Jorbin Peterson Is Not Pounded By His Rambling Conservative Talking Points Disguised As Intellectualism Because They’re Utterly Moronic And Nothing More Than Hateful, Barely Coherent Word Sludge

It all starts with a nightmare, a terrifying vision of Jorbin Peterson at the bottom of the ocean with a talking lobster. Soon enough, Jorbin wakes and begins a fateful journey that will put his wildly inconsistent and belligerently hateful philosophies to the test, challenging everything he thought he knew about himself.

Now followed by a strange manifestation in the form of a handsome, shirtless lobster, Jorbin is struggling to find mental balance. Is he really the suave intellectual giant he sees in his head, or a deeply goofy bigot who’s utterly out of his mind?

No matter what, one thing’s for sure: Jorbin Peterson is an awful hang.

This important tale is 4,500 words of sexless self-discovery between a physically manifested humanoid lobster and a smug, self-important manic who uses vague, half-baked ideas and big words to sound smart when in reality he’s just a weird little guy and honestly it’s not that difficult to see it.

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JORBIN PETERSON IS NOT POUNDED BY HIS RAMBLING CONSERVATIVE TALKING POINTS DISGUISED AS INTELLECTUALISM BECAUSE THEY’RE UTTERLY MORONIC AND NOTHING MORE THAN HATEFUL, BARELY COHERENT WORD SLUDGE

By Chuck Tingle

I’m floating in a vast abyss, this endless plane of nothing stretching on and on around me. The space is black, but as my eyes begin to adjust to this strange, surreal landscape, I start noticing the faintest hue of a deep navy blue.

My arms and legs are a little slower than they should be, feeling a touch of resistance as they sway and sweep. There’s also an unexpected pressure weighing down on my body, and a distinct lack of clarity to the sounds that echo through my ears.

Is this outer space? Have I suddenly found myself drifting on a distant planet?

Will people finally stop making fun of me for sounding like Kermo the Frog?

There’s a distinct peacefulness to finding yourself completely, cosmically alone, but just as I’m about ready to accept my new place in the far reaches of this gloriously empty universe, I notice something gradually appearing below.

The ground is coming into view as I drift towards it, soft and sandy, and while this place bears a few striking similarities to another planet, the tiny fish swirling and dancing quickly alter my perception.

My feet settle at the bottom of the ocean.

I force a puff of air from my lungs, watching as this expulsion presents itself in a cluster of tiny bubbles that immediately tumble upward.

How the hell am I breathing down here?

“You’re not. Not really, anyway,” comes an unexpected voice from the sand, resonating through the water with perfect clarity.

I glance down to discover a rather large lobster, the crustacean’s red body looking strangely worn and grizzly. This little critter looks like a fighter, the peak of dominance and masculinity in his otherworldly habitat.

“What do you mean?” I ask, more bubble spilling from my lips. Somehow, my lungs remain dry and healthy, the salty ocean water unable to fill me.

“This is a dream,” the lobster says. “Can’t you tell?”

I’d like to think of myself as a mentally stable guy, but lately things have shifted a bit. My perception of what’s real and what isn’t has-

I cut off this thought and tuck it away, refusing to follow the mental train any farther. If there’s one thing I am right now it’s solid. I’m a hyper-intelligent philosopher who is strong and cool and clever, leading the battle charge against cancel culture and the post-modern leftist agenda. I am a real man, an alpha.

Just like this lobster.

“Sure, I can tell,” I reply confidently. “I’m a super genius, well aware of every permutation that happens within any objective society. Consider that I am always aware, which may surprise some of the lower-class thinkers, because for this truth to be philosophically sound we’d have to define what awareness even is, and I don’t think that’s so easy to do. Right? So now we’re left with a problem, what does it mean to be aware if society refuses to acknowledge any objective truth in the face of alpha male, high-intellect members of said society, such as myself. I think we all have to question that, wouldn’t you say?”

The lobster just stares up at me with beady black eyes, silent. I can’t help but feel the creature’s gaze slowly piercing my manly objectivist exterior, exposing a raw, self-conscious nerve lurking deep within.

