Literal Human Garbage: Trashiness as a Revolt Against the Modern WorldNicholas R. Jeelvy
Prologue: “I had no idea white people live like this”
It was ten or more years ago now, but I still vividly remember the first time I felt my class privilege.
I was visiting a friend — and it was my first time visiting a poor house in a poor neighborhood. My friend had been reluctant to show me his house, precisely because I think he was ashamed of its state. It was in poor repair, filthy and cluttered, and showed signs of recent fire damage. The floor was laminate that didn’t even match. The toilet was filthy and small, and contained a plastic vessel full of stagnant water. If my friend is to be believed, a rat had drowned in that vessel the previous day. At least one room was completely unusable due to clutter. “Hoarding” was the only explanation I was given. The yard was unkempt and overgrown, the drains filled with dry leaves, the window panes flimsy and lacking insulative properties. At least one wall seemed bent. The little dwelling was dark and yellowish in hue, claustrophobic due to the hoarded, useless junk all over the place. It smelled of dust, grime, and cheap booze.
“What do you think?” my friend asked. My answer shot out quicker than I could suppress it: “I had no idea white people live like this.” My friend laughed the labored laugh of men making light of their own misery.
I suspect he wanted to shock me a little bit, or at least have me share in his misery. It’s not easy growing up poor, and it’s even harder if that poverty is clearly traceable to unchangeable and unchanging factors such as addiction and a violent personality. The hardest is poverty despite one’s pronounced intelligence and drive to succeed; sometimes things just come down to dumb luck.
Seeing my friend, whose intelligence levels are comparable to my own and who is my racial and ethnic kinsman to a greater degree than almost anyone around me — he is likewise of partial Russian descent — and witnessing his dire circumstances was a humbling experience. It was also very demonstrative of just how much luck had to do with my own family’s position and wealth. I’ve heard it said that seeing poor co-ethnics arises status anxiety in wealthy whites. For my part, it engendered compassion for the less fortunate.
However poor my friend may have been at the time, he wasn’t trashy. Being like my own family’s temporarily embarrassed aristocrats, his family retained a certain degree of dignity that poverty, filth, hoarding, and generational alcoholism could never truly erase. By their very embarrassment at the state of their dwelling, I could tell that they were in the gutter but looking at the stars. The neighborhood around them, however, had completely embraced the filth.
While my friend sought to associate with people of my social class, his neighbors looked at me with suspicion and resentment. I’ve never been flashy in my dress or behavior, but one doesn’t simply turn on the bon-ton rigorously crammed in and drilled for 30 years off. By my very manner of speaking, walking, and dress, as well as my aesthetic tastes and general disposition, I announced my class and wealth to these people, and my presence made them uncomfortable.
This essay is about people, white people, who’ve embraced the gutter, as well as their presence in the media and the omens surrounding their appearance.
Sometime before that incident, I was introduced to the music of Die Antwoord, the South African alt-rap duo whose modus operandi is sampling old techno and synthwave songs and using them as bases for their own rap songs. The combination of catchy music and explicitly and unabashedly trashy lyrics, delivered with the indefatigable quality of the South African Boer accent, had me hooked. The duo also puts a great deal of attention into making music videos and cultivating an image which accords with what they call the Zef aesthetic.
The Zef aesthetic is derived from the real way in which working class white South Africans lived, and still do. South African whites, being on the receiving end of the worst anti-white laws on the planet (so far), have been reduced to extreme poverty and the accordant spiritual and moral degeneration which comes with it. The aesthetic’s end result is predictable: trashy women dressed like whores, conspicuous fake jewelry, souped-up cars, crassness, loudness, promiscuity, substance abuse (primarily alcohol but also some of the cheaper street drugs), and all sorts of familial and sexual dysfunction. I’m sure that the reality is more nuanced and complex than what I’m seeing over the Internet, but the fate of people who have been materially deprived is, more often than not, and in the absence of religious faith, to become morally depraved as well. After all, we’re already in the gutter, so why not start acting like trash?
