This short story has been recently incorporated into the syllabus of Prager University's ENG101: Defending Western Civilization. Though fiction, it has also been featured in the Heterodox Journalism program offered by the Quillette Institute for Advanced Studies. I would be utterly flattered if you share my work among Peterson admirers.



When the cherubic college senior named Chudley would look back on this sultry evening, while being penetrated by a radical feminist whose girthy phallus was far from a social construct, he was drawn back in feverish reverie to his younger years, to that decisive click on a certain YouTube video that was nothing short of his destiny. "Jordan Peterson TRIGGERS SJW Snowflake," the video title boasted to his younger self, inviting an encounter that would forge his politics, relationships, education, and—he believed in this now—his very soul.



At present, Chudley careened towards Chaos. As his own semen was poised to voyage through his vas deferens, coaxed out by this butch, Judith Butleresque bitch of a woman pushing deep into his poopchute, he was gripped mentally, as he gripped his pepe, by that much more seminal moment where he had received the scholastic disseminations of Good Doctor Peterson. Indeed, the famed clinician had somehow seeded him with his current fate, entering him so deeply as to trigger a fantastical cascade of momentous events that will be necessary to describe. Chudley's incredible journey from his errant years on 4chan to becoming an eager, willing, and enlightened fucktoy of feminism had all started, more or less, with The Click: a life lived as a butthole bildungsroman.



∎



Before The Click, Chudley's existence was rather unremarkable. A son of suburbia with a steady girlfriend named Sarah, he was hard to distinguish from his friends. His group of dudes gamed online while calling each other faggots, coasted through college life without many serious cares, and lived in a largely apolitical mindset. Sometimes they shit on the excesses of the Far Left and Far Right—completely equal ones in their estimation (Charlottesville, right?)—but didn't read enough news to really get riled up about anything.



But there was something that made Chudley different than his friends: he had a girlfriend. Sarah was quite the catch for the somewhat chubby Chudley. She was—to use the only words Chudley had at his disposal—really fucking hot. Her progressive politics frustrated Chudley, but she was still fuckable, all too fuckable. Having this babe in his life helped maintain his social status: in his mind, about halfway between alpha and beta. Her generous emotional support and study smarts sort of balanced out the fact that her pussy was kind of prickly sometimes after two days of no shaving. But those tits! That ass! They were fine, and more importantly, huge. Everything is indeed bigger in Texas. Though tainted by her snowflake Austin politics, her hole—he was only permitted access to one hole—was the only hole he wanted to fuck.



Realistically, Sarah’s hole was the only hole he had a hope in hell of fucking right now. Based on his 4chan days, he knew that if he wanted expanded market access to a variety of holes, he would need to Be More Alpha: the only way to the Whole Hole Economy. The pickup artist tricks seemed kind of risky—was denigrating female strangers really a viable strategy?—and the teen forums on bodybuilding.com made the gym seem like a ton of work. He sure wasn't eager to introduce himself to the Squat Rack Alphas. Thus, Chudley's self worth had settled into an equilibrium. He was neither cuck nor champion, just a chubby manlet who had gotten goddamn lucky with sweet little Sarah and her swelling curves. As Chudley barely ever realized, she was brilliant too. A homework goddess. A future professional. An eloquent writer. A young woman of conviction. Annoying when it came to politics, but he was stilling smashing that, right?



Yet their steady relationship was about to change; a new figure was primed to shake its very essence. Their routines, mainly comprised of dragging each other to social events, using cellphones together in the same room, and occasional vanilla fucking—these were about to be radically transformed.



It was fall 2016, the heady days of Trump's upset election victory. Dazed and dopey on a lazy lunch break, Chudley had stumbled upon the most titillating footage he had ever seen, far more shocking and seductive than the jolly 9gag videos and jiggling anime titties that were his daily bread. Scanning the right sidebar on YouTube, he fixated upon a tiny thumbnail, and loaded up "Peterson TRIGGERS SJW Snowflake." Thus began a mystical vision of the sublime. The Click transported him.



