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Professor Jordan Pervertson

Started by DangledTeeth, June 14, 2019, 09:22:26 PM

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I'm glad to see that our doctor has cleaned up his act.


I'm pleased to read that, Chveik. I'm doing quite well, thank you - Dr JBP :)


How are you all doing today? Standing up with your back straight? Wuell, you can sit yourselves down now and listen to Internet Dad speak about a classic music album. Welcome to Music Trove with Dr Jordan Peterson. This is a section of my YouToob channel where I praise or critique music because... music exists as invisible mystique; it's a sonic poem understood by the most attentive of listeners with Heaven for an ear drum. Music is the soundtrack to our lives. It shelters us when we're at our worst in an indifferent universe of suffering. It's thaht jovial party we've been to. It's a backing track to our studies in solitude.

Soeh, today's album I've selected today is Ween - The Mollusk.

The album cover is rahther fun to look at. I mean, it's no lawbster, but this bizarre fish hybrid with odd pincers is an example of sheer lunacy, man. I believe it was designed by that guy who kept bloody putting people and objects in empty landscapes and crap like thaht. The Pink Floyd guy... not the nutjawb who left the band and shaved his eyebrows off. No-no-no-no. Erm... *clicks fingers* Stern Thunderbums.

Okay, soeh, here's what I'm gonna do for you all. I'm going to concisely give you my viewpoint on each track, you know, a little description and my thoughts.

We commence the album on the opening title track 'I'm Dancing in the Show Tonight'. This is a nice number to start on, we're instantly hit with the glassy plinks of a piano and one of the guys - Deano Beano, I think - starts singing in a plummy voice which later sounds like it's given a chipmunk effect, probably for Genie. The rhythm and tone of the singing just makes me want to put on a silly grin and sway my head side to side every two words. The lyrics are about apprehension, and the voice tunefully and cutely murmurs advice for preparation. Life is a stage show, man. Young men really, really need to point their toe and look at themselves in the mirror - both literally, spiritually, proverbial and metaphorically.

Now, the second track which awbviously follows ahfter the first is 'The Mollusk'. Old Genebobs uses his deluxe David Gilmour-style voice to question a boy in the narrative as to what he has in his possession. We hear calming strings of an acoustic guitar, which is bolstered by the intermittent toots emitted from a piccolo or some kind of flutey instrument. It's basically about the wonders of sea life and how wonderfully wonderful it all is. The softness of his voice becomes more pronounced and-and it just penetrates your mind, man. The creatures across the land are great. Millions of years of evolution did this all *shakes head* it's incredible. One day I hope to fuck Richard Dawkins. Talk! I mean talk. Sorry abouet thaht. These subconscious slips happen very rarely since my lengthy stay in rehab.

The third song, 'Polka Dot Tail', is quite hypnotic and almost soporific in its effect - and that's no bad thing, though. It dreamily encourages the listener to consider very abzurd actions and funny things. I like the middle bit of the song where there's this delicate synthesised buzz and suddenly your hear someone utter 'BILLY'. Ah-hhagh-hhagh-hhagh-hhagh! That always gets me every time.

Soeh, we arrive at the fourth song 'I'll be Your Johnny on the Spot'. This amusing number commences with a frenetic yet subtle barrage of beats, sounds like it comes from a machine or some kind *waves splayed fingers* I don't know much about musical equipment. Then we hear a lovely vibrating twang of the guitar and a monotone voice telling us that he, the singer, will be 'your' Johnny on the spot. Wuell, that's pretty interesting because it depends what Genes means by 'spot'. Is it a position, or is he talking abouet an unwanted zit? Maybe it's Cool Spot, the video game character. Johnny is also British slang for a condom, so maybe the spot is the clit and *Winces* no... I'm not going there! Whatever it's meant to mean, the carefree tone of the guitar is enjoyable enough to warrant a torrent of nonsensical lyrics.

'Mutilated lips', ah-hhagh-hhagh-hhagh. That's a helluva title. This is a delicate psychedelic jaguar of a track. The listener is carried away by a slurred, wishy-washy ethereal voice informing us abouet all the weird things he does, and the chorus is about succumbing to a monstrous set of language flappers. It's pretty cool. These guys have taken psilocybin or some shit, man. The theatre of their imagination has first-class seats, and motherfucker, I'm here reclining in the splendour, roughly speaking.

Continuing the nautical theme (albeit with a vague pirate vibe) is one of an Irishman gruffly speaking abouet his lascivious desires while sounding uncouth in his presumably swaggering demeanour. 'After I fuck her she'll get up and sing'. Fuck... her. *Stares blankly* Yeah, that's an interesting assertion. It's quite hilarious and manages to retain the dockyard setting despite sounding like a wild Pogues song, maybe because the melodic atmosphere reminds me of the inn in Monkey Island 1. Good track, though.

The next track, 'It's Gonna be (Alright)', is remarkably astounding in its delivery. Ginn sounds perfectly ironic and almost deadpan yet manages to sing the verses with heartfelt sincerity. You can enjoy it as a song that's derisive towards sappy pop-rock love songs, or as quite a moving piece of music that reminds you of a past romance. It also has these kinda muffled cavernous effects. I'm not sure what you'd call it, erm, percussive subterranean bloops. I don't fucking know. But I do know I like this song. Maybe you already do or perhaps will.

Up next: 'The Golden Eel'. This is quite good for a mid-track. It starts off with some bongo drumming and Gina sings in a lofty voice and there's a crazy guitar solo. These guys must have been hanging out with Terrence McKenna in the recording studio. How do they come up with these frankly insane beings?!

'Cold Blows the Wind' is a sophisticated take of a ye olde poem, The Unquiet Grave. Sure, the lyrics aren't entirely original, I suppose... but they inject such conviction in their performance and set the tone so, so right. It's basically about a grieving woman who wants to pucker up for her dead partner who emerges from his death acres as a zombie, roughly speaking.

'Pink Eye (On my Leg)'. Waow, these guys certainly had some influence on South Park. Soeh, there's the charming meaty beats throughouet the entire sawng, interspersed with twinkly jangles of the guitar and is accompanied by a mixture of whining synth effects of some kind. There's also a repeated use of a dog bark sample scattered throughout that's eventually paired up with weary groaning that sounds almost like a disgusting belch. It depends on what they mean by 'AuuUuuUuUuUHh! UrrRrrRrrR!'. It's mellow, progressive and confident in its silliness. I like it, man.

Oh, 'Waving my Dick in the Wind'. Yeah, I'm partial to a good old slice of potty humour and the like, soeh this adolescent ditty is right up my street, yeah. The lyrics bring back memories of when I waved my dick in the wind - awbviously it was before I went to rehab. It seems to me that Gino is speaking idiomatically, like he's telling us he's going to get inebriated and will try his luck with the female clientele located at his bar. Alcohol is a good social lubricant *cccccough!*, sorry. Anyways, the production is as playful as ever. It has a lightly funky twang for the first half, with an almost menacing purr of a solo to finish it all awff. There's also a guy called Jimmy who interacts with the 'singing character' of Gino. I'm not sure who does the voice, but it's so distinct it reminds me off those Old West vagrant types with the hat, big grey beard, crumpled shirt and dungarees, kicking up excitement over gold. 'Rootin' tootin' Pete loves fainding golden nuggets down bah the river. Gold, GOOOLD!! Hee-hee-hee' I dunno, that's the vision I have.

'Buckingham Green'. What an arrangement. ''She kept her child cleaaaaaan, on Buckingham Greeeeen'' Buh-beowng-nuh-nyaw-nah-burda-nuh-brraowng! Yeah! In my opinion, it certainly has a Gentle Giant-inspired sound to it - all the lyrical content, cadence and strings and so forth. That solo, though. Jesus! What a superb track.

And the penultimate track is called 'Ocean Man', otherwise known as the 'Spongebob song'. There's yet more imaginative lyrics including a whacker of a guitar riff. Mind-boggling in its greatness.

'She Wanted to Leave'. *Shakes head* This track is divinity in its essence. It's a prime example of why interpretation is so damn stimulating, you know. Soeh, we have, let's say, a sailor who sounds like he's making a detailed account of what happened: a trio of unsavoury men forcing themselves onto the narrator's ship and taking his true love from him, and he kind of pines for 'Her' whilst singing her praises. It of course depends on what they mean by 'Her'. Is 'Her' the ship - did the 'ship' want to leave because he planned out the journey? Is it his partner? His daughter? Thaaht is where the magic lies, man. The closing verses of the song are still very much open to interpretation ''So go fetch a bottle of rum, dear friends. And fill up my glass to the rim. For I'm not the man I used to be. Now I'm one of them''

'One of them'. Does he possibly mean his ship has been hijacked by pirates and he's 'one of them' in the sense of being tied up and tossed into the sea, and he wants his friends to signify his demise with rum?! It seems pretty damn feasible because you also hear that espionage industrial sound... you know the one I mean... it's in the GoldenEye soundtrack. It goes like this: BBBOAOAHHHH. That one! It makes me imagine someone hitting the surface of the water then sinking, from an underwater perspective. But it could also mean 'I'm one of them' as in a severely crestfallen guy who's drowning his sorrows. 'BBBOAOHHHHH' goes the pisswater down his neck! Th-that's terrifically profound song-writing, man. And then it seemingly concludes on a harshly cold-sounding seabreeze... but we then hear a heart-wrenching, tragic outro that's similar in composition to the opening track thereby implying the whole album was a stage performance. Okay, maybe that pahtikyuhlar interpretation is quite outlandish. I mean, it's a work of fiction, but who'd be willing to dress themselves up as a sea creature?! Or even show their penis in front of a crowd?!


Ah.... yeah.

Wuell, this album is a complete classic from beginning to end. I award this 10 Dragons of Chaos out of 10.

Thanks for hearing and watching me speak. I've been Peterson, Dr Jordan Peterson. Don't forget to check my merch store for some satirical t-shirts, purchase them in order to show your support to this wealthy millionaire.


January 12, 2020, 10:25:35 PM #32 Last Edit: January 12, 2020, 10:57:18 PM by DangledTeeth

You're watching Music Trove with Dr Jordan Peterson. I'm your host Dr Jordan Peterson, the host of Music Trove.

Okay, soeh, for today's episode I'm going to critique a music artist. WWhhy? Wuell, since I've started this section on my channel, I've received many direct messages from you, ahsking me to review a pahtikyoolur singer by the name of Carly Rae Jepsen.

Who is Carly Rae Jepsen? It's a good question. She's in her 30s, and she's from Canada although not my neck of the snow, eeh. And she specialises in dance and synth-pop music. I have to say, she has a cute face and can effortlessly beam her gnash-bones off, which'll work to her advantage as the pop world has an emphasis for image. I'm not hugely familiar with Ms Jepsen despite her firm position on the middle-of-the-road popularity hierarchy and there's one song that was quite big in the hit parade a few years back.

I haven't come across anyone who dislikes her be it virtual or real life. I think it's important to lower your expectations when the consensus seems to be 'they're great', because you expect them to be better than what you end up hearing. It's what I call The Burial Effect. For several years I'd see comments about a guy called Burial. For quite a long time I didn't bother to listen to him until recently yet I somehow got the impression he's an experimental ambient musician or a maestro at drum & bass, but when I heard his music it was... underwhelming, you know. I find appeal in what he does, but moody future garage wasn't what I was expecting. In other words, good but not great.

Of course, Carly Rae Jepsen is not a future garage princess, nor is she a formerly unknown guy from South London. But people thoroughly like her pop music almost to a braying level. Dance pop isn't really my thing, soeh I wouldn't have much hope she'll be as interesting or charming as Kimbra, but I have heard Carly likes Kimbra which is great to know.

First single I'm going to watch is her chart-topping hit, 'Call Me Maybe'. What does she even mean by 'maybe'?! It is a coy exclamation or what?! Is she uncertain about receiving a phone call because she's not a confident telephone speaker?! I admittedly dislike this ditzy-sounding title already. But let's not judge a track by its title. I'll focus on the music and its visuals. Okay... off I go.


She presents herself as a relatively fashionable woman who's practising with her band in an open garage. What is it with this trope, man?! The band's instruments and motions don't even gel with the song itself. It manages to be worse than the reggae-pop single 'Rude' because at least thaht abomination mostly went with the visuals. I... no. Nothing more to say about this scene.

I'm not enjoying the airy synthesised violins or whatever they are. They annoyingly punctuate the hook. ''I just think it's crazy.'' HEEHN-HHN-HUM! ''Soo here's my number.'' HEEHN-HHN-HUM'' I mean seriously, shut the fuck up!!

The video is a notch funny with the fantasy costume photoshoot. But here's the twist, the guy that she stares at throughout most of the video is a gay guy. Hmm... I see why Dave Rubin likes this song. But I don't! Not because of Shirtless Steve, but because it's just inanely twee. The setting is so disgustingly suburban and... you could say 'Caucasian'. It's funny because I imagine lots of theatrical, left-leaning people would lap this vapid shit up yet, somehow, they supposedly despise the unwoke white female feminist who's too busy sniffing her own ass to consider the plight of people of colour - most SJWs live in places like this, for fuck's sake. Y-you can almost smellll their quips now: ''Heh-looo, bitch. It's Sassy on the line. I'ma do a death-drop on this hoe. Becky ain't gonna know what's hit her. SSSSeriously, like, wiggle my head, roll my wrist and snap my fingerrrrs. Call me back when you move to a diverse placccce like Oakland - and that's the tea.''

That's left me feeling somewhat irritated and unimpressed. I hope the next single is an enormous improvement! A canyon of difference!

'I really, really, really Like you'. Did she really, really, really. Really... really-really, really have to emphasise thaht with the same damn word?! Articulate your Being with better words. Go clean your room, maybe you'll find a better lyric sheet under your bed.

