Confessions of A Failed Slut

by Kathy Shaidle

  Jones believes “a cabal of international bankers, transnational corporations and one-world globalists are taking America down the garden path to destruction sooooo sleeepeeee zzzzzzzzz.” That’s not me being over-the-top snarky (except for that last bit.) I’m quoting one of his fans at his website, InfoWars.com

  In fairness, about half of what he says sounds almost sensible once you strip out the opera buffa “Bilderbergers!” boilerplate.

  When a friend sent me a link to the “Dating Freedom Lovers” forum at Jones’ online fan community, Planet InfoWars, I figured I’d sign up, do some catfishing, and then write a funny column about my no-doubt-hilarious experience.

  Except masquerading as someone else online, let alone making believe I was single, pricked at my conscience. (Yes, I was raised by nuns.)

  Plus I’m not an entirely unknown quantity at InfoWars for some reason; under my true identity I might be exposed in short order as that “shill for the new world order” who was “working for the death of America,” as I’ve been called a few times in my day.

  I’d also envisioned Jones’ “dating service” as boasting hundreds of members, a place where I could make mischief under the radar.

  Not the measly twenty one member forum it turned out to be.

  Finally, I couldn’t bring myself to make fun of these folks. Sure, they use the cultish catchword “awake” a lot — “My favorite movie is The Matrix and being awake and telling others is important to me” — and duly credit Jones for busting their snooze button.

  A long haired bassist pictured holding an affronted cat writes, “I’m from FEMA Region 9 (a.k.a. Big Bear City, California.)” Not a few express a desire to relocate off the grid. A very young looking goth girl signs off, “Jesse Ventura 2016!”

  And that’s about it.

  I came, I saw, I chickened out.

  Their vulnerability disarmed my sarcasm, seizing it right out of my cold, dead soul. Who was I to judge? Hadn’t I met my future husband at an even bigger gathering of loonies, one in meatspace, no less?

  If you’ve never been to an old school AA meeting, imagine Vince Lombardi’s locker room if he’d been coaching Puritans with Tourette’s: a spartan, Quaker-meeting set up, all bootstrapping, no bullshit. A newcomer dumb enough to whine about their “feelings” gets ordered to scrub out the coffee urn by a gruff “old timer.”

  Unfortunately, that’s not the program I slunk into back in 1992. By that time, then-faddish PBS fixture John “Finding Your Inner Child” Bradshaw had accidentally turned Alcoholics Anonymous into a New Age unicorn-and-rainbows therapeutic weep-fest that would’ve disgusted Greatest Generation founders Bill W. and Dr. Bob, who look like the kind of men who somehow kept their fedoras in place, even in the gutter.

  Hell, when I was a newcomer, some meetings even served decaf.

  And believe me: “low self-esteem” is not your typical boozehound’s problem. Then again, about half the people I met in “the rooms” weren’t even alcoholics, just neurotics too cheap to get real therapy.

  Remember, it was the 1990s, the era of The X-Files and Oprah at her tabloid low: at every 12-Step meeting, you’d meet “survivors of ritualistic Satanic abuse” and “recovered memory victims” and alien abductees and even “starseeds,” the self-proclaimed spawn of spacemen, who’ve been sent to Earth to… do something or other. (Luckily the latter two never came to blows.)

  There were so many “multiple personalities” at some meetings, we were probably breaking fire codes without knowing it.

  And I lived in Toronto’s Boystown, so lots of the real drunks were gay, bi-, trannies, lesbians of convenience and even “two-spirited” (a.k.a, gay Indians.)

  Despite all this, I never drank after my first meeting, worked the Steps, got a new job, and ten years later, looked around at all the people in the rooms who still hadn’t done any of those things and thought, “I didn’t get sober so I could spend the rest of my life with these losers.”

  It took me an entire decade to notice that none of the 12 Steps is “Go to meetings.” So I stopped. I couldn’t take the crazies. In retrospect, I was the crazy one for thinking I was rid of them.

  Aware of my impatience for the ever-metastazing and increasingly belligerent LGBTTIQQ2SA “community” and other First World, new age victim-loonies, a friend recently directed me to a reddit thread titled “what does all this bullshit mean anyway?” about some self-described “Social Justice Activists.”

  Now that three word phrase probably makes you think of folks who, while misguided and none too bright, genuinely want to feed the poor and stuff.

