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Tue, 01 Oct 2024 18:46:13 -0700
Andy from private IP
/all
TheImmigrant asked me to post this for him. I rate it a 9/10.
At 6'9, with a BS in Nursing and a PharmD, I find myself grappling with the insidious decline of both nursing and pharmacy as professions, burdened by systemic
inadequacies and societal perceptions. My modest salary of 49k hardly reflects the intellectual rigor and emotional labor these fields demand. It raises a
compelling question: how much does one’s social framework—the cliques one aligns with—affect the trajectory of one’s career and personal life?
In my observations, five distinct cliques prevail: Jock, Prep, Nerd, Loser, and Scumbag. Each clique has a unique resonance that shapes interpersonal dynamics
and professional opportunities. I can identify the members of each group at a glance, even in adulthood; their demeanor, attire, and conversations betray them.
The Jocks, with their bravado, often find themselves in leadership roles, their athletic backgrounds translating to assertiveness in high-stakes situations,
while the Preps navigate the corporate ladder with an uncanny ease born from privilege and networking. The Nerds, though sometimes marginalized, possess a quiet
power, their expertise in technology and science often overshadowing their social awkwardness. The Losers, those on the fringes, can become invisible or worse,
overlooked in professional environments, while Scumbags do the brunt of the backbreaking labor to support a system that spurns them.
In this landscape, I’ve found success with women, perhaps due to a peculiar blend of my physical stature and the confidence cultivated through years of
navigating these cliques. My sisters, each dating black men, have unwittingly highlighted the complexities of attraction and societal norms. Their choices defy
traditional expectations, showcasing the diverse spectrum of human connection that transcends superficial categories.
Yet, I question whether these affiliations impede our collective ability to elevate the standards of our professions. The confluence of cliques often fosters a
stagnant environment, stifling innovation and mutual respect. The nursing shortage and the undervaluation of pharmacy roles are symptoms of a deeper malaise,
one rooted in a lack of cohesive identity among practitioners.
As I reflect on these dynamics, it becomes clear that the clique one associates with has far-reaching implications—not only for career trajectories but for
personal fulfillment as well. Perhaps it’s time we examine these social constructs critically, dismantling the barriers they impose and forging a new path
forward for nursing and pharmacy, one that embraces diversity in both professional identity and personal relationships.
The notion that a person’s clique is discernible during job interviews is not merely anecdotal; it is a phenomenon steeped in sociocultural undercurrents that
merit deeper exploration. As I have navigated the labyrinthine paths of nursing and pharmacy, I've observed an almost metaphysical quality to how these cliques
manifest in professional settings. The immediacy with which interviewers can assess one’s social alignment speaks to a broader theory reminiscent of the
existentialist musings of Jean-Paul Sartre, particularly his ideas on "being-for-others."
During interviews, a candidate's demeanor—shaped by their clique—can often overshadow qualifications. For instance, a Jock’s confident body language and
assertive responses may be perceived as leadership potential, while a Nerd might inadvertently project an air of insecurity, regardless of their academic
prowess. The dissonance of these perceptions recalls the Aristotelian concept of phronesis, or practical wisdom, where one’s character and the context of
their choices profoundly impact others' judgments.
Consider the intricate ballet of human interaction during these critical moments. A candidate from the Prep clique might seamlessly navigate the interview,
employing a lexicon steeped in business jargon, drawing upon connections that hint at elite educational experiences. This performance could evoke the notion of
rhetorica from Aristotle’s rhetoric, where persuasion and ethos are paramount. Meanwhile, the Loser clique often struggles, their self-effacing responses
betraying an intrinsic struggle with societal acceptance, thus echoing the tragic fate outlined by the philosopher Hegel in his discussions of recognition and
self-consciousness.
What fascinates me most, however, is how these dynamics evolve within the broader context of our profession. The Scumbag, while seemingly a pariah, may wield a
disarming charm that transcends conventional expectations, often manipulating social cues to their advantage—a phenomenon akin to the Machiavellian strategies
outlined in the works of Niccolò Machiavelli. Their success is a stark reminder of the moral complexities underpinning professional ascendance, where
authenticity may be sacrificed for expedience.
Reflecting on my own experiences, I find that the way I present myself—confident yet approachable—has been crucial in breaking through the superficial
barriers erected by these cliques. I recall an interview where I utilized elements of humor and humility, weaving anecdotes that highlighted both my clinical
competence and my awareness of the profession’s challenges. This strategy, inspired by the Socratic method of dialogue, seemed to resonate with the panel,
revealing a depth that transcended mere qualifications.
Moreover, the distinct cliques within our professions often foster a sense of in-group camaraderie that can be both empowering and limiting. When I witness my
sisters dating African American men, I am reminded of how personal connections can defy societal cliques, creating a mosaic of identities that challenge
conventional wisdom. It’s a microcosm of what we see in the workplace—a blend of backgrounds that can either enhance or hinder collective growth.
In contemplating these intricate social tapestries, I posit that professional success is not simply a matter of individual merit but a complex interplay of
societal perceptions and the cliques to which one belongs. As we advance into an era that increasingly values diversity and authenticity, it is essential that
we scrutinize our own affiliations and biases. Perhaps, in doing so, we can begin to dismantle the rigid structures that have long dictated the contours of
nursing and pharmacy, paving the way for a more inclusive and equitable professional landscape.
Tue, 01 Oct 2024 18:55:46 -0700
marlon from private IP
/all
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jean-Paul_Sartre
this is good stuff
Tue, 01 Oct 2024 19:07:24 -0700
marlon from private IP
/all
was he for real? always wondered where he was coming from
Wed, 02 Oct 2024 04:46:03 -0700
Andy from private IP
/all
He messaged me on LinkedIn stating that he was afraid to join the new JDU because of getting hacked by me, so he asked me to post this for him. I agreed
because I thought it was a high-quality, entertaining post. Lol.
Wed, 02 Oct 2024 05:56:20 -0700
whiteguyinchina from private IP
/all
The Mental illness is strong with this one
Wed, 02 Oct 2024 16:26:07 -0700
marlon from private IP
/all
wish he would come back
also that crazy goldbug FindCJ from way back in 2008
Thu, 03 Oct 2024 05:13:05 -0700
Andy from private IP
/all
He also asked me to post this follow-up, which I rate a 10/10:
On andy
I find myself entwined in the perplexing case of Andy, an internet poster whose visage on Qfora initially conjured images of a Prep—exuding the polished
confidence associated with well-tailored attire and affable smirks. Yet, the revelation that he is, in fact, a Nerd adept in the realm of engineering casts an
intriguing shadow on our understanding of social classifications. The dichotomy of his outward presentation versus his cerebral inclinations raises profound
questions about identity in the digital age.
