Internet so Dangerous, part 2


Should you be unaware that the internet often brings out the worst in people, I believe you are lying. Or blind. Or you have been living in a cave without access to the internet for the past 28 ½ years.

Not that I’m judging, of course – I can quite understand the wish to be a hermit. Yet, such is the way of it: one has not been present on the internet if this has gone unnoticed.

There is a strange lack of self-censorship and civility when people are faced with digital keystrokes instead of real life flapping tongues and galloping lips.

It is as though people believe that the text they see is not another human being typing. It is merely machine-text texting, to be easily dismissed as a Russian bot, a troll, or some other nonsensical buzzword-effort at dehumanizing and dismissing instead of considering and digesting what is actually being said. It is remarkably easy to do. Usually, it follows the same pattern:

Person A says something.

Person B says something contrary.

Person A responds with dismissing Person B as a Russian bot. (Substitute “Russian” for whatever bogeyman is currently in vogue.) And then promptly blocks the bastard-bot, son of a thousand machine-whores that he of course is, with neither thought nor self-awareness present.

Rinse and repeat.

It is pure internet-magic from putrid internet tacticians. Every day, we stray further from God and from God’s good graces. Every day, I lose a little more of my faith in humanity.

Oh, the humanity!

This tactic is such a marvellously tried and true formula that it could easily be dubbed “Copypasta”.

Such Artful, much wondrous, wow!

Were it not for the inconvenient fact that Copypasta is made to ruin every last bit of originality, it would be an exercise in pure social experiment clickbait. Masquerading as art, just for the sake of it.

Relax, brah, it’s just a social experiment. Just as the whole rest of the world is; a science project that saw God receive a D. Maybe a D+. Good effort, terrible execution. Back to the drawing board, God. Jesus Christ, I know you can do better, buddy, now put some backbone into it!

Originality, as we so often see, is of no consequence when there are contrarians and other vile cretins to contend with on the internet. Copypasta; for fun and profit!

Besides; ones own opinion is hallowed and sanctified, no matter how inane and ridiculous. Responding to it with disagreement, however civil, is akin to harassment. But only if the victim of someone responding to their chicanery in an open forum that is open for all the forum-happy world to see happens to be a woman, or a minority. This rule does come with its own exception, as expected. For it is only when and if they are partial to the shenanigans of Social Justice, as well as being faithful adherents to the cult of woke, that it is to be considered harassment.

Of course.

One could always choose not to get engaged in online feuds, arguments, petty squabbles and such silly bickering. No matter where one is, no matter what one does, somewhere on the internet, someone is wrong. This is just a fact of life. To engage each and every person who holds different opinions, no matter how factual (because there is a vast difference between having an opinion and having a fact) seems to me to be a waste of time and energy best spent elsewhere.

Particularly so when someone argues in very bad faith, using all the mental gymnastics, all the lies and slander and smears and jet-black oily manipulation a Russian bot could ever hope to eat.

A lot of the opinions on the internet are presented as nothing but shitty reposts… strange pictures with some manner of text on them meant to elicit an immediate emotional response, either that way or this way. Seeing as every repost is always a repost of a repost, one has to get fairly tired of trying to refute them and challenge them again and again. It just ain’t worth the hassle.

Granted, this line of thinking comes from a bearded bard who is turning more introverted and reserved with every passing day. It often takes me days – or even weeks – to respond to a single private message or email. So there’s that, of course. I am not the most social of creatures, to say the least.

This is not to say that I don’t believe there are merits to online discussion. I spend far too much time reading and observing debates online to have no faith in it. However: there is precious little point in arguing with someone who has no interest in listening. And that is so often the case when encountering someone who is – as Jordan Peterson puts it – ideologically possessed. They do not talk with someone. They do not engage in discussion or debate as such.

No, no, no.

They talk at someone. Not with someone. Ears close and reason leaves the moment someone disagrees, no matter how well sourced, how well put together, how well informed. Facts and numbers do not matter. Pointing out errors in statistics, or in methodology (something I am not skilled at, but I have observed others that are extraordinarily skilled at it), for example, is inconsequential to someone who has decided that they are in the right, no matter what, and where, and when, and how.

The so-called gender wage-gap is a prime example of this. Debunked time and again, and still living on. Because these people really and truly want to be oppressed. The same can be said for the nonsensical “Pink Tax”, and most everything else they can manufacture. It is either a dirty, rotten lie, or it is half-facts that conveniently neglect to mention the other part of the equation. It gets droll and dull and boring and tiring after a while. Yet, as long as there is social currency in victimhood, it will carry on.

There is no purpose to feminism if feminism has no purpose. And the purpose of feminism – as I believe is the case with all the social justice warrior stuff, steeped in childish identity politics as it is – is to perpetuate itself. It is to keep itself going, marching forward toward an uncertain future.

In order to do so, they have to be able to present themselves as being oppressed. The cause, in itself, is the cause. It is the beginning and the end. And the middle.

What are we fighting for, fellow peoplekind-comrades of non-gender specifics?”

The Fight, comrade, the fight!”

And so it goes, on and bloody on.

If shown – if proven beyond doubt – to not be oppressed, they lose their purpose. They have no big bad daddy to fight if the big bad daddy is proven to not exist as they have presented it. So it is better to double down, ignore the truth, and carry on as though nothing happened.

It is a vile sickness, a terrible blight on society, this celebration of victimhood, this willingness to be seen as a victim, this eagerness to be counted among the downtrodden, the gleeful acceptance, this tragic ambivalence, to being “oppressed”. It is fucked up social currency in a nonsensical social game; its slap-happy followers speeding drunk down the information highway, posting one stupid so-called empowering pictogram of overcoming perceived oppression after the other, where relation to the original topic decreases with every single post. Best to not engage.

It is an obscene celebration of character-flaws masquerading as strength, where overcoming obstacles and hurdles no longer matters or are of any importance for one chooses to petition the government to ban the obstacles and criminalise the hurdles instead. And if said hurdles and obstacles are a few individuals who dislike this or do not agree with that, then that dislike, that disagreement, must be considered hate and swift action be taken promptly by the strong whip-lash hand of the law. This is prime egotism.

Particularly so when the laws and regulations that spawn from such petitioning wind up being very much discriminatory in-and-off themselves.

How can one look to a government that states that there are too many of this demographic working here, so you have to even it out by hiring quite a few of that demographic, otherwise there will be hell to pay, and claim this to be non-discriminatory?

Sorry you didn’t get the job, boy, but the government has decided that your outie is wrong for this job, we need an innie. Your credentials look great, by the way. Better luck somewhere else, buddy.

It truly is a sad state of affairs, when people are so devoid of any personality or character trait that they would resort to wallowing in wallopped victimhood instead of working on bettering themselves… instead of cultivating a personality, people cultivate victimhood. Instead of learning a new skill, instead of pouring time and energy into a hobby, people sit flat on their haemorrhoids and wallow in victimhood, going neither here nor there, but staying exactly where they are because they can not do anything but that because they are only ever a victim of this or of that.

Yet, I do get where it comes from, to an extent.

Hurdles and obstacles are incredibly difficult to overcome. I have overcome quite a few myself, and still have a whole hell of a lot to overcome. This despite being a severely privileged white, cis-gendered, heterosexual male, basking in the glow of my eternal privilege and bathing in the rich waters of whatever it is the patriarchy is supposed to give me for free. I assume free handjobs and a harem of scantily clad lesbians or bi-curious women feeding me grapes. Unfortunately, the patriarchy has been slow in paying me my dues. Ah, well, all good things come to those who wait.

I have overcome severely disabling anxiety, shut-in tendencies and a particularly rough encounter with psychosis. None of these were easy to overcome. I have also struggled with a chronic depression for close-to two decades. For living with the constant tension from this anxiety (amongst other things) for almost fifteen years, I now live with chronic pain and fatigue which, at times, are close to unbearable. Yet: the dogs must be taken for walks, the apartment must be cleaned, food must be cooked, my rambles must be written, then ranted, raved and uploaded, etc etc. All these things help in overcoming whatever it is that needs to be overcome. A wise course of action.

The easy path to take, when faced with these hurdles, is to lie down and give up. On everything. It is the easiest path, and it is the least fulfilling path. Sure; I may complain about it. I may bitch and moan about my insomnia and my pain. Particularly when writing. This is very cathartic. I have no interest in using it as a tool to get my will, or to get cheap sympathy-points. Which, for all intents and purposes, are rare currency where men are concerned any way, so why bother? Get over it and do carry on, pretty please with sugar on top.

Yet, to some people, this so-called weakness, this so-called oppression, this victim-identity gives a reason for existing. It gives a perverse sense of purpose.

Which is why, I believe, you see feminism complain that the latest overpriced god-damned luxury-item Iphone is too big for the tiny and inferior female hands, and so this is supreme sexism. I can hardly think of anything more of a bloody god-damned fucking privileged upper-class-twat first-world non-issue than that. Bloody petty whining from insecure victims with a degree in supreme victimology from the university of woe-is-me! I can’t even bloody afford an Iphone. Where’s my victim-credentials, you absolute turd-maggots? I’m too privileged. That’s my problem.

Of course.

Oh boy.

They may not be able to overcome the terrible burden of having tiny, childlike hands… but, ye gods, are they adept at objecting to the so-called oppression from the luxury brands which they are privileged enough to afford. It is topsy-turvy with gravy on top.

They may, at the very least, post about this terrible oppression on the internet in the most glorious slacktivist way. Why should we care about the disturbing amount of male suicides or work-related injuries and death? Why should we make it illegal to genitally mutilate baby boys, subjecting them to torture and possible death? There are more important matters at hand: the tiny ferret-like hands of the female and its relation to the phallocentric Iphone, mirroring, as it does, all of patriarchy through all our ovary-acting herstory of hysteria. Feminism is quite adept at turning everything into a zero-sum game. They believe that talking about men’s issues will detract from feminist issues – which are not the same as female issues – for the very simple reason that they wish to detract from male issues. It is projection. Feminism plays the zero-sum game, then pretends everyone else does as well.

And so there is a purpose to life for these baby-handed ferrets, and that purpose is to force the entirety of the world to fall to their knees and praise the cult of woke, the church of social justice, the grand majesty of feminist up-fuckery with all their victim-hierarchies and weird penis envy.

Enter censorship.

Enter the cold and uncaring ban-hammer fantastic.

Enter tiny Iphones for the small-handed females with their inferiority-complex.

Enter highly subjective hate-speech laws and hate-crime and whatever and whatnot.

Enter a slow and steady slip-slide into censorious totalitarianism, into thought-controlling authoritarianism, into elitist victimhood circles and their laws on compelled speech, compelled thought, manipulated language from lascivious language manipulators of a herd-like victim-mentality… who believe they are doing good, who believe they are working from liberal principles… yet do nothing but push the walls ever closer… who do nothing but tighten the screws and limit liberty as much as can be.

Or am I being too harsh, too snarky, too sarcastic, even?

I don’t know man… I more or less gave up any discussion on the internet aeons ago. I mean – one could probably make the case that me writing and posting what I write and post is discussing on the internet. But when I flat out refuse to engage in debates and things of that nature, am I really adding to a discussion, or am I just sitting in a fortified compound I refer to as my apartment, screaming at the walls and clawing at my own eyes so that I shall not have to see any more of those god-damned, god-awful, god-forsaken reposts? That is, if I am able to keep my mind on track long enough to not get distracted by random passer-by thoughts that somehow allow themselves to be weaved into an already way-too-long rambling rant… Ye Gods, But I do Blabber on when I write. Probably for reasons of not being a good speaker.

I used to take part in discussions. With fondness. Not too long ago, in all actuality. Yet, when I realised that any topic could easily be turned into something completely unrelated, I kinda lost interest, lost faith and lost touch with the whole universal kerfluffle. No matter which discussion, someone had to come along and make it about the plight of women and how feminism will save us all. I wish I were joking. I am not.

I once joked on Facebook that “There is nothing wrong with society, when taken in moderation”. I got so much god-damned flak for that simple and silly little joke that I lost faith in humanity for a few weeks. For those who are uninitiated: there is quite a lot wrong with society. Also: all faults of society are to be blamed on white men. I was given a few lectures after that very obvious joke. The internet sure as hell brings out the best in people.

To get back to the hurdles and obstacles thing a bit: The anxiety I used to struggle with was the kind of anxiety that made me not leave my apartment, that made me lock myself away and throw away the key. I fixed this by picking myself up by the scruff of my scrawny neck and kicking myself in the ass enough times to make a difference. It was not an easy journey. Not by any stretch of the imagination.

But I managed it, and though I still feel that old anxiety creeping up from time to time – particularly in times of high stress, or at times when my insomnia is very bothersome – I no longer struggle with anxiety.

Thus, I found myself joking around with a good friend of mine who had experienced similar struggles with anxiety in the past. This joking around was done on Facebook. (And so comes another Facebook-anecdote from the fabled days of yore.)

Eventually, we got around to the terrible anxiety experienced when buying toilet paper. Stupid as fuck, of course, but that is anxiety for you – completely irrational and absolutely absurd. And, as expected, hilarious in hindsight. If you, as a grown man, can not laugh at yourself for experiencing anxiety when buying toilet paper, you have lost all humour and might as well dig a hole in the bottom of your bed, from which to never re-emerge.

Well, who should pop up from the ferns and grasses of the luscious lands of Facebook, but a wild feminist? Now, clearly, seeing two guys talking in a joking manner about some irrational yet severe discomfort they had experienced… experiencing two guys talking lightly about having experienced tough times due to pathological anxiety was too much for her delicate sensibilities to handle!

Here, one assumes that she thought, were two guys who had forgotten what is important in life. In fact: they had forgotten who it is that really struggles, and so they need a gentle reminder.

