More White-Nationalists Should Hire Hookers

A practical solution to a longtime problem.

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There were many poetic elements to the recent national embarassment that was the Charlottesville Unite the Right rally. None moreso than the event’s geographical significance. But unlike many who see the event as a callback to the hideous racist past of Dixieland, what caught my eye — and what should catch the eye of far more — is the fact that the event took place in the stomping grounds of the most infamous angry, unemployable, virginal, basement-dweller-who-lives-with-his-parents fanfiction writer of the 21st Century: Christian Weston Chandler. Better known as Chris-Chan.

Possibly the most mocked man in Internet history (no small accomplishment in a world with Mao Xinyu, Shia LaBeouf, and Recep Tayyip Erdoğan), Chris-Chan has spent the entirety of his life running through a series of humiliations not even the combined cast of It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia could top. Multiple sex tapes, none of which feature other human beings; a Sonic the Headgehog and Pokémon fanfiction comic bearing sub-elementary-schooler compositional quality — though the work’s violence and pornography would give away the age of the author even if he hadn’t made himself the main character; a bottomless naïvité not even the œuvre of Steve Carell has surpassed (the man drove eight-hundred miles from his home to rescue a Molvanîan woman from a kidnapping, after he was told Molvanîa was a fictional country): Chris Chandler is proof that no amount of imagination from Kenny Hotz or Andy Kaufman shall ever be enough to top the depths to which Reality can plummet on her own.

But of all C.W.C.’s achievements in failure, both before and after he became famous a decade ago, none shall surpass that of the Love Quest: a near generation-spanning effort by the C-villian against dying alone. Nearly every bad decision Chris-Chan has made since 2003 can be tied back to this disastrously-conceived undertaking against his sexual failures. He’s been banned from at least a half-dozen locations in the Charlottesville area for soliciting women with a poster-board sign, including his community college; he’s ruined every personal relationship with women he ever had by pestering them for sex; he took up crossdressing in 2011 solely to add lesbians to the list of women he can pester: all of it has been for nothing. The only progress he ever made was when he lost his virginity to a prostitute in April 2012 at the age of thirty.

For Chris, I only have one question: What took you so long?

For white-nationalists, I have an answer: Learn from Christian Weston Chandler’s example.

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There have been countless jokes and observations made about the root problem with political psychopaths being sexual frustration. It’s the root of everything from the 12th’s popular Michael Rapaport video, to the plot of 1984, to the mono-testicular Hitler limerick, all the way to the countless jokes about the Houri in the Islamic Paradise. Tragically for Planet Earth, problems are more complicated than any amount of sex could solve; but there’s also a trend, mostly from third-wave feminists, to dismiss the very idea of sexual frustration as a motivation for human behavior as a product of the white-supremicist patriarchy. As seen in yesterday’s nonsensical article from Elle by Roqayah Chamseddine, written in response to the Rapaport video I just linked, in which the authress sincerely postulates even the very concept of virginity as a myth.

How in Hell anybody who’s ever had a conversation with a man could say something this ridiculous beggars belief. The fact that someone belonging to an ethnicity of the most sexually-dysfunctional region of Planet Earth today would think this shows that Feminism has detached itself from Reality to a degree surpassing that of Young-Earth Creationists.

It could very well be a cooincidence that Richard Spencer has a mail-order bride, that David Duke has been divorced since 1984, that Steve Bannon and Rush Limbaugh have three divorces each, and that the twice-divorced Donald Trump does not sleep in the same bedroom as his current wife Melania and both often reside in separate states. It could be chance that Elliot Rodger has been adopted as a posthumous alt-right butt-monkey, and that that alt-right ideology is the most popular political position among involuntary celebates — or “incels” for short (Good Christ, what a ridiculous term). There might be no pattern whatsoever to James Alex Fields Jr., Dylan Storm Roof, and Timothy McVeigh all being “confirmed bachelors” up to the date of their ghastly crimes. Brother Dean Saxton’s repeated boasting of his virginity — and no other accomplishments whatsoever — may have no relation to him spending years yelling at sexy co-eds being deserving of rape.
The same “maybe” as Casey Anthony’s searching for “fool-proof” suffocation methods on Google the last day her daughter was seen alive.

