The Warlord Without a Weed Whacker


When Fantasy Collides With Overgrowth and Incompletion

There’s a certain tragic comedy in watching a man spend two thousand words telling you how busy he is—while producing nothing but more two thousand-word blog posts.

The Kurgan’s latest lament, titled simply “Busy,” reads like a dispatch from a parallel universe where half-finished projects are medals of honor and unchecked brambles are proof that he was meant to lead a militia, not mow the lawn. His olive trees, he tells us, thrive. Everything else, from book drafts to children’s RPGs to the literal property he bought to play at rural nobility, lies in some state of abandonment or entropy.

And why? Not because he failed. No, never that. But because he was destined for higher things. You see, he’s not a failed farmer. He’s a baron waiting for the apocalypse.

“If only the damn weak pedovores would get to the apocalypse part already, I could fill in my nature role of warlord, protect my peasants, and they would be happy tilling the land and me shooting zombie hordes and directing the building of castle walls.”

Yes. That’s the real takeaway. The reason the weeds are waist-high and the farm is feral is because the globalist elite haven’t delivered the Mad Max utopia he keeps prepping for.

Until then, we’re told to imagine him standing heroically atop a half-built bunker, cradling an olive oil tin in one hand and a barely-edited manuscript in the other, while his toddlers disappear into thigh-high grass and the bamboo creeps ever closer.

This isn’t a blog post. It’s a dispatch from Walter Mitty: Sedevacantist Edition.

"Four Finished Books" That Never Finish

Kurgan informs us that he has no fewer than four completed books, plus a children’s RPG, a science book, and an Italian-language tribute to a dead neighbor. And yet... very little gets published. Ever. Why? Because he’s too busy.

Not too busy to blog, of course. Not too busy to insult imaginary enemies, warn of AI assassinations, or explain for the hundredth time why all religions but his are fake. But too busy to upload a PDF.

This is classic psychological compensation: the fantasy of prolific brilliance stands in for the reality of habitual incompletion. The idea of having 20 books in progress becomes more important than ever finishing even one of them.

A Myth of Masculinity Built on Olive Oil and Overgrowth

Here’s the real rub: the man bought a farm not to farm, but to cosplay as a feudal lord. When nature did what nature does—grow, rebel, demand work—he recoiled.

“Everything around me keeps reminding me… I am not built to be a farmer.”

Indeed. Because farming is hard. And unlike his favorite hobby—fantasy militarism—you can’t blog the weeds away. You can’t dismiss the bamboo as a Freemasonic plot. And you certainly can’t call your followers to form a castle-building militia every time your two-year-old gets lost in the thistles.

Contradictions Are the Brand

This is the same man who rages against “lazy retards” and praises discipline, structure, and follow-through—while proudly living in the midst of bramble-choked chaos, half-written manifestos, and abandoned projects.

This is the same man who insists marriage is forever and that Catholics must obey divine order—while being on his third marriage, with no annulments, and no effort to reconcile the contradiction.

Consistency is not his goal. The appearance of certainty is.

And the audience? It doesn’t matter whether they believe him. He’s not really talking to you. He’s talking to the idealized version of himself that exists only in his head: the fearless warlord, the last real Catholic, the Renaissance man with a chainsaw and a catechism.

The Final Fantasy

Let’s be honest. This is not a blog. It’s a coping mechanism. A digital shrine to a man who desperately wants to matter. To be the tip of a spear. To be remembered as something more than a man with a WordPress password and an unused camera.

Kurgan doesn’t need an army. He needs a deadline. A weed trimmer. And maybe, just maybe, a mirror.

Because you can only keep shouting “Leave all retards behind!” for so long before people start noticing you’ve been circling the same overgrown backyard for years.

Final Thought:
Beware the man who tells you how much he’s building while never showing the results. The man who praises productivity while drowning in incomplete drafts. The man who calls himself a warlord—because no one else ever did.

If there’s a motto for this era of Kurgan’s writing, it’s this:
“Busy, but never finished. Loud, but never followed. Always a general. Never an army.”

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