One Rule for Life
by Dunning Krugerson
You probably haven’t thought much about lobsters, unless you’re eating one. (Ha ha! Buckle up, because my sense of humor will have you in stitches like that again and again!) I, however, like most great men, have always been profoundly drawn to the lobster. I knew that on the ocean floor, within those hard shells, was a lesson for all those sad young men waiting to be liberated from their involuntary celibacy by the wisdom and horse sense of I, Dunning Krugerson.
So when as part of my intense studies at top-ranked universities, I had the opportunity to spend a semester abroad, I chose to spend that semester on the ocean floor. At first I was frightened and could not breathe, and plummeted immediately to the bottom of the dominance hierarchy, laughed at by the other lobsters and sent to fetch things for them at all hours of the day and night. I can hear their fishy laughter still. But over time, my status rose and eventually I dominated every lobster in my territory, as well as many of the mussels. Here are some of the hard Truths I have brought back from my aquatic sojourn.
For 350 million years, lobsters have competed amongst themselves for resources like food, little caves to hide in (very much like your basements, my proud, melancholy heroes), and for the ultimate resource — what I call “the sexy resource” — woman lobsters. Cultural Marxists, with their naïve and dangerous delusions about fairness and sharing, would have you think that life is more than just a competition for resources, but how long have they been saying that? Perhaps you can find versions of this misguided and, frankly, ridiculous idea going back a couple of thousand years, but compare that with the 350 million years that lobsters have been competing for resources, and ask yourself who is right. Here’s a hint, my buckos: 350 million years is a lot of years.
And if you listen carefully, you will notice that the loudest and shrillest of these cultural Marxist voices screeching about fairness belong to what I call “human woman lobsters,” or as they so preciously refer to themselves, “women,” the very resources human man lobsters are competing for! I don’t think I have to say anything more about that. I will instead simply list all the things that “women” have been associated with since time immemorial: chaos; dragons; eggs; Undoing; egg salad; Darkness; the moon; vaginas; gravity; omelets; Filene’s Basement; the way your boxer shorts can bunch up on a hot day; dancing lessons; evil; I was always picked last for dodgeball; liberalism; and the Friend Zone.
But you do not have to take my word for it: this is science, and science tells us that these “dominance hierarchies” conclusively explain why you are sad, basement-dwelling losers, my sad, basement-dwelling losers. As it so often does, science says, “Look to the lobster!” In rigorously scientific experiments, man lobsters are consistently rejected by women lobsters for having claws which, as you have always secretly suspected, are smaller than normal. These small-clawed rejects generate excess amounts of the fabled loser hormone, loserthyronine, a hormone that can be found in losers of every species — and you are no exception.
Due to this excess loserthyronine, you have always about you the stink of failure. You do not look your enemies in the eye. If you try a Test Your Strength! machine at the fair, you can barely heft the sledgehammer. You speak in a feeble adenoidal drone. You smell like Tums. You have an extra toe, and it’s not even on your foot. Thus, when you talk to women, seeking to claim your share of resources as any real man would, you are rejected, jeered at, escorted from the locker room by security, nailed into a crate and shipped around the world by steamboat — or, worse, laughed at by women.
Why do women reject you? Because, just as women have been shaped by evolution to have grotesquely wide hips that make it impossible for them to fit through most doors, and strange, angled feet that must be strapped into “high heels” for them to be able to stand upright (I won’t even begin to address the bizarre deformities God has begotten upon their upper bodies), women have also been shaped by evolution to yield their most precious gift only to the largest and most aggressive males. This is the hard Truth, no matter how these dissembling Venus flytraps strive to convince themselves and the world otherwise. And strive they do. Just look around you. Everywhere you will find these duplicitous Eves of Destruction employing devious behaviors to hide their true agenda, in many cases even marrying and having children with slender, unaggressive men who treat them as if they were people. Never forget that this is a despicable trick, my pale, damp potentialities, a trick intended to pull the wool over your low-status eyes. How do I know this is a trick? Because Fifty Shades of Gray was the fastest selling paperback in history!