Try buying sanitary napkins, boys.”, she wrote. For women are the only ones who need to buy sanitary napkins, and so that trumps buying toilet paper. One presumes, obviously, that toilet paper is bought and used by both sexes.

Take that, patriarchy.

Women-worsting 101, and oh the humanity, oh the insanity, oh the double-edged dildo of narcissistic vapidity!

To this I replied that I had often, and with absolutely no anxiety whatsoever, bought sanitary napkins (and chocolate) for my wife when need arose. Which is the truth. Particularly the chocolate-thing. There is one thing – and only one thing – to do when your significant other is on her period, and that is to retreat into a safe corner and throw chocolate at her until better times come around! Granted, I put that thing about buying chocolate in there to rile the feminist in question up a bit. But I was civil about it.

The wild feminist replied with “Maybe it will be easier if you pretend that you are buying her toilet paper”. This reply made absolutely no sense, given the context of anything. I had just stated that I had no issues with buying sanitary napkins. Or toilet paper. Not any more. I understood not a damned thing about that sentence, and I said as much. What in the hell was there to pretend?

I never got a clear reply to that.

Though, it transpired that she had never had any problems with buying sanitary napkins either. So, then, what was the bloody point of the exercise, except to come swooping in and state that women have it worse than us guys, despite her not experiencing any difficulties with buying sanitary napkins and us experiencing anxiety when buying bloody toilet paper?

Men can not experience any problems whatsoever – however stupid those damned problems may very well be – without being reminded by feral foaming-at-the-mouth feminists that women experience worse problems, so men should just shut up until women get over their collective neurosis. Which they will never do as long as they can use it as a bloody bludgeoning tool.

In fact, I am very surprised that she did not infer that I might be gay, since I was anxious about buying toilet paper yet had no problems buying sanitary napkins… Because why not? One must, after all, always question a person’s sexual preferences without any real reason. And these social justice warrior types… these feminist types… they trade in stereotypes all the bloody time, despite claiming to oppose stereotypes.

It is such a strange self-contradiction on their part that there is no wonder they do not see it. After all; they keep telling people to check their privilege, seeing nothing of their own. Or their own hubris and absolutely god-awful crap-shit-fuck behaviour, for that matter.

But, ah well, the internet does bring out the worst in people. And so too does the cult of woke, the church of social justice and all the various -isms and isn’ts and aint’s that flow from its drooling mouth. (Of interest: I also got flak for posting a picture of myself with a beer and the caption “cheers guys!” I did not include girls, and so this was a trespass most foul. Herpidityderpidoo, they have precious little to worry about when they feel entitled to police what people say.)

There is precious little that is as terrifying, as gut-wrenchingly nauseating, as someone who considers themselves to be morally superior to everyone around them. These people use their so-called moral superiority as a supreme stick of justice, beating people with it until they either submit or the guardian of supreme morality labels them a racist fascist misogynistic white supremacist Russian bot and blocks them.

Or, as is the case when any one of the Twats on Twitter who have bowed their neck and pledged allegiance to the holy spectre of feminism confront a –ghasp – female MRA, they will misgender them (despite the church of woke considering misgendering as hate-crime most foul).

For, ya know, women can not possibly think about anyone but women. If they do, they are gender traitors and, as such, not to be trusted. It is absolutely impossible for a woman to actually care about men, according to these venomous intellectual vagabonds. These twitter-twats will always question a person’s gender, just in case it’s really a man. Or, well, that is to say: they will always assume it is a man. For men can be dismissed easily and shamed into obedience and compliance, whereas women can not.

Women are not to be touched.

Men, on the other hand, are dehumanized in no small way through the wondrous whimsy of the frail and frantic feminist few, alongside the social justice warrior hive-mind and all their hastily assembled damaged-goods-from-IKEA identity politics nincompoops. This is made evident by taking a quick peek at just about every media there is, be that news media, social media, mass-media mediocrity and so forth and so on. Never has it been more trendy to hate on guys for nothing but being guys. Nor has it ever been so commonplace as to be completely and utterly invisible to those who have not had their eyes and minds forced open by the grim spectre of self-annihilating reality.

Reality is as reality is, but reality can be bent and twisted and turned on its head by rabid ideologues and religious nutcases with more opined convictions than rationality… just package the message in neat language with pretty bows of select statistics; the finely tuned instruments of id-pol and the hive-mind both, and you are on easy street.

Then you will be allowed to sit back and watch as reality burns in front of your eyes… As those who claim to despise and hate stereotypes and stereotyping, who lecture others about their wickedness, their unconscious bias, their conformity-phobia do nothing but spout stupid stereotypes, engage in severely biased and bigoted behaviour, and fear everything and everyone who goes against their grain and mass-media induced psychosis.

In the reality as seen through the eyes of rabid ideologues, women can not possibly oppose feminism. Nor can women oppose social justice, seeing as women are sugar and spice and everything nice. For social justice in all its forms is naught but sugar and spice and everything nice. Despite being tyranny disguised as liberty.

And so, any woman who oppose, any “marginalized” group who oppose the double-stink group-think of the social justice/feminist swarm must be a white straight guy in disguise. And there is nothing more heinous, more depraved, more dangerous, more privileged and entitled than a straight white guy.

On the internet, all girls are men and all kids are undercover FBI agents. This seems to be their line of thinking, made evident by their high-strung joy whenever they commit the horribly trans-phobic hate-crime of misgendering a female MRA or just a woman who oppose the social justice warrior hive-mind. No living by their own rules for these people, of course. Rules of censorship, conduct and behaviour only ever apply to the bad people. And they are not bad people. Even when doing the exact same thing they say that others should not do. Herp goes the derp.

Truly, there are no girls on the internet. Except those who subscribe to the one true faith. They are not to be questioned. They should be allowed to shit all over the carpet with no repercussions.

Well, excepting those-who-shall-not-be-questioned and the THOTS, who appear to have been able to turn Tits or GTFO into a valid and lucrative career-option, there are no girls on the internet.

Mind you: I’m not judging. To each their own. The choice is theirs, after all. I don’t much care how people make their money on the internet.

However: one can not flash exorbitant amounts of flesh and skin in one beat of the lions mane, then turn around and complain about sexual objectification of women online in the flap of a lions cock.

That would be hypocritical at worst and completely and utterly stupid at best. Sexual “objectification” of women will only stop when women stop objectifying themselves sexually for fun and profit. Which I sincerely doubt will ever happen, as long as there are thirsty dudes out there willing to pay ridiculous amounts of money for the slight chance of seeing a nipple. Or even cleavage.

Jesus naked monkey-ball wanking on a chain-link fence – guys would do well to heighten their standards a bit, if I am to be perfectly honest. Seeing a pair of tits on cam ain’t worth the bother or the money, brother.

  • Please like, share and subscribe
  • Moiret Allegiere, 22.02.2020

Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Kindle:
Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Paperback:

Howling at a Slutwalk Moon, a collection of previous blog posts:
Vol 1 Paperback:
Vol 1 Kindle:
Vol 2 Paperback:
Vol 2 Kindle:
Vol 1 Illustrated Paperback:
Vol 2 Illustrated Paperback:

Other links:
Redbubble shop:

On Sports Banter and Maggot-infused Coffee:


This morning, my first cup of coffee appeared to be replaced with maggots. Thousands of them, squirming and gushing and being generally icky.

In disgust, and fearing that true Lovecraftian horror would soon emerge from the mass of maggots, I threw the cup of coffee at my admittedly crowded living-room wall. It proceeded to shatter into tiny pieces of cheap porcelain and coffee, revealing that there were no maggots in my coffee.

It had all been a hallucination, or a vivid daydream, or cultural enrichment, courtesy of Yuggoth.

“Maybe I’m just tired”, I thought, before I fetched a new cup of coffee with which to awaken and enlighten my melting mind, cursed with brain-fog and intelligence-drain as it is in this horrible and overcast post-apocalyptic morning of mid-february 2020.

As my gigantic brain-erection began fizzing and sizzling with the cruel and unusual rage, wrath and ruin that can only be attributed to enough caffeine to power a moderately sized Norwegian village, I embarked upon my daily crusade against the blank bleakness of the digital paper and the harsh black void of my keyboard.

Deus vult, motherfuckers, deus vult.

Even as my fingers, conspiring with my throbbing brain-boner, typed the admittedly absurd (and quite possibly stupid) maggot-coffee-introduction, I wondered why.

Why the maggots, Moiret? Why the maggots in the coffee? Seemed about as good an introduction as any other, as I sit here, waiting on the coming of Corona-chan to cleanse the world of non-believers.

Deus vult, you bastards, Deus vult.

I will admit to being mentally and physically drained today, after a fairly exhausting yesterday. Reading the news chronically and obsessively does not help matters, if I am to be honest.

Particularly not whilst drinking coffee in the morning. Which finally explains the bloody maggots and the bloody coffee. It’s all to do with the news. Or lack thereof. It has reached a point where nothing is to be trusted. Trust no-one and believe nothing. Everything mass-media manufactured news item appears to be served with a delicious side-dish of propaganda and flat flatulent lies.

Mental and physical exhaustion inevitably comes to mean that inspiration is somewhat lacking today. Yet, write I must. Or else master will beat me again.

News ain’t news no more and nothing is true and everything is fake news and I can’t trust anything any more, not even my own bloody mind. Or my own perception of my own morning coffee which, for those in the know, is where I tend to find God each and every morning. (Which is the meaning behind my avatar. Or “logo”, if you will.)

Besides, for the topic I wished to tackle today, with maggots bathing in my coffee and Lovecraftian horrors nesting in my brain, I could not figure out a proper introduction for love nor money.

In fact: today I would much rather lie down in the corner and drown my woes and worries in coffee and home-made wine. With cyanide chasers on the side. So I let my fingers do the talking, as my wife so often have asked me to do.

Then I settled for the soothing crackle of painkillers upon my ruined and ravaged nervous-system, upon my aching and failing skeletal muscular system, upon my self-deprecating illusion of literary talent and artistic merit.

Also: I have been rather obsessed with Lovecraft lately, for some odd reason. For such a silly person like myself, “lately” comes to mean the last two years or thereabouts. I don’t let go of fascinations, interests and obsessions easily, to put it as simple as I can.

Prior to Lovecraft, it was Poe.

Prior to Poe, it was Milton.

Prior to Milton, it was Bukowski.

Prior to Bukowski, it was Thompson.

Now, this is not exactly true, as these literary obsessions often happen at the same time. But it looked better written down, and sounds better when read, when saying “prior to”. Makes me sound like I know what the hell I’m doing. And we all know that appearances is everything. Any illusion given about professionalism is a good illusion of professionalism. Make of this what you will; I am rambling, as per usual.

All of these authors are dead white guys. And so it will mark me as the devil incarnate and probably some god-awful racist sexist xenophobic Trump-troll Russian bot with a homophobic love for all things pale, male and stale in the literature department. There are, after all, far too many books written by white western male authors in our libraries. And we can’t have that, and anyone who read them contribute to some manner of oppression or marginalizing or something-or-other. But that is a ramble for another day. I have to push forward to get to the actual point sometime today.

Oh, well, such is the way of things: no matter what one does, someone somewhere can – and will – build a monument to offence around it, which reaches all the way to the teary-eyed and dry-heaving heavens above. The tower of Babel has been replaced with the tower of Offence. And all they do in the tower of Offence is babble.

Obsessing over old, dusty and decaying literary works (or obscure extreme metal from eastern Europe) beats obsessing over sports, however.

I have always considered professional sports a waste of time and money that could be better spent elsewhere. Like being loaded onto a rocket and blasted into the sun. Or sunk into the depths of R’lyeh, to be lost there in non-euclidean geometry for evermore. Or placed in a container atop the mountains of madness, then blown to smithereens.

Regarding sports banter, Quote the snowflakes: Nevermore.

My own dislike of professional sports aside, I can easily understand why people enjoy watching it, reading about it, learning about it and obsessing over it. A man needs a hobby and a man needs his entertainment… and his obsessions. Why not? I can’t think of any reason why not.

Ann Francke, on the other hand, can think of plenty reasons why not. All of them ridiculous. Not Anne Frank of diary-fame. A different Ann Francke.

And so we come, at long rambling last, to the main point on today’s agenda.

Sports banter amongst men at work may encourage laddish behaviour, and so should face the wrath and ire of frail and frantic feminism on the battlefield of allowed speech.

See pestilent article linked below.

Then marvel and be amazed at the unfettered arrogance on display.

Sports banter leads to tall tales of the sexual exploits and conquests of the weekend, see, and so men should not be allowed to talk about things men generally find interesting in order to not keep women out of the limited social folds of the corporate machine. God forbid that men should be able to bond with other men over shared interests. Men must be isolated and contained, each in his own cell, for the safety and inclusion of women. With the added bonus of tearing down any manner of male camaraderie, mentoring and fellowship.

For sports banter is not inclusive enough. And probably not diverse enough. Definitely not feminine enough. And absolutely not feminist enough.

Anything said, spoken, thought, done, danced, sung, spelled, spun, spat, vomited, grunted, sweated or otherwise secreted, written, rambled, raged and rotoscoped must first and foremost pass the test. The test is whether or not women may take part in the conversation.

Apparently, to the eyes and drab drool of feminist women, nothing is more terrible and terrifying than not being the centre of attention at all times.

Imagine something as horrible as not being able to put oneself in the midst of a conversation as a soaring centre-piece of whatever and what-not.

Imagine the terror of not taking part in a conversation once in a while.

Imagine being so bloody arrogant as to demand rules be put in place so that people shall not talk about something which does not interest you in particular.

It is absolutely, mindbogglingly, insanely arrogant.

