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Nerding Day: Portraits of Personality
Author: Dennard Dayle
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Learning Day : Slavery 101
Meet Lochlainn.
Lochlainn writes Confederate propaganda for kids. He’s tried other lanes, but his grown-up books are as childlike as his children’s books are doglike.
Lochlainn Seabrook wants to be white. To us, he already is. But he wants the white cartoon. The love, respect, and gratitude of The Filth. Every keystroke kills that dream.
Col. Lochlainn Seabrook will never be white. He wouldn’t deserve his dream if it existed. He mourns a lost life as a KFC mascot. Other reenactors don’t like the faces or sounds he makes.
Col. Lochlainn Seabrook, Jefferson Davis Award winner, wrote a defense of Antebellum slavery. As a table book. Table books are like kids’ books, with lower standards and smaller words. Seabrook might do better. He won’t, but he has 84 chances. 101, if he weren’t a lazy shit.
Interesting opening. Did Lochlainn plan to write this book? Or was it an accident, like half his brain surviving the vacuum? “Slavery Existed Before Forrest” is my strawman of Seabrook, and he’s sprinted ahead. On the first page. What the fuck is Fact 84? “My wife loves me more than the bull?”
Here, Lochlainn rambles about ancient Greece, the ideal gauge for 19th century choices. That’s why we still treat miscarriages with dung.
Yeah, I’m probably descended from slave owners. I’d call that one of the darker problems.
In a vacuum, I should stop giving nazis brand tips. But they don’t take monkey advice, so whatever. Generally, Lochlainn, when chanting “I am not a racist,” one avoids ranting about Africa.
Fun fact: semantics also began in Africa, the cradle of discourse.
Lochlainn knows the pain of getting kicked out of a party early. This bit’s personal, so I’ll let it fly.
Seven is early to start reusing material. Even Every Day Magic made it to Valentine’s Day without plagiarizing itself. Yet Lochlainn feels the labor behind his livelihood is beneath him. Weird.
Lochlainn lists every Bronze Age society he can think of (it’s a short entry), and ends on/emphasizes “the Hebrews.” Antisemitism’s still reactionary autopilot. Martian nativists will blame them for migrants from Pluto.
Lochlainn tilts a summary of the Barbary Wars. Against reason, he’s worse at it than the Civil War. He rambles without the words “pirate,” “corsair,” “privateer,” “navy,” or “ship,” failing as both a historian and children’s author. When the records give you pirates, use pirates. That’s the sugar around the redpill.
For many of you, these articles hit before the third coffee of the day. So I’ll spell it out: this wing of the book rewrites Roots in white crayon. Lochlainn’s Dixie is a revenge fantasy for eons of white bondage. I call it Bizarro Wakanda.
Suspense! Want a remedial lesson in DARVO? Guess the answer. Lochlainn isn’t a master, or literate, but boy does he try.
Lochlainn’s answer: “by increasing the monetary value of African slaves, it greatly reduced instances of their abuse, torture, murder, and sacrifice by fellow Africans.”
Frankly, magical. In rhetoric, they call this tactic “cerebral hemorrhaging.” Slavery 101 came out in 2015, so it’s too late to get Lochlainn a doctor.
I swear, Real America won’t let you have anything. Seabrook’s swiping chattel slavery like its rock n’ roll. Who should play Indentured Elvis in Roots II?
I write on a hideously overpriced and perfect e-ink typewriter (glorified Notepad emulator) with a 7-inch screen. It attracts artsy descendants of indentured servants. Then, they see that I’ve typed “IN EARLY AMERICA A WHITE SLAVE WAS WORTH LESS THAN HALF THAT OF A BLACK SLAVE.” And I limp back to Hinge.
This bit of spin’s where the repetition starts in earnest:
Now Seabrook’s stuck in a loop. One with a divine sentence:
Remarkably efficient worldbuilding. Lochlainn’s written white power’s “The door dilated.” Any reader knows, from here, that Seabrook’s out of his tiny mind. And that we’re in a new, fantastic world. In Bizzaro Wakanda, anything is possible.
