June 04, 2024

Source: Bigstock

This week’s column will start self-indulgently and then brilliantly segue into something of greater import.

Or so I’m telling myself as I down the rum.

Last week a Twitter account—I won’t link to it; I’ll never give oxygen to trolls—said that the morning I was Twitter-banned I seemed “suicidal.” Which is absolutely idiotic. The morning of my perma-ban I’d posted about the death of my longtime friend Vanessa.

I’d known her since she was a teen, and I helped guide her acting career for 22 years.

It was never sexual; just the opposite—I protected her from predators. As an only child, I’d always wanted a kid sister. And that was Vanessa to me; at 17 years my junior, she was my honorary kid sis.

She wasn’t just beautiful, she was clever as hell. I wrote about her in my 2014 (banned) book, and how she single-handedly defused an Andrew Breitbart/Adam Baldwin pool-hall fistfight by being, as I was, coherent as hell even after ten Irish car bombs.

“Musk allowing Nazis to run wild on Twitter has created a ‘be careful what you wish for’ moment for the right.”

She had zero interest in politics—a trait I’ve increasingly come to treasure in people—yet she knew how to comport herself at my events for congressmen and senators. When James O’Keefe and his sincere but not-exactly-Wellesian director Christian Hartsock were looking for beautiful dancers for one of their imbecilic music videos, they came to me (because I was the older, non-incel guy in that circle), and I went to Vanessa.

“You’ll get a few hundred bucks for dancing in a dumb video. Wanna do it?”

“Sure,” she replied. Because Vanessa loved dancing. We both loved dancing.

So many nights, we’d dance together. We’d close a joint, dancing.

And the shit we’d get up to after-hours. One night at 3 a.m., I think it was in 2010, she dared me to streak naked across Hollywood Boulevard and press my junk against the window of a fancy hotel.

Of course I did it, and we laughed and laughed and drank and drank, sitting on the roof of her apartment building watching the sun come up.

Jesus, I loved her. I loved her so much. And a year ago she died from the long-term effects of a traumatic brain injury sustained in a car accident that occurred when she left the after-party for one of my political events—a party I’d been unable to attend because I had to stay at the venue to close up, so I couldn’t be at the bar to stop her from driving tipsy.

She died at 38. Too young. Too fucking young.

It will never stop tormenting me that I wasn’t there at the bar that night to watch over her. It’s why I’ll never again do that “event planning” shit. I get nauseous just thinking about it. No “event” was worth Vanessa’s life. Such a precious life.

Although she’d moved back to Northern Cal to deal with her health issues, we were always in touch. We messaged just a week before she died.

On that fateful Elon-ban morning, I posted, on the one-year anniversary of her passing, that I’d happily give my life if it could bring her back. That’s not suicidal—it’s just honest. I’ve no family and no fear of death (as I’ve written previously, I fear only debilitation, not death).

Holocaust deniers, those farcical cretins, routinely post that I only “affirm the Holohoax” because the “ADL” is “threatening my family.”

What family? I’ve no family. They’re all dead.

So I posted that I wish I’d have died instead of Vanessa. Because that’s true. I’d rather she still be here with her loved ones.

And when the deniers—those great heroes of truth—saw that moment of weakness on my part, they laid into me with a torrent of abuse, and yeah, I told one of them that if he ever comes to Beverly Hills and says that to my face, I’ll kill him.

I don’t regret saying that; I would kill him.

Hey—I never said I’m a Christian or Buddhist. I’m all for killing scum.

Pacifist, I ain’t.

But because Holocaust denier scum has the protection of the world’s richest man, I was banned, even though Elon’s favorite Nazi, Lucas Gage, tweeted a video in which he declared “slay the Jews,” and Elon was like, “Oh, you little scamp, take a brief suspension, then come back because your speech MATTERS!”

But I got a perma-ban because how dare I have a moment of anger when a Nazi pesters me as I’m trying to honor the memory of a young woman I dearly loved?

Sentient Bottle of Rum: “Dave, you should probably do that segue now to something less self-indulgent.”

Dave: “Thank you, Sentient Bottle of Rum. But I’m gonna have to drink the rest of you first.”

Sentient Bottle of Rum: “Will I dream?”

Musk allowing Nazis to run wild on Twitter has created a “be careful what you wish for” moment for the right. For years, rightists railed against the moderation of content on social media. And I was part of that mania. In 2018 I was one of the first to cry “END SECTION 230” in several columns (here and here), and everyone’s least favorite ginger troll, Chuck Johnson, sitting on my couch at 1 a.m. one night like the cold sore you wish would go away, told me that it was my Section 230 pieces that prompted Josh Hawley’s legislative attempts to overturn the provision.

So we’ve all been there. “STOP MODERATING CONTENT!”