And terrifying.

Ann Francke, she who did not live in a cupboard, invokes the slippery slope with ghastly grimaces of delight, as she states that there is but a small step from sports-banter to tales of sexual conquest.

Laddish behaviour – one assumes she refers to any and all masculine behaviour – must be stomped out and left to die. For all things masculine are terrible. Men are maggots, and are to be gagged and blindfolded for the convenience of women in whatever workplace they co-inhabit.

What is even more extraordinary is that she – in almost the same breath – claims that she does not suggest that it should be banned. Even when that is exactly what she suggests, since it ought to be curbed according to her.

Just your everyday double-speak from the forked, serpentine tongues of feminism, where A and Z is the exact same thing, where 2+2 equals 5, where yes means both no and yes, where no means both yes and no. All is possible in the land of Feministan, also known as the land of make-belief.

I will have to admit that women do not seem as strong and powerful and empowered and independent as all that if they have to demand men not talk about bloody sports in the workplace for reasons of feeling left out of the conversation. There is nothing particularly strong, independent, empowered or mature about demanding certain topics – which are completely tame topics – be banned from workplace banter. Particularly so under the preposterous pretence that it might cause men to slap each other on the back and talk about their sexual conquest over the weekend. For men think only about sex and sports. And beer. Of course. Which is not true. I have absolutely no interest in sports.

One would think, and not unreasonably in my humble opinion, that any mature adult human being – be that human being male or female – would be able to accept that, sometimes, not all conversations include topics that one self is interested in, and that it is quite alright that one can not participate in that conversation at that point in time. Sometimes, believe it or not, people will talk to someone other than you. And sometimes people will even talk about things that don’t interest you.

Very difficult to grasp, I understand, but there you have it: the world consist of more than women, be that one individual woman, or women as a group. I should not have to spell this out, but such is the state of the world.

This is almost as absurd as the “women poop at work” article… Of course, the implications of Ann Francke whose diary is not published, is far worse, as this goes for the jugular – so to speak – in attempting to curb something as innocent as sports banter at work.

Men, believe it or not, are quite capable of managing themselves without having a woman around to act as a moral guiding force, deciding what is or is not acceptable behaviour or suitable topics for discussion. Women do not have to act as parental figures to grown-ass men, demanding that they behave in a manner that pleases them and talk only about things which women are interested in. And men should not accept that the will of women dictate their behaviour or topics of discussion amongst them. It is ridiculous.

Now, I do of course understand that there is a difference between the workplace and just about any other place. I understand that there is a difference in accepted (or expected) behaviour in professional settings as opposed to non-professional settings.

I also understand – despite the strange brutish man-beast Ann Francke of the non-famous diary have manufactured in her sheltered head-space – that men talking about sports does not equate to men talking about the latest cheap thrill picked up in a bar come closing time late Saturday night. But, ya know, laddish behaviour and the stereotypes of men reign supreme in the minds of those who claim to dislike the use of gendered stereotypes.

Sports banter makes women feel left out and not included, she continues, with all the poor swooning ladies she can paint for us in-between her snarling and thinly veiled contempt for men and all things masculine.

Ignoring, for a moment, that not all men enjoy sports and that some women in fact enjoy sports, I would propose that these women may take their feelings of being left out and kindly fuck off.

Admittedly, I may be harsh here – blame that on the maggots in my coffee and the strange influence of Yuggoth on my mind – but it seems rather egotistical, self-obsessed, entitled and narcissistic to me for women to expect and demand that everything; every single conversation, every single happening, every single event, has to revolve around them in some way or other, be that them as a person or their interests.

It also seems contrary to the notion of women being strong ‘n’ tuff ‘n’ capable if they can not handle guys talking about a topic which does not interest them in the workplace.

But what the hell do I know?

I have been designated the role of oppressor, so I am of course not allowed to comment on anything. Particularly not where sex and gender is concerned. Except how horrible, terrible, vicious and cruel me, myself, I and the rest of the guys are, of course.

Despite not being allowed to comment on anything, I have to wonder – do these “rules” of inclusivity, these “rules” of accepted workplace banter extend to female topics of discussion? If you will allow me to think in stereotypes for a moment; would one stomp out women discussing the latest manufactured reality-television drama? Or make-up? Or fashion? Shopping? Footwear?

Women discussing fashion choices, shoes or reality television at work may lead to birdish behaviour. It may even encourage them to cover each others faces in yogurt and cucumber-slices and perming each others hair whilst discussing last months period or the lack of batteries in their monstrous vibrators. For that is the only thing women talk about, right? Vibrators and periods?

One would not be amiss in thinking that this would make men feel less than included in the conversation. It should be curbed so that all and one might feel included in the workplace.

It has to be equal, after all. All and one must feel included. So any topic of discussion (stereo)typically feminine must be curbed, lest it leads to men not feeling included.

If there is one thing feminism has been, and continue to be, remarkably good at, it is infantilizing women. It is painting women as absolutely incapable of dealing with anything. It is painting women as egotistical entitled twats who demand that everything revolves around them. If it does not, then women must be protected from it. Clearly to such an extent that women must be protected from topics of discussion which they are not interested in.

At the same time, it proves that it views men as inherently more mature and capable than women. For men not only accept that not every bloody discussion has to involve something that is of particular interest to them, men are expected to do so. Just as mature adults should be expected to do, of course. In fact; men are mature enough, and are considered to be mature enough, to accept that people do not have to bend over backwards to accommodate their slightest whim and fancy. Women, apparently, are not considered mature enough to accept that people sometimes discuss things that are outside their sphere of interest. Still, it considers men as absolutely incapable of acting properly without a woman being present to supervise them, since women are more mature and definitely more moral, prim and proper and all that jazz.

The whole ting is bloody ridiculous. Bring forth the fainting couches gentlemen; there is a strong and independent whamen coming to work here!

  • Please like, share and subscribe
  • Moiret Allegiere, 19.02.2020

Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Kindle:
Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Paperback:

Howling at a Slutwalk Moon, a collection of previous blog posts:
Vol 1 Paperback:
Vol 1 Kindle:
Vol 2 Paperback:
Vol 2 Kindle:
Vol 1 Illustrated Paperback:
Vol 2 Illustrated Paperback:

Other links:
Redbubble shop:

Internet So Dangerous, part 1

«Forbidden Fruit»

The internet is dangerous, I’ve been told. Particularly for women. Because of course it is, as are all things. If you do not know that by now, buddy-boy, you are either blind or you are deaf or you are stupid. There’s no two ways about it: if it happens somewhere, no matter whom it happens to, women are most affected. At least it must be spun that way.

Still, one should be fairly safe on the internet if one takes care and watches ones steps, as it were. However, since it is such a dangerous, such a wild and wacky place – particularly for women – I thought it would be of interest to write on the terrible dangers of the internet, for all the world to marvel at and furthermore dismiss.

Beyond the borders of the screen, where all sanity goes to die, women are in grave and terrible danger… horribly assaulted by the fell misogynistic males who traverse and guard the dankest pits, the most nauseating cesspools of the internet. Most of the internet is a hive of scum and villainy, as one would well expect, populated by men as it is. As long as you do not talk about / B /, though,you ought to be safe.

Now, me being a naive and innocent gentleman and scholar; naught but a humble thought-crime salesman in fact, I have of course never traversed the dangerous tundra that is / B /. I am far too gentlemanly, far too delicate, for such an endeavour. I can not talk about it for not having experienced it, in fact, so I do not talk about / B /. Yet, as I have understood it through the scholarly articles I have read on the topic, / B / is where all hope and dreams goes to die. It is a graveyard for all that is good and noble and feminine and true, a massgrave for sugar and spice and everything nice. As such, it is for fools as myself who still cling to a tiny floating burrito of hope, of course, out of reach and out of bounds.

There used to be a certain sense of personal freedom, of individual liberty, of anonymity on the internet. Even when it is solely populated by garbage-people clothed in phallic symbolism. Beyond hope, I hope that it will one day return. With gusto, with wild, furious, maddening songs and battlecries, roaring… triumphant trumpets blaring wildly in the echoing cavern where the censorship-brigades lie weeping for having lost the battle…

But it is not this day. Nor is it the day after today or the day after tomorrow. I fear that it will be a good and long while until we are allowed to be anonymous again.

Net-neutrality is all but dead.

Just as God is dead.

And we killed it, just as we killed him.

All of us, with our weeping and our inaction, our apathy and our lethargy.

We killed it.

And so it has become legend.

And so it has become myth…

Legend and myth; morality tales told to children sitting lonely and sleepless in bed at night, tales to make them behave…

If you don’t behave, child, anonymity will find you. For anonymous is legion.”

And the child will tremble and hide its freckled face beneath the covers, wishing that the tale will both end and continue… the duality of peoplekind as only a child, in its adoring innocence, can portray it.

Fear, and love, terror and intrigue all in a pint-sized package.

The child has been told all its life that Anonymous never forgives; that Anonymous can be a horrible, senseless, uncaring monster… it is the creepy sounds outside at night… like fingernails scratching at the window… wolves howling at the door… blizzards that turn to ghostly screams in the child’s mind… Anonymous is still able to deliver, despite being long dead. It is a ghost, a ghoul, a zombie, a demon, sent to kill and to maim and to ensnare the child’s soul… to capture it for an eternity of torment in the very bowels of hell.

As expected, Anonymous is particularly fond of young female victims… male children do not run free of them, of course. They will be twisted and malformed; forced into obedience, made to succumb to the wicked weirdness of the internet… forced to merge and to become Anonymous themselves.

But the girls… oh, the girls… their fate is better left unsaid, so as to create unfathomable horrors as warnings in the tender minds of young girls so that they shall never dare step outside the boundaries set there by their opulent masters; so that they shall stay in their proper place and later turn and run and weep so that the government and various tech-giants shall finally slay the mythical beast that is, and shall forever be, known as Anonymous. For, in order for the censorship-brigades to win and Anonymous to lose, girls and women must be irrationally afraid and angry at that which they have been told makes them afraid, all the time.

Following such observations, one sits, as one does, browsing Twitter. Beholding, watching and – yet again – observing all the twats that tweet and twatter about everything, yet managing, by some strange magic, to say absolutely nothing.

It is naught but free-form forums limited to snark and salvation in equal measure. With rules of conduct so strange and convoluted as to be impenetrable. Denser than the densest dope, stranger than the strangest stranger.

Supposedly, the rules of conduct apply to everyone equally. And so it should be safe, even for women. Yet, as one will experience time and again: there are no real rules about posting.

This is self-evident, as people are still allowed to be mean towards women online. The fact that people are mean – often meaner in fact – towards men on the internet is of no matter, little consequence and whatever. And the uncomfortable fact that most “misogynistic” abuse encountered by women online comes from other women, not men, matters even less. For, through mental gymnastic galore and burlesque, men can still be blamed for the actions of women.

If you will allow, gentlemen, as we are all men of the world here… men who have been around the block a few times, so to speak… know what I mean, nudge nudge, wink wink? We all know, gentlemen, that being mean to women online usually means nothing more and nothing less than merely disagreeing with them.

That is harassment.

Particularly when facing down a stampeding feminist, or a stampeding horde of feministas.

It is pure vile misogyny to disagree with women – particularly with feminism, and misogyny is the worstest thing there is to encounter on the internet, no matter how factual ones rebuttal to the inane ramblings of a feminist is. Non-feminist women are free game and good pickings, so have at them all you like. Yet, do not touch a feminist woman with the gentle stroke of your keyboard. That is harassment, misogyny and all that other terrible stuff. And we can not have that. For added effect, the words racism, fascism, white supremacism, rape, wifebeater, etcetera, in any one of their forms, will also be used and spent like some drunk billionaire spending money during a wild weekend in Vegas.

After a while of flawed and faulty moderation and some observations on the liberal use of the grand ban-hammer fantastic by whip-and-chain moderators, one comes to learn that there are no real rules about moderation either.

Enjoy your ban.

Pro tip: to avoid being banned, don’t refer to people as “retarded” if they ain’t retarded, yet spouting retarded arguments. Refer to them, instead, as “mentally deficient” if they ain’t mentally deficient, yet spouting mentally deficient arguments.

For those who are in the know, in the flow, in the midst of the stream – that is, the ones who count themselves as woke – are protected from moderation, as opposed to those who refuse to be ensnared by the church of woke. The prophets of woke must do something particularly egregious in order to be banned, in order to be moderated, as opposed to those who are not woke, who may be banned for the disastrous crime of disagreement. Tactics from the cult of woke include, but are not limited to, mass-reporting, harassment, doxing, dog-piling, brigading and various and sundry. There are, in fact, accounts on Twitter made for no other reason but to take down and ban the accounts of those of a political persuasion whom they do not agree with. Some of us would, perhaps, consider these poor people as having no life, no purpose, whatsoever. But, then again, some of us are merely hateful, bigoted and various and sundry and so can be easily ignored and dismissed.

The cult of woke is a peculiar and confusing thing, and its adherents, its prophets, its followers and clingers-on deserve each other more than anyone has ever deserved anyone else in the whole history of hysteria.

The cult is auto-cannibalistic by its very nature, by its core design. The woke shall eat the lesser woke; the lesser woke, in turn, shall eat the woke. And the lying shall lay down with the lame.

And both shall play the blame-game, the name-and-shame-game.

Until the rapture, until the end.


Of course; one must never, under any circumstances, migrate to different sites. There must always and ever be a tech-giant monopoly, a technopoly, no matter how censoriously moderated the moderators chose to moderate, no matter how much of a cancerous polyp on the anus of humanity they may be.

The message delivered then is a simple one: if you enjoy any rival sites – don’t!

