Sad Puppies Review Books: RICHARD SCARRY’S BEST WORD BOOK EVER

scarryRichard Scarry’s Best Word Book Ever

Reviewed by John Z. Upjohn, USMC (Aspired)
With gratitude to my brother in Christ,
Mr. John C. Wright, for his gift of words.

 

Dear Mr. Scarry,

I admire your creative effort tremendously. I read your books, watched your shows, and supported and lauded you. I made your work a part of my imagination and a part of my life, and introduced your books to my children.

And this is how you repay loyalty and affection?

A children’s book, of all places, is where you decided to place an ad for a sexual aberration; you pervert your story telling skills to the cause of propaganda and political correctness.

You sold your integrity out to the liberal establishment. In a craven fashion you deflect criticism by slandering and condemning any who object to your treason.

You were not content to leave the matter ambiguous, no, but had publicly to announce that you hate your audience, our way of life, our virtues, values, and religion.

From all the fans everywhere worldwide let me say what we are all feeling:

Mr. Scarry: You are a disgusting, limp, soulless sack of filth. You have earned the contempt and hatred of all decent human beings forever, and we will do all we can to smash the filthy phallic idol of sodomy you bow and serve and worship. Contempt, because you struck from behind, cravenly; and hatred, because you serve a cloud of morally-deficient mental smog called Political Correctness, which is another word for hating everything good and bright and decent and sane in life.

I have no hatred in my heart for any man’s politics, policies, or faith, any more than I have hatred for termites; but once they start undermining my house where I live, it is time to exterminate them.

Sincerely,

A lifelong fan.

 

Two stars.

End of Day Report

Okay, so… still feeling better and trending upwards, but I was tired enough to fall asleep a couple of times this afternoon, and pretty logy in between. Not a terribly productive day, in short. I received a package of emergency cold and sinus stuff I ordered on Monday when my symptoms first presented. We’ll see how tomorrow goes.

STATUS: Wednesday, May 13th

The State of the Me

I spent most of the day yesterday sleeping, and by the end of the day I felt pretty good. Nose still runny, but really only residual soreness in my legs… no dead feeling anywhere. Today I feel not quite as good as I did at the end of the day yesterday, but I think better than I did yesterday morning. I anticipate something much more like a normal workday today, albeit one possibly spent working from bed.

The Daily Report

A number of people have asked me if I intend to continue with the Sad/Rabid Puppy book reviews, or have just plain encouraged me to keep writing them. To put it plainly: I don’t have any plans to end them, but I also don’t have definite plans to continue them past this week. It all depends on my continued ability to find fresh angles to take with the basic joke. While the assembled ranks of puppydom gives me multiple rich veins to work with, they’re not inexhaustible. There’s a chance they may become more sporadic in the future, or taper off over time, or be mixed up with or replaced with other things involving the characters of John Z. Upjohn and Theophilus Pratt.

One thing is clear: I don’t intend to hang up my satirist’s hat any time soon. This whole thing has got me thinking that I should perhaps be indulging my impish side more often.

Before the sickness hammer caught up with me, I’d intended to do things a little bit differently this week, with regards to my usual work day. My typical thing has been to work my way up to the heavy lifting when it comes to writing, doing my (bill-paying) Tales of MU writing at the end of the day, after a lot of warming up. I’ll spare this blog the background of the hows and whys that worked for me for so long. The weakness of it is that if something went wrong or came up unexpectedly during the day, the big thing that happens last would suffer the most and I’d wind up behind schedule.

So for a while I’ve been working on getting over the hang-ups that were stopping me from just sitting down and writing when I wake up in the morning. This was going to be the week when I put that into practice in a big way, by starting each day with my TOMU writing session. This one change, I believe, will let me balance my commitment to my big, main money-making enterprise and all the little side projects that help keep things interesting and fresh for me. Basically it amounts to making a deal with myself: spend two hours writing Tales of MU, then do whatever I want.

I’m already not quite there for today, though I will be throwing myself into my writing a little earlier in the day. Maybe.