This moment of hesitation last so long that I’m suddenly left to wonder if this lobster even spoke to me in the first place.

“You’re not as smart as you think you are,” the lobster abruptly states. “In fact, you’re a fucking moron who uses vague ideas and big words to seem intelligent, yet you couldn’t string them together coherentlyif your life depended on it. You’re what dumb people think smart people sound like; a deeply unserious man.”

I wake with a start, pulled from my deep slumber and blasted painfully into the bright light of the morning. The sheets are tangled around me and covered in the same cold sweat that adorns my skin. Everything hurts, but even more jarring than the physical sensation is the terrible wound now lurking within my heart.

Of course, the lobster was nothing more than a creature from my subconscious depths, a nightmare sent to hit me where it hurts. Obviously, nothing about this imaginary creature’s words are true.

Three solid knocks abruptly ring out through the house.

“Here we go,” I mumble to myself, struggling to find some clarity through the morning haze that clouds my brain. “Time to seize the day!”

From downstairs a voice calls out, ratting through my front door and spilling across my empty home in a muffled shout. “Hello?” calls this curious tone. “Anybody home?”

I spring to my feet, still tangled in my sheets as I stagger onto the upstairs foyer and pause at the top of the stairs. From here, I can see that someone is standing on the front porch, their body obscured by the frosted glass window.

“I’ll be there in a minute,” I shout. “I have to make my bed!”

The person behind the door hesitates. They move in the fluttering light and for a moment it appears as though their whole body is a hulking red mass of hardened shell and vicious claw, but that moment passes quickly.

“What?” the voice replies.

“I have to make my bed!” I cry in return, but this eruption has much more emotion behind it than intended. My voice wobbles and cracks, contorting awkwardly in an earsplitting shriek. “I have to do it every morning like a big boy!”

I realize now that tears are streaming down my face. I wipe them away, struggling to pull myself together.

“Okay, well we’re kinda running behind,” the voice behind my front door states. “I’ve been knocking for a while.”

“Hold on!” I scream, then march back into my bedroom. I start mumbling under my breath, repeating an important mantra to myself over and over again. “You’re a big boy. You’re a big boy. You’re a big boy.”

I hurriedly get to work, untangling my blankets and sheets, then tossing them out over the bed to create a flat, even surface. I’m caught between two diametrically opposed feelings, both yearning to get this moment right and sensing a frantic rush from the figure at my front door.

The tears keep pouring down my face, completely overwhelmed by some abstract emotional weight.

“You’re a big boy who makes his bed,” I continue. “You’re so smart and cool.”

I finally finish the blankets and sheets, then carefully arrange my pillows as my heart slams within my chest. A splitting headache is radiating through my skull, growing more powerful with every moment, but I have no choice but to push onward and face the day.

I head back downstairs, my morning finally tumbling into alignment as I reach the front door and pull it open.

A man in a dark uniform stands before me, an official looking cap planted atop his head. Behind the man, parked at my front curb, is a shiny black town car.

He says nothing at first, the expression on his face one of shock and confusion. He must be stunned by my intellectual radiance.

“Are you Jorbin Peterson?” he finally asks.

I consider this. “Well that depends, doesn’t it? Because to define whether or not I am anyone, you first need to define what I’m not. I mean that’s the basis of all intellectual thought since the beginning of man, right? Determining for yourself, and for your agency, what’s the core truth? I’m pushing back against to post-modern agenda, considering the-”

“Sir,” the man interrupts. “I’m here to drive you to this evening’s appearance, and you’re already late. Can you just confirm whether or not you’re Jorbin Peterson so we can get going?”

“Late?” I blurt. “You just woke me up! The sun’s barely out yet!”

The driver furrows his brow. “It’s five in the evening,” he reveals.

I hesitate, suddenly realizing just how belligerent I must appear. My whole brand is one of thoughtfulness and clarity, yet this moment certainly doesn’t fit into that story. My eyes are red with tears and my whole perception of time is utterly backwards, a perversion of that natural order that I refuse to tolerate.

