Keep your hobbies, your passions and your sanity

One of my greatest pleasures in life is listening to music.

All kinds of music.

I collect CD’s, LP’s and cassette-tapes. I even have a few of those old reel-to-reel tapes. Those are so damned expensive, however, that I can not justify collecting them. Still – they are wicked cool!

As a natural consequence of this, I have poured more time, money, energy and love into my hi-fi setup than I am willing to admit. Unless there is torture involved, I suppose. In 2019 I spent more money on a tape-deck than any reasonable person ought to spend on a tape-deck in the current year. There is something special, something remarkably precious about cassette-tapes that I struggle to put it into words.

Of course, it is antiquated and old-fashioned and not in the least bit practical when compared to streaming. And that is where the charm lies. Listening to music becomes something more when one has to deal with the physical medium as opposed to merely clicking on something on a screen. It adds something extra, as it becomes a ritual in itself.

However small and insignificant that ritual may be.

The fact that I am fascinated by and thoroughly enjoy mechanical contraptions and analogue gizmos also factor into it, of course.

In a time, place and culture in which rituals are eroding and disappearing beneath our very feet, I find this small ritual – removing the disc or tape from the packaging, placing it in the tray, pressing play and all that stuff – to be remarkably important. It adds a certain layer of authenticity to the enjoyment of music that is not replicated in any way by streaming. Streaming feels very synthetic, very cookie-cutter, very lifeless in comparison. I hardly ever listen to only one song on an album. When I listen to music, I go for the whole damned thing, from beginning to end. As such, I don’t often remember the titles of individual compositions. I enjoy and remember the album as a whole; as the sum of its parts, not its individual parts. There are, of course, exceptions to this rule, but generally that’s how it goes.

The convenience of streaming brought us a whole slew of one-hit wonders… of daft one-click pieces of music which does not work together as a whole… created and composed to be the one and only the one and then onwards to the next.

I think there is a tyranny of immediacy in our cultures; everything has to happen instantaneously, to be hastily forgotten when it is done as we move over to the next instantaneous piece of entertainment, whichever entertainment that may be. Hastily picked up and then tossed aside and forgotten because we need to hastily pick up something new. There is very little lingering enjoyment, very little patience, very little ability to concentrate and focus left. It is all dwindling, eroding, disappearing. There won’t be many classics made in our age, be that in the form of music or movies or whatever piece of art. Because everything has to be so quick, so instantaneous, so immediate that very little thought and love and passion goes into it. For lack of time and patience and concentration.

Ours is not a very patient culture, not a very focused culture. This is seen in everything, from the 24-hour news-cycle to the demands that change – any change – need to happen instantaneously. It can not be pondered and considered, it has to happen at the instant the thought crosses ones mind. Otherwise, the thought, the proposition, the whatever, may be forgotten. Or at least the immediate outrage will evaporate as a new outrage takes its place. Making us wonder if it really was that important to begin with. But, ah, well, gotta fight something and get our knickers in a twist about something, ya know. If one can not get up in arms over something so that other people can bask in the glow of ones moral superiority, so that other people can fawn and sweat and fall to their knees and praise one for being so damned righteous and virtuous, there is not much left to live for. At least it appears like that. No values, except the immediate outrage.

That is not fair – it has to change”.

How so and why and where and when?

Dunno. Gotta change though. I feel temporarily upset and so very literally triggered.”

If one is not careful and thoughtful about this tyranny of immediacy, of the stopwatch, of the constantly churning wheels and cogs of the immediate and immaculate outrage, the one-click wonder-hits, the endorphine-fuelled righteous anger over this and that and all the other, one becomes caught in it. Like flies in the spiders web. It is very easy to fall into these traps without being aware of it.

As one would expect, putting time aside to listen to music is incredibly important to me. It is remarkable how much of an effect it has on my psychological health, on my emotional well-being. Turn on, tune in, drop out. Until the album is done. And the world rears its stinking head again.

In some way, I suppose, it could very well be considered a form of meditation. Which, I would dare say, goes for most hobbies or past-time activities.

We often hear professional athletes, for example, talking about “getting into the zone”. This “zone” is a mental place – maybe even a spiritual place – where nothing exist but oneself and whatever one is doing at the moment. The Tao is not to be trifled with, the zone is not a gift to be tossed aside, the flow is phenomenal, the present moment is the only moment.

It is an incredible place to be. When one manages to reach it… it is indescribable. When I get a good flow in my writings, ramblings, rants and ravings for example, or in my drawings, that is where I am. Nothing else matters, and nothing else exists. Until my dogs want cuddles, that is.

This happens whenever I have the opportunity to be alone and listen to music; I find myself in this sort of strange dreamlike, trance-like state… as though I am teetering between being asleep and being awake. It is an incredible experience; a wonderful meditative moment in time that lasts as long as the album lasts. No interruptions, none of my regular muscle-tension… a peculiar sensation where my chronic pains become dull and distant. The pain is still there, of course, as it always is. Yet, it is remarkably subdued. Especially when compared to their regular levels. It is, in fact, the only thing that distracts me enough from the pain so that I am not devoured by it.

Now that I spent 700-something words rambling in order to set the scene; explaining why and how music matters to me as much as it does, I hope the ramble following the pre-ramble will be easier understood. I have written about this topic before. It is an important topic, and so some repetition is in order.

In another life, back in my simpering blue-pilled and blue-balled days, I was in a live-in relationship with a woman who would not allow me my simple pleasure of listening to music. Her reasoning for this was that it was not a social activity. Whatever the fuck that means. And so she disapproved.