Plans For Today

Well, here’s the wildcard: I am still sick. Yesterday I woke up feeling better and then I crashed really hard. If that happens again… it happens again. I can’t afford to play games with my health. So we’ll see.

Sad Puppies Review Books: IF YOU GIVE A MOUSE A COOKIE

mouseIF YOU GIVE A MOUSE A COOKIE

Reviewed by John Z. Upjohn, USMC (Aspired)

I’m going to come out and say it: this so-called “book” is a scam. I was looking for a children’s storybook when I bought this book, and it was listed as a storybook. But it is not a storybook. You pay for a storybook, and instead you get a heaping pile of nothing. It should not have been sold as a storybook if it doesn’t contain a story.

A story is defined as a series of things that happen but nothing happens in this so-called “story”. Literally nothing, from start to finish. The first word of the book is “if”. It says:

“If a hungry little mouse shows up on your doorstep, you might want to give him a cookie. And if you give him a cookie, he’ll ask for a glass of milk. He’ll want to look in a mirror to make sure he doesn’t have a milk mustache, and then he’ll ask for a pair of scissors to give himself a trim.”

At first I thought it was just a little wordy for a prologue, but the whole book of If You Give A Mouse A Cookie goes on like that, talking about what might happen, if you do this first thing, and these other things happen. Page after page. 40 pages of this hypothetical crap. I read this whole book to my children, and every time I turned the page I hoped that the story would start but every time it was just more of that hypothetical garbage.

It’s a damned shame, too. I think my kids would have loved hearing about a mouse sweeping the house and then sleeping in a tiny box, but that never happened! None of it ever happened! It was all a ridiculous what-if scenario!

A story is supposed to answer the question “what-if” but the question should be left off the page because if it’s on the page then you don’t have a story at all!

I have a what-if scenario for the authors of this book: what if they had written exactly the same book, with the same events and the same pictures, but instead of saying “If you give a mouse a cookie” they just said “You gave a mouse a cookie, and then all this stuff happened.”? What would happen then? I’ll tell you what: it would have been a story, and people would be able to be entertained and amused by it. But since they didn’t do that, there’s no story.

How people can fail to understand the very simple fact that telling the same sequence of imaginary events in a slightly different way makes the difference between it being a story or not is beyond me. It is so obvious,

Yet I have heard this fraudulent scam of a “story” praised to the high heavens from all quarters. Once I got over my shock of having read 40 pages of nothing to my children—who, troopers that they are, made a polite show of being engaged and amused even as nothing actually happened—I started to wonder what could account for its supposed popularity.

Troubled, I reached for the book I always reach for in times of crisis, the one book that holds all the answers to life’s mysteries. Every conservative household should have at least one copy of Rules For Radicals in order to recognize Saul Alinsky’s tricks. Liberals are obsessed with that guy.

After a few hours of study, it seemed obvious to me that there must be an agenda at work, and as soon as I knew there was an agenda I could see it everywhere. It’s so easy to see agendas I’m surprised more people don’t do it.

The reason that SJWs have arranged for this hollow mockery of a book to be praised by all quarters is that it is basically a modest proposal for welfare benefits to immigrants. It starts by asking you the reader to imagine a mouse just shows up on your door unannounced and says he’s hungry, and then suggesting that you feed him. The words like “if” and “might” make this sound so polite, so reasonable. The rhythm of the book is I believe intended to lull the reader into a daze where you will nod along. “Makes sense,” you will say to yourself. “If a bunch of hungry vermin want to invade my home, why shouldn’t I give them the food off my table?”

This is the same kind of mind control technique utilized by Stalin and the Nazis. SJWs are modern day Fascists. They hide this fact by calling any conservative politician who calls for even slightly fascist policies a Fascist even though it is a historical fact that Fascism = leftism.