Experienced Seabrook scholars know he loves this line. I’m still baffled. I can’t even tell if it’s my imagination failing, or his. With his agenda, I’d hide that trivia in an underground vault, and split the keys among Four Invincible Country Star Generals. Yet here it is again, in bold all-caps text.
Eyup. I’d call them the second worst place to be black in North America.
Lochlainn deeply envies people barred from writing. He could’ve skipped a lifetime of humiliation.
Lochlainn’s a brilliant kids’ writer. Every book is like “I Spy” for equivocation. “Look, Mama! Horseshit! Mister Seabrook’s lying through his missing teeth again. It’s because of his small pee-pee.”
It sounds like a Tom DuBois joke, but he’s talking about early Boston’s favorite prank. Beware alcoholic reparations.
Sure. Monetary reparations should go directly to the state’s black humorists.
The worldbuilding continues with a mind-bending riddle: what’s authentic slavery? Solve it, and become authentic king of Bizarro Wakanda.
Each writer hides something worthwhile. In Lochlainn, it’s fighting history itself. What a struggle. You can feel his heart break with his mind. Said mind is a bruised, battered Rocky Balboa mess. Yet Lochlainn gets up one more time to fight the idea of knowledge. He’d have done well in the Mandingo fights.
FACT 44’s taught me a new technique. Against my will, but that’s par for this topic. Here, Lochlainn owns a fake idiot arguing against their own nested punching bag. I call it the Mobius Strawman. Nothing else explains coming at this angle.
I wanted that DARVO joke earlier to be hurtful and unfair. So it’s sharp for Lochlainn to just do it. I look forward to reading about the Yankees attacking Fort Sumter, purging Fort Pillow, and teamkilling Stonewall Jackson. Our perfidy knows no bounds.
No one’s grasped at a straw this thin since Lochlainn’s wife.
For all of Lochlainn’s microfailure as a thinker, historian, and biped, he inspires. You can type anything. No god or standards will stop you. I’m braver today because of Lochlainn. If the not-colonel can believe in himself, why not you?
Davis was picked for his elastic spine. Slavers preferred someone that wouldn’t muck things up by governing. I could see him telling the soldier that caught him ditching his family this.
I’d love to paste the Cornerstone Speech and move on. But I must honor generations of tryhards before me. So I’ll note that Lochlainn quotes Vance’s predecessor on his deathbed. When you’re dying and believe in hell, your memory gets flexible. That, or you start screaming.
I know this quote, by heart.
Or some vapid equivocation. My brain started sparking 40 slurs ago.
There’s such a sweaty desperation to Lochlainn’s writing. The point’s smothering thought, but he sounds like he’s trying to catch up to his own dignity. What would he even tell it? It’s been decades. Let it die in peace.
He adds a picture.
Perhaps Godwin’s law was meant for flamewars about nothing, rather than vanity publishing or imperial disintegration. But it jumps to mind when Hitler appears in every Seabrook book about the 1860s. After writing my own Civil War fever dream, I’ve gotta say: Adolf doesn’t come up much.
Again, sprinkles of the truth. The South would’ve ended slavery at some point before the heat death of the universe. At the very latest, when half-man, half-machine Server Servants merged with Aristocrat Hivemind Zero. Ending mandingo fights was short-sighted cultural tyranny, and one day Dixie will be avenged by Roko’s Gentleman.
Lochlainn hates Yankees for ditching slavery when profits dipped, instead of putting cool whips first. It makes Dixie gentlemen look like art purists, choosing passion over solvency. I suspect Lochlainn would pay for the privilege, and skip planting anything.
Lunacy? Or proof that a medium’s quirks become features? In this case, the quirk’s bottomless cruelty. And the medium.