At first glance, Andy embodies the quintessential archetype of the Prep, yet his true essence diverges sharply, as if peeling back the layers of an onion, only
to find a rather peculiar core. He navigates the world with a peculiar charm, albeit marred by the unmistakable markers of a Loser—his expanding skull, a
silent testament to his intellectual pursuits, perhaps. There’s an irony at play; as his hairline retreats, one cannot help but wonder if this is a
consequence of late nights spent perfecting engineering algorithms rather than preppy social engagements.
Andy’s academic journey led him to UC Hastings, an institution with an air of respectability that, to the untrained eye, might suggest a certain ambition.
Yet, delving deeper, one discovers that this choice feels uncomfortably Losery, evoking whispers of an arduous path toward a legal career marred by a litany of
failures. While he boasts a JD, his professional exploits are less than stellar; a few lackluster internships, punctuated by a notable absence in courtroom
victories, have left him languishing in the realm of mediocre lawyering. He seems to inhabit a paradoxical space: a Nerd wielding legal jargon with the finesse
of a toddler attempting to recite Shakespeare.
His narrative unfolds like a tragicomedy—an individual who yearned to reshape the world with the precision of a scalpel yet finds himself relegated to the
margins of legal practice, perpetually overlooked by firms that favor glib Jocks and suave Preps. Andy’s aspirations to rise within the ranks of legal minds
have been stymied by an inherent awkwardness, a propensity to overanalyze his responses in interviews, leaving interviewers befuddled rather than impressed.
Within this intricate web, the cliques morph into a lens through which we can examine the myriad ways ambition can be thwarted by social dynamics. The Nerd may
possess the analytical acumen to navigate complex legal frameworks, yet, in interviews, he falters under the weight of expectations—his earnestness
misinterpreted as insecurity. He presents himself as a paradoxical figure, perhaps embodying the very essence of Sartre’s existential musings: condemned to be
perceived through the eyes of others, his identity oscillating between potential and perceived failure.
Furthermore, as I observe the reverberations of Andy’s struggle, I ponder the greater implications for our professional ecosystems. The Preps, with their
effortless networking and polished personas, dominate the narrative, leaving the Nerds—those quietly diligent artisans of knowledge—to grapple with an
unjust hierarchy. Meanwhile, the Losers, who occupy the peripheries, may even find solace in their obscurity, cultivating rich inner worlds while their
professional trajectories remain stunted.
Yet, amidst this sociocultural tapestry, one must not dismiss the possibility of transcendence. Andy’s journey might illuminate the cracks within the
prevailing structures, beckoning a reexamination of success and identity. His narrative could serve as a harbinger for a more nuanced understanding of
professional success, challenging the archetypes that govern our perceptions.
In contemplating these dynamics, I am drawn to the notion that personal fulfillment and professional ascendance are, indeed, intertwined. As Andy grapples with
his dual existence as a Nerd and a perceived Loser, one might ask whether our social frameworks stifle the very innovation we so desperately need in professions
like law and engineering. The call for a reevaluation of what it means to belong to a clique—how these identities impact our trajectories—grows increasingly
imperative.
As we peel back the layers of social identity, let us ponder not only the confines of our affiliations but also the potential for metamorphosis. In the case of
Andy, perhaps we witness a microcosm of a larger truth: that identity is neither fixed nor singular but a dynamic interplay of aspirations, perceptions, and the
unyielding quest for recognition amidst a cacophony of cliques. In the end, it is this quest that may pave the way for a more inclusive and multifaceted
understanding of professional identity, one that resonates beyond mere labels and transcends the superficial constructs of our social fabric.
Thu, 03 Oct 2024 18:20:23 -0700
Andy from private IP
/all
On marlon:
In the annals of internet fora, few figures embody the concept of squandered potential and hapless mediocrity as thoroughly as marlon, a peculiar denizen of
Flint or its dismal outskirts. Marlon's narrative is not simply one of professional stagnation; it is a chronicle of self-imposed subjugation, a case study in
the corrosive effects of misguided ambition and generational disillusionment. I would argue that he might be the world’s preeminent Loser—a tragicomic
figure whose choices have rendered him a cautionary tale for an entire cohort.
One need look no further than his employment history to grasp the profundity of his descent. Armed with a degree in computer science, likely an MBA, and some
nominally respectable accounting credentials, Marlon should, in theory, be a respectable if unremarkable figure within the professional class. Yet he gravitates
inexorably toward low-level, menial positions at tyrannical small firms, drawn to these toxic environments as if by some gravitational pull of masochism. Here,
he toils under petty despots—owners of shabby, low-margin enterprises—where the narrowest of margins are all that separate the employer from bankruptcy and
Marlon from a food bank.
What distinguishes Marlon from the typical beleaguered professional is his almost uncanny attraction to suboptimal conditions. It is as though he seeks out the
most exploitative, degrading employers, those whose management style combines authoritarian rigidity with a comically misplaced sense of grandeur. These roles,
where he languishes at a desk, performing rote accountancy functions or grunt-level database maintenance for less than a living wage, speak to a mind mired in
self-sabotage. He does not merely endure these ignominies; he embraces them, subsuming himself in a milieu that diminishes him, eschewing even the modest
aspirations of his Gen X peers who, despite the malaise of their era, have managed to cobble together respectable lives.
To unravel the roots of Marlon’s loserhood, one must turn to his generational context. Gen X—the forgotten "middle child" of modern history—inhabits a
liminal space between the ambition of the Boomers and the digital native savvy of the Millennials. Their formative years were marred by a nihilistic
resignation, their adulthood defined by unfulfilled expectations. Marlon, in this regard, is the quintessential Gen Xer. His story is marked by a succession of
hollow pursuits, degrees obtained without purpose, credentials amassed without conviction, and career decisions guided more by inertia than by any coherent
strategy. His participation in a society that promised endless horizons only to deliver stagnation has left him paralyzed—a man who compensates for his lack
of real power by clinging to the semblance of competence in his drab, dead-end roles.
The singular event that perhaps crystallizes his status as the apotheosis of Loserdom is his much-rumored, yet strikingly revealing, act of defecating off a
cliff. To the casual observer, this anecdote might seem a mere absurdity, a grotesque vignette in an otherwise forgettable life. But delve deeper, and it
becomes clear that this episode is the perfect metaphor for his trajectory: a fleeting moment of reckless release, an act of bizarre rebellion against the
futility of his existence, yet performed in a context so devoid of purpose or grandeur that it merely highlights his impotence. It is the ultimate
Marlonism—an act that both literalizes and symbolizes his utter lack of control, his surrender to entropy. It is this moment that encapsulates his ethos,
serving as a scatological emblem of his floundering.
