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Stick It to Big Brother

Below is a link to the petition for the Internet Bill of Rights. If you want to stop the Leftist Thought Police from censoring everything that doesn’t agree with their Narrative, you really need to get on board.

Do you want a few monopolies like Goolag, FascistBorg and Twatter to determine what information can be published and what can’t?

They’ve avoided anti-trust litigation by lobbying their fellow travelers in government to designate them as utilities. Then they censor and purge those who express non-leftist political opinions. In other words, they are denying utility services to people for political reasons.

Contrast this with say, private bakeries choosing who they will bake wedding cakes for (the worst atrocity since the Holocaust!). The Thought Cops have made this bed–they should be forced to lay in it.

Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.

  • First Amendment to the Constitution of the United States of America

The Social Justice Broadcast System

Jacob Hornswoggler ended the call on his cell phone as he strode through the automatically opening doors of the GBS building. His wife had called him with a minor emergency. She fell in love with a pair of dress gloves and paid a few hundred for them, only to find out they didn’t fit her hands. Hornswoggler assured her he would come up with a solution; but for now he had other matters to deal with.

The world owed an unpayable debt of gratitude to people like Jacob Hornswoggler. The Generic Broadcast Service was making the world a better place thanks to his vision and tireless vigilance.

Still, viewership of his network—especially the news programs—wasn’t as high as it should be. Of course the quota of loyal watchers had nothing to do with anything as evil as profits. It was merely established to ensure that voters citizens were adequately conditioned informed. This was the purpose of Jacob Hornswoggler’s visit to the video editing suites today.

An atmosphere of impartiality settled over the network’s headquarters when this paragon of journalistic integrity graced the multimedia conglomerate’s loyal footsoldiers with his presence.

Hornswoggler stopped by an editing room with an open door and stepped inside. A pimple-faced 20-something from Tarnation University nodded a reverent greeting.

“How’s the homicide beat?” Hornswoggler asked.

“I’m going through the list,” replied his employee. “Trying to find what to lead with.”

Hornswoggler tactfully snatched the list out of his employee’s hands and pored over it with his experienced eye.

Well, he actually used his less experienced eye, too.

“Hmm,” he intoned, “Muggers kill unarmed victims in Detroit; Fast and Furious hit on Border patrol agent; muggers kill unarmed victims in Chicago; rapist rapes and murders unarmed victim in New York…ah, here’s one: a prominent politician’s lawyer found dead from a gunshot wound to the back of the head.”

The employee rubbed his head uncomfortably. “Um, the prominent politician is a Democrat up for reelection.”

“Obviously a suicide,” Hornswoggler said, and continued thumbing through the pages.

“That Weinburg murder could be sensational,” suggested the employee.

Hornswoggler shook his head and frowned. “Come on, now, get with the program. We don’t run same-sex gang rape/murders. They foment an attitude of fear and contaminate the whole gay rights debate. Not to mention influencing the Boy Scouts’ upcoming vote.”

“The Boy Scouts’ upcoming vote?”

Hornswoggler frowned. “I said: ‘not to mention the Boy Scouts’ upcoming vote.’ Can’t you follow simple instructions?”

The employee blushed and said, “Sorry, sir. I must be crashing from the Red Steer. It’s just that we led with the Peter Puffer murder for all those weeks in a row. I thought homicides involving gays were a priority…”

“Gays are victims!” Hornswoggler snapped. “What are you—a closet homophobe?”

“Of course not!”

Hornswoggler glared at him for a moment, then resumed scanning over the list. “Hmm. What do we know about this homicide in Swampfill, Florida?”

The employee shrugged dismissively. “Not very useful.”

“Well, the victim was from the appropriate victim class…play the 911 tape.”

The employee summarized while cuing up the recording, skeptically. “Jerry Lipschitz was being a proactive Neighborhood Watch patrol person. Throdown Moerage freaked out, attacked him. Lipschitz shot him.”

