jordan peterson

jordan peterson reached for his ankle holstered glock 42 as the transfeminist marxists pulled and bit at him. one of them forced peterson's jaw open and began to move it up and down, compelling him to form non traditional pronouns as he screamed in anguish. there was a roar at the end of the hall. the marxists backed away on all fours, hooting and screeching, some crawling up the walls and ceiling like spiders. peterson righted himself and checked the glock. one round. he thought about pinocchio and began to cry. something big, very, very big - listen, this thing was morbidly obese - blocked out the light. he caught a glimpse of its head, which receded into a mound of fat between its gorilla like shoulders. there were fragments of skull in the thing's purple hair. peterson squinted. one of the fragments still had an undercut. he almost vomited. the creature moved down the hall toward him, stopping every few feet to lean against a wall and catch its breath. this process took twenty minutes. peterson recognized its face and crossed himself. he had seen the monster in his dreams. in canada, it was called a wendigo. in america, lindy west. he placed the gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger.

peterson darts awake, his body drenched in sweat. his wife stirs beside him, caressing his back. "honey, good back to zhe." he grabs her by the collar of her pajamas, slapping her across the face. "what did you just say to me, you crazy harpy?" "go back to sleep! i said 'sleep!'" he throws her pathetic female form back upon her pink pillow. he grabs his robe -- a masculine blue -- and storms out of the room. in his office he clicks on his desk lamp, its cone of light illuminating his manuscripts on psychology and mythology and christianity. he gazes upon the title of a book by one of his masters, carl gustav jung. flipping through it his eyes fall upon passages about the "union of opposites," the "dual nature," masculine and feminine, of the psyche. he tosses the book down in confusion, in disgust. his hands shake as he turns the desk lamp to shine upon the wall where its beam is cast upon a poster of his creation. on the left, pink side, are pictures of girls and women; on the right, blue side, pictures of boys, men. the two sides are separated in the middle with a golden pillar with the word "scientia" painted upon it. he feels immense relief. just before turning off the light his gaze is accidentally caught by his open latin dictionary. his flips through it in haste and throws it down as if it were burning his hands. nowhere was he able to find the pronouns "him" or "her." some one must have pressured the publisher to remove them. just then he gets a text from one of his followers. it reads "they've made it to america" with an accompanying link. he opens the link. a trans teenager now legally lives with her grandma. he does a hard reset on his phone. as it reboots he peers through his blinds out of his window. "they're coming" he whispers.

they call an emergency session of the joe rogan experience. jordan peterson sits between gad saad and sam harris. peterson stops mid sentence and collects himself. he still isn’t used to just how tiny joe rogan is in person. at four foot two, rogan needs a booster chair to reach his console. his head glistens with sweat. like most things in life, he reminds peterson of pinocchio. “so ah...as I was saying, if you read ordinary men..you’ll...ah”. rogan stares intensely at a second monitor. “look at this fucking thing.” he spins the monitor around to face peterson. it’s a liveleak video of an orangutan destroying an elementary school cafeteria. rogan shakes his head. “jeesus.” there is a ding. peterson looks at sam harris. a blue light flashes once on his forehead and his eyes close, followed by the familiar sound of a windows machine shutting down. gad saad burps and the entire room fills with the smell of rotten fish.

joe rogan takes a large dose of mushrooms, puts on the latest fluorescent grey disc and ask peterson to lift him up into his sensory deprivation tank. after closing the door peterson can hear rogan inside muttering his mantra as well as encouraging an entity to eat a quail egg with a partially developed bird inside of it. peterson looks over at harris whose face is now the color of a pale blue sky with his features hovering just beyond the surface like clouds. peterson can't quite tell if harris is looking at him but he hears him say "wake up. use logic and reason to complain about muslims." peterson shrugs, unsure if he can use this to his advantage or if it's more sam's thing. he walks through the studio space, unsure where the exit is. he is scared. is this the dark journey of the hero? will he have to struggle with the unconscious? will he become submerged in it, despairing, only to arrive back where he began but as a fully integrated self? just then a creature emerges! "this is it," he mutters to himself, "this is the dragon i must slay." it is a wild beast, completely inhuman, crazed, insane. it has flowing, disgusting rope-like threads hanging from its head. strange lumps protrude from its shallow chest. upon its hideous face are blood-like colors, dark, lusty reds. peterson knows this disgusting beast is trying to entice him, provoke him, get him to fuck. he flees. hiding behind rogan's podcast desk he thinks what a shame it is that he cannot fight such a beast. if it were a man, he could vanquish it with his fists. but not a creature such as this. he quickly draws a jungian chart of his experience to show other men, to warn them. on the left side of the page is a uroboros, sucking itself off. on the right is a female specimen. her left palm is "temptation," her right thumb is "angst," her womb is "creatio," her head is "insanio," her groin is "ineffabilio." 