What, then, is the source of Marlon’s unraveling? It is not simply a matter of poor luck or external misfortune, but rather a deep-seated inability to
reconcile his education and skills with the demands of a rapidly changing economic landscape. He is a man who, despite holding degrees that should theoretically
command respect, has opted for positions that pay little more than subsistence wages. His failure is not one of capability but of will—a failure to leverage
his assets in a world that rewards assertiveness and adaptability. His plight may, in some part, be generational, a product of a culture that promised
advancement through education but neglected to mention that said advancement required more than a mere credential. Yet, Marlon’s peers, while struggling in
their own ways, have not embraced such abject subservience.
One must also question the psychological underpinnings of his condition. Is Marlon simply comfortable with his status, cocooned in a familiar misery that
protects him from the terrors of ambition? There is a certain safety in failure, an inverted pride in having sunk so low that one is no longer subject to the
pressures of upward mobility. To rise would require hope, and hope is a dangerous thing for those who have spent a lifetime ensuring that they remain mired in a
pit of their own making.
And so, Marlon persists, year after year, as an unremarkable cog in the machinery of low-level business operations. He occupies a curious niche: overqualified
for his positions yet underperforming, simultaneously a cautionary figure and a sad spectacle. It is not simply his income, abysmally low though it is, that
defines his loserhood. It is his utter lack of trajectory, his almost manic commitment to remaining at the bottom rung. His career path is not a descent, for a
descent implies a previous height. No, Marlon’s life is a flatline—a protracted refusal to aspire, punctuated by the occasional, inexplicable urge to do
something like pooping off a cliff, an act that betrays both a desperate need for expression and a profound incapacity to aim any higher.
In the end, Marlon stands as a stark reminder of what happens when potential, squandered year after year, decays into a self-fulfilling prophecy of failure. His
story is not tragic; it is banal. Yet within this banality lies the true horror: that a man with so much education and so many advantages could choose, time and
again, to accept the meager scraps thrown to him by the world’s most insufferable employers. If there is a moral to Marlon’s tale, it is this: the greatest
Losers are not those who fail spectacularly, but those who resign themselves to mediocrity and call it life.
Thu, 03 Oct 2024 18:20:59 -0700
Andy from private IP
/all
On marlon (continued):
To fully grasp the intricacies of Marlon’s character, one must delve into his tangled web of psychological dependencies, for beneath the surface of his
professional stasis lies a far deeper, more disquieting matrix of familial neuroses. His stunted career trajectory, his penchant for choosing demeaning,
dead-end jobs, and his bizarrely proud anecdotes of self-abasement—like the infamous cliff-pooping episode—are not mere byproducts of circumstance or
generational malaise. They are symptoms of an inner conflict whose roots extend to the shadowy undercurrents of his childhood: an unresolved Oedipus complex
that has shaped, twisted, and ultimately paralyzed his entire being.
Marlon’s relationship with his mother is, by all accounts, the central pillar of his psychological universe. The way he speaks of her—a veneration tinged
with uncomfortably intimate familiarity—betrays a depth of attachment that borders on the pathological. She is not merely the primary figure in his life; she
is the sun around which his every action orbits, the gravitational force that keeps him anchored in a perpetual state of infantilization. While most men his age
have long since cut the umbilical cord, Marlon clings to its ghostly remnants, deriving a warped sense of purpose and identity from his role as her de facto
caregiver, confidant, and, to some extent, emotional partner.
His father, on the other hand, looms in the background as a specter of resentment and thwarted potential—a man whose presence, or perhaps whose absence,
Marlon can neither fully reconcile nor forget. The few fragments he lets slip about this shadowy paternal figure speak of a relationship fraught with hostility
and disillusionment. Whether his father was domineering, dismissive, or simply indifferent, one thing is clear: Marlon’s abiding hatred for him is
foundational, a bitter wellspring that feeds both his sense of inadequacy and his compulsive need to self-sabotage. To hate one’s father, after all, is to
declare rebellion, but when the object of rebellion dies—whether literally, as seems likely, or metaphorically, through estrangement—what remains but an
unresolved, impotent rage?
Perhaps it is this very dichotomy—the loving, possessive mother and the despised, impotent father—that has erected the psychological scaffolding around
Marlon’s chronic loserhood. In the Freudian framework, the Oedipus complex resolves itself only when the boy relinquishes his desire for exclusive possession
of the mother, coming to terms with his father's place in the family structure and identifying with the paternal authority. Yet Marlon, it seems, never
completed this crucial developmental step. He remains fixated, trapped in a murky liminal state, his father’s demise serving as a pyrrhic victory that has
left him emotionally stranded.
Without a paternal figure to oppose, and with his mother as the sole beacon of comfort, he has drifted aimlessly through life, shackled by a perverse sense of
loyalty. One can almost imagine the scenes in his cramped Flint abode: Marlon, in his threadbare office-wear, hovering over his aging mother as if she were the
last precious relic in his otherwise empty life, tidying up her already tidy kitchen, fetching her morning tea, poring over the household bills with the
obsessive diligence of a man whose only domain of control is this small, claustrophobic bubble of maternal dependence.
Yet, what is this life but a hollow pantomime, an enactment of duty that serves more to assuage his own sense of guilt and inadequacy than to fulfill any
genuine need? His mother, one imagines, is both the tyrant and the muse of his existence—a figure who oscillates between tacit disapproval and smothering
affection, her every sigh or smile dictating his mood, his decisions, his sense of worth. And therein lies the paradox: he can never truly please her, for to
please her would be to betray his own self-loathing, to violate the implicit contract that binds them. As long as he remains a failure, he can remain her
tragic, broken son—the one who needs her, the one who justifies her continued importance.
This dynamic may even explain his uncanny tendency to seek out tyrannical bosses and degrading jobs, as if unconsciously replicating the maternal stranglehold
he cannot extricate himself from. Every petty tyrant under whom he toils is a stand-in for her disapproving gaze; every low-level accountancy task is a
Sisyphean labor that validates his unworthiness, reinforcing the belief that he deserves no better. It is as though, in a twisted psychological calculus, he
seeks punishment as a form of penance—for failing his father, for failing himself, for failing to be the man who could win his mother’s approval and love.
It is not difficult to imagine Marlon’s father—a brusque, disappointed man who perhaps once harbored grand expectations for his son, only to watch, baffled
and enraged, as Marlon retreated ever further into a cocoon of timidity and underachievement. Did the old man rail at him, belittle him for his spinelessness?