“Gun violence!” Hornswoggler growled, already fuming at the inherent evil of firearms in the hands of American citizens. The only people who should be allowed to keep and bear arms were federal agents and Mexican drug lords.

The employee turned up the volume. The voice of a police dispatcher asked, “Can you describe what he looks like?”

Lipschitz replied, “About six-three, muscular, wearing a hoodie…”

“Is he white? Black? Hispanic?” asked the dispatcher.

“I think he’s black,” Lipschitz said.

Hornswoggler reached past his employee and stopped the recording, eyes gleaming with journalistic integrity. “We lead with this: racial profiling leads to senseless racially-motivated murder by Christian right-wing gun nut! Edit out the part where the dispatcher asked him about ethnicity, or the audience will miss the racial motivation angle.”

The employee squirmed. “But, um, Lipschitz is a minority, too.”

Hornswoggler stroked his chin. “He’s not an undocumented worker, is he?”

“No. He’s a US citizen.”

“Alright. We can work with this,” Hornswoggler said, too filled with the proper indignation to let this story go untold.

The employee still didn’t like it. “But Lipschitz is, like, Jewish and Puerto Rican or something.”

“Hmm. Jewish Nazi?” Hornswoggler mused, then shook his head. After many years of covering the Middle East, he still couldn’t get that label to catch on.

“You can tell he’s Latino by looking at him.”

“He’s a white Hispanic,” Hornswoggler declared. “Emphasize that.”

“White Hispanic? Is there such a thing? I’ve never heard of that.”

“Don’t fear change,” Hornswoggler encouraged. “But don’t show his photo too much. Show Throdown—but find some Farcebook pictures of him when he was 12 or younger. We owe it to the public to show his vulnerability.”

“I’m on it,” the employee said.

Jacob Hornswoggler nodded and proceeded to the next door. An obese, androgynous editor from Smithereens State occupied this room.

“How are we doing here?”

The employee grimaced and sighed heavily. “It’s hard to find any real news stories amidst all the whining about unwarranted federal wire tapping, use of the IRS to harass and intimidate political opponents, and indefinite detention without trial.”

“Crybabies are everywhere,” Hornswoggler agreed, rolling his eyes with an enlightened scoff. “To hear them tell it, you’d think that abuses of power are just as wrong under this administration as they were under the previous one.”

They both shared an exasperated shake of the head. Despite all their valiant effort to educate, some Neanderthals just couldn’t grasp the complexities of relative standards.

“Here’s what we’ll do,” Hornswoggler said, drawing on his bottomless supply of conflict resolution savvy. “Let’s put together a special report on executive tyranny—which can certainly be a bad thing, you see. Make it hard-hitting, relevant and timely. We’ll call it ‘Looking Back on Watergate’.”

Their exchange of mutually supportive harrumphs were interrupted by a text from Hornswoggler’s wife.

Have you come up with a resolution about the gloves?

The gloves, the gloves. What could be done about a brand new pair of gloves that were the wrong size? He pulled the receipt from his pocket and flicked it with his thumb thoughtfully.

Jacob Hornswoggler was still mulling over this dilemma when he entered the next room.

“Why the long face?” he asked, noticing the dour expression worn by his economic analyst from Sam Hill College.

“I just can’t figure out a way to present these numbers,” the employee replied. “Not in a way that will reflect the superb national leadership we now have.”

Hornswoggler patted his employee on the shoulder. “It’s challenging, but not impossible. First of all, don’t include people who are still jobless but have used up all their unemployment benefits. Put it on a fancy bar graph and call it ‘unemployment statistics,’ just don’t explain that you’re only counting the fraction of unemployed people who are still getting unemployment checks.”

“But I’ve done that, sir,” the employee said, dejected. “The figures are still worse than ever.”

Hornswoggler stroked his chin. “Hmm. Well, remove the state of California from the report. Then re-run the numbers and show a clip of the president blaming the previous administration for the economy.”

Well, that certainly wouldn’t be difficult to find. The employee began to feel a little better. But that wouldn’t fix everything.