The year is 2021. Jordan Peterson sits in the green room of Madison Square Garden. He is on the Woke AF Philosophy Tour with Sam Harris and Stefan Molyneux. He is watching Harris through a monitor. Harris is on stage, manipulating one of those ASMR ear mics with a toothbrush. He occasionally whispers "islam must be eradicated" into the ears. The audience sits, rapt. Peterson gets up and walks to a wall with three candles to represent the pillars of Christian wisdom ; G.K. Chesterton, C.S. Lewis and T.D. Jakes. Peterson lights the candles and removes his shoes. There is thunderous applause through the walls. Harris enters the room, glides past Peterson, and inserts himself into a crevice in the wall. After a moment, three green bars appear on his face. On his forehead, the words "45% charged". There is a call to the room. Peterson breathes in, then walks out. A camera crew greets him near the stage. He punches the air, stops, looks into the camera, then laughs. He enters the stage. He sits on a sofa and looks out at the audience. Silence. He begins to speak. "Dostoevsky." Scattered applause. "Solzhenitsyn." Moderate applause. Peterson points at a man in the front row. "He's read the books, he's read them." Then he pumps his fist. "Orwell." Whoops and airhorns. "Derrida." Boos. Speaking louder. "Foucault." Someone throws a molotov onto the stage, Peterson kicks it away and it explodes. "CULTURAL." BOOOOO. "FUCKING." NOOOOOOO. "MARXISM." He collapses into the sofa. People are crying. Peterson sobs into his hand. "Post-modernism." People are holding each other. Peterson straightens his shoulders and yells. "Harry Potter. Pinocchio. Fathers. Sons." A chant begins to move through the crowd. Peterson stands and puts a hand to his ear. "I can't hear you." Sort it out. "I CAN'T BLOODY HEAR YOU." SORT IT OUT. He spreads his arms wide, then snaps his fingers. Total silence. He whispers. "bucko." The entire stadium explodes.

before dawn they reach the M4F (martyrs 4 freespeech) bunker code name "JAQ" (just asking questions). by now sam hasn't been plugged in for almost 6 hours and he's completely red and is not making any sense. "sort yourself, man," peterson commands, "you're a gd neuroscientist." harris, his logic and reason board corrupted by his failing battery, obscenely retorts, "lol i've contributed nothing to my field." peterson shudders as he finally connects sam to the Thinkpad docking station. peterson heads to the dining hall wear he feels surrounded by his peers. milo sits alone at a table, an emeralite lamp shining over his many legal documents. peterson sees him, robbed of his book deal and representing himself in a tortured legal battle, and he weeps. "another victim of pcsjw." he surveys the rest of the facility, making sure there are no intruders and finally returns to the dining hall to assemble the entire M4F crew, every last member. once he and milo are comfortable he sketches out plan to combat the enemy. the first method is "science booyah," for instance, when discussing sexual harassment in the workplace proffer a science booyah such as "well, makeup is meant to replicate the reddening of a woman's face when she fucks." the next step is technical jargon from one's field of expertise. peterson uses his own field, psychology, as an example to help milo follow this method. "when facing my enemy i can confound them with technical terminology from psychology such as 'crazy' or 'insane,' and i can also incorporate a multidisciplinary method by added mythological terms like 'harpy.'" milo is completely out of his depth and wonders what his field is. "don't be a fool," peterson says, "you can do gay stuff!" milo quickly frosts his tips in response. "are there any more methods?" he asks. peterson leans back in his chair, crosses his arms, and smiles. "milo, milo, milo. so young. so naive. of course that's not all. i've saved the best for last." he explains his final technique in a hushed tone; they are martyrs after all and must be careful of spies. "after we've completely DEVASTATED....shhh...sorry....after we've devastated them as above then we distribute our literature." "our literature?" milo asks, taking his tortoiseshell frames off his nose. "yes, here" peterson hands him "12 rules of life" or whatever. milo holds the book carefully and turns the pages with reverence. "clean your room...don't lie...cultural marxism...," he reads aloud, "is this...our bible?" peterson stands completely straight up, shoulders back. "wooooah....he's doing the posture" milo mutters. peterson draws a huge phallic shape in the air and jerks it off. then, to milo's complete and utter amazement, the invisible spectral member cums, all over peterson's face. the ejaculate too is invisible, but milo can tell when peterson squints suddenly. taking this all in milo recognizes the master and falls to the floor in supplication.