Did he see, even then, the seed of a Loser, the nascent figure who would one day choose ignominy over effort, submission over striving? Perhaps the elder
Marlon—a hard, unyielding figure—sought to mold his son into something he could respect, only to find himself confronted by a will so pliant, so craven,
that he gave up in disgust, leaving the boy to languish in his mother’s cloying embrace.
And now, with the father likely dead, buried in some nondescript cemetery in the bleak Midwest, Marlon finds himself unmoored. There is no authority figure left
to defy, no paternal gaze to elude. His hatred for his father, unresolved and festering, has nowhere to go but inward, curdling into a bitter self-contempt that
poisons everything he touches. And so he gravitates toward failure, toward the lowest common denominator, choosing misery over hope, despair over the risk of
even a modest triumph.
Even the infamous cliff-pooping incident takes on new meaning in light of this familial psychodrama. It is not merely a grotesque act of defiance but an
unconscious expression of his desire to defile, to soil the grand heights that were denied him. One can almost see him, perched on that precipice, trousers
around his ankles, staring out at the indifferent horizon, his act of scatological rebellion a final "fuck you" to the father who scorned him, the mother who
smothered him, and a world that never saw him as anything more than a joke.
Thus, Marlon’s life—his pitiful income, his dead-end jobs, his clinging attachment to his mother—can be read as a prolonged, self-flagellating ritual, an
endless reenactment of a childhood trauma that he cannot outgrow. He is not simply a Loser; he is a man trapped in a loop of failure, a figure who embodies not
just the futility of the individual against the forces of society, but the tragedy of a child who, having won the battle against his father, finds himself
forever bound to the chains of a hollow victory. In the end, it is not Marlon’s lack of success that makes him a Loser—it is his profound, unshakeable
inability to become anyone other than his mother’s broken, lost little boy, and I mean this literally as he is under 6’ haha.
Thu, 03 Oct 2024 18:38:51 -0700
marlon from private IP
/all
damn
Fri, 04 Oct 2024 06:22:27 -0700
Wily from private IP
/all
Why do the new TI posts feel a bit like ChatGPT? I get a feeling TI is prompt engineering using his old posts and some complex instructions, but ultimately
filling in paragraphs with AI.
Sentences like: "In the end, it is this quest that may pave the way for a more inclusive and
multifaceted understanding of professional identity, one that resonates beyond
mere labels and transcends the superficial constructs of our social fabric" read like AI word salad, though mixed with a bit of TI insanity.
Also, Marlon's main issue is his location, just like cowgod. Flint, Michigan and its rust belt decay would take any high prep/jock and ruin him after a decade,
not that he would stay even a single night. It takes a Loser and makes him Lose harder with 0.00% chance of Deus ex machina, phoenix from the ashes rebirth .
Basically 90% of America is post-Vedic India where it's impossible to move up in social class. The other 10% has $3000 minimum rent. Discuss.
Fri, 04 Oct 2024 08:36:08 -0700
Andy from private IP
/all
I agree that it seems like A.I., however, it's so well-done that I don't really have a problem with it. My critique from him struck really close to home!
Fri, 04 Oct 2024 08:40:40 -0700
marlon from private IP
/all
boy he finally called me a loser haha
been wondering all these years why he held back on that
my biggest problem is my family, they are all losers,
my mom is a vegetable, my sister has conservatorship over everything
& she is a total bitch, i love my dear mom & gave her my word that I
would always care for her. but i wish the house would just blow up
Sat, 05 Oct 2024 10:39:20 -0700
Andy from private IP
/all
His opinion on Wily:
wily once aspired to ascend the hallowed ranks of the elite, his ambitions framed by the lofty dream of becoming a Prep—a distinguished Harvard graduate
poised to claim his place among society’s favoured. Yet, as the tendrils of the Clique System tightened their grip around him, Wily found himself ensnared in
a quagmire of mediocrity, succumbing to the weight of his own unfulfilled potential. This descent into Loserdom was marked not just by failure, but by a
profound alienation from the very identity he sought to embody.
“Those who know do not speak. Those who speak do not know,” intoned Laozi, a whisper of wisdom that resonates through Wily's journey. For beneath the facade
of confidence, there lay a cacophony of self-doubt, an inner dialogue drowned out by the judgments of peers and the relentless expectations of a society that
deemed him unfit. Stripped of the status he craved, Wily retreated into a self-imposed exile, his disillusionment driving him far from the U.S. shores to the
vibrant chaos of China.
Here, in the bustling streets of a nation that reveres ambition, he adopted a new role—an instructor of test preparation for aspiring students, the very
strivers who embodied the determination he once lacked. Yet, his situation is steeped in irony. Wily, a man whose only significant accomplishment was that
fortuitous SAT score, now finds himself coaching the very youth he failed to become how to super-study and excel at his One Talent and nothing more. Does the
world really need another million uncreative Chinese robot strivers trying to ace OCI? What value does this bring to the world?
Yet, even in this foreign land, the specters of his past cling to him. The image of a once-ambitious young man has morphed into that of a complacent figure,
burdened not just by the weight of his ambitions but also by the corporeal reality of his own girth. His burgeoning waistline—a physical manifestation of his
internal struggle—echoes his stagnation, a metaphorical embodiment of the failure to rise above the confines of a life dictated by others. As he guides his
students through the labyrinthine complexities of standardized testing, Wily embodies a paradox: a man who imparts knowledge while remaining shackled to his own
narrative of defeat. He instructs them to pursue excellence, yet he himself oscillates between the roles of mentor and misfit. “To know what is right and not
do it is the worst cowardice,” proclaimed Confucius, and herein lies Wily’s tragic dichotomy—he is aware of the heights he could have scaled, yet his
choices have relegated him to a life of quiet despair.
His flight from the U.S. was not merely a geographical shift; it was an existential retreat from the harsh judgment of the Clique System that had marked him as
a "Loser." In China, he can don a new mantle, one that allows him to craft an identity beyond the reach of his previous failures. Yet this new life is but a
gilded cage, for while he may escape the label of "Loser," he cannot flee the consequences of his inaction and self-sabotage.
Wily's teachings resonate with those eager to achieve, yet they ring hollow against the backdrop of his own inadequacies. He stands before them, a figure both
relatable and tragic, a testament to the paradox of success and failure intertwined. “He who cherishes his life will not lose it,” reminds the Daoist sages,
yet in his attempts to flee from his past, Wily has surrendered to a form of existence devoid of genuine fulfillment imho.