Right, okay, soeh, Carly doesn't zoom in to view like a borderline hyperactive, smug idiot. Tom Hanks provides himself for the music video; he knowingly and lightly raises an eyebrow to signify that it's all in good fun, and he sweetly mouths along to her musical diction. I like Tom Hanks, but come on... did you really, really, really, really have to stoop so low as this?! A fucking mime artist of generic pop dribble?!?! The fuck is wrong with you, Wilson?! Go clean your island! Oh wait, you can't - Somalian pirates pinched your vessel. Well, they certainly robbed you of your dignity, too. It happens. What, shit music? Yes.

The lyrics are redundantly predictable and unoriginal. Okay, yueah, fair enough, pop music is abouet package and delivery and is about as original as salted crisps. If we used 'package and delivery' in a literal sense, this'll be akin to DPD arriving the next day and lobbing a vase over your garden gate.
But guess what? Carly's gate is rusted to blisters. Carly also sounds like a finalist for a Frozen audition - and you know how much I despise the fucking propaganda in thaht trashcunt of a film.

Oh... oh, no!!!! I've heard this one before, 'Run Away with Me'.

I'm completely enraptured by the sound of the saxophone. You could mangle the golden horn with the C-3P0 finish and get it to honk its faltering sounds and I'd still feel all snugly reassured by it's raunchy oomph. But in this song, it's the first time I've ever, EVER felt like bowing my head in dismay over the sound of a sax, assuming one was used. That's no saxophone; it's a bloody seal eating a harmonica.

Urgh, the way she mindlessly twirls into view with that grainy faux-old-fashioned 'precious memories' shit - yeah, I'd run away from this video if I didn't have to review it. The stomach-churning opening bolsters how inadequate it is in THE FIRST FEW SECONDS. And now I've got four minutes and four seconds left to endure this fucking dollop of numb.

The lyrics are as lame as ever ''Bih-bey (HEY) you're outstanding, I'll do something fantastic. A suggestion in fantasy world'' And what's this crap... first-person lead-you-by-the-hand tripe? Is this an advert for a vacation booking website?! I don't think this video can be anymore nauseating.

No... no-no-no-no! Don't tell me she just did a 'peek-a-boo' manouevre then did a gleeful leap?!?!

You know, one of the points I made in my best-selling book is that fappiness happiness is a pointless goal. Wuell, the proof is in the Jepsen (NSFW loudness) . She makes rare pleasures like being a tourist with a member of the opposite sex and taking in the architectural sights seem so damn idealistic and easy to do, as though it's grand and flawlessly enjoyable to the point where you know it's beyond true and aspiration withers into dust, leaving you feeling quite disconsolate.

It's hard going away somewhere with your wife. You want to sample the delights of the city but she wants to look at the marketplaces, so then you have to negotiate where and when we'll go, instead of giggling and arbitrarily jogging around the monoliths while no one has a care in the world. Vacations are not like thaht. The fucking stairwells are usually packed with other tourists and incumbent dickheads, namely the city dwellers. People cross the street like dumbfounded cattle and the side road reeks of shit. It's never like how she presents it in her dippy version. No. Sorry. To Hell with this fucking disgraceful landfill of a music video!

And up next is her collaboration with 'Owl City'. What sort of name is thaht?!?! FFFucking Ow-wuhl Cit-tee?! *Shakes head* Yueah, Pigeon Metropolis - where airborne rodents defecate from the sky.

Speaking of shitting, Carly is part of the song 'Good Time'. Wuell, I bloody hope I have a good time hearing it! Listening to this thudding shit is like a bowl with cereal - albeit week-old flakes stored in a damp cupboard - but there's no milk. Where. Is. The. Milk?! I want it fresh, no curdled shit, okay. Anyways, enough with the meandering analogy.

Heed this dungshit! ''Oh-woah-a-woah! We're all friends together and we're helping ourselves to cold smoothies in the woods. Yaaaay!''

As for the Owl City guy (I assume this anodyne doorbell of a human is solely him, not a frontman of an unseen production team). Observe the motherfucker: he looks like a terrible hybrid of Tom DeLonge and Brian Cox. The awkwardness of this guy makes me believe he's a woefully atrocious impersonator of himself who doesn't know why he's impersonating himself. I certainly don't know what his purpose is, but he ought to fuck off! I'm not watching this video any further. These poncing dribbles of flesh just dispense comas from their assholes.

'Tonight I'm Getting Over You'. Wuell, I hope I get over the acute despair I have for humanity right of this moment, because my ears have been assaulted by an overexcited house-pop beat and a corny video depicting her and a beanie hat guy, sauntering around before she blandly ponders her break-up, or whatever the bloody fuck is going on.

Okay... let me move on to her more contemporary output. 'Now That I Found You'.

Soeh, it commences with a kinda polished 60s/70s cinematic opening: a sweeping shot of automobile placement accompanied by yellow text. The Jepstons stars in this, unsurprisingly. 'Jimmy Loweree' is... 'Jimmy'. And finally, 'Shrampton the Cat - Cat'. I don't own a cat, but in my million-selling 12 Lubes for Wife (Hard-on Edition) 12 Rules for Life (Revised Deluxe Hardback Edition). I have a 'Rule' chapter called 'Wet a pussy if you see a big-titted woman on the streets' Pet a cat when you see one on the street. I have to object to thaht in this instance. Not because I cannot pet 'Shrampton' due to physical and geographical impediment, but because I wouldn't want to as the cat has large eyes and lopped ears. It's weird-looking, man. Not in an oddly cute way just... weird.

The production is pretty ordinary radio fare. Carly appears in various scenes inside her house, wearing an assortment of pastel outfits and she's surrounded by an army of goggle-eyed ginger fluff. But if the hint of car exhibitionism wasn't fleeting enough for you, there's a full-on shot of her doing a 'Tik-Tok' with the aforementioned cat. Admittedly, this isn't as bad as the ultra-happy shit she purveyed in the pahst, but it's a bit too adorable for my taste. Onto some more...

'Party For One'. Ah-hhagh-hhagh-hhagh. The sequence with the receptionist/attendant rubbing her face or nibbling on slices of bread is an effortlessly surreal element - it's quite cool. But the music is, again, radio crap... and there's more shameless product placement again inside a fridge - Yueah, I could slam a vodka after listening to this mound of plop. And, erm, a wrinkly granny whips out an... object. I-I can't watch anymore of this. Let's have a look at one final video.

'Want You in my Room'. Now, you all know by now that I insist on people cleaning their rooms. Carly's music video room is incredibly pristine, I'm glad to say. But I was unimpressed by her immediate use of some trendy, superfluous voice-activation device. Whawt the hell, man. I'm a proud capitalist, but even I have some awareness, you know. I at least promote my own shit.

I swear some of her fans are crazy:

''She is underrated af. Just like Kylie Minogue. Releasing good pop music but not getting the recognition.''

They use Kylie Minogue as a benchmark for being underrated. Are they being serious here?! Kylie may not be widely popular in North America, but having a successful career since the late 80s is pretty damn good, man. Take me as an example, will I still be the hottest public intellectual in 15 years' time? Will I have to wear metallic disco shorts or drape a white curtain over my head in order to keep afloat and appear on chat-shows? Maybe not. But I'm happy with what I have.

And I've seen several fans comment that Carly missed out on a Grammy, oh how terrible. Whether you respect or care for the validity of a music award and why the industry gives a shit about you, it's still lovely to get nominated. Some people don't even get thaht. She's successfully gained herself a 'cult following' despite coming across like a one-hit wonder.

So anyways, you get the axiomatic substrate of the metaphysical idea of her music, eeh. Any cleft of a human can single-handedly imitate her 'career' in a matter of minutes (Carly I mean, not Kylie). Thanks for recommending her to me, even if I don't give an ant's kneecap about her nightmarish audio. It's a pleasure to critique. I've been Dr Jordan Peterson, thank you for viewing and listening.

And if you know who this 'lookalike' is based on, you're in for a thrilling episode of Music Trove with Dr Peterson. Until then, music fans...


Hey there, Lobuckosters. How is everyone today? Oh... yeah... you cahn't ahnswer me as I'm going to become a YouToob video. But it depends on what I- yueah.

Soeh... welcome, once again, to Dr Peterson's Music Trove.

Now, I've had many personal messages from you adoring fans yet again, thank you. Several of them give pahtikyuhlur mention to a musician you want me to critique in today's episode. If you recognised the derisive image of Lloyd Christmas wearing retard specs and knew who it was based on - not your mother, by the way ;p - you're in for a satisfying MT episode with JBP. But if you don't know who it's supposed to look like, then brace yourself for shock and repulsion.

Without anymore introductory prattling, I'll get right to the point because *squints* getting to the point helps orient yourself to be the arbiter
of your own precise speech and candour, as communication is fundamental to the - haah! Gotcha!

Anyways, I begrudgingly present to you GUS DAPPERTON

I have no clue as to what this ghastly hipster turd's function is or what godforsaken laboratory boiled him up, or why anyone would trust any poopstain wearing chino windsocks, but man, this motherfucker is very real indeed, but that depends on what I mean by 'real', seeing as I'm abouet to observe him in a virtual landscape, roughly speaking.

Firstly, whoo iz the Dapperton? And whut duss he dooeh? They are good questions, no matter whether they're genuine enguiry, rhetorical or philosophical. Wuell, his full name is Gustav Ephesians Ganymede Dapperton; he was born in The Hamptons', New York City, to proud parents Higginbotham Percival Clavicord Dapperton and Lavinia Artemis Hotpoint Dapperton in 1996 or '97. The guy is such a cool cat he wasn't born at a pahtikyoolar time and date.

Secondly, what are his accolades of credibility? Erm, his wikipostmodern indicates that Gus excelled at a variety of subjects like a thorough nerd, as made evident by his lean frame, ironic dress sense and punchable glasses, and an avid interest in amateur chemistry, Diablo and Deep Space Nine. Gus was by no means a jock, but he exhibited a flare for jangle indie rock at quite an early age. How early am I talking? In the past, man.

Gus was given a decadent Rickenbacker guitar on his birthday by his marine biologist father and his mother, who's a CEO for an off-shore pencil sharpener factory. Gus still hasn't taken the fucker out of its guitar-shaped casket, but that didn't stop Gus from propelling himself towards the upper echelons of internet stardom with underground crowd-pleasers such as: American Apparel Blues; Pop-up Kitchen & Liquorice Rollies; My Retro Memories Today. Shawty Twerk her Shit fo' Chick A'fil Coupons.

I must say that this guy looks simultaneously like a dilapidated funeral of a failure and a radiant beacon of idiosyncratic cool because he seems to fit awkwardly between the metrosexual fad of 2004 and the 'Dickhead' era of 2010, but it's not too distant in the past to be deemed 'retro' and hipsters these days are often the tattooed sailor type with a Ruskin beard. However, in this age of genderslender-fluid-non-bin-liners-ninja-turtles 'wokeness', he obtains a rainbow pahss into that postmodern realm. But, you know, it's not fair to judge a book by it's cover. Or a Gus by it's ankle-swinging pants, rahther. Wuell, if you gazed upon my million-selling tome with it's understated crisp white cover and tidy black and gold font, you'd doubtless think it's a presentable blockflap up in this bitch - and you'd be right. But I could be very wrong about this skewed lemur and his librarian-out-on-a-summer-stroll look. Let's judge the music, too.

Prune, you Talk Funny. (Based on true events)

The video commences with our hero Dappytits boldly jogging in his boxer shorts, grasping a guitar he's yet to learn how to play properly or at least not massacre with his untrained bonelets. And he's being chased by a middle-aged guy who vaguely appears like a lone mechanic from an 80s horror flick. Oh, and a smooth yet urgent pan of the camera shows a woman rushing ouet of a house as she's wrapped in a pink towel. Hmm, she must be somewhat cold. I wonder if her nipp- No! Don't go there, Peterson.

So anyways, the questionable fashionista of a beanpole murmurs a carefree torrent of airy-fairy dribble as he waves a bouquet of flowers beside an swimming pool. What this has to do with anything and why it's significant is beyond me. 'Based on true events'?! Did he perhaps arrange a date there? Read the sign: 'No Petting', you fucking stagnant dweeble!

Suddenly, the scene cuts to a shot of himself and a posse of like-headed friends, i.e. they all have abzurd pudding bowl trims, as they cruise along in a 1970s convertible. Where they are heading is a mystery. But inadvertently going to stop off at a service station to get their slashed tyres fixed for an exortionate price is a destination and situation I'm hoping will come true.

Oh, hang on a second, it appears he's now gone to school. Maybe he should go to the music auditorium and learn how to play an instrument or get locked in the mortar. I don't know why he moves like polio on ice skates. Is this his gimmick or is he doing the bowel Charleston after eating a tofu burrito? I'm not sure, man. But he does appear quite foolish.

He even has an entry in the fucking dictionary, complete with an illustration of his synthetic doll face. Gus Dapperton, (proper noun): a colloquial title awarded to mountainous plebs who are thoroughly aimless and boring.''Nicholas Cage made an appearance on the red carpet and the photographers were more interested in taking pictures of Neve Campbell for no discernible reason. He really is a Gus Dapperton.'' synonyms: pretentious; insipid; hypnagogia; yawn-inducing; cunt; soporific

And if singing in the school corridor wasn't goofy enough for you, he then appears outside, wearing a blue starry cowboy shirt or something - looks like the constellation of Triangulum Asshole. The annoying squirt then does a self-assured backwards walk as he spots a Hispanic woman sat on the bench before he exhales his puff over his ocular scaffolding, with no conviction or gusto (hhagh-hhagh,'gus'to). The only conviction that ought to apply to this scrawny burp is a legal one for violating my pissing ears. As for the lady of his affection, she wears these baggy socks that appear at odds with her exposed thighs. I dunno... there's something about that sight that convinces me she's pushed out a malodorous nostril wallop. Then again, there already is a sickening odour in her vicinity.

