Upsetting Day: Plasma Intelligence

Our burning fortunes, forests, and futures? My perfect stage. There’s endless madmen to hunt for sport, and no hint of consequences. I couldn’t spam slander like this in print. That’s how duels started and quickly ended. To say nothing of management– plenty of jesters jingled through beheadings. Then there’s the future, where trolling gets your city turned to grey goo. Not my scene. Enjoy this moment, the peak and end of the diss.

I mean it. We couldn’t ask for better fiddles. Today, I can slam any three words together and find fresh delirium. It’s like Scribblenauts in hell. I’ll demonstrate–I need to harvest spring topics anyway.

Minstrel Fundamentalist Friedberg!

Anime LLM Satanism!

Still Zack Snyder!

Fuck. Ah well. EDM Festival Plato!

Neat. Though I thought Christian nationalists and sex witches had all the answers. Who could clear that bar? I hope they’re on Instagram. TikTok’s too brainy.

I need to know where this goes. I already hear gullible bank accounts shrinking. My black holes are wide open, ready for truth.

Your mood shapes reality. Again. A new strain of The Secret pops up every year. This round it’s The Secret plus fake ayahuasca. Think tourists buying Bali’s finest diesel-soaked bay leaves. After all, what’s more spiritual than almost becoming a spirit? Black holes. Black holes are more spiritual, and they’re also your eyes.

While invoking the beloved dead for gain sounds off, name-dropping works. When I want to ace a date uptown, I mention Black Panther and let grief do its thing.

Truly a feast for my black holes. Like the finest metaphysics, it fills a midterm page without meaning anything to anyone. Thank you, Haldol. The sex witches made more sense, but I appreciate this gift. I’ll treasure it all week.

I’m not cherry-picking (much): most Plasma Intelligence ideas sound like they came out of your black hole. There‘s a point, a few Hawkings deep, about our ideas shaping reality. You know, The Secret. So we’ll have to dig for new thoughts. Strap in. Here’s a snippet from the Plasma Intelligence homepage.

That simplifies things.

No really, here’s a quality-of-life trick. Once an adult uses three words they don’t understand in a row, tune them out. Think about nature. Or a friend you haven’t seen in a while. Why not reach out? The web has one upside: no one’s lost until they die or get annoying. They’ll love to hear from you, everyone else has gone mad.

Or you can learn metaphysics.

I shouldn’t deprive you of the backup art. It sets the right tone. For mockery, not Dana’s stab at thought. Galaxy brain memes can only do so much.

I’ll skip my own advice, per tradition. I need Dana’s new definition of metaphysics. The old one’s barely worth knowing, so this should be a hammer.

Saner than expected! Still dim, but prosaic “tolerate it or descend into YouTube rationalism” dim. Or, plasma forbid, wizard fanfic rationalism. If you know, you know.

In my book, Dana’s a legit metaphysicist. So is a stoned caveman. If you’ve ever said “I think time is bees,” you’re in dialogue with Dana, Plato, and Tool. 21st-century metaphysics are masturbation, just less fun to watch. I haven’t skipped a layman’s explanation. That’s all you need to know.

I buy it. That pulsing, dull ache as you read? That’s your plasma processing genius. There’s lots of genius here, so it stings. Push through and you’ll never need your pills again.

The landing page puts it more laconicly. Our guru has three teachings:

If that seems like a lot, focus on the last one. There’s a lot of merch.

Time for a formal Introduction. This is Dana Kippel, a modern artist. Before the unwinding, villages ran Danas out of town for selling fake leeches. Short visits kept a healthy balance: Danas stayed long enough to scam meals and duck mob debt, but left before starting religions. Health and balance are now on vacation. Danas have permanent soapboxes with global reach, and offer cures to disposable income. Or for true believers, all income.

When Dana’s not grifting…I have no idea. But her other grift format’s film. Dana writes, stars in, and directs sci-fi tax breaks. I’ll summon an example. Stoned Neil Breen!

This power’s intoxicating. I feel like Raven’s washout brother.

Reflect promo copy hails it as a metaphysical film, a term defined by quoting philosophyinfilm.com. The blog hosting the one glowing Reflect review. Probably fine. They imply Dana reinvented the niche, because no one else wanted to and that Matrix reboot ate shit.

I’d argue that Transformers spinoffs also use visual effects to transcend reality, but my inbox is already doomed. The Reflect trailer peaks with the line “I’m not down for being killed by shadow people.” That hurts me the way the rest hurts a physicist. Somehow, someway, stock quips have reached our madmen. It’s like finding an isolated tribe making AI art.