What really seals the deal for me is the way the book comes full circle at the end. It starts with proposing that the mouse might be given a handout of a cookie and milk and then it ends a day later by pointing out that the series of events set in motion by that handout require the mouse to be given yet another handout. You wouldn’t even have to be a halfway good storyteller to turn this into a chilling cautionary tale but this book isn’t even a story, it’s propaganda. So the natural consequence of a nanny state that welcomes all comers is presented as something whimsical and fun.

Well even the worst liberal hogwash can still be useful for teaching children to recognize liberal hogwash. If you do read this book to your children I suggest a discussion period after so you can point out what’s actually happening: how the narrator is subtly suggesting that you should do this thing as if it were your idea, but the result is that you have to give the mouse another cookie and another glass of milk every day and all you have to show in return is a perfectly clean house and surprisingly good artwork.

This is a good opportunity to each your children the value of the dollar, too. The cookies cost basically nothing because your wife can just make them for free anytime, but tell your children how much a gallon of milk costs and help them calculate how much an eight ounce glass of it would cost, then remind them that once you let the mouse into your house you would be paying this every day while the mouse contributed absolutely nothing to the household except keeping it clean and making it beautiful.

Which again is something your wife should do for free.

Two stars.

STATUS: Tuesday, May 12th

The State of the Me

Still sick. I have made the decision to make a status post every day even if that’s the most substantial thing that I do, as I’ve been terrible at keeping up this habit lately even when I’m feeling fine. I feel somewhat better today than I did yesterday.

The Daily Report

Well, having spent most of the past two days lying on top of my blankets or occasionally lying in a bathtub staring straight ahead, I’ve spent a lot of time missing the days when I had a phone with a physical keyboard I could hold in my hands and write comfortably in that kind of position. Swiping feels clumsy, slow, and inelegant to me at the best of times. When I have serious fatigue and muscle soreness, it’s also exhausting compared to the practiced, precise finger movements needed for physical keys.

I have a wireless handheld keyboard/mouse controller thing that is the perfect size and shape for this kind of exercise, but I have no way of viewing a screen while I’m laying down. I’ve thought many times about various solutions, like a projector pointed at the ceiling, but that seems like an expensive experiment with uncertain results.

Then late yesterday I realized that I have been doing most of my writing on ILYS.com anyway, where the whole point is to not look at what you’re typing. It wasn’t until today that I had the wherewithal to get things set up, but I now have my wireless keyboard hooked up to my laptop. I can start a session in ILYS, then put the laptop aside, lay back, and tap out words as my energy level allows and the muse moves me to.

Because of the slightly greater disconnect between me and the medium, the text is not as clean as my typical first drafts, even using ILYS. But at least I’m writing.

Note that you don’t need a specific applet to not see what you’re typing if you’re lying down and not looking at the screen, but the advantage of ILYS for this purpose is that it’s impossible to accidentally move the cursor or whatever.

 

Rabid Puppies Review Books: IMOGENE’S ANTLERS

imogeneIMOGENE’S ANTLERS

Reviewed By Special Guest Reviewer Theophilus Pratt
(Publisher — Hymenaeus House)

Well, John Z. Upjohn has been reviewing books here for a week with not much to show for it. If anything, the SJWs have treated the whole thing as a joke! He means well, but the problem is the SJWs don’t. His fundamental decency shows through in every moderate, conciliatory word he writes, but they spit in his face every time. That’s why I’m taking over for the day, to show him how it’s done.

This is a culture war, and the SJWs take no prisoners. They are the most ruthless thought police the world has ever seen. This is why every last trace of their philosophy must be expunged from existence and all who extol it punished suitably.

Our battle ground for the day is Imogene’s Antlers, which from the very cover obviously promises to be an amusing if instructive lesson in the fundamental truth of the rhetoric of the SJWs and their myriad lies. I purchased this book not with Congress-issued coins of gold and silver but unbacked fiat currency, an irony which was not lost on me when I considered that this book, too, was mere paper backed by nothing of value.

How has the dream of our Founders been allowed to fall so low? It is obvious to any man of reason that the once great nation of the United States of America is not even a shadow of herself. You will find no acknowledgment of this simple truth in Imogene’s Antlers, which is just one of the many flaws I have divined in the moments  I spent studying its cover. SJWs always lie.