A scruffy, fatherly face appeared on the screen, dropping Truthbombs comprised of Pure Logic and Reason on low status betas who were obsessed with pronouns and more snowflakey shit. Aha! This was same Peterson that his good buddy Skevin had told him about at the kegger! Why the fuck were these idiots arguing with this Published and Distinguished Professor of Psychology, he wondered to himself? He didn't know. What's below beta, after all? Chudley was unfamiliar with the Greek alphabet—or any of the Greek institutions that he would later learn were the Foundation of Western Civilization that leftists wanted to destroy—but he knew that after alpha and beta there must be some letter for these pathetic losers. Compelled Speech? Cultural Marxism? New phrases filled Chudley's doughy mind. Clicking into a web of Peterson videos, he had never found anyone so intriguing, so smart, so Reasonable. His enemies? Exclusively Unreasonable. This was the Day of the Click, and it would change him forever. Though that trusty old YouTube sidebar now offered him Race Realists, he knew that only Dr. Peterson could keep it the realist in his heart.



Chudley became enthralled by Dr. Peterson's media rise over the coming weeks and months, signing up to become one of his first Patreon subscribers. He promptly cleaned his room. Jizz socks begone! Detritus and Dorito bags vanished. Order and Chaos dueled. A heady mixture of Peterson with ingenious interlocutors such as Joe Rogan, occasionally supplemented by a genuine pillar of knowledge from the SJW training camp Chudley was forced to attend (AKA college), forged his young mind into a cerebral superweapon—without ever having to read a single stupid book from his radical leftist professors. What garbage! Chudley knew he could practically get a PhD in Islamic Studies from Sam Harris University, and the Molyneux Institute would yield the logical chain-mail required to snap feminist arrows in two. These days, on Chudley’s phone, the letter “v” now instantly autocorrected to Venezuela. “Okay, this is epic,” he mused to himself.



He worked on his insecurities and began hitting the gym, greeting the Squat Rack Alphas with firm handshakes now. His body began to grow, as if entering a second puberty (a boon that Ben Shapiro’s nightly prayers had never granted). Overall, Chudley was still physically weak, yes, but he could answer in the affirmative with his frat friends asked him "do you even lift, bro?" He craved meat; he ate meat; he became meat. This meant coming up with a Final Solution for the carbs in his life, which is to say, he’d accept Not Even One Carb. Red flesh and Reason would be his sole nourishment. While Chudley erected his corporeal muscle fortress, he also labored on his spiritual sanctuary, click by click, high into the firmaments of his soul. The confident lectures of Dr. Peterson yielded its bricks and mortar: Meaning and Purpose.



Chudley now called himself a *Classical Liberal* thanks to Peterson's tutelage and the Dave Rubin Institute for Young Koch Scholars, enjoying the way these rarefied words rolled off his tongue and empowered him to Rationally Comment on Any Issue from an Objective Position (especially issues outside of the 5 college courses he had accumulated in his life so far) with his staggering powers of Pure Reason that were steadily climbing towards Peterson's 150+ IQ. You hear that, Kantian cunts? Pure Reason. Fools who were imagining their own oppression—so what if six of your close female friends got raped, MEN ARE VICTIMS TOO—were about to bleed from Chudley's Daggers of Deduction, more logical than a thousand supercomputers embedded with the consciousness of Stefan Molyneux. To utterly SKULLFUCK the SJWs he encountered online, he simply had to identity which pink-haired logical fallacy slipped from their pierced lips. These feminazis could only ever take the Good Doctor out of context; didn’t they know that Maps of Meaning Lecture 7 (1:50:23) instantly refutes this drivel?