Cue Aimee Mann: “You got what you want, now you can hardly stand it.”

Because now the Nazis are everywhere.

Last week Steve Sailer was “ratioed” by Nick Fuentes and his followers. It got so bad, even Steve’s fellow Unz author Anatoly Karlin admitted that the Nazi thing’s gotten out of hand, with Elon having “soft-propped” Nazis like Fuentes to the extent that they now drown out the sane voices like Steve.

Funny thing about content moderation. Conservatives love it when it’s applied to Muslims (“silence the radical jihadists; allow the moderates!”) and blacks (“promote Sowell, not Kendi”). I’ve written many times about how my wonderful experience at majority-black L.A. public schools in the early 1980s was due, essentially, to “content moderation” (the bad actors were removed by the LAPD, and the teachers allowed no antiwhite bullshit in the classroom).

But those same conservatives will be like, “Wait, don’t moderate our content! I may disagree with what Nick Fuentes says but by gum I’ll fight to the death for his right to blah-blah-blah.”

And once again, idiots on the right allow themselves to be manipulated…this time into championing Nazis.

A core principle of sane “race realists” (like Steve, and Jared Taylor) is that not all humans are equal in quality. Equal in rights, sure. We all get the same rights. But a ghetto Daquan is not the equal of a high-IQ Dane. Oh, but with ideas, conservatives have been manipulated into wailing, “They’re all worthy, man! Everything deserves to be heard! Let every idea flow; who’s to say what’s correct?”

Bullshit. Like people, all ideas get the same rights (in terms of, government can’t ban them). But this crap about “let’s elevate Nazis along with Steve Sailer because they all deserve a public voice” is the curse that’ll end us all.

The right needs to be able to say, “These ideas are crap, and while they’re protected by the First Amendment, they pollute social media and should be kept down.”

Amazon shouldn’t have banned my book because it’s not a Nazi book. Not because “Amazon must allow everything, even Nazis,” but because their censors lack discernment. The problem has never been one of moderation, but discernment. Some ideas are superior to others, and if that’s offensive to you, tell me: Do you disagree with the notion that some humans are superior to others in terms of intelligence, and not every human, though equal in rights, deserves equal “voice and visibility” in a private workplace?

The moderation problem always came down to the online censors, whether via bias or stupidity, not showing discernment in what they banned. And now here’s Musk, with zero discernment, and the Nazis are drowning out the sane rightists.

Last month Scott Adams, a guy who, in theory, could’ve been hugely influential once he got political, except he’s a retard, tweeted that he’s going to become more anti-Jewish because he wants to rebel against Congress’s opposition to Jew-hatred.

Brilliant. That’ll show ’em, Dilbert.

You can’t see the manipulation there, by those who are, sorry to say, waaaay smarter than the Dilbert dumbass?

“Hah-hah, the left and the neocons say, ‘Don’t be a Jew-hater?’ Well, then, I’ll become one, just to spite ’em!”

The core of conservative voters, the decent blue-collar whites who can still influence elections if you’d just fucking appeal to them (as Fetterman did, you morons), are not Nazis. They don’t read Mein Kampf, they don’t have Turner Diaries posters in their bedroom.

You know what they want?

To dance with their Vanessas.

To love their families. Their spouse, their siblings, their kids. To care for them. To keep them safe from crime. To keep their communities from becoming filthy tenements. To keep the job market open to citizens instead of illegals. At heart, the voters who matter—or who would matter if the right stopped with this “look how amazing I am—I’m propping up Nazis” stupidity—just care about their loved ones. Yet instead of embracing that fact, we have literal retards like Scott Adams saying, “Oh, the left doesn’t want me to be a Nazi? Well, then, now I’m a Nazi. Behold my high IQ!”

Thanks to Elon and Unz and the like, so much of the right has been turned over to Nazi incels. People who’ve never had the kind of human relationships that matter. Trolls who are as alien to GOP blue-collar voters as my body is alien to a healthy liver. How can a freak who’s never had genuine relationships, whose only love is anime, understand what a Midwest family man cares about?

It’s a bad situation, folks.

Christ, how many times do I say that these days?

Don’t get tricked into dismissing discernment.

That’s the right’s doom.

Oh Sentient Bottle of Rum, did I do good? Did I bring the column around from self-indulgence to relevance?

Sentient Bottle of Rum (up in Heaven, bathed in holy light): “That’ll do, kike. That’ll do.”

I’d give up everything, even this amazing, incredible Takimag job I’ve had for almost ten years, to dance with Vanessa one more time.

To put my arm around the small of her back, and dance until sunup.

Just one more time.

And if you can understand that even a notoriously political animal like myself cares more about that than politics, perhaps you can grasp what the average apolitical voter is concerned with.


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