The more I think about it now, all these years after that relationship ended, the more I come to realise that my role – my only role – in that relationship was to entertain her. To cater to her wishes for this or for that, with no considerations for me, be that me as a human being or as a human doing my hobbies and past-time activities. There were no activities for me to do alone and on my own. Everything had to include her in some way or other – even my writings. And my reading. I remember her insisting that we read a book simultaneously… with our own bookmarks. Reading the same book when both parties read in bed before sleep was not an easy task, as one would expect, given that only one of us held the book and we read at different rates. As absurd as this sounds, it is truth.

The older I get, the more I come to realize that truth is stranger than fiction. I remember telling her once about this idea for a book I had, which I was planning on writing. Her response to this was to ask why I hadn’t included her in these plans for writing a book. This is a remarkably strange response. “Well, dear, it was – and is – my idea and my craft…”

Her behaviour ought to have her labelled “clingy” at best and “possessive” at worst. “Controlling” would probably be the best descriptor.

Since she had no particular interest in music, she could not easily include herself in it and so it should not be. If she didn’t get it, I shouldn’t either. How dared I have any interests and loves and joys that did not include her? And so it got shut down, under the aforementioned preposterous pretence that it was not “a social activity”. I told this story to my friend Tom Golden, and he stated that it was evil, denying someone something which gives them so much pleasure. To which I tend to agree.

One of her passions was cinema. Proper, good ol-fashioned filmbuff. There is nothing wrong with this, of course – I quite enjoy movies myself. However: she would have a movie running in the background whilst she was drawing. Or reading. Or whatever, really. Apparently, this activity was a social activity and one that she could approve of.

This quirk of hers; using movies as background noise, would not bother me in the slightest, were it not for the fact that I could not listen to music. It is remarkable, in its way. I don’t believe it is much of an exaggeration to state that, were the sexes reversed in this, it would be dubbed an abusive relationship. At the very least a controlling one. When one part dictates how the other part should spend their time, insisting on hovering around no matter what the other part does, alarm bells ought to be ringing and red flags ought to be flashing and waving in front of ones eyes.

Here, I think, it is important to state that I harbour no ill will towards her. Not as such. I should have put an end to this behaviour myself, or at the very least attempted to do so instead of being such a pussy-whipped simp that I catered to her every wish and demand.

Alas: such is the blue-pilled existence.

Growing up in a culture such as I grew up in, where the message delivered from the moment of birth was one in which men were presented as being evil oppressors and women their innocent victims, anything I said or any demand I could have made would be presented in my mind as well as hers as an act of oppression, close to being an act of violence and abuse. It would, without a doubt, have me dubbed controlling, dominating, a chauvinist pig. She was just as much a product of this culture as I was. The same message that got delivered to me got delivered to her; the same indoctrination, the same ideological brainwashing.

Men bad, women good.

Therefore, women can do whatever and men shall have no say. Women are entitled to have their wishes granted, no matter how moronic, how unfair and unjustifiable these wishes are. She can, and shall, and must, have it all. And he shall just shut up, as he apparently already has it all by virtue of his cock and balls. Thus, she is entitled to control and decide the doings and happenings and all the other -ings of the relationship.

This is the entitled princess-complex, to borrow a page from the book of Elam. In this instance, I was as much at fault as she was for not speaking up, for not putting my foot down and metaphorically kicking her to the curb. This is not behaviour one should accept, no matter ones sex. Yet it is expected that men shall accept it.

The assumption is that men must be “civilized” by the women they are in a relationship with.

“Boys and their Toys”, they will say, whilst shaking their heads disapprovingly, removing the toys from the boys and demanding their complete, undivided attention at all times.

Men can not be expected to behave appropriately if not under the surveillance of a woman; can not be allowed their own time and their own activities for some strange and peculiar reason.

The hobbies, the past-time activities of men are considered, by and large, as immature and selfish activities. A man not devoting all his attention to the woman he is in a relationship with; exchanging solitary activities for activities done as a couple is a selfish brute, an arsehole.

Missing from this line of thought – a line of thought that is frighteningly commonplace – is the understanding that there is, was and must always be room for both in a relationship. Generally, men are more solitary creatures than women are and women are more social creatures than men are. With this knowledge, there is nothing strange with the woman in a relationship placing much stock in doing things together – spending time together. And there is nothing wrong with this, as such.

At the same time, there is nothing strange in men seeking their solitary activities. And there is nothing wrong with this, as such. It gets wrong when one should dominate to such an extent that the other is snuffed out. Why this is accepted, when it is a woman doing the snuffing out, is beyond reason, as well as being far removed from being just and fair and equal. It just reeks and stinks of entitlement. And is, apparently, quite alright. When the controlling and dominating presence is that of the woman.

Now, this is of course not to say that people should not do things together and spend time together when they are in a relationship. That would be an absolutely nonsensical thing to say.

No, dear frantic flag-waving feminist hive-mind – it is to say that it is important to understand that a couple does not become one singular feminine entity by some strangely applied feminine magic. They are still two individuals, with each of their own wants, needs and desires which must be respected and understood. There must be balance in a relationship in order for it to function. Cooperation and communication, understanding and patience. From each and towards each. Balance does not mean one-sided. Nor does cooperation and communication, understanding and patience. Yet this is, unfortunately, the reality in many relationships. She demands, and he submits. She decides, and he tags along.