On the internet, Chudley was on fire, gaming less but leaving a smoldering trail of strawmen on every goddamn article and video about Peterson he could find. And in real life, Chudley was pwning his profs. The day after his Econ prof introduced Keynes in the context of the great depression, Chudley interrupted the class to pontificate on the evils of the Gulag. NO REDISTRIBUTION! His sociology prof was flabbergasted when Chudley defeated two decades of data she collected on black incarceration rates with the decree: "white privilege is a LIE!". If red AND blue lobsters were to be found in nature, why couldn't these black lobsters clean their fucking rooms? Real lobsters were out here worried about being boiled alive for dinner, and these fools were worried about the mere legacy of their enslaved ancestors? So much for the tolerant left!



Dr. Peterson had taught Chudley to stop blaming others for his problems. Thus Chudley no longer lived in fear of Inner City Crime, but he still sort of wondered why Rosa Parks, Martin Luther King, and other SJWs hated the Dominance Hierarchy of America. Chudley knew, deep down, that he was Not A Racist. He just found BLM to be rather uppity, you know? If a white police officer pulls you over, just open your glovebox, flash him a copy of 12 Rules for Life, and everything is going to be fine, okay?



Thanks to Peterson's brilliance, Chudley was now something of a philosopher himself. Equity, in Chudley’s mind, was murder. The steps between achieving trans rights and loading humans into cattle cars eluded him, but he trusted the esteemed Peterson that new pronouns begat actual totalitarianism. On various family occasions, he even commanded his 7 year old cousin to critique the Collectivist Ideology being pumped out by his grade 2 teachers (never, ever watch Frozen). Sharing is caring? Class tidy-up time? Collectivist creep! Chudley handed his still-illiterate cousin a copy of Nietzsche's Will to Power and explained that his teacher’s “kind” classroom policies were tantamount to Compelled Speech. He itched to write up this creeping Stalinism for Quillette and pump his remarkable intellectual wares into the Marketplace of Ideas (and that's not just a euphemism for the bustling economy of Dave Rubin's fecal bacteria).



Chudley’s victories through Reason and Objectivism—Chudley knew he wasn't sexist because he read Ayn Rand one time—sadly did not extend to his somewhat boring relationship with Sarah. He was fucking her a bit harder of late, and a bit more dominant in bed thanks to studying the neurotransmitters of crustaceans, but he still couldn't make her cum. That didn't keep him up at night. It never did. His fantasies, however, made him sweat. He wanted to explore some new, tantalizing roleplay scenarios with Sarah but was still too shy to dive in.



One fine afternoon, channeling what he believed to be a surge in serotonin (or was it mitochondria or midichlorians?) he worked up the nerve to ask Sarah about his increasingly nasty fantasies. He started simple. "I don't know how to put this, baby. But, uh, I want you to walk into the bedroom and call me Dr. Peterson." Her eyes were bewildered.



"I don't know much about role play, Chudley, but if that's what you want, I guess we can try it." But she was fundamentally baffled. This Dr. Peterson fellow had seemingly sorted Chudley out a bit, but was it really appropriate—or even remotely sexy—to try this weird scenario?



She sighed, walked out the door, and waited. Then she knocked on Chudley's door. "Hi there Dr. Peterson!"



"Why hello there young lady," he began, already tugging witlessly at her bra. "Are you here to sort yourself out?"



"Yes Dr. Peterson. Please sort me out!"



But it was not clear who was sorting who out. After thrusting his Jungian saber deep into her archetypal hilt, he screamed something about the Übermensch. "My serotonin is rising, bitch! I'm standing up straight!"



But Chudley couldn't finish. His thoughts drifted to the Good Doctor Peterson. Chaos. Confusion. Eureka! His erection stiffened as his mind was engulfed in the kinkiest fantasy ever conceived. He paid no attention to Sarah's perfect bouncing tits, for he was lost in another realm of existence. Some kinks are unsayable—but this one was so forbidden as to be practically unthinkable. He barely paid attention when Sarah, whose performance became more convincing, screamed "Fuck me harder, Dr. Peterson!"