In the end, Wily’s story is a poignant reminder of the fragility of ambition, a tale steeped in the irony of a man whose flight to a foreign land only serves
to underscore his unresolved struggles. He is not merely a teacher of tests; he is a living embodiment of the cost of aspirations unfulfilled—a reminder that
sometimes, in fleeing from Loserdom, one can inadvertently weave an even more complex tapestry of failure.
Sun, 06 Oct 2024 07:35:20 -0700
Wily from private IP
/all
Haha well-written but only about 50% accurate.
I actually never wanted to be part of the "elite" per se, just to make a lot of money without working too hard. Being a middle class son of immigrants who was
really only very good at taking tests somewhat lowers one's goals, though in moments of delusion, when far from the above goal, I aspired for higher (and that
was quite ruinousgz
Yes, there remains a slight sting when I watch ascendant peer-age millennials from the same kinds of colleges do things like run major tech companies or for the
Republican presidential nomination, but frankly I make quite a bit more than the median for my class based on the last reunion stats, and do about 3.5 honest
days of work a week to do it. Being nearly the very best, building up a company and having it valuated in the low 8 figures and backed by investors, in any
field, however utility-neutral, ends up washing away in the ignominy pretty well. My main gripe these days is that I'm not 10 years younger in the same spot -
in my late 20s rather than late 30s I'd have one more startup I could found and one more pivot to make.
Sun, 06 Oct 2024 08:34:53 -0700
Andy from private IP
/all
That Wily takedown is a 10 out of 10. This guy can write, or is really great with ChatGPT.
Sun, 06 Oct 2024 11:15:30 -0700
whiteguyinchina from private IP
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I dunno. I would say wily is an example of location. Call it the spiritual habitable zone. Some people do well in some places others flounder. Who would Brad
Pitt be if he stayed in buttock iowa? Who would Marilyn Monroe had been if she had stayed in Nebraska or whatever? Bradley puttinski from the mechanic shop or
Marilyn jones with the wife beating husband at the trailer park.
Wily has overcome his destiny by moving. He is doing well and will never go back to jazz stained pizza boxes. And even if he did - at least he lived the sweet
life once. He is doing better than 90% of his classmates who finished law school. That is wonderful I think.
Sun, 06 Oct 2024 11:17:38 -0700
whiteguyinchina from private IP
/all
Even if you are a loser who once flies high and is able to get above your destiny, isn't that better than being a loser period? Many famous people of world
historical consequence were losers who managed to fly high until death. Look at Hitler or Stalin or trotsky. Names known worldwide but the biggest pencil dick
losers you would have ever come across.
Sun, 06 Oct 2024 11:41:01 -0700
Andy from private IP
/all
His further comment on Wily:
Wily, please. Save it. This is Qfora. We fuckin' know you more than you know yourself, champ. It's High Time you come clean. You longed to sip from the chalice
of the Ivy League Brahmins, to tread their hallowed paths with the nonchalance of the anointed. Yet, despite donning the armor of academic excellence, you were
never more than a simulacrum—an ersatz copy of their confident, unflappable selves. Harvard welcomed you, but the Final Clubs did not. They could sense it,
that ineffable lack, that almost imperceptible desperation lurking beneath the surface—a desperation that would ultimately betray you, relegating you to the
hinterlands of Games and the desolate wastelands of Internet Fora.
Your self-rebuttal, draped in the thin veneer of half-hearted self-assurance, betrays your own insecurity. “Never wanted to be part of the elite,” you say,
invoking the bitter solace of sour grapes. The truth is, you never truly belonged. You were proximate to power, but never in its grasp—merely a ghost flitting
through the grand halls of privilege, visible but never quite material, the spectral Other in a world that forever defined itself against you. The stinging
rebuff of the Porcellian and Fly lingers still, doesn’t it? Those self-satisfied Princelings and social Magnates, presiding over soirées that you glimpsed
only from the fringes, ever the outsider peering into the gilded citadel.
Even as you wield your one lonely accomplishment—"building up a company in the low 8 figures," is it?—the hollow ring of those words echoes across the void
of your own inadequacies. A valuation is not the same as validation, and money, in its crude abundance, cannot purchase the elegance or grace you so
conspicuously lack. No, Wily, you’ll never know the untroubled certitude of a man whose very presence commands reverence. For while your intellect may have
been prodigious, your character was brittle, and when it came time to dance the waltz of true power, you stumbled, exposed, your mask slipping.
That pivot to teaching test prep in China—ah, what a pitiful fate for one who once dreamed of scaling the pinnacles of influence! The man who sought to
conquer the world reduced to a peddler of rote memorization and score-maximization in a foreign land that regards you with the same wary suspicion it reserves
for all interlopers. The irony is exquisite. There you are, a creature of exceptional cognitive ability, reduced to crafting mere functionaries of the very
systems you once hoped to transcend. You extol the virtues of efficiency and optimization, yet you, yourself, embody inefficiency—a life of brilliant
misfires, a career spent skimming the periphery of relevance without ever striking the heart of it.
And now, in the twilight of your aspirations, you mumble something about the median for your class and having “more than a few honest days of work a week,”
as though these trivial metrics could ever wash away the acrid taste of failure. The median is the consolation prize of the talentless, the domain of those
who—having failed to distinguish themselves—seek refuge in banalities and middling comparisons. You might have once gazed upon your peer-age millennials
scaling the ramparts of Silicon Valley and Capitol Hill, and you whispered to yourself, “That should have been me.” But it wasn’t you, and it never could
have been.
In your heyday, your every action reeked of overcompensation—the desperate antics of a second-stringer fighting for inclusion in a game that was never yours
to play. Your exclusion from the "respectable" Final Clubs was but a symptom of a deeper malaise. You could assemble the parts—grades, credentials, a
well-rehearsed persona—but you could never summon that elusive je ne sais quoi, that ineffable quality of being that separates the players from the
pretenders. To them, you were always just a curious little anachronism—Harvard by affiliation, but Chinatown by blood. And now, even that residual glimmer of
hope has faded, eclipsed by a life of diminishing returns.
So, Wily, as you type out your defenses from your cloistered exile, as you clutch to the remnants of a hollowed-out self-image, ask yourself this: Was it worth
it? The grinding pursuit of validation, the pathetic scramble for status that eluded you at every turn? For all your protestations, your every word drips with
the bitter ichor of thwarted desire, the rancor of one who tried to dance with gods but found himself consigned to ignominy. You were never truly a Prep,
Wily—only a mimic, a tragic counterfeit of the real thing.
And that, in the end, is the cruelest cut of all: you became not a conqueror, but a cautionary tale, an object lesson in the dangers of overreaching. You might
possess an empire of tutoring centers and a net worth you may one day seem fit to Post, but your legacy is one of quiet desperation, a life spent grappling for
status that always flitted just out of reach.