Three in a row! Again, I see why Lochlainn’s dead brain resents losing free labor. He’d need three Bagger Vances to get through middle school.
“Fact 71.5: Harriett Tubman was a poop face with a stinky butt. General Lee called her Harriet NoTubman because of the smell. P.U.”
I like this game! Ramses didn’t run a “Pyramid Regime.” The vast majority of buildings were dull rectangles, holding the living. Stop talking about pyramids. Volunteers worked hard on them.
Lochlainn’s published more books about Nathan Bedford Forrest, one of the biggest Southern slave traders, than any other moron. Living or dead. This erases more than Forrest, history, or sanity. This erases Lochlainn Seabrook.
I see why younger nazis went mask-off: the mask looks fucking stupid. If Steve Harvey asks for five symbols of white supremacy, what’s your second guess? The frog has no staying power, the CMT logo’s too niche, and Charlie’s neckhole is already played out.
I didn’t appreciate Lincoln’s complexity before Seabrook. In the same pages he’s a bigot, race traitor, monkey-lover (abstract), monkey-lover (sexual), monkey (literal), imbecile, shrewd tactician, Mr. Bean, snake in Eden, and three-headed nemesis of Godzilla. A total lack of principles and research keeps Lochlainn’s eyes clear, and allows him to see every imaginable side of Abe. Helpful, as he makes them up.
Man did it work. Nothing but net. We’re still mopping up iced tears from that one.
Their names? Albert Einstein. Your move, liberal. Just remember you’re arguing with the father of relativity.
This is the closer, which caught me off guard. If I’d jerked 84 pieces of fantasy worldbuilding into a Prussian Blue notebook, I’d at least *try* to crank out 16 more. We broke the seal on repetition two entries in, so there’s nothing stopping Lochlainn from printing “Slaves still exist” in sixteen different fonts.
But I have a fact. Straight from Gilead’s leading scholar, L. Seabrook. Enjoy five footnotes from Slavery 101.
Sorry, that’s cherry-picked. Here are twenty footnotes from Slavery 101.
Lochlainn cites himself! 113 times! 115, if Emphasis is a pen name. While Lochlainn’s never been rigorous, this is research inbreeding. He should return his made-up award. And life.
Enjoy the last black history month! In the spirit of brotherhood, I’ll wait at least another week before waterboarding Lochlainn again. Maybe two! Peace is possible in our time. For you. Not Lochlainn and I, we’re tandem-diving into a lake of fire.
This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Gareth. There’s not a lot I can say about Gareth. Not because he isn’t impressive, but because I am filled with so much awe that my mind draws a blank.
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Nerding Day: Zodiac FacesđźŚ
A whole week of effort, and divination still eludes me. That’d be fine, if the present sucked less shit. Half my neighbors support execution by lottery, and cooler heads want more affordable coffins. Reliable spoilers would make me King Gambler of the wasteland. Yet I’m stuck treading time.
Maybe it’s my skillset. Numerologists memorize numbers, but my bachelor’s is in puns. Tarot readers talk to people, but my master’s is in typing alone. Horoscopes just need my birthday, but I’m an adult. It’s not going well.
There must be a better way.
Clearly not. Back to pendulums.
Wait, I’ve read this. My brain just buried it. I’m a Libra chin/Gemini nose, you know how we are.
Don’t try to make sense of that yet. You’ll black out and get Taurus wrinkles early. I just want you to absorb the tone. Cheekbone scrying has its own grammar, and your mind needs time to adapt. Think Retinol, for your brain.
Welcome to Meta-Science. You’ll hate it.
I, on the other hand, am in love.
Today’s stargenics guide comes from the Organization for Professional Astrology. Russ hasn’t channeled a full book yet, so we’re meeting a master early. I look forward to his rise in the Great Fraud Era. Mediocre grifts are a memory: the path ends in the stars or a cell.