This experience of mine is not only my experience. It is one which many men share. Be it music or hi-fi or video-games or computers, engines or mechanics or cars or whatever – there is an expectation that he shall drop most of his hobbies and passions if that is her wish. In order to focus on the relationship (which translates into focusing all his attention on her), at the expense of himself.

Expectations of male sacrifice, yet again, as it is written in the laws of the land and laid down by the whips and chains of gynocentrism and the biological drive to fornicate and procreate.

I’ll say it again: us guys are way too thirsty for our own good. We put up with way more than we should as a result of this. For access to sex, we accept things which would never be accepted were it the other way around. Sexual desire is a powerful force. No wonder Lust is a major sin.

And, of course, to appease those who do not understand, those who are trigger-happy and permanently sneering, I must add the inevitable #NotAllWomen. Even if that ought to be obvious by my choice of words.

Not that it matters, of course – the trigger-happy will not rest nor find solace when once they have smelled blood.

We all know that the hive-mind never listens to what is actually being said. They chose to hear what they want to hear instead, using that remarkable feminine ability of “my word, but my word is law”; things can only mean what she made them mean in her head. Subjective interpretation goes before the objectivity of the thing, goes before the actual meaning.

Sorry to say, ladies, but men are very direct in our speech. There is little hint in our speech. It is what it is, as a general rule. No need to search for hidden meanings. For the hidden meanings simply ain’t there. And this is all fine and dandy-diddled.

No, it is not all women that behave like this, and that is for damned sure. But it is a trend; an ongoing thing in our cultures that she shall have full control over most aspects of the relationship and the shared home, and that he shall protect, provide and otherwise submit to her expectations and her demands.

Expensive high quality hi-fi equipment gets replaced with crummy soundbars because “it looks better in the room”; collections of various items get tossed out for taking up too much room, nights out with the guys get severely limited or completely cut out because she is all that he needs, god-dammit. And the bathroom will be filled with seven thousand different types of soap, only for her to later complain that the patriarchy forces women to pay more for their toiletries than do men… and no wonder, when men are content with the one soap…

I have known guys who have lost their entire record collections, who have had to sell their gaming consoles because “real men don’t play video-games” and so forth and so on. The fun part is that this woman collected animated Disney movies. Video-gaming is, apparently, a childish activity and it must be ended because she says so. Animated Disney movies are not. And I get that. I thoroughly enjoy animation myself. But animated Disney movies are not meant to be enjoyed solely by mature adults, now are they?


It boils down to this, I believe: she has no interest in it, and so he must be ridiculed and shamed for having an interest in it. Talk about egotism and entitlement. Only her interests are allowed. His is childish and immature. Because she said so. And that is really what it all boils down to.

Because she said so.

No other reason is given, or needed.

This is remarkably controlling behaviours that are remarkably accepted by the culture at large.

What I would recommend people to do when encountering things such as these is to switch the genders. Reverse them. And then see what kind of reaction people have to it. Tried and true. Simple, yet effective. I once got chewed out by a feminist on Facebook for jokingly – and I stress Jokinglycomplaining about my wife’s expansive collection of shoes. And this was obviously a joke. So obvious, in fact, that one must be ideologically blindfolded and permanently looking for something to be offended by in order to not comprehend that it was a joke.

If it is wrong, controlling and abusive if a man does it to a woman, it is wrong, controlling and abusive if a woman does it to a man. Of course; any well-trained and experienced feminist will find some manner of mental gymnastics as to why it is accepted when a woman does it. Usually, it has something to do with men being oppressors and women just biting back, or something to that effect.

Much the same reasoning that is used to defend the “boys are stupid, throw rocks at them” shirts and posters. It is alright, you understand, women are allowed to hit back, why are you so scared of equality, what kind of misogynist are you, and so forth and so on with all their peddled gish-gallop bullshit.

We don’t have to put up with this shit, gentlemen.

I get that it is very difficult to say no to a woman. Particularly given the current culture surrounding us, in which merely disagreeing with a woman on something is enough to get you labelled a foul misogynist, and so shunned and shamed and ridiculed.

Hell; songs and stories have been written since the beginning of time about men’s inability to say no to women… And the powerful grip sex has on men. Aristophanes Lysistrata comes to mind; an ancient Greek comedy in which the women go on a sex-strike in order to get their men to stop warring.

The women won, by the way.

Sex-strike: the same kind of thing that in recent years was proposed by Alyssa Milano.

You can’t make this shit up.

Nothing ever changes, gentlemen.

The relationship between the sexes seem to be the same, in one way or other, throughout all of history.

It is said that the great Mongol conqueror Djenghis Khan was terrified of his mother, never daring to go against her wishes.

And he ruled the god-damned world.

Want to get a man ready to fight you to the death, for blood and honour? Insult his mother, his sister or his significant other. That’ll do it.

Men need to get better at putting our foot down. Stop sacrificing everything. Stop giving and giving. It is important to get the rules of a relationship in place, important that the wishes and desires of both parties are met. If the demands are unreasonable, it is our job to get the point across that the demands are unreasonable. The dynamics between the sexes will never change as long as men are willing to sacrifice and give up hobbies and passions and, in the process, their selves in order to please their partners.

These women can not be blamed for their entitlement in relationships as long as men allow it to happen, as long as men enable it.

When the culture that surrounds us not only accept this but encourage it, it is difficult to go against it. It took me years and years and blood and sweat and tears to go against it myself. Going against the grain, against the flow, against the ebb and tide is a difficult thing for sure. And at times one wonders if one is insane, if what is so obvious and clear to one self is a delusion… for no-one seems to see it or experience it, even when they live and breathe the same air, the same culture, the same zeitgeist.

