One Rule for Life: An Introduction to Dunning Krugerson
Many people nowadays are wary of rules. They ask, isn’t life tough enough without another pesky rule? Why, even in the Holy Book, people scoffed at rules. When God told Adam not to eat of the fruit of the forbidden tree, Adam said, “You must be pulling my leg!” And Eve said, “I’m not listening to you! I will instead listen to this postmodern Marxist snake, who tells me anything I want to hear!”
But God was not pulling Adam’s leg. And from Eve’s little snack, the entire cosmic world of evil was born.
So who will give us this new rule? After all, the God of the Bible is mighty silent nowadays. But if you will raise your eyes with me, you will spy a star rising over Toronto — perhaps not the brightest star in the firmament, but he may be just the star we need. It is the great rule-maker of our era, human polymath and cowboy philosopher Dunning Krugerson.
The first time I met Dunning Krugerson was at a Toronto garden party given by friends of mine whose social circle is marked by intellectual freedom, friends who savor lively, far-ranging conversation, and are not afraid of controversial ideas, indeed who relish and frolic in the hearing of them. Needless to say, this party was utterly unlike the dreadful Marxist soirées of the average academic, at which guests are handed a sheet of “politically correct” opinions from which they read in a toneless unison while drinking weak Kool-Aid without a straw.
When I arrived, the unpretentious gathering was freely speaking on the rear lawn of our host’s house. A few cheerful picnic tables had been clad in merry gingham tablecloths, upon which reposed many platters of foods unavailable in Communist countries like Venezuela. It was a feast for the very tongue, and these busy tongues would sorely need the fuel, for all would be strenuously exercised in loquacious outbursts of opinion, each more various than the last.
Among these giddily conversating friends, I immediately noticed a striking visage, that of a fellow who spoke passionately and vividly, but also readily paused to listen, laughing more than anyone when his adversary’s point was sharper than his. Just as singular as his manner was his appearance, for instead of sporting the formal suit and tie of the typical Canadian intellectual on his day off, he wore casual blue jeans, embellished only with a cowboy hat and cowboy boots and spurs and chaps, with a stick horse leaning casually against the bench beside him. (This, I would later learn, was “Pokey,” the companion of many an intellectual adventure; Dr Krugerson rode Pokey everywhere, to remind himself of tougher generations in which the barely tamed and often savage horse was the only means of transport.) This down-to-earth fellow spoke in a folksy Canadian accent, unheard of in these lofty realms of Toronto society, where most people were raised in Swiss boarding schools and spent the summers of their childhood disporting themselves with celebrities on Jeffrey Epstein’s sex yacht.
As I would later learn, this man’s manly mind was broadened and chiseled not by mere book-learning, but by the hard-knocks course his life had taken. He was reared in the unforgiving atmosphere of Canada by a humble schoolteacher and a lowly librarian. At the tender age of eighteen, he left his home to go to university, accompanied only by his older sister, with whom he was lucky enough to rent an apartment, thus narrowly avoiding an array of terrible dangers. From here, he went audaciously to another university, then a third university, then a fourth university, the University of Toronto, where at last the scarred veteran of many a college town found a home. Here he became a professor in the most rigorous discipline of all, psychology. Indeed, when I met him that day in his cowboy attire, he was the veteran of many adventures, poised on the brink of his greatest adventure yet.
To my delight, we soon became friends, and when I visited his home, I was further amazed. It was indeed the most unique of dwellings. On its walls reposed a vast collection of Soviet memorabilia, which Dr. Krugerson had gathered from every corner of the globe by using his formidable computer savvy to purchase things on ebay. Paintings lionizing the Soviet revolutionary spirit completely filled every wall and ceiling, cluttered the floors and even clogged the toilets. Krugerson’s children were tucked away to sleep on Soviet propaganda posters, and the windows were shaded with exhortations to complete the five-year plan in four years. From their tender years, instead of playing with figurines of barnyard animals, Krugerson’s children Svetlana and Vasily had played with figurines of the participants in the Fourth International. The furniture in the living room, bedrooms, and all of the halls was pushed up against the walls to make space for a train set which reproduced the evil railway network that transported prisoners to the Gulag archipelago, and every day from 4 p.m. to 5 p.m. the whole family gathered for a re-enactment of this ritual, consigning prisoners (noble dissidents Dunning had crafted from popsicle sticks) to cattle cars and sending them choo-chooing off to Magadan and Kolyma (the guest bathroom and the pantry, respectively).
But none of these strange curios were there because Dunning harbored some sympathy for totalitarianism. Far from it! It was because he would not permit himself to forget something millions of feebler souls with reproductions of Van Gogh’s “Sunflowers” on their walls had already allowed to fade from memory; the fact that billions of innocent souls were sacrificed in the name of utopia. Indeed, were Dunning to discard even one commemorative plate with a Soviet tractor driver painted on it, he might forget and in that instant darkness would fall on Western civilization.
His soul was further toughened by his bold refusal to read any book by a Communist or a leftist or a liberal or a woman or a man with “soft” manners, or anyone who wouldn’t have been considered white in Alabama in 1855, or anyone who disagreed with him about any matter of substance. And, having weathered these many tests of his mettle, Krugerson has dedicated himself to exposing the dangers of blinkered ideologies.
And yet Dr. Krugerson has been accused of being a right-wing bigot! But anybody who knows anything about this stalwart fellow will tell you that he is not just open-minded and even-handed, but ham-fisted and thumb-fingered, and equally critical of the left and the right. He has just chosen not to include his criticisms of the right in anything he has written or any of his public statements, which is surely his privilege as a free citizen!
I have seen with my own two eyes how Krugerson has changed lives at the University of Toronto, where he introduced once-brainwashed and directionless students to the eternal truths of the Hero’s Journey and the secret Jungian wisdom in Bible tales and the truth of why the Egyptian pyramids were really built. Again and again, he championed the idea of courage — and with his history of bravely staying in school until the age of fifty he was certainly the right man to take up its banner.
Many people became familiar with him during his recent public stand for free speech, in which he said that the government should not cut off men’s thumbs for calling trans people by the wrong pronouns. Time and again, he fearlessly spoke his truth, even in the face of people pointing out that the government had not proposed any such law. Through this terrible ordeal, he always lived by the rule contained in this book. And due to this discipline, I saw him grow from the remarkable person he already was into someone even more astonishing — all thanks to the secret he is offering you in this book at a low, low price. Krugerson’s wisdom meets a deep and unarticulated need — the need for Law, the need for order, the need to have a man who couldn’t carry a suitcase up one flight of stairs call you a weasel and tell you to “toughen up”; the need to hear Kermit the Frog free-associate about the story of Adam and Eve.
What’s more, Dr. Krugerson teaches virtue — an idea his disciples certainly were not taught by their politically correct professors at universities. At universities these days, professors irresponsibly teach postmodern theories such as calculus or the Krebs cycle or the history of the Thirty Years War instead of telling their students to clean their rooms.
Or course, not everyone can live up to the high standard set by Dunning Krugerson. His new and unfamiliar ideas may strain you to the utmost. Just being exposed to it for the first time will be a challenge some weak millennials cannot face. This is why Krugerson has become a hate figure on the left; there are all too many who would rather hate someone unjustly than fight their own dragons. But if you grapple with the hydra of your own chaos, even once in your life, you will be better for it. And perhaps afterwards, you will remember who you have to thank — Dunning Krugerson, to whose Patreon account you can donate here. (Best of all, why not leave a recurring donation to save on wasteful administrative fees?)