It is amusing to consider the conceit of a woman, a mere slip of a girl, as the protagonist of a book. Whatever trivial discomforts her misadventures pose to her, she would be better served to be a homemaker and allow someone with a greater genetic predisposition towards intelligence such as a man so solve them.

Oh ho, do you think that was sexist? How amusing that you have fallen for my cunning trap. I didn’t say that all women are genetically the intellectual inferior of all men, did I?

I said that this one individual, being a woman, is the intellectual inferior of another individual, being a man! How very like an SJW to miss that and leap to tar me with vile calumnies which cannot be backed up! Proof once again that SJWs always lie!

This is because SJWs rely on rhetoric, using loaded emotionally overwrought words like “evidence” and “proof” and “here is a link to Theophilus saying that women should not be allowed to vote” and other suchlike appeals to feelings, while I, with my eminently logical mind, operate solely in the syllogistic realm of the dialectic except when it amuses me to resort to more rhetorical modes, which is frequently.

And so I have outsmarted you once again. But do not take it too hard. Based on certain key demographics coupled with unmistakable signs I have calculated my own IQ as +3 SD. I always phrase my IQ in terms of significant standard deviation rather than irrelevant numbers to show that I am not some mere dilettante who took on an online test. No, I am an expert who took an online test, and then adjusted the result upwards to account for the superiority of my genetics. Genius though I am, even I can barely fathom how terribly intelligent I am. What hope have you?

What hope has anyone?

I am a master gamesman and you are all my pawns. My skills have been honed over the course of many hours arguing rules around a table full of Ral Partha miniatures. Unless you would have me believe that the master craftsman in the Divine Workshop could not equal the elegant simplicity of the rulemakers in the Games Workshop, you cannot convince me that this has not left me in top condition to deal with any and all situations I might encounter.

Alone, I am mighty. With my Baleful Cohort behind me I am unstoppable. I sneer at your polite assumptions about how humans should interact with each other in order to have a functional society. Is there a bowl of candy at your reception desk for visitors to snack on? I refuse to merely graze at it like cattle. I will have it all. Your social contract means nothing to me. Your take-a-penny, leave-a-penny tray does not impress me. I will take a penny. I will take all the pennies. I will not leave a penny. You will stare in open-mouthed horror at your empty penny tray just as the Germanic hordes once stared at the Roman pila whistling through the air at their skulls.

You are the Germans in this analogy.

I am the Romans.

Are you in an elevator with me? I will void my intestine of flatus the instant the doors close. Hold your mealy-mouthed objections about what is and isn’t done. I don’t care.

Do you hear me?

I don’t care.

Is there a rule against it? There is not. Is there a law against it? There is not. You who would politely hold it in are like a two-dimensional being faced with an invader who can move in not three or four but seventeen separate and distinct dimensions, and you had best clutch your pearls tightly because no fewer than five of those dimensions involve intestinal gas.

I once fouled the air while sharing a taxicab with Theresa Nielsen Hayden and then stuck her with the fare, telling her I would get it next time. Of course my incredibly subtle and complex stratagem comes with an insidious barb on the end: there has been and will be no next time, and neither she nor anyone else can do anything about it.

If I would do such a thing to she who commands the unquestioning loyalty of every SJW, do you think I would do any less to any of you? More the fool you!

I have heard her conspiring against me, saying, “I seriously would not share a cab with that guy.” How amusing that she thinks allowing me to overhear this whispering campaign would dissuade me from such conduct. Obviously the only reason she would warn someone else about my behavior is she thinks I will feel bad and become meek and compliant and docile as a result of her chastisement. How arrogant and typically self-centered of her to assume that her feelings mean anything to me! It is as amusing as it is instructive. I’ll say it again: I don’t care.

I am immune to the feelbads and SJWs do not know what to do about this. I am like a sinkhole destroying their roads and they put signs up all around me saying “CAUTION: SINKHOLE” as if they believe the mere act of putting up a sign can fill in a hole!