After that, there's a montage of all the other scenes, including a CGI donut waving at us... maybe it's signalling to be rescued from the catastrophic, self-conscious wackness that Twatterton thinks is wonderfully serene and camp. If that's the case, I certainly wouldn't punch the donut; but Gus, however, I would! Ahem, you know what I mean.

In my honest opnion, it's just a lifeless avalanche - and I don't like it. Grrng!

What else is there? Just Snacking

Wuell, it starts off with a couple of lesbians trying to eat each other's enamel. Oh, plot fucking twist! They're not really lesbians because Gus coolly takes on both of them ina bout of lip wrestling, as he holds a glass of wine in hand. I swear the guy's music has this underlying message that 'I fuck women because I'm cool' in every sawng. It's not clever or subtle, just transparent and hollow. A burger short of two buns. A cup of milky hot water and no teabag. A scarecrow with no arms. The Soviet Union without Stalin. Alien Resurrection. You get the idea.

''He won't build in Thrones of vermillion Whose woes is filled with Pseudo civilians, no'' It sounds good only in terms of finesse, best suited to nerdy hip-hop, not a whiny indie lo-fi bedroom dream pop Everly Brothers knock-off. Highfalutin content that's about as deep as that fucking swimming pool he flapped alongside in the previous shitdeo.

What does Pus Crapperton do next? Oh, he does the ringpiece cha-cha again, must've been the pinot disagreeing with his feathery stomach. It's hard to miss him with that neon orange jacket, although I don't miss him when I close the video, agh-hhagh-hhagh-hhagh. And the ironic nothing man glides across the street to go back to his apartment in order to cool off from his little liason. But wait! He's cleansing his wronged bonce with the jacket still on. Gasp. You know, it's moments like this where I'd sarcastically and dramatically berate what he's attempting to convey in his visuals and lyrics, but this dude is too lame to warrant acute annoyance. Plus, I suspect he wants us to work up a shitstorm over his preconception of 'interesting content'.

The production is always imbued with an abundance of disgustingly tedious smugness. It's like every effortless jangly note and piercing bleat of a synthesizer echoes the illustrious past of the Gods thereby giving us a feel-good rush of dopamine as though he's the amygdala. Well, I state excoriation against thaht. I don't want to view this blizzard of cuntitude anymore. I can write abstract sappy shit as well...

She's sipping cold tea, as bold as gold leaf, chastise the last guy who was giggling at my hokey-cokey.
Pantheons of mans on, inside a mansion, mainly like a lion, bare teeth at the growlers, as I bow and take a shower.
You're a button of... of...
You're a button of... of...
Won't you dispute
the fopdoodle of the Pot Noodle
I'm full of olives, missus.
Are sweet
Meet is when we start.

*Does a stupid dance*

I suppose his music is quite calmly insouciant and harmless, I guess. Wuell, if you're deaf or not crazy. To those who appreciate the finer nuances in musical compositions, you'd know that this whiny jerk-off clobbers the sonic soundwaves. This is like the audio equivalent of an egg and cress sandwich in a gas station. A condemned gas station. A gas station with mildew transcending time and space. Gus station! Gus' tone merely exudes blandness. He's a discarded packet of Salt and Shake chips in the ocean. He sounds so flat he'd create the illusion a witch has had breast implants. Knock-knock... Who's There? Gus. Gus who? Gus Dapperton OH FOR FUCK'S SAKE FUCK OFF YOU RELENTLESS SNATCH.

He's essentially a mundane hipster approximation of Mac DeMarco and is a poor man's and woman's (don't hurt me, feminists) Men I Trust, who both make quite captivating, enjoyable songs - more so the latter. And they're both Canadian like me, eeh.

Wuell, that's all for today's episode of Music Trove with Dr Peterson. I'm aiming to produce another episode of Art Heroes. But until then, wait for the next episode of Music Trove, where I shall give my review in the 'Future'.

Oh, my wife Tammy has come into the r- yep... hmm... okay... 20lbs of steak? Thirty fucking dollars?!

It's time for my weekly handjob? It just so happens Mr Cock is waiting for a bus. BUS' A NUT. Ah-hhagh-hhagh-hhagh-hhagh!


Hello there, painting connoisseurs. Welcome to Jordan's Art Heroes presented to you by me, Jordan Peterson. Do you like the new ident? I think it's pretty cool, man.

Mark Rothko is the greatest artist of all time. Some people may scoff at this subjective statement and find it odd for a spiritual agnostic like me to enjoy viewing dual swatches of mundanity that a godless champagne socialist would have hanging in his or her decadent apartment, as you'd also expect me to weep over Raphael's Catherine or a Giotto or some chocolate box shit by Botticelli. I never said thaht! I think the Gothic and High Renaissance paintings are wonderful, but neither of the artists of that era have expressed nihilism, suffering and depression so succinctly, so coherently and with such conviction as the late Rothko. Some people challenge my viewpoint by asking me if I like Bacon. Wuell, yeah, I'm on an all-meat diet, man. What I eat for breakfast, lunch and dinner has no relevance to contemporary art, unless it's an installation of a decaying meal, then yueah, I suppose it does mean something.

The way the guy made an ugly combination of insipid squares is masterful. It kind of resembles those damp patches you'd find underneath wallpaper or even a top-down view of Neapolitan ice cream. Art doesn't have to be pristine. It can be uncompromising and rugged - Rothko treads a thin line between the two... or is it three?

Any stationary humanoid who trains themselves to expertly apply paint on a canvas in order to produce an identifiable scene, person or an intricate pattern imbued with soul is wasting their time. Anyone can copy an Old Master if they invested their hours into such a futile task. But to get a near-accurate Rothko brushstroke due to it's arbitrary, impulsive nature is wholly impossible; it's one of the reasons that makes his artwork so unlike anything I've seen before. No one else has fused his colours together - his palette is second to none. No one has ever painted a shape, certainly not one overlapping the other. Is it overlapping? Perhaps it's a colour which borders one rectangle. We don't bloody know. Rothko did. We could ahsk him, but that'll prove to be distinctly stupid, for he stabbed himself to death with a knife. That's tough, man. Wuell, 'sharp' would be a better word although the blade of a knife can be tough and, what-am-I-saying?!

Let us all succumb to the dreariness of Rothko's limited palette as restricted by his severe depression. Oh, how we ought to rapturously clap for this fine man's remarkable series of paintings. Yeah. People who have a bad word to say about this unimpeachable king just don't understand art. He stood on the brink of the abyss and combated his neurological Hell. And now his legacy adorns the walls of the Tate Maawdon.

Waow... rectangles. They draw you in with that moody mauve and-and the bloody darkness just hypnotises you as you stand, transfixed over the supreme despair. What is a rectangle when it's a constructed result of miserable draftmanship? Does it take on a new dimension? Or is the verisimilitude plainly awbvious for the visiting public? I'm agnostic about those questions.

To all the critics out there, you can gauge the worth of his artwork on the grounds of technical accomplishment when you assert that an infant could easily accomplish thaaht. Wuell, I'd say it would be pahtikyuhlarlee difficult for a kid to apply paint onto a big fuck-off canvas, let alone have access to a large brush and a supply of paint. If your  relative, friend or even yourself is able to mimic Rothko and potentially cement yourself into art history, then why weren't born at the start of the 20th century? Hah, gotcha! Stick that in your Magritte pipe and smoke it, bucko.

That's all for this episode. Give this video a thumbs up if you liked it, leave a comment down below to let me know what you think. See you in the following episode. I'm out. Peaceterson.


January 24, 2020, 12:12:40 AM #35 Last Edit: January 24, 2020, 02:03:38 AM by DangledTeeth

Mr Viewer, I've been expecting you. Ueh-hhagh-hhagh-hhagh. Do you expect me to watch? No, Mr Mao, I expect the women to wear matching uniforms and die from a communist famine!

Looks sheepishly at the camera before lowering his head in embarrassment.

So anyways, welcome to Music Trove with Dr Peterson. I'm going to kick this awff with a piece of insight from a story written by the greatest Englishman who ever lived, George Orwell. But it depends on what I mean by George Orwell because *wriggles fingers and moves forearms apart* there are multiple George Orwells worldwide, and not all of them are authors or white for that matter... but one partikyuhlur George Orwell is actually known as Eric Arthur Blair. But there's a prawblem: there are also numerous Eric Arthur Blairs in the world, and not all of them go by the pen name 'George Orwell'. But one Eric Arthur Blair did, and he's an author. The author whose name is George Orwell, coincidentally speaking.

What made Georgy Orgy (ahem) the greatest Englishman after Shakespeare and Oscar Wilde?

Wuell, George Orwell wrote a soon-to-be prophetic, horrifying vision of a totalitarian nation with a socialist infrastructure. It's called Nineteen Eight-four - I'm sure you've all heard of it (at least). George, although a socialist himself, blew the whistle on the postmodern neo-Marxists before the Derrida bomb went off in the faculties.

You see, there was this middle-aged guy called Winston Smith, and Winston has this jawb editing newspaper articles in a drab hall of despair. He became inquisitive about the world around him, which to some extent was forbidden in that universe, that is: being intellectual. It was acceptable if you were a prole with an I.Q. of 90 because the simple-minded folk won't know what to do with information in terms of utilising it to overthrow their oppressors. But if you uncovered too much of the truth enveloped in the pahst, the Thoughtpolice would think you're a dissident who's trying to dismantle the Party. You couldn't scratch your bum without the oppressive polizia thinking you're guilty of crimes you didn't commit. You'd better smile like you mean it, sunshine, and bear the weight of the world inside your cortex. If you appeared sad or too happy with your mundane existence, they'd force you to stay inside a pyramid. And let me tell you, there's no souvenir shop at the end. It ends in nothing but gin and tears, man.

The government of the fictional crumblepile were known as the Party. Winston fell prey to a devious inner Party member by the name of O'Brien. O'Brien was the King of the Postmodernists. Science was his gargantuan foe along with reason and hope. He was fixated with using collective power to augment society for the sake of it - just like Derrida and his chin-stroking pals. He secretly befriended Winston before torturing him until he became an emaciated flob, roughly speaking. Winston's efforts to resist and reason with O'Brien were futile. *Shakes head* This slippery commie cuntbag was the biggest gas lighter ever, man. He had clever answers for everything. He'd throw cognitive dissonance at people and inform them they were wrong and right equally. If he were to be gauged for this redefining of words and using them interchangeably, he'd be the greenest cucumber in the word salad.

His ace card was betrayal, and he dealt Winston a very poor hand. In fact, every card in the proverbial deck were of betrayal, as well as the Jack of Regime. The Queen of Omnipotence. And the King of Death. Not forgetting that one with the product information printed on it - call it the Gin and Tears card.

Winston was put in a helpless position where he had to be a kind of snitch who spares himself from a terrifying situation. The catalyst of all this would be his rebellious girlfriend Julie... or was it Julia? I-can't-remember. In order for this to happen successfully (at least from the postmodernist's view), Winston had to be mortified by his deepest fear until he wimped out and begged for the same instrument of torture to be thrust upon his girlfriend. And that, lobsters, is when the betrayal sets in - and all enthusiasm, passion, love and meaning is excavated from your soul and cast into a pit of oblivion. Never betray a loved one, no matter how seemingly insurmountable a predicament is.

What was Winston's biggest fear? RRRRats! 'Uh-wah-aaah', you might say, as you recoil in horror. They whacked a strap-on cage to Winston's face, complete with a pair of squeaking rodents inside. Petrified that the gnawing little shits would burrow through his countenance, Winston shrieked for mercy by demanding the mask of feral gets whacked onto Jenny's noggin, sorry, Julia. Winston forever sowed the seed of betrayal then it grew into a warped flower and bloomed into his demise. With gin.

*Shakes head* Winston had an opportunity to decimate the meta-physical ethos of the fictional precursor of neo-Marxist postmodernity and slay the archetypal dragon of communism in the prahcess.


Every prisoner of Thoughcrime were made to become compliant zombies thereby facing a gradual execution in a remarkably brainwashed state where they have an inexplicable love for a leader by the name of Bob Flag. Yes! Big Bobber. However, the overbearing postmodernists never wanted a single citizen of their dystopian wreck to expire with a raging hatred for Big Bobber. Prior to Winston's execution, he is asked by O'Brien what Winston's true feelings were towards Big Bobber. ''I hate that wanker, mate! If I had to go three rounds with the fucker, I'd naff him in the willy stones and spit on his nostrils,'' blurted Winston unashamedly.

Now... you have to be very rational if you're on the verge of succumbing to fear through torture - certainly Winston. Because it's highly unlikely they'd allow the famished rat to devour Winston's head, as he would die a martyr who's rather unhappy with some guy's face on a mass-produced poster, because Winston hadn't yet been 'cleansed' at that point. This is what you'd call a stalemate position in chess, and Winston played that game. The action and solution is simple. Resist. The. Rat. Checkmate. 2+2 = win. Then again, maybe they would've just let the rat bite his lower lip off if he didn't comply.

That's my philosophy when I listen to music as part of these music critiques, man. If the soundwaves are tough to enjoy -- resist the rat. And listen with a golden ear of the Gods.

O'Brien said something which, I hope, will not be prescient whatsoever: ''If you want a picture of the future, imagine a boot stamping on a human face — forever.''

And coincidentally enough, that's who I've earlier reviewed. 'Future'. And let me tell you, subscribers, after listening to him it felt like I had my face stamped on by a boot.

But it depends on what I mean by 'Future'. Well, this one isn't too hard to figure ouet. His initial is capitalised, soeh, that means he's an individual who goes by the alias 'Future'.