“Um, sir,” the employee said, tentatively. “We still have a problem.”

Hornswoggler raised his index finger. “No we don’t. The economy is in its best shape ever. Remember: as of Inauguration Day, the recession became a ‘slow economic recovery.’ Slow because of the previous administration, of course.”

“Um, what I mean is, sir: things like gas prices.?”

“Gas prices?” Hornswoggler boomed. “What about gas prices? People shouldn’t be driving personal vehicles anyway! Everyone should use public transportation…except people in critical positions, of course, such as myself.”

“Well, see sir, during that previous administration, when prices were a buck-seventy a gallon, we kind of blamed it on them, because they had no sympathy for the little guy.”

“They didn’t,” Hornswoggler said. “They were hopelessly out-of-touch—a bunch of cold-hearted elitist pigs who couldn’t care less about poor working class people getting gouged at the pumps!”

“Well,” the employee continued, nervously, “gas prices are now three-fifty a gallon.”

Hornswoggler pshawed. “Just don’t mention gas prices. You just show those jobs figures. Hoo, boy, what an impressive employment graph that will be!”

“Well, the reason…um, I’m not real confident,” the employee said, “is that some bloggers kept records of what we said then, and are comparing it to our silence now.”

Righteous outrage coursed through Jacob Hornswoggler’s body. How dare those amateurs! He was sure this was a violation of his rights, somehow. They should be prevented from spreading their vile hatred amongst the working class morons out there, who were sure to draw the wrong conclusions if exposed to such unregulated vitriol.

“Find out who these bloggers are and expose them as racists,” he said.

His employee couldn’t help but swell with pride for being under the inspired tutelage of a visionary genius like Jacob Hornswoggler.

The entire GBS building glowed with an aura of journalistic objectivity.

Before Hornswoggler made it to the next room, his cell phone rang. He smiled, thinking it was his wife…but then noticed the number was the Virtual Hotline straight from the Capitol.

“This is Jacob Hornswoggler,” he intoned, voice rich with the nuances of his ethical supremacy.

“We have a Level Three emergency,” the voice on the phone said. “We need you to come in immediately.”

“On my way,” Hornswoggler said, striding toward the door.

Level Three was bad. It meant the March of Progress was being threatened and required a swift, vehement response.

But there was a silver lining in this dark cloud: during the limousine ride to his personal jet, Jacob Hornswoggler played with the glove receipt and smiled through the tinted windows at the sign over the store where the gloves were bought as the limo drove past.

Jacob Hornswoggler knew exactly what to do about the ill-fitting gloves. It was so simple, he should have thought of it from the start…but the rigors of his job must have distracted him. The answer was staring him right in the face the entire time!

All he had to do was make a call to some doctors he knew and have them surgically alter his wife’s hands to fit the gloves.

At various locations around the globe, certain individuals received the Level Three Emergency call, and had to interrupt their important work for an impromptu trip to the White House.

This was Chapter 3 of The Greater Good.

Mad Maxine and the Culture War

Andrew Klavan has weighed in on the destruction reboot of Mad Max. The reaction to this flick could be fairly summed up as “A Tale of Two Worldviews.”

It would appear that the $200 million social conditioning tool is flopping—actually being outperformed by the sequel to some heretofore forgettable chick-flick about a singing group. (There must be some blog-worthy irony in a Grrrl Power flick targeted at guys losing out to a Grrrl Power flick for girls, but I’ll let somebody else report on that.)

However, if you perform an Internet search, you’ll find all the “mainstream” (left-wing) sources claiming that Max is strong at the box office. “Nyah-nyah! In your FACE, all you misogynistic naysayers! Your Y-Chromosome Ilk are falling for the brilliant bait-and-switch all according to plan!”