Her roleplay wasn't working for Chudley. His thrusts slowed; his stiffy turned iffy. Chudley didn't want to pretend to be Dr. Peterson. No, Chudley wanted to watch live as the real Dr. Peterson pounded Sarah's stupid progressive pussy while he watched from the bedside.



Who was Chudley kidding, pretending to be this Great Man? Dr. Peterson was the alpha among alphas, the Emperor Lobster. Watching Peterson fuck Sarah would validate the Supreme Dominancy Hierarchy. That's how Alphas roll. The very thought of the Alpha of Alphas hardened Chudley's dick until it became as engorged with blood as 12 Rules for Life is engorged with shit. At last, he screamed, "DRAGON OF CHAOS!" as he busted a thrilling but very meager nut.



Laying beside Sarah—who still hadn't cum, and probably wasn't going to—Chudley's mind and body were a sweaty mess. He fixated on one word, one concept. "Cuck, cuck, cuck.” The word traversed his mind. “Cuck, cuck, cuck,” in steady rhythm, ticking like a clock. His inner dialogue darkened. “I want to be a cuck! I'm going to cuck myself. I want to be become mayor of Cucktown USA, population: Chudley. I'm a bottom bitch Roomba and I want to watch Dr. Peterson to fill Sarah with pure Logos."



As Sarah and Chudley lay there, staring at the ceiling in silence together, their thoughts diverged. Sarah pondered, quite theoretically, what she learned in political science class about authoritarian personalities, the socioeconomic and media factors responsible for Trump's victory, the rise of the alt right, and the abandonment of responsibility towards others (why hadn't Chudley even attempted to make her cum? Or acknowledged her as a human being?). Chudley's thoughts, on the other hand, were purely practical. Seizing his phone in silence, he began booking tickets to Dr. Peterson's next lecture tour, so he could arrange the cuckold encounter that would possess his mind every single time he was aroused.



And he was often aroused! Hot girls on the street didn’t fire him up anymore, but his deep immersion into YouTube enflamed his libido each time Dr. Peterson's fatherly face flickered on screen. Every Kermit-like warble of Peterson’s vocal chords made Chudley's dick twitch.



And it wasn’t just the Doc that was getting him going these days. Although Chudley was entirely convinced he was neither homosexual nor homophobic, he did find Milo Yiannopoulos’ boyish face to be increasingly pretty—it would like delightful with a fedora—and perhaps with an array of faggot dicks in and around his rather kissable mouth. As an entirely straight young man, Chudley came to realize that to defeat feminism and restore ethics in gaming journalism, it might be necessary to accept the occasional penis into his very own mouth and consult Breitbart's renown investigative pieces into the Feminist Cancer. If that's what it took to vanquish those stupid SJWs, so be it! Soon Chudley began to ponder, with logical and entirely heterosexual rigour, the stylish grooming practices amenable to Milo's penis and butthole (NO HOMO though, clear?). While gently petting his penis, Chudley wondered if Milo's member could reach as deep inside him as Milo's bank account reached into debt. What would it feel like to be more than a million dollars in the hole, as it were?



Despite these twinky dalliances, deep down Chudley knew that scruffy daddy dick was superior: Dr. Peterson's Paternal Penis was the only penis he wanted near Sarah's annoyingly progressive pussy. She deserved to have some sense fucked into her by the Big Poppa Patriarch! Collective responsibility, climate change? Why wouldn't she shut the fuck up about these stupid topics! CO2 emissions would cease if everyone could just Be A Better Lobster. Structural transformation be damned! Collectivism, he knew, was cancer. That was a bloody Ideology. Chudley still didn’t know what Ideology was, but he knew it applied to everything Dr. Peterson disagreed with. So fuck ‘em! Fuck ‘em all!