It is the red pill isolation setting in… gnawing at ones spine and trampling one underfoot. Talking about things such as these is enough to make one lose ones friends and family. It is not an easy path to take. But it must be taken, must be trod and must be walked and made wider so that more people can tread the same path, so that more people can find the path.

The social sacrifices we make today will pay out in the future.

And it will be worthwhile.

We will make it worthwhile.

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 28.03.2020

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Pandemic Pandemonium 2020: A Scatter-brained ramble on Corona-chan

«Selfportrait with bat signal and sleeping dogs»

Woke up panicking with newsflash-bangs caught in my aching jawline.

Jaw clenched and teeth grinding.

Panicked and the world caught in lock-down.

Pandemic chaos erupts as self-isolation, quarantine imposed.

Red blotches on the maps grow and spread.

Plague-doctors in the guise of journalists wearing tingling masks go from door to door poking needles in our eyes and ears and fingertips.

Revelling in chaos, death and despair.

It is the angry or outraged or terrified clicks that govern the world.

Our entire economy is built around the value of clickbait.

Trigger-fingers finger angrily at screen-scanned lines atop the naked murals of the internet meme machine.

Twitter is afoot, the twitterati aflame, with pseudo-warriors warring wondrously. Too much spare time at the best of times; even more so now in the grip and chains and claws of global pandemic.


Cabin fever.

Boredom sets in.

It’s the end of the world as we know it.

And I feel fine.

Nothing but a little global crisis to show us what’s what”, he said, sardonically, as the walls crack and the ceilings shudder; as the foundations below crumble and the world comes to grip with having to be at home, having to be alone, having to learn how the entire world does not revolve around oneself.

Or, even worse to some: having to learn how to be alone with oneself. Not an easy task to do in a world where we are all completely and constantly connected; chronically tuned in and turned on to never being alone, never having to deal with being alone. So much would be solved if people learned to enjoy their own company instead of constantly seeking social validation in the most superficial and hollow manner.

Civility has decreased as social media use has increased.

We beat each other up with supposed moral superiority-imbecility and dub it civility, morality, ethics and compassion.

But that is besides the point.

If any point can be had and found in this new dawn of chaos and corruption.

There is not much to say about Corona-chan that has not already been said, spat, sung, fear-mongered and preposterously pondered.

More oft than not by people who are ready, willing and able to score quick political points on a global crisis the likes of which we have not seen since world war II.

Yet it is at the tip of my thoughts, at the summit of my nuclear brain cavity, at the moment of writing. Not writing about this insanity would in itself be insanity. Even if the writing will merely be a few rambling and scatter-brained words tossed to the wind and whimsy of the internet.

It is in times of crisis that our true nature shows itself. How we overcome and how we survive and how we come out the other end when the crisis has passed is what defines us, what shows ourselves to ourselves, so to speak.

So far, we shouldn’t be all that impressed.

People panic.

And people don’t give a fuck.

And the truth lies somewhere in the muddied middle.

Don’t check the news every day. The 24 hour news cycle is a fraud and a scam. Nothing new. Merely repetition. Just check it once in a while.

And don’t point any fingers at China. They are exempt from this. You know; the place where all this began… the epicentre of the pandemic pandemonium; our very own patient zero… for the umpteenth time. Pandemic Pandemonium seems to originate there quite often. But you shouldn’t say that.

For that, according to the Twitterati, according to the mass-maddening mass-media, is racist and very mean and so you shouldn’t tell the truth about where it originated. Because the feelings of the Chinese government could be hurt. And the Chinese might dub it wahcist. Or something along those lines.

I can not be the only one who find it absurd and ridiculous and imbecilic that it shall be dubbed as racist to point out where this fuckery erupted.

For it is, in truth and in fact, absurd and ridiculous and imbecilic.

Yet that is where we’re at.

The outrage-pornographers must generate outrage, must have some manner of outrage to get them through the day.

How outrageous!

It never ceases to amaze me, the lengths to which some people will go in order to feel, or make themselves appear to be, morally superior to the trembling, unwashed masses.

“In times of universal deceit, telling the truth becomes a revolutionary act.”

This is where we’re at.

As already mentioned: it is, according to the frantic eggshell-minds of the internet, racist and mean and so forth and so on to tell the truth of the origins of the Wuhan plague-and-curse.

It is as absurd and rage-baitingly delicious as fresh bat-soup enjoyed in the bat-cave whilst wearing a bat-suit made from the skin of dead bats. Which is, as a matter of fact, how I usually spend my Saturdays. Though, admittedly, with more strippers and less modern plague. Yet it is exactly as expected, as are all the other things to be generated by the outrage-pornographers, basking as they do in the fantastic glow emanating from the global economic superpower China. It is always about the money, kids. Don’t forget this. Morality evaporates as consuming-powers grow. Or something to that effect.

It is almost as though one would be inclined to believe that money and power and international trade and relations matter a whole hell of a lot more than the facts of the matter.

There ain’t no-one yelling at China. At least not as long as we need cheap electronics and other strange gizmos. I may be excruciatingly cynical, to be honest, but it seems to me that who is protected and who is not can be measured by the weight of their metaphorical national wallets.

Men die more from this plague than do women. Which is why it will affect women more, according to the ones who say that everything affects women more. Even when it affects men more. ( , )

Women are the primary victims of war, remember. For they lose their husbands, their sons and their brothers and so forth and so on.