Who is Future? It's a good question... a good question. I thought about it a laawt. I checked his wikipostmodernia

Future was born Lamont Pennyfarthing Dupree II, in Georgia, to a hard-working mother who had a job working in a textile factory, while his father started slanging rocks and disappeared into obscurity after his guns went poom-poom but not pow-pow. Future developed an interest in music when his hurmeys were bumping some of the flyest def rhymes from a boombox, and these homeboys weren't fakin' the funk. He listened to the dopest OGs of hip-hop such as: OJ the Juiceman, Soulja Boy, Hurricane Chris, Mike Jones, Lil Debbie, Gucci Mane, and Riff-Raff. He then enrolled at the prestigious Berklee College of Music where he studied Jazz and Music Theory, earning himself a masters degree and later a PhD. He sold mixtapes in his hood and was quite entrepreneurial. And then the major labels rang his cellphone after earholing his cutting-edge music.

I have heard of the guy before and dipped my toe into the water, metaphorically speaking. But he seemed like those other trap idiots who sound and look the same... you know the ones I mean, always have dreadbuns and wear Ozzy Osbourne specs; the beat sounds like metronome 808 shit you'd get on Fruityloops, and there's that other one that sounds like Duplo bricks hitting a marble kitchen unit smothered in jelly.

I didn't pay him much heed, initially. However, I was listening to FKA Twigs' superb album and, well, his tacked-on ass-splat just spoiled it a notch. I mean, there's going to be a track that doesn't quite tonally gel with the theme on any album, but Future represents Mount Everwack. He dropped a curler on the base camp and pissed all over the Sherpa. And now, once again, it's time for me to brave the winds and traverse the craggy rocks, then drive the Peterson flag into the peak...

I'll wawtch these videos again. Man, the things I do for YouToob.

Okay, soeh, Mask Off is the first music video I'm going to talk you through...

It commences with a scene which reminds me of the Terminator. Sorry to inform you dear lobsters that there's no cool-ass metallic skeleton thingies shooting guns, it's just a burnt out car. But hopefully, they'll send a cybernetic organism from the future to terminate Future in the present in which Future current inhabits who will continue to make Future music in the future unless he's terminated in the present so that there's no future with Future in the future. Bewildered? Yes.

We see our boy Future cruising along in a slick ride, looks like a mouse - computer mouse. You know, all these trap guys' music videos are like a perfume commerical directed by an inebriated fellow. So anyways, he glides along the concrete carpet and nonchalantly surveys his surroundings. All of sudden, a kid wearing a mahsk appears before him, followed by a trio of antisocial men robbing a store. They scurry with their pilfered loot as Future trundles into view. And that's when the tuneful incomprehensible occurs. It's the usual worn-out 808s and shit, and all I can make out from his garbled utterance is this:


Wh-what is he exactly saying?! Is this morse code for the younger generation?! I hate to sound like a towering boomer, but hip-hop was great when I was a young man. Wellll I never really heard that much, I'm more of a 60s rock and classical man. But there is three I like. 'Clap your hands everybody, if you got want it takes, my curtains blow and I want you to know that these are the brains'. And-and the other one, erm... ''I like to juggle sometimes it keeps me from watching Oprah''. And there's the nawty one: ''King Kunt. (woooo!) King Kunt (wuh-woot-woooo!). King Kunt. King Kunt. Ki-ki-ki-ki-king Kunt. *DiIiNgY-DUuuUrNnn-dEN-DuUUh-De-DuUrngGg*''. But now it's gone all braggadocio and cottonmouthed autotuney shit. Not for me, man.

Okay... Future's next hit record is 'Never Stop'. Ah, thank you for that, Mr Future. I'll never stop critiquing trash music. Yet again, he's barely coherent:


As he's mumble-tuning this torrent of nonsense, he's sat isometrically on white stairs, wearing an oversized camping jacket and trousers that have a bag strap hanging from the seat, It's also interspersed with an apartment hallway and woodlands, including ankle-hugging slacks and more oversized jackets.

He goes on...


That was beyond surreal. Completely devoid of class or conviction, nothing more than a fart trying to be avant-garde.

The penultimate track I'm going to review is 56 Nights. I'm not going to spend 56 nights listening to your uptempo diarrhea, Future. I'm never drinking cider again.

So anyways, the video initiates with a close-up of spider head frequenting a London phone box. It cuts to a scene of a sombre-looking woman in a bedroom, who then is alerted to an incoming message on an old-school ahnswer machine. An imposing voice announces '808' or 'Ey-yo-ay Mafia' over the sight of a rolling tape. Future is now illuminated by a torch, and here is when he orates his insightful prose and wisdom:


And the last name, sorry, last track is called Last Name. Okay. Off I go...

Future chugs around in a Mercedes, plenty of introspective close-ups of his patchy facial hair. Yeah-yeah-yeah-yeah. What's his rap?  Tweak your ears and listen...


Well, that's the lahst track, man. I can barely excogitate what he means by his postmodern drawl, but I sense there's a low resolution meta-narrative nestled within a terrible doctrine abouet underachieving and rebelling against a patriarchal system predicated on competence and biological dahta. Young men need to discover a talent or an intellectual pursuit that stimulates their minds, and then they can articulate their desired destination and set ouet a new pahth on to a greater location. Let people skateboard.

0 Dragons of Chaos out of 5

Decomposing Lobster Award

That's all for today's episode of Music Trove. Thank you for viewing. Hit the subscribe button and visit the merch store. I'm out. Peaceterson.

Outro Track


Greetings YouToob, I have an important announcement to make. Brace yourselves for some colossal, exciting, thrilling, monolithic news. I suspect most of my loyal subscribers and general JBP fans will have predicted this day would come.

As an erudite opponent of the postmodern neo-Marxists, I need to deal with the encroaching infestation that's destroying the foundation of our educational facilities because the radical left have taken things too far. Education is a weapon, whose effect depends on who holds it in his hands and at whom it is aimed.

Young men and women are being brainwashed to become low resolution anti-establishment cronies for the post-Stalinist generation, operating on an axiom of social justice and violent protestation. Men are surreptitiously being thrown ouet of their management position and forcing agreeable women to replace them as they mother their children in office environments.

Soeh, I deem it necessary to commence the initial step towards the 2,000-year Plan by entering the world of politics :). I've decided to enter myself into the race for PM of Canada.

Yes, you you heard me correctly, red lobster army. I have decided to run for Prime Minister of Canada. It's time to garnish the symbolic Maple Leaf
with a fresh serving of righteous syrup, no artificial preservatives in this hoe - nothing but reborn Peterson.

We owe it to our children, to the middle-aged and OAPS. It's time we punched stringent lefty bureaucracy in its tits and showed the social justice postmodernists what Canada ought to be: a land of free speech and lawsuits against anything vaguely slanderous, imbalance of outcome, and prayers at the dinner table.

Join me in the battle against totalitarian ideologues, and together we can summon a refulgent sunrise so bright our fututre will forever be the dawn of the ages. You cannot make a revolution with silk gloves.

We must cease the tribal mentality that's been concocted by the racist son-of-a-bitch Trudeau. Yes, the fool who thought it was acceptable to wear blackface.

And now the MSM say that the Postmodernists and the leftists are threatened by us. And to that charge I can answer: In the first place it is Christians
and not international atheists who now stand at the head of Canada. I do not merely talk of Christianity, no, I also profess that I will never ally myself with the parties which destroy Christianity. If many wish today to take threatened Christianity under their protection, where, I would ask, was Christianity for them in these fourteen years when they went arm in arm with atheism? No, never and at no time was greater internal damage done to Christianity than in these fourteen years when a party, theoretically Christian, sat with those who denied God in one and the same Government.

We shall fight them in the safespaces. We shall fight them in the faculties. But we shall never surrender.

Who's with me?

If you are with me, go clean your room, then articulate your Being by putting a cross beside Peterson. but it depends on what I mean by 'cross'. As in an X, accurately speaking, not a crucifix.

Here is one of the campaign posters. I think it looks quite cool, eeh.


February 13, 2020, 11:51:08 PM #37 Last Edit: February 14, 2020, 12:10:28 AM by DangledTeeth

Hey everyone, Jorthony Dantano here. The internet's busiest public intellectual of a music nuurd, roughly speaking.

Soeh... I've decided to come up with a special edition of Music Trove with Dr Peterson as my new alter ego. And it is time for an album review - this one is based on the debut Swans record called Filth. But it depends on what they mean by 'Swans'. Wuell, I've just said this is an album review, so obviously it's nawt abouet birds of the family Anatidae within the genus Cygnus. It's a band name. But it also depends on what we mean by 'band'. Six people? Five? A quartet ensemble? Or one made of elastic? I think there were about five members at the time.

If you've heard this album before and expect me to sing its praises, then hey, I haven't got my yellow and black flannel shirt on, which I think denotes it's gonna get a fairly good rating.

So anyways, the album clocks in at a little over hahf an hour, and *shakes head* it's just as well it wasn't lengthier, man. It's terrible... this theme of nihilism and suffering. They killed their shadow and were eclipsed by a gigantic landfill.

Who are the musical ouetfit known as Swans? It's a good question. There's Michael Gira who looks like a bemused human approximation of a Lego man's face that's been printed on a fleshy bollard. Erm, there's Jonathan Kane (yueah, Shitizen Kane, agh-hhagh-hhagh-hhagh-hhagh). Roli Mosimann, Norman Westberg, and Harry Crosby.

I listened to this in my office, the one where I usually do the webcam broadcahsts. I've heard abouet this album a laawt. My good friend Steven Pinker 'lent' it to me because he said he's too busy to listen to it. I guess he's still busy as he doesn't seem to care about its return.

Each track is a monotonous torrent of underwhelming bilge. Is it progressive? Conceptually interesting? Amusingly weird? Is it predicated on an archetypal story? Not puhtikyuhlarleeee. And by 'nawt pehtikyoolarly' I mean it's... look, put it this way: imagine having no appetite on Christmas day due to gulping the alcoholic sauce the night before. Am I comparing this hypothetical vision with the quality of 'Filth' - oh no! I casually think that having a hungover stomach on a momentous day is a better alternative than listening to a fucking inconsequential avalanche of damp clods.

I mean, it's just nothing but wholly dull compositions of trashcans toppling to the floor interspersed with guttural purrs from the bass guitar, with Michael Gira pseudo-bellowing commands like 'FLEX YOUR MUSCLES' in an ironic alpha way. Yeah, flex my muscles in order to aim my raised middle finger in your line of sight, Gira!

Obviously these thoroughly useless cunts think their lackadaisical take on music is permeated with effortless, spiritual profundity. But it's naawt. Sure, it's based on an opinion. But opinions transcend the literature into an axiomatic neuron that manifests itself throughout all of civilisation into an amalgamation of meta-physical facts.

If the radical Left were to point a finger smothered in soy over what is fundamentally wrong with white people, it would be this chugging void of abysmal self-indulgence.

Ohhhh, this is the soundtrack to my inner self. Let's curl into a ball after we've defiantly sloshed wine over our chic coffee table because life is a fucking drag. FLEX. YOUR. MUSCLES. Wahh, my existentialist crisis and bountiful supply of Dr Pepper! AGGGH! Hear the monotone drawl of the well-to-do white guy, reminding you of the gloomy life you lead; your corpse plods along, conveyed by blue Crocs in order to arrive at that dreadful job which will eventually supply you with money in the name of capitalism. FLEGKS. YAAW. MUZSOLLS. Life! Is! So! Arduous! We're blinded by our own privilege to such an extent we fail to appreciate what us post-colonialists have. Succumb to the cult-like, repetitious dinlody and bow before the temple of Dinner Party. I've been invigorated by the misery! FLEX. YOUR. MUGHSULLS. BBBBassh! Drungy-dun! Crrrash! BBBBassh! Drungy-dun! Crrrash! BBBBassh! Drungy-dun! Crrrash! BBBBassh! Drungy-dun! Crrrash! BBBBassh! Drungy-dun! Crrrash! BBBBassh! Drungy-dun! Crrrash! The deluge of melancholy and apathy is cominnnnnngugh! Molecules of salt. FLUEKZ. YAW. MOSSOLS. Agggggh! RIGHT. WRONG. RIGHT. WRONG. THIZZUNT RREEEEAL.

The other tracks are essentially recycled sounds based on the initial track. It's like remixes of a slowed down Laurel and Hardy theme song accompanied by sneeze over a sheet of tin foil.

You know, none of it is actually irritatingly noisy. It's contemptuously bland, stupidly ugly and devoid of dynamism. ''OoOh BuT ThaTs ThE IdEA. It's a subversive statement that naturally developed in the eighties, brah. It was a reaction towards Reagan and-and-and the fart-huffing hedonism of corporate bankers, civil servants and the milking of the stock exchange''.

This is supposed to be in the experimental genre!? Have the temerity to do something powerfully unusual.

I'm not sure if it's true (but what is in this postmodern world?), I've read that Gira dislikes it when people try to even lightly sway to their... 'music'. He, apparently, expects people to be rigidly gaze at his spectacle - just like the comrades of Stalin and underlings of Hitler! According to somebody, apparently - A P P A R E N T L Y - Gira purposely trod on a fan's fingers because they gripped the edge of the stage. I think I read somewhere that's it's not uncommon for their gigs to either dish out earplugs or advise their audience to bring a pair. Wuell, I can at least award them one point for self-awareness.

Oh, ah-hegh-hhagh-hhagh, get a load of this imperious beggar's dribble, posted on a track of his YouToob channel:

I am pleased that you have discovered our music through this medium. I view this experience as the equivalent of previewing a record in a record store in days of old. However, if you wish to experience the music in its' fullest form, I would strongly encourage you to acquire it in a physical format you can bring into your home. Not only will you then be able to experience the richest version of the music sonically, but you will also be afforded the opportunity to enjoy the tangible artwork, which was conceived in tandem with the music, and serves as a further portal to experiencing the total conceptual and spiritual and emotional content of the work we have labored, lovingly, to bring to you.

I love you,

- Michael Gira / Swans / Young God Records

(Is he joking here?! I'm going to assoome he's nawt.)

