The sexual revolution is now officially devouring its own children.
Something’s rotten in the fairy-tale kingdom of progress. It is crumbling like the magical land of Fantastica after people stopped believing in it. Progs are melting like toons under the green shower of Judge Doom. Is our never-ending narrative finished? Comrade Red Square investigates.
170 years ago, Karl Marx began his Communist Manifesto by writing, “A specter is haunting Europe – the specter of communism. All the powers of old Europe have entered into a holy alliance to exorcise this specter.”
Marxism has since been upgraded with many new features and functions. The revolutionary class is no longer the workers, but the white-color coalition of identity pressure groups, spearheaded by transsexuals and financed by international currency manipulators. Imperialism and colonialism were replaced with globalism and mass migration. The violent revolution was replaced with the march through the institutions, class struggle with culture wars, and historical materialism with phallophobia.
Even the specter of communism has been replaced. As karmic retribution for Karl Marx’s known penchant to sexually harass his female subordinates, the world is now being haunted by the specter of Pussy™, with all the progressive powers entering into a holy alliance to enable this haunting and protect it from exorcism, even as it’s fixing to swallow the entire progressive movement, chew it up, and spit out the bones.
The haunting began on Friday, Oct. 7, 2016, when we released an 11-year-old Access Hollywood tape, in which the merry bachelor Trump was recorded bragging about his status as a celebrity, which was why beautiful women in the industry allowed him to kiss them and “grab them by the pussy.” Designed to destroy Trump, this October surprise barely made a dent. We followed it up with a massive media campaign, in which the P-word was memefied in thousands of images, but the nation’s psyche remained unscathed. We organized million-strong marches of pussycomrades in pussyhats, but the country treated them as clowns.
Nothing in our playbook was working; we should’ve just stopped. But when a prog hits a wall, the answer is always to push harder. We became possessed by the P-specter. It made us fixated on P-issues, repeating the P-word like a magic spell and howling it at the moon as we channeled our rage toward white cisgendered hetero-males who we imagined were all guilty of P-grabbing. In the process we became impossible zero-tolerance prudes. If Marx were still around, we’d have called him a creep, pressured him to resign, and mocked his theories on late night shows. Our sexual revolution became a Freudian slip-and-fall mess. We began to purge everyone who didn’t live up to the new puritanical standard, even if it meant losing valuable comrades.
It wasn’t always like that.
We used to thrive on vulgarity, promiscuity, and wholesale permissiveness – it was part of our culture wars. The famous Free Speech Movement in Berkeley was all about the free use of four-letter words; it was later celebrated as an heroic legend. We made sure that lewd language and content would enter Hollywood movies and cable TV shows, rap music, and books. The revolutionary red transmutated into 50 shades of gray.
We injected lewdness in our youth magazines and our public schools, with Obama’s “safe schools czar” setting up programs that taught young children oral and anal sex. It was followed by trans and gender fluidity indoctrination of kindergarteners. Depravity and profanity entered the White House under the Clintons, with security detail recalling Hillary cursing at them like a sailor; the Obama-Biden team wasn’t much of an improvement.
Our heroes were pornographers and celebrities who kept flouting the rules of normalcy with public nudity, wardrobe malfunctions, pussy-flashing™, twerking and dry-humping on stage. Our favorite activists were Code Pink who taunted conservative squares by dressing in vagina costumes and parading as gigantic gaping sexual organs, with two feet and a head on top. We celebrated our sexcapades at events like the 2008 Matt Lauer’s Roast with hours of “dick and pussy” jokes from some of the biggest stars of TV and film.
Our shagadelic utopia was almost complete, filled with drugs, smut, and – yeah baby – lots of pussy. We all liked pussy. We were building a bawdy new world where anyone, regardless of age, race, or income could eat as much pussy as he or she liked. And now we are finding out that we’ve built a complete opposite of that. In the new progressive America, pussy eats you. Call it the law of unintended consequences.
The Trump tape has since been eclipsed by the much more vivid details about our lecherous comrades raping, groping, harassing, and intimidating women. We should’ve quit after Harvey Weinstein. But like an electrocuted hand that can’t let go of a hot wire, we can’t let go of the P-issue, and it is killing us.
Exposing the obvious is, perhaps, Trump’s most dangerous talent. Once he lays it bare, other people begin to see it as obvious, too, even though previously they were afraid to admit it. In this sense Trump creates truth out of things we fought so hard to bury deep down in ourselves and others. This makes him the Anti-Prog. But it’s hard to paint him as Anti-Pussy, no matter how hard we try.
Deep down, we all know that after Bill Clinton, Madonna, and Miley Cyrus, after years of desensitizing this nation to smut and violence with Comedy Central and Harvey Weinstein’s productions, we can’t seriously expect anyone to be shocked by the P-word. Then why are we still hyping it? Because it’s our nature, our ideology, and our creed. Because the issue is never the issue; the issue is always the revolution.
Unfortunately for us, revolutions tend to devour their own children. Our sexual revolution is no exception.
Time Magazine dedicated its 2017 “Person of the Year” issue to women collectively named “The Silence Breakers” who exposed and denounced a powerful group of male chauvinist pigs. Nobody paid attention to the fact that today’s pigs were yesterday’s progressive idols who used to act within the accepted norms of our libidinous progdom. But the P-specter has changed the rules; the new norms are remorseless and retroactive. The rollicking idols of the Age of Aquarius are now being toppled, broken to smithereens, spit upon, and replaced by the grim, vengeful idols of the Age of Pussy.
To remind us who the real enemy is, the media propagated a new rumor that Trump has had the gall to deny he used the P-word. Another news cycle ensued, with Billy Bush of the P-tape fame vowing in The New York Times op-ed page, Yes, Donald Trump, You Said That. CNN unearthed an aging reporter who remembered how way back in the year 2000 he also heard Trump say the P-word during a golf weekend at Mar-a-Lago. The Daily Beast turned this recollection into an “Exclusive” and “Very Special” investigation titled, “Trump Bragged: ‘Nothing in the World Like First-Rate P**sy’.
We can feign shock, reach for our nonexistent smelling salts, and commiserate with all the second- and third-rate pussies who must feel triggered, bitter, and empty. But deep down we can’t argue with the fact that a first-rate pussy is still better than a third-rate pussy. Marxism can’t change that. No ideology can. Trump simply stated the obvious.
Prog-power has always depended on people’s obedience to stay within a pre-approved range of ideas. Our success is measured by the amount of sheer terror people experience at the thought of mistakenly crossing an invisible line. Well-trained progs always huddle together within safe zones and only make noises that are guaranteed to earn them a treat – a behavior known as “virtue signaling.”
On that front we’ve been extremely successful – that is until Trump threw the P-bomb into our safe zone. More specifically, we constructed the bomb ourselves and threw it at him; but instead of ducking and running like all other Republicans, he caught it in midair and threw it back at us.
Since then we’ve been dealing with damage control, mending the shattered fence, and recompiling the lists of things that are forbidden to see as true or obvious. Worse yet, many had lost their fears, which is our ultimate tool of persuasion. We needed to restore obedience by putting fear back into people’s hearts. Someone on the committee decided that phallophobia – the morbid and irrational fear of male genitalia and, more broadly, an excessive aversion to masculinity – would be a good new fear to terrorize the nation into compliance. It was a good idea overall, but we may have overdone it.
As it were, we are now being decimated by what was supposed to be our elite troops – the ruthless army of femprogs who had been raised as soldiers for the War on Women and are now waging it against the sexteblishment without mercy. The problem is that it’s our sexteblishment. The poor devils bought our narrative that the establishment was conservative, when it’s been almost entirely progressive since at least the Vietnam War. And we can’t tell them to stop because that would expose our game.
In the meantime the progressive movement continues to self-destruct in a frenzy of phallophobic purges and show trials that have uncanny parallels with Stalinism. Hence I’m calling it Gyno-Stalinism.
A little history. By 1936 Stalin had already exterminated the last vestiges of capitalism and declared the creation of a socialist system (prolonged applause). But the Soviet terror machine still needed continuous fodder to keep the system running, so Stalin conveniently turned it against the competition in his own party. Thus began the great purges and show trials that targeted the most committed communists, original revolutionaries, and Red Army commanders.
In the blink of an eye, yesterday’s leaders and revered heroes transformed into despised and cursed enemies of the people. Daily headlines were filled with the names of beloved celebrities who were now supposed to be universally hated, crossed out of history books and forgotten. All it took was someone’s anonymous smear.
New national heroes were the ones who exposed and prosecuted old national heroes, but they, too, were eventually exposed and prosecuted by even newer heroes of the unstoppable Stalinist meat grinder. Having lost everything and facing the gulag, the victims groveled and confessed to anything their tormentors demanded; their heart-wrenching confessions were published on the front pages of leading newspapers.
By then the people were prepared to believe anything at all. Anyone could be betrayed and no one felt safe. The country was consumed by fear, paranoia, snitching, distrust, and the readiness to hate and denounce on command; it didn’t matter whom or what.
Principles and morality vanished, replaced by primordial self-preservation.
Fast forward to a progressive America of Twitter hashtags, righteous denouncements, desperate groveling, and public condemnation. One after another, our glorious thought-leaders and heroes, once admired as the best and the brightest, are confessing to terrible sexcrimes against their pussycomrades. Their heart-wrenching confessions are published on the front pages of leading newspapers.
The nation’s headlines are filled with the names of beloved celebrities and politicians who from now on must be publicly hated, stricken from records, and condemned to oblivion.
This may feel like Stalinism Lite because nobody is being executed or sent to the gulag. And yet, just like under Stalin, anyone naive enough to stand up for a friend or appeal to reason automatically becomes a traitor, ripe for media smears and social media bullying by former comrades.
The lifelong prog Garrison Keillor wrote a column defending his comrade Al Franken and was himself instantly denounced as a sexcriminal. After almost 40 years of hosting NPR’s most successful show, “A Prairie Home Companion,” which he also created, Keillor lost his reputation, his job on the radio, and his Washington Post column.
Megyn Kelly made half-a-noise in defense of her friend Matt Lauer, but quickly shut up when she overheard growling in the control room. Comrade Megyn has always known what’s best for her career.
Lena Dunham unwisely Tweeted a statement defending her friend and writer for her HBO series who had been accused of sexcrimes. She suffered a vicious backlash. It didn’t matter that she herself was a card-carrying lecherous femprog in good standing. Dunham was forced to grovel, confess to thoughtcrimes, and submit to a mandatory period of conspicuous self-criticism and virtue signaling.
Virtue signaling, too, has gone around the bend to catch up with the Party line’s latest zigzag. As Stalin once said, we are not individuals but cogs in the great machine. Friendship and principles have become the non-virtues. The virtues of a human cog are unthinking loyalty to the cause du jour and willingness to sacrifice one’s individuality, believe anything one hears from other cogs, and attack enemies on command without questioning why. When we look at the black-clad Antifa, we don’t see thinking individuals; we see faceless, genderless, dispensable cogs in the progressive attack machine, which is what all good kids should aspire to be when they grow up. This is the new virtue signaling.
At least Stalin owned the country he was terrorizing; we don’t – and it makes all the difference. Our plan was to rule after Hillary’s win. We fully expected the phallophobic forces we had unleashed in advance of her triumph to abate after the election. We were so confident, there was no plan B. But Trump happened and now all bets are off; this progressive Chernobyl won’t stop until it has run out of fuel rods.
Let’s face it – we outsmarted ourselves by pretending that the media and entertainment were mainstream and nonpartisan. The gullible and the uninitiated in our midst fell for it, and now they are purging our well-placed operatives while honestly believing they are sticking it to the man.
Some call it poetic justice; I call it an autoimmune disorder. In medical terms this disorder occurs when the body’s immune system goes bonkers and attacks healthy body tissue by mistake. Similarly, our femprogs who have been trained to seek and destroy misogyny can’t tell the difference between the real sexenemy and their own progressive party organs. They wear pink pussyhats on their heads but they’ll crush anyone who utters the actual P-word; the resulting cognitive dissonance is driving them mad.
My advice to all male comrades is to hunker down and prepare for more friendly fire and collateral damage. As Stalin would say, Iyes rubyat, shchepki letyat – “chop wood and splinters will fly.” This Russian proverb is often rendered in English as “you can’t make an omelet without breaking eggs.” But that, too, is a translation from French, going back to that country’s own revolutionary Reign of Terror.
Stalinist purges continued, on and off, for nearly two decades. The paralyzing fear and the complicity of the ruling party had been so deep that it took three years after the death of Stalin to acknowledge the abuses and begin to rehabilitate the victims. How long will it take for the American Gyno-Stalinism to die out and what will the country look like when it’s over?
In one alternative timeline phallophobia will become the new normal; all sex will be legally seen as rape and all flirting will be seen as harassment; the only failsafe protection against human-on-human sex scandals will be robot partners, or better yet, robot politicians.
Yet in a different timeline the progressive movement will self-destruct and the surviving population will resume the old conservative ways to the mutual satisfaction of both sexes.
As for Donald Trump, he’ll remain in office and will continue to disentangle the system from our socialist improvements, proving that America works better without them. So we may as well give up politics and enjoy whatever is left of our sad lives before we get devoured by the giant man-eating pussy of our own creation.
EDITORS NOTE: This column originally in FrontPage Magazine.