Russ von Ohlhausen has the rare genius I can only find 48 times a year, by Tuesday, with rent at stake. A mind that can type “Astrological Physionomy” with self-esteem intact. And he knows it. For this is no conjurer of expensive, subscription-based tricks. Russ is a scientist.
Or at least loves the word science. Deeply. I’d call it manifesting, if Russ were a wordy wizard in denial. But that would make me a professional cyberbully, and those couldn’t exist in the Age of Wisdom. Instead, I’ll call it channeling.
Out the gate, Russ makes sure we know he’s smarter than those other astrologers. While their non-science prints money, Russ recreates academic tone, publishing style, and profit margins. Noble. So noble, I’ll die not knowing why. It’s like seeing YouTube’s most famous clown wrestle Rey Mysterio; at least two industries are broken.
As for astrology’s definition, our modern opinions don’t count. For the first time, my playground jabs at your harmless hobby mean nothing. Russ is on some whole other shit.
Official sounding shit. With at least two science words. You can start retaining information here, as long as you stretch afterwards.
Sorry: whole other rectal scorpion. That drawing’s from the 1800s, when more doctors winged it. Their work’s an important stepping stone to measuring Peter Dinklage’s skull. Before the taint poison reaches your brain, let’s learn scientific racism.
Sorry again: this phrenology isn’t for racists. Racism grasps at straws, and Russ doesn’t even have straws.
I don’t know where we’re headed. But science says it’s not racist.
True, Qin Shi Huang bought into this. And a mercury-based diet. As a wytch, I can’t speak to the science of chugging liquid power. But my tuna-and-tuna meal plan honors the first emperor.
The takeaway: face science goes back further than science, and you should ignore the foul lies of Han historians. Now that you’re convinced, we can move on to examples. As a scientist, Russ has heard of repeatable results. He might try them later.
First, moles. If you’ve got a birthmark/scar/food smear, you love to fuck.
Simple enough. With an open mind, “people want sex with movie stars” is like the scientific method. In fact, it’s much more repeatable than that heathen devilry earlier:
Now, mole-based hookup detection’s settled science. But Russ’s next jump tends to lose faithless scientists.
“What the fuck am I looking at, and is there a subscription?” Research, and yes. Stick with me, and learn about horsepower:
True, that still looks insane. And “centaur teeth” seems mean. Like something your fiance calls you before meeting a Trojan archer. But there’s logic to it:
Your fucked-up horse teeth make you a firebender! Along with your furrowed, “is he still talking about astrology” brow. While I didn’t know gum reading could help me catch the Avatar, I’ll take any chance to restore my honor.
He doesn’t close those parentheses. The rest of the article is a side note to “look at those chompers.” As a star neophyte, I don’t know what sin’s getting December babies dragged today. It must be worse than whatever breakup labeled Geminis emotional terrorists.
As an Oscar-bait neophyte, I don’t know what sin’s getting Judy Dench dragged today. It must be worse than Philomena. I could feel the academy in the theater with me.
Elegant bullying. Can The Pinch compete?
Not quite. All the skull-measuring gets in the way of ice burns. And some mumbling about Scorpios that undermines the whole enterprise. I respect covering your tracks, but Russ should go the Silver Route and lie through his horse teeth. If you’re a non-centaur with visible gums, your parents lied. You’re a Sagitarius, switched at birth for two grand in unmarked bills. Your father loves you, but he doesn’t love the truth. Flee at dawn.
Sidereal-bar: this is the first time I’ve read “sidereal” outside of Exalted. My dumb ass spent two decades thinking White Wolf made up star grammar. Maybe “horse brain” is a Libra Sun trait.
Russ may meet Judy’s lawyers. Or Mozart’s ghost.
We’re almost ready to read Tyrion’s pores. But first, a refresher on why this is science. For you. I’ve already bought everything on the OPA webstore.