Andrew Klavan brings up a point that is related to part of Virtual Pulp’s mission (contesting the left’s monopoly on the culture):

As long as you conservatives stay on the sidelines, the left will win the culture and the culture wars.  As long as you refuse to build a critical and award-giving infrastructure to celebrate great liberty-loving works, as long as you praise only G-rated films while watching the R-rated ones in secret, as long as you dismiss freedom-supporting art because it’s naughty or contains violence and sex or four-letter words or sympathetic gay characters…

Boy, Klavan was really going in! Then he had to slip in the obligatory “gay” element.  Sorry Andrew: you can sneak mushrooms, onions, and even hot sauce into my bowl and, if the stew was tasty enough to begin with, I’ll dodge my spoon around those unwanted ingredients. But when you plop in steaming heaps of dogshit, I not only won’t eat the stew (or drink the Kool-Aid), but I will no longer trust the cook, either.

…or whatever makes you wrinkle your righteous little nose — as long as you do those things, the left will continue to use the culture to eat away the free earth beneath your feet.

And now Klavan has sufficiently recovered from his Pavlovian pander to the pervert lobby. His sights swing back on the target and he mauls it with a sledgehammer:

The results are already plain to see. Only a nation in which the left had monopolized the arts for 50 years could have elected a mean-spirited little anti-American incompetent like Barack Obama to the presidency while honestly believing him a messiah bringing Hope and Change. Only a nation that has been taught to believe what Shelby Steele calls “poetic truth” over actual truth could make that stupid a mistake. We learned to believe the Obama mythology at the movies.

For decades, feministas and white knights have been slipping their amazon superninja fantasies into action adventures. To a large degree, this has had the desired effect. More men have been assimilated into white-knighthood and the ridiculous ideas planted into the subconscious from entertainment have convinced people, for instance, that women in the military—even in the combat arms—is a great idea.

But this isn’t enough. Now the cultural programmers are trying to take it a step further. They’re gonna take an iconic hero, put his name on the marquis to draw fans in, then shove him to the sidelines to showcase the amazon superninja trope that they really care about, mix in plenty of explosions as camouflage, and assume you’re too stupid to notice their bait-and-switch.

Movies like this are an attempt at a transition. What they really wish we would do is make blockbuster successes out of overt feminista flicks like Tank Girl, Barbed Wire and Elektra, without needing to be tricked. Until then, though, they’ll hijack the heroic icons that have earned our admiration, to try programming us into liking what they think we should like.

If they had the confidence they pretend (much less some artistic integrity), the Ministers of the Propaganda Corps would come up with their own stories and characters, instead of hijacking, say, a historical figure like Noah to pimp their bankrupt mythologies. Instead they fawn in masturbatory glee over Frank Miller introducing a female Robin, and Marvel giving Thor a sex-change.

What’s sad is, George Miller himself has assimilated to the point that he willingly ruined his own creation in order to prove himself a loyal conformist.

In the past, I might have gone to see the movie anyway, in hopes that something good accidently survived to the final cut.  But the truth is, we’ve all seen this movie a zillion times already, only with different titles, actors, and camera angles. And all the desperate hype from the Marxosphere about how great it is only confirms what we knew well before it was released. Fool me once, Hollywood…

I refuse to pay for a ticket to Fury Road precisely because I am a fan of Mad Max and The Road Warrior.

Looks like some other men are finally wising up, too


Please spread the word if you know other visitors to Virtual Pulp: They’ll probably need to delete cookies to get rid of that error page when they come here.

Ugh. Had some issues with plugins starting last weekend and we were unprotected from spam for a few days. It’s resolved now and shouldn’t happen again but what a drag it’s been. We were flooded with nearly 4,000 spam messages and about a thousand were on one post alone. A vengeful screed against parasitic losers and their spambots is way overdue–stay tuned.

IPage cut off my access so I couldn’t go in to assess and deal with the problem. Then they ignored my inquiries for over a day.

I’ll never use Hostgator again after my experience with them. IPage had better not ever do something like this to me again or they’ll join the list.

Anyway, I apologize for those who got the error page and especially anybody who was spammed from this site. I hope you’ll forgive us.

Should have regular content resuming shortly.