If I didn’t know any better, I would say that there is a remarkable gap in empathy and compassion where the sexes are concerned. This, however, I have been told is a bold-faced lie, proving nothing but that I hate women. And so that has to be true.

Of course.

And if I did not know any better, I would have stated that our societies are gynocentric to an obscene amount, given that what really matters is how something affects women. The measure of our worth as societies is how much we cater to women. Up to and including how the illness and death of men affects women worse than the men who get ill and die.

Even the illness and death and decay of men has to be measured by how it affects women.

I have been told that men do not experience less empathy in society than women do because women have to go to work even when they have their periods, so there is really less empathy towards women. And furthermore, “why does it have to be a competition?”, say the feminist hordes when I point to ways in which men struggle as a group, whilst they are busy spearheading a competition about who has it worse. And that is really women and only women and men don’t have it hard at all.

And then they’ll lecture me on nuance whilst spouting the extremely balanced and nuanced view that only women suffer societal hardships of any importance. Particularly when a hardship affects men more. So I should really just shut up and accept the fact that women have it worse, even when it is not a competition about who has it worse and that I need to understand that life is all about nuance.

This is something I was told, which was said within the same paragraph of text. In the same breath. Self-awareness, thy name is not feminism. “Why does it have to be a competition?” Followed by “Men don’t have it harder than women!” and “You have to understand that life is all about nuance”.

I do understand that life is all about nuance.

I only wish for the problems men face to be taken seriously as well, instead of being tossed to the side as being either of no importance or being made up. It would be nuanced and balanced, see, to actually care about the problems of men as well as those of women. But pointing them out, pointing that out, is dubbed misogyny. For only feminism can speak to the problems affecting both men and women. You know; that one ideology who places all the blame for everything on men as a group.


That’ll surely help men too.

How one can breathe and walk at the same time when one believes that women are oppressed and hated in a world in which a pandemic that kills far more men than women is presented as having the hardest impact on women is beyond me.

Yet, apparently, people are able to do so. Any crisis, no matter how, what, when, where… no matter how big or how small, is measured first and foremost by how it affects women. And if it does not affect women more, it will be turned, twisted and distorted until it can be presented as such.

And people gobble it up.

For the holy spectre of feminism is one that must be obeyed.

The serpent cult is powerful and its power reaches far and wide.

Now, dance. Dance, little monkeys, dance for your masters.

Even in times of crisis – a crisis that more or less affects the entirety of the god-damned world (Except North Korea, of course. They are remarkably absent from any global statistic on this crisis. What a paradise, what a utopia, that glorious democracy must be!) – women are most affected. This is the reason for that one meme. You know the one: “Meteor hits earth, women most affected”.

…or at the very least most hysterical.

When all this ends… when this plague has passed, when the pandemonium is overcome, the pandemic over and done with… the world will have changed. I have no idea how, but I am certain that a lot of things will change. One can only hope for the better, though given the authoritarian measures taken by most governments in an effort to combat this plague, I do fear the worst. Of course, I will admit to being more paranoid than most. I struggle to trust authority. Dub this remnants of teenage rebellion and immaturity if you so wish; I fail to see how someone who seeks to have power over other people is one who should be blindly trusted.

Little by little and bit by bit, normalcy will trickle back. We will get through this crisis just as we have gotten through other crisis before. The best we can do is to care for one another as best we can, take what precautions we are able to and carry on as normal to the best of our abilities. “Stay at home and limit your social interactions”, say the governments. Hah! Joke’s on them – I do that already!

Stay safe out there in the world, guys. It got weirder and stranger overnight.

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 25.03.2020

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Reproductive Rights for Me, but not for Thee

«Gamers, Rise Up!»

Last year, my wife had an altercation with a feminist on that grand ol’ feminist platform Facebook. There was not much aggression or hostility in the comment my wife left for the feminist to find. Quite the opposite, actually.

A political party in Norway had opened for the possibility of allowing for so-called “paper abortions” for men. That is – the freedom to sign away any responsibility for a potential child within a certain time after a pregnancy has occurred. As most of us who have had our eyes opened to the world as the world actually is, not as it has been presented, will be aware: men have absolutely no reproductive rights.

The feminist in question shared the news-article about this, commenting that “This party must have been smoking their socks”. To which my wife replied that “I actually believe the sexes should have the same rights”.

Which is just about as tame and non-controversial a statement as could possibly be. After all, the fight for so-called gender-equality is the vague thing that is in vogue. It was neither reasonable nor non-controversial to the feminist in question, of course, whose patronizing and staring-down-my-nose-at-thee response was as arrogant as it was condescending.

“That’s good, Moiret’s wife, but let me tell you how this really works”. Which of course translates from feminist speech into the human tongue as “Equality for me, but none for thee”. Equal rights do not mean equal rights to a feminist. It means special rights and privileges to women. It also shows the view feminism holds of women who disagree with them; as stupid, incompetent and brainwashed by the nebulous and nefarious patriarchy… as someone who must be spoken to in the tender and condescending tones of someone educating a wayward child.

Following the comment left by my wife, two guys jumped in agreeing with her on the topic at hand. A big ol’ argument ensued, in which the feminist in question became more and more angry and upset, culminating in her becoming absolutely and completely irrational.

It was very interesting to behold, as every single so-called argument she spouted against the notion that men should be allowed a say in whether or not they want to be a parent was more or less a parroting of pro-life talking points, albeit with the sexes reversed.