For the rival sites are filled with Neo-Nazi scumfucks, crypto-fascist marginalizers, male supremacist white-faced smirkers and other such terrible entities, who, by their vague association with the fundamentally flawed and faithfully fascist concept of free speech, wishes for nothing but the subordination of women and other disadvantaged minority-groups. (the fact that women are not a minority does not factor into it. Minority does not mean what it used to mean, due to the voodoo of lackademia.) These sites must, by necessity, be taken down as best they can be taken down, banned and shadowbanned and blacklisted by the tech-giants and the iron-glove with which they rule the internet.

It does not matter what one says, it does not matter what one does. Supporting and frequent other sites than the bulbous sites that the tech-giants have conjured forth from the abyss means that you are, in fact, a fascist. Fascist being yet another of the vague in-vogue-words that no-one really knows what means any more, yet spend until it is completely spent and pointless.

In the glowing light of the Technopolis, all your carefully picked arguments can be ignored. For no-one knows your own mind better than those who have decided to ignore your position and your words, your actions and your deeds in order to push and present their smear-job caricature of you.

Anything you say can and will be used against you.

Anything you say can be turned into something else.

Your opinion as well as the fact of the matter matters little.

The hive-mind hath spoken.

The hive-mind is always right.

So it is.

The hive-mind and its tactics change according to the whims and will and fancy of Ms. Queen Bee Supreme. (Ms. Queen Bee Supreme of course being the current societal, cultural or academic feminist or social justice warrior zeitgeist.)

Lately, over on the men’s rights subreddit – which I frequent often, though in the guise of a ghost… always reading, never writing – concern-trolling has become the latest trend and tactic of the hive-mind scorned by concern for men.

Alongside the obscene assault of concern-trolling, one may often encounter seven thousand varieties of the “not real feminism” fallacy.

Which is to be expected. Most subscribers to the ideology of feminism know precious little about feminism, it appears. Those who oppose it know quite a lot about it. Know thy enemy, as the saying goes.

Scratch the surface, and the point, the rust and muck, of the exercise – that is, the concern-trolling, the attempted tone-policing – becomes as clear as the empty gaze of a vacuous garden-variety feminist.

The point of the exercise is, of course, furthering the feminist agenda and the eternal feminist talking-points, one feigned concern, one falsely presented empathetic gaze at the plight of men at a time. (One can easily spot it by seeing them use the term toxic masculinity over and over again.)

These people ought to be ignored.

Just as we do not negotiate with terrorists, we do not argue with trolls. It means that they win.

They are there to spread pestilence, famine, war and death. No matter the mask they wear at the moment.

The best tactic is to ignore them. Let them scream, splutter and blubber into the void of their own dismal sense of “equality”.

In doing so, they will potentially learn that the harder they try, the harder they will fail. Of course; this is somewhat doubtful. These people never learn from their mistakes. Instead, they double down, convincing themselves that if they fail in epic proportion, it may just become a winning failure.

I blocked the bastards, see?! That means I won!!”

Followed by a long and drawn-out REEEEEEEEEEEE, a lengthy herp and some epic derp.

Even if they do believe themselves to be winners, there is comfort in the knowledge that every win fails eventually.

Every imagined win is destined to fail.

And the mighty do fall and the tremulous do tremble for every fall.

Yet, the trembling forces tremble on, marching towards the gates and winning inch by bloody inch.

Hate-speech and hate-laws and crimes of a hateful nature.

As long as that which is hated is what they do not wish to be hated.

What they themselves may hate is quite alright… for their hate is not hate, it is, instead, opposition to oppression. And the oppressed have every right to hate their oppressors. In the heat of the moment, the troglodytes, goblins, orcs, ogres and nincompoops forget that everything that can be labelled can be hated… that one can not condition hatred, stupid as hatred very well may be, out of people.

One can not force someone to like something, to love something, to approve of something. That is quite contrary to liberty. Like it or not, to live in a free society is to allow for people to hate what they hate, to love what they love, even if one disagrees. Not allowing for this is to not live in a free society. Particularly egregious is this when both allowing and celebrating certain types of hate against certain groups.

When mere criticism of one group gets labelled hate, whilst actual calls for genocide and violence and genocidal violence to another group is not… when this is based solely on arbitrary characteristics… one does not live in a society that is free and open and easy-going. One is living in a prison where freedom is, in fact, slavery.

Hatred may very well be stupid, futile and way too simplistic. Yet, it will never go away. When implementing laws that determine what is and is not OK to hate, all one does is push certain groups even further underground.

Hate breeds hate.

And hating certain groups is still nothing but hate, no matter ones justification, no matter whether allowed socially or accepted through laws. The more you hate it, the stronger it gets. Underground and unseen by feeble-minded nimrods who believe that nothing is to be taken seriously except that which they consider serious, which, for all intents and purposes, is anything but serious.

By which I mean that it is anything but rational. Even the most robust feminist argument is based on feelz before reelz, ya dig.

Particularly so in the latter days of our societies. With this used as truth, a woman who feels unsafe is unsafe, no matter the truth of the matter. And if a woman feels unsafe, she must be protected. Particularly on the internet, where there are so many dangers lurking right beneath the surface.

Apparently, this tale as old as time, this fainting-couch woman, is originality made manifest. Seen clearly in feminists disciples parroting feminist dogma from feminist internet-users using old tattle-tale dialectics like used-car sales-peoplekinds, presenting it as original content.

All new rims, good steering, fantastic tail-lights, good deal, brakes usually work, buy it now.

Even when it is an old and decrepit rustbucket…

Original content is original only for a few seconds before getting old. And feminism is old, ancient, dead and decaying. It is an old and decrepit rustbucket.

Still, it clings to its glory.

Burrowed in the pale and flabby skin of society like a tick, spreading disease, chronic pain and a solid case of good old ickiness. Now, it is not merely feminists who believe this. All the white knights with their bulging mass and alpha-posturing will jump out of the woodwork to defend m’lady and her honour, no matter if she is clearly in the wrong or not.

For if there is one thing one can believe in, with utmost sincerity, it is the weakness and frailty and powerlessness of the strong, powerful and empowered woman. Manufactured as it is by the frail and frantic forces of feminism and enabled by a society that swoops in to save and to shelter and protect and provide for women, no matter who suffers something more or who suffers something less.

Social justice is a farcical farce, ladies and gentlemen, and feminism is at the forefront of it all.

Because why shouldn’t it be?

If there is any talk about victimization, feminism has got to swoop in to make sure and to make certain that women are up front and centre. As original and predictable as a good old fashioned copypasta. As we all well know, being gentlemen and scholars all, the woes and worries of any given feminist is nothing but feminist copypasta. And copypasta is made to ruin every last bit of originality.

(AN:I know; I was supposed to write less about feminism and more about other things. But inspiration struck some hours ago, and now I am rambling my way through something that was supposed to be short, quick, easy, to the point and somewhat humorous. It turned out to become tender finger-gymnastics for my insomniac hop-scotch mind. Oh, well, finger my diddle and pound my nostrils – it is at the very least extraordinarily fun to write. Even when the short piece had to be split into multiple pieces on account of my rambling mind going every which where except towards the direction I pointed it at. Such is the way of things.)

  • Please like, share and subscribe
  • Moiret Allegiere, 15.02.2020

Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Kindle:
Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Paperback:

Howling at a Slutwalk Moon, a collection of previous blog posts:
Vol 1 Paperback:
Vol 1 Kindle:
Vol 2 Paperback:
Vol 2 Kindle:
Vol 1 Illustrated Paperback:
Vol 2 Illustrated Paperback:

Other links:
Redbubble shop:

An Old Friend of Mine

«Four Horsekins of the Wah-pocalypse #3 Famine»

There’s too much to think tonight.

The lonely wail of a vacuum-cleaner is heard in the distance; lonesome and weird, howling and crying into a blue and starless night.

The moon caught once more in weird and flaccid bedroom-despair, staring through the open bedroom window; resembling a vampire or a salivating succubi clothed in silver-silk, spotted, here and there, with deep red stains of blood.

A mind now crowded, fully booked and operated by operatic troglodytes that chatter, scream and holler vague obscenities into the cerebral matrix-core, the aluminium insomniac-bore, a dull, slow, careful throbbing in the back of the mind drilling through the tectonic plates of reason and of life.

There’s just too much to think tonight.

I remember him well, seeing him there, in a crowded room, in a past life. The boy was alive back then and in there, running wild, feather-free and unencumbered through abandoned hallways that stank and reeked of public school, all unwashed urinals and pavement-walls, all whitewashed, sterile, dull, eternally lifeless and ever so god-damned boring… where only accepted art decorated the pungent walls and bulging chalk-stained floors; art that sought to crush the spirit, art that burnt and bruised any instinct to get out… Propaganda-posters on the walls pinned up by pin-up protesting political students of the political class, whose words and thoughts were laws unto themselves. Much a foreshadowing of the latter day warriors for social justice, in fact.

A lifeless tragedy reflected in stainless steel sheet-paper music: wicked snare-drum clickety-clacks, the crazy vague whisperings of preposterous pondering pedagogues with a face-plant planted neatly in text-book educations, in real life separations, in ink wish-wells that stank of pharmacological cologne.

There’s just too much to think.

Crowded head-space rigmarole, late-stage abortions of thought and eagerness to think, concentration brought scatter-brained infantilism from frigid fire-fuelled preachers of occupational platitudes:

attitudes and behaviours such as these are hazardous to the health and strange well-being of classroom occupants of varying degrees of variable conformity.

Concentration-camp pills are necessary to chain the boy and boyhood dream to chairs of stainless silver-ware. To force him, as it were, to sit still and free of fancy, devoid of energy.

Straight from the occupational hazard of parasitical pedagogues to the limelight of pill-popping lunacy, straight razorblade-smiles drawn across a face stitched back together following bludgeon-bellows, scorned by mocking laughter and miniscule purgatorial bliss, amphetamine-sparkles in the air, sudden smell of burnt hair, strokes and hand-waving away of energy and boundless day-dream longing.

There’s just no room to move.

Drawn across the classroom floor or in the auditoriums as silent as a door-bell-mouse, strange and peculiar unseen blood trickling from ears and eyes that used to see… seeing nothing now but lines in ink and black-and-white on blackboards drawn in chalk and in despair… in his despair where vacuum-stained apartments are free to rent within his cranial cavity, within his snarling mercury-voice that calmed beyond reason and beyond hope from a descending wallop; the permanent amphetamine-sulphate-dance.

Maybe not as disturbing as a permanent amphetamine-sulphate dance, in truth. Only almost, only just, merely the concerted and concerning grip of Concerta upon his mind and neurological make-up, such a travesty of confusing grips that shook his brains and shackled his body, bursting it at once in on itself so as to mirror a calm, focused, studious will to study in break-room classrooms barred and chained. His will focused through drugs, his nature curb-stomped and left for dead by drugs.

I knew him back then, in hazy school-boy days. I saw him lost in space and lost in time. The entirety of his personality, his core and his essence torn from him – the bubbling energy and will to run, to play, to make-pretend in boundless, eager fantasy ripped and pulled away from him… essentially his essence stolen, wrapped in white pills, then pushed away for being disruptive, for being energetic, for being refused to run and burn through energy, being forced to sit in stunned silence, drugged into conformity, preyed upon by piss-pot pedagogues and pondering psychiatrists who never cared to see the truth of boyish nature; the practical before the theoretical, the need to use his body and burn his energy in order to then sit still and study.


There’s just no room to sleep when my thoughts run haywire and needs to be expressed. Bothersome as they may well be. At times, it gets way too crowded in this havocked head-space of mine to think properly.

I am finishing this piece after having it stood untouched for close-to four weeks. It was originally written during one of my frequent nights or mornings (I can’t properly remember) of insomnia. I dismissed it immediately as having absolutely no value but some purely personal catharsis at the moment of writing. An immediate blood-letting, so to speak.

Yet, it was not until I began writing this during that night… or early morning, that I realised what was burning in my mind at the moment, keeping me from sleep.

It was this friend of mine.

Looking back at this piece now, when the dust from that fight with insomnia has settled, the piece does seem to offer something more than the purely cathartic. Hence, this addendum and an upload.

It was this friend of mine.

All but ten years old, and deemed to be too energetic, diagnosed with ADHD with nothing but a wink and a nod.

ADHD is, of course, something that must be expelled, exterminated, exorcised from the brooding boyish body lest he disrupt the fucking studying, ruining it for the rest of the fucking class.

I knew him very well back then. In fact, he was a very close friend of mine. We still keep in touch, though we are not as close as we were back then.

He was as close a friend as one could have when being ten years old. Strange, that him and his diagnosis should pop up in my mind 23-odd years later, but that’s what happens during strange sleepless nights…

Particularly so when writing on the kinds of topics which I tend to write on. There is a certain preoccupation, one could almost say obsession, at times with the state of the world… seeing it through the vague waves of the proverbial red pill… things that seemed very clear-cut and obvious back in the dazed blue pill days – doctors said it, teachers said it, he needed treatment, he needed medication – seems a bit more dubious in light of the new day. Or, well, in light of the new night, as may well be the case.

As is the case with this friend of mine.

His personality changed completely after his diagnosis and subsequent treatment… his drugging.

It was really strange.

A relatively gradual change, as these things of course are. To those of us who knew him, it seemed as though all his sense of fun, all his energy, all his eagerness to play-pretend had been sucked out of him. I know many who have been diagnosed with ADHD or ADD. All of whom were boys. But I knew none of them as well as I knew this friend of mine.

To be clear: I am in no way qualified to speak on ADHD.

Still, I can’t deny my thoughts access to paper, so to speak. Particularly not when they are knocking at my skull, demanding to come out.