Notably, the Zef aesthetic is dominant among South Africa’s whites, forming a conscious self-abasement and trashiness among a population cohort which was once noted for its propriety, religiosity, and conservatism. Its worldwide promotion is, I suspect, an attempt at national humiliation of the Boers. Some deeply dysfunctional individuals of that group are, I suspect, having a great time serving as models of Soufrican trash.
This music video by Die Antwoord has it all: sex, drugs, rock ’n’ roll, nihilism, wads of cash, motorcycles, cars, violence, naked women, naked women wrestling in Jell-O, automotive stunts, disturbingly sexualized children, adult women acting as disturbingly sexualized children, bicycle tricks, leopard-print bedding, domestic kitsch, familial dysfunction, incest, Satanism, and gun violence, all performed by lily-white, Aryan-blond South Africans. “What the hell am I looking at?” I asked myself all those years ago. “No idea,” answered my inner monologue. “But it’s awesome!” How can anything this filthy be awesome?
Zef, at least as presented by Die Antwoord, is not merely crass, hypersexualized, and materialistic. It’s also full of contempt for wealth and class itself. It is trashy and proud, but not in the grasping, resentful way of gangsta rap, which is clearly envious of the wealth and power of the hated wypipo. Baked into Zef is a contempt for middle-class morals, but also for the middle class’ wealth and its conceptions of what wealth is or ought to be. Ninja, the group’s front man, doesn’t just want to own expensive shit; he wants to “rub [his] dick on expensive shit” — and not necessarily expensive shit he owns. He wants the status boost, but is at the same time contemptuous of status and class questions. He wants to appropriate the status symbols in order to debase them.
Ninja doesn’t want to rise to the level of the middle class or even the aristocracy, but to bring them down to his level. To rub one’s dick on expensive shit is not to uplift oneself by possessing expensive shit, but to drag the expensive shit down into the gutter with the rest of the poor whites who drink sulphite-enriched beer and soup up their Ford Zephyrs. When Ninja sips Dom Perignon, he does not become classy, but rather makes Dom Perignon trashy. “It’s like an angel peed in my mouth! C’est si bon.” When Ninja’s bandmate Yolandi, having become a Rich Bitch (as opposed to a wealthy lady), indulges herself, she rejects the aesthetic preferred by the upper class, instead choosing to gorge herself on Nutella and shit in a golden toilet. Unlike the middle class, who earn money, or the upper class, which inherits it, the Rich Bitch made her money by setting her family on fire and collecting the insurance money. The only trashier way to get rich would be to win the lottery. Of note is that the lyrics of that song depicting poverty are in Afrikaans rather than English.
Of course, no discourse on the poor befouling status symbols is complete without an account of the utter trashing of that most noble and ancient name of Gucci. Of course, Die Antwoord are way ahead of us, having come up with the concept of the Gucci Coochie. Having secured guest vocals from Dita von Teese (Marylin Manson’s main squeeze), we’re treated to high-pitched squeaking from Yolandi Visser which is meant to emulate the sounds normally produced by orgasmic women. The very idea of a Gucci Coochie is delightfully revolting. It’s cheap, it’s fake, it looks like shit, and at the same time it’s expensive, authentic, and raw. I can almost see the vulgar clasp over the goombah alligator leather, trimmed with an elegant peroxide-bleached muff. Ah, signore Mauricio, how low your empire has fallen.
Pink Flamingos: “Kill everyone now, advocate cannibalism, eat shit!”
Moving from the caravan parks of South Africa to 1970s Baltimore, we again find white people fleeing before the rising tide of color. Baltimore used to be a nice city before it became Lagos on the Chesapeake — or so I’ve been told, at any rate. This transformational process which turned America’s urban areas into unlivable shitholes dominated by non-whites began in the 1960s with civil rights legislation, and became fully actualized in the ‘70s, when the last cultural optimism went out of America, never to be truly regained. Not even the much-vaunted ‘80s could bring back the old civilizational confidence; it was just an ageing nation’s dream of its fast-fading youth.