This is why the SJWs fear me. This is why they are so fascinated by me. I know. I watch them. Constantly.

Especially John Scalzi. He is a man obsessed. If you ever wish to see for yourself what a man in the throes of a deep obsession looks like, come to me and I will furnish you with details of his daily routine along with the best vantage points from which to observe him unseen. Sometimes I see him pacing his living room for hours at a time. What could drive him to such distraction, I ask, if it isn’t me?

He tells me that there is no conspiracy against me but I have compiled a list of his eating habits and lavatory visitations going back to 2008. It’s only a matter of tabulating them and then the truth will be plain for all to see. One of the Cohort has a contact at a clinic he frequented, and soon I will have a chart of his body weight between 2009 and 2013. Then I will be able to blow the lid off all his little schemes once and for all

Don’t think that I won’t.

I don’t care.

9.5/10

STATUS: Monday, May 11th

The State of the Me

is that I may be coming down with something. The rest of my household and the local extended family has previously been stricken with an upper respiratory thing, and today I woke up with a clogged sinus and nostril and a sore throat. I should have been suspicious when I was sore and headachey all weekend, as that almost always precedes the display of symptoms for me, but I figured that was psychosomatic as I knew everybody else was sick. I also attributed it to dehydration, because the weather’s been warmer. On the plus side, I’m sure all the water I’ve been drinking was a good idea regardless.

The Daily Report

Another possibly early warning symptom is that I wrote the wrong chapter at the end of last week. I completely screwed up some chronology and the chapter I had intended to post on Friday would have been a continuity-breaking mess, which I didn’t put together until I was looking at it in the wee hours of Friday night. I took a couple of stabs at trying to fix it so I could post it with just minor reworkings, but couldn’t make it work. The good news is that I can still use most of its contents later.  The bad news is this means I’ve pretty much got to start from scratch in how to get there.

…okay, I started this post around 11:30 and then decided I needed to lay down. Two hours later, I have woke up feeling just completely ruined: mind foggy, head stuffy, body just full of old concrete. I’m going to lay back down after I finish typing this paragraph. No prediction on the rest of the day, much less the rest of the week. I do have more Sad Puppy Book Review posts queued up for the rest of the week here.

Sad Puppies Review Books: CORDUROY

corduroyCORDUROY

Reviewed by John Z. Upjohn, USMC (Aspired)

The SJW clique that runs the publishing world loves to twist things around. When people clamor for them to make books with honest covers, books with covers you can judge them by, they twist things around. They knew we wanted them to change the  inside of the book to match what the covers promised us.

Instead we get books with covers like this one, which shows the male hero half-undressed in a cheesecake pin-up pose, about to bend over while his suspender slips off his shoulder.

I have to hand it to the SJWs: it’s exactly what the cover promises, an emasculation manual for young males and nothing more. It’s barely one step above a forced feminization fantasy story. The Feminazis say they want equality but they are not content to let men be men and women be women. Gender abolition is the real goal of all feminism, and that means male extinction. This so-called storybook is a thinly veiled feminist fable designed to indoctrinate men with passively accepting our fate.

The so-called hero of this book just sits on a shelf all day next to girly stuffed animals and dolls, just waiting for someone to come along and claim him. It’s only after a girl comes along and says she wants him that suddenly his life has meaning and he’s up and walking around, doing stuff to try to please her. What kind of lesson is that for our young men to be learning, I ask you?

If I tried to write a book where this was the other way around, nobody would touch it. The PC Patrol would see to that. Just imagine it: say you have written a story where a girl is locked up in a tower or something never questioning anything about it until a man comes along and rescues her. You’d be eaten alive for proposing it! No one would dare touch it or you. Your career would be completely ruined. You would never be published again, never invited to or even allowed inside a convention, and never be nominated for an award.

This has happened to literally every other author who’s been labeled a misogynist by the SJW bullies, and it would happen to you if you tried to write a story like that.