I understand it to be a somewhat controversial diagnosis… and the drugs used to “mend” it even more so. I understand that it is mainly young boys who are diagnosed with it… An overwhelming amount, in fact. Which leads me to believe that teachers, being mainly female, simply can not handle – or understand, for that matter – natural boyish energy, deeming it disruptive in class. In so doing they may well be seeking a simple solution to a problem that does not necessarily exist as anything but a problem with the way schools treat boys.

Which leads me to believe that ADHD and ADD at the very least is highly over-diagnosed, and its medication highly over-prescribed.

Considering only those whom I know, or have had dealings with over the course of my life, who were diagnosed with one of the two at a young age, and we are talking about quite a few boys who may very well have been nothing but energetic. Particularly interesting (to me at least) is this: in schools, class have become longer and the free time between them become shorter. Less free time, more time spent locked to a desk in classrooms. Not the best way to burn off excess energy, one should think.

The way schools teach their students are very much geared towards a feminine way of learning. Once again, the feminine is the default, the masculine a deviation.

Articles have been popping up recently. Quite a few of them, actually, about how boys and young men struggle in schools.

Strange that this should happen, one should think, sarcastically whilst sniggering sardonically, when schools have done nothing for the past thirty years but build up girls… at the expense of boys. With all female this and all female that. Girls must be empowered, don’t’cha know. Boys need not apply. No Boys Only stuff allowed. For that would be discriminatory.

Below, I have linked two articles from the BBC on the topic. This is not something that is only happening in Great Britain. It appears to be happening over most of the western world. Boys drop out. And any attempt at helping boys and young men in education is met with the wrath and ire of feminism scorned, demanding that boys be pushed away and girls pushed to the front. Only girls must receive help, even when it is clear, blatant and bloody obvious that boys are the ones that struggle the most. Particularly where education is concerned. For, as is always the case: focusing on girls and helping only girls is quite alright. Focusing on boys and helping them is discrimination par excellence. That is just the way it is. Even when boys are the ones who are damned well struggling. A strange thing, in a society that prides itself oh-so-much on its equal treatment of all and sundry.

…as long as those that demand to be treated with equal care, compassion and consideration are not boys, of course.

It still remains incredibly strange to me that what is labelled equal treatment of the sexes consist of giving girls and women what boys and men have not, under the pretence that boys and men already have it and have had it for all of history. This despite it never being there as something tangible, something experienced directly by boys and men… Just an invisible patriarchy, whose existence is made evident by nothing but “look around you”, doing nothing but helping boys and pushing girls down… despite girls being helped and boys not being helped.

As one learns, if one is partly awake, no-one knows the lives of boys and men better than feminist women who have, after all, studied mass-gender-succulence, critical gender-analyticals, intricate vaginal opulence, phallo-centric oligarchies and basket-weaving-through-a-non-gender-binary-lens in universities, and so know exactly what and how boys and men experience and live and think.

Boys and men know absolutely nothing about their own lives and experiences in society. Because of course we don’t – we haven’t studied it!

Women’s lived experience are of incredible importance. Men’s lived experience is not, for only women know what men’s lived experience is like. It sure as hell appears to be the case, when taking into account that boys and men are not listened to; their advocates routinely mocked, shunned, whipped and ridiculed from one side of the political spectrum to the next. Feminism is allowed to speak on what men need… which, as it transpires, is what men need to do to help women and so, in turn, help themselves by fixing themselves so that they can be of more help to women. By which they of course mean feminism.

Men’s rights advocates seem to exist in a peculiar state of free-falling, as it were, receiving plenty of scorn and ridicule from all and sundry.

Left and right matters little. Both left and right agree that us filthy MRA’s are either this chosen smear from the left or that chosen smear from the right… All agree that advocating for gender equality, for human rights, from the perspective of a man – or by looking to how men are doing – is not something one does.

It is really strange, like I said, when living in a society that claims everyone deserves to be listened to and taken seriously, treated with the same amount of respect or whatever…

Alas; boys are to be helped with the subtle and loving caress of powerful drugs, which may very well be of more help to the teachers than the boys in question.

The masculine is a problem to be solved, and so is boyish behaviour. It is a pathological ideology masquerading as an identity, according to the pestilent school of psychiatry. Something to be dubbed “toxic” and done away with.

No wonder boys drop out.

No wonder men became “obsolete”.

  • Please like, share and subscribe
  • Moiret Allegiere, 12.02.2020

Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Kindle:
Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Paperback:

Howling at a Slutwalk Moon, a collection of previous blog posts:
Vol 1 Paperback:
Vol 1 Kindle:
Vol 2 Paperback:
Vol 2 Kindle:
Vol 1 Illustrated Paperback:
Vol 2 Illustrated Paperback:

Other links:
Redbubble shop:

A Few Lines on Dogs:

Groucho Marx once said that “Outside of a dog, a book is a man’s best friend. Inside of a dog it’s too dark to read”. I believe this to be one of the truest statements ever uttered by a man, though I admit I had to get dogs myself before I properly understood it. At the moment, we have two dogs. The first one we got was a tiny chihuahua. Her name is “Zappa”, and she is not exactly race-typical. She is also, quite literally, a bitch.

At the moment, she is sleeping right beside me on the sofa as I type, resting and nesting – as it were – partly atop, partly inside a woollen blanket which was meant to be used by the domesticated primates of the household. The bitch has, as one would expect, claimed dominion over the woollen blanket. In fact, she appears to have annexed it as part of her ever-expanding empire. To her, what’s hers is hers, and what’s ours is also hers. This is as it should be, I suppose. After all – chihuahuas have got their reputation for a reason. Whatever it is, if it is in the immediate vicinity of a chihuahua, it is theirs. Much like the seagulls in Finding Nemo, they will cry “mine”, and reach for it with all their snoot and incredible sense of fun.

What a bitch.

This little bundle of snoot, paws and twitching tail have done more good for my emotional well-being and my mental health than any amount of babblelogue psycho-therapy, psycho-pharmaceutical drug-cocktails and various and sundry. She is, and has been since we got her, a phenomenal help and comfort in the darkest moments and an amazing friend through and through. And I love her with all my beard.

A year after we got her, we got our second dog. Supposedly a chihuahua, though I believe there is more than a smidgeon of Tibetan Spaniel in his bloodline. His name is Fenris. He is a handsome son of a bitch, as well as being ridiculously clumsy, funny and good-natured. He wants nothing more from life than eternal belly-rubs and ear-strokings. Preferably at the same time. I believe that both of our dogs, through a gentle application of belly-rubs combined with the occasional treat (preferably duck) have obtained enlightenment and so live in a state of permanent Nirvana.

Until, that is, they spot someone outside with the audacity – the rudeness – the unfiltered egotism to walk on the pavement where either one of our dogs once took a shit, took a piss, or found something to eat which they should not eat. Usually some manner of faeces. Loss of Nirvana is of no matter and little consequence, of course, as the state of Nirvana is soon to be reached yet again. Just a small slip-up, a little stumble, and that is all there is to that. I love both of these tiny bastards with all my heart, beard and beginning male pattern baldness.

Quite a few years ago, I knew a guy. We were never close friends, but we spoke ever so often. He was one of those “tough guys”. Not “tough” in any negative sense, mind you. (Though I suspect quite a lot of the feministas and various other prophets of the church of woke would refer to his mannerisms as “Toxic Masculinity” (TM)…) He was not violent, or anything like that. Just your regular no-nonsense guy. Hard-working, salt-of-the-earth, not-taking-shit-from-anyone kind of guy. Straight-talking, honest and perhaps slightly too fond of the drink. I don’t believe I ever saw him fazed by anything. He took everything in stride. Stood up for himself as well as his friends when needed, never shying away from a challenge. Typical “manly man”; a good, decent and honest man. As far as I knew him.

He also had a dog. A gorgeous German Shepherd. I can not remember the name of his dog for love nor money. This was years ago, and as much as I can remember the night in question in good detail, I can not remember the name of his dog. I remember his name, but I will not mention that here for his sake.

So I met him this one night, completely beside himself. Drinking gin straight from the bottle, in an obvious attempt to mask some severe emotional pain. Beyond comfort, seemingly caught in some terrible, frightful, dreadful despair which I could not understand nor comprehend. It was not easy, getting anything out of him. Seems whatever pain he was drowning was devouring him. As though the reality of the situation had not yet reached him.

After a while of talking with him, amidst the tears and dread despair, he managed to get it out: he had had to put his dog down. This was unexpected, to say the least. Yet, of course, it explained everything. Turned out that his dog had got a tumour on his brain – the dog was getting on in years – and that this tumour had gone unnoticed until it altered the behaviour and personality of the dog. He went from being a kind, friendly and obedient dog to being aggressive to the point of attacking his owner. And so he rushed his dog to the vet, took all the tests there were to take and learned that there was absolutely nothing they could do for him. It was either euthanasia, or the rest of his short days in agonizing pain and with aggression and violence to boot. He opted for the humane option, as I believe most of us would. Not an easy choice by any stretch of the imagination. Yet, it is the correct choice in my humble opinion.

So there stood this tough guy, always unfazed, untouched by whatever insults or threats people could throw his way… a man who took everything in stride, no matter what challenges he met in life… weeping, mourning, completely lost in grief, far beyond any comfort.

I’ll tell you, seeing this man – this tough guy – so broken up, so absolutely devastated… it does something to you. By this, I don’t mean that I find it uncomfortable or pathetic, seeing a grown man cry. Far from it, in fact. Yet, seeing him so upset, so broken that night… It is such a profound thing to see and to experience that I struggle to put it into words. These were wounds that would never completely heal. I understood as much, even if it would be years and years until I got a dog myself.

Men tend to be natural problem-solvers. As far as I have understood it, this is part of the reason as to why men don’t cry as readily, as much or as easily as women tend to when faced with some big problem, obstacle or whatever. Our first instinct is to solve it. And crying does not solve anything. Sure; crying may let out some of the pressure in the heat of the moment. But it will not solve anything, and the pressure will build again.

Better, then, to grit ones teeth and puff ones chest out, soldier on and figure out how to bloody solve the bloody thing. Crying may come later. When all else fails. As was the case with this man and his dog – there was no way to solve the problem, without losing his dog. He solved the problem, but was faced with a problem which he could not solve: the loss of his life-long friend. So came the grief, so came the despair, so came the sense of loss, so came the tears. He did the right thing by his dog. I can only imagine how hard that choice was. No wonder he was inconsolable.

For my own sake, I very seldom cry from sadness, or when facing problems. It has happened, but it is incredibly rare. I do, however, cry fairly regularly. From joy. I get moved to tears extraordinarily easily. Just looking at my dogs sleeping or playing will often do the trick. There is no problem to solve there, so it is much easier to get lost in the moment and become absolutely overwhelmed with joy and love. This is not something I am ashamed of. Quite the opposite.

I don’t get this obsession our cultures have that “men have to learn how to cry”, and other such piss-pottery. Men are very adept at dealing with stuff. We just tend to deal in a way that differs from how women tend to deal. And there is nothing wrong with this. Men are not defective women.

I propose a worldwide campaign, titled “Women need to learn how not to cry”. See how far we’ll get with that, before being accused of various soggy knees, before we get accused of viewing women as defective men. Instead of society accepting that we are different and so deal and cope differently, men must be re-educated, re-modelled, re-engineered so that we deal and cope in the way women deal and cope. For the feminine is the standard and the masculine a deviation, for some strange reason.

A dog becomes a natural part of the family. Way beyond being only a pet. There is a bond between a man and a dog that is just as strong as – if not stronger than – any bond between a man and any other human being.

Outside of my dogs – and of course my wife – a book has always been my best friend. (I have, as of yet, not attempted to read a book inside my dog. And I would much prefer not to.) I have been reading ferociously since I was a small kid. Books that were too advanced for my age-group at the time, apparently, though I believe that to be baloney and bullshit. Who decides what is proper reading-material for any age-group? Excepting the obvious; pornography, for example. So I finally understood what Groucho Marx meant. And I wholeheartedly agree. At times, I believe that dogs are too good for humanity; that we don’t deserve them. They are the most beautiful creatures there are. I often prefer their company to other human beings, that’s for damned sure.

Throughout my life, I have heard the statement “Men are dogs!” expressed by scores of women as some strange form of insult. And it always makes me giggle and snort. Apparently, it is meant as a statement of disgust. Pointing to the animalistic nature of men, or something to that effect. It is meant to be an insult. Which is about as ridiculous and absurd as any other thing conjured forth from the darkest recesses of the feminine shadow could ever be.

For what are dogs known for? Loyalty. Loyalty and love. (And cuddles.) Unquestioned loyalty and love without hesitation. Wanting nothing in return but your friendship. (Putting aside the obvious, which is food, shelter and water.)

Whenever I encounter that statement, I can not help but take it as the highest compliment. For it could not possibly be anything but that. Excepting to people suffering from chronic cat-hoarding and boxed wine addiction, I suppose.

If men are, in fact, dogs, then it stands to reason that men are good, noble, loyal, pure, true and very fond of food. It stands to reason, then, that men will put themselves in harms way to save someone else. That men protect, defend, and cuddle… that men overflow with kindness, love and good, playful humour. And honestly, I agree. To quote Tom Golden: “Men Are Good”.

I can not imagine any higher compliment than being compared to a dog. Dogs are good, and so are men.

  • Please like, share and subscribe
  • Moiret Allegiere, 08.02.2020

Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Kindle:
Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Paperback:

Howling at a Slutwalk Moon, a collection of previous blog posts:
Vol 1 Paperback:
Vol 1 Kindle:
Vol 2 Paperback:
Vol 2 Kindle:
Vol 1 Illustrated Paperback:
Vol 2 Illustrated Paperback:

Other links:
Redbubble shop:

Coming Out!!