Something else must be going on here, maybe an elaborate prank of some kind. This is not my fault.

“We need to get going, sir,” the driver reminds me.

I push my concerns to the side, finally nodding in confirmation. “Yes, I’m Jorbin,” I proclaim with steadfast confidence. I’m speaking to the driver now, but I’m also talking to myself. “I am Jorbin Peterson, the most objective and clear-headed intellectual of our time. A picture of what all thoughtful men should aspire to be. A radient-”

“Alrighty, Jorbin. Let’s get you to the studio,” my driver continues, moving our conversation along for the second time.

What studio? I think to myself, struggling to remember today’s appointments. I’d love to ask my driver directly, but at this point I’m worried this will only serve to make me look even more unhinged.

Instead, I go along with it, following my driver down the front walk and climbing into the back seat of his town car. I slide in and take a moment to focus on my breathing, still fighting against the oppressive tension that grips my skull like an ever-tightening vice. I can feel my neck and chest clenching up now, unswayed by my valent attempts to stop this growing tension.

The prank idea is beginning to seem more and more likely, because a beacon of higher thought and objective masculinity like me is never the cause of their own shortcomings. There’s no way this is my fault.

“The woke mob,” I hiss under my breath.

The driver has already climbed in and is prepping to leave, adjusting his rearview mirror a bit and then catching my gaze.

“What was that?” he questions.

“Nothing,” I reply, not quite sure if he can be trusted. It’s just as likely my driver is in on the prank, trying his best to cancel me. He seems like a nice enough guy, for now, but that could all change very quickly. I’ll be kind, but it’s best to keep him at arm’s left.

The driver’s eyes flicker as he notices something interesting about my appearance. “That’s quite a suit,” he states.

I glance down, suddenly realizing that I’m still wearing my custom-tailored three piece sleeping suit. This one is covered in images of Elno Mork’s head.

“All normal men wear suits to bed,” I reply. “This is the way of the modern intellectual.”

The driver thinks about this for a moment. “Okay then,” he finally replies, then puts the car in drive and pulls out onto my street.

Soon enough, the two of us are cruising along, my neighborhood falling away as the world around us transitions into a vast cityscape. We’re heading towards the part of town where all the podcast studios are located, a vague hint about the mysterious promotional appearance that waits for me.

Still, this is not quite enough information to jog my memory. I’ve appeared on several shows around here, from This Is Not My Opinion I’m Just Asking Highly Suggestive Questions To Subconsciously Promote A Bias with Joe Roman, to Sad Boy Hate Hour with Matt Walp.

I stare out my window in silence, watching the city streets as they glide past us. The sidewalks are covered with people, citizens out for their evening strolls or looking for a nice dinner in the neighborhood. They’re all smiling and having a good time, which is actually rather depressing when you thing about it.

They have no idea what’s coming, blissfully unaware of the looming end to culture as we know it. The woke mind-virus will cancel us all, but Jorbin Peterson refuses to be canceled.

The trans agenda will not get me.

The gay agenda will not get me.

The post-modern leftest death squads will not get me.

I am the only reasonable, totally sane and very normal man left.

A flash of red suddenly draws my attention, locking in on the shape of a giant red lobster who stands on a nearby street corner. The creature is massive and vaguely humanoid, his chest broad and muscular and his biceps popping as he offers me a friendly wave.

I leap back from the car window in alarm, recoiling across the seat as a startled cry escapes my lips. “Oh fuck a gay lobster!” I squeal.

My driver swerves a bit, surprised by my outburst, but manages to quickly straighten our path. He glances in his driver’s side mirror, deeply concerned, then quickly settles.

“You don’t see it?” I question.

“See what?” my driver asks.

“The gay lob—the gay…” I stammer, then trail off.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asks.

Something about his tone strikes a nerve, prompting me to lash out in response.

“Of course I’m okay! I’m a perfectly normal man!” I shriek. “An intellectual! A freedom fighter! A professor!”