But how did you become such a feeble lot, cowering in your safe spaces, drawing in your adult coloring books, saying “I’m sorry,” and “Thank you,” and “What is your preferred pronoun?” If there must be dominance hierarchies, why can you not sit atop them, as I, Dunning Krugerson, do? It is because your squishy leftist parents did not provide you with the hard shell and fearsome claws you would need when they sent you out into the world where the lady lobsters waited to be manfully wooed. Your parents probably picked you up when you cried, fed you when you were hungry, and let you sleep in the house when it was cold. They told you you were special, when in fact it is I, Dunning Krugerson, who is special. And so, when you went out into the world and somebody was mean to you, you fell to the ground with your rump in the air and cried while your mytho-hormonal system flooded your veins with loserthyronine.
You were not prepared by your Maoist mother for how unfair the world is. You were not given the tools necessary to withstand the competition of the modern “jungle,” leaving you subject to the dominance of stronger lobsters, who do not hesitate to take advantage of you. The residue of a socialist upbringing clings to you like a big Kick Me sign, signaling “Here is easy prey.”
But despair not, my rosy-cheeked manchildren! There is a way forward.
As a bona fide professional psychologist with a real office in a building, I always begin my therapeutic course of treatment the same way. The first thing I do is tell my patients they must get enough sleep, because I have concluded after much study and a great deal of radical thought that sleep is a thing we need. Then I tell them they must eat a healthy breakfast, because it is the most important meal of the day. At this point, they are often stunned by my insights. Already they can feel the weight of generations of neurotic unfulfillment falling from their underdeveloped shoulders. I then tell them they must clean their rooms, and to help them absorb this lesson, I hand them a broom and a mop and let them clean my house from top to bottom.
Then, after we have worked together long enough that I am sure they are now finally man enough, I share with them the next lesson, what I call the Lesson of Lessons: Stand up tall! That’s right, my winsome chuckleheads, stand up tall as if there were no loserthyronine inside you at all. Carry yourself like a winner, and you will come to believe you are a winner, and from there it is just a hop, skip, and a cha-cha-cha to convincing somebody else (and by somebody else, I mean a lady!)!
Thus far, and thus far only, can the finest therapy take you. Indeed, lesser gurus have left young men believing that standing up tall will be enough, that you can reach full domination height through your own resources. But think of this: what about all the other young men who are also standing up tall? Many if not most are already standing as tall as you will ever stand. There are even some who are outfitted by nature to stand taller than you!
What to do? Do we slink back to our warrens and grottoes, our sumps and our burrows? You can take that path, defeated once again, OR you can take the crucial final step to entering the Winner’s Circle, a step that will at last make human women lobsters spread their chitinous carapaces for you! You must STAND ON A BOX!
Stand on a box, so you can tower over the competition and dominate them at will! No one will dare to point out that your claw is clearly smaller than just about anybody’s when you yourself are visibly so much bigger than the pipsqueaks not standing on a box. But when I say “a box,” do I mean just any box? Heck, no! This is science, and as we are taught in the Old Testament of the Jews, the devil is in the details. Or, as the great genius Sigmund Freud might have said, sometimes a box is only a box, but often it represents the vagina, which it is Man’s Destiny to stand upon to dominate other Men.
No, my sodden, hairy-palmed sausages! You cannot stand on just any box. Why, imagine a box that was wobbly! You might fall off the box just when you were about to “dominate” a lady, if you know what I mean. No, only a box built to exact specifications will guarantee you the firm footing necessary to get you the hanky-panky you deserve. Indeed, the dimensions of the box you must stand on are encoded in the folk tales of every culture and written into the very shape of your DNA. They are a secret that was known to the mysterious writers of both Gilgamesh and Jumanji. Men have died to uncover this secret. They have fallen to the scimitars of the Assassin, been stricken by the curse of the Mummy, or simply labored through fruitless lives of research, only to fall prey to the blandishments of the Frankfurt School. They produced cones, pyramids, trapezoids, virtually every geometric solid, but never the One True Box.
And yet this box is now available to subscribers to my Patreon for a low, low minimum monthly donation of $40, or separately, for a one-time cost of only $200. Be the first in your neighborhood to stand on a patented Dunning Krugerson Domination Box™, with complete instructions for its use, and a signed photograph of I, Dunning Krugerson, using the box in front of an adoring crowd at Madison Square Garden.
The choice is yours, my moist, stripling trolls. Will you be the boxer or the boxee? The piñata or the stick? Lady lobsters of every species await your decision. Act now, while supplies last!!!