«4 Horsekins of the Wah-pocalypse #2: Pestilence»

“It’s not easy being green”, claims Kermit the Frog.
Damn bastard ain’t got a bloody clue.
Shit-head knows nothing of troubles.
Should have been through what I’ve gone through.

For years, I have self-identified in a particular manner.
Not that anyone cares, or believes me, for that matter.
See; I am a rarity – undoubtedly, an odd peculiarity.
Not at all comfortable in this weird human odyssey.

See; my self-examined identity reveals a hairless blob,
An icky gelatinous thing, an insubstantial gob.
You wanna talk discrimination, micro-aggressions,
double-sanded white privileged post-colonial oppressions?

You wanna talk trans-phobia, male privilege banality,
horrible smirking-whilst-white-and-male criminality?
Try tackling the terribly vicious Medusozoa-phobics,
all damned bigoted pale and male and stale geriatrics.

Bah, humbug! Barely lucid hubris from a tone-deaf bard!
From here until the end of time, I revoke thy victim-card,
I strip you of your place atop the victim-pedestal,
I refuse you unearned pity no matter how hard you bawl!

My self-identity by itself causes violence.
I’m forced by bigotry into a life of utter silence,
by sick-minded phobics of the screech-and-run-variety.
(If they don’t beat me with sticks on account of anxiety)

My pronouns don’t matter, cause nobody cares.
So I just blubber along this lonely trail of tears,
laid down for me, as it is, by faces twisted in disgust.
(Though, some fetishize and greet me then in animal lust.)

No-one believes me, and I doubt they ever will
as I lie face down on the beach, completely naked and still.
It sure is hard being me, with no-one to trust,
just me and the sand turning slowly to dust.

It’s such a hard life for the naked, the timid, the gelatinous,
naught but phobic passers-by with disgust clear and obvious.
And the ladies most frigid, the gentlemen all impotent…
oh, were I only God, were I only omnipotent…

Were I only God, I would force them all to love me.
To hell with free will, to hell with such nonsensical absurdity!
It is rampant phobia, a wicked lack of understanding me;
clearcut case of discrimination, I think, as I blubber out to sea.

Alas, I am neither omnipotent God, nor impotent man.
My identity is one which all and one would wish to ban:
A lonely non-binary translucent jellyfish-kin,
destined to throw the dice of life, never to win.

This bushy beard of mine; each strand a mimicked tentacle,
beneath the water where it floats, such a gorgeous spectacle.
My flabby belly growing by my hand and choice alone,
for years of non-gelatinous privilege now made to atone.

For those who have non-gelatinous privilege have no inkling,
know nothing of Medusozeic woes or worries… all that wrinkling,
that flabbiness, that blobbiness, that terrible lack of blinking,
that floaty feeling, in the ocean, fearing predatory eyes twinkling…

And behind me, at my back, children poke and prod with sticks,
giggling or screaming bloody murder. (Children are such dicks.)
Surrounded by vicious sociopaths, made from all of people-kind,
every age and shape and sex there is, flesh and bone and little mind.

I have no backbone, this is true. In fact, I have no bones at all.
Bones are present in my bio-body, standing 5.8 feet tall…
yet that is just a lonely skin-mask, a saddened human mannequin,
a host to the wailing, longing soul of a gelatinous other-kin.

Piss right off with your quick points of personal privilege,
your caterwauling, comrade-headed opposition to a civil age;
a wondrous age where non-binary translucent jellyfish-kin
may play the game of loving life, come out on top and win!

  • Please Like, Share and Subscribe
  • Moiret Allegiere, 05.02.2020

Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Kindle:
Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Paperback:

Howling at a Slutwalk Moon, a collection of previous blog posts:
Vol 1 Paperback:
Vol 1 Kindle:
Vol 2 Paperback:
Vol 2 Kindle:
Vol 1 Illustrated Paperback:
Vol 2 Illustrated Paperback:

Other links:
Redbubble shop:

Why I am an Anti-Feminist, Part 17. The End/sort of a conclusion:

«4 horsekins of the Wah-pocalypse #1: War»

I would dare, if I would only be so bold as to regurgitate the language of the social justice warrior hive-mind, to claim that feminism is, strictly speaking, Andro-phobic.

I would also dare say that any other movement – no matter which movement – that any other -ism – no matter which -ism – would be scrutinized, vilified and rejected by the mainstream if only one of their thought-leaders had stated that one must reduce – and maintain – this or that segment of the population to 10 percent of the population.

This was stated by a prominent feminist of no small significance. Sally Miller Gearhardt, in fact. As mentioned time and again.

She helped found gender studies.

Which is still taught in universities today.

She stated this about men; that men must be reduced to, and maintained, at about 10 percent of the population. The future, if there is one, is female.

Oddly enough, this has been decided to not reflect feminism as feminism is… she was not, despite co-founding the very feminist gender studies, a true feminist. Or it is just hyperbole. Or it is just a thought-experiment. Or it is this or it is that or it is the other. It is everything and all, except raw, searing hatred of one easily identifiable identity-group. Yet, she is not a real feminist. No real feminist would ever be a feminist thought-leader of such significance, nor would they co-found feminist studies or write feminist books. Only a false feminist would do so. More like than not, she was planted by the patriarchy in order to tear down the reputation of feminism. Lucky for the feminists that this obvious patriarchy false-flag operation did not work, as they still hold all this sway and influence…

I mean, I don’t want to get too sarcastic, but god-damn, if that ain’t excruciatingly difficult. Particularly so when re-visiting and re-writing this piece for the fourth time, following a night where I have had three hours of sleep and being besieged by external stressors and health-issues galore. At times like these, I find myself dripping with snark, sarcasm and thinly cloaked despair. I can not tell you how many times I have seen busy bees from the feminist hive-mind state about some particularly egregious statement from some feminist or other that this is just men pretending to be feminist in order to smear the holy name of feminism. So easily dismissed; raw hatred handwaved away as being nothing. Feminism is not like that, except that it totally is. But that does not matter.

For such is the wicked whimsy of the thing: despite openly and blatantly advocating for genocide and/or incarceration and/or castration of boys and men for the horrible crime of wielding a cock, feminism is a force for good, a force for truth, a force for all the sugar and spice and everything nice in the known universe. Because of course it is, was, ever shall be.

In truth; most Nazis wanted nothing to do with the genocide-stuff; they just wanted cheap cars and better roads. This is obvious. And so, anyone who wants affordable auto-mobiles and decent roads to use said auto-mobiles on is, by definition, a national socialist. Shame that a few people ruined the image of the ideology, but that’s what happens man.

#NazismIsOnlyAboutCheapAutomobiles, for crying out loud!

…and communism just wants to share the wealth equally amongst the proletariat. Gulags does not factor into it. Besides: breadlines are of the good, for the government feeds its people. And nothing could possibly be better than that.

#BreadLinesInsteadOfQuickieMarts, for fuck sake!

Stating that men ought to be put in concentration-camps, as Julie Bindel did? Naught but a joke, of course. And it may very well have been a joke, as she claimed when confronted with the horrifying implications of such an action.

I do not for one flat-fisted second propose that we limit her right, or the right of any other feminist, to speak their minds. Far from it. Everyone – and I mean everyone, not only people whom I just so happen to agree with – should be free to speak their mind; to express themselves. Only petty tyrants, tinpot dictators and terrified state-leaders of a paranoid persuasion would wish to limit the rights of people to speak their minds.

Tyrants, of course, seem to be particularly obsessed with the notion of stability. An idea of stability that demands conformity of thought, of speech and of opinion in order to maintain said stability. Stability is the law, and it shall be enforced with whips and thongs and death and despair.

Any flapping of a butterfly-wing would cause a storm, so all butterflies must have their wings cut. The same applies to loose lips and wagging tongues. They must be cut and sewn shut.

An obvious upside to feminism preaching what feminism preaches is that it shows them for exactly what they are. It presents the ideology for precisely what it is; hatred and contempt for men and for anything masculine, wrapped in a thin layer of gauze whereupon the word “equality” is written, either with a ballpoint-pen or the terrifyingly oppressive tool of the patriarchy known as lipstick. Of course, the gauze needs to be changed just about every day, otherwise the festering wounds underneath would become necrotic and smell a bit weird, quite possibly infected with maggots and other nastiness. And we can’t have that. Not that the wounds need to be cleaned, of course – no saline solution here, buddy-boy. Just a new dressing and we’re good to go. Maggots are known to eat necrotic tissue anyway, so there should be no problems there. Just a few more days of this, and they will bring out the leeches to give a good ol-fashioned leeching. And then we are on easy street. What’s a little gangrene, a slight amputation or two, maybe some sepsis, on the long and winding road towards equality? We all have to make sacrifices, buddy.

I would also dare make the claim that anyone who wishes to suppress the ability of their ideological opponents to speak in opposition, labelling it hate-speech or any other fancy new new-speak fancy, does not have any rhetorical legs to stand on, does not have any merit to their cause. It should be seen as a very frightening thing indeed, this ongoing suppression of free speech, whether they come from feminism on its own, or from the social justice warrior hive-mind. More frightening, of course, than the hordes that call for this or for that to be illegal to speak or think, are the governments implementing it. It has been building so slowly, and has been, and is being hidden behind the hollow buzzwords of kindness, inclusivity, tolerance and altruism so that people just accept. Until they come for them. Of course.

However – my free speech fundamentalism aside – if one should make a quip about women, such as Bindel did about men, particularly so when being in any position of authority, I doubt it would go all that well.

Men have lost their jobs for saying far less offensive things that are far more obviously jokes.

Yet all women everywhere are oppressed and all men everywhere are their oppressors, feminism is an underdog and the patriarchy is the establishment. Which is peculiar, considering the awesome might and influence of feminism. Though, of course, this does not matter when one has been trained from childhood to see things that aren’t really there and not see the things that are really there. And that is what we have been. Spoon-fed feminist dogma until there is nothing left but feminist dogma and feminist storm-troopers, feminist action and feminist all. Go out into the world and multiply, be fruitful, be many, and take part in the glorious cuntural revolution, empowered daughters and neutered sons of the revolution.

Of course, there is a distinction needed to be made between one individual who self-labels as a feminist, and the ideology of feminism. Critique of the ideology of feminism is not, at least when I myself rant, rave and ramble on the ideology of feminism, an attack on any one individual feminist – except when stated otherwise. I am, as of yet, not so myopic in my view of things to believe that every individual feminist is a bad person.

Far from it, in fact.

I consider individual feminists as individuals, judging them on their behaviour and conduct just as I would any other individual. It is excruciatingly simple to fall into a trap and think that anyone who is a follower of this or of that -ism behaves in this or in that manner.

Now, it is clear to me that subscribing to any ideology necessarily must mean that one agrees with quite a lot of the ideas the -ism is wrapped up in. This, I believe, goes without saying.

However; considering how heavy the hand has been that has stuffed this ideology down our throats from childhood-on as only being about equality between the sexes (or genders, as these two seem to be interchangeable or not interchangeable, depending on the whims of the frail and frantic forces of feminism), it is not a far stretch of the imagination to state that most everyone is, in one way or another, a feminist by default.

A fair amount of feminist ideas – as feminism has been presented, not as it is in actuality – will be present in the thoughts, observations and behaviours of the better part of my generation. Of this I am certain.

This, I believe, may very well be what causes a lot of the “not real feminism”-shill-shit. When not shown for what it truly is, but presented as a force for supreme good, supreme equality, supreme whatever and what-not, it is not all that strange that people roar, scream, bellow or whisper that no true Scotsman would ever have sugar on his porridge, and other similar fallacies.

Even if not a feminist activist, even if not necessarily wearing the feminist label on their sleeves, the ideas, ideals and ideology of feminism will very much be present. Again, as feminism has been falsely presented, not as feminism actually is. Stating that, you are a feminist if you believe the sexes should have equal rights is just as stupid and nonsensical as stating that you are a Catholic if you believe in God. Catholics believe in God, and so everyone who believes in God is by definition a Catholic.

This results in the stupendous arrogance and stupidity of statements such as “one is either a feminist or one is a sexist”, and a whole slew of other nonsense, each more poopy-headed than the last.

I suspect this to be the reason for feminism being as well guarded and protected as it is. Any criticism, any negativity spoken about feminism will be met with the tried and true formula of “those are not real feminists”, or similar simpering sentiments. As if feminism is the only force, the only idea, the only whatever one can subscribe to if one truly wanted the sexes to be treated equally and seen in an equal light.

This is how it has been presented through a steady drip-feeding in schools and in politics and in every bloody thing there is of any mass-consumed media, any mass-consumed anything. Only equality. If you believe in equality, you are a feminist. And if you believe in God, you are a Catholic. If you don’t believe in God, you are shit out of luck.

In the holy shining light of feminism, equality necessarily comes to mean that the needs of boys and men must be neglected for the good of the needs of girls and women. After all, if men have had it all for so long, it stands to reason that men must give a piece of their patriarchy-pudding so that women shall receive a greater piece of said pudding. Equality of opportunity is well past its sell-by date. Equality of outcome is the next big stumble forward toward a society that is completely equal in all but execution. When feminism speak about “equality”, it is not a traditional, not the classical liberal approach to equality they refer to. Quite the opposite. Equality of outcome can never come about if there is only equality of opportunity. It must be engineered through quotas and maintained under threats of punishment by law if not adhered to, if not implemented. They have been quite crafty, very clever and excruciatingly sneaky in changing the definition of words. Good, decent words that most everyone will agree are of the good. People should be treated equally, no matter the random chances of their birth. Yet, being treated equally does not mean that we are the same.