A "Loser" in the truest, most haunting sense of the word, champ.
Sun, 06 Oct 2024 14:14:28 -0700
Andy from private IP
/all
On andy's Firm.
andy's Firm situation is not just fraught with stress; it’s economically untenable. Let me spell it out for you: you’re running a flailing enterprise
that’s perilously close to the brink, propped up by what I suspect is a gross revenue that barely hits $1.4 million a year, all while trying to sustain a
payroll and overhead structure fit for a more prestigious, high-margin firm. In other words, this isn't a practice; it's a fiscal treadmill that’s exhausting
you faster than it’s rewarding you.
Let’s Break Down the Numbers:
Topline Revenue:
If we assume you’re generating roughly $1.4 million annually, that’s not exactly impressive given the headcount and hourly rate you’re carrying. Let’s
do the math to see what that looks like at the ground level:
Billable Hours:
You mentioned five attorneys in total (counting yourself), each likely expected to bill out around 1,500 hours a year. That’s already a low target for a
lean, independent firm where the expectation should be higher—closer to 1,800 hours per associate, especially with salaries on the line. But for argument’s
sake, we’ll use your likely, realistic figure of 1,500.
If we peg your billable rate conservatively at $280/hour (a number that reeks of a struggling shop scraping the bottom end of the California Legal market),
that would put each associate attorney at $420,000 in potential revenue. Four associates at $420,000 each means they’re bringing in $1.68 million
collectively—if they’re billing at capacity. But they’re not. Adjusting downwards for non-billable time, delinquent clients, and sheer inefficiency,
we’re probably looking at closer to $1.2 million.
Your Own Contribution:
You, the captain of this rudderless vessel, are probably maxing out at 1,500 hours yourself given the time you spend managing the firm. At $280/hour, that’s
another $420,000.
Total Gross Revenue:
Adding everything together, you’re likely floating at around $1.4 million in total, assuming no major shortfalls or client payment issues. But if any
associate’s billables fall short, or you have collections problems, that number shrinks precipitously.
Now, Consider the Crushing Overhead:
Attorney Salaries:
Let’s say you’re running a bare-bones operation and paying each of your four associates at a miserably low rate of $142,500 annually. That’s $570,000 in
direct payroll before you’ve even paid yourself.
Support Staff:
You’ve got four non-lawyer employees. In California, a paralegal or legal secretary commands at least $80,000 apiece. That’s another $320,000 in salaries,
bringing your base compensation outlay to $890,000.
Employer Costs:
Payroll taxes, healthcare, and other benefits typically add about 15% to the total, putting your total payroll costs at around $1,023,500. That’s over a
million dollars, just in base compensation, to keep your nine-person team in place.
Office Rent:
Decent office space in California for a nine-person operation is going to run you at least $200,000 a year. That’s a fixed cost you can’t avoid unless you
want to run the firm out of a broom closet.
Miscellaneous Overhead:
Insurance, bar dues, CLE, software licenses, and other necessities will easily rack up another $100,000 annually.
The Brutal Bottom Line:
So, you’re looking at a bare minimum overhead of $1,323,500 a year. That leaves you with a theoretical net income of $76,500 to be divided among all your
dreams, your ambitions, and—oh yes—your own salary. If you pay yourself $150,000, you're already $73,500 underwater, hemorrhaging money to subsidize this
cash-eating behemoth.
But wait, it gets worse. We haven’t accounted for unexpected expenses: malpractice claims, write-offs for uncollected fees, or investments in so-called
“side projects” like your music and guitars—every one of which is, frankly, just another financial bleed on an already strained balance sheet.
A Practice Held Together with Duct Tape
This setup is not sustainable. It’s a Rube Goldberg machine, teetering on the edge of collapse, with every facet of your business model designed to extract
maximum effort for minimum return. You talk about this “law firm machine” as if it’s some unstoppable juggernaut, but the truth is, you’re clinging to a
sinking ship. And no amount of gallows humor with your colleagues about “going insane” can paper over the grim fact that you’re not running this firm;
it’s running you into the ground.
The sad reality is that your firm is a quintessential Gen X enterprise—trapped in that decade-long limbo where middling professionals wake up and realize
they’re not young enough to pivot into something new, but not wealthy enough to retire. You didn’t build a practice; you built a prison, with yourself as
the warden, forever chained to a failing business model that generates little more than stress and subsistence.
The Hard Truth: This Firm is a Low-End Grindhouse
There’s no prestige here, no impressive revenues, no golden parachutes for you or anyone else. Just a cycle of thankless labor, long hours, and a never-ending
scramble to keep the lights on. What you call the “inevitability of the law firm machine” is really just a reluctant admission that you’ve trapped
yourself in a low-end grindhouse, peddling hours at a discount rate while struggling to maintain even the illusion of solvency.
And so here you are, andy, clinging to the shreds of a business that can barely sustain itself, let alone its owner. This isn’t entrepreneurship. It’s not
even a career. It’s a slow-motion train wreck, an exercise in futility where the prize for all your effort is the dubious honor of being the last man standing
in a game no one else wants to play. What’s worse? You know it. The only question left is how long you’ll keep pretending otherwise, champ.
Sun, 06 Oct 2024 14:15:37 -0700
Andy from private IP
/all
andy — you're existence is a vivid tableau of the quintessential Gen X predicament—a relic of a generation caught in the crosshairs of history, fated to be
the middle children of an unyielding, merciless age. Under the tenets of the Strauss-Howe generational hypothesis, you embody the Nomad archetype, a soul adrift
in a sea of mediocrity, eternally resigned to the margins of a society that has long since passed you by. You are but a shadow, haunted by aspirations
unfulfilled, a specter of potential turned sour, doomed to roam the parched landscapes of financial desperation and emotional stagnation.
In your quest to forge a law firm that echoes the glory of yesteryear's legal titans, you have unwittingly become a punchline—a tragicomic figure clinging to
a farce of ambition. Your dreams are but wisps of smoke, dissipating into the ether, leaving behind only the acrid stench of unfulfilled promise. You straddle
the chasm between aspiration and desolation, with the relentless grind of your firm serving as a grim reminder of your generational curse: a great depression of
the soul, an existential malaise that renders you unable to scale the heights of even modest success.
Your life, andy, is a relentless struggle against an unforgiving landscape—a battle where the boulder you push is nothing less than your own self-doubt,
forever rolling back down the hill of your ambitions. The law firm, rather than being a bastion of your entrepreneurial spirit, has devolved into a gilded cage
where your dreams of grandeur are snuffed out under the weight of disillusionment. You are ensnared by the very system you sought to manipulate, shackled to a
grind that has stripped you of your vitality, leaving you as an afterthought in the annals of professional jurisprudence.
