Daniel P. Barron

I found myself with a girl under each arm, a scotch in hand, dead center in the front of a crowd observing the fire dancing show taking place during the big Friday night finale of PorcFest XIII. Having ingested both MDMA and LSD ⁱ earlier that evening, I imagined the scene took on a particularly mystical quality. This party was for me; a sort of anointing for a new king. The old king was Ian Freeman. The old king represented polyamory, debauchery, and “activism.” I had spent the entire week representing polygyny, The Bible, and children.

I wondered aloud several times throughout the week, “what is PorcFest even about anymore?” This year in particular brought a noticeably smaller crowd than last time, and noticeably less women too. It’s understandable why they’d stay away; there’s a sort of grimy, creepy, self-described aspie type of weirdo that the festival and the “Free State” Project in general tends to attract. They aren’t usually found during the beginning of the week, and if it’s day-time they’re easy enough to ignore. But when night falls, the cold drives them to the warmth of the communal bonfire. ⁱⁱ They make a habit of parroting things they heard in podcasts ⁱⁱⁱ and adopting particularly bizzare fashions of dress. ^iv I didn’t bring a girl to the fire so some schmuck could make a big show before his clique of introverts, talking our ears off about cliche libertarianesque nonsense. I made it my goal to dominate any discussion taking place around me. These idiots can’t be allowed to waste my time; I know exactly what I want, and I have the nerve to execute it. ^v
The aforementioned annoyances are trivial, and I have every intention of going to PorcFest again next year. I cannot say which came first for me: friendship with the kids at PorcFest, or friendship with the girls at PorcFest, but I suspect that the two are related and they are now my primary reason for attending. It can’t be a coincidence that I, the only male my age eager to spend the better part of a week playing games with the youth, ^vi am the male with objectively the most success befriending the fairer sex. “This festival is all about the kids,” I explained. All the excessive drug use and debauchery, and all the activism too — these things don’t matter. The kids are going to grow up to be the next wave of adults; family needs to be the primary focus if there is to be any hope for the future. ^vii That isn’t to say they should be strictly corralled into boring presentations; the current tradition of allowing them to explore free-range on the camp-ground is the most perfect method. So it isn’t that anyone else need do anything, except that I chuckle when I hear someone say they don’t want to go next year. Good riddance!

Perhaps it it was just the mania of MDMA that caused me to believe I had been offered a crown. Either way, I didn’t accept it; the scene that night turned ugly when the show ended and the leeches started moving in. “I’m just trying to enjoy this fire right now and I don’t want to hear you talking,” I tried to explain in my drug-addled state. Luckily I had a friend by my side to help me walk away. It’s more of an exaggeration than a fabrication to say I had achieved king-status. My presence keeps the weirdos restrained. My anger ends all arguments. My mastery of the women and children commands a silent reverence noticed in the faces of friends and foes alike. This is the power of women, focused through a man — myself. Alone they are bombarded by fruitless suitors; their power squandered. Alone I am not taken seriously. Together we part crowds, we command discussions, and we set a good example for all — most importantly the children; over the course of the next few years I will use this power to mold PorcFest into a more perfect environment for them. It’s not a daunting task; all I have to do is keep showing up and keep having fun — never afraid to tell the truth.

1. Something which I had intended to try for some time, but which I will never do again. I regret even doing them this final time; not that it wasn’t an overall pleasant experience, but because I realized during the trip that I’d much rather just be sober and more capable to have a conversation with my companions. ^
2. It makes for good practice though; that is it takes a sharp mind to follow these boring fools just long enough to formulate an argument that shuts them down. ^
3. A sort of unlistenable oral blog. Writing is hard. Talking is easy. ^
4. I asked one of the teen girls, “is it just me or do the guys wearing dresses look really weird? “It’s not just you, they do look really weird,” she confirmed. Out of the mouth of babes, what can I say? ^
5. On the final evening I came across a self-described Christian. He talked in wishy-washy condescending tones like the kind you’d expect to hear from a TV preacher. He openly denied the parts of The Bible I brought to his attention. I called him a piece of poop. I hate false Christians. “I have more disdain for them than atheists,” I explained to my companions. At least atheists do not claim to believe The Bible; they do not teach destructive heresies. ^
6. This is the best part of the whole week, by the way. Playing Assassins, Humans vs Zombies, Dodge-ball, and hanging out with the kids in general. They are many orders of power more relaxed and well-adjusted than the adults. All week long the kids have a blast, and all week long I see miserable faces on the derps my age who stupidly abhor the presence of youth. I’m completely serious. Their envy and loathing is palpable. ^
7. That is, men marrying women and having lots of kids. Strictly not girlfriends and boyfriends having other girlfriends and boyfriends and never really getting around to doing much of anything. ^