The driver doesn’t react much, just lets a morsel of quiet laughter escape from between his lips. He nods. “Yes, sir.”

Eventually, the two of us pull up to a large studio space, parking out front.

“Have a good show,” the driver says.

I climb from the car, gazing up at this giant, industrial building. A massive billboard covers the wall before me, revealing the title of the show: Talkin’ Over Your Answers To My Questions, Dummy with Bill Mark

The driver pulls away, leaving me to approach the front door of this structure and head inside. It’s here that I’m greeted by a slightly flustered producer, a woman who has clearly been waiting for my arrival.

“You’re here!” she calls out, rushing across the studio lobby to greet me. “I’m Lauren, it’s great to meet you.”

She clutches a clipboard with one hand and extends the other, which I shake. “We’re just about ready to get started,” Lauren explains. “Bill is already out there. Just so you know, this podcast is taped for video as well as sound. I think we should probably get you over to makeup.”

I halt in my tracks, a confused smirk erupting across my face. At first, I can’t tell if she’s serious or not, but the second I realize this comment has been made in complete sincerity, a flush of anger surges through my veins.

“Why would I wear makeup?!” I squeal, the words erupting from my throat with more force than I was expecting. “I’m a man!”

I push her away and march onward, but this sudden movement cause my headache to come roaring back. I stumble a bit, briefly losing my footing as the stinging discomfort overwhelms me. Fortunately, there’s a desk nearby and I manage to break my fall by bracing against it.

“I’m a good boy who is very smart. I’m a good boy who is very smart,” I start repeating under my breath, struggling to center myself. “I made my bed very well this morning and now I’m a good boy.”

Finally, the pain subsides. I stand back up and turn to face the producer once again, but this time her reaction is even more palpable.

“Oh for fuck’s cock,” she blurts in alarm, putting her hand over her mouth in an instinctive gesture of surprise. “There’s blood pouring out of your nose and mouth. You’re covered in it.”

I can, in fact, feel a warm wetness running across the front of my stark white button-up, and when I glance down this truth is confirmed in a brilliant splash of crimson red.

“Are you sure you don’t want to get some makeup on that face and clean yourself up a-” the producer continues, but I interrupt her.

“No!” I scream. “I’ve had enough! I refuse to indulge in the feminization of the modern man!”

Lauren finally relents, throwing her hands up and turning away.

I move past her confidently, barreling down the studio hallway and then erupting onto the podcast set. It’s been constructed to look like some kind of “man cave” basement.

Bill is already sitting in his chair, waiting for my arrival, and his eyes go wide when he sees me. “Okay, what’s the joke here? What’s going on?” he whines in his arrogant nasal drawl.

“I have arrived!” I cry out, my words moving faster and faster as they go. “It’s time for two normal men discussing the nature of reality itself and the truth behind all things and how smart I am and how cool I am. I refuse to be cancelled by the woke agenda! I am the biggest lobster!”

Bill glances at the lead camera operator, some kind of mutual recognition filling their eyes with unexpected delight. “Are we rolling? Sound is up?”

The cameraman nods.

Bill turns his gaze back to me. “Welcome to the show Jorbin! Take a seat!”

The host motions to his left and I follow along, stumbling over and collapsing into the empty chair. I’m hoping to present myself in the best light possible, but it finally appears the leftist pranks are breaking through my hardened alpha shell and pulling me down. My body still aches, barely able to follow along with the frantic instructions from my brain.

“How you doin’ there, buddy?” Bill asks.

“Fantastic,” I reply. “Staying healthy. Making my bed.”

Bill furrows his brow. “Really? Because—and forgive me here—ya kinda look like shit.”

I laugh, chuckling along with him and trying to ignore this comment.

“I feel like I’d be remiss to not mention the blood on your shirt,” Bill continues. “Who’s blood is that?”

“It’s nothing,” I insist.

