The Post-Modernist Drinking Song
Jordan Peterson strikes again!
Fully deserving of mockery, the post-modernists have ruined a once-great culture with consequences that can never be undone.
I write against these forces, I debate them… I also loathe them.
So it’s a delight to me to offer you The Post-Modernist Drinking Song as a fine way to start your Saturday!
Thank you, Jordan Peterson. You’ve changed my life for the better, and the lives of countless others. You’re a fighter, and I fight alongside you, shoulder to shoulder with you in this battle.
Mock them. Scorn them. Bully them. Never forgive them. Turn them into the butt end of every joke.
This is why I go after the weirdo leftists like Davante Lewis: If he gets his way - as he likely will in the long run - he’ll wreck our culture, our technology, our power systems, our religions, our most dearly held essential institutions.
It’s time to punch them in the kisser and laugh at them to their faces.
Brought to you by Taco Gulag’s Employee of the Month: Gordo Motormouth…
These notes accompany the video:
In the face of Postmodernist intellectual stupidity, the best thing to do is laugh. Hence The Postmodernist Drinking Song. The Postmodernist Drinking Song is based on an old English folk song, The Ballad of Lydia Pinkham, by way of a 1960’s British pop group, the Scaffold, whose variant Lily the Pink reached number one in the UK singles chart in ’68.
Our version was partly inspired, as well, by the brilliant idiocy of Monty Python’s The Philosophers Song, which celebrated the drunken shenanigans of the greatest thinkers of the Western tradition.
Postmodernism is a school of thought, increasingly dominant in what still passes for the modern academy, that famously rejects “grand narratives”—“collective myths that never had a reality,” as certain philosophers have it. Equally famously, however, the same thinkers turned, post-rejection, to the murderous blandishments of the Marxist story, which was in turn based on an even longer tradition of Luciferian arrogance and bitter resentment. No grand narrative--except, of course, that of power (with a nice dollop of immature hedonism tossed in, just to sweeten the pot).
Adding some more substance to Peterson’s satire…