In what would soon become the ruins of downtown Baltimore, a group of freaks, misfits, and outright degenerates would make what was at the time considered an exercise in bad taste: John Waters’ Pink Flamingos, starring notorious drag queen Divine.
The film is one of those that could only really have been made in the ’70s, where drag queens were still outrageous and still allowed to be grotesque. The thought of modern wokies trying to stomach all the filth and toilet humor, as well as the self-conscious outsiderness of Divine and her cronies, is amusing. They quite openly bill themselves as “the filthiest people alive” and are proud of it. “Filth is my politics, filth is my life.” Babs Johnson as portrayed by Divine is a disgusting individual, hauling steaks between her legs in broad daylight, eating dog shit, engaging in sexual acts with her son, cannibalizing police officers, and conducting a kangaroo court while coquetting with the media. Her rivals are Connie and Raymond Marble, who, despite being quite filthy themselves, greatly resent Divine for having been proclaimed The Filthiest Person Alive, and look down on her for living in a trailer.
By presenting the antagonists as middle-class trashy wannabees, we once again see the contempt which genuine trash has for wealth and status even as the middle class strives to become The Filthiest People Alive. Raymond Marble is an exhibitionist who exposes himself to young girls with a sausage tied to his penis, but he has nothing on Divine’s son Crackers, who crushes a live chicken between himself and a woman he’s raping. Connie and Raymond Marble lick and suck each others’ toes, but Divine blows her own son in a bout of uncontrolled lust. Connie and Raymond Marble abduct young girls, force their gay servant Channing to impregnate them, and then sell the babies to lesbian couples, but Divine stages the trial and execution of Connie and Raymond for loving media people and their cameras. Try as they might, the middle class strivers are outdone at every step by the true mistress of filth. Were Pink Flamingos directed by Christopher Nolan, Divine would have claimed that the Marbles had merely adopted the filth, whereas she was born into it and molded by it.
I chuckle to myself when I compare Divine, who is self-consciously disgusting and proud of it, with modern neurotic activist troons. They want to be accepted by society, while she openly wages war on society. They want to pass for women; she’s very obviously and visibly a man. They insist on pronouns; she insists on being Divine. They try to pass themselves off as well-adjusted citizens; she eats dog shit. Divine, having embraced her fundamentally disgusting nature, is free in ways that modern trannies aren’t, and simply cannot be. Normalization killed the outsider allure of transgenderism and transvestitism. Nowadays a guy in a skirt is likelier to be some low-testosterone hipster trying to sympathize with the imagined female plight rather than a wall of self-confident vulgarity screaming in a scarlet dress.
Sadly, this film made John Waters big, and so the mainstream managed to draw him in and make him boring, or at least less interesting than he was here and in Multiple Maniacs. The last of his spark went into Female Trouble. Seeing his subsequent oeuvre is underwhelming. If you’re new to John Waters’ films, start with Serial Mom and Cecil B. Demented and work backwards from there.
There is only one black character in the film: a two-second role for a post office clerk. Pink Flamingos is refreshingly white, even if bizarre and consisting of the dregs of the whites in and around Baltimore. Race never enters the equation. Of note is that all of the media people appearing to document the kangaroo trial and execution towards the end look Jewish and have names which sound Jewish. The media circus itself is an important background element: It is Divine’s media prominence which excites the Marbles’ envy, prompting them to launch their crusade of filth against her. Without the oxygen of media attention, trash cannot rise to prominence, cannot attract those life-giving eyeballs, and cannot attain status, which is so exalted that a pair of disgusting social climbers like Connie and Raymond Marble would want to be considered the Filthiest People Alive.