“It is definately something, okay?”Bill continues, slathering his okay with an untenable amount of snark. “You’re gaunt. You’re looking like a skeleton Jorbin and I’m worried about you. Us centrists need to stick together.”

“I’m fine,” I assure him.

The host hesitates, considering where to steer this conversation next. Bill has been a constant ally when it comes to spreading my rhetoric, but he’s not someone I’d consider loyal. Could he be in on the prank, too?

A super-genius totally grounded and objective intellectual like me should’ve seen this coming.

“You mentioned healthy habits,” Bill starts up again, filling the studio with his nasally whine. “What exactly are these healthy habits? I’d like to know, so I can avoid them, okay?”

I straighten up a bit. “Well, I start by making my bed every morning, then I go downstairs and tear off a nice chunk of raw meat for breakfast, then I go-”

“I’m sorry, did you just say raw meat for breakfast?” Bill interrupts.

I nod. “I have raw meat for every meal, nothing else. No gross leftist veggies for good boys like me. Real men eat meat.”

Bill is astonished by this, blown away by my dedication to a healthy lifestyle and my commitment to behaving like a totally normal guy. He sits quietly for a moment, then finally cracks a smile. “You’re joking.”

“It’s completely changed my life,” I continue. “My skin is amazing. My stress is low and my energy is way up.”

Another powerful headache ripples across my skull, but I ignore it.

Bill laughs. “I mean, I’m not sure if I’d agree,” he counters. “I consider you a friend, Jorbin, and I’ve gotta be honest: you don’t look so good. Maybe cool it with the all raw meat diet. Aren’t you worried about parasites? Mad cow disease rotting your brain? Making you see things?”

As if manifested by Bill’s words, I suddenly catch sight of a crimson shape lurking over his shoulder. The figure of a muscular red lobster is tucked within the rest of Bill’s production crew, lurking in the crowd. It lobster raises its clawed hand and waves.

“Oh fuck!” I blurt, leaping from my chair and stumbling backwards. “The gay lobster!”

Bill’s gaze moves back and forth between me and the endpoint of my sightline, a bemused smile upon his face.

As my heart slams within my chest I continue moving backwards, putting even more distance between myself and this frightening crustacean. “No!” I shout, completely losing control as fear overwhelms me. “Up yours woke moralist! Up yours!”

Completely overwhelmed, I finally turn and break out in a sprint, rushing through the door behind me and erupting into an empty hallway. I can feel the blood pouring from my mouth and nose again.

“Help!” I scream. “The gay lobster is after me!”

I don’t get far, unfortunately. The next thing I know I’m stumbling, caught up in my own churning feet as I tumble end over end and land with a thud on the carpet.

It’s here that I remain, too exhausted by this hectic day to do much of anything. My muscles refuse to listen to the desperate commands of my brain. The best I can muster is slowly rolling onto my back, groaning as I stare at the ceiling above.

I can hear the lobster shuffling closer, until eventually he’s standing right over me. The creature stares down for a moment, then reaches out his claw.

“Let me help you up,” the lobster offers.

“Not a chance woke moralist!” I blurt, shaking my head from side to side. “I’m not falling for your tricks!”

“I’m not a woke moralist,” the hulking lobster replies. “I’m the physical manifestation of your talking points.”

The anxiety within me momentarily quells. “Wuh—Wait, really?” I stammer.

The lobster nods. “You manifested me into reality with all the great points you’ve been making. You’re such an intellectual! Everything you say makes perfect sense and isn’t completely diametrically opposed to previous statements in an ever shifting cascade of utter nonsense. You’re a fantastic role model for young men.”

“Oh. Well, okay then,” I reply.

I reach out and take his claw in my hand, allowing the lobster to hoist me up.

“I’m sorry I scared you today,” he apologizes. “I’ve been trying to introduce myself, but the satanic post-modern leftists have been keeping me at bay with their sociological contagion.”

“Wow, that’s a perfectly normal thing to say,” I offer in return.

“Sure is! Now let’s go get you some raw meat,” the lobster suggests. “You’re probably a hungry guy after all this adventure.”

