Sport of Kings

by: E.M. Burlingame

Society’s become an inescapable shit pile, and it’s all because we’ve forgotten what it takes to be real. We’ve lost the balance, the three forces that keep everything from turning into a goddamn genocidal circus: the Great Game, the Sport of Kings, and the Common Man. Without them pulling in their own ruthless, brutal and shabby directions, we’re just filthy rats in a cage, biting each other’s tails off for fun.

The Great Game is the Estrogen-based Warfare, that Passive-aggressive bullshit that pits everyone against everyone. It’s the sly, underhanded crap that turns your neighbor into a backstabbing snake and your girl into a grinning liar. It’s like a bar fight where everyone’s too cowardly to throw their own punch, so they manipulate someone else to sucker punch you with a bullet in the back of the head—spilling blood, smashing humans, making a hell on earth of the whole damn place. That’s what the Estrogens are forever cooking up, a stew of whispers and fake smiles, civil enslavement and genocide, and we’ve been lapping it up like fools.

Then there’s the Sport of Kings, the Testosterone-based Leadership. It’s that Careful, calm, methodical, immovably strong and resolved strength that’s supposed to steer this sinking ship. It’s not loud or flashy—it’s the kind of leadership that doesn’t blink when the shit hits the fan. Oh, but it knows the Great Game and how to counter it, how to stay alive when the house guard ain’t there to protect you and yours but to kill you if the Estrogens so demand. Picture a chess game where the king moves with purpose, not fear, cutting through the chaos with a steady hand. Keeping the world from burning down in ten thousand nuclear fireballs. That’s what we’ve lost, and we’re paying for it.

And the Common Man? He’s the check and balance, the masses who are supposed to be the shield of and check on the King. They’re the backbone, the ones who keep the big shots from getting too drunk on power. They’re like the bartender in this mess—watching the brawl, knowing they could end it with a shout, but instead they just pour another whiskey and let the world spin out of control. Not sure if they quite like the big guy who’s taking some real punches, even a knife blade or two, no matter he’s doing it to prevent them from being enslaved and murdered. The Common man is supposed to be the real power, but he’s asleep at the wheel, drunk on illusions of his own greatness.

Over the last four hundred years, we’ve lost the Sport of Kings. We’ve swallowed the lie fostered by the Estrogens that there’s only the Great Game. They’ve sold us this fairy tale that leadership’s dangerous, toxic, that strength, Testosterones are just tyranny in disguise, and that the Common Man is running the show. Horseshit. The Common Man ain’t running a fucking thing. In the time the Estrogens have been waging their Great Game, the Common Man has been totally, absolutely, unaccountably enslaved and worse.

Look at the scoreboard: hundreds of millions have been murdered by their own governments, hundreds of millions have been sold into outright slavery, billions have been locked in tax and wage and debt slavery. And now? They’re mutilating children’s genitals and driving them to ruin in vast numbers. The Common Man has done nothing, does nothing to counter the Estrogens. He just sits there, drowning in his own piss, believing there’s no need for a King nor the Sport of Kings, I’m the King now!

It’s time to wake the fuck up! Time to restore The Testosterones, to seek out and elevate those immense few who can play the Sport of Kings. That’s the only thing sufficient to counter the Great Game. Only kings and their sport can stand up to the Estrogens and their genocidal ways, control the Great Game. The Common Man can continue to fall for the lie fostered by the Estrogens, but it won’t save him. It won’t stop the blood. It’ll will only ensure depopulation occurs, you the carbon is eradicated.

We’ve got to tear down their Great Game, counter the genocidal slavery of the Estrogens, and drag this mess back into balance. The Common Man can’t do it solo—he’s too broken, too blind, to bloody ignorant to power. We need our Kings, the ones who will restore the Great Man and their Sport of Kings. We need them now, before the bar burns down and all that’s left is ash and a hangover no one survives.