The BRAWN Initiative

BRAWN Initiative
I want a perfect body. I want a perfect soul.

STEM is dead and women have killed it.

For much of my adult life there has been unwavering support in the media for STEM education. The democratization of the university degree, a product of greed and affirmative action, has flooded the labor pool with low-skilled STEM graduates with little hope for a full time career. We were told the only way to succeed in life, nay the only way to find work, was to study Science, Technology, Engineering, or Mathematics. However, upon graduation none of this was true.

The research laboratory is where you will inevitably wind up with your prestigious STEM degree. Those outside of STEM fields have a false conception of what research actually entails. Research is not traveling to remote islands and collecting dead finches with disparate beak shapes. Research is not mixing chemicals to create gold. Research is not testing the atom bomb in a remote New Mexico desert.

Research is monotony. Research is sitting at a computer for hours on end staring at data on Excel. Research is adding Red Liquid A to Red Liquid B with a broken pipette manufactured in 1988. You will never discover anything. You will never invent anything. You will never produce anything of value.

Science is so compartmentalized nowadays that you have no idea what you’re working on. A part of a part of a part of some larger part. You’re given a set of instructions to follow and repeat until you find a different lab. There is no room for creativity or innovation. The grant rules everything around you. Sitting in a fume hood under nauseating fluorescent light all day makes you no better than the lab rats you test boner pills on.

STEM is well-suited to people who follow the rules. People who don’t think big. People who don’t challenge the status quo. Women thrive in this type of environment, as do H-1Bs from the Philippines. The former tends to move up quickly into management. If a woman doesn’t already manage your lab, the impotent, old Boomer male who does will happily change that.

The old Boomers of STEM are dinosaurs. They are replacing themselves with a cohort of strange mystery meat women with names you can’t pronounce. I’m told there’s a shortage of women in STEM but there’s really a shortage of people who aren’t first-generation immigrants. People who don’t ask The Big Questions. People who are more than willing to be the worker ants of the seething hive of Industrial Civilization.

Technology has longed ceased to improve lives. The latest dick pic apps from Silicon Valley let us Keep Up with the Kardashians, but otherwise tether us to an inescapable virtual hellscape. Engineering, too, has failed us. We set foot on the Moon and that was about it for technological progress. Advancements in robotics promise us a future in which no one will have to work. But we’ve been told that for a long time. Work isn’t bad as long as it’s dignified. There is nothing dignified about receiving a UBI check from the government after watching your mandatory twelve hours of targeted mobile ads per day.

Mathematics serves as the body of the STEM hydra, and remains to an extent the least corrupted of the four fields. Notoriously difficult, higher level math serves as an obstacle many students cannot surmount. Life science undergraduates tap out after differential & integral calculus, something of which should be mandatory to graduate high school. I am told that in China all university students regardless of major must pass linear algebra and differential equations. This could be a good filter for a better education system in the future.

It is clear by now that STEM is a meme propagated by big business to drive down wages in highly technical disciplines. The supposed STEM shortage is nothing more than a hoax to flood the labor market both with underpaid recent graduates and H-1B Filipina waifus for the enjoyment of middle management Boomers. STEM is on its way out and its death invites us to ponder what should replace it.

I would like to propose my very own BRAWN Initiative. The technical disciplines have for too long been filled with nerds lacking a sort of vital spirit necessary for innovation and discovery. Worse, the rote nature of contemporary STEM has attracted insect people content to memorize and repeat soundbites from their college professors. The BRAWN Initiative will make them all submit to the will of the New Man.

One cannot have a healthy mind or soul without a healthy body. Thus, Broscience is the first of the five core components of BRAWN. By selectively drawing from ancient wisdom, biostatistics, and esoteric bodybuilding forums, Broscience represents all that is good and pure in regards to health and well-being. To paraphrase a famous bodybuilder, “Are you going to listen to somebody who studied the body or somebody who built the body?” With all this talk in the media about healthcare and the impotence of the government, the Age of DIY Healthcare cannot come soon enough. Look after your bros as they would look after you.