With his IQ bordering on a full 150 now—that’s 1.0 Petersons for you fucking dumbasses out there—Chudley became suspicious of stealthy Ideologies lurking everywhere. When Sarah came home with Chinese food one evening, Chudley snapped. What the fuck was this Chinese calendar propaganda bullshit? Creeping relativism and an Assault on Truth was making the fucking leftists deem the Roman Calendar “problematic,” he imagined. Chudley grabbed the takeout bag, and deposited Sarah’s disgusting dim sum identity politics directly into the garbage. Less soy, more mayo!



This wasn’t the Year of the Pig, but the Year of Peterson! And anyway, Peterson represented a dragon, a Grand Dragon of sorts. A Supreme Leader. Richter des Volkes, if you will. Chudley respected these hierarchies; he became obsessed with them; he studied them passionately. He knew that the Nazis were evil, but spent hours perusing the precise structures of authority in the SS, and accidentally rubbed one out to an excessively handsome soldier in a really crisp uniform one time (why did that Wikipedia author have to choose such a sexy picture? Chudley's interest was purely academic). Though still not exactly a scholar, Chudley's German vocabulary grew effortlessly: Kirche Küche Kinder! Lügenpresse! Völkerchaos! His new online bros knew an awful lot about Nazi ideology, but that's only because purely ironic Nazis need to master their role for maximum lulz and pwnage against snowflakes. Chudley ultimately wasn't too serious about this stuff--he definitely wasn't as committed as this hilarious new poster who had just memorized the best passages of Mein Kampf to own the libs. This super edgy stuff couldn't displace Dr. Peterson in his soul, as amusing as it might be.



As the big day of Dr. Peterson's lecture approached, Sarah and Chudley's relationship strained. One fraught car ride, Chudley practically slapped Sarah for using the word "intersectional." Things were getting tense; ultimatums were made. Unless Sarah dragged her sexy ass to the lecture and asked for Peterson's autograph—and much more than his autograph—Chudley was going to dump her.



The day arrived: the day Chudley expected to transcend the totality of his being—intellectually, spiritually, and hopefully, sexually. The auditorium was packed. Protesters raged outside, but Chudley knew JBP was going to rain Rational Fury on these fucking feminists and trans activists.



But how could he take this day to an even higher plane? As an occasional Joe Rogan listener, Chudley knew all about the powerful drug DMT, and had gone through the difficulty of acquiring it so he could go full YOLO tonight. He vaped the fuck out of his DMT stash, sat down in his seat, and slapped the phone out of Sarah's hand so she could Experience Greatness in the Presence of Peterson. The DMT hadn’t kicked in yet, but god damn was he ever feeling things!



Dr. Peterson greeted the room. Chudley was already at half mast. Within minutes Peterson was triggering idiots. The Greatest Living Intellectual promptly refuted the entirely of the history of feminism by talking about a woman he once met who was more poor than sexually oppressed. Boom, headshot. Chudley learned about more Leftist Lies. This excited Chudley. Structural racism? Gone. Climate change? Dubious. Trump? Simply a delayed reaction to dead French philosophers who hated truth. The take-home message of the night? Sort yourself, Bucko.



Yet Chudley aspired to more than Bucko: he must become an honest-to-god Cuck-o. It required no contemplation; the Supreme Dominance Hierarchy had decided Chudley’s place at the bottom of the scrotum totem. Don't mess with Human Nature. The SJW "scholars" in anthropology, sociology, philosophy, economics, history, and evolutionary biology--let's not forget those dumbass malacostracologists--didn't have a single fucking clue about the very same Human Nature that dictated Chudley's deference and submission to the Supreme Lobster and his (hopefully humanoid) superpenis.



At last, the DMT started kicking in. Shit was getting weird. Time dilated. Darkness. All of a sudden, Sarah, Chudley, and Dr. Peterson were the last ones in the room.



Sarah, Chudley thought as he tripped balls, was too stupid to go along with the sexual master plan. So he decided to get things rolling. Chudley knew that bitches were fundamentally simple, and that once she saw Dr. Peterson’s extra long king kong dong—Chudley was convinced old man Peterson was packing some serious heat—her cunt would get nice and wet for the humongous Dr. Peterson. Those three initials stood for Jordan’s Big Penis, right?



So Chudley took things into his own hands. While Peterson was distracted with his autographing, Chudley yanked down the Paternal Professor’s pants.



The result? The yield of the big reveal, the penile proportions that had so obsessed Chudley? The answer was absolutely shocking. Gasp. It was—



A dilapidated little dicklet, so tiny as to be practically invisible. WHAT THE FUCK, Chudley thought. The Emperor Lobster wasn’t even packing a kingly cock! How was this shrivelled up little thing going to fulfill Chudley’s cuckold fantasies? Chudley raged, betrayed. Was Peterson making people’s lives hell all because of this microshrimp? FUCK THE CRUSTACEAN KINGDOM. Chudley was Full Trigged, more triggered than he’d even been in his life. The Emperor had neither clothes nor cock. These pathetic penile proportions upset him more any trans suicide rates or school shooting ever would. At last, Chudley realized that Peterson was the Kermit Castrato.



Yet just as Chudley was about to give Dr. Peewee a piece as his mind, and as Sarah was about to have an orgasm of pure smugness, the DMT maxed out, probably exploding his pineal gland or some shit (he wasn’t strong on science, either). Reality was no more.



The room melted, colors shifted, and strange human forms emerged through the walls. A gang of women entered from the left, affixed with massive strapons featuring a variety of studs and spikes: Judith Butler, Simone de Beauvoir, bell hooks. A god damn feminist power posse. Then a gang of men entered from the right, some naked, some clothed, some packing BDSM gear. Michel Foucault wore a leather jacket over a turtleneck, peeling it off his neck to reveal the word "discipline." Naked from the waste down, Foucault boasted the word "punish" tattooed on his pierced cock, which was already mesmerizing Chudley. But Foucault was dwarfed by an absolutely massive figure at his side. The naked Marx was truly jacked as fuck, his muscles bulging with the strength of the proletariat—a million Bolsheviks who had never skipped leg day. The workers of the world had nothing to lose except their GAINS. Chudley was enthralled. A sexy spectre was haunting the room—the spectre of critical theory! Tommy Wisseau popped his head into The Room. "Oh, hi Marx!" he interjected—and was never heard from again.



Finally, a monstrous form entered front and center: The Patriarchy. Not an idea of patriarchy, but THE Patriarchy Itself. This chimera shifted and shimmered, seemingly assuming any shape it desired. Right now, it was a green, gargantuan mass. A great big grinning blob, somewhat pixelated and looking like it came fresh from MS Paint. Yes, The Patriarchy entered the form of Pepe the Frog.



Chudley assumed the worse. "Why the hell are you all here? Am I about to get gangbanged by critical theorists? Pepe, save me!" But Chudley, clenching his virgin butthole, suspected there would be more visitors in store.



Suddenly, from the rear wall of the room, a new cast of fully naked characters emerged: Laura Southern, Faith Goldy, Richard Spencer, Milo Yiannopoulos. Mixtures of tramp stamps were branded above their dumpy butts: butterflies and swastikas, tribal patterns strangely mixed with Aryan insignia.



Peterson perked up. The four media stars were still silent. And he certainly didn’t want to silence them further. Though he disagreed with their politics, his mission was clear. He must Defend Their Absolute Freedom of Speech. Furiously masturbating his micropeterson, he crawled over to where this gang of four profoundly underprivileged white people stood in a row. He closed his eyes. Suddenly, a squirt of steamy liquid blasted the delirious doc on his forehead, and trickled down past his eyes, nose, and onto his outstretched tongue. This substance was about body temperature; Peterson knew this sweet taste all too well. But it wasn’t piss! At this point, he WISHED it was piss: alas, the distinctive flavor of apple cider was unforgettable.