As such, the outcomes would not be the same. Different people make different choices and walk different paths through life. There is nothing wrong with this, excepting to those who believe that any difference (where men come out on top; the inverse does not apply) is some form or other of discrimination. And to the holy church of feminism, everything is discrimination if it can be painted in that light and presented in that manner. That is to say: if there are less women here or there, it has got to be discrimination. After all, we are all exactly the same and would, were it not for the terrible hand of society and of the culture, chose exactly the same. Biologists, neurologists, the psych-ev guys and various other that disagree on the basis of concrete facts and findings be damned, for the dominant ideology hath spoken through the soft science of dubious sociology, and the dominant ideology is exactly that – dominant. And dubious. Just like the catholic church of medieval times, the feminist church see no qualms in swooping in to hunt down the heretics and place them in laughingstocks. Nor do they see any qualms in burning the witches or chasing them out of broader society. They are, after all, the enemy and so frightfully dehumanized by now as to be of no consequence and even less matter.

It has become even worse after the rise of social media. Digital witch-hunts are all the rage. And all the outrage, if a feminist should happen to land at the bottom of a dog-pile. Though feminism see no qualms in dog-piling their opponents. Their opponents are othered to a frightful degree. Feminism can not handle their own tactics nor rules of conduct. One rule for me, another for thee. The plebs and peasants do not talk back to the aristocracy.

The people on the other side of the screen with whom one disagrees are even less people than if one were to see them in real life. Add to that the relative anonymity offered, and there are no limits to the wickedness, the viciousness, the ad-hominems, the smears and lies. The ease with which people are dehumanized and attacked through social media is truly terrifying, and greater proof of a society in which empathy is dwindling and compassion a lost art is hard to find.

Now, of course, this is based on observations through social media. Real life is a different story, to be sure, and real life social interactions do tend to be a bit more civil than all that. Yet, there is more than enough viciousness captured on film for all the world to see in the real world as well, fuck-face.

The western world seem to be spiralling into a society of obscene lack of empathy; a solipsist nightmare where narcissism and egotism is clothed and presented as compassion and a fight for the greater good – whatever the hell the greater good may be. A virtue-signalling hellhole where everyone wants to be seen as a morally superior being, despite acting in severely amoral ways. Empty words are merely empty words. People ought to be judged by their actions, not their words. “I am a good, moral, decent person!” states the one who beats another over the head with a bikelock, assuming he shall neither be punished nor attacked in kind.

This idea, this thought-virus, of the oppressed women and the privileged men has burrowed into the collective consciousness, where it has been allowed to nest, brood and lay eggs to further its colony, occupying minds and thoughts here and there and everywhere, creating further resentment and animosity between the sexes – whether completely conscious on part of the sexes or not. What the end-goal of feminism is seems to be very difficult to say, beyond the gaseous and constantly fluctuating term “equality”. This means absolutely nothing, when nothing is clearly defined.

Particularly so when the current year feminists oppose a lot of what was done and said by the prior current year feminists.

Or, well, it certainly appears that this is the case. Though I admit that I hardly believe so. At the end of the day, it seems to me that feminism is a perpetual motion machine; a machine that must keep itself going in order to keep itself going. Feeding on and off and into itself in perpetuity, to keep going for the sake of itself and nothing but itself.

Though, of course, I admit to an increasing sense of cynicism towards the whole kerfluffle that is western society as it stands today. Not nihilism, but cynicism and brooding pessimism. This does, obviously, taint my view of things.

A wise course of action, to my bloodshot insomniac eyes, would be to stop the bloody group-think, stop messing around with maladjusted identity politics and the victim-hierarchy which we for some reason give so much credence to.

This god-damned victim-hierarchy is nothing but strength in perceived weakness; a flat-lining tactic of emotional manipulation wherein it is stated that I am a victim of this, and so I must receive compensation in form of that. And one is constantly more victimized than the other, and the other must be even more victimized than the one to gain even more of that sweet – super-sweet – sweet and luscious victim-currency. And the whole bloody thing eats itself, splintering off into smaller and smaller identity-groups, smaller and smaller victim-cults, where white feminist women need to shut up and not speak because black feminist women need to be heard first and foremost.

But what about the transexuals, what about the gays, what about the lesbians and the pansexuals and the transcendentally identifying polymorph redemption-sexes, the otherkins and the blatherkins and the sluts and the frigid and the nymphomaniacs and the disabled?

Men, as per usual, need not apply. Everyone must be heard before men are heard. Whether gay or straight; men come last and latest in the victim-olympics. Which is fair enough, as these things go, because no-one in their right mind should wish to be perceived as a victim first and foremost, with weakness and frailty as their greatest strength, as the biggest part of their identity. Yet: men do struggle and do suffer as a group. Quite severely. And this is not an allowed topic. Except from feminism, who either blames men for it, or claims that men have no issues, often going so far as to laughing and ridiculing the high rates of male suicide, for example.

Yet the question remain: how far down the pyramid does one need to go before the pyramid topples over and crumbles into ruin? And is it a planned collapse, a nefariously thought out and well executed plan to bring down the entirety of western civilization? Some claim so. And some claim otherwise. This gets to be too big for me, in all honesty.

One thing is for certain, however, and that is the feminist war against the nuclear family; the tearing down of the traditional family unit. Which they have, in no small way, succeeded in doing. And which they also brag about, as seen in – at least the trailer for – the documentary “feminism – what were they thinking?” In tearing down the family unit, much of what was the stability, the foundation upon which western civilization rested is eroded, slowly. Bit by bit.

And here I must mention that I do not necessarily speak in favour of traditional gender-roles. For my part, I don’t much care who does what job, who fills what role. Husband at home or wife at home, male partner at home or female partner at home. I don’t much care about that. I care that the family is intact – that children grow up with two parents present and with two parents caring, working, interacting and supporting one another, their children and the entirety of the family unit. In the fight for so-called female liberation, it seems we forgot to give a toss about the children. And we pushed fathers out of the picture completely as being absolutely unnecessary in the lives of their children, except as an open wallet, a source of money, not as a parent or a guardian.

A return to traditionalism is not on my agenda, for sure. Though I admit that I believe there are some merits to traditionalism, insofar as it has worked and did work very well in the past. But times have changed, technology has changed… just about every thing has changed. And one would do well to go with the flow to a certain extent, I believe. To rid oneself of expectations and instead do as one wishes to do, to make those choices one wishes to make. Whether male or female. Which, based on both observation and statistics and surveys and what-not and whatever appears to be a traditional dance for the most part, with outliers here and there. This does suggest, as so often has been suggested before, that there is a biological component to our gender-roles that will not be stripped away or washed away by any amount of social engineering. Most everything has changed since traditionalism was in vogue, as it were, excepting – apparently – humanity and human nature.

Now, feminism claims to want to eradicate traditional gender-roles. This, however, only goes for traditionally female gender-roles. Men are still expected to provide and to protect. Men must step down, step aside, step left, step right, put their left hand in, their right hand in and so forth and so on in order to help and support women. Men must – according to the whimsical will of feminism – drop everything in order to protect women, should the need arise. That is just expected. Most men are willing to do so, as this capacity for self-sacrifice, the provide and protect role, appears to be a part of our better nature. Though it is very much expected and demanded, not only from feminism, but from society at large, there is little to no celebration of this aspect of masculinity, no gratitude and no respect offered. Merely an entitled attitude that this is par-for-the-course, and we are complete and utter arseholes filled to the brim with toxic masculinity if we do not comply. Now, of course, men are complete and utter arseholes filled to the brim with toxic masculinity no matter what we do, as the pounding and pummelling propaganda-machine of the perpetual gender-war states as much, time and again. This is the message chug-a-lugged into the dry and desperate throats of society, the infection racing through its central nervous system. Men must always do for women, and it is never good enough, and so men must ever strive to do more. Reaching for greatness, as it were, yet missing every time and falling flat on our haemorrhoids to be pile-driven into a state of universal shame each and every time we reach and miss. For the process to be repeated ad infinitum. Women, on the other hand, do not need to do diddly squat for men. To propose otherwise would be an act of grave soggy knees.

For men, it would be far easier, far better, safer and saner to check out and never return. When one is met with headlines such as the one from BBC, with a publishing company proudly and loudly proclaiming that they will only publish female authors in 2018, it is not too difficult for boys and men to think that society itself is stacked against them. Such blatant discrimination based solely on sex is encouraged and celebrated, as long as the discrimination favours women. Very interesting tactic, to be sure. It does not matter whether the book submitted to the publishing company is good or not. It matters whether the book is written by a woman or not. Through the magic and wonder of new-speak, this is not gendered discrimination. This is equality. For it favours women, and so it is pure and decent and good and true. To hell with quality and merit. And to hell with equal treatment of the sexes. Welcome, my friends, to the holy cult of the vulva. Ia, Ia Vulvuthu Fhtagn!

…and all the cultists are insane, stumbling through non-euclidean labyrinths where nothing means what it is supposed to mean, where nothing is easily understood and absolutely nothing that men do could ever possibly be good enough.

By focusing solely on building up girls and propping up women, our dismal societies spawned a generation of lost boys. A generation of boys and young men who has never encountered a single bloody encouraging word – to paraphrase Jordan Peterson. Instead, being told that they are patriarchal oppressors, that they are rapists-in-waiting, violent and stupid thugs. We told an entire generation of boys and men that there is something wrong with them solely by virtue of their birth; that their core nature is wrong and must be re-programmed, re-engineered, re-modelled to fit the present image of masculinity; that masculinity is not inherent to them, but something toxic and destructive crafted by the dread patriarchy which somehow both benefits and destroys them in equal measure. Not that this matters, of course, because it hurts women and girls most of all, and so it is for the cause of saving women and girls from the horrible hands and swinging cocks of boys and men that men and boys must be remodelled to fit the new mould of masculinity. That is a new model of masculinity which is more or less the same as it has always been, only with added emphasis on protecting, providing and sacrificing for girls and women. No thought present in actuality for the well-being of boys and men. It is present in theory, of course. Yet, that is merely in theory. Empty words from the bleeding gums of feminism so as to appear to care for and be of help to both sexes.

Dig but a little beneath the shining veneer, and the rust and decay becomes evident.

Hollow platitudes and white noise, beautiful words straight from the mouths of masterful used-car salespeople of undefinable sex.

Gender means nothing but the feminine, sex means nothing but women and men have come to be seen as defective women; emotional cripples, morally bankrupt actors, violent brutes with no thought besides the purely instinctual. Every act done by a man can easily, through manipulation of language and emotion, be contorted into being done as an act against women. I can hardly imagine anything more self-obsessed, more egotistical and dumb-strikingly crazy than believing oneself to be the centre of the universe. Yet that is what feminism proves itself to think where women are concerned, when every single act and action is perceived as either being done as an attack against women for naught but them being women, or demanded to be done in order to somehow help women for naught but them being women. Sex does not matter, except that it does whenever, wherever, all the time and everywhere. You can usually see that sex matters in everything by noticing that whatever happens wherever it happens can be turned, twisted and malformed into being about something-something women most affected, here’s how we can end it in order to help women. Even if men are the ones most affected.

Despite the bleakness of my writings, my growing pessimism and increasing cynicism, I do in fact have hope. I believe that the tides are turning. If not politically or academically, then at the very least amongst the population at large. Despite feminism wriggling its way into the collective consciousness as the only force fighting for equality, the number of people self-identifying as feminist is in decline. The more feminism pushes for increasingly unjustifiable goals in the name of hallowed equality, the more people will notice it and turn away from it, either dismissing it apathetically or opposing it actively. Ideologically, it appears to be at the top of the pyramid – or, it appears to be the eye in the pyramid.

However, it seems to be caught in an act of auto-cannibalism, or else infected by a flesh-eating virus. For it is so self-contradictory as to be unsustainable in the long term. Most people are reasonable people. This is something I am completely certain of. Reasonable people, I believe, can not help but notice the self-contradiction, the tyranny and the raw, searing hatred present in the ideology. When push comes to shove and time comes into itself, the tyrant will – the tyrant must – fall. Or else all will collapse. Men and women are complimentary; we are made for each other. The one is not made for the other, nor is the other created for the one. The two are made for one another. To paraphrase Camille Paglia; there can never be a war between the sexes. There’s just too much fraternizing with the enemy. And this is true. The relationship between the sexes is one to be built on mutual respect, mutual sacrifice. It has to be, otherwise, there is nothing to it.

If one part of a relationship is expected to give and to sacrifice all and everything, and the other part is expected to get and to receive all and everything, there is simply no reason to be engaged in a relationship. Then – it is better to check out completely, not only out of relationships, but society itself. And that is what is happening. More and more men – primarily young-ish men are checking out and dropping out completely.

Apparently, as seen in a slew of articles, to the detriment of women who are so bold, so absurdly cheeky, as to complain that there are too few men of higher education of or high enough status to engage in a relationship with, and to marry.

Men drop out, women most affected.


Very gynocentric, clearly presented with no thought or empathy as to why men check out and drop out such as this. Which is bothersome all on its own, as it is a god-damned bitch and a bastard to constantly witness this absurd gynocentrism, this awful notion that, no matter what happens, it does not matter unless it affects women in a negative manner.

Yet, this can be used to the benefit of the very loosely knit men’s rights movement. It seems as though nothing will change if it does not negatively affect women. Or if it can be presented to negatively affect women. And I am not yet so far gone in my pessimism that I have taken the black pill, though I have my moments of silent despair and desperation where I lick at it as tenderly as I would lick the insides of my eyelids. That is to say: I believe change, a positive change, is possible. “Victory” in this nonsensical, this eternally manufactured and chronically perpetuated stupidity that is the war of the sexes will not be won in the trenches. This is not to say that I do not believe in the importance of raising awareness for the issues predominantly affecting men, nor is it to say that I believe that what men’s rights advocates do is futile. Far from it – I consider it to be very important. Or I would not be doing what I do, personal cost be damned. Spreading the proverbial red pill, poisoning the well with it, so to speak, is a fantastic thing, a noble thing, in fact.