For a science paper, my magick background is surprisingly helpful. The point above isn’t Russ’s spiritual development. In fact, that’s impossible to care about. The point’s the number of 203 course titles in the paragraph. The first sentence has at least six prog metal album titles. Properly bullied prog metal, not this new thing where prom-goers play and attend shows. Or that half-decade everyone decided they were Meshuggah. If that joke didn’t scan, pretend I said something about Dr. Stone monologues. If that joke didn’t scan, pretend I said something about offing the president. Scientifically.
Who could reach such attainment? It’d take some kind of OPA-published wunderkind. We will have to dream of the savior in the darkness, under unchecked Aries tyranny.
To grasp Russ’s vision of science-based martyrdom, it helps to misread Foundation. After that, it helps to skim another Russ paper. It’s on Medium, which draws alternative PhDs the way Substack draws blood libel.
Prometheus Unbound sounds egoistic, until you understand the power at an Astrology Scientist’s fingertips. If we’d just listen.
He’s writing from the peak pandemic, so current reality looked grim. In fact, for all the tumult, the 2020s experience is notably consistent. Less Summer of Love, more Winter of Discontent.
Russ confronts a recent issue: God wants to blow up the world again. Allegorically. But literally. But allegorically.
Wayward technology? Machine-driven chaos? Unlike reading gumlines, this part’s nonsense. Though the cure’s more interesting: a new age of wytch-nerd hybrids, trained in both the Zodiac and things that matter.
Russ puts it a bit more simply:
Again, retain that at your own peril. You need new antibodies for each article. In fact, they should be done about now:
There, now you can process his point. It takes a lot for me to call something overwritten—my book of the month is one long sentence. But Russ combines the broad appeal of science writing with the specificity of horoscopes. All to describe a theoretical god-king named Russ.
He’s Neo. I thought I was joking with the messiah complex, but there it is.
Now we know: Russ isn’t just a scientist. He’s the scientist the Enshittified Age needs. And his vision as The One? The fluff-free, science-based truth mankind needs to survive itself?
We’re saved.
I know what a doppelganger is. Anyone that would or could read this knows what a doppelganger is. If I wanted to watch someone regurgitate Naomi Klein, I’d be on BlueSky.
A skeptic might ask: are you saying Dinklage and Laurie look alike, if your liver’s failing? Is that your entire point, made across countless run-ons?
A skeptic would be right. Skeptics stay winning. I miss sitting at their table of success. Becoming a wytch has exposed me to genres of failure my mortal eyes thought were impossible.
Holy shit, right! Richard Dawkins used to be a biologist. I thought he was just my Ghost of Christmas Future. If I kept screaming about religion without off-brand Power Rangers or broomsticks, I’d host a podcast about Defending The West by now.
Holy shit, right! That’s why I repressed this lost art. After all these words, Russ sprints through the astral link between Hermione and The Self-Indulgent Gene.
These two don’t look alike. I’m from a family of black vampire bats. My hobbies are reading in the dark and blinking-free Hades II runs. I’ve got the facial recognition skills of Kharn the Betrayer during the Siege of Terra. These two don’t look alike.
Again: Russ isn’t a chud sun or non-political moon. I’m careful enough with other people’s vanity search results to repeat that. But he might not enjoy meeting his fans.
After the celebrity revelations, we take a detour. Another detour, fueled by Russ’s dream of becoming Neo. By now, we’re used to mentors defying skeptics. Instead, Russ saves his harshest words for other astrologers. They’ve skimped on the scientific rigor that once put scorpions in assholes around the world:
Russ deploys the B. Rabbit strategy. Step One: admit other sorcerers don’t respect you. Say you ate a thesaurus and don’t know what a pisces is. Concede that your work doesn’t make sense, or even entertain tourists. Step Two: be an analogue of the main actor. Draw yourself as the Chad, while your haters forget how to rap.
There’s a point here, somewhere. Imagine the study of space, from a more scientific perspective. What would such a field be called? Or the sailors of the stars, taking the first small step into the aether? How much funding would they lose to diamond mining incels?