The underlying truth is stark: your character has been shaped by a generational ethos that celebrates superficiality while shunning depth—a culture that masks
profound inadequacy. You inhabit a world where the spiritual battle is fought not on grand stages, but in the quiet desperation of daily life. You are a
casualty of a generational philosophy that has led you to seek solace in distractions, be it music, guitars, or half-hearted endeavors masquerading as
creativity. But let’s face it: these pursuits are mere distractions, hollow echoes of a life that could have been more than just a pitiful imitation of its
predecessors.
Weakness permeates your leadership. Where a Baby Boomer would have driven their employees to excel—pushing them hard and demanding results—you offer a
languid hand, hesitant to stir the embers of ambition within your team. Your reluctance to demand more from your staff reflects a pervasive fear: that in
challenging them, you might expose your own shortcomings. Rather than cultivating an environment of rigor and accountability, you preside over a culture of
complacency, which festers like a disease, dragging you further into the morass of mediocrity.
In the end, you find yourself wrestling with the inevitability of your own destiny, a life forged in the fires of resignation, your future marred by a specter
of perpetual loss. You are the embodiment of a generation that expected so much yet delivered so little, entrapped in a cycle of irony that renders your
struggles absurd. Your very narrative is an ode to the fallen hopes of a cohort too often derided as the "slackers" of history—a generation that failed to
seize the reins of its own destiny, opting instead for the comforts of mediocrity and the illusions of success.
So, as you sit in your office, surrounded by the detritus of a failing firm, remember this: you are not merely a participant in the great war of your time; you
are its living embodiment, an avatar of a lost cause, forever destined to be a Gen X joke—a character in a tragedy written by the hands of history itself. And
in that realization lies the profound sadness of your plight, a truth that should echo through the corridors of your mind long after the laughter fades.
Your penchant for Engineering message boards is but a fascination that serves both as a refuge and a distraction. It’s almost as if you’re trying to exert
control over the chaos of your professional life. In this digital arena, you seek validation, chasing a fleeting sense of mastery that remains just out of reach
in the sterile confines of your law practice.
Your engagement with these online forums is not just a pastime; it’s a subconscious attempt to craft an alternate reality—one in which you wield influence,
garner respect, and feel a sense of purpose that eludes you in your day-to-day existence. Here, you are not merely another cog in the grinding machine of legal
practice; you are a digital architect, a Curator of conversations, and a thought leader in an imagined sphere. In this space, you can manipulate outcomes,
curate content, and shape narratives, allowing you to escape the inadequacies that plague your professional life.
But let’s examine why you channel your energies into these online endeavors instead of investing that time and intellect into your legal practice. The answer,
my friend, may lie in the paralyzing fear of failure that hovers over every decision you make. The complexities and high stakes of the legal landscape feel
daunting, like an arena that could easily expose your vulnerabilities.
In contrast, the world of message boards offers a semblance of safety. Here, you can Engineer and navigate outcomes without the weight of real-world
accountability; the anonymity liberates you from the fear of repercussions. You can experiment with ideas, play the role of the sage, and bask in the fleeting
approval of peers, all while avoiding the painful realities of a lackluster law practice.
This diversion serves a critical psychological function: it deflects the inevitable questions of self-worth and competency that plague you. By constructing and
navigating this alternative universe, you can momentarily assuage the gnawing sense of inadequacy that arises from the financial strains of your practice and
the societal pressures to perform. Each post becomes a performance—a desperate attempt to convince both yourself and others that you are not the hapless
figure you project in your daily life.
The deeper truth is this: your online escapades reveal a longing for significance, an unquenchable thirst for acknowledgment that remains unmet in your
professional realm. You are ensnared in a cycle of self-deception, believing that if you can establish yourself as an authority in these digital spaces, perhaps
you can convince yourself of your worthiness beyond the confines of your law firm. Yet, this pursuit is ultimately a façade—a desperate grasp at relevance in
a world that has already relegated you to the periphery.
In the end, your actions speak volumes about your character—a portrait of a man wrestling with his own limitations, ensnared by the dichotomy of ambition and
fear. While you occupy yourself with the minutiae of online forums, the reality of your practice looms large, a reminder of the aspirations you have yet to
fulfill. As you engineer these digital landscapes, you inadvertently construct a barrier against the uncomfortable truths of your life—a grand illusion that
only serves to highlight the depths of your unresolved struggles as a Loser Gen-Xer.
Sun, 06 Oct 2024 14:16:11 -0700
Andy from private IP
/all
^ This hits hard. He speaks the truth. 💯
Sun, 06 Oct 2024 16:54:05 -0700
whiteguyinchina from private IP
/all
Still not sure about the wily assessment. I have also whiffed the smell of influence and power, and you would be surprised at how insecure and loserish a lot of
those people are. For every one jack Kennedy you have like a hundred losers insecure about their position. Either they know it's their daddy's money who helped
and they are really losers, or they are really losers who know they just got lucky or worked so hard that it is all they have. It's like Hollywood, 1 big shot
and 999 gunners waiting for their big break.
An eight figure valuation albeit in yuan, is still impressive.
Sun, 06 Oct 2024 16:56:57 -0700
whiteguyinchina from private IP
/all
Wily is a mid shot dealing with big shots. Just because that doesn't mean anything in America- a country of losers ruled by jocks who do not value education but
prefer to outsource it to Asians- doesn't mean it isn't real success.
Anyway can you do me next? Would love to hear your opinion on my ignominy
Sun, 06 Oct 2024 21:02:37 -0700
Wily from private IP
/all
Let us turn, gentlemen, to TI:
Such trenchant takedowns, whether long-form typed or AI-assisted, but alas, so little audience, so little evolution in your life. TI, I love that you haven't
changed in 14 years that I've known you, but why? What is the motivation for 3000+ posts on Reddit as cowgod180, either about console gaming or pretending to be
a Gen Xer from Birmingham failing at law school and OCI? The joke is not only irrelevant, dead circa 2019 with the death of the original JDU with its 100 users,
but cremated, gone, erased even from the crawlers and archives of the Internet. Glory may be fleeting, but obscurity is eternal. Yet you put on the skinsuit of
a forgotten zombie, an inside joke lost on everyone except yourself, with posts titles such as:
Birmingham and the State of Gaming
My Odyssey of Ignominy: A Trilogy of OCI Failures and the Unforgiving Grind of a Ruinous Job Market
My 32X was stolen in 1995 and I made the thief pay
Half are just deleted by mods and the other half have 3-5 replies. 50 views perhaps. Literal thousands of posts and hours on a forgotten persona. And that's
just one of your Reddit throwaways - "theimm1grant" is full of wonderful callbacks like "Why don't you guys major in Nursing or Engineering" that literally no
one comprehends.