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I will agree with Ms. Chamseddine on one point: no one should ever feel the need to pity-fuck anybody. There’s good reasons why all of the men I mentioned previously have their problems, and no woman should ever feel obligated to nanny some neurologically-dysfuctional pickle-polisher incapable of even quarter-ass effort at productivity.

Their answer is hookers.

Sure, in America, hookers are illegal. Sure, there are many who think hiring hookers would be immoral even where it’s legal. But even among those who believe the latter, of which I’m not at all aligned, the suggestion that taking an alternate route of soliciting randoes who will never show any interest beyond the pretend in groups among which Donald Trump counts in the number is downright dumb. How is it an improvement for someone to not break the law or a taboo when they turn themselves to a public nusiance at best in the process of legal and moral obedience? Why should the insipid lie of “there being someone for everyone” continue to be propogated in the face of such overwhelming evidence to the contrary? The personal, and often professional, growth it takes to make these losers presentable (much less desireable) is almost assuredly beyond their capability even if they had the willpower and the self-reflection to so much as get started.

There is no one for Steve Bannon! Nor Dylan Roof! There was, and will remain, no one for Christian Weston Chandler! But thanks to the magic of escort services, he found her anyway, and could find her again the moment he saves up $200.

Losing one’s virginity’s no panacæa. Nor are hookers. Anders Behring Breivik had sex with a few hookers before carrying out the worst massacre in Norway since World War II; and the social, economic, and political turmoil of the 21st Century transcends all easy solutions. They have yet to even fix Chris-Chan’s life, as the dozens of threads chronicling his failures made since 2012 on sites such as Kiwi Farms attest to. But if a time machine could be used to buy everyone who attended the Unite the Right rally an hour with an escort the month before it took place, I guarantee the rally would’ve been smaller.

Judging by the photos released of Christian Chandler’s fellow living-with-his-mom-er Fields, there would likely even be no loss of life.

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O.R. Welles is a current writer, and aspiring independently-wealthy writer. He can be found thanking a hooker named Maggie McNeill. Without her inspiration, this article would never have been written.

The Tupac Biopic: Hollywood’s Continued Cowardice

Why do the All Eyez On Me biopic-ers care about the approval of criminals responsible for Tupac Shakur’s murder?

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When Universal/HBO released Brett Morgen’s Montage of Heck, documenting the life of rock legend Kurt Cobain, they enjoyed a critical reception worthy of the Arc of the Covenant. Scores of 98% on Rotten Tomatoes — pretty much the best score attainable since the rise of Armond White — and 84 on Metacritic are enough to bring tears to the eyes of directors and blood to the groins of producers. Indeed, the reception has been so remarkable, almost no one ever bothers bringing up that the events as described in the film were almost entirely fabrication; crafted to please the dope-fiending, domestic-abusing, multi-hundred millionaire chained in matrimony like a twenty-pound sphere to the late subject during the last years of his suicide-solution’d life.

Director Benny Boom’s upcoming biopic (as of the writing of this article: June 9th, 2017) on the life of rap legend Tupac Shakur might or might not enjoy the reception of Morgen’s magnum mendacius, but Boom has already continued a proud Hollywood tradition of appeasement to the simultaneously wealthy, vicious, and criminal by not only sidestepping an ugly truth, but preemptively attaining approval of the aforementioned brute before the picture’s public debut. The recent press release to TMZ and Vibe, among other outlets, made clear whatever the merits of All Eyez on Me as a film, moguls Sean “Puff Daddy” Combs and Marion “Suge” Knight both approve of their portrayal in the picture.

On its own, that would be disgusting. Considering one of the picture’s producers, L.T. Hutton (himself a record producer connected to Knight) actively looked for these men’s blessings before blasting this farce across the Internet, it’s downright despicable.

