Dalrock put up an article about the interestingly batshit psycho Bridget Phetasy’s hatred of men.
Mel Magazine, which he linked to, had another article written by her not suitable for Dalrock’s mainstream audience. If Feminism 2.0 was women’s liberation from male authority and Feminism 3.0 is women’s open rebellion against men today, the link between the two is Evil using the opportunity to corrupt sexually mature women with permissive fathers/husbands. The evil of feminism has not just been its laws. It’s also been convincing men that women are naturally good and Not Like That. It should not have been such an easy sell.
My Month As A Member of the ‘Wild Wild Country’ Sex Cult
One of my best and most free-spirited friends recently texted me, “I totally would’ve been a Rajneeshee.”
On my recommendation, she was watching the extraordinary new Duplass brothers documentary on Netflix, Wild Wild Country, which chronicles the too-crazy-to-be-true story of Indian mystic Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh (later known as “Osho”) when he comes to the U.S. in the early 1980s and purchases 65,000 acres on which to create an “intentional community” called Rajneeshpuram. What ensues when 2,000 hippies and a cult leader descend on a sleepy retirement community in the middle of nowhere Oregon is stranger than fiction: a story of sex, controversy, conspiracy and power.
“I’ve been,” I reply.
“Of course you were a sannyasin,” she texts back.
Until recently, I’d happily repressed all my memories about my three weeks as a “sannyasin” — Sanskrit for “devotee” — at an Osho ashram in Australia. But then my roommate started watching Wild Wild Country, and when I walked in the room, a bunch of people were jumping around on the screen naked, breathing heavily.
“Hey, I’ve done that!” I exclaimed.
Well, that went bad fast. First, Hollywood is apparently making favorable documentaries about bizarre, real-life sex cults; second, women are apparently excited at the thought of participating; and third, Bridget was traumatized by that exact cult but then introduced her friend to the documentary. We know chicks dig jerks but do chicks make a point of sharing jerks, too? Or was Bridget trying to damage her friend the way she herself was damaged?
“Osho” Rajneesh. Remember what I said about heavy-lidded eyes a few posts back? Add to that a beard that hides almost all his facial features. This is a man with many vile secrets. Per Wikipedia,
In 1981, the Rajneesh movement’s efforts refocused on activities in the United States and Rajneesh relocated to a facility known as Rajneeshpuram in Wasco County, Oregon. Almost immediately the movement ran into conflict with county residents and the state government, and a succession of legal battles concerning the ashram’s construction and continued development curtailed its success. In 1985, in the wake of a series of serious crimes by his followers, including a mass food poisoning attack with Salmonella bacteria and an aborted assassination plot to murder U.S. Attorney Charles H. Turner, Rajneesh alleged that his personal secretary Ma Anand Sheela and her close supporters had been responsible. He was later deported from the United States in accordance with an Alford plea bargain.
After his deportation, 21 countries denied him entry. He ultimately returned to India and a revived Pune ashram, where he died in 1990.
Continuing with Bridget’s story,
An ashram is a spiritual hermitage, usually in a remote, isolated, pristine place reminiscent of Eden, where hippies (apparently “seekers” is the politically correct term) like myself go to do yoga, meditate and get in touch with our inner Zen by trading about four hours of work a day — “meditation in action” as it’s rebranded on the ‘Ram — like gardening, laundry, cooking and cleaning around the grounds for room and food.
There’s something incredibly seductive about living that simply — if it was actually that simple.
Normal femininity. Nesting instinct, keep a happy home serving a husband, all healthy. But no, Bridget had to see the world and “find herself” with a playboy millionaire first.
“…The reason I ended up on an ashram fours days after I arrived in Australia not knowing a soul was, of course, due to a boy. I’d accompanied a Sydney trust fund kid on a road trip up the coast to Byron Bay, where he was meeting some of his best mates for a boy’s week of shenanigans. He’d assured me I’d love it there (I did) and that lodging wouldn’t be an issue. But it was Christmas break and there literally wasn’t a single room in town. Mind you, this was pre-Airbnb, and Sydney Trust Fund Boy basically shrugged his shoulders and told me I was on my own.”
Oh noes, the fish lost her bicycle! Bridget traveled alone to Australia in order to spend Christmas not with family but with Trust Fund Baby. She’s already crossing all kinds of lines that would normally have kept her hypergamy in check. In that sort of situation, I might have tried the local church for shelter and not taken it badly if I had to bunk with the homeless for a few days. Bridget instead traveled inland to stay at Swami Hotel.