Gems such as “People have to be aware that sex can lead to children, and men have to take responsibility for their children” does fall flat on its face when the same people argue that women should be allowed to abort their child whenever and wherever and at any point in the pregnancy.

Women should not be made to deal with the responsibility of their actions and choices, but men do. Not only do men have to deal with the consequences of their own actions and choices, but the actions and choices of the woman as well. He has no say either way. If she wants the child, she keeps it. If she does not want the child, she aborts it. It is completely irrelevant whether he wants to be a father or not, despite the child being a product of them both. This does not seem particularly fair or equal. If women get to decide whether or not they want to be a mother, men should get to decide whether or not they want to be a father. If women shall be allowed to terminate their pregnancy at will, men should be allowed to sign away their parental responsibilities at will. Her choice, her responsibility. Equal treatment means just that. And, oh, my, it is all for the good of the child, they say when the topic of paper-abortions are brought up – think of the child. The child needs a safe and secure upbringing, and so the father must contribute. At least financially.

Strange, then, that the ones who preach free abortions whenever a woman wants one do not consider the safety and security of the child when it comes to abortions. Terminating a pregnancy means killing the child. Not particularly safe and secure. Won’t somebody please think of the children?!?

Any woman that gets pregnant holds a ridiculous amount of power over the man whose child she is carrying, as she is the only one who has any say in what happens with the child. And this is fair enough, as things are – I would never advocate for forcing a woman to go through with either an abortion or a birth. If people in general were a bit more careful and thoughtful about who they fuck and how they fuck, however, this would not be that much of an issue. Which, I believe, allowing for paper-abortions for men would contribute to.

What I am advocating for is allowing men a say in whether or not they want to be a parent. The feminist platoon keep repeating the mantra of “Her Body, Her Choice”. Which is something that could be argued against with the simple, yet supposedly radical and misogynistic, notion that the foetus is not her body, it is its own body. See; that is the pro-life stance – that the foetus is a living human being, not solely an extension of the body of the mother. It is not about controlling the mother, it is about not killing the baby. Whether one agrees with this idea or not, that is what it boils down to. Not killing the baby.

The morality of abortions is not what I aim to ramble about here and now, however – that’ll be for another day and another ramble. I just thought it would be a good idea to point to the fact that the feminist counter-argument to the pro-life people is based on a misrepresentation of the pro-life people’s stance.

It is fairly interesting to see that the feminist horde consider grown women to be more deserving of protection than a child, whether that child is unborn or not. It is, after all, women and children first – not children and women… nor is it children and parents first, which would be a bit more sensible.

Personally, I am neither pro-life nor am I pro-choice, as such. I do not believe abortions should be illegal, as I fear that would inevitably lead to backyard abortions with severe possibilities for infection and death and what-not and what-have-yous. This is not a good thing. On the flipside, though, it could mean that people were a bit more careful and thoughtful about who, how, when and where they fuck. Accidents with birth control stuff do happen. Sometimes on purpose.

I do not believe abortions should be unregulated; that the state should just grant women free abortions up to the moment of birth. Because, like it or not, the foetus is a child, is a human being, that is deserving of life. It is a more complex and complicated issue than the feminist hive-mind chose to present it.

Ultimately, it is all about the unborn child.

Though, of course, to a selfish person it is only and ever about them. And feminism is a rather selfish ideology, as it is ultimately only about her, her, her, and everything – and everyone – else be damned.

This, I find, goes for quite a lot of the social justice-stuff as well; egotism and narcissism hidden behind altruism and compassion.

Anyhow; the argument went on and on, with my wife merely repeating what she had already said – really hammering the point home, as it were.

This did not compute to the feminist in question. She was completely unable to comprehend the fact that men are also human beings that ought to have a say in the direction their life takes. In her world, men exist solely to serve.

“Her body, her choice” could easily be countered with the argument “his wallet, his choice”, as we all know how child-support and custody and all that jazz works in these equality-obsessed societies of ours, where equality means favours to women and no consideration for men.

Women are the default custodial parents. Men need only pay up, having little say in this or in that. Which of course, is presented as a patriarchal trespass on women, viewing women as mothers and nothing but that and so and such and bladi-bladi-blah.

And this is interesting, considering the feminist battle against equally shared parenting rights. It is, after all, the feminist organizations that come protesting whenever a default 50/50 parenting in case of divorce or whatever is proposed and considered.

There are no concrete values and convictions as such, no need for internal consistency or intellectual consistency in the feminist ideology. It is, after all, not a monolith… except when it is a monolitht.

As long as anything can be presented as an attack on or an affront to women, it will be presented as such and used as an argument.

It does not matter if the very same feminist have stated the completely opposite previously. Nothing matters. Only the view that women are victims, men are perpetrators, women are wonderful, men are vicious, women can do everything men can do, except when they can’t, which is whenever a feminist decide that equality would be a burden to women. There are no bad tactics. Only bad targets. So inconsistencies and double-speech and self-contradictions are no problem as long as the battle can be won.

At the end of the argument, the ferociously frantic feminist in question was only able to counter the arguments presented her with a “Blah!”, before claiming that she was not angry and then promptly deleting the entire thread, gently wiping away all proof and evidence of her own imbecility and displays of childish temper-tantrum-throwing.

It is very interesting – and fairly cringe-worthy – to witness such absurdly immature behaviour from someone who is above the age of fifty, but there you have it.