Drugged into a cider stupor, a long, long night awaited the deferent doctor. Supplicating further, he kissed the feet of the reactionary gang, and crawled around behind them to behold their dour dumpers, ornamented with faded fascist symbols and crass trailer trash art. Without permission, Faith Goldy violently grabbed Peterson’s hair. "Eat my white ethnostate!" she ordered. Her "ethnostate," as it turns out, was not as white as the rest of her. Indeed, it was a rather dark and poopy butthole, profoundly unkept. Was eating actual human feces a prerequisite for Defending Freedom against Cultural Marxism? Yes, the Principled Peterson decided it was. Human shit, as it turns out, tastes disgusting. An expert in racial hygiene and ethnic cleansing couldn't even wipe her own poop-portal!



Yet this presented a scholarly opportunity. Conferring with Milo, an expert in these matters, Peterson quickly determined that black butthole would taste much the same as white, instantly refuting a thousand scholars on the topic of affirmative action. Equality of anal opportunity, NOT EQUITY. And why this antiquated penile preference in the first place? Peterson’s actual peepee was indeed pathetic, but he still had Reason and Logic on his side, a Cool and Calculating Brain unknowable to any feminist harpy. IQ 150, remember? Suck on that, de Beauvoir! Dr. Peterson's virtual penis, the only penis that mattered, was beyond 3 standard deviations longer than average, okay?



Sarah and Chudley locked eyes in the fray. Old drama boiled to the surface. They started arguing about their relationship, how Chudley was constantly objectifying her and not taking her intellect seriously. Sarah suddenly used The Word. The F Word. Feminism. Peterson, triggered high to the heavens, interrupted his ass eating: "Listen Chudley. She's hysterical, and men have no recourse to hitting women! You can't reason with her. I'm with you!"



Deep down, though, Chudley wasn't evil, just gullible, and had spent way too much fucking time on the internet. Some of what Sarah said made sense—even though she was a woman and not a man whose primary occupation was now making YouTube videos instead of teaching at the University of Toronto. A righteous plan formed in Chudley’s mind.



By this fantastical juncture, The Patriarchy had swollen into a Jabba-the-hut blob in the center of the room. Pepe's stupid grin assumed the central position on the jiggling mass of Dorito-dusted flesh. Slobber oozed from its malignant maw, and sputtered like a drunkard trying to pronounce "Solzhenitsyn." The green memelord’s idiotic stare increasingly enraged Chudley, who finally mustered the courage to act against the Embodied Autist League that had once formed him.



What was Chudley’s brilliant plan, the first truly independent thought of his life? Chudley, in short, was going to Rape The Patriarchy. Rape, rape, and rape the patriarchy. Give it a taste of its own medicine!



As Chudley slipped his substandard sausage into this slimy green toxic butthole, something remarkable happened. His own anus opened, somehow filled by his own dick. Peterson wanted to come up with a mythic interpretation for this penile ouroboros, but was too busy rimming Laura Southern's southernmost extremes. As Chudley realized, he was part of The Patriarchy that was finally raping itself, fucking itself violently, fucking the whole planet. White male capitalist tears streamed down the Patriarchy's ugly face (Chudley realized, thanks to Sarah's intersectional lessons, that this liquid mixture of shame and guilt had a multi-ethnic, multi-gendered, multi-identity composition). Patriarchy wept like a little girl, or more precisely (Be Precise In Your Speech), like a manchild with a one-way ticket to triggertown.



The critical theorists cheered, but the battle wasn't over. The alt-right gang spewed more scurrilous tripe: "Not all men! Feminism is cancer! White genocide! Western values!" Strangely enough, the Greatest Intellectual on the Planet was still slurping on their brownish buttholes, absolutely dedicated to defending Freedom of Speech while his beloved Patriarchy was squealing like a little bitchpig. Chudley literally and figuratively fucked himself senseless.