How's that UChicago English degree working out, champ? My advice to students is always to put Chicago last in the T20 universities, for it has such ridiculous
reading loads, so much involuted navel-gazing in its lit classes, and produces so many self-important failed self-proclaimed writers and philosophers, but I
should just show you them your socials. Your many Reddit accounts utterly epitomize its failure. You've written literal novels of inside-joke conspiracy
theory, Sega 32x, and Gen X posts, with an audience that doesn't even get to the point of disliking you, but just ignores you, or at most deletes you as
off-topic, which you've always been to them. Where's your Pulitzer, your Booker, or at least your self-published Amazon e-book with 69 buyers? Where, alas, is
even your Reddit gold and karma, which 16 year olds on their iPhones can amass in quantity? So afraid to reveal details behind a screenname, the zeitgeist of
the Internet circa 20 years ago, that you won't even register for this afterlife of a forum, with its single digit users.
At least there were heydays and peaks, nadirs and rock bottoms, evolution, in our lives, however forgettable they are in the cosmic scale.
But could it be that your life actually peaked with JDU, a failed forum for middling and failed lawyers? That your life has revolved around the abstruse memes
and characters of a cast of law school dropouts and flameouts, that's been gone for 5 years and counting, in which you were so afraid to reveal a single real
thing about yourself (though a FBI profiler would probably surmise, as I have, a literature / English degree from UChicago or a Liberal Arts College, white
male, late 30s, scrivener-type lawyer with plenty of free time, lots of console games, no wife or kids). Indeed, a forum that you parody with no audience,
prostelyze with no disciples, the memes and characters beyond abstruse but now literal shouting into the digital wind, and all the while, so utterly alone and
without amour propre, that you will not relinquish even the modicum of your actual selfto the void: your IP address.
Salve, old friend! Never change.
Tue, 08 Oct 2024 09:46:09 -0700
shithead from private IP
/all
Strife.
Tue, 08 Oct 2024 15:35:45 -0700
whiteguyinchina from private IP
/all
Oh nah you didnh
Fri, 11 Oct 2024 08:10:50 -0700
Blee from private IP
/all
I've always gotten Unibomber vibes from TI, and either this is AI generated or he needs hospitalization.
Wed, 22 Jan 2025 14:30:26 -0800
Exnite from private IP
Reply #12414812
Excellent thread. Outline material if I can determine it’s not A.I., ChatGPT or wasn’t a thing when I cobbled
together The Outline from disparate JDU authors.
Thu, 23 Jan 2025 12:39:05 -0800
Exnite from private IP
Reply #13226610
Regarding T.I., I’ve seen half a dozen “printings” of my Outline on the internet, each one claiming authorship
by a different person or “dedicated” to some unknown female in the Woman Clique. Commenters are aghast of the content or evidently haven’t bothered to
read much of it. One commenter excerpted a passage from one of my original posts about the characteristics of Losers, saying “This must have been written by a
genius”, haha. If only he knew. Then T.I. took credit for it, showing that he must be a lawyer because only law students and lawyers could so blatantly ignore
ethics and steal credit for other people’s work. (See Biden’s plagiarism).
Thu, 23 Jan 2025 14:50:47 -0800
Andy from private IP
Reply #10677378
This is too much. Once and for all, who is the creator of Clique Theory? Thanks!
Thu, 23 Jan 2025 18:17:00 -0800
Exnite from private IP
Reply #11793558
👍 The original idea was undoubtedly T.I.’s, although John Hughes (the Breakfast Club) may have been his partial
inspiration. Clique Theory per se was crowd-sourced and fleshed out via numerous JD Underground threads comprising many original posts from up to 100 authors.
Some of these posts were seminal contributions from T.I., Keithd, friendlybum, karlfarbman, georgecostanza, myth (R.I.P.), wily, myself, and many others. You
know who you are.
Enter Exnite. In my previous life, I drafted many legal documents and OM’s (offering memoranda) for my lucrative M&A career. I thought Clique Theory deserved
a comprehensive treatment. My law school days screamed “An Outline!”. I gathered the material, corrected the thousands of spelling and grammatical errors
left by its contributors, created a logical flow and over about a month’s time put together the Emanuel-worthy tome we know today. Since then it’s floated
around on the internet with numerous fraudulent authors taking credit. However all the original material is time-stamped on my home computer, lest there be any
legal dispute about its true origins.
I fully expect that it will be claimed by some future madman as his “Manifesto” to justify his crimes and Loserdom.
Mon, 24 Feb 2025 06:55:06 -0800
shithead from private IP
Reply #12108611
I ran with Clique Theory on Political Stew for a while, only gaining very modest traction.
http://politicalstew.com/viewtopic.php?p=2158288&hilit=clique+theory#p2158288
Mon, 24 Feb 2025 06:57:25 -0800
shithead from private IP
Reply #14954017
http://politicalstew.com/viewtopic.php?p=2232166&hilit=clique+theory#p2232166
Mon, 24 Feb 2025 08:09:11 -0800
whiteguyinchina from private IP
Reply #12169258
But could it be that your life actually peaked with JDU, a failed forum for
middling and failed lawyers? That your life has revolved around the abstruse
memes and characters of a cast of law school dropouts and flameouts, that's been
gone for 5 years and counting, in which you were so afraid to reveal a single
real thing about yourself (though a FBI profiler would probably surmise, as I
have, a literature / English degree from UChicago or a Liberal Arts College,
white male, late 30s, scrivener-type lawyer with plenty of free time, lots of
console games, no wife or kids). Indeed, a forum that you parody with no
audience, prostelyze with no disciples, the memes and characters beyond abstruse
but now literal shouting into the digital wind, and all the while, so utterly
alone and without amour propre, that you will not relinquish even the modicum of
your actual selfto the void: your IP address.
Salve, old friend! Never change.
Mon, 24 Feb 2025 08:31:38 -0800
Andy from private IP
Reply #11555122
🤣 You guys are pretty funny with your feud. I laughed out loud several times.
Mon, 24 Feb 2025 11:47:16 -0800
whiteguyinchina from private IP
Reply #10233148
Wilys riposte was hilarious
@11793558 47.156.140.32 👍 @11555122 2607:fb90:870e:bec:7d86:4097:1363:8f83 🤣
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