Yet, checking out, tuning out, letting society run its course whilst sitting at a distance laughing at the absurdity is a clever tactic. It is, if you will allow, the path of non-violent resistance. The social game has become so rigged against men, so stacked against us that it is better to not play it at all than it is to try navigating the rules, with all their pitfalls, endless addendum’s and nonsensical sidesteps. When the frail and frantic forces of feminism state that firms must take care so that men do not talk about football at work so as not to exclude the poor and fragile maidens of incessant frailty from workplace chatter – after all, it is only a short step from talking about football to talking about sexual conquests over the weekend (men, of course, being only able to talk about two things; sports or sex, and women never talking about either) – the stupidity, the authoritarian, the stupidly authoritarian streak of feminism makes itself seen and known so clearly and so brightly that it should not be too difficult to dismiss it as trivial whinging. As long as it is something men in general do, it is bad and it must be ended. For the poor women can not expect to exist as long as men talk amongst themselves about something not approved of by women in general. Herp. Derp. Honk. Honk. Men can not behave themselves unless a woman watches over them as some sort of smothering mother. Men must act and speak only in a way approved of by women, and only by talking about topics approved of by women. This is obviously not reasonable.

Why should men wish to partake in a culture so hostile to them that it grants itself the right to dictate the discourse amongst them? Why should men wish to take part in a society so hell-bent on their destruction that mainstream news outlets attack them for everything and nothing, with acceptance and celebrations from mainstream culture; so celebratory of their failures that it shamelessly makes the statement that “men are obsolete”?

There is little to gain from taking part. And much to loose from taking part. When the one struggle, the whole suffer. When the one is cast out – as is happening with men – the whole will collapse. Particularly so when all the grubby, dirty, dangerous and – most importantly of all – unseen background-work; the sewage work, the garbage collecting, and so and such… all those low-status, yet highly important professions that are filled with men will be struggling as men check out. There is little to no push from feminism to have female representation in these fields. Nope; the high-status jobs are important, the low-status ones are not. Despite the low-status jobs being incredibly important to the infrastructure of society. A day without men would be a thing to behold. Luckily, men are not so privileged as to be able to take a day off work simply to protest their lack of privilege.

I picture, in vivid detail, a men’s march… thousands of men marching around with hats resembling flopping hard-ons or giant, wobbly nutsacks… speakers quite blatantly stating that women are the enemy… all women everywhere… threatening to blow up this or that house of government… all with impunity, all with mass-celebrations, all whilst being taken seriously… despite wearing fucking genitalia-hats on their heads and shrieking in high-pitched hysterics that “I am a NASTY MAN!”, shrieking incoherently about their infallible state of oppression. All whilst being privileged enough to take a day off work to act like complete and utter twats. Somehow, I doubt it would fly.

Never underestimate the stupidity of a mob high on self-righteousness and morbid mass-hysteria. And a culture that enables said twattery, self-righteousness and feeds the bloody mass-hysteria. Apparently, men have too much dignity for such an action. Or, you know, the capacity for reason and logic which so clearly are lacking in the frontal or temporal lobes (or wherever it fucking resides) of any given feminist at any given day. Ho-ho-ho.

Now, now, Moiret, there, there, calm down: them’s fightin’ words. And so is stating that all men are the enemy. And so is stating that all men should be killed. Difference being: my rambling, ranting and raving writings attack an ideology, not a sex nor a gender. There is a clear distinction there. Not that this matters, of course. I have understood this full well. Attacking men for naught but their sex is A-OK, but attacking the ideology of feminism is not. Celebrated and held forth, as it is, as the shining beacon in the night, the guiding light, the this and that. Enabled by crack-head culture, snowflake society, pungent politicians, succubi schools and meth-addicted mass-media pundits never shying away from jumping on the current trend for cheap clicks, cheap tricks and cheaper slaps to the ballsack still. Why, in all the marvels of the world, should one willingly take part in this nonsense, where nothing means anything and everything and nothing has to be filtered through some cosmic-horror-lens of feminist dogma before being spoken, thought or considered at the highest level of government? Why should one willingly take part in the celebration of one sex at the cost of neglecting the other, experiencing a constant flow of laws and rules and regulations inspired directly by disjointed feminist directives?

Lying flat, prostate, at the feet of the altar of the holy vulva, men have been taught and told to self-flagellate to make amends for past perceived sins not even perpetrated by them. It is the sins of the fathers that will be visited upon the son. Seven generations down the line. For men are obsolete, the feminist hive-mind state, blood dribbling from their smirks, powdered noses turned sky-high, hair dyed the colour of danger and of toxicity flapping in the gentle breeze of the non-patriarchal future, chanting fuck-face mantras and swishing their beautiful bingo-wings to create a chaos-storm on the surface of the slutwalk-moon. The future is female, after all. At least until something heavy needs to be lifted and/or moved. At least until a pickle-jar needs to be unscrewed, at least until someone needs to be hauled out from underneath a burning car, at least until the sewage system blocks up. You get my drift.

But, in order to get back on track – never-minding for the moment how incredibly fun it is to go off the rails for a decent rant – and to see if I may wrap this roguish ramble into a neat and nifty bow: despite the quite angry, confrontational and, I will admit, often mean tone in my writings, ravings, rants and rambles, I am fairly mild-mannered in real life. I tend to speak very gently. At the very least when being around people whom I do not know all that well.

This may very well be due to me being so highly introverted, so shy and reserved that I have almost forgotten how to speak to people. This gets me labelled, more often than not, as a bit of a pushover. Which is quite contrary to the fact of the matter. I just can’t be bothered to fight or argue, either verbally or physically, with random strangers. This goes for the internet as well. I consider it a waste of time and energy which I would much rather spend doing something I enjoy. Which, amongst other things, is writing, drinking coffee and listening to music.

As such, a huge part of my writings may very well be a strange manifestation of my ID, a way to channel all the rough, instinctual, spontaneous, angry, etcetera, responses I might otherwise have let loose when confronted, as I often am, with the wrath and trembling ire of feminism the moment I poke my growing skullet and magnificent beard outside. A man can not even sit and have a quiet beer with his wife and a buddy without being harassed and accosted by feminist insanity, accusing him of oppressing his wife for daring to discuss something with his buddy instead of his wife. How does one respond to such monumental stupidity, other than by ignoring it in the moment? It really ain’t worth the bother. To an ideologically possessed feminist, no matter ones response, it somehow proves their point. For these people are masters of the subtle art of mental gymnastics. Anything you say or do will be twisted, turned and used against you. No matter how reasonable, it is proof of their point, stance and victim-complex. Better, then, to remember these instances, go home and then write about it, tell the story and get on with things.

I often quip that I began writing on the topics of men’s rights and feminism because it was either that or clinical insanity. This is only partially a joke.

See; I happen to be simultaneously cursed and blessed with a fantastic long-term memory. My short-term memory is not as good as it ought to be, that’s for damned sure. But my long-term memory is. Probably for reasons of some poorly treated PTSD. This, unavoidably, means that I remember happenings from long, long ago with very little problem and in much detail. Even if I had been drinking at that point in time. Which, for a bigger part of my twenties, usually was the cause, wild party-animal as I was back in those days.

The problem with having a good long-term memory is that these old memories tend to pop up when they shouldn’t. In particular, this goes for the male-bashing, male-hating rhetoric of feminism, as this attacks, and have attacked me all my life, for my core nature – for me having the audacity to be born as a boy and develop into a man. These attacks on men, on masculinity itself and, as such, on the very nature of men – my very nature, in fact, have been coming at men in general and me, specifically, from all sides and all layers of society since my early childhood.

With enough memories of these attacks accumulated over the years, it turns out to be a damned hard task to simply push them away and forget about them. Particularly so when the memories are vivid, clear and bright as the surface of the fucking sun. It also became increasingly difficult to not internalize the message(s) that told me that I was worthless, dangerous, irresponsible… that my sexuality was flawed and my intelligence second-grade, my emotional maturation as well as how I handled my emotions wrong and flawed, if not flat-out dumb. Add to this that this message as well as the so-called logic and reasoning behind it, though largely unopposed, to me seemed to be flawed at best and downright hateful at worst, and things started cooking deep within the bowels of my festering and pestilent manhood.

Though, being beat down into cowardice, I internalized it and began believing it. In no small way, this was due to me being stupid enough to study art, seemingly never being taught much about art, but being taught much about the virtues of the female sex and feminism, as well as the cold-hearted wickedness of men. Of course, grade-school and beyond also told me the same tinkering tale, though in less “adult” language. It was internalized through a steady drip of indoctrination, until I began spouting the same rhetoric myself. In the process of doing so, I eliminated my self from myself… ground myself into dust and learned to shut up about the flaws I saw; learned to not think about, in fact. For that was what the entirety of the culture surrounding me said, and I had to be insane when thinking they were wrong and I was right.

Following a psychosis I suffered, however, as I started coming back into myself after being torn completely apart by this psychosis, I saw things as they were and always had been. For that is the thing about such a psychosis that I suffered: being the person that I am, I started digging deep into myself and my memories to figure out what brought me to that point of utter despair and desperation which culminated in that psychosis.

And in no small way, it was due to being told my entire life that there was something inherently wrong with me for being born with a cock and balls. Now, of course, there is more to the story than that. But that was the most defining feature of my life-long depression and issues with anxiety; I was, for all intents and purposes, considered completely worthless and absurdly dangerous by society at large, to such an extent that I believed it myself. Such was the way I saw it. And this had to get out of my system in some way. And so I did what I usually do, which is to write about it. So – it was either this, or it was clinical insanity. For carrying so much within is a difficult thing to do. And it must come out, in some way or other.

Funnily enough, this is me opening up and talking about my emotions. Which, apparently, is what men are supposed to do. Odd, then, that it meets with such hatred, contempt, sneers and snarls from the divine forces of feminism, which helps men too, as long as men do exactly what they wish them to do – up to and including complete self-annihilation. Men must talk about their emotions. But not like this, nor like that. It must only ever be done in a way approved of by feminism, which is for men to shut up and listen to women talk about their emotions.

Now, this way of thinking and this way of writing – the proverbial red pill – the anti-feminist stance – even merely having a view of men and masculinity that is not wholly spiteful and hateful – does isolate one from broader society in no small way. And this can be a very difficult thing for many people. This I understand perfectly well. In that way, I am very lucky to be as introverted as I am. I enjoy my own company very well, and enjoy nothing better than being alone for an evening, with a bottle of wine, perhaps a cigar, and some loud music blaring from my speakers.

I propose that checking out of broader society is the best way to go in order to combat the ideology of feminism, in order to combat the chronic male-bashing. Don’t take the feminist bait if they try to rile you up. Just ignore them, whether in real life or on twitter or wherever. Let them scream into the void, but let their words and deeds stand as proof of their words and deeds.

By all means: do write and speak on their nonsense. Do advocate for the issues of boys and men, for the humanity of boys and men. Spread the word. It is very important!

But take part in the machinery of society as little as possible. If men in truth are obsolete, then there really is no reason for men to take part in the totalitarian tango.

Focus on your hobbies and your happiness, work as little as you need to in order to be happy. It may very well be selfish, but why not be selfish? After all, men have been – at least in part – socialized into self-sacrifice.

The time may very well have come for men to be “selfish” enough as to actually put their well-being up front and centre. What a radical notion! Men caring about themselves? Well, I never! In the era of feminism, this is such a radical thought in-and-off itself that the end of the world surely must be nigh!

The more men refuse to take part, the more the whole shebang will suffer, I think.

Which will make it very evident that men are, in fact, a necessary component for the whole bloody thing to work. That men are, in fact, not obsolete. The biggest obstacle, however, is men themselves. For the self-sacrifice is not solely socialized, it is also biological. The drive to procreate drive men to prove themselves. The social “reward” of acquiring a mate is all that is needed in that regard for self-sacrifice to be a viable option.

Yet, there used to be some gratitude, some manner of respect, some manner of understanding and care for doing these things. Not so much now. It is still expected, and yet men are met with nothing but contempt, with never a kind word spoken about men in general. Just the message to do more, to sacrifice more, and so forth and so on.

Checking out, then, taking the non-violent path, as it were, the path of least resistance, becomes a very viable action, a good path to take. At the very least, it will prove a most potent and a most valid point: you can only kick someone for so long until they either lash out, or withdraw. When withdrawn, what will you do then? If – broadly speaking – half the components of a machine is missing, how in the everlasting fuck will the machine keep going with any level of functionality? When doing all that is possible in order to push someone away, one should not then be surprised when they stay away.

Keep calm in the storm, ignore the flapping bait, and carry on with your life, doing what you love and raise a proud, potent, most erect middle-finger to the whole thing. Let the ship of fools drive itself into the vortex. After all; you are obsolete. And someone who is obsolete is not needed. Then we shall see what happens when that which is obsolete goes away and proves itself to not be obsolete.

  • Please like, share and subscribe
  • Moiret Allegiere, 01.02.2020

Some of the sources and resources that inspired this lengthy series of ramblings: Pastebin sources antifeminist:

Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Kindle:
Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Paperback:

Howling at a Slutwalk Moon, a collection of previous blog posts:
Vol 1 Paperback:
Vol 1 Kindle:
Vol 2 Paperback:
Vol 2 Kindle:
Vol 1 Illustrated Paperback:
Vol 2 Illustrated Paperback:

Other links:
Redbubble shop: