Start here, this statement is true and relevant:
The Nick Fuentes PSY OP And What It Trojan-Horses In
They’re billing him as a class-bullied anti-hero, a true working class hero, the voice of a voiceless and frustrated generation, etc etc. He’s soaring in popularity, in the wake of the Owens/Carlson smackdown, and countless broadcasters, in sober tones, are speaking of his talent, his intelligence—taking it all sooo seriously. All sounding like middle school teachers discussing an intelligent problem student with great potential— they all want to be the one who casts the most astute paternal/maternal patience .
I feel like we’re in a lunatic asylum. We are.
Because Candace Owens was ‘rude’ and bossy, because Tucker was dismissive, it means Nick Fuentes is Nelson Mandela.
Millions rise to defend him as the real deal.
The social engineering—since The Beatles—is all about heroes, idols, famosos, who are actually Tavistock (or similar) Trojan horses for fresh rounds of destructive social engineering ensuring people do not marry or procreate.
I remember seeing a clip of Fuentes about a year ago in which he said he never wanted to marry because women are boring, stupid, and can’t be made to shut up, as in, never speak. If he was to marry, he wanted to be assured his wife would never try to talk to him, lest he die of boredom.
But hatred of women is not a thing to react against. Unless you’re a loser purple haired feminist. So he grew, and grew. Explosive growth in popularity.
Sure, he’s “intelligent,” and “talented.” But why doesn’t anybody state the obvious: His spirit is ugly.
Almost all these superstar influencers have ugly spirits, but the only social crimes people clock in on are: Racism, anti-semitism, and levels of antagonism to Israel.
Their true goal is the final and total destruction of women—and the mother. Whether they have anal sex or don’t, from Howard Stern to Nick Fuentes, the NWO agenda is screamingly obvious, but almost nobody seems to see it. So long as women, and/or children, are targeted, their rise is guaranteed.
Does Nick Fuentes “hate women?”
Yes, and it goes a long way to explaining his meteoric rise. That’s the real ticket, if you want to make it in the new media landscape.
To wit:
US media is now a media landscape of “influencers,” whose every utterance sets off tidal waves inside the self-referential social media fishbowl. You have to leave US airwaves to find people who don’t think everything they say is more the story than the actual story—who can still “report.”
Reporting is hard work, tedious work, it doesn’t pay, it takes time, it depends upon years and years of slow cultivation of sources; All this has been solved now by the new media kingdom where sheer size and performative charisma are king. Misogyny helps, and fighting over who hated Israel first also helps.
Media is just a laboratory for social engineering—cooking your soul, shaping you to give up on joy, or hope, beauty, or fidelity.
Months ago, friends would insistently ask me what I thought of Candace Owens. I drew a blank. She’s made for the medium of mass media, she’s perfect, flawless, on point, unbelievably gifted in both delivery, bravado, and sarcastic humor. I would say “brave” if I didn’t have the feeling she has been guaranteed not to fail.
It’s show business. When I listen to her, I hear a broadcaster, shock jock, of rare talent, who provides the party, the stakes, who brings the drama and banishes the boredom. In the process, truth comes out.
She causes me to want to listen to Ole Dammegard, to feel grounded.
Tucker does good interviews.
I don’t care that his father was in the CIA—we know this. So was Alex Jones’ father. The media is a CIA business.
What depresses me about it is that journalists are now so King Kong big, it’s like when Walmart displaced all the mom and pop stores. Being big is the new top quality—cultivating a brand, which journalists never used to have to do, unless they maybe were Hunter S. Thompson, but even he had to drive himself to madness on deadline to make the text soar off the page.
Where has the craftmanship gone? Daryll Cooper knows how to tell a story at least. Broadcasters, as I call them, podcasters, have taken over the whole house of journalism.
Media is not a profession devoted either to truth telling, story telling, or public service. It’s a mechanism, a gauge, for class distinction, for managing the control of the ruling classes neuroses, mythologies, and self-sustaining mirror reflections.
Not only in “media” but in literature, the one sure thing, through the ages, is this invisible war: The elites’ maintaining of dominance. If we take them all at face value, Candace Tucker, and Milo represent “elites” in varying ways, while Fuentes plays the role of the talented, broken-bottle brandishing prole, or interloper. He has to be ganged up on. It’s not a new story.
Class warfare informs the arc and outcome of every story.
Tucker, with his pedigree, can say anything he wants—he is guaranteed success, as a birthright, in media. Candace, by marriage, can now enjoy the same privilege. The only thing a person really needs to have a career in journalism is to pass these class tests, these sniff tests. YET, Fuentes is an example of the explosive popularity also of the Outsider. The Outsider can sell, have a huge audience, but will never be in that club—which is what this whole battle is about.
About 4 days ago I listened to Glenn Greenwald’s assessment of this alt right tar-baby brawl that bored me, depressed me, and yet, still, eventually dragged me in. The next day, I had an anger hangover. Why was I angry? Let me try to explain.
Though I am a very small fish by all accounts, I’m a small fish who believed, earnestly, in the fickle seducer we call journalism, who never loved me. We’ve been divorced for almost 20 years. If you’re not of their ilk, you can come waving an exclusive interview with the Virgin Mary, but they won’t get excited. Like any royal court, they want to see each other. That’s what they show up for.
It struck me all of a sudden that Greenwald’s podcast—among the most decent, least gladiatorial on this vile subject—got me “mad” precisely because he accepted the premise, and seemed inhabited and animated by a spirit which I want him to rebuke. The premise is that its all a big who’s who.
The new spirit of “journalism” is carried by the spirit of scale, fame, clubbiness, gladiatorial violence, and a near fanatical devotion to the who rather than the what.
And none of them even try to go outside the palace walls anymore.
It now feels like a squalid gossip mill, run by competing cults, who have not only “become the story,” but are casting spells even on old school journalists to talk about their own place in the big clubby who’s who of it all. Who exactly is in whose dog house, who exactly is bigger, who exactly is “defending” or throwing shade on whom.
Popularity as journalism.
They have made themselves, and one another, the story.
And they all filed in, and did their earnest podcasts about what all went down, blow by blow, last 12 days, as if they were reporting on the Normandy invasion.
The ethos, the goal, is to attack, to savage—for big influencers to do this, more and more.
Greenwald really took it seriously.
But why?
To genuflect to the club, the importance of the internal battles, and showing up for one side or the other?
Whether you think you care or not, the biggest story for 10 days running is Nick Fuentes. Normally, the biggest story is Candace Owens. Now it’s both of them, with Tucker in the middle, and Milo pouring bizarre gasoline on the fire. You’re expected, as in a game show, to pick one of the five doors, determine who is the fed?
That’s a red herring.
The only person who threw the ball way beyond the stadium walls was enfent terrible Owen Benjamin, who argues that Fuentes is a made media man, installed to socially engineer pedophilia.
Clip here.
It’s the only statement that strays from the pack. It doesn’t seem outrageous when you hear the clips.
Then there’s this charming episode:
Clip here.
Journalism is dead.
The new thing is shock-alism, gossip, cliques, and wrestling matches.
If I’m off base, blame it on the extreme Andalucian heat. It can make you cranky.
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Author: Celia Farber
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