It is a strange characteristic of the Western middle and upper classes that they fret about being “authentic” and “real.” They’ll joke about being crazy, and they’ll appropriate the aesthetic of criminality, jokingly or earnestly. White-collar dudes will blast gangsta rap out of their Honda Civics and pose with wads of cash and cigars, trying to look like Tony Montana. But unlike the genuine trash, they’ll only lower themselves. The trash, being as low as it can get, cannot fall any lower, nor can it attain any upward mobility — not that it cares about attaining upward mobility. The goal is to bring everything down to its level. Connie and Raymond Marble want to increase their social standing by taking Divine down, but Divine doesn’t lose filthiness or her crown by receiving a turd in the mail. In the end, the bourgeois bohemians were outbohemed by the genuine and unpretentious trailer trash.
Trash goes to Washington: The virgin Donald Trump vs. the chad Hunter Biden
Having covered trash in South African music and American ’70s cinema, we can move on to that greatest of creative arenas where all the performing arts culminate in one great, pulsating knob of show business: politics. We are on the cusp of the greatest, trashiest, and filthiest spectacles in American — indeed, world — politics. I am talking, of course, about the leaked videos from Hunter Biden’s laptops where he smokes crack, has sex with hookers, smokes more crack, gets blowjobs from hookers, ties up a girl, puts a bag over her head and eats a sandwich, smokes crack in a hyperbaric chamber — and did I mention the hookers? He fucks a lot of hookers. He also seems to fuck one of Obama’s daughters.
When the American Deep State propped Joe Biden up as its puppet, they probably did not foresee the absolute optical nightmare that Hunter Biden would become for his old man. I’ve joked before that Hunter Biden acts exactly the way as WASPs used to imagine the Irish acting: i.e., as essentially animals that swing from trees.
But there is something definitely charming about the whole Hunter Biden thing. I suspect it has something to do with the shamelessness of it all. His father is the President of the United States, and yet he’s smoking crack, engaging in corruption, and soliciting prostitutes left and right. Some faithful readers recently commented that Hunter Biden’s behavior is quite literally that of what Right-wing Twitter likes to call the sigma male. Another reader joked that “if you started shilling Hunter as a paragon of masculinity on RW Twitter, a whole lot of brown people would buy it” — referring to the predominantly Hispanic and (dot) Indian fanbase of Bronze Age Pervert, who glorifies sociopathic behavior as “chad.” In the past I’ve made light of the fact that ostensible Right-wingers want to literally become Patrick Bateman. Nick Fuentes, Scott Greer, and Richard Spencer have, for their part, also exalted Hunter Biden’s behavior. This wouldn’t be news except for the fact that it reminds us once again that psychopaths and sociopaths will always seek to normalize their own pathological behavior, and also that they’re sadly prevalent on the Dissident Right, chasing the notoriety and thriving in its highly contentious environment.
Another aspect of the Hunter Biden scandals is very important to note, however. So far, none of the leaks seem to have hurt either Hunter himself or his decrepit old man’s ratings. Indeed, such has been the discrepancy between Right-wing enthusiasm for Hunter’s leaks and their actual effect that it is now easy comedy to simply make fun of MAGApedes who can hardly contain their enthusiasm for yet another image of Hunter Biden’s penis. Contemptuous though we may be of Hunter Biden’s disgusting behavior, we must look closely at this observed phenomenon.
We must remember that the Bidens are not being judged against some theoretical standard of a Platonic, fully moral First Family, but against the standard of the previous president and his family. The previous president is of course Donald Trump, a man who in a sense embodies crassness and vulgarity, but not in the sense of Zef or Pink Flamingos; rather in the grubbing, grasping sense of a lower-class lout who somehow became filthy rich and is now chasing clout and status he could never have.
Trump made his money in the world of Manhattan real estate through a combination of mafia connections, corruption, stiffing his creditors, and selling gullible people the image of wealth. The scuzzy origins of his wealth is reflected in the man’s personal crassness, his orange tan, his gaudy obsession with coating everything with gold, his bombastic imagery, his clout-chasing in The Apprentice, and taking part in professional wrestling — and even with his glorified self-help book, The Art of the Deal.