But this extreme exertion could go on no longer. Chudley collapsed on the ground, leaking White Culture from his battered butthole, his soul practically ready to leave his body.



Sarah had seen enough. She gestured to the critical theorists. They clasped hands and their collectivist power levels reached over 9000 in stirring unity. At long last, Peterson took his tongue out of Milo's gamergate to shout out a defence of individualism against the Postmodern Neomarxists, denouncing their assaults on Truth, Freedom, and a vast number of the Classics of Western Thought that Peterson had never read.



But it was too late! Resistance was futile. What was Peterson's power level as an individualist? A pathetic 5. The Big 5 did not seem so big any longer. Yes indeed, Peterson cucked himself; his philosophy amounted to a flimsy value menu item at Cuckdonalds. An undercooked, chicken cucklet laden with salmonella. 9000 > 5, ya dig? How was Dr. Peterson supposed to reach over 9000 when his work couldn't reach the novelistic caliber of One Flew Over the Cuck's Nest, Cuck-22, and The Cucking of Lot 49? The chief cuck could no longer buck up. Peterson shook, shuddered, and screamed, "I'M NOT HYSTERICAL!" as his meltdown reached its grand crescendo. He was, in fact, as hysterical as a gamer locked into a society of pure Sarkeesians. His lips sputtered something inaudible about chaos women, and defeated, he sunk into a fetal position.



The collectivists closed their eyes and sang a sacred hymn so aesthetically triumphant that even (((Adorno))) would be proud. This incantation summoned a mighty beam of Pure Justice, blasting the defeated Peterson and the halfwit gang of racist reactionaries right out the fucking room.



Sarah piped up. "The arc of the moral universe is long, but its banana-dick bends towards justice!" She had taken out her succulent right titty, looking like the painting Liberty Leading the People. Together, the room had pealed back the Foreskin of Knowledge. The Labia of Liberty beckoned hungrily.



Chudley, Sarah, and the critical theorists were the only ones left. They sat down in a great Collectivist Circle, engaged in a meaningful dialogue about rightwing populism and the all-male bukkake of libertarians and fake classical liberals dominating the internet right now. Then as a reward, they did what critical theorists do best: they got their FRICKIN' FREAK ON. Judith Butler gave Chudley the first prostate orgasm of his life, teaching him what performativity really meant. Intersectional feminists intersected their legs, tribbing and throbbing violently. Marx dicked down Sarah with revolutionary zeal, resulting in a series of screaming orgasms amplified by the ass-slaps that Foucault was doling out so generously. Right before Marx was about to hit the nut button deep in Sarah’s means of reproduction, Peterson crawled back into the room, like an omega lobster on the sea floor, scuttling in pathetically.



The Supreme Dominancy Hierarchy had been turned upside down. Peterson was still sinking into the abyss, below all those people whose victimhood mentality he used to mock. But rather than using democratic means to actually improve this new society and its profound inequalities, he stuck to his guns. He was a Man of Principle, ready to accept his fate as bottom bitch lobster.



Peterson approached Marx. "Karl," Peterson pleaded, "I want it all. I want it raw. All of you. Don't give me that soft Cultural Marxism, give me hard Marxist Marxism. Give me that Determinist-Daddy-Dick Marxism. Collectivize me, Daddy. First, I'll give myself an enema to get the last bits of Rand out. Then I want you to socialize my sphincter."



But the majestic and magnanimous Marx could offer much more. Presenting his massive rump to Peterson in all of its gluteal glory, Marx firmly gripped his own ass cheeks and slowly spread them, revealing a swirling intergalactic portal within. "The Map of Meaning!" Peterson exclaimed.



Jordan Peterson dove into the anal vortex, entering a land of fully automated luxury gay space communism, and was never heard from again.