January 12, 2023, Common Era

I had just returned from a delightful screening of Black Panther 2: Wakanda Forever with my life partner and best friend. She’d recently started a new round of happy pills and was dealing with a metric fuckwaffle of a headache, so no sexy times were to be had that night! However, I was content. For you see, my good sirs, I had just purchased Justin Roiland’s brand spankin’ new AAA masterpiece, High On Life. While I waited for the download to complete, I decided to indulge in a quick goon sesh. I set up my Alienware dab rig with glee-- tonight’s strain “Dr. Ku$hvorkian” named best new strain in FADED magazine–and I was giddy to edge my boiclitty to JOI-viddys in its warm, intoxicating haze. I took off my mask, took off my other mask, took a rip, put the masks back on, and loaded up Reddit to find some sweet, sweet pornography! 

It was at that moment, tragedy struck. My front page–a mishmash of gaming news, the DANKEST of memes, and of course... the NSFW content I was looking for (cue Obi-Wan Kenobi saying “this is not the porn you are looking for” xD–was flooded with posts about Justin Roiland, the man himself...

What could this be? Maybe a cool new adult animated comedy series with him at the helm? I read the post title and  jumped out of my DEATHSTRUCTION MASTER RACE XXXXXL PUBSTOMPER gamer chair with such force that it knocked over the bookshelf containing my Rei figurines. I was shocked. Justin Roiland... an abuser?

I fled to my roommate and female partner-in-crime’s bedroom (originally mine, but I’d been sleeping on the pullout in our living room for the past few months [her chronic depression headaches meant we couldn’t share the bed anymore {fine by me, she has to deal with all the stress of being a public school teacher AND the fallout of the White Supremacist KKKourt’s decision to legalize rape /after which, I decided to man up and vasectomize myself\ though just to be safe, I do still wear my trusty ole Trojan extra-ribbeds |for her pleasure |/\}]), face red with rage, wet with tears. I grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her awake.

“H-honey what’s wrong?”

“IT’S ALL FUCKED! IT’S ALL FUCKED YOU FUCKING BITCH! YOU HATEFUL CUNT! I’M GOING TO KILL MYSELF! I’M GOING TO KILL YOU AND THEN KILL MYSELF! SCIENCE DAMN IT! IT’S JUST CALLED NOT BEING AN ASSHOLE! HOW HARD IS IT TO NOT BE AN ABUSIVE ASSHOLE?!”

“Please, butterball, just try to explain to me what’s going on.”

“LISTEN HERE DOUCHE-CANOE. YOU ABSOLUTE DICKNOZZLE, YOU YOU FUCK NUGGET. YOU ACCUSER. YOU, THE ACCUSER, THE CONFESSOR, SHE WHO HAS EATEN OF THE APPLE, YOU HOLE SQUATTING IN THE MUD, BLEEDING , BLEEDING ME DRY, ACHING TO STUFF YOURSELF TO ALLAY YOUR EMPTINESS. YOU MALODOROUS HOG! JUSTIN ROILAND... HE’S AN ABUSER. AND I’M GOING TO HELL WHEN I DIE. NO, NO, NO, NO, NO, I LIVE IN HELL I LIVE IN HELL!”

Everything’s a little hazy after that, but for some funny reason it looked like thumbs were growing out of her eyes, thumbs attached to my hands, attached to my arms, attached to me. And I remember hearing her scream.

-----

For the purposes of this essay, we will view this recent cultural Kalpa of the Nerd as having begun roughly in and around 2008 with the mainstream adoption of superhero movies and video games, and having ended with Justin Roiland’s fall from grace after getting “Atlanta Drunk” and throwing his wife through a glass door. You must keep in mind that Justin Roiland putting a loaded gun in his wife’s mouth and scream-crying while threatening to pull the trigger is what a male feminist looks like. Iron Man  came out in 2008; you must understand that this is intimately tied to Justin Roiland forcefully grabbing the back of his wife’s arm while at a dinner party, in plain view and earshot of all the guests, and with great mirth loudly whispering in her ear that Yes, he is cuckolding her; that this was to be yet another in a series of humiliations that she was to suffer while he was to work on his opus– the episode of his hit Adult Swim television comedy series “Rick and Morty” wherein the titular “Rick” was to turn himself into a pickle^1. And quite the pickle Roiland has found himself in, quite the pickle indeed.