His cute little caption commences in a lovely manner. But then we're assaulted by the imposing 'However'. Yeah, see, I knew there was some underlying reason why he's pleased we're listening to his cacophonous jizz. And he 'strongly encourages' us to acquire it in a 'physical format' - ohhhhh, not digitally, but in a more expensive way, such as the deluxe reissue CD or limited edition vinyl.

Tangible artwork!? Ah, right, a collection of musical delights implanted into a wafer-thin object isn't good enough by itself; he has to entice potential buyers by saying the album includes a two-dimensional depiction of a set of gnashers as the album cover. Yes, that's a great selling point, Mr Gira. Mind you, I would prefer to marvel over aggressive enamel instead of subjecting myself to that invisible guff again.

There's something off about the juxtaposition of 'labored' and 'lovingly'. If you did something 'lovingly', then it's surely effortlessly enjoyable, therefore it isn't hard work, i.e. labored, by any means.

Wow! 'Michael Gira/Swans/YG Records'. He's sy-multaneously himself, the entire band annnnd the fucking record label. 'Oh, take your pick, dear reader. Whichever option suits you, haw-haw. I'm but a modest gent, sirrrr.' If he mentioned the band and label as separate entities from himself, why not just concisely put 'Swans' as the band comprises himself and YGR.

Hmpph! What a money-grubbing jerk. And don't forget to check my merch store, fork out your monetary discs on my personality course, and buy my lobster hoodies.

So anyways, I'm feeling a wurtzite boron nitride zero out of ten

Did you listen to this album? Did you dispose of it in a bonfire? Or did you make a bonfire out of this album? Perhaps you used it to detonate a land mine.

Swans the band can fuck right off, accurately speaking.



LEAST FAV TRACKS: 00:00 - 37:32



well I'm quite triggered by this review. fuck you Jordan you sneering cunt, you've lost a follower.


Chveik, I'm sorry to lose you as a follower, man. Perhaps I can entice you with an exclusive offer: 30% off one of my lobster hoodies. This is a limited edition misprint. £24.99 with free shipping :) - JBP






February 21, 2020, 10:26:35 PM #40 Last Edit: February 21, 2020, 11:11:58 PM by DangledTeeth

Hello everyone, welcome to another episode of Music Trove with Dr Peterson. I am Dr Peterson your host, Dr Peterson, of Music Trove with Dr Peterson, not coincidentally speaking.

Okay, soeh, you've prawbably noticed thaht the title card is quite different from the old one. Wuell, that's because I'm going to show appreciation for under-the-radar talent. And this episode will be focused on the remarkable Legs Hamilton.

Who is Legs Hamilton? Yes, it is a good question, as ever. Have I thought abouet it a laawt? I haven't, surprisingly speaking. Because it appears he's a comical rap artist from or based in South London. I've got thaht figure ouet.

How did I discover him? This is a good question, but it depends on what one means by 'discover'. It wasn't in person, no. Nor did I embark on a journey and perchance found him. I didn't say thaht. I saw one of his music videos appear as an advertisement on YouToob. I usually ignore these, but man, I didn't regret my decision to let curiousity get the better of me.

He has numerous musical videos readily available on his channel, and an album.

The first track I'll take you through is 'Havin' a Wank'. Of course, for those of my subscribers or fawllowers who aren't British or Australian, 'wank' is a verb for 'masturbate'. I'm sorry to report, as you know, I used to do laawts of wanking prior to my stint in rehab for my sex addiction, but I'm also proud to report that I've decimated the dragon who casted a shadow over my sex gland, whatever it's called... the cock amygdala. I'm doing much better now.

So anyways, it commences with Legs Hamilton sitting on a mattress located on his or someone's backyard. We're instantly hit by the soothing yet kind of sombre version of Zelda's Lullaby (or Meeting the Maidens, roughly speaking) and a barrage of urban beats - a sort of dancehall-type thing, I dunno what the sub-genre or correct term is.

Legs Hamilton is surrounded by disposed tissues caked in cheesy spunk, as his girlfriend or female friend jigs playfully in front of a cute painting of a cloud placed behind Legs. He makes a pertinent statement: ''I've got some on my face... amazing Grace... I wonder how it tastes''.

It's like... whawt the hell, man. He makes a pleasurable pastime seem so aimless and melancholic, and to some degree it is, because pounding your fuckpuppet serves as a reminder of your inherent loneliness in the universe, forever pondering who you are and where on the compass you precisely are. Wuell, we all know what W stands for, and it has three more letters.

Now, this next video is... ah, so captivating. Bacon Fart Man. It's an MS Paint-style animation accompanied by trap production, kind of reminds me of David Firth's content and Rathergood.

Legs Hamilton adopts a monotone voice as he declares his love for the Bacon Fart Man and informs the listener that he 'pushes it out my arsehole all day long' and insists that he 'farted in your face. We were crying'. That's profound beyond comprehension, man. It's the archetype of the hero conquering his hunger, allowing his digested food to be consumed by the serpent (i.e. intestine) and then laying the pahth towards freedom (i.e. releasing a stinky air assault).

Who is the Bacon Fart Man? Wuell, it may surprise some of you to learn that BFM is an ancient folklore creature that has origins in the Bible. Don't believe me? Check out these biblical verses:

''Fight the good fight of the faith. Take hold of the eternal life to which you were called when you made your good confession in the presence of Bacon Fart Man'' - 1 Timothy 6:12 (NIV)

''Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the BACON FART MAN forever.'' - Psalm 23: 5-6 (KJV)

We all ought to orient ourselves on the importance of meal time and welcome the natural prahcess of releasing a guff into the atmosphere, whether the malodorous unseen is of pigs' rump or nawt.

And one lahst favourite of mine is Iced Out. Legs Hamilton charges towards the camera from a distance across a field covered in snow as we hear his confident and intermittent pseudo-babble rapping.

Hamilton also bombards us with his verses while lying on the snow-covered ground. And he triumphantly boasts in a soft and haughty tone of voice, on top of a snowy mound, that ''Iced up, you don't even know. I get eyed-up, your girlie she knows. I could fuck her, I already know dat. She gon' fuck me, she already know dat.''

He also sits on a bench and simply tells us ''I'm gonna shoot you in your head, bro. You know you're in a no-go zone, so why you gotta go so low and do dat, bro?! Big don think you're all dat, but really, bredda, gon' bat in you in your pink lip, you fat dickhead prick! I've got all dis flair and you donny have a fucking neckcriss. No ink or fucking bling, bredda. Get off my toffee wallet. I'm fucking iced-up as fuck, bro!'' That's outstanding, roughly speaking.

It make take a while, but I believe this talented and funny guy is going to be renowned for his insightful prose and remarkable stanzas. I mean, he's no Louis Cole in the music and daftness department, but Legs Hamilton is definitely someone to keep track of for the lahghs at least. And I'll throw his other music video in as a bonus, Violent Pete.

Thanks for watching this spin-off episode. My new film called 'Jorker' is still in production. The foundation for a laawt of the main scenes are there, only need to connect it all together.

I'm out. Peaceterson.


Hello everyone,

My new film is still in production. Just a few stills to gloss over and a handful of scenes to develop. But it's expect to be completed this March, monthly speaking.

So anyways, here's a little poster to promote it :)

Thank you for waiting



Suppose it depends what you mean by March.


March 10, 2020, 11:02:48 PM #43 Last Edit: March 11, 2020, 12:50:16 AM by DangledTeeth

Wuell, DoesNotFollow, if we take 'March' as a Gregorian metaphysic we then have to ahsk, precisely, what do we know about calendars. I've thought about it a laawt. Soeh... there are, of course, twelve months in a year - a dozen that's commensurate to the three hundred and sixty-five, broadly speaking. *Waves fingers to illustrate a square* Soeh, the days in each month are finite and therefore limited in their capacity, let's say. And we have to consider that time is a form of measurement *wriggles fingers and parts forearms* that's nestled within a human concept which has spanned millenniums.

*Squints and slides wedding ring back and forth* Okay, today's date is the March ten twenty-twenty. The eleventh day is adjacent to the aforementioned number, followed by the number twelve - and thaht's precisely the amount of letters in the surname Solzhenitsyn, who wrote a book while time was progressing, you know. It's awbviously a coincidental and pretty arbitrary connection to make, as everything progresses throughout the continuum of chronological advancement, man.

*Frowns and gently nods head* But time has no biolawgical physiolawgy and is by no means observable or tangible. It is essentially a fragmentary tool that's tells us we sy-multaneously were and were not at a set place at a set time. what has or did not happen exists in unreliable memories and can be recawded motions that we can manipulate through technawlawgy. Let's say, for exahmple, we were 'at' a bar in Toronto, and the 'time' was 6:55pm - were we really there?. It's an insuperably abstract concept, man. We have to remember the name 'Toronto' and 'Sports Bar' are stringent linguistic constructs developed by the postmawdernists of the pahst. Of course, we're not excogitating the question in an abzurd solipsistic perspective as we can be certain the ground exists through tactile sensation and careful scrutiny, and the construction of mortar and concrete exists and all of its supply of alcohol and food is housed within the premises, i.e. the sports bar, hypothetical speaking.

But these prawperties don't apply to a mechanical gauge that's ever-changing and isn't reliant on a celestial star. Wuell, yeah, you could say a wawtch or a clawck exists. I mean, you'd have to be bloody stoopid to insist that it doesn't. *Shakes head*

Soeh... the postmawdern feminists will attempt to convince you that there's an underlying power structure that's predicated on a tyrannical patriarchy that's pernicious towards the freethinking individual who's competent in a masculine field - that doesn't mean to say that women cahn't and should nawt pursue a career in management *Rests cheek on palm*. But it's clear to me that the dahtah pinpoints that competence is a trait of masculinity and it's synawnymous with low agreeableness as part of the five-factor mawdel - this has been peer-reviewed by experts. While radical feminism was said to have been developed in the 1960s, we cahn't transport ourselves through old sequences of events to be able to determine the physiolawgical truth of the so-called 1960s. But the fluidity of 'time' is dependent *Looks at the ceiling and blinks*... on a complex contraption thaht ascertains what's current while there's incremental dawminance on the chronolawgical hierarchy.

Soeh, I believe the ahnswer you're seeking is: soon. Soon, eeh.


March 13, 2020, 08:06:58 PM #44 Last Edit: March 13, 2020, 10:34:39 PM by DangledTeeth

Greetings everyone, Jordan B. Peterson here again. 'Jorker' is about 82.83466% complete, roughly speaking. It's best to post it at the tawp of a new page, soeh, in the meantime, please enjoy a cawmedy dining experience I was ahsked to take part in during a break between my lecture tour.

Christopher Biggins: OoOooOoh, hello my pretties. welcome to another promotional diningsode for Foo-woolsty Tow-waaghs - the best comedy crossover catering service in town. Could it be in your town? If sssso, bring a relative or a friend. Why not both? Our special guests in this presentation are Jordan Peterson and his darling wife, Tammy Peterson.

Int. 'Fawlty Towers' (West Ruislip Travelodge)

Leather Del: Jubbly Bennetts, eh! Ya-know-wha'-oy-meyn, darling! Zis toime nex' month we'll be a trio of milyunaires in three andrid an' sixty-foive days' tarme.

Pebble Rodney: Cosplay!

Diner: Sorry, 'Rodney', I believe your catchphrase is actually 'cosmic'.

Pebble Rodney: Oh yeah. Cosmic! Cos-blubber-mic, Uncle Delnzil.

Diner: Sigh!

Condemned Albert: Jurrenuhwor! Ar'm sayin' naffin', sahn! Ar groo ahp on Tabasco Raoad.

Diner 4: 'Tobacco'.

Leather Del: Tobacco?! No, sweet'eart, we can't smoke in 'ere.

Diner 4: But...

Diner 3: I thought Grandad was on the poster.

Biggins: Oh, what jolly good fun these three plonkers are.

Trolley Basil: Good morning, welcome to Fawlty Towers. My name is Basil Fawlty, I am the manager along with my wife. Are you hyere to book a rroom?

Leather Del: Yeah, that's righ', John. It's the name of the ol' game, eh.

Trolley Basil: Oh, there's two more of you?

Condemned Albert: No' 'alf. WoOh-Hyeeyurp-moohf-feorp.

Diner 2 (To her husband): I know Albert has a peculiar laugh, but this chap takes the ruddy piss.

Trolley Basil: I see, hmm. Two of you. I think it's disgusting!

Leather Del: That's righ'. We're a family. That dopey cunt is me bravva, and that decorated seadog is my uncle

Trolley Basil: Yes, that's what I meant by disgusting. It is disgusting your haven't shaved your balls.

Biggins: Oh, the language!

Int. 'FT Bar'

Leather Del: Gordon's Plonker! Mike wants 'is doh-ray-mee for the deep-fat fryer, and we need sahme cash for Grendad's 'eadstone.

Pebble Rodney: Shame we spent it on this 'olidee.

Leather Del: Yeah a- *double take* what do you mean by 'shame we spen' it on this 'oliday'?! We ain't dahne anything yet.

Pebble Rodney: Nah, it's just... y'know, we coulda spent it bit more wisely.

Leather Del: 'spose you're right, brarv. Then again, we needed a break from all the aggro back 'ome.

Condemned Albert: Dan't wahry, sahn. Sammink will turn ahp. Boomerang Chro'ah - always cahms bahk wiv out-of-court settlement manney.

Condemned Albert plods out of the bar

Pebble Rodney: Where's 'e off to?

Leather Del: Probably gone to find HMS Beach.

Pebble Rodney: Let's have an aesthetically stimulating conversation, Derek. If you can 'ave one.

Leather Del: You saucy caow! Of course I can. Asbestoscool is my middle name.

Pebble Rodney: Begin commence, Del...

Leather Del eyes up Sexy Polly wiping down the tables

Leather Del: I wouldn't mind shovin' my cock up 'er anal passage.

