Even though many--perhaps most--have figured it out by now, it remains, somewhere, a penultimately humorous subject that people say "red pill." As a manly, heroic, righteously cop-killing black man explained the nature of reality to a wimpy white computer programmer, acting in proxy for a couple social justice warring transsexuals, we laugh. As the joke is only expressed to people who have participated or are participating in Plato's Cave so deeply that its transsexually Torahtic and cinematic permutations, rather than some form of reference to "leaving Plato's Cave" or "leaving the Cave," become their preferred diction, we laugh until we cry.
Zion is saved by the multikult, and the expressly outspoken antizionists still craft what remains of their language, and the boundaries of their thought, into a two-part verb which pays homage to its creators. And even when this information is processed, is "known," the behavior making it ridiculous persists. In a racialist sense, it's like teaching the answers to a bunch of jungle savages, teaching expressly to the test and nothing else, providing cheating proctors, and still failing. The fall happened a long time ago. Everybody knows the war is over; everybody knows the good guys lost. Well spoken indeed. Perhaps the fall was predestined; perhaps the handful of wheat is separated from the globular chaff. But then, wasn't that what He said anyway?
As we observe, we note the recurrence. The inability to reject the tainted metaphor--stolen; recycled; stolen again; recycled again; profaned in every possible way. And still used. What red-pilled you?
Don't you see? This is a gift. We can use this against the enemy. (The evil intensifies.)
Is it our weakness, our fondness, our desperate need, for shreds of connection? Bereft of inner worth, and even of outer, we will take anything that serves as a medium, and grow fat thereupon. Nobility, celebrity, professional sports, hypothetical occurrences exchanged through joint knowledge of events in miniseries...? Having made it our own never happened. Taking a cyanide capsule makes it your own, the way we're employing the phrase to claim ownership. Using corrupted metaphors as an efficient substitute for ourselves is integral to how all this happened. Despite the image, carefully cultivated by the provider, that it is the everyfool whose debt-induced purchasing power justifies the circus, it is in fact the Brahmin support. It is not the frothing underclass tailgaters, but the quiet bourgeois, who envitalizes, say, the collegiate sport. This claim is only a variation on the popular "good men do nothing" argument, yet even though we have heard it, we do do nothing. Like compassion for Palestine and hatred for Dubya, it is all empty rhetoric. What red-pilled you?
Yes, even me, palliative assistant to another dying planet.