Few public figures have established their credentials as transphobic assholes more convincingly than Canadian professor and YouTuber Jordan Peterson.
Even before Peterson started deadnaming trans celebrities and throwing tantrums about being asked to refer to his students by their preferred pronouns, I couldn’t see him as anything more than a smug mediocrity with a punchable face. But for a time, he was a media darling, and he still attracts a cult following in Incel-adjacent circles of the Manosphere.
And now, in a horrifyingly cruel twist of fate, I share my apartment with just the sort of pill-popping transphobic twit who may be the next Jordan Peterson!
When budget constraints forced me to solicit a new roommate on Craigslist, I knew there was a chance I’d end up cohabitating with someone of questionable moral fibre. I never imagined, however, that I’d get stuck living with a benzo-addled cis-supremacist who has declared a dietary jihad on fiber.
Admittedly, the red flags were there from the start, but I guess I was too cash-strapped to notice: when Troy came by to check out my apartment’s spare bedroom and assured me he’s a bit of a ‘neat freak’ who makes his bed every morning, I thought he was just trying to make a good first impression. Sadly, I didn’t pick up on his not-so-cryptic signalling that he’s the kind of asswipe who swears by Jordan Peterson’s ‘12 Rules For Life.’
Next thing I know, he was moving his meat fridge into my spare bedroom. Even then, I just naively assumed he had an iron deficiency. I figured that would explain why he needed a short lie down after every item he moved into the room.
Only after his check for his first month’s rent cleared did I find out that he wasn’t knackered because of a shortage of iron in his diet, but because he also emulates his intellectual hero by popping Xannies until he’s more anaesthetised than an elephant getting a root canal.
If he just stayed in his room when he numbs himself on benzos, maybe we could make things work. But his religious adherence to Peterson’s carnivore diet — eating chuck-eye steaks for breakfast, lunch and dinner — means the whole apartment constantly reeks of cheap cuts of beef. And when I confront him about it, I get called an enemy of Western Civilisation!
Cutting my rent in half just isn’t worth having him hog our only couch while he gets teary-eyed during a diatribe defending some new anti-trans post by JK Rowling. And if he’s gonna keep berating me for having the eating habits of a cultural Marxist and throwing away my bread and vegetables when I’m at work, I’m gonna have to kick his Jordan Peterson-wannabe ass out.