It becomes very clear, whenever one argues with a feminist, that they have never once considered the male condition; that they have never once attempted to view the world from a perspective other than their own. That they have, in fact, been living within an ideological bubble, en echo-chamber, if you will, where their feminist ramblings have seldom – if ever – been challenged.

This movement, this ideology, claims to work on behalf of equality for all – including men. Feminism cares about men too, after all. This does not compute when it becomes self-evident through their words and deeds and actions that they never once consider men in any way but how they can be of service to women – or, more to the point – to feminism. A man is not a human being unto himself; he is a human doing unto her. Either acting for her, or acting upon her, with no say in this or in that. He is either a threat to a woman to be dismissed as such, or a tool for a woman to be used as such. To the eyes of feminism.

Particularly so where children are concerned.

Or, rather, where parenthood is concerned.

Where sex, sexuality, impregnation, conception and birth is concerned.

In recent years, there have been a very concerted effort to attack fathers; to downplay the importance of their contribution to the raising of children. One must be blind and ideologically brainwashed to not notice this.

The nuclear family must be dismantled, they say. For it is yet another tool used in the oppression of women.

That children really do need their fathers – and fathers really need their children – is of no importance to a movement that have decided that any male interference is a negative; that the only contribution he needs to make towards the raising of children is an economic one. He shall pay up and stay away, having no choice, say or sway in anything.

This is not only incredibly unfair. It is dehumanizing. It reduces the father to having no role to play in the life of his child but that of an absent provider; of a walking wallet. Which, of course and given time, is turned around and made to be his fault, thus gifting him the wonderful label of “dead-beat dad”.

Once again, the complexity of human nature is boiled down to “women good, men bad”. Feminism is fighting against equally shared parenting rights as well as the reproductive rights of men whilst at the same time claiming that men are at fault for this. Just as men are at fault for any pregnancy; reducing, in the process of doing so, the woman to nothing but a receptacle for his seed.

I have seen, time and again, feminists on twitter claim that any unwanted pregnancy is solely the fault and the responsibility of the man. After all: he is the one choosing to ejaculate in her.

And this idea makes sense, of course, when seen through the feminist framework. This framework is created in such a way as to say that – given the patriarchal nature of our societies, and the supposed oppression women suffer, and always have suffered, under the rule of men – women can never give meaningful sexual consent to men, thus rendering any sex had as not only being rape by definition, but also of being solely the responsibility of the man. Women are objects being acted upon by men, to the eyes of feminism, and so anything done to a woman by a man is the responsibility of the man. And this includes the woman getting pregnant by him. It is in the phrasing, in our common parlance: “He got her pregnant”. She did not get pregnant. They did not get pregnant. He got her pregnant. Not she, not they, but he.

I remember learning, in school, that the ancient Greeks believed that the sperm and only the sperm was what made a pregnancy possible. The body of the woman only received the sperm, as such contributing nothing but a vessel for the child to grow in. The feminist teacher presented this as being severely misogynistic, as one would expect. Not as a result of them simply not knowing better due to their limited knowledge as well as their limited ability to gather knowledge about the inner workings of the bodies, but as peak misogyny and hatred of women.

Of course.

This is very interesting, considering that pregnancy is considered by a seemingly large part of the hive-mind to be the sole responsibility of the man, with the woman not contributing in any way, despite giving consent to sex and as such to the possibility of pregnancy. Consent to sex does not equate to consent to parenthood. Unless one happens to be a man. Then it does.

As I learned when watching the aforementioned argument unfold: men have to be aware of the possibility of pregnancy and take responsibility should it happen. Women do not, as they shall have any-and-all possibility to opt out of parenthood. It is her body and so it is her choice. His body and his life is not his choice, and should she get pregnant he has to take responsibility.

Men have absolutely no reproductive rights. And very few options for protection. Vasectomy, condoms and abstinence are the only options available. Compare this to the plethora of options available to women, and one begins to wonder why the burden of responsibility for a woman’s pregnancy is placed solely in the lap and drained testicles of a man.

There was a case in Norway some time back where a man was tricked into parenthood by a one night stand. She claimed she was on the pill. She was not. She tricked him into impregnating her because she wanted to have a child. He went public with this, stating that he did not consent to parenthood. She lied about being on the pill, and got pregnant on purpose. And so he tried to sign away his parental responsibilities. To which he was met with severe hostility from most of society, stating – just as the aforementioned argumentative feminist did – that he had to be aware of the possibility of pregnancy when having sex.

Despite this being a case of the woman deceiving him.

Now, were I him I would have insisted on the use of a condom as well. I would not trust a stranger blindly, and so his own naivety – or stupidity – is to blame for that.

Yet, her blatantly lying to him and tricking him into impregnating her, furthermore to be financially responsible for a child he did not want is not to blame for that. He has to take responsibility for her deception, and she does not.

This is a terrifying state of things.

What irks me even more than this particular case, however, is that only a week after this case blowing up and this man being shamed and ridiculed and whatnot… I saw article after article popping up, stating that it was rape of the woman if a man removed the condom during sex without informing her… without her consent to do so.

This is absolutely un-fucking-believable.

This is the exact same thing, yet the treatment of it is the exact opposite. She lies about birth-control and this is his responsibility and not rape of the man. He lies about wearing a condom and this is his responsibility as well as being rape of the woman.

Following the same logic, her act ought to be considered rape as well and judgement be passed on her. But this did not happen, nor does it happen now.

Women, it seems, are very happy to place the burden of responsibility for their own actions on men.

And why should they not? They are free to do so under the law of the land.