His crassness was never shameless, however. This is not a person who fell ass-backwards into money and now trolls the upper class by dragging their favorite status symbols down into the gutter; he is rather the ultimate nouveau riche, a short-fingered vulgarian striver who was always rejected by the jet set for his grubbiness, classlessness, and boorishness, and who made the ultimate status grab by running for President while giving false hope to white Americans. Once in office he helped nobody but his old mafia buddies, now deeply ensconced in the military and intelligence establishments, and also linked to Israel through the Chabad-Lubavitch cult and Israeli intelligence — but he never stopped chasing that elusive status. He bloviated endlessly about having achieved the lowest black unemployment levels ever, rescinding on his promises to arrest Hillary Clinton and her associates while cavorting with fellow vulgarian Kim Kardashian in order to unleash incarcerated black criminals, as well as presiding over the 2020 George Floyd summer of riots while impotently “monitoring the situation.” And yet, his acceptance into the upper class remained elusive until he was run out of Washington on January 6, 2021 — but not before throwing his foolhardy supporters under the bus one last time.
Contrast all this to Hunter Biden’s utter shamelessness. Smoking crack and banging whores is a bad idea. Filming yourself doing it is even worse. Hunter Biden is garbage, and he knows it. He uses his superficial charm, so common among sociopathic personalities, to make you love his filth. He makes lesser sociopaths like Nick Fuentes or Richard Spencer seethe and envy his access to hookers, crack, and the immunity he has. Whereas Donald Trump abuses cocaine, Hunter just straight up smokes crack in a hyperbaric chamber. Donald Trump marries supermodels and has porn stars spank him; Hunter Biden just bangs whores, and probably one of the Obama girls. Donald Trump foolishly thought the presidency would bring him the much-coveted social status he never had as a nouveau riche object of contempt; Hunter Biden drags the presidency through the mud with his Hibernian ape antics.
The broader Biden family is fairly dysfunctional as well, what with Dr. Jill being a bit of a gold digger and apparently a hussy in her younger days, and the old man himself being listed as “Pedo Peter” in Hunter Biden’s phone. But Hunter is the absolute king of degeneracy: “truly Bowdenesque in his exaltation of descent.” How puny and miserable Trump is, the man who for a time embodied vulgarity, next to this genuinely disgusting person, who is absolutely shameless about everything.
Conclusion: “In every forest are mulberry mushrooms . . .”
You’ll notice that not once in this essay did I use the word wigger. This is because I did not write it to describe white people who act black. Indeed, wiggery is more often observed in the middle class than in poor, trashy whites. What I’ve described is a very peculiar, very white way of embracing poverty, trashiness, crassness, and low social status. Blacks are trashy and violent because they covet the white man’s great wealth and social status. Black men lust after white women, and black women hate white women for the lust they engender in black men while at the same time lusting for white men, particularly Right-wing and “racist” white men. In short, the blacks want what the whites have. Even middle-class blacks will “act white” and try to appropriate our manner of dress and behavior as a form of cargo-cultish attempt to attain our wealth and status.
Contrariwise, trashy whites will act contemptuously towards the wealth and status of middle- and upper-class whites, even as they covet and envy that same wealth and status. Painfully aware that they’ll never attain it, they nevertheless seek to appropriate it, not to boost their own status but to drag it down into the mud and deny its use to the middle and upper classes. It is a position born of desperation, a lack of belief in a better future, and a lack of any possible upward mobility, even from poor to working class. Ninja gains no class from rubbing his dick on expensive shit, but he does decrease the expensive shit’s value, both socially and monetarily. Connie and Raymond Marble want media attention to raise their social standing, while Divine attracts media attention to enhance her own filthiness by adding “media whore” to her already large repertoire of trashy behaviors, and trashing the media in the process. Donald Trump wants to become President so the Manhattan bluebloods will finally treat him as one of them, but Hunter huffs away at the crack pipe without a care in the world, even as his senile father turns America into a banana republic.
