an informational reference for the other creatures in this comment string.  “Mammoth,” helmed by fat faggot, Dave Futrelle, delights in triggering the shit out of masculinists and conservatives.

The comments conclude with some chaos queen going on about how she feels “sick” and bemoans the black pill that was just shoved down her throat like a Somalian penis.

This world is so dark.

Yes it is, and your innocuous plodding along that consumerist path won’t begin to prepare you in the least.

And that which you don’t understand, you mock.  Don’t be so dickish!