As you might guess from how he meekly accepts his fate, the hero is a delta male at BEST. When he is rejected by the little girl’s mother for not having a button on his suspenders, he sets off at night to find it. Why should he have to improve himself to please her, though? It’s not like the girl was anything great, even if her mother thinks her precious little angel is too good to pay department store prices for broken toys. Feminism has women convinced that they should be allowed to let themselves go but still get whatever man they want. The sexual economy has been completely thrown out of balance by feminism and that is why the birth rates are declining.

So while the miserable little cuck is stumbling around the department store, he keeps deciding that whatever happens to him is exactly what he wanted. He stumbles onto the escalator. “Oh, I guess I wanted this?” he says to himself, until he believes it. He winds up in the furniture department. I remind you, he was looking for a button that fell off his suspenders. That’s not going to be in the furniture department. But he takes a look around and decides, “Oh, this is where I ended up so I guess it’s where I wanted to be?”

The lesson here is passive surrender. If you wind up married to some skank who doesn’t lift a finger because feminism taught her that she deserves to be up on a pedestal popping out squalling babies while you work to support her, it must be what you wanted or else it wouldn’t have happened.

I take it back. This bear isn’t even a delta male. He’s a full-on gamma. His sad little quest ends in a pathetic anticlimax as the night security guard—a proper man—literally puts him back in his place, where he stays until the girl comes for him.

And then the little girl does come back and buys him, and sews a button on him anyway. The Feminazis talk about agency, but where’s his agency in all of this? He never found his button. He never got a chance to be a man. Instead he needed the girl to “fix” him, playing mind games on him all the while.

“I like you just the way you are,” the temptress coos, “but I’m sure you’d be more comfortable if you let me, oh, I don’t know… change everything about you.”

And of course he succumbs. Even after seeing the palatial inside of the department store, he looks around her tiny matchbox of an apartment bedroom and decides he’s happy to be there. He was better off where he was. If he would have stopped looking for his button to please a girl when he decided he wanted to stay in the furniture department, he could be living there like a king to this very day. Women trick men into thinking that we need them to hide the truth that it is they who are dependent on us. Take the red pill and wake up.

What the Corduroy should have done is refused to change anything. Play it cool. Let the girl know that he doesn’t need her, and then she would have been the one changing for him. This works on every woman. Don’t believe me? Try it. It doesn’t matter if you try it on a hundred different women or even a thousand different women, eventually one of them will probably go home with you. Then you’ll be a believer.

There is one other issue with this book that I know the SJWs will never forgive me for bringing up, and that’s race. I was taught that all men are equal and I don’t even notice the color of a person’s skin. When I look at a person I only see the content of their character. If I cross the street or put my hand on my wallet when I see someone, it’s because I don’t like the content of their character and no one can prove otherwise. Accusing me of racism without proof means that you are the racist.

So what I want to know is why the little girl and her mother in this book can’t just be white like everyone else. There’s no reason for it. The story never even mentions it. They just show up, without a word of warning or explanation, like this is a normal thing that happens. I was trying to read a book about a walking, self-aware stuffed animal and suddenly there’s all this extra side stuff it wants me to swallow without explanation. We’re just supposed to accept it without question, I guess.

It’s even more jarring because I was reading the bear as white and I can’t think of any reason why that would be if he’s not deliberately written that way. It’s not that I have anything against children of one race playing with stuffed animals of another. I just can’t imagine why it’s here if not to push an agenda that doesn’t belong in a children’s book.

Understand that my problem is not the race of the characters. I personally didn’t even notice their race. My problem is that it doesn’t make any sense. The SJWs made the decision to insert race into this book, probably because they knew it would be divisive. It’s straight out of the Saul Alinksy-type playbook that they all follow.

I’m sure when this book was published back in 1968, right when we had just decided to give everyone civil rights, this kind of PC pandering was a no-brainer for the marketing types. Well, I’m not about to give a book points just because it checks off the right boxes in a demographic checklist. I judge books on quality and merit, not the skin color of the characters. I don’t even notice such things.