But like Roiland’s wife, cowering behind the locked door of the bedroom of their rented out villa on the Amalfi coast, we should take this opportunity to reflect. Like a scared woman knowing that once her husband gets back from the wine tour that he had booked but that she had left early in some vain hope of escaping his drunken wrath (yet only serving to inflame it); knowing that upon his return he would apply her makeup to his face, roll her stockings up his slender, pallid thighs, and proceed to make what Chris Benoit did to his family look like a fucking joke– like her in this moment, we should ponder just how we got here, and what was our role in enabling this behavior. Yes, how is this our fault? 

Perhaps we should engage in the autogynephilic exercise of hystorical analysis. We have to obsess over the past, become transfixed by it, so we can strive to become a crude mockery of it. Yes, we must first plumb the depths of our collective vaginoplastic wounds, peeling away the pretender phallus we all share, cursed us at birth– cutting through it, inverting it, plucking the scrotal hair out from the root, digging out the testes, and finally: with vigilance, prudence, and faith– dilating, dilating into eternity. We have to go back to the real birth of these times. Only then, can we begin to despair. As the NYT puts it, America wasn’t founded in 1776 with the Declaration of Independence, but in 1619 with the introduction of hip-hop & basketball (resulting in the deaths of 6 million berdache aboriginals [they lacked the built up immunity to FUBU and cool sneakers that caucosoids had built up after centuries of domination at the hands of Nubian ruled Heebgypt]), this current cultural moment can’t really be traced to something as petty and low as Marvel movies, widespread video games, and soy consumption. We have to look back to 1945– when the Japanese got what they deserved, quite frankly.

It was at Hiroshima that the mathematical and scientific genius of the nerd was hyperfocused into the most spectacular display of violence in human history. Yes, you are very very smart and this is all very trite to you, but you must understand this event on a deeper, biological, vaguely psychosexual level. For you see the mushroom cloud, the great big POP that brings incineration and cancer, the heat that smothers life-breath with nuclear ash; the crowned shaft that scrapes the heavens and penetrates the earth– the crater a torn hymen. The total and complete inversion of the spermoid ejaculate, the milky white payload teeming with hundreds of millions of souls. LITTLE BOY and FAT MAN the anti-orgasm, the result of years of twiddling and tinkering with their tools, of precise mathematics and physics, of intellectuals constructing phalluses upon phalluses to brutalize and terrorize the most brutal, terrifying race on the face of the earth (second only to wh*te “people”, of course), ejected from the Enola Gay (lol), ejaculated onto the blinking, wincing face of the rest of human civilization. That this is all extremely pornographic should not surprise you^2.

Nerds don’t flinch from violence. They relish it, actually. Every mild mannered lab coat who worked on the Manhattan Project knew exactly what he was doing. Oppenheimer was a drama queen who secretly enjoyed vaporizing hundreds of thousands, his entire “I am become death, destroyer of worlds” schtick, his “shame” at what he had done was thinly veiled pride. He was gloating! Watch it again, watch it again, you can practically see his barely concealed laughter. Here we have a man not so subtly implying that he’s a GOD OF DESTRUCTION, and we’re supposed to believe that he wasn’t personally glorying in the heat and light of one thousand suns of his own creation. But of course, this display of sensitivity was just that, a display. Friend of Dip and fellow hebrew Isaac Isidor Rabi, Oppenheimer’s close friend and confidant, had this to say that after the Trinity test: “I'll never forget his walk; I'll never forget the way he stepped out of the car ... his walk was like High Noon ... this kind of strut. He had done it.” That Oppenheimer went on a public self-flagellation apology tour after the fact should come as no surprise, in reality. He wanted to have his cake and eat it too. To be both a God of Destruction & the Christ in Passion. Of course, this pretension disgusts us. When he feigned remorse over his actions to Truman, the President shouted him out of the Oval Office, ordering his underlings to “never bring that fucking cretin in here again,” adding “he didn't drop the bomb. I did. That kind of weepiness makes me sick.”

