The Hyborian Autiste’s Guide for Dating

Hey guys, seriously, I don’t think any of you have to worry with regards to attracting a potential mate or defusing the minefield of ‘love’. No need to learn to decipher the 256-key encryption to a woman’s heart…

…no need to downplay political views or dumb down in order to better glitter in the eye of that ‘oh so fickle beholder’…

…no need for sly behind-the-back maneuvers on the hot conservative wife your best friend managed to snatch up when she was barely legal…

…no need for one on one sessions with the top PUAs in the country to master scripts and stratagems to hook the fluid attention of the delightful divas that cross your path on your way to the dance floor or bar…

…no need to get all downcast about failed attempts at wooing the nymph that appeared and disappeared as fast as that shot of whiskey you poured to dull the pain of unrequited yearning…

…no need to even hurl yourself into the abyss of dating and chat sites and hope-shattering online forums that funnel male-attention to doleful damsels like salmon to grizzlies…

…no need to hole yourself up fervently devouring how-to manuals in the arts of seduction, or conjuring spells and mouthing mantras of love…

…and no need to break your will repeatedly against a tidal wave of accumulated rejection; hell…no need to even try!

For we are in the darkest throes of the Kali Yuga, the horror-filled hours before a new dawn…

…everything is converging climaxing heading hurriedly to crash junction breakpoint death converge and woe surge. We are, my friends, finally arrived at that long-distant prophesied, yet all too often mistimed event hailed as the apocalypse.

Our Ragnarok has come!

And, as always, it is us men who must take to the fields and offer up our bodies and our lives to the Deities of Destruction.

It is us who must absorb the brunt of the force wielded to cull the weak from the strong, separate the proverbial wheat from the chaff; and it is up to us to heed the call and make those sacrifices necessary to bind the wily wolf of weaving woe and calamity.

It is us who need eschew the savors of this earthly paradise for a feast in the halls of Valhalla.

And, as always, it is the women who will be succored, protected, guarded, insulated, kept safe and shielded by the men from the greatest of harms. It is the women who will prosper as the men wither and die.

And when the time has passed and all the damage has been wrought and the bodies of dead men lay heaped like pyramids stark against a darkened sky, then, when the bodies of the living men are tallied against the bodies of the living women, oh, my friends, such a disparity the world may have never seen.

For lo, behold, for every one man the women number score!

And with every man a hero in their sight, a throbbing beacon of masculine respite, who can tell what tales of delight these new couplings will spawn?

And when the children born to play in a world shorn of depraved delusions come of age they will recall stories told by the men of an age now past when masculinity was a curse, when males were of less regard than oxen, and when men were humbled, weak, outcast, and reduced to mere pawns and appeasers.

These children will look to their father, seated statuesque in front of a roaring fire, as he sings in a voice of such power that it rises above the flames, with his wives forming a ring around the conflagration…some dancing gleefully…some weaving in and out of huts…some tanning hides…some brewing…some seated in the branches of the tall trees…some bathing naked in the flowing waters which surround…some running with abandon through the forests…and they will wonder how this man that they so adore, that their mothers gaze upon with such worship and devotion in their eyes, and cater to with such tenderness and love; they will wonder how this being could have survived such heaped indignities, such terrors cast at his soul!

They will shake their heads in disbelief as their awe of him grows.

And one such child may approach him, as he pauses to flick an ember back into the flames, and ask:

“Daddy…what the fuck is Tinder???”

-By Kain JC

Oh, I'm a good old Rebel, now that's just what I am;
For this "Fair Land of Freedom" I do not give a damn!
I'm glad I fit against it, I only wish we'd won,
And I don't want no pardon for anything I done.