Two stars.

My mother read to me

“Why do you write?” is a question that most authors who find themselves famous enough will eventually face in an interview. I don’t anticipate that happening, but as luck would have it, it’s Mother’s Day, and that means I can give my answer anyway.

Most authors whose answer to this question get quoted enough for you to have read them have something clever to say. Isaac Asimov, for instance, said he wrote for the same reason he breathed: because if he stopped, he would die. This was not only pithy, but also had the virtue of being true in the inverse case, so far as anyone has noticed.

I don’t have a clever answer.

If you were to ask me why I write, I would ask you to clarify what you meant by “why”. It’s a slippery word, and I don’t trust it. We squeeze out of these three letters and one syllable more uses than a Hobbit can cram into “Good morning.” Do you mean for what purpose do I write? Or do you mean what is my motivation for writing? Or do you mean what is the reason that I write the things that I do and not other things? Or do you mean what proximate cause impels me to write in the moment?

In the very unlikely event that you were still interested in my answer, and the further unlikely event that you clarified that what you meant was the ultimate root cause of my condition of being a writer, I would tell you this:

My mother read to me.

When I was very young, she read to me and my siblings The Chronicles of Narnia (in the proper narrative order, thank you very much), and The Hobbit, and the Wrinkle in Time series, and other things, including the works of Mark Twain.

I was very young when all this started, young enough that I was not aware I had an age. I said “siblings” up there mostly out of force of habit as I’ve had decades to get used to being one out of four. It was just my older brother and myself at the beginning. As the younger one, I had the privilege of going along for the ride. There were frequent stops to define words and explain things that were unfamiliar to us.

I’m grateful for this experience for many reasons. It meant that I could greet a large number of the books I encountered throughout my schooling as old friends. Having heard A Wind in the Door meant that when I was diagnosed with a mitochondrial disorder before I was midway through elementary school, I had a frame of reference for what would otherwise have been incomprehensible and thus terrifying. It means I get an additional layer of nostalgia when I put on an audiobook of one of my childhood favorites.

And I am dead certain that it is the ultimate reason I am a writer today.

Oh, there were steps along the way. I doubt I would have become a writer if I hadn’t gotten into D&D and other roleplaying games, which I wouldn’t have gotten into without comic books. My interest in writing also spun out of my interest in computer game development, which came out of video games. There was a certain amount of tagging along after my older brother in those things, naturally.

I think he probably retained more of those early story  times than I did, having been older at the time, but I daresay they were more of a foundational experience for me, having been younger at the time. Because of my mother, I grew up speaking fantasy as a first tongue. I walked in what ifs almost from my first steps. My world has been a multiverse for as long as I have known it.

Today, I thank my mother not just for giving me life, but giving me lives, and a shining multitude of worlds to spin them in. It is because of you, Mom, that I look deeper, go further, and ask what if?

Happy Mother’s Day.

 

A Critique of Impure Reason

UPDATE AND RETRACTION: An earlier version of this post incorrectly included the allegations that Vox Day is an author, editor, and publisher. Upon reading the objections of an individual using the handle “TangoMan” and having given the matter careful consideration, I have realized that this was uncalled for. I do hereby retract the allegations that I so thoughtlessly repeated. Others may call Mr. Day by whatever names they please, but I will do my best to eschew such terms.


UPDATE #2: Per another correction from TangoMan, I would like to amend this post to note that Vox Day is an ineffective editor. Let this stand as a reminder that even in the most heated debate, there are some things that both sides can agree on. I applaud TangoMan for holding me to the fire on this point.

I apologize for the second correction, and I will try to be more clear about this in the future: let no one insinuate that Vox Day is any kind of an author or publisher, but he is one heck of an ineffective editor, and I’m sure TangoMan and I would both vigorously debate anyone who says otherwise.

TangoMan, I have your back on this.