You’d be bitter too. Imagine a convention’s worth of astrologers telling you “that’s a waste of fucking time.” I’d break. I’d fight Batman in a calendar costume. I’d become Secretary of Faces, and ban blush for hiding Prometheus’s truth.
Negritude?
Negritude. If race science is pseudoscience, what do you call pseudo-race science? Racecraft? I.C.E. training? FSU orientation?
Russ underestimates how many people would listen to him, and overestimates their brainpower. It’s careless grifting, like Uber prices on St. Patrick’s Day. Woogenics end in crystal calipers and Thanksgiving rants about Leo crime stats.
On the plus side, looksmaxxers can Fit Face their way to a new star sign. Or try invasive surgery, I’m on Earth for the show. Either way, the merger between magick and science Russ dreamed of is possible. The new Neo’s bonesmashing as I write.
This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Greg Cunningham, ol’ gemini balls they call him. Greg twinsack. Just means his scrotal folds predict twice as much wealth and vigor.
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Nerding Day: ICE the Comic Book
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Nerding Day: Pendulum Craft
Today, I’ll be kind.
Tomorrow, I’ll be kind.
Next year, I’ll be kind.
Some context: Confederate mourner Col. Lochlainn Seabrook and I compete on a few fronts. History. Fiction. Witchcraft. Lifetime n-bomb usage. Right to the rank of colonel. His wife’s heart. Friends in Kentucky.
At the moment, we’re tied. Sort of. I’m up 5-3, but you know how Lochlainn counts. Here’s the tale of the the tape:
We need a tiebreaker. Since I won the last round (his wife’s love), I’ll face Lochlainn on his home turf: junior propaganda. The Ultimate Civil War Quiz Book offers the perfect battlefield. I’ll prove I know Lochlainn better than he knows English.
I’ll let him introduce the text.
Very true, the way a tumor expands your mind, or a grenade. I suggest keeping your mind’s overall shape. Just put some books in there, or you might start feeling Neo-Victorian. That’s a skinhead that can’t fuck (ask Mrs. Seabrooke).
On to question one:
Odd, that’s not a question. That’s reheated cope from Honest Jeff and Dishonest Abe. Poor Lochlainn still can’t say Civil War twice without losing his hood.
Granted, it’s nice seeing Seabrook own an opinion, instead of citing Forrest, Hecate, or Abraham “Demon King” Lincoln. Perhaps Lochlainn’s found his confidence, or a third inch. That said, The Ultimate Civil War Quiz Book is a 2017 slur, so “fake history” doesn’t reek of originality. He should start a workshop with some other Fort Pillow reenactors and steal from them instead.
Sidebar: I resent “churn.” I craft my propaganda. Attractive, intelligent people pay for it.
You get it. And it’s true: my terror cell hid multiple choice questions from me until I was fully indoctrinated. About two months before the SAT. Thanks, dickheads. I typed the whole Communist Manifesto into my graphing calculator, and it didn’t come up once. Good thing DEI got me into Princeton. Or years indoors while the master race did kegstands, I can’t recall.
Hopefully the ultimate quiz starts soon. I’d rather do something more productive, like flash-freeze my fingers. “Dick” has more punch, but I want everyone to relate. To see it. Nitrogen. Fingers. Snapping. Stumps. That’s a better use of my time.
A pop quiz where every answer’s white power. Neat. No one’s done Exercises in Style for people that can’t read. And think chanting objective makes daydreams real.
I’m still game. In fact, I’ve been ready for 20 pages. If Lochlainn had a dissertation, the dedication would be the longest part. Alright, that’s snooty. If Lochlain finished a summer book report, the title would be the longest part. If Lochlainn eulogized the white Animorphs, the url would lap the article’s word count. If Locchlainn wrote a movie about his hero, he’d lose focus before Forrest even started the klan.
Our very first, actual, question-mark having question:
Brazil, right? I have to stretch secession and literally to death, but that sounds like Brazil.