The only option I found — the ashram — was on a WWOOFing website. WWOOF stands for World Wide Opportunities on Organic Farms, and it can be a great way to trade about four hours of work for lodging (and sometimes food) if you’re trying to travel the world on a limited budget. It was advertised as “an ideal atmosphere to relax and reconnect with yourself.” Leaving the beach to go work in the Bush didn’t sound ideal to me, but I was desperate.
I’d never been to an ashram despite being a yogi and all that other shite. So I had no idea what to expect when I was picked up by an almost too-jovial-looking ginger wearing all white. He drove like a bat out of hell. It was especially aggressive for someone who was supposed to represent peace and love, and I was scared as we careened away from the beautiful beaches of Byron Bay into the jungle. Everyone else in the car had wide, clear eyes that unnerved me and that goofy fucking grin of a fool whose brain had been washed. It occurred to me that I had no idea where I was going, that I might never see civilization again and that I may have just inadvertently joined a sex cult because I had no place to stay.
No, Barbie. No “oops”. You were looking for trouble. You were already active in New Age. Nobody “inadvertently” joins a sex cult hours away when she doesn’t even have transportation. This sort of behavior is why women must be kept on leashes held by men. The era of easy, global transportation has only made this problem worse… the problem of “Eat, Pray, Love, Suck Foreign Cock Where Daddy Will Never Find Out”. Women wince in pain when Ernie Engineer smiles at her and then travel with strangers into the Australian Outback to be bodily consumed by an Interpol celebrity.
It wasn’t until I arrived that night I realized it was an Osho ashram.
Oh fuck, I thought. I didn’t know much about Osho, but I knew enough to realize I had no idea what I’d just gotten myself into. Before I left for my two-year globetrot, I’d looked into staying at the Osho “meditation resort” in Pune, India. One of the things that struck me was the mandatory HIV test before your stay.
“Why is that?” I asked my yoga mentor in L.A.
“Because everyone is fucking,” he explained.
Osho was controversial for many reasons, but his most controversial concept was the idea of sex and the spiritual going hand-in-hand. He bucked the rigid system of traditional ashrams (and in fact, even today the Osho ashram in Pune doesn’t consider itself an ashram) and the notion that you have to renounce the material world in order to be spiritual. The guy had 120 Rolls Royces, after all.
The Chinese ambassador is on Line 1. He wants his red flags back.
Her father ponied up the cash for an unsupervised two-year journey around the world for his sexually mature yet unmarried daughter? What could possibly go wrong with that? Feminism’s evil is not just removing the legal and cultural barriers to this level of stupidity. It’s convincing fathers and husbands that women don’t need those barriers, anyway. Or in Feminism Wave 3, it’s threatpointing fathers and husbands to not reimpose those barriers when they see what monsters their womenfolk are becoming.
If you’ve seen the documentary, our Osho ashram-not-ashram is a watered-down version of what existed in the 1970s — although on the first night, it became clear that sex was definitely encouraged. Usually there’s some type of “Master” or “Guru” or whatever he prefers not to be referred to as; he runs the place and guides the exercises, work and spiritual progress of us humble young grasshoppers.
My Guru took me aside on the first night and asked me if I had any questions.
“Yeah, is this a sex cult?” I asked.
Guru grinned. “I like you. You’re direct. But you’re too smart for your own good.”
He was charming in that creepy kind of way that makes you simultaneously crave his approval and his tough love. “No. No one has to have sex, but you are free to have as much sex with as many people as you like. People with shame about sex think this is a cult, but we’re just individuals experiencing the flow of love.”
This is as bad as it gets. Combining sex with rogue “spiritual experiences” is the fast lane to demonic possession. And ditsy Bridget couldn’t hide her excitement at being next.
The first night was relatively tame. We listened to some Osho recordings and danced. Okay, I can probably handle this until Sydney Trust Fund Boy can come get me, I thought. It wasn’t like I had much of a choice. We were a five-hour walk from civilization on acres of wild Bush. The only two people who had the internet were the Guru and his secretary. There was no service, and if we were caught on our digital devices, they would take them away. We were “free to go,” but I came to learn it wasn’t quite that easy.
I was basically only allowed to email my dad that I was fine and that I was at a “retreat” in Australia and would be out-of-touch for a while. “Be careful and don’t join a cult,” he responded.