Despite a flood of nonsense surrounding Pac murder (second only to Dallas, TX in 1963), the Las Vegas P.D., Los Angeles P.D., and the F.B.I. closed the books on both cases years ago. Viewers of former-detective Greg Kading’s excellent Indiegogo-funded documentary Murder Rap — Kading was the cold-case detective assigned to the Wallace case after Wallace’s mother sued the L.A.P.D. for a nine-figure sum, and the film is based on his book of the same name — can hear confirmation that the murders were connected from the mouth of the very man ordered to carry out Shakur’s murder, one Duane “Keefe D” Davis, as well as a sworn statement from a girlfriend of Knight’s (albeit one given anonymously under the name “Theresa Swan”) that said crime was the motive for the retaliatory assassination of Combs’ biggest act, Christopher Wallace (better known under his nom de plume The Notorious B.I.G.).

Davis, a Southside Compton Crip gangster, admits the cause of the shooting was a blood feud between Knight and Combs, the respective owners of Shakur and Wallace’s record labels; and that he personally was ordered by Combs on two occasions to have Tupac killed for one million dollars: once in a room full of a few dozen Crips, the other over a private dinner. The shooting was conducted in Las Vegas on the night of a WBA heavyweight championship fight between Mike Tyson and Bruce Seldon from a car by Davis’s own nephew, Orlando Anderson, himself a Crip who was gunned down in an unrelated gang shooting the following year.

Davis was subsequently stiffed for his services.

On the word of Swan (corroborated by a mountain of evidence), Knight later retaliated by having Combs’ hottest act, Christopher “The Notorious B.I.G.” Wallace, assassinated in return by a Mob Piru Blood gangster and close friend of Knight’s named Wardell “Poochie” Fouse. Like Anderson, Fouse was shot in the back while riding a motorcycle in the Summer of 2003, supposedly due to a feud with the Fruit Town Pirus. Knight has been left destitute and incarcerated for what would likely be a life sentence even assuming he skids his upcoming charge for the 2015 murder of one Terry Carter. Justice for the murder of The Notorious B.I.G. was roundabout, but at least it actually happened.

Sean Combs, however, not only continues to elude justice, he’s made R. Kelly and David Miscavige look like rank amateurs. His estimated net worth dwarfs the actual net worth of nearly every other figure in music (and as readers of Tim O’Brien would know, that of our President). He assaulted his son’s college football coach with a kettlebell and didn’t suffer so much as a chafe from the handcuffs. He sampled the beat to his wretched tribute single to the friend whose murder his behavior enabled from a song about a stalker, which then spent eleven weeks at number one in the U.S. and sold eight million copies worldwide. Combs should never receive anything more polite than a box of tarantulas, yet his boots are licked clean by the men making a movie with an eight-figure budget about the man he ordered killed.

All Eyez on Me is but one of many Hollywood pictures to stick its head in the sand. Spike Lee wrote Louis Farrakhan out of existence when adapting The Autobiography of Malcolm X. Christopher Nolan used the line “they work for Thomas Edison” when torch-wielding goons destroyed Nikola Tesla’s Colorado laboratory in The Prestige to avoid ruffling feathers with a more accurate “they work for General Electric.” Scott Cooper’s Black Mass paints the Whitey Bulger scandal as the work of the one F.B.I. agent who’s actually serving time for the wretched affair rather than shame anyone who could possibly launch a lawsuit. Cowardice is easy when long zeroes are at stake, and even easier with already-indifferent consumers.

But this is a fragile matter, and any aspiring stone-thrower can show this emperor’s naked as the statue of David with one share of an article that refuses to buy into Californian deliberate delusion. L.T. Hutton is a coward, Benny Boom is a stooge, Sean Combs is a monster, and no moviegoer with any self-respect should entertain All Eyez on Me.

It’s time to kill these lies at the source.

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O.R. Welles is a current writer and aspiring independently-wealthy writer who covers whatever he damn well pleases on his WordPress page oharrwelles.com, and anywhere else with the stones to run his pieces. He can be found daydreaming, and praying that Carl Sagan was overestimating the dangers of nuclear winter, wherever he lays his hat.