Right, Lochlainn’s type rarely means western very literally. Mea Culpa. Our narrator’s world starts in Kentucky and ends in more Kentucky. Georgia would be the adventure of his lifetime, down to finding out servants are real.
Advantage, Seabrook. Next?
We’ll be here for a bit.
He’s almost done.
How’s your day going? Personally, I feel electric. Dread and hope distort the present. Release them, and you can enjoy the Titanic. No one’s watching the buffet. The gym’s unlocked and empty. The band is shredding, and there are twenty bored Winsletts. Sink with enthusiasm, and only the last minute sucks.
Even Locchlain’s list has a lesson: if you torch Georgia, don’t swear. Slavers fucking hate that.
Normally, I’d explore all that unmedicated text. But I’ve read Lochlainn’s subby love letters to Lincoln. At this length, I’ll say “All of the above.”
Bang.
A tie! In white panic terms, Lochlainn just learned he’s half-fish. Dagon brings me to two points. One: art and sanity are two separate stats, so Lochlainn doesn’t have to suck this bad. Two: if your great-grandpa’s from Innsmouth, are you an octopus?
Only God knows. Stonewall’s slaves could pray or starve, so God had the inside scoop.
Ah, so Jackson was born into bondage. A living death, followed by eternal erasure and distortion.
Sounds tough. My bad.
Life’s complicated: sometimes you lead thousands to their graves for things you don’t believe. Or yourself, when one of them shoots you. The point is, I know regret. My book skipped a hilarious teamkill for brevity, and that pain lingers.
One fun habit of Lee-botherers: beating Victorian to death for secondhand dignity. It’s “bespoke” all over again. Lochlainn’s a vintage, bespoke, craft failure. Without Stonewall, he’d cling to the closest celebrity born near his high school.
Now, since we’ve hit Jackson, I suspect a certain hideous anecdote’s return. Unless Seabrook’s fallen behind Pittman.
How heavy the white brain’s burden. To be clear, this heartwarming slave-breaking carol doesn’t have its own leading question. Lochlainn worked hard to invent multiple choice questions—I can’t ask him to write them too. As for Stonewall’s generous heart, I’ve been here before. To put it in fun web comedy terms: Southern pews and cages were as separate as Bruce Wayne and The Batman. Or rich madmen and brutalizing poors into submission.
Well, that’s flattening and unfair. To Batman. It’s more of an Azrael thing. Apologies to longtime Batman devotees, and no one else.
Lochlainn, you’re about to lose a literary argument with Harriet Beecher Fucking Stowe. As your rival, I beg you to reconsider. You’re humiliating both of us.
I have to pick true. Standards have tanked. All a slavery expert needs to know is that it’s profitable, mean, and happened. Advantage Stowe.
I don’t drink enough lead for this quiz.
The crossroads: do I defend Uncle Tom’s Cabin? It’s the first day of Kwanzaa at press time, and that’s a rough start.
Into the breach.
I get Stowe. No, fuck it—I respect Stowe. She’s a true imperfect ally: the dimmest writer made the clumsiest argument for basic humanity, and the slavery fandom sprinted into it like a bug zapper. Sure, other writers wasted decent plots and dialogue explaining the obvious. Many saw, spoke to, or were black humans. They didn’t give greycoats strokes. Fingerpainting “slavery bad” is vital since slavery is, in fact, bad. It’d be like a kids’ YouTuber protesting a genocide.
At least Seabrook’s punching up. He’s never quite reached the craft of Uncle Tom’s Cabin. A lifetime of being Lochlainn Seabrook’s left him with a complex about writers.
Forget history. Forget prose, tolerance, anti-psychotics, all of the other third grade shit he’ll never learn. Let it all go. Does Lochlainn know what a fucking quiz is?