“That sounds like a great idea.”

Soon enough, the lobster and I have found our way out of the studio, strolling down the street towards a nearby grocery store. The sun has gone down and the cool evening air feels pleasant against my skin. The blood and sweat on my clothes has started to dry.

We arrive at the store and head inside, immediately marching up to the butcher’s counter.

The lobster and me gaze upon this assortment of carved flesh, taking it all in as we plan our attack.

“It’s so healthy to eat only meat,” the lobster announces loudly. “Not at all silly.”

“Huh?” comes a familiar voice from the other side of me.

I turn to see my driver from earlier. He’s no longer clad in his uniform, instead sporting causal street clothes and carrying a half full grocery basket.

“Oh! It’s you,” I observe. “I didn’t say anything. That was my friend the lobster. You’ve gotta consider the lobster. It’s one of the four hundred rules.”

The driver shifts his gaze to the space next to me, then shakes his head. “No, you said something. It sounded like you said ‘it’s so healthy to only eat meat.’”

“Well, it is,” I retort. “My superior intellectual brain has defined this as an objective truth. I’m very smart, you know.”

The driver hesitates, then turns to face me directly. “I’m off the clock now, so I don’t need to hold my tongue any longer. Part of me wants to just let you continue on whatever weird path you’re on, but at this point I’ve just gonna say it.”

“Go right ahead,” I reply confidently. “We’ll see who cancels who!”

“That right there, it’s so weird,” the driver starts. “You’re not like some cool guy going in to battle. When you say shit like it doesn’t make you seem heroic, it makes you seem like a goofball, which I suppose you are, but still.”

“Maybe your woke leftist-” I start.

“Which brings me to my second point,” the driver interrupts. “You are, without question, out of your fucking mind. You use a lot of big words and toss them in a blender hoping they’ll come out with any coherent point, but they never do. You constantly say you believe in free speech, and then complain when other people use their free speech ignore you. You’re obsessed with talking to a lobster that isn’t there, and you’re on an all meat diet that is clearly killing you. You paint yourself as some iconic, rational, masculine figure for young men to strive for, but you’re visibly falling apart. Why would anyone follow your advice if you’re constantly crying and having these bizarre, hateful outbursts. I mean, there’s nothing wrong with showing your emotions, but when it’s happening this often and this viscerally, maybe you should consider a little mental accounting. Of course, you could never actually do that because you can’t seem to fathom that you could be wrong about anything,when in reality you’re wrong about everything.”

I don’t have a retort to this.

“And lastly,” the driver continues. “All this strangeness wouldn’t be so bad on its own. Honestly, the world could use a little more strangeness—you do you, man—but for some reason you’ve combined it with a visceral hatred for other people. Like, why make a post online saying a specific swimsuit model is not beautiful? Whether or not they are is not even the point, the point is why do that? Who the fuck cares? You just wanted to add a little hatred to the world? Why do you do these weird awful little things all the fucking time?”

I’ve finally collected my thoughts enough to respond. “How about you come and debate me in the intellectual arena? I challenge you to a showdown of philosophical approximation! Surely you’re not afraid of my cerebral prowess, are you? Well then prove it, buddy. How about that?”

“How about go fuck yourself,” the driver says, turning and strolling away.

I let out a long sigh, deeply unsettled by the conversation. I turn back to the lobster.

“You’d tell me if you were more than just the physical manifestation of my talking points, right?” I ask. “You’re not really the physical manifestation of my rambling conservative talking points disguised as intellectualism because they’re utterly moronic and nothing more than hateful, barely coherent word sludge, are you?”

“Of course not,” the lobster replies. “You’re right about everything Jorbin. Objectively correct.”

Our conversation is interrupted as the butcher finally approaches us from behind the deli counter. “What can I get for you?” he asks.

I turn to face him, wiping away the tears that inexplicably stream down my cheeks and the sputters of blood that leak from corners of my mouth. “I’d like ninety pounds of raw meat in a trash bag, just like a perfectly normal guy would order.”