All that said, to liken Oppenhemer’s genuine brilliance and cowboy swagger to the middling intellect of a video games reviewer, an adult swim showrunner, or a public school teacher is an insult to Oppenheimer. But I’m sure he’s got a lot bigger things to worry about than the good old boys at Dip ribbin’ him a little, seeing as he’s burning in Hell for all of eternity. That said, it is useful to understand that this atomic loathing for humanity lives on in every mild mannered nice guy who blasts in his pants whenever Blizzard decides to release a new Overwatch hero -- that behind his chic socialista politics and his earnest disgust at displays of machismo, behind his meek sputtering about the value of human life and his assurances that he’s one of the good guys; that there lies a lust for power, fame, & domination sublimated into his relentless “erm... yikes”es at that which falls outside of his definitions of what is acceptable to think or feel, into his insipid, asinine attempts at lolsorandum humor that doesn’t just not punch down-- but doesn’t punch at all, into his sincere concern for whatever social cause happens to be in vogue at that particular moment, his holier-than-thou bludgeoning. If your mans is posting infographics about protecting trans immigrant teenage sex workers of color, there’s a 99% chance he masturbates to rape porn.

But this essay is not to be another in a series of drudgeries, whiney diagnoses with regards to the low state of the modern Last Man. You can find those on whatever based chudpilled right wing esoteric bodybuilding forum your goyische ass probably browses. I invoke Oppenheimer and the atomic bomb because this is the crux and center of these times. All else ripples from these detonations–nerds, computers, the Internet itself–it all comes back to the Bomb. Tech, culture, finance, sex, politics, we’re all living in the fallout of research conducted to make the Bomb possible. It’s not enough to understand that the Internet is the GATE kid indigo child of DARPA, of nuclear defense–that everything we see on our screens is a weapon–that with this understanding diversions like Tinder & Hinge appear more like biowarfare eugenics programs–that this is the reason why I don’t get any pussy. Everything, all the media we consume, it’s radioactive. You have to understand that it was Pickle Rick that detonated over Nagasaki on that day. That Lee Harvey Oswald was a moderator on r/mindblown, that all Redditors are CIA agents^3.  That it was technocrat gamers who signed off on Agent Orange to be used on Minecraft villagers in Vietnam,to increase their KD ratios, to conduct realpolitik and think up smart, sensible ways to drone strike terrorist weddings. Does this make sense to you? That if the visceral is made abstract, white phosphorus can become white noise? That if violence is conducted dispassionately, calculatingly, cleanly-- the capacity for that very violence increases exponentially^4. 

Of course, it doesn’t matter that Roiland himself never tied his girlfriend up, doused the both of them in kerosene, and pulled out a box of matches, overpowering her screams with his own, demonstrating that no one could hear her, that they were alone, and that they would die together–that she would be his wife in Heaven, but that first he must visit Hell upon her. Yes, he seems to be innocent of this abuse, and yes, this has to be explicitly stated in the essay to avoid Roiland doing to us what he did to his girlfriend (getting a lawyer and sensibly defending his good name in a court of law). But! Before any accusations of throwing dirt on a man while he’s down come my way, let it be said that I attempted to contact Roiland via DMs and get his approval before publishing this essay. He ignored me; perhaps I was too old. However! The damage has been done. His cool streamer and podcaster friends who so opportunistically rode his star to fame and success have made it a point to feebly acknowledge their relationships with him before issuing hand wringing, tut-tutting condemnations of his behavior. His legions of fans have turned their impressively wide backs on him. He’s done-- and the specific archetype that Roiland represents is done too. The archetype of the public facing white male ironic atheist is simply too genteel by today’s standards–he’s completely stranded in time; it has the quaint, kitschy veneer that the hippies of the sixties have for us today.

So what’s next? Speaking as an optimist, I think it’ll get worse. I'll lay it out for you like this: in 5 years, these types will unilaterally all have become either transgender or incel. And though this would come as a great insult to either group, they’re basically the same thing. Both groups are animated by a fixation on their genitalia and are primarily concerned with how society should compensate them for the grievances that these genitalia have caused them. Both probably spent their formative years “discovering themselves” on /r9k/ or twitter. Both feel fundamentally deprived of something vital to the human experience, and the conditions causing this deprivation (be they social, chemical, or spiritual) seem to be getting worse. And importantly, both tend to be ideologically and politically motivated. And it’s here that we can catch a glimpse of the actual end of these times. 

Per Wikipedia, a kalpa lasts for roughly 4 billion years, and it ends with the world engulfed in a cleansing fire.  If this is the case, some two-bit nihilist hack on [adult swim] getting canned won’t be enough to bring this Kalpa of the Nerd to a close. The only thing that will deliver us from this kalpa is just that which brought us into it: Nuclear hellfire courtesy of the violent, psychopathic nerds that we have allowed to win. If this is an unavoidable fate, I propose something that might not be a solution, per se–but at least it’ll be funny. 