I get leading questions. I get sneaking one in. I get passive-aggression, propaganda, and jerking off with your own tears. Lochlainn can’t finish any of them without screaming “Why’s Lincoln keep fucking my wife?” I’m tired. His wife’s tired. Lincoln’s tired.
I’ll say C. If Lochlainn isn’t showing up, neither am I.
Man, if everyone that could spell thought I was a moral pug, I might…fuck it, too thinky for Seabrook. Good job, champ! Enjoy some victory bleach. You’ve earned the big-boy cup.
I’ve read General Lee fanfics for too long. I’m already thinking of ways to blame this loss on black people. Other black people.
Am I supposed to pretend Lochlainn’s read a full sentence by Thoreau? He wails twice as loudly here, so I assume the answer’s John Brown. But the point’s fucking moot because Lochlainn can’t read. He saw Reading Rainbow’s host and threw his TV out the trailer window.
D. My name has three, and I need the endorphins.
My response depends on a popular slave-driven cash crop: coffee. Before coffee, I do a bunch of boring fact-checking or whatever. At the moment: sounds good. John Brown rules, Jesus can keep my taint spotless.
At least, Lochlainn’s Jesus. I still get that there are as many versions of Jesus as zip codes. So Lochlainn’s Jesus and Stonewall’s Jesus can both keep my taint spotless.
Worth it—hygiene matters.
What? Who is Lochlainn debunking? It’s not called White Jainist Nationalism. “Swastikas don’t cause forest fires, you know. You’d know that if you left your bubble.”
False.
A point’s a point.
Seabrook’s only idea yet. The Confederacy didn’t attack Christianity, wind power, Pikachu, or Yugoslavia. The list goes on. All Lochlainn needs to up his propaganda game is a dictionary without the letter S.
False. If Lochlainn knew shame, this would be his note. Taking the point now.
I’m right, but clown bushido demands I double-check:
Sure, why deny a frog its spots? I don’t need that surprise halfway through a flight. The Confederate flag fits Locclain perfectly. He honors it with every word.
The true or false questions are today’s nadir. It’s like watching someone explain your joke, to you, incorrectly. BlueSky isn’t the future.
Let’s go back to the basics.
Missed chance for an author photo.
False. Lochlainn’s not going near reality on that one.
Too easy. God, being me rules. I feel like a klansman before the Enforcement Act. Or after the Enforcement Act.
Call me polio, because I’m coming back.
Tough pull, if you haven’t breathed poison for thirty years.
“Best friends.”
I have such sights for everyone this year. You’ll be able to answer this too! And so much more. Like how to live forever, with Dagon. Authentic reality will bear this truth out.
Now we’re playing. Time for some elder abuse. I think. I assume Locchlain’s older since he hasn’t published Nathan Bedford Forrest’s Pussy-Slaying Spells.
No one would confess to this. Northerners.
Ah, the old human dignity pump-fake.
I hope you weren’t betting on this. People don’t bet much these days, right? It’s one of those known hazards, like explaining your shoes’ origin?
Fuck that last joke. What do you think is coming? Bet with anyone in the room. There’s an ante button in the comments, right? WordPress must be on that in 2026.
Lincoln. In the Book of Lochlainn, everything from original sin to Mrs. Seabrook’s cold, loveless embrace goes back to Lincoln. Eden thrived until Lincoln emancipated the snakes. All the world’s problems loved Pandora’s farm, until Lincoln offered to pay them. Now you can’t say darkling anymore unless you really feel like it.
I bet all my points. And five more on credit.
Shucks, I lost! Now I need payback. It’s the only sane response. Guess I’ll have to kick Lochlainn’s dead dreams to life, and then back to death. That could take a while! Forever, even. In this life, and the next. With nephews and notes, I might insult Locclain longer than either of us lives. Mankind’s last shout into the darkness might describe Lincoln fucking Seabrook’s wife. Shame.
This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Katie Favell, who bet two months pay on Dennard winning this one on the PoxCo Prediction Market. Whoops, sorry Katie!