"What makes the provincial critic so grimly, hilariously terrible
is that he she imagines himself herself not just equal to the wits of the
metropolis, but vastly superior. Is it even possible to respond?"
"I may have no idea about anything except for the fact that you give off short man vibes"
https://nitter.unixfox.eu/clairlemon/status/1577954338017751040
"Shall
the man of letters reply: “Excuse me, ‘Dr. Lexus Lehmann,’ but I am
resolutely heterosexual—as if it mattered—and ‘my shit,’ as you call
it, is anything but ‘all retarded’?”"
I suspect this sort of thing is self-hypnosis. The woman goes, "Oh crap that's hot, oh crap I can't be attracted to this, I'ma pretend he's short until I believe it."
Bonus: you can see this strategy even works sometimes. Recall that women are catastrophically bad judges of character. They literally have no idea what you're like, often not even after thousands of hours of interaction. They don't know character, but they do know [the lady doth protest too much]. "I'm not short!"
That and Lehmann is clearly starved for masculine energy and is trying to provoke a man into invading her life.
They say women are socially skilled; don't believe them. Their schemes work when a man takes pity on her and allows her to think it worked. She so earnestly believes she did her best...do you have the heart to let her smile turn crestfallen?
The insight of Dr. Lexus does leave much to be desired. I have indeed found brighter things floating in the toilet. I have called [free speech] the art of pooping in the common well, but perhaps that was overly optimistic. Manure can be used as fertilizer, by contrast...
If we are to call a spade a spade, it is the Intellectual Dim Web.
You can't bring up Pontus without quoting some of Tertullian's opening from book 1 of Adversus Marcionem:
ReplyDelete"The Euxine Sea, as it is called, is self-contradictory in its nature, and deceptive in its name. As you would not account it hospitable from its situation, so is it severed from our more civilised waters by a certain stigma which attaches to its barbarous character. The fiercest nations inhabit it, if indeed it can be called habitation, when life is passed in waggons. They have no fixed abode; their life has no germ of civilization; they indulge their libidinous desires without restraint, and for the most part naked. Moreover, when they gratify secret lust, they hang up their quivers on their car-yokes, to warn off the curious and rash observer. Thus without a blush do they prostitute their weapons of war. The dead bodies of their parents they cut up with their sheep, and devour at their feasts. They who have not died so as to become food for others, are thought to have died an accursed death. Their women are not by their sex softened to modesty. They uncover the breast, from which they suspend their battle-axes, and prefer warfare to marriage. In their climate, too, there is the same rude nature. The day-time is never clear, the sun never cheerful; the sky is uniformly cloudy; the whole year is wintry; the only wind that blows is the angry North. Waters melt only by fires; their rivers flow not by reason of the ice; their mountains are covered with heaps of snow. All things are torpid, all stiff with cold. Nothing there has the glow of life, but that ferocity which has given to scenic plays their stories of the sacrifices of the Taurians, and the loves of the Colchians, and the torments of the Caucasus.
Nothing, however, in Pontus is so barbarous and sad as the fact that Marcion was born there, fouler than any Scythian, more roving than the waggon-life of the Sarmatian, more inhuman than the Massagete, more audacious than an Amazon, darker than the cloud, (of Pontus) colder than its winter, more brittle than its ice, more deceitful than the Ister, more craggy than Caucasus. Nay more, the true Prometheus, Almighty God, is mangled by Marcion's blasphemies.
Marcion is more savage than even the beasts of that barbarous region. For what beaver was ever a greater emasculator than he who has abolished the nuptial bond? What Pontic mouse ever had such gnawing powers as he who has gnawed the Gospels to pieces? Verily, O Euxine, thou hast produced a monster more credible to philosophers than to Christians. For the cynic Diogenes used to go about, lantern in hand, at mid-day to find a man; whereas Marcion has quenched the light of his faith, and so lost the God whom he had found."