he year is like 7,000,000 years ago. it's insane with bugs and reptiles and idk what else. extremely enormous leaves are everywhere. like a basic bug is 10 feet long. apes are running around clubbing each other, huge mammoth creatures are stomping around, and it's like 150 degree fahrenheit. in a quiet, shaded grove there lies an oval pool, silver and still as a mirror. the reflection of the crescent moon rests upon its flat surface like a toenail clipping. a bird just like toucan sam resides in a tree nearby; some kind of gnome-like yoda thing peers out from a crack in a mountain with one eye. suddenly, the surface of the pool crumples like a sheet of plastic wrap and a great splashing sound is heard. the toucan looks over like "what the fuck?" but is basically still chilling. the eye looks out, knowingly. from the liquid emerges a man. the first man. it's joe rogan. "DUDE HOLY SHIT MAN!" he says. he's completely nude and rather striking for his short stature under 4 feet. he looks around for some cool mushrooms so he can trip and he finds some nice looking terrence mckenna shit. he walks out of the dark grove onto a clearing. strange beasts can be seen creeping around, just doing their thing. the flicker of eyeballs can be seen in the sharp moonlight. joe is extremely fucking high. he sees the moon, the moon moving toward him. closer. closer now. now it is coming right at him and landing on the plain. it stands upon the grass upright light a great marble boomerang. "FUCK DUDE." a black rectangle appears upon the flat surface of the moon and out jumps alex jones. he's running toward joe in a black tshirt and jeans. "JOOOOOOOOOOOOE!!!" he's weeping. "I FOUND YOU BUDDY! I FUCKING FOUND YOU MAN!" he takes little joe into his arms and hugs him, telling him how small he is. he does some of his impressions where each one is just him acting extremely dumb and going "duh duh, durr." joe doesn't respond to any of this. joe is tripping balls. jones invites him into his ship, telling him they must get back. "back?" joe finally asks, "to 4175? i left that shit behind after all the men disappeared. peterson can't save us. that's why i came here, the only place where men can be men." for the first time jones takes a look around and realizes how far back he's gone. "hey little friend....are we...the only two men?" "it's just us two guys, alex." jones runs back into the ship, jumps back out completely nude and the ship flings off the planet back to 4375. peterson will notice, peterson will find them. they don't know if they want to be found but for now they can just be men. without the pc. without no gender.

Jordan wakes with a startle, wet as a lost dog caught in a desert's summer cloudburst. They will disappear, all of them, in no time at all, all his brethren are being forced away, kicked like stupid wild puppies abandoned by their father wolf...yes, that was it! That was the dream he woke from in a dripping sweat, he was a leader of a the pack, the wolves and coyotes and so many dogs abandoned by their suburban mothers, nuclear families who had no more time for some dime-a-dozen, boring, sweet, tan labrador or shepard: once so revered and now being driven out into the vast desert and thrown from the new SUV, barely stopping, no time for another puppy who had nothing unique to him, no color to his coat, no special tricks, all so many abandoned canines! He was leading them all in this dream, gathering them from their woe and bringing them together. Yes. They were all together now, alone in the arid wilds, rain coming sparely but as if it were a punishment when it did! They would endure though, lick up the water caught in the creekbeds and enjoy it as the praise from the heavens it was, they were divinely guided it was for certain. And he, he was the leader of this ever growing pack. Soon they will be stronger than ever before, all dogs, coyotes, wolves, every last one, they are young! they are gaining their health and they will take back their homes! The crazy women, the weak males, they all will see they were wrong, so very soon. One more rain, the bunnies will be all eaten by us and we will be strong again. To the suburbs we shall return, he thinks now in his bed. His skin is drying but he knows within him there are the claws of a wolf, the fur of the beast just below his skin. Drive us out of the Humanities of universities, will you? You will all pay. He turns over, a grin on his face, lit only by the shimmer of the moon. Inside he howls. Soon.

I ran into Jordan Peterson a few years later in Boston. At first, he pretended to be someone else until I recited one of his 70+ minute lectures to him, word for word. He stood there stunned the whole time, barely blinking. I could see tears forming in his eyes, so I stopped as to not embarrass him in public. He reached into his backpack and gave me a bronzed human skull. A sober look befell his face and his screams caused birds to fall dead from the sky. 

All credit to the authors - none of this was mine.