 

Rabid Puppy ringleader Vox Day likes to try to distinguish what he calls his “dialectical” mode of discourse from mere rhetoric. He claims that his use of syllogism elevates his arguments above rhetoric and into the realm of pure reason, though in fact the opposite is the case: syllogisms, employed in the way that he uses them (when he bothers to construct one rather than just dropping the word “syllogism” into a post to demonstrate that he knows it) is a perfect tailor-made tool for the delivery of rhetoric.

Now, syllogisms are a form of deductive reasoning. In their simplest Aristotlean format, they consist of a general premise, a specific case, and a conclusion. Formally, the first two are known as the major premise and minor premise, but I prefer to use more descriptive terms.

Both the general premise and the specific case in a syllogism are assumptions; they are held to be true. The syllogism does nothing to prove either one of them, offers no evidence in support of them. Thus, syllogisms are most likely to produce true results when dealing with broad, sweeping axioms of life. The classic example is: “All men are mortal (general premise), and Socrates is a man (specific case), so Socrates is mortal (conclusion).”

A syllogism, in short, is a tool for extrapolating from known facts. It’s the kind of deduction that each one of us makes constantly without realizing we’re doing it. No one needs to say that Socrate is mortal; it is enough to understand that Socrates is a man and that valar morghulis, as they say dans la belle Essos. Breaking it down into a formal syllogism is more helpful for understanding how we make deductions than it is for understanding how Socrates came to die.

The syllogism does not care about the truth or falsehood of its premises. It works on the assumption that they are true. The reasoning portion of it is usually quite elementary.

Let me show you an example:

Start with the premise “SJWs always lie.”

Add the specific case “Alexandra Erin is an SJW.”

Pause to allow for various “reasoned, dialectically-minded” Rabid Puppies to quote that out of context as proof that I admitted I’m a lying SJW.

Resume and draw the conclusion, “Alexandra Erin always lies.”

Pause again, same reason.

Resume again.

Now, I’ll admit that the above is an airtight Aristotlean syllogism. Given the stated premises, that is the correct deduction to make. It is as simple and clear and inescapable as 3 + 1 = 4.

But is it true?

Is it reasoned?

No. An equation only gives you what you put into it. If you need to know how many quarters Tommy and Timmy have between them and you pull numbers out of the air, you will get the right answer only by coincidence. 3 + 1 = 4 is mathematically correct, but if Tommy has 2 quarters and Timmy has 7, then the number 4 means nothing to you in this situation.

If you start a syllogism with rhetorical premises, you reach a rhetorical conclusion. Vox freely admits that his oft-repeated line of “SJWs always lie.” is only rhetorically true (which you might recognize is just a fancy way of acknowledging it isn’t true). It’s a statement of rhetoric. The act of labeling someone a “Social Justice Warrior” is also similarly an act of rhetoric. You’re slapping a brand on someone and hoping it affects the way people see them.

If you take two pieces of rhetoric and put them through the form of a syllogism, you arrive at a conclusion that is also nothing more than rhetoric.

Or to put it more succinctly: Garbage In, Garbage Out.

But to someone who is both invested in believing you and invested in believing themselves to be intelligent, reasoned, and calculating, it is elegant and attractive garbage. You’re describing what you’re doing with big, lofty words like “dialectic” and “syllogism” and “Aristotlean”, after all. You can show people the inescapable mathematical logic of if A and B, then AB, knowing that no one in your audience will bother to ask how you arrived at A and B. They’re taken as given. The form of the syllogism not only does not require you to question A or B, it doesn’t work if you do. As soon as you delve into examining the premises, you’re no longer engaging in syllogism.

The fact is that Vox stoops to engage in the actual construction of syllogism fairly rarely, compared to how often he simply bloviates on in a purely rhetorical fashion while peppering his speech with whatever words best flatter his and his loyal readers’ intellects. But even when he does, he’s not engaging in actual dialectic but mere rhetorical sophistry. He starts with unvarnished garbage as a premise, and so he arrives at a similarly tarnished conclusion.

 

In short, it’s mere intellectual wankery. Every time he says the word “syllogism”, what you should be hearing is “silly jism”.