This useless, worthless mangina is so willfully ignorant of female nature that Bridget could hang out at a sex cult while waiting her turn in Playboy Rothschild’s harem rotation without her father suspecting anything. “Hi Daddy, I’m okay, the people here are nice, they don’t have names and there’s no address but I’ll be in touch! Bye!” AND DADDY WAS OKAY WITH THAT!
I remember at the next-to-last church I attended, hearing the pastor boast about his daughter going to university. I asked why he’d do that. “So she wouldn’t have to depend on a husband,” he replied. “She needs education to have a good career.” It looks so obvious in hindsight, the damage being done to women by female liberation, yet so many men are incurably blind to Original Sin.
Feminism did this. Not us Red-Pilled guys. Waves 1 and 2 threw open the gates of Hell and convinced the menfolk they were sniffing rainbow farts instead of brimstone. Then Wave 2.5 hit, young women getting pumped and dumped and recycled everywhere by not just Chads but some truly Evil men working corruption on an industrial scale. Now in Third Wave feminism, women burn with hate for the bottom 99.985% of male humanity because we can’t compare to the cocaine highs of her misspent youth.
Whenever you take groups of people from all over the world and ask them to co-exist, problems are bound to arise, especially in an extremely small system that encourages polyamory. The partner swapping caused huge problems because despite how elevated in consciousness everyone likes to imagine themselves to be, women and men are still prone to jealousy and suspicion and love. And so, it was nearly constant drama. So much so that it felt like a reality show sometimes: The Real World: Ashram Australia. People would get banished only to return a week later and beg to be let back in.
I give props for her acknowledgment that diversity is not our strength and take back the props because she meant it as approval not criticism, enjoying the chaos and conflict caused by diversity. This was Hypergamy on drama-crack.
All ashrams have their own culture and theology. A certain amount of indoctrination comes with any culture, especially a closed-system in the middle of nowhere like the ‘Ram. A large part of the Guru’s rhetoric focused on our identity, letting go of whatever ideas of ourselves we clung to the most desperately. He focused on it so intensely, though, that there was something unnerving about it. In particular, he asked, “What remains when everything has been washed away? When there are no distractions? When there’s nowhere to run to? No one to affirm your existence, stroke your ego, favorite your Instagram? Who are you when you can no longer hide from the loneliness, the fear, the pain and the insecurity? What happens when you let your old self go?”
I’ll tell you what happens: You go bat-shit crazy.
Believe it or not (because I couldn’t), I actually found myself grateful to be using a compostable toilet instead of flushing away hundreds of gallons of precious water. I got in touch with my love of farming — a love I never knew I even had.
On second thought, don’t tell. It’s just water, Bridget. There are trillions of gallons of water on the planet. We boring, unsexy men can make all the clean water you could possibly want. “Twenty Cumz Chad” would rather lie around all day and make you do the work… which you happily did.
The surest sign a woman is becoming an Alpha widow: she complains the washing machine makes laundry too easy.
Ashrams are designed specifically to remove all the hundreds of thing we use to escape the inevitable encounter with our Self. We pop pills. We drink away our pain. We bury ourselves in work, television, porn, Facebook or a million other distractions so easily at our fingertips. We go on weekend retreats and expect the effects of those two days to counteract years upon years of social conditioning. For me at least, that’s why the ashram’s rigid schedule was easy to adhere to — it was designed to minimize disruptions and work with your body’s optimal biorhythms (admittedly, that’s what they told me, but it seemed to be true).
Ohmigawd! We bury ourselves in productive work and quietly use p0rn instead of fucking like rabbits around open sewers! Modern society sucks and who likes having excess drinking water, anyway?
Beware the subsequent link. Short version: “Bill Cosby raped me when an investment banker slipped me a roofie while I was drinking underage with a fake ID.” But the link helps explain Bridget’s lifelong misandry for the interested: either all men are rapist pigs or she’s a dirt magnet.
During the [scheduled] freak-the-fuck-out phase, I started crying. The crying turned to sobbing. The sobbing turned to rage. Out of nowhere I was screaming, “Get off of me! Get off of me!” and reliving the experience I had of being drugged and raped at 18. Mind you, this is 15 years later. I’d been to rehab and hundreds of hours of therapy by this point. But what I hadn’t processed were the repressed emotions, the stuff I didn’t get to say because I was drugged, but felt in my body. I spent five minutes screaming, “YOU MOTHERFUCKER!!!!” while I punched a pillow. During the 15-minute meditation, I vowed I’d never do this stupid practice again. But by the time the dancing was over, I felt lighter and somehow better. …
There were some English newbies who had just arrived that day. It was hilarious to watch them crawl around and struggle to get in touch with their inner animal spirits or really let themselves go. They left that night, but it wasn’t because of the jibberish or the animal-spirit guided meditations — it was because of what happened next.