Biggins Hills: Oah, Del Boy, you filthy brute!

Int. Reception Hall

Trolley Basil: would be quicker to train a CUNNNNT!

Jordan and Tammy appear at the reception desk

Trolley Basil: Ah, hello there. *Checks watch* You must be Mr and Mrs Peterson?

Jordan: Doctor.

Trolley Basil: There isn't one around, I'm terribly sorreh to say.

Jordan: No, I am a doctor. Dr Peterson.

Trolley Basil: Oh, I'm sorry, I thought there was something wrong with you. MANUEL


Tammy: I'm not a doctor, mind.

Jordan: But I am a mind doctor, ah-hhagh-hhyeh-hhagh.

Tammy: He's a clinical psychologist and professor. I accompany Jordan on his tours.

Trolley Basil: Quite. Quite. MAN-FUCKING-UEL?

Manuel bounds down the stairs

Legume Manuel: KEHHHHH? KKKKHEH?

Trolley Basil: Takos el baggos upstairrrrs to room 12.

Legume Manuel: Ah, si-si-si-si.

Diner 6: HA HA HA HA.

Int. Bedroom

Jordan: Wuell, this is a respectable room.

Tammy: Yep.

Jordan: We could go in to town and see what restaurants there are.

Jordan: Wh-what?!

Tammy: Who is that at the window?!

Jordan: It depends on what you mean by 'who'.

Int. Bar

Sexy Polly runs up to the Trotters

Sexy Polly: Excuse me...

Leather Del: Is this about being given the opportunity to pop my cock in your bot?

Sexy Polly: Huh?! No! Do you have a relative with a white beard?

Leather Del: Yeah. What's that garrity old dufferfuck dahn naow?

Sexy Polly: He's fallen off a ladder.

Pebble Rodney: Where did this happen?

Leather Del: Wha' do you mean 'where did this 'appen'. Gordon Uni'ed Colours of Fuckin' BBBBenetton, Roddersney! He's 'ardly gonna ascend the rungs to 'ide in the attic.

Pebble Rodney: Yeah!? Then why's he gone up a ladder outside in the first place?

Leather Del: Fuck knows!

Ext. 'Fawlty Towers'

Condemned Albert is sprawled across the floor with a toppled ladder across his waist

Condemned Albert: Blahddy laddah!! Wouldn't 'ave the likes ov you in the armed fawciz.

Leather Del: Uncah Lahbert, are you alrigh'?

Condemned Albert: Ar'm okay, sahn. I learnt 'ow ta expertly fall on me bum. Spending maost of the waw in a depot on the Isle-a Woigh' duz that for ya.

Leather Del: Come on, Rodney, let's 'elp Uncah Lahbert ahp.

Condemned Albert: 'oo'd pu' a climbah at the side of the 'otel, and why'd they allaow me to foot meself ahp to the windah. Ar've a good mind to sue Fawl'y Tahwahs.

Leather Del: Yes, bloody stupid pl- SUE FAWL'Y TOWERS?!?! Loosen your grip, Rodney, make him seem like a devasta'ed victim!

Trolley Basil appears

Trolley Basil: Sue Fawlty Towers? Uh-haw-haw. *Coolly folds arms* I think not, my little nest of Cockneys. You see, Dr Peterson and Mrs Peterson are witnesses in the room of the window your uncle fell away from, and your uncle chose to cl- there's three of you!

Leather Del: Oh, naow what's ahp? Our room is already booked for someone else?

Trolley Basil: Of course! You were inspecting the robustness of the window panel. And you're acting as a family.

Leather Del exchanges a very brief puzzled look with Pebble Rodney

Trolley Basil: Please don't write a bad review about us. We're finished if you do.

Rodney: Review?! Now hold o-

Leather Del realises and takes advantage

Leather Del: No-no, Mr Trotter. Let's not make a mole out of the mountain, alrigh'. I, Ivor Duvall of Loyal Inspecting And Review Service, shall accept your offer to prevent an article from appearing in the local gazette.

Condemned Albert: Wha' offah is that, sahn?

Leather Del: Well, I dunno. (To Trolley Basil) Wha' were you going to offer us, Mr Fawlty?

Trolley Basil: £50.

Leather Del slowly turns to Condemned Albert and Pebble Rodney

Leather Del: That does seem like an acceptable offer.

Condemned Albert: Wha' do you think, Rodney?

Pebble Rodney: I think it's immoral!

Leather Del: You see, you've 'eard it from my colleague, Mr Fawlty. It really is immoral. I mean, look at the state of this knackered ladder. There's no warning labels to prevent a soppy aold former sailor from doing acrobatics with it. 'e may look like Father Christmas, but chimneys are definitely out of his reach, son. And look at the state of this wall.

Trolley Basil: Well, what's wrong with it?! It was repainted about a month ago.

Leather Del: Ah, that's the thing, Mr Fawlty. Snapping at people - like you demonstra'ed right naow - ain't good for customer service,  me ol' ma'e. Take it from me.

Trolley Basil: I don't know what else I can suggest, gentlemen.

Leather Del: A bullseye and a slap-up gourmet meal ought to earn you several ticks on my checklist.

Trolley Basil: I don't own a dart board, I'm suh sorreh to say.

Pebble Rodney: Naoh, he means fifty pounds.

Leather Del: I do-on't.

Pebble Rodney: Oh.

Leather Del ironically jerks his head upwards

Leather Del: A dart board!? Hah-hah-heh-hah. Tht! You wally.

Pebble Rodney: No, I thought you... doesn't mah-ah.

Trolley Basil: Yes. That is perfectly agreeable

Jordan and Tammy appear from behind

Jordan: Speaking of agreeable, women are more high in agreeableness. Isn't that correct, Tammy?

Tammy: Yes.

Leather Del: Stone me! You almost gave me a Connery then, creeping ahp like thaa-aaht.

Jordan: Soeh, how is the old fellow doing?

Condemned Albert: Ar'm alrigh' nah, sahn. Me and, erm, my two colleagues are inspecting the 'otel. I was jast checkin' to see if yer winduhs needed replacing.

Tammy: You haven't broken any bones?

Condemned Albert: No, dear. Ar learn't 'ow to lahnd safely. During-the-war...

Leather Del & Pebble Rodney: GROAN!

Condemned Albert: ...I was stationed aht in Algeria. Yah. Me an' the crew mates 'ad a roigh' aold larf. Well, no' awll the time, y'understehnd. You wanna try manning a boilah in norf Africah. Oh yeah... you two daon't sahnd local.

Jordan: We're from Canada.

Condemned Albert: Ar've bin there.

Tammy: Oh, how enchanting. Whereabouts?

Condemned Albert: Quebec.

Legume Manuel: Que?

Jordan: Kweh-bek.

Condemned Albert: Ov cawse, they couldn't understehnd a word I said.

Leather Del (Muttered): I ain't surprised.

Trolley Basil: Well, ah, it's getting quite cold out hyere. Why don't we all go inside and imbibe a starter before the meal.

Leather Del: Oh, that's a grea' idea, Basil. Lead on, McFawlty.


Diner 2: Ow! Not in my ears.

Int. Dining Room

Jordan: I'm a doctor and I want my sausages.

Diner 3: Wrong episode, mate. Come to think of it, this whole dining experience isn't very convincing.

Trolley Basil: Yes, I'm certain we can fry several of them for you, Dr Peterson. Mrs Peterson?

Tammy: Sausages, please.

Leather Del: We all fancy a nice big bit of trifle, Basil.

Trolley Basil: Splendid. I'll just pop out for some vital ingredients. I shan't be long.

One hour passes

Sexy Polly (Singing): ...When ah cayn't say no.

Legume Manuel: FUCKING OLE!

The Trotters wake up

Leather Del: Eh?! Wha'?! 'ang about, where's the grub?

Sexy Polly: It'll be ready soon.

Legume Manuel: Si, it coming. I look for Mr Fawlty.

Legume Manuel zooms out of the dining hall and sees Trolley Basil carrying a platter

Trolley Basil: Manuel, quick! Help me carry this into the kitchen

Jordan: Sorry, guys. Don't mind me.

Trolley Basil: No, it's fine. You continue. We have our hands full.

Int. Dining Hall

Trolley Basil proudly wheels the platter with a silver dome-lid over it

Trolley Basil: Ladies and gentleman, suh sorreh to have kept you waiting. Shying-zying goes the serving knives.

Trolley Basil lifts the lid to reveal a steaming hot duck

Trolley Basil: Erm, duck, Mr Duvall?

Leather Del: Wha'!?!?

Trolley Basil: Duck for you, Rodney? Mr Gladstone?

Pebble Rodney: Cosmic.

Condemned Albert: Dan't mind if I do, sahn.

Leather Del: What-about the-trifle, Fawlty?!

Trolley Basil: Erm, trifle's off. Sorreh.

Leather Del: Don't mah-ah. I feel like a main course naow. *Rubs hands* Lovely duckly!

Biggins: That was terribly fun, wasn't it? If you want to dine and laugh and chew and chuckle and eat and guffaw, visit our website or call to reserve your seat at the greatest crossover sitcom dining experience. You know it makes sense.


March 17, 2020, 08:36:06 PM #46 Last Edit: March 17, 2020, 08:59:58 PM by DangledTeeth

Welcome to my scientifically-informed insider look in mennal health tahpics. If you find this video to be helpful and interesting, please like it and ffffucking subscribe to my cheannel.

Hello, this is Dr Grande.

Today's video is about public intellectual Jordan Peterson. Now, my inbox has been inundated with messages requesting me to critique Jordnpetrsn and here I am in my office. I must emphasise that Jordnpetrsn is a real person, therefore I am naht diagnosing him, only giving you my subjective viewpoint.

Who is Jordnpetrsn? Well, it depends on what you mean by question mark. *dead pan glance* Jordnpetrsn has a puh period degh or a ffuhdgh... oh sorry, pee-aitch-dee. And he is a clinician and professor - quite like me, hee-hee. Jordnpetrsn talks to people. Jordnpetrsn wears a suit. Jordnpetrsn has grey hair. He's written two books. He is on the internet and news. Jordnpetrsn speaks about mennal health and philahsahphy. He claims to have an I.Q. of around 150, which could be true as he thoughtfully frowns a laht while he pauses in awdrr to conjure a genius-level ahnswer. Jordnpetrsn adorhres Carl Jung. Now... Carl Jung is dead, so I don't see why he has any pertinence in the current world of psychahlahgy. Carl Jung was about opinions. And glahsses. He wore a pair of those. But Jordnpetrsn isn't teaching a science lesson; he is teaching philahsahphy and he doesn't stray out of the bounds of what he's lecturing, but he doesn't wear glahsses.

Now, some people seem to believe Jordnpetrsn is a crypto-fascist white supremacist, while others see Jordnpetrsn as an intellectual powerhouse. Well, I think both of those beliefs are rahther over-the-tahp and silly. One of the books he's written is a self-help book which has some good rules, such as ''Don't fucking lie, shitbreath, or I'll personally augment your spine'' and ''When you see a cat, hoof its life expectancy away into zero''. I think those are interesting and helpful points.

Those are the pahsitives, now I'm going to focus awn the negatives to keep this video balanced and fair. Jordnpetrsn claims, in one of his videos, that people with PTSD can act like a 'bit of a dickwad, eeh'. In DSM 5, it doesn't outline that being a bit of a dickwad is a criterion for diagnosis. Now, it's not quite clearhr whether he means it's a trait of PTSD or if he's speaking in an anecdotal way about his experiences with those with PTSD who just so happen to behave in an irritating way which has nothing to do with their mental condition, right. But that's what psychahlahgists tend to do: use their experiences and combine it with evidence. So, I'd say this isn't quite negative but naht entirely pahsitive, either.

Some people have said that JordnPetrsn has ahdd mannerisms, where he looks up at the ceiling and blinks. Well, prior to mid 2019, that was just him wanking (I learned that word from my webcam discussion with Recovery Mum), he was prahbahbly imagining a large-breasted angel gliding through the sky of his imagination. Again, not exactly negative as masturbation is quite enjoyable, but launching your cock yo-ghurt in the vicinity of a stoodent or audience member of his lectures is naht pahsitive. I'm going to be indifferent about this aspect.

There are those who say Jordnpetrsn isn't qualified to speak about pahlitics. I mean, who needs verifiable credentials to have a political opinion. If Jordnpetrsn wants to speak about postmodern neo-Marxists, compelled speech, gender wage gap and forced monogamy, then let the motherfucker say what he wants.

A personal criticism of mine is Jordnpetrsn philahsahphy videos seem quite convoluted at times and goes on and on about Jesus and Buddha or something. It's as though you need to have a rudimentary understanding of the subject he prattles away about in order to grasp the salient points, right. I'm quite well versed in philahsahphy and... I haven't got a shitting clue what he's trying to say hahf the time. I sent emails to my friends about what they think of jordnpetrsn's lecture and they aren't sure. Maybe they're being nice and I think I'm a dumbass.

I think Jordnpetrsn has a pahsitive message with his 12 Rules book. He's an experhrt on mennal health and promotes it respectfully as an educator and his voice is quite relaxing and sounds funny when he sounds upset. Great suits, too. If you have an opinion on this video, please submit your comments as it'll create an interesting dialogue. As always, I hope you found my critique of Jordnpetrsn to be delicate, impartial and not scathing whatsoever. Are you looking forward to the world premiere of Jorker? I know I am. Thanks for watching.


March 18, 2020, 11:00:33 PM #47 Last Edit: March 18, 2020, 11:50:50 PM by DangledTeeth

Ominous BBC News Sound: Dhm-DUUHM!