Religion is the second component of BRAWN. The health of the soul is criminally overlooked by modern science. Some of these lab coat-wearing neckbeards even say the soul doesn’t exist. We enlightened few know this isn’t true. Choose a faith and follow it. It doesn’t matter if it ‘isn’t real’; the Truth lies in the stories and parables regardless if they actually happened.

The third core component of BRAWN is Aesthetics. As I have written before, your appearance is literally the only important thing about you. But Aesthetics goes beyond this: we must teach students to appreciate Beauty in all forms, from art to architecture to Nature. A respect for Beauty translates into a respect for Life itself. Life is not and should not be a race to the very bottom. Through Broscience and Religion (body & soul) we will elevate ourselves and our civilization into the realm of the Aesthetic.

Will to power is the fourth and foundational force of BRAWN. Will to power is your vital spark, your inner flame, your essence. Will to power is a rebellion against the overwhelming force of entropy that threatens to consume us all. By cultivating will to power through intense physical training, endurance exercises, and mandatory nude Greco-Roman wrestling, we will be able to overcome the pervasive nihilism of post-modernism.

The last core component of BRAWN is Natural philosophy, the original science. Natural philosophy concerns itself with the mathematics that underpins all physical phenomena. We must learn from the Ancients by reading the foundational texts of this field and expand on it in our own ways. It is an atrocity that public schools teach mathematics, physics, and biology without having students read the works of Pythagoras, Archimedes, and Aristotle. An experiment is of no use if you do not understand the fundamental reasons behind natural phenomena. Many people can do calculus but few know why and how it was developed over millennia.

Thus, let us cast STEM into the trash heap of post-modernity. Let BRAWN be the future of total human development. Let us be stronger, smarter, and more introspective. Let us ask The Big Questions and know how to answer them.

PEP Squad

PEP Squad

An iridescent glow reflected off of his mirrored aviator sunglasses. He exhaled a plume of white vapor and studied its ascent into the clear, black night sky. The wharf was cold this time of year, too cold. A writer, one of those many conventional men no longer studied in schools, once wrote that the coldest winter of his life was the summer he spent in San Francisco. Some things refuse to change.

A wall of fog inched across the bay. It was late and the streets were empty aside from a few tired tourists meandering back to their hotel rooms. In his three years on the force, Officer G. knew the city well. Nightlife was restricted to a few well-known locations and it was rare to see a native San Franciscan wandering about after dark.

Officer G. leaned on the door of his squad car. The infamous pier stretched out before him and faded into the swirling black depths of the bay. An observant tourist could still see the shrapnel scars left on the outer walls of the adjacent buildings.

A wedding. A bloodbath. Thick smoke from the ensuing fire billowed for hours. Some type of bomb. The bride and groom were consumed in the blast at the moment of their eternal vows. Until death do you part. That was the old saying. While the rest of the country mourned, the people of the city saw it as a new beginning.

Later that evening, they stormed the office of the mayor. The mob, in its insatiable frenzy, tore through the corpulent bureaucrats with ease. The government had given them everything but their own lives. A familiar multicolored banner of every visible hue, ubiquitous around these parts, ascended and the mob cried out in prideful joy.

The vibrant standard ushered in an untold era of progress for the city. Subsequent weeks of looting and pillaging gave way to a nascent new order, an order founded on true equality. San Francisco became once again the shining beacon of light in the medieval darkness of the nation. Likeminded individuals of all breeds flocked to the golden city.

Fog crept onto the pier and Officer G. sauntered to the water’s edge. In the distance stood a foreboding island fortress. Churning, icy currents surrounding the fortress provided a formidable deterrent to any who dared escape internment. Citizens apprehended for reeducation were whisked away in the middle of the night and brought to the solitary island. Little was known about the curriculum, but educator positions attracted some of the brightest minds from nearby universities.

