Off Limits

In which a former fan discovers that a comedian is actually a comedian.

During one of Owen’s livestreams, he delved into the JFK assassination and how the video that everyone sees was created by a Jew after the fact and that no raw footage of the incident exists for public consumption to this day. In the comments of said video, I mentioned that my mother remembered seeing it herself. Now, I was mistaken and I probably just remember it that way when my mother was just saying that she remembers the news report of what happened that day. She lived on a pig farm and was probably either at school or doing chores when it happened for all I know.

Owen replied to my false comment by calling my mother a liar.

But it’s SusanTube comments. And nobody cares about those. The only thing lower than SusanTube comments is Reddit comments.

The next day, however, Mr. Smith took a screenshot of that comment, posted it on his stream, and said that while he didn’t know who I was, he was certain that my mother was a “fucking liar”.

It’s one thing if he attacked me. That would be legit, especially if half of your streams just involve you yelling at your fans for being stupid morons and that the world is flat, there is no space, and there would be Utopia if everyone was like you.

(That last part may be unfair. Whatever, it stays.)

So I did the only sane thing I could think, traveled to Washington state, set his ducks on fire, and pissed in his goat milk. And then I sent 1 million emails to Vox Day about how he’s partnered with a violent pony snatcher.

No, that’s not right. I did no such thing. I did, however, write him a letter explaining that my mother was not a liar and that I was probably just misremembering what she told me.

I even told him that I wasn’t interested in an apology. I just wanted him to understand that my mother was off-limits.

First, Owen is a comedian. That’s literally what he does. He’s an entertainer. As an economist, he’s a very good comedian. As a nuclear physicist, he’s a good comedian. As a game designer, he’s a good comedian. Are you starting to recognize a pattern there? Stop a) expecting him to be anything else or b) projecting your own ideas about what you’d like him to be on him. You be you. Let Owen be Owen. And for the love of all that is good and beautiful and true, stop expecting any of the rest of us to be anything beyond what we happen to be.

To paraphrase the immortal Douglas Adams, we’re just, like, zese guys, you know? We’re not prophets, we’re not seers, we’re not the hidden masters of the secret gnosis, and with the exception of Jordan Peterson and Scott Adams, we’re not pretending to be.


Second, WTF? How is Owen, or anyone else, to understand that this guy’s mother is off-limits when the guy brought her into the situation in the first place? Either Owen is wrong, or this guy is wrong, or this guy’s mother is a liar. And until Owen is presented with evidence that the guy’s claim about the mother is correct, Owen is perfectly justified in continuing to state that the woman is, as he apparently believes, “a fucking liar”. If you bring X into the conversation, you have absolutely no right to protest when the other parties respond to your claims about X. That one’s on you, sport.

Third, even if the guy’s mother is a liar, so what? My mother lied with craftsmanship and an effortless fluidity that can only be described as artistic. She had me convinced until I was nearly 30 years old that the crust was, in fact, the healthiest part of the bread. She clearly got the talent from my grandfather, who had one of my brothers believing for decades that his black hair, bronze skin, and high cheekbones were the result of a Black Irish ancestry. I admire and aspire to their level of parental duplicity, which is why meerkats are increasingly known around the world as “the piranha of the Serengeti”.

And, of course, meerkats are the reason they can’t have desert penguins at the zoo.