 Bully the nerd. It’s just that simple. Bully him when you see him in public. Fuck with him, make him nervous and sweaty. Bully him into nuclear defense programs, bully him into CHICOMMERICAN biolabs, bully him into the highest echelons of technology, finance, culture, and war. And when he finally makes it, bully him a lot more. Tell him that you once paid a sex worker to have carnal relations with a canine and got it on tape, that the guy who bought the video from you looked a little bit like him. And when he’s handling the next big dirty bomb biovirus that we are to use in a precise, targeted capacity on Russian schoolchildren, he might get the intrusive thought of a doberman fucking his girlfriend. Red in the face from embarrassment & begrudging arousal, his hands might shake. He might even imagine you, laughing, accosting him even at his place of work, where HE IS SUPPOSED TO BE IN CHARGE. And hopefully he snaps and does something stupid on accident, or on purpose. And hopefully, we all just die. 

------

March 25, 2023, Common Era

I’d been out in Death Valley for weeks, maybe a couple of months now. It’s all kind of fuzzy to me. I just remember this: she said she wanted to ethically decouple from me. From me? She was my Rick, and I, her Morty. Yet she had the gall to act as if she were Beth and I was a Jerry? Did she not understand that I was grieving? That I was dealing with the fact that my idol had been outed as a phony, an abuser, a creep. And in my moment of vulnerability, she dared to question me? Just thinking about it made me so furious I’d get a splitting migraine, and since my wax pen ran out of juice the day prior, I didn’t have anything to assuage the pain with. So yeah. The situation was just about the exact opposite of schwifty. 

I’d set up camp at the mouth of this great big pit. If I had to measure, I’d say it’s about 15 meters in diameter. I try to use the metric system, as it’s the preferred method for scientists and everyone BUT Americans. Of course America uses an entirely nonsensical system... because America! But I digress...

In my apparent hurry to leave, I’d only taken the bare necessities for survival. Some impossible! jerky, a sleeping bag, a box of soylent. Well, that and my most prized possession. Funko Pop! #420 Marvel Studios 10th Anniversary Guardians of The Galaxy Rocket Raccoon Gold Chrome. Yes, that it was #420 was not lost on me, but it was more than that. Rocket Racoon is a character that I relate to more than anyone in the MCU. He’s a foul mouthed smartass with a heart of gold, kind of like yours truly. But if you fuck with him or his friends, you’d better watch out!

I couldn’t really tell you why I was drawn to the pit. Even though they couldn't be any more different superficially, something about it reminded me of my bedroom back home. When noon comes and the sun is shining directly above, I can see the walls of the pit totally illuminated, but I still can’t see where it ends. 

So there I am: lying across the back seat of my prius, legs dangling out the door, eating my impossible jerky, listening to NPR when I hear it. 

“–situation in Ukraine has escalated into a nuclear war. The first ICBMs are expected to make impact with U.S. soil in 5 minutes. The DoD has launched its salvo. May Science have mercy on us all. Oh? What’s this? Sorry folks, we’re going to have to drop this story for now– we just received BREAKING NEWS that award winning actor, comedian, and television writer Justin Roiland has been exonerated of the charges levied against him. The streets of Portland, Seattle, Brooklyn and San Francisco are awash in celebration. It’s like the ending of The Phantom Menace.” 

I shot up in my seat, stunned. It was like the ending of The Empire Strikes Back. He was... innocent? My mouth agape,  I turned the radio off and got out of my car. I went into the trunk and got my Rocket Funko out. In moments like these, I’d hold him and imagine what he would do. I just stood there and thought for a while. I considered the pit. Maybe I’d gone too far. Maybe it was all for nothing. Maybe, maybe it was time to change a few of my priorities in life.

It was then that I heard the sirens. Cop cars? FUCK! I got in the driver's seat and tried to start the car, but it was no use: the battery had all but ran out while I was listening to the radio and charging my Nintendo Switch. I couldn’t do anything but stare at them as they approached. I started to cry. I guess it was turning out to be more like the ending of Breaking Bad after all.

The car pulled up and an older Black woman stepped out. I was confused. She didn’t look like a cop.

“Who are you?”

“Sir, I’m the social worker assigned to your case. Are you Mistuh Ernest Brine?”

“Why yes, that’s m-”

“Sir, please do not interrupt. I got a report that you killed your girlfriend. The report states that you blinded her by stuffing your thumbs into her eye sockets. After that, you proceeded to bludgeon her to death with a commemorative HALO 4 pre-order exclusive Master Chief statue. It’s for this reason, I’m here to conduct a mental health check.”

“I... see…”

“My first question... Wait. Is that Funko Pop! #420 Marvel Studios 10th Anniversary Guardians of The Galaxy Rocket Raccoon Gold Chrome?”

“Why yes... yes it is”

I brandished it proudly, so that the gold paint would glisten in the Death Valley Sun.

“Dear God, he’s got a weapon! Officer Pyle!”

Suddenly, the passenger side door of the car swung open. The man who charged out at me was 5’5” of pure muscle. He certainly looked like a cop. I didn’t have any time to react before he tackled me to the ground. My precious Funko was knocked out of my hands and landed right at the mouth of the pit. This, more than anything, gave me cause to scream.

As I lay there, face down in the dirt, the officer’s knee on my neck and my hands in chains, I couldn’t help but think of my recently deceased S/O. I don’t believe in an afterlife, but I really hoped that she/they was in Hell. 

And suddenly flashes of light. The roar of thunder. Mushroom clouds in the distance, one by one, getting closer. The officer got off me and stood in complete awe. The social worker was playing Candy Crush on her phone. I tried to get to my feet, but that’s pretty tough when you’re in handcuffs. Still, I decided to take advantage of the distraction. Like a worm, I inched my way slowly but surely to my dear Rocket. Eventually, I managed to get right up to him, face to face with him–the only thing separating us was that thin plastic display wall of his box; that thin plastic display wall that kept him safe from the world, able to observe, to entertain, to connect with people. I saw the fires of Apocalypse reflected in that plastic. 

The earth shook. The explosions pummeling the desert were drawing nearer. Soon, we would be vaporized. And with that, Rocket fell into the pit. And without any hesitation, I rolled my way over the lip and followed him down.

--Hairy Bloom

FOOTNOTES
1: In which Rick -- Roiland’s admitted analogue -- transforms himself into a seemingly harmless dildoid pickle, inflicts great violence upon his enemies, & unpacks his toxicity in therapy.
2: Read Ernest Cline’s opus and ode to pornography, “Nerd Porn Auteur”.
3: Why does most Reddit traffic come from Langley & Quantico? Remember when it turned out that one of the biggest powermods on Reddit was Ghislaine Maxwell? Why did Attorney General Bill Barr tell the Palm Beach Police Department not to touch Epstein, citing that he was “intelligence”? Did he misspeak? Was he referring to his naturally high Ashkenazi IQ? Was Mr. Barr saying that he was euphoric, that he was enlightened by his own intelligence? That us, the intellectual aristocrats, would have to bring about a sort of Dark Enlightenment (a “Negro Cogito”, if you will), by forcing Bill Gates and Steve Pinker and Stephen Hawking to have sex with children on camera? Just how did Hawking’s penis work– and was he “retard hung”? Or did his incredible “intelligence” cancel it out, rendering him just average, like my penis? Was he as physically crippled as he was intellectually gifted, and just how does all figure into his theory that mass bends time? If retarded guys have giant dicks, is this why they are known to ejaculate so quickly? Because the time-as-mass itself is quite literally accelerated? What? Huh?

4: One of the best stories from the Old Testament is the account of the rape of Jacob’s daughter, Dinah. After her rape, Shechem, the prince who raped her, apologizes for raping her and promises to not rape her again, proposing marriage. Insulted by Shechem’s lack of decency, not even waiting to marry their sister before raping her, Jacob’s sons convince Shechem’s tribe to circumcise themselves en masse. Shechem, wanting to avoid conflict, agrees. As his tribe is laid out in bed, recovering from the wounds of circumcision and the deeper emotional pain of being rendered temporarily unable to rape, the Hebrews strike. They storm the city and put their enemies to the sword in their beds. House by house, bed by bed, the slaughter is complete and meticulous. Not a single man survives the day. Now, dear reader, I ask you-- what is more unsettling to you? Raping a woman, a human being, violating her completely in a selfish, violent moment of covetous lust? Or dispassionately, coldly, almost bureaucratically forcing circumcision on an unwitting party? A baby, even? If you agree that it’s the latter, would you mind signing this here petition, mister? I’m trying to take down the quack mohel who turned my penis into what basically looks like an anteater with a flesh eating disease.