Officer G. glanced back at his squad car. The tourists had cleared the streets and a persistent silence fell upon the wharf. Behind him stood glimmering skyscrapers, graven monoliths of progress against the unbearable cruelty of nature. Tiny shards of light adorning their edifices housed the denizens of the proud city. Officer G. strolled back to the vehicle.

The car started with a meek electric hum. Officer G. backed out of his parking spot along the wharf and turned right onto Embarcadero. Night patrol was routine. Few emerged from their well-lit domiciles on these cold nights. Fewer still emerged during the day.

Since universal basic income had been signed into law under Governor Mark Z., there was little reason to leave one’s apartment. A living wage, thanks to the philanthropy of Silicon Valley benefactors, could be earned by viewing one dozen or so hours of targeted ads per day on a smartphone or tablet. Violent crime had dissipated throughout much of the state. However, San Francisco maintained a sizeable task force.

A shrill, crackling static noise from the car radio split the silence. Officer G. jumped in his seat and fiddled with the radio. A deep female voice filled the car.

Dispatch. Officer G., do you copy? Over.

Copy. What’s the situation, Captain? Over.

Battery in progress. Suspect was last seen on foot heading north on Hyde. Exercise extreme caution. Over.

Copy. Over and out.

***

A lanky, awkward man was climbing a steep slope somewhere around Russian Hill. At his side was a squat, rotund girl panting in strenuous effort. The two had been walking together for several minutes after deciding to leave the bar where they met that night. The man arrived at the door to his apartment and waited for the girl to catch up. She spoke to him in a hushed tone.

Thanks for bringing me out tonight. I really had fun.

Y-you too.

The girl giggled and stared into the man’s eyes. She moved closer and embraced him. He craned his neck, and with a great deal of nervous apprehension, brought his lips towards hers. Right before their lips met, the horrible cacophony of screeching car tires caused them both to snap their gaze up the street.

Officer G. slammed on the brakes, and flinging the door of his vehicle open, drew his Glock 22.

Freeze!

The man stumbled away from the girl in shock and raised his hands. In the confusion, the girl ran with surprising speed down the street from the scene.

I said freeze!

The man placed his raised palms on top of his head but it was too late. Officer G. double tapped the trigger of his Glock 22, sending two .40 S&W rounds square into the groin of the suspect. The man keeled over, clawing at his crotch in agony before losing consciousness. Officer G. lowered his weapon and produced a portable radio from the pocket of his hot pink squad uniform.

Captain. Officer G. reporting. Suspect is down. Over.

Copy. Report to HQ for debriefing. Over.

Officer G. strolled back to his squad car, its standard issue rainbow paint job sparkling under the bright light of the nearby streetlamp. Slamming the door, Officer G. started the vehicle and pulled out from the curb. He switched the car radio on and tuned into his favorite music station. The Village People’s “Y.M.C.A.” started playing and he drove off into the dark San Francisco night.

The Trial

Franz Kafka The Trial

It was a bright cold day in April, and a disheveled man lay dead on the floor of an empty courtroom. The court had been adjourned just an hour ago and the deceased man was all that remained in the aftermath of what had been a quick and decisive trial.

The trial began early in the morning. The Prosecutor, drawing from decades of legal experience, arrived before the courthouse had even opened. In his hands he carried a grande Starbucks dairy-free latte and a synthetic patent leather briefcase. Inside the briefcase was a meticulously crafted legal case, the rhetorical equivalent of a high-caliber rifle. His arguments had been honed to perfection the night before. His evidence was foolproof. His dry-cleaned suit was immaculate and his silk tie shimmered with a confidence found only in the most seasoned of legal professionals.

The court convened and the jury filed into to their ranks. The Judge seated himself at the head of the courtroom. The Prosecutor strode into place and neatly arranged his notes on the oak podium. Silence befell the courtroom. The Prosecutor produced his case, a two thousand page opus of remarkable logic and insight. Every line had been personally written by The Prosecutor, every image, chart, and graph hand-selected.