  Yeah, no.

  These particular “Social Justice Activists” are simply narcissistic, delusional, sex-obsessed fruitcakes.

  (OK, that’s not a bad description of some famous, slightly more legitimate “social justice activists” like Gandhi and Cesar Chavez, but stick with me.)

  Turns out, if reddit is any indication, crazy sex maniacs have cooked up new ways to be crazy sex maniacs.

  “Come on,” you’re thinking, “Sex is sex and crazy is crazy. There’s nothing new under the Kraft-Ebbing sun. Hey, I saw that CSI episode about furries. And I read a magazine article about ‘Bronies’ made me want to kill myself (after I killed my wife and kids to spare them the horrors of living in America another second.)”

  Fine, then: meet the “otherkin.” Unlike cosplayers, these dudes genuinely think they are animals trapped in human form. Literally. They’re serious.

  How’s about “headmates?” We used to call these “imaginary friends,” but they’re not just for kids anymore. (Cuz that would be age-ist!)

  Next? “Multiple systems”:

  “[A] person who describes themselves as a multiple system will likely refer to themselves as ‘they’ because they believe they are multiple people. (…)

  And, because that isn’t already batshit insane enough, some multiple systems will have headmates who are animals, otherkin people, and, of course, fictional characters. (…) I’ve not even got to the people who believe they have galaxies, nebulae, universes, and other space shit, either in their ‘headspace’ or as an otherkin. So some people will believe they are actually galaxies.”

  Or “demisexuals”? They’re “only sexually attracted to people” they have “an emotional connection to.” (We used to call them “normal” and “women.”)

  Now meet the “transethnic” and “transabled”: paralyzed black women trapped inside able white male bodies.

  Naturally, according to one of the disbelieving reddit-ors, “the favorite pastime for SJAs is to pretend they’re oppressed, and they are all professional victims. You may very well see otherkin telling people to ‘check their human privilege’ while they talk about how oppressed they are because no one believes they’re really a cat…”

  All very weird indeed, but so what?

  Well, within living memory, gay “marriage” was unthinkable, transsexuals stuck to the stage and a “bathroom bill” letting “transgendered” boys use the girls’ washrooms in elementary schools would be one of John Irving’s forgotten subplots, not about to become law in parts of Canada.

  Brace yourself for “otherkin-phobia,” and the fines and firings that will come with it. All in the name of “equality” and “tolerance” and “self-esteem.”

  And so it came to pass that Canada’s Supreme Court ruled early in 2013 that mass homosexual “self-fulfillment” trumped one crazy Christian street preacher’s freedom of speech, even when he’s just quoting the Bible. (Especially then.)

  The great Rex Murphy sighed in the pages of the National Post:

  The term “self-esteem” might have been foreign to Montaigne and [Francis] Bacon. But they would have lamented how self-esteem — or its group equivalent — now gets more play than truth. There’s a fair dollop of therapeutic chatter in the Whatcott ruling, a resort to vague nostrums, such as the idea that “hate speech” might “oppose the target
ed group’s ability to find self- fulfillment?”

  So might bad weather, or bunions. What, really, is that phrase supposed to encompass?

  Moreover, how can group “self-fulfillment” be measured? Is self-fulfillment a legal right?

  And when we’ve reached the point where decisions handed down by the highest court in the land – the court of last resort — are shot through with “therapeutic chatter,” then the nation’s remaining sane and sensible citizens truly have nowhere to turn for redress.

  Hey, who’s to say some “cripple” is cheating the insurance company just because you saw him shooting baskets in Bermuda? He’s really transabled, you bigot. Clean out your desk.

  Now multiply that dilemma by a million or twenty, and you’ve got a glimpse of the not-so-distant future.

  Imagine a group hug crushing your ribcage – forever.

  And when the generation of “hook up culture” kids take power, I guess I can look forward to spending the rest of my days in a gulag reserved for sexual dissidents. I expect having our phone numbers tattooed on our arms will be the least of the punishments reserved for failed sluts like me.

  About the Writer

  I’m an author, blogging pioneer (circa 2000) and weekly columnist for Taki’s Magazine, WND and PJMedia.

  I’ve been called one of the nation’s worst racists by the head of the Canadian Jewish Congress, and a tool of the Zionist conspiracy by Stormfront.

  About Thought Catalog

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