Why, then, do we have grudging respect for Ninja, Divine, and Hunter Biden? Because unlike the middling, wishy-washy Marbles and Trump, they are fully forces for dissolution. Instead of clinging to the vestiges of the false gods of civility and propriety, they fully embrace the carnival of garbage that is modernity. The Marbles and Trumps are tourists in the trailer park. They want to drink cheap beer, ogle the girl in the Confederate flag bikini, and have a cheap steak with ketchup. Ninja, Divine, and Hunter Biden will stay behind, smoke meth and crack, and fuck the girl in the Confederate flag bikini in exchange for an ounce of weed, then stab her husband in the ensuing knife fight, set the trailer on fire, and get away with it, because men respect honesty and authenticity and despise tourists.
The poor will always be with us. Even in the ethnostate there will be poor white people. Some of them will be crass, others vulgar. Trashiness is a phenomenon of late-stage civilizations, when faith and patriotism offer nothing more to the poor and when faith and patriotism have themselves become ugly lies. What else remains to the lowest of men, who nevertheless wish to retain a degree of freedom and independence? Trashiness, indulgence of their basest instincts, and contempt for the mores, bells, and whistles of their social superiors. The social hierarchy no longer works for them in any way, so they no longer honor it and in fact invert it by inflicting themselves and their low status on polite society. Neoliberal ethics having eroded the possibility of being respected and retaining dignity while poor, the poor now take their revenge by disrupting the civility and decorum of everyday life, unleashing trash on a society no longer deserving of their respect. Atop the trash pile sit sociopaths like Hunter Biden, who just want to watch the world burn while being hated and envied by lesser, more materialistic sociopaths like Donald Trump or Nick Fuentes, who want to roll around in garbage but remain clean. Fortunately for us, the world doesn’t work like that. Garbage sticks.
My friend from the Prologue is a tourist in the land of poverty. In the basement of his crumbling abode is a yellowed document bearing the seal of Tsar Alexander III, attesting that his great-great grandfather had earned the right to call himself “Count.” Misfortune and ill fortune may have bedeviled his family, but their quality will always shine through. Already he is on his way to establishing himself as a small business owner. His children will likely build on this small foothold. His brother is a wealthy and influential engineer serving in the massive German industrial engine. Even his parents, violent alcoholics and hoarders though they may have been, were always tourists in the land of poverty. But some people live there always, regardless of wealth and perceived status. Some people will always serve the gods of dissolution.
When we speak of dissolution, we speak of a degenerative illness gripping civilizations nearing the end of their life cycle. When we speak of dissolution, we speak of the healthful process of civilizational death. When we speak of dissolution, we speak of a breaking down of the old. Many white identitarians become too focused on this part of the struggle — although this doesn’t mean that it’s not an important part of the struggle. Dissolution is not the be-all-and-end-all of dissident politics, but it is an important part. For our civilization to be reborn, it first needs to be put out of its misery. Hunter Biden has done us a tremendous favor by dragging the American presidency down to his own repugnant, crack-smoking level. He is the chaga eating away at the rotten heart of the tree of Western civilization.
I will leave you with an indispensable quote from Maxim Martsinkevich Tesak, a Russian neo-Nazi who met a very trashy end after winding up in prison for hate speech:
I will explain the essence of my ideology. You need to imagine a society in the form of a forest, where trees are social structures. There is a social consensus about friendship or bribery — that it is bad to give bribes. But in fact this consensus is rotten, because bribes are given and taken by everyone, if possible. The installation is rotten to the core.
There is a consensus towards friendship.
In every forest there are mulberry mushrooms; they are also called “chaga.” Every tree contains spores of this fungus. Weak trees begin to die, mushrooms finish them off faster so that the forest can renew itself. We have the same situation in society.
These mushrooms were cut from rotten Russian trees. But this did not make the trees healthy; it only opened the way for a new generation of mulberry parasites, only now they are perverted and dangerous — because if there is rot, then there will be a parasite.
God save us all when this rotten forest will crumble . . .
* * *
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