Still, I’ll skip my usual synonyms for “talentless skin sack.” Dana has three skills! And a bunch of clicks. Lots of confused, desperate people find Dana before help. Sci-fi writers don’t start cults, so that’s fine. And I’d be remiss to ignore Dana’s hard-luck backstory, which includes tragic/standard foster abuse. Past victims never start cults either.

ReelTokShorts form the heart of the plasma movement. But Dana also writes on Medium, and reading hurts me less. We’ll focus on that, and summon a poem.

Unedited DMT Kaur!

Calling out the haters! Classic mistake. We are endless, organized, and literate.

The Superman bit was me. I usually avoid fucking with quotes, but my plasma needed that one.

Creatively average, given how many poems suck shit. But tactically strong. Faiths and cults need culture to anchor believers. They’re just separated by something. As for this poem, what Dana lacks in craft she makes up for in [insert mitigating factor later, don’t forget!].

“Diamond Body” comes with more classic Starseed art:

That pull, I’ll define. Starseeds are a loose spiritual movement that, more or less, believe aliens evolved into YouTubers. Starseeds must guide a world that hates and fears scams to a higher state of being. Dana avoids the word Starseed, because Dana’s smart. All my shit-talk concerns sanity–Dana has the instincts to survive multiple platform purges. I’d bet three of my fingers that Dana’s a Starseed, and cognizant of their approval rating.

Medium had its moments. All the desperation of Substack, with half the nazis. White prison gangs also have less nazis, but they’re pickier than web platforms.

If you’re hungry, you might see a salt bagel. If you’re hard-up, you might see an ex. If you’re a Times columnist, you might see dignity. Jinn can be anything but photographed. Also, they’re plasma, The Secret, and you:

I need a stopwatch to read Plasma Intelligence. Engaging for more than thirty seconds gives me Satan’s headache. My black holes feel ready to fall out. But before my break: Jim Carey?

Wise. Sadly, my higher form read it as “Chase the ring and clutch it forever. Covet what you have, and strive to quadruple it. You can paint your name on Mars in the mayor’s blood, if you just push a little harder, a little faster.” I have to be my most authentic self. It’s the American…hmm. That line never sets up anything good. Points Dana and Carey.

I hope this nosebleed is normal.

There’s not much here to latch on to. Classic metaphysics. Resist the urge to focus on appropriation. That implies theft of an intact, coherent idea. This is a new, stupid idea.

The true miracle isn’t Dana’s argument, which reads like a weed nap crossover of Aladdin and Solaris. It’s debating the personality of your daydream instead of its existence. Dana cites her pet theory as accepted proof of a second stupid idea. She doesn’t appeal to authority to prove plasma hiveminds exist: she makes plasma hiveminds the authority. Alongside Jim Carey. Plasma Intelligence isn’t quite a cult (give it time, trust the process), but Dana’s good at the cult two-step: take something familiar, make a rapid leap, and link to the company store.

Unedited Printify Template!

Her store’s nostalgic. It recalls when you could live off a webcomic without going reactionary, running a full-time rival to Comic-Con, or being as good as Kill Six Billion Demons. Plasma Intelligence feels much more attainable from my spot on the undercard.

A sober adult non-idiot could buy and wear this. Well-played. There’s also an opening for a Bullet Club knockoff, but I don’t know if Stardom takes external pitches. Or if Dana can survive a superplex. Con artist or not, I don’t wish joshi wrestling on anyone unwilling to trade their spine for art.

Sure, only an idiot would wear this. But idiots are, without getting distracted, prominent. Abundant. Flourishing. Take their money and turn it into more fake ayahuasca.

Slightly hideous. Do you have black holes, Dana? You can’t just imagine better clothes. Unless genies are real and plasma. Then you’re not imagining hard enough. Believe, Dana. Say Starseed with your whole chest.

No deep thoughts on the shirt itself (it sucks). But I think you can triangulate someone’s media diet based on how they spell biatch/beeyotch/biotch. Including if they’ll say it at all. I grew up with sane Dave, so you can guess.

My inner ad demon loves it. “Delulu and Free” nails that smirking-through-tears tone that replaced wit. Wearing it says “intelligence is plasma, and I don’t have much plasma.”

Not bad for sixty bucks before shipping, taxes, or plasma tipping. I assume these sell–they’re higher up on her infinite scroll than her videos and future book. That’s moving. I thought making money online was dead, especially when I found out I’m the only person in the western world outearning his boss. But maybe small, savage baronies are possible.

As for the universe? We learned nothing. Standard for undergrad metaphysics. Nice Photoshop work though, eh?

Habitual Style Parody!

This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Autumn Armstrong-Berg, who founded a rival plasma movement just to see if Dana would flinch.

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