A short time ago I was on a long trip, and listened to some audiobooks and comedy CDs while driving. One of these was Garrison Keillor, A Life in Comedy. I was surprised, several minutes in, to hear some red pill knowledge being shared. Unfortunately the truth he was stating was received as comedy and laughed about. Fortunately though, it was true and hopefully some men got the message. The track was titled "The Book of Guys", and is the name of an actual book written by Mr. Keillor. I checked the book out from my local library, and I'm working through it now. I recommend everyone read the book, as well as give the CD a listen.

I would like to post some excerpts from the book; I hope you will be interested. I am leaving out everything that doesn't directly add to the discussion.

A few years ago in a poker game I won a membership in a club called The Sons of Bernie and last January, late one night, I drove my truck deep into the woods near River Falls to attend the annual Bernie campfire and drunken orgy of song and self pity, standing arm in arm with other S.O.B.s around a bonfire under the birches, in a raw wind at twenty below zero, the snowbanks up to our waists, and there, under the Milky Way and a very full moon, we ate chili out of cans and drank bourbon whiskey and sang mournful songs like "Long Black Veil" and "Old Man River," and complained about women until six o'clock in the morning, when we retired to our homes to recuperate.

It was not a tasteful or reverent occasion, and yet it was satisfying in some repects. A person can drink quite a snootful of whiskey in subzero temperatures and still keep floating, and while it isn't an experience that you want to base a lifetime on, nevertheless you would hate to come to the end of your life and think, "I never ever once got drunk in the woods on a winter night with a bunch of guys who knew all the words to 'I Ride an Old Paint.'"

We sang about Old Paint and Frankie and Johnny and somebody recited

Whenever Richard Cory went down town,

The women on the streetcar looked at him:

He was a gentleman from sole to crown,

Clean shaven, and he used expensive aftershave.

And he looked very elegant in a suit.

And he was always friendly when he talked;

He certainly made the heads turn en route

To his office at the First National Bank.

And he was rich, a man of style and grace,

And married to a beautiful woman named June.

And yet none of us wished that we were in his place.

We knew June and she was a bitch.

And one calm summer night, under a beautiful moon,

Richard Cory put a bullet through his head.

No big surprise, not if you knew June.

We got to feeling awfully close, hooked together, the fire blazing away, the whiskey doing its work. After the poem, a guy said, "I don't want you to take this the wrong way, but I'm glad there aren't any damn women here." (laughter) Sorry, but that's what he said.

Another guy stepped forward and said: "I have worshiped women all my life, especially pregnant women, and then the other day a woman I know, she looked like she had a basketball under her dress, she told me that she felt great when she was pregnant, that she enjoyed it, had more energy, felt sort of high, and it just makes me wonder if maybe women have gotten more mileage out of motherhood than they should've and if maybe we could stop bowing whenever one comes in the room."

A ripple of excitement passed through the circle: Guys were Speaking Out! Us! Saying things we wouldn't dare say in polite society (i.e. women).

A guy with snow-white hair stepped into the circle. "Listen, you pineapples. Damn women writers write absolute drivel and dreck and people fawn over them. Women win blue ribbons even though the didn't come in tenth. They get hired for jobs they're barely mediocre at. Affirmative action sounds good in theory, boys, but any time you promote incompetence, you are dragging society down. I don't care what your motives are."

Part 2 here