Consumerism across the cities of England, Wales, Scotland and Northern Ireland has increased as eager shoppers hit the high streets. Masses of people have been purchasing bountiful supplies of family-sized Doritos, Milka and Galaxy chocolate bars and chicken tikka sandwich chunks, not to mention bottles of Dr Pepper and Fanta. Supermarket shelves have become bare and in urgent need of stock replenishment while the aisles have turned into queues. It's been speculated that the spending spree has been instigated in anticipation for the spring blockbuster film called Jorker, starring the controversial psychological intellect named Jordan Peterson. Fans have been salivating at the prospect of the release of what critics call: 'A thrilling and though-provoking cinematic experience that delves into the macabre effects of mental illness in a troubled society' after a private screening.

Another popular item being purchased in abundance is toilet roll. It's believed worried fans will have to resort to showering the home of co-writer and director Dang Teethlips with bog confetti if he fails to release the film within the next four weeks or it turns out to be an atrociously underwhelming parody.

It's not certain when the crime-thriller parody will be shown worldwide on the internet, although a film insider has reportedly leaked that it'll occur on page 3 - what use it'll be on a toned-down tabloid page which used to focus on ladies' breasts remains to be seen. But Jorker fanatics are panic-buying refreshments not only for the eventual and glorious viewing of the film, but to sustain their appetite until the momentous premiere. The world's leading psychologists and anthropologists have reached a consensus on their research into the developing phenomenon and have dubbed this as the Jorkona virus, defined as an anxiety-driven desire to prepare for an event with no set date, spending frivolously on a variety of convenience foods.

Data Analyst: Well, this epidemic has been incredibly interesting for our researchers. The expectations for this long-awaited parody film are high indeed. Yesterdayed we doned a graph for the Great British viewers at home, as opposed to a non-existent news studio audience. And if we closely observe the arc it indicates an unprecedented amount of interest in the flick. We've gauged that interest commenced upon the release of the trailer, which is quite obvious. But interest appears to have skyrocketed since the Jorker film poster was uploaded online. Further references to the film have been made and it's caused quite a stir, I can tell you.

With this crude bubble chart that can appear muddled to the extent of being meaningless, we can see that there's a distinct correlation between the film Jorker, cash and consumables. At the moment, no need to worry excessively, mate. Whack the kettle on.


March 20, 2020, 10:09:31 PM #48 Last Edit: March 21, 2020, 12:28:43 AM by DangledTeeth

Hello, it's Dr Peterson. How are you all doing? Sanitising your hands, I hope.

I've been receiving several questions from you all. And one caught my attention quite pahtikyuhlarlee, and that was a request to critique the singer Robyn Fenty, more colloquially known as her stage name 'Rihanna'. But who is Rihanna? Wuell, this time it's nawt a good question. She's called Robyn Fenty - I already said thaht.

Soeh... the earliest memory I have of her mainstream debut was a flat song called Pon' de Replay. I guess you could call it a dahncehawll sawng. So anyways, Ms Fenty mutters in a pronounced way, ''Hey Mr DJ, song pon di replay'' ahfter asserting she's going to encourage the disc jawkey to increase the volume. I thought it would be one of those top 25 chart-climbers that would appeal to a primarily black audience and we'd not hear much from her again, perhaps another half-decent sawng in terms of sales. Kind of like that Wayne Wonder guy.

But in 2007, we heard the hoover or Hove I-don't-know rap in his self-assured New York tone. Then before we knew it, Rihanna was back with her distinctively bland Caribbean muttering, wearing a French maid outfit and alternating between thaht and a silky silver dress, while CGI liquid zips acrawss the set. It's fairly mundane pop fare. She has an umbrella, addresses the listener or a hypothetical fancy man as 'baby' and states that 'it's raining'. Wuell, pardon my fucking sarcasm, I didn't see that one coming. Under my cumbrella. Spunk! Spunk! Spunk!  Oops, sorry, relapsed a bit there.

Oh, and speaking of 'relapse', genius Rap Gawd Eminem released an album called Relapse and collaborated with Pretty Predator, as I call her... or baked bean bonce, whichever. It was around this time she whined about falling in love and increased her 'range' into a lacklustre whine. Calvin Harris' production is admittedly nice, but he's not Rihanna (at least I think nawt).

I get that she's a mega popstar and will do as she's told by the big-wig capitalists, but her style and subject matter changed with each video that it just seems contrived and has no impact. Wuell, enough impact to inflict a mark into my memory, at least. I mean, in one video she was sauntering around a viaduct or something, being some kind of race-girl mawdel/host and she bombards the listener with specifications of a desired vehicle, and thus: the title of the sawng. It has about as much conviction as a condemned court house; it doesn't sound tongue-in-cheek or audacious. It's so mediocre. ''Shullupan drive! Drah-draah-drahve''. I think 'shut up' is applicable only to you, eeh, bulb head.

Then she does one of those bridge 'remixes' where she essentially whispers woolly garbage once the beat changes, exclaiming it's the 'sure shot'. I'm quite sure that was a slang term used in the 1980s. Oh, I get it! The eighties! Yeaaaah, let's idly borrow a sound from two decades ago (at that time), sounds like badly done early-to-mid eighties hip-hop (or 'electro'). You know that snare 'BBhung!', it's used on Ween's Candy. Yeah. Complete junkyard debris, man. Both of them.

Before we know it, she's jigging around a colourful space, wearing a skirt in Rastafari colours with garish graphics in an 80s pop art style. ''C'muhn roo-roodboi! khmen-givvelurp!'' she bleats in monotone. Ah, I suppose Ed Zekutiv recommended a track that 'goes back to her Caribbean roots' in order to appeal to urban tearaways.

What's the other bullshit she 'sings'. Oh yeah, the 'I'm old enough to be able to drink alcohol - let's get sexual!!' spin, used to signify to her gormless audience she's a nawdy pwincess. ''Nana, come on''?! No!!!! That is just wrong, man!

Which reminds me, isn't there the one song where she has amnesia? You know, where she questions what her name is. And quite bizarrely, she speaks as though someone's offered her a piece of bread with a curry and refuses. ''Oh, naan? Nah' 

She never was puhticyoolahlee irritating at first. Not even a blip on my radar. She's what I call 'Ushitquitous', i.e. someone who's terrible but is in frequent rotation on the music and radio channels to such an extent you end up accepting her for being a block of bland without evaluating her output. I had a moment of enlightenment where her music is concerned; I realised her speaking voice isn't any different to her so-called singing voice, and there's not a flake of ability exuded in her feminine drone. Wuell, yeah, you can insist she's worth a damn and is credible due to having vocal lessons with by Neyo. Neyo?! As in Diet Usher!? Look, I don't care whether she was trained by Neo from the Matrix, Findng Nemo, a postmodernist neo-Marxist, or even Emperor Nero. Fuck whether she has a cornetto-supremo voice in N64 or nawt. She. Cannot. Sinnnng-guh. You cannot filter piss and call it apple juice. Somehow, the major labels did!

I'm staggered by how many people actually take her seriously. I mean, she seems decent enough as an individual, but *shakes head* she just seems like a papier mache figurehead for fashion labels. She always on some fucking yacht or reportedly eating flambéed endangered whale turds from a sapphire-encrusted DKNY bra co-designed by Vivienne Westwood, located at the neon VIP waterslide of Clubbi in Los Angeles.

If you look at a fair amount of Instagram pages' following lists, I guarantee you 6/10 you'll see a circle with a childish drawing within it and 'Badgirlriri' above it. Wwhhy?! Wh-what possible joy could a chick from a holiday resort nation bring you?! What, more monotonous murmuring and cobbled-together aimless lyrics?! Her stupid fucking pregnant cranium obtrusively walloping your ocular testicles as she wears some over-priced shit you'd frown at in exasperation when you totter in to Selfridges.

Overall, she's a human being. Probably a lovely one. One who makes head-wringing flatulence for your lugholes. She's the definition of dehydration. A headache of the assbone. An existentialist diary. A bouquet of void blossoms.

I've been your host and doctor. I hope you enjoyed my ranting, guys. Please subscribe and comment among yourselves. I'll see you in the next video. Aren't you glad I never mentioned Jorker? And I'm out. Peaceterson.


March 22, 2020, 07:41:22 PM #49 Last Edit: March 22, 2020, 09:49:53 PM by DangledTeeth

He's gonna masturbate over Ivy Valentine's ass
With whippy chains and fuck-masks
He rather haaaave a Juggaloooo
dump fiery cum in his rear
He'd rather eat the rotten asshooolllle
Of that Roper cunt and suck off his hip spear

He's the angriest gamer you've ever heard
He's the Angry Nips-ten-do Perrrrrv.
He's the Asstari Segaper Ninbendover Perrrrv.
He's the Angry Video Game Perrrrrrv

Nineteen ninety-six - the second year of the Sony PlayStation (or first year for America, Europe and Australasia). Many classic titles came out for the aforementioned console of that year: Resident Evil, the survival horror mahsterpiece featuring a brunette Valentine's delectable ass, and realistic wobble in the remake. Tekken 2 is another, a true classic of a fighter that's up there with Street Fighter - I have fond memories of rubbing myself stoopid when Anna Williams took a shower, and Chun-Li was worth one off the wrist. But one game that set the bar high for third-person action adventure games and fuckably attractive three-dimensional female characters is Tomb Raider.

And that's what I'm going to play and talk about in today's episode, roughly fucking speaking. So prepare yourself for tribal traps, dastardly fucking shrines, a multitude of locations, and an old fucking butler who gets trapped in a refridgerator. YEAH! THAT'LL TEACH YOU FOR RATTLING THOSE GODDAMN TEACUPS WHILE I TRAVERSED THE ASSAULT COURSE, YOU COMPLETE BEAVER'S CUNT!

Tomb Raider had state-of-the-art cut scenes. The greaphics look quite simplistic by today's standards, but at least Lara's tits were like a pair of melons trying to escape a wad of bubble gum. Unfortunately, her in-game tits aren't exactly correct; they're like a twin strip of fucking Toblerone inside Madonna's breast hammock. And her sexy ponytail was bunched up and looked like a gone-off biscuit was caught in her follicles. This game has terrific nostalgic value, but in terms of aesthetics it's nothing but a steaming pile of bullcum.

TR2 was a significant step in the right direction, and it was the set mawdel for good boobage. We were still in the 32-bit era, but those fucking norks were more plump and defined, man. I had fun on the snowspeeder, great times were had. Although there were fucking times when the hunk of shit got caught on rocks and was difficult to reverse. It wasn't all beahd, though. I got to glimpse her eass when she mounted the speeder... several hundred fucking times!! I'VE EVEN GOT FUCKING POLAROIDS OF HER ASSXIOMATIC PIXELS PREDICATED ON EROTICISM.

Tomb Raider 3's Lara had decent boobies and an assortment of figure-hugging outfits. Her guns still went bang, and that's exactly what I want to do to her polygonal butt. Not shoot it, man. Well, shoot my cream wad over her! HOW DO YOU LIKE THAT, CROFT?! HUH! ARE YOU GOING TO WORSHIP THIS RELIC OF A HUGE COCK?! IF YOU DON'T, I'LL MAKE YOU PLAY DR JEKYLL AND MR HYDE WITH YOUR EASS ON A SHEET OF FUCKING SANDPAPER WITH A TURD ON IT!!!!

Ahem, yeah, so anyways... The Lahst Revelation came ouet on the PlayStation and Dreamcahst as well as PC. Awbviously I only liked the main section of the game when she was thirty-one. Of course, the other titles were on computer, too. But I was too preoccupied with stroking my floppage over Geocities fan pages of hawt actresses because fucking dial-up was still around. THE INTERNET SUCKED SUPERFLUOUS GORILLA COCK BACK THEN!

Then ahfter The Lahst Revelation came (ahem!) Chronicles. This was essentially a shitty, uninspired compendium of fucking gnat puke on a piss-stained twig. But Lara had even greater woffdobbers in that cocktrash piece of entertainment. If you haven't played the previous game, I recommend you mute the volume the next couple of seconds because Lara is apparently dead at that stage, and all her small circle of friends mourn her. Hyeah, they're crying over WHAT A SHITTY INSTALLMENT TO THE SERIES THIS IS!!!!

I've never played Angel of Darkness. I believe it was a rushed game that had potential. I imagine in the trademark smooth pastel greaphics of the PS2, Lara's chesticles were swole for my hardened pole. Well, I've also heard it has plenty of fucking glitches, and a guy runs around with her and probably gets in the way of her heavenly physique, the stoopid son-of-a-glitch jizzhat. I'll give this one a miss. But one thing I certainly won't miss are those tits, because they soon got an upgrade.

In two thousand six, Anniversary was released ten years ahfter the original. The gameplay is somewhat different with the annoying addition of QTE sequences, and there are a handful of alterations here and there. I wasn't too happy about the structure of her face: prominent cheeks and wide doe eyes with a tiny nose and big lips. I guess it's supposed to be an updated version on the original design of the character from the cut scenes and other material used by the media. On the plus side she has a range of outfits, one of which is a shiny catsuit. It just about makes up for the disappointingly redone Colosseum. THE ORIGINAL HAS A VAHST RECTANGULAR AREA THAT ENTHRALLED YOU WITH A CHARMING SOUNDTRACK ONCE YOU RAN UP THE STAIRCASE IN TO THAT AREA, NOT A TEDIOUS FUCKIN' CIRCLE OF UNDERWHELMING GREY MONOLITHS OF DUCK SHIT.

The company Crystal Dynamics - who also produced the two Pandemonium games and upgraded the bland ginger chick into a hawt one with excellent tits and sultry voice - developed the Croft saga and put out two fairly decent games called Legend and Underworld. Each Lara had a pair of superb bangers, more so the latter because there's a modification that gives Lara a transparent swimsuit, not that I've ever tried it... you know... it would be too virtual and tight for me to slip it on. Hah! Gotcha!