…Then, out of nowhere, he singled out a German woman who had been there for a while. I didn’t know what the backstory was or what ashram drama led to his rage, but suddenly, the Guru was screaming. “You’re a PSYCHO! You’re INSANE.” It was shocking to watch someone get so thoroughly publicly humiliated at a place that was supposed to be “spiritual.” The Guru ordered her to pack her bags. The rest of us were instructed to partake in the ecstatic dance party. The pasty Brits, however, had seen enough and left in the car he sent the German woman away in.
Ritual abuse mixed with invocation of animal spirits. Better start naming those voices in your head; it’ll help your future therapists keep them straight. Skipping ahead,
““I’m leaving,” I informed [my lover,] Wolf, back in my room, where I was curled in the fetal position in my room. “I hate him.”
Then, like clockwork, there was a knock at the door. It was the Guru’s secretary. “The van is leaving to go to the farmers market and the waterfall if anyone wants to come,” she promised.
Wolf convinced me not to be stubborn and to join him. In that moment, I surrendered — to all of it.
We headed out to the … Farmers Market. Wolf and I danced until we were laughing hysterically. We explored the waterfall and stripped down to our underwear for an ice-cold plunge. The waterfall was stunning. I felt both baptized and reborn after such an intense emotional purge. …
After that night, I fell into the ashram life, having lots of sweaty sex with Wolf, and dramatic muddy fights where we both cried in the rain. I exchanged dynamic meditation for sleeping in and cuddling. The next 10 days were a blur of routine, infatuation and bliss. I was playing little ashram wife and making sure our cottage was clean while Wolf sat on the edge of the bed and sang. His voice was otherworldly and haunting. I never wanted the moment to end. The river of love was flowing, and I’d decided to go with it. …
I also gave in to the constant guilting for more money and donated a bit more to the residence. My family started to worry I was never going to leave. I laughed it off, but truthfully, I was on the other side of the looking glass. I never wanted to leave.
Until Playboy Trustafunder was ready to take her back.
I was dying to go see an opera at the Sydney Opera House. Australia Day was coming up, and I wanted to do a bunch of drugs and party. It was the NFL playoffs. The Australian Open was going on in Melbourne. And after 14 days of porridge and veggies, I was craving a steak and endless amounts of booze. New Zealand was three hours away. Southeast Asia and India were serenading my soul.
I texted Sydney Trust Fund Baby, “WTF, WHERE ARE YOU? GET ME OUTTA HERE.”
Two days later, I peaced out in a Range Rover and never looked back.
I binged the Wild Wild Country series twice, hoping to resolve some of the mixed feelings I had about my own ashram experience, but alas, many of the residents who experienced Rajneeshpuram in its heyday seemed to live with the same conflicting feelings I was left with. Were we just hedonists following our bliss? Or was there something evil lurking behind it all?
You were living such a maximum-drama life that you didn’t just get Alpha ghosts, you got Survivor: Outback ghosts. You’ve hated your life ever since because normal life is boring. You hate yourself, you hate all men and you hate your father for being gullible enough to believe all the lies you told him.
It’s possible that these environments bring out the best and the worst in humanity — and they’re a prime example of the road to Hell truly being paved with good intentions — but what’s always haunted me is how much of the bad I overlooked in order to selfishly experience the good.
Philip Toelkes, who was the Bhagwan’s lawyer until 1983, sums it up best in the docuseries when he remarks, “There’s darkness in all of us… doesn’t make you a bad person.”
After that, he laughs. Otherwise, he’d have to contemplate the alternative.
Defense attorneys are like that. They like to find the good in their clients’ hearts instead of accepting that their life’s work is helping human trash escape justice. That can feel awkward on lonely nights with the whiskey bottle.
Bridget Phetasy is the Playboy Advisor and a frequent Playboy contributor. She last wrote about how long sex should last.
“My record with Wolf is ten days while Daddy paid for it all!” Ugh, Alpha Fucks and Beta Bucks. God, please let enough of the Manosphere survive through the ages to prevent men from ever being this cucked-up again.