His case was a masterwork of legal knowledge and expertise. A graduate of the esteemed Harvard Law School, The Prosecutor was a formidable opponent in the courtroom. In thirty years of criminal investigations The Prosecutor had yet to lose a case. He excelled at debate. For every argument, he had several counter-arguments. For every counter-argument, he had several more counter-arguments. He was a master of both logic and emotional appeal. Juries were said to have regularly been brought to tears from his heart-rending soliloquies.

The trial began and The Defendant was nowhere to be found. The jury grew restless with boredom. The Prosecutor remained collected and determined. Attempts were made to call The Defendant, each attempt resulting in the call going straight to voicemail. After forty-five minutes had passed, the doors of the courtroom swung open and The Defendant shuffled to his podium.

The Judge was furious. Hushed, nervous whispers could be heard from the jury. Banging his gavel, The Judge called for order and the courtroom fell silent once again. The Defendant carried with him no briefcase, no folder containing a legal defense. The Defendant, in an unprecedented decision for this type of criminal investigation, had selected to represent himself. He wore no suit, wore no tie, and instead wore a simple t-shirt and jeans. The Prosecutor eyed The Defendant with an air of superiority. It would be a short trial.

The Prosecutor stood up and began to pace. The evidence was clear. Fourteen years ago the accused party was found to have been in possession of illegal image macros with intent to distribute. Federal investigators had confiscated The Defendant’s hard drive from his childhood home and uncovered over nine thousand contraband images and animations saved to the disk. More incriminating, however, was The Defendant’s Internet history.

The Defendant’s Internet Service Provider had disclosed that during a span of roughly six years The Defendant had frequented hate sites, whereupon he first encountered the aforementioned illegal image macros. Under executive order of former president C. Clinton, the possession and distribution of illegal image macros, known colloquially as assault memes, was a capital offense. While such hate sites had long ceased to exist, their ugly mark had been left on the Internet.

The Bureau had since been tasked with finding and destroying all traces of illegal image macros. Numerous raids had been conducted on flagged individuals; individuals who had frequented hate sites in their youth and were thought to have once been in possession of digital contraband. The Prosecutor strutted to the projector, and producing a flash drive from his breast pocket, showcased a curated selection of images confiscated from The Defendant’s hard drive.

A crudely drawn cartoon frog appeared on the screen. The frog smirked at the jury, a Mona Lisa smile of mischievous intent. Members of the jury began to shout and scream. One woman even began to cry. The Prosecutor looked away from the projected image and stared at The Defendant.

The Judge called for order. The crying woman had collapsed onto the courtroom floor and had entered into a spasmodic fit. She was escorted out on a stretcher and the trial resumed.

Harvard Law School had prepared The Prosecutor well for such gruesome cases. Cybercrime prosecution was the fastest growing and most lucrative field of law. Possession with intent to distribute illegal image macros was a capital offense in all 193 U.N. member states, and a war crime in the United Kingdom.

His fate sealed, The Defendant stared down at his podium and avoided eye contact with The Prosecutor. The Prosecutor switched the projector off and turned his gaze to The Judge.

Your Honor, the evidence is unmistakable. The Defendant is a sick and twisted individual. For six years, he collected such ghastly, repulsive images. For six years, he spent his nights on vile websites. For six years, he festered in a pool of bigotry and hate. Men like him do not deserve to see the light of day.

The Judge prompted The Defendant for a closing statement. The Defendant had not uttered a word since the trial commenced. The Defendant, without speaking, walked from the podium to the projector and pulled out his iPhone 12 S Space Gray Edition. The smartphone connected wirelessly to the projector, and after a short loading time, displayed a single image on the screen.

An unshaven, obese version of The Prosecutor appeared clad in an over-sized black suit and a black fedora. The man in the photo held the tip of his fedora down with his left hand and clenched a replica samurai sword in his right.

The jury howled with laughter. The Judge couldn’t contain himself either, and after hastily acquitting The Defendant of all charges, joined the sonorous chorus. The Prosecutor, humiliated at his staggering defeat, pulled a small derringer from his suit pocket and shot himself in the head.

The jury laughed even harder.