In the 2010s, there's been a trilogy of rebooted games. It's a little gloomy yet well made and, quite funnily, appears to adopt the same mechanics as Uncharted - a great series which was influenced by the TR franchise. But you're probably saying to yourselves: 'Perv, stop fucking prattling away about the history and regale us about the tits'. Alright-alright! The puppies are quite good. Not as big as you'd observe in the previous adventures but respectably good. Nice eass, too. There are no nude mods for it, I don't think. But they at least offer an alternative to appease the postmodern feminists, maybe not the intersectional SJW feminists as I'm confident they're nawt happy she hasn't been replaced by an individual of colour, or that Lara's friends are just token diversity. She's a somewhat inexperienced woman who gradually learns how to adapt to her environment and isn't granted a patronising weapon with several add-ons as the game commences. I don't remember men awften leaping to her rescue. But hey, if some Japanese spirit prevented me from fucking leaving an island, I'd hang around Lara like a fart and let her climb up ridges and ladders first. In terms of visual stimulus, this isn't fucking beahd by any means. It's not been released by LJN and its lamebow of doom, at least.

Since the third installment of reboot Lara called Shadow of the Tomb Raider of 2018 (which I've nawt played), there's also been a surprise in the same year which I discovered on YouToob. Holy! Fucking! Shit! There's a demo of a level from an unofficial remake of the second game, and my fucking gawd, the roundness of those scrumptious tits, man. Anniversary had a good damp material effect, and Underworld had lovely glistening skin effects. But wow! This newer version! I can't wait to see more... and jerk awff.


March 25, 2020, 09:16:00 PM #50 Last Edit: March 25, 2020, 10:52:43 PM by DangledTeeth

Hello to you all, Prime Minister Joris Jordson here. Now, I am here to speak about the virus with a silly name that's a bloody invisible nuisance and has buggered up the world's economy, roughly speaking.

I, the Commonwealth overlord of the remnants of the British empire, hereby implore you to adhere to the guidelines pertaining to social distancing as it is of paramount important importance and is crucially vital that you only pop out to the stores for essentials like... erm... chocolate Shreddies, Taste the Difference curry, multigrain loaves of bread, and not forgetting milk and boxes with a mountain of plentiful teabags. You may also go outside for one spurt of exercise per day, that's if you don't have a garden.

Yes, social distancing applies to everyone. This of course means you shall not foot yourself over to your girlfriend's house for a session of jousting the pink cavern. It is best if you do not visit a relative's house, as this will be a great way of limiting the spread - and they may not want to cook an extra meal for you. It's also advisable for you to not have a piss-up in a local or distant park or even indoors with your friends. This may seem totalitarian and appears to infringe on free speech in the sense of being able to communicate with a select few people in your vicinity, roughly speaking. Of course, freedom of speech is strictly about the right to communicate ideas and opinions; it's not a licence for you to be an irritating blabber mouth of incessant irritation. No it is not.

I, as a popular man on telly, ask you to please do your duty for Queen and Country by staying indoors. Please do not act like an unreasonable cunt in this predicament the world is in, and do your utmost to spend most of your time at home reading up on Carl Jung or listening to Tom Waits. But that depends on what you mean by 'home'. Thank you for listening, eeh. Enjoy the third and fourth part of Coronation Street.


March 28, 2020, 09:56:08 PM #51 Last Edit: March 28, 2020, 10:26:50 PM by DangledTeeth


Bill O'Reilly: Oh, hello. Apologies for that rahther angry outburst that was cut from a previous recording earlier today.

Bill: He is pure evil. You wouldn't be able to tell that from his rugged good looks and dashing glahsses. But when he coldly toots his macabre misdeeds from his noise cushions, that's another story. And that's the story in tonight's story on Inside Edition. His murder vicinity was Toronto, and he got away with deadly killings for more than a decade - that's ten years but a bit extra. But why? Whhhhyy???? For the first time ever, Nancy Glass is here... inside the world of Jordfrey Dahnmer

Nancy: Hello Bill, hear my informative robotic tone. (At the lens) When I spoke with Jordfrey Dahnmer I wondered if he'd stab me in the neck with a sharpened plastic spoon or salivate over a warped fantasy. But what I found was a man who was very polite and had no qualms about detailing his horrific naughtiness. I began by ahsking what he wanted from the men he picked up.

Jordfrey: I uh... would have these rahther abzurd compulsions to, uhhhh, turn young men into puppets - like in Pinocchio.

Nancy: Pinocchio wasn't a psychonut who augmented young men.

Jordfrey: I mean the puppet element.

Nancy (V/O): Jordfrey Dahnmer was sentenced to a lenient 1,345,000 years in prison. His first parole hearing will be in a century's time. Almost two years ago in this modest middle-class home in Toronto, police discovered the grisly remnants of horrible crime sprees... but that's enough about his collection of communist art from totalitarian regimes; they also found a body parts of the people whose lives were concluded quite ruthlessly. Jordfrey Dahnmer, an unassuming professor and mental health doctor, would eventually confess that he lectured, murdered and dismembered seventeen young men. He even ate some of his victim's penises. He instantly became the centre of worldwide attention and a bored Esther Rantzen sat beside quiz champion Kevin Ashman. We take a journey in to the mind of Jordfrey Dahnmer - a serial intellectual killer unmasked...

Nancy: What would you do if your victims lied to you? I understand that you resent dishonesty.

Jordfrey: I'd severe their tumescence, dip it liquid nitrogen, then solder it to their face, roughly speaking. Always tell the truth, or at least don't lie.

Nancy: Did you do it for the kills or the thrills?

Jordfrey: Oh, definitely nawt the former. I take no pleasure in killing. The deaths were a means to end. I would find men for no-strings-attached fun, then I'd ply them with alcohol - and drugs - and take them back to my home for yes-attached-strings fun.

Nancy: What were you aiming to achieve?

Jordfrey: I wanted to, uh, create compliant puppets because young men will suffer without a fawther figure. They can become anti-social if they don't orient themselves on a higher power and focus on a life-affirming goal or hawbby. They cahsted themselves out of the Kingdom of God and have no regard for their Being, something to do with mindless atheism.

Nancy: Why are men your main target?

Jordfrey: Who does a lawt of manual labour? Men. Who has to fire guns on the battlefield? Men. Who has to relocate as part of their jawb in a STEM field? Men. Who gets an itchy nutsack? Drum roll. Men. Who has to grow an egg in their hips for nine months or bleed from their gap? Not men. Forget-that-one.

Nancy: Why did you eat some of your victims with lobsters? And I don't mean the lobsters dined alongside you, I mean the lobsters were a side dish with your barbecued victims.

Jordfrey: I wanted to feel like I was at the tawp of the dawminance hierarchy once I ushered them into my belly bag. I mean, I am on a carnivore diet and chicken, beef and lamb can become tedious ahfter some time. And lawbsters are yummy sea creatures, eeh.

Nancy: If you weren't locked up in this institute of freedom impediment, would you still be trying to puppeteer young men against their will?

Jordfrey: Yes. No question about it. I can't think of anything that would've stawpped me... apart from being caught by the police, of course. 'Else' is something I should have said ahfter 'anything' - be precise in your speech.

Nancy: Is there anything you'd like to say to the victims' families and the bewildered and sickened former fans of yours?

Jordfrey: Negotiate for peace, and let people skateboard.


Jordan: Hey! It's been a while since you saw anything from me. AH-HHAGH-HHEGH-HHAGH. May the 10th, man! Proud day. So anyways, this is an episode of Direlogues with me, Jordan B. Peterson. Today I'm going to have a webcam discussion with someone who may surprise you because he's nawt an academic or an interesting YouToober, at least. Joining me on the cam is a man with no credentials to his name. He's a parrot for inanity and does not care who knows it. He's been a public speaker for three decades and seems, like me, to be misunderstood by the media - but that's where the similarities end. I welcome you all to David Icke.

David: Hello Jordan. Thanks for agreeing to this chat.

Jordan: Soeh... what happened on Wogan all those years ago, man?

David: Well Jordan, I spoke with a guy called Terry Wogan; he was a popular chat-show host during that era. I came on after a profound spiritual awakening. I heard a command tell me to go over to hill or was it a book on a shelf that attracted me? Well it's so profound I can't remember exactly what happened. A lady spiritualist set me on the pahth to a greater understanding of the yuman world.

Jordan: Yuman?!

David: It's how I pronounce 'human'. I can't be bothered to enuciate the aitch, and saying ooman would be fricking stupid. Yuman it be.

Jordan: Ah. Soeh, what did you learn?

David: I learned I was destined for glory. And I'm the son of a godhead.

Jordan: Have you attained that glory?

David: Yes, Jordan. There's no question about it. I regale pseudo-hippy halfwits who've puffed a spliff and watched the Matrix to the point of absurd profundity. I speak for up to seven hours about shape-shifting lizards and half-baked shitsense on how the political and economical world actually functions and why it does.

Jordan: Okay, soeh, tell me about the lizard Archons.

David: Well, erm... they sometimes appear on the news and their cloaking device glitches as though there's compression issues with the codec of a virtual video. The Dubya Bush family are lizards, as are the Windsors. Several people from... a 'far away land' are.

Jordan: What's with the air quotes?! Which land is thaht?

David: The land of the ultra-Zionists.

Jordan: Oh no! Nawt this 2% Jewish conspiracy.

David: I thought you were a right-wing guy who's into conspiracies?!

Jordan: Noooo-no-no! I'm not right-wing. I'm a classic liberal, man. I don't like anti-semitism. Y-you've gawt me confused with Kevin MacDonald. Most of my friends and associates are Jewish. And two of them like it in the butt, soeh... why would I enjoy their company if I were this white supremacist some people believe I am?! I haven't a clue as to why people think I'm right-wing.

David: I don't know who Kevin MacDonald is. I thought you were that guy who smiles politely and talks with an old-fashioned and refined transatlantic accent, who thinks black people have a low I.Q.

Jordan: Oh! You mean Jared Taylor?

David: Yeah.

Jordan: *Shakes head* That's not me, man. I don't care for totalitarian groups on both sides of the political spectrum.

David: I suppose I'm the same, mate. Both the spiritualist new-age stoners and left-leaning rappers like what I say and neo-Nazi types listen to me. I understand your conspiracy - what you're against - is the postmodern philosophers.

Jordan: Oh yeah, they are very dangerous pseudo-intellectuals. The most influential of all of them is bloody terrible.

David: Whom?

Jordan: Foucault.

David: There's no need to swear, mate.

Jordan: No, you misheard me. Ah-hhagh-hhagh-hhagh. He's a French guy. Michel Foucault.

David: Mitchell Fooko. Hmphh, first it was 'Who shot Phil Mitchell?', now it's 'fill me in about who the Fooko is Mitchell'.

Jordan: Well, he wasn't too big on authority, you know.

David: Oh, go on...

Jordan: Yueah, soeh, he would chinstroke his way around the dynamics of reality. Oh, reality is an abstract construct that's part of a grand story.

David: Astonishing.

Jordan: I know, I know, but it depends on what you mean by 'astonishing'.

David: Well erm, distinctly surprising and captivating.

Jordan: It's like with science as a subject, for example. Foucault didn't trust in the grand idea that science is as it's taught in educational institootions, because there's an authority figure you unconsciously obey as these presentations of facts from educators and other influential people have been axiomatically ingrained into us, making us automatically assoome they're correct because of someone's credentials and perhaps uniform. It's all about unspoken rules that governs knowledge  I'm not well-read on Foucault, but that's what I know anyways.

David: Amazing.

Jordan: Yueah. It's basically paradigms and epistemes.

David: Would you please hold on a sec', I'm going to pop to the toilet.

Jordan: Hey, that's good, eeh. I'll talk to those watching until you come back. (To cam) Soeh, if you use a highlighter pen when you're in a lecture, stop using the fucking scribbler and attentively listen because...

Several minutes pass then David returns

David: I took a bit longer than you perhaps expected, sorry for the delay.

David: I was suddenly inspired to shave off my hair and put on a pair of specs in order to see you clearly on the screen.

Jordan: Erm... y-yeah, it's a cool look. Soeh... what are your views on Covid-19? I think the science is rahther clear on thaht.

David: There is no tangible or otherwise observable disease. It's a viewpoint that is simultaneously true and false and exists in the forefront of the minds of select individuals who've been provided such erroneous information. There is no objective truth other than individual narratives which drive the ideology of powerful institutions. Fragmentary illusions are being projected by psychopathic technology and pharmaceutical giants.

Jordan: Excuse me for a second, I erm... need to swat a fly on the 'close' button.

David: Eh!? How can y-

Jordan closes the live feed connection to David

Jordan: That's enough of that morawnic prattling. Soeh... make a note in your diary - Jorker, May 10. It's going to be fucking great, man. The best parody of, wuell, anything. I'm out. Peaceterson.


Hello everyone,

Jordan B. Peterson here, accurately speaking. Unfortunately, due to this global pandemic, Jorker has officially been canned. Yueah, it's a shame to read. Some of the imagery was deleted and the quality of the cinematography was mediocre. But I promise to come up with newer episodes of music I actually like and some classic Pervertson from the vault in order to compensate for this disappointing update.

Hah! Gotcha!

It's not going to be released today, but it's very likely to be finished tomorrow (or May Twelve at the latest). Soeh, the production crew needs to finalise a handful of pictures and ensure the sequencing of the script is all correct. Who'd have thought that digitally adding make-up to someone's face and whacking people's head's onto pictures would make the bloody time go by so rapidly, man. But anyways, thanks for your patience.

Yours Petersonly

JBP :)


Let's get to page three, speaking roughly. Jorker has been completed.


Why am I sat in a room with eggs mounted to the wall?

I've thought about it a laawt.


Ah, refreshing.

Don't you just love a nice can of soda while you're having a webcam chat with your fellow intellectuals? I sure do.


Stay tooned for more Angry Video Game Perv in the coming weeks.

It almost looks like 'Peru' in the title. Wuell, that's 8-bit-style text for you.


What is this, post twenty-nine or thirty?

It's a good question.