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 21.03.2020

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Swiftly Tailored Man

«Mouth of the Giver»

The swiftly tailored man is tailored swiftly in the grime and muck and unadulterated filth of our long decaying civilization.

Tailored, then taunted, then tormented by high and noble knobheads nibbling naughtily at his heels.

His portrait painted flashing a ghastly grim grimace; a caricature of his life, love and livelihood, made up on the spot for the convenience of swift tailors tailoring his image swiftly in the swollen limelight of supreme, radiant victimology. For victimology is all we do in the here-and-now of pain and penitence where art and culture and music is hollow and dead, pointless and meaningless.

The swiftly tailored man is made to be a punching-bag; to take on all the malcontent, all the shit, all the blame and shame and hatred this world could ever wish to eat or fling or create.

He is made to be a beast and a burden and a beast of burden all at once.

He is an empty vessel into whose cranial cavity our crumbling and confused societies shall pour the entirety of our silent shadow-side, the one larger-than-life, grander-than-galaxies big bad baddy of our displaced time and disjointed place.

The swiftly tailored man is made from foaming, frothing fantasies in the woolly heads of hyper-privileged munchers of entitlement, carrying the knobbliest of crosses: a complete and utter lack of self awareness.

He is an ancient enemy to fight. Built, maintained and manufactured by insufferable twat-waffles who sorely, really, truly wished they had an ancient enemy to fight so that they might have some purpose in the looming, hollow, sheltered void that is their life.

There is a boredom, a hollowness, a lack of purpose so tangible, so self-evident, in the eyes and posture, words and deeds of these smug twat-waffles that all and one should see it and point and laugh and mock and ridicule.

For those who have it all will always want some more. To take part in the grand spectacle – the universal gender-war – of this insufferable era of decaying decadence will always give some more… a quick and easy route to more-more-more. More will never help or give except for further calls for more. The swift tailors will still fall into emptiness and imbecility, into the void, the grand chasm of needing nothing, having everything, yet still feeling discontented and unfulfilled, vacuous and hollow.

The swiftly tailored man is made to be the enemy; a creature supposedly privileged beyond compare in the eyes of those who are privileged beyond compare. Such a strange thing to see and taste and feel, when the filthy stinking rich and successful bitch and moan and complain about an entire sex who are supposedly better-off than they. The Man (trademarked) will get ya, and he is to blame for everything. Also: he is faceless, nameless… a dark, brooding, threatening entity… ever-present, yet nigh invisible.

Alas; the swift tailors of the swiftly tailored man do not comprehend those 99.9 percent of swiftly tailored men who struggle, who fight, who live day-by-day, hand-to-mouth, sleeping rough, dying in the streets or on the job… those who do all those petty jobs, the shitty jobs, the crappy jobs which the swift tailors would never do because those jobs – and the swiftly tailored men who do them – are beneath the swift tailors to such an extent that they are completely and utterly invisible.

The swift tailors live within such a wonderful self-contained bubble of smug superiority that the real world never shows its face or rears its ugly head to bite them in the jugular.

In this world, in this bubble of self-righteousness and NPC-like lack of sentience, of awareness of the self, everything just works because it always works just so.

The lights go on, the drains drain down, the toilet flushes flushingly… the rooms stay cleaned, the gardens garden, the pools all clean and warm and wonderful…

Everything appears automated and reappears automatically… all those hard and filthy jobs, that dangerous work, so underpaid and lowly, are not done by people in the eyes of swift tailors. These people don’t exist within the lead-lined bubble where the swift tailors reside. It just does itself, happens so-and-so.

The swiftly tailored man is a mirage; a hallucination brought on by lack of blood-flow to an oxygen-deficient brain, filled with cocaine and crumbs of calamity from post-scarcity elitism seeking something to do to make more of that which they have more than enough of already.

And the homeless, the jobless, the laid-off, the laid-down, the laid-aside, the neglected and forgotten are still neglected and forgotten in the hazy limelight of limited compassion, lack of empathy and lack of existence.

And so are the suicidal and the accident-prone, the war-torn and war-dead and the veterans of other people’s sabre-rustling: unseen and unheard by swift tailors poking mind-numbing needles in their own eyes so as not to see or hear or think or experience any evil but that which they can only imagine is there.

“Oh no!”, the swift tailors shriek: “the swiftly tailored man is sitting comfortably on the bus!” What a trespass on this and on that and on everything; surely privileged and entitled and whatever and whatnot, the swift tailors think, as they fly overhead in private jets, drinking champagne made from grapes hand-picked by whipped virgins from Epstein’s island and crushed beneath a witches teat, costing more per glass than what the swiftly tailored man will earn in a month.

The swift tailors have no values or convictions, it appears. Nor do they have any ability to properly see or comprehend that which really and truly is real and true in this wacky world of ours.

There appears to be naught but a weird sensation that this thing right now is in vogue, and so that thing can be used and taken and spent to make more of that which they need more of; to play-pretend activism, actually believing in something, holding real values, on the sentiment that surfaces and presents itself to the zeitgeist and the limelight in this day and age.

And people fall for it all over and over and over. They celebrate and dance and shine and smile, nodding their heads in agreement, thinking “ain’t that right!”, as the swift tailors make money hand over fist by feigning victimhood and pretending oppression, beating the swiftly tailored man to death, bit by autotuned, dull, monotonous, talentless bit.

The truth still remains, floating free and fancy: there are no convictions, no values, no nothing to the swift tailors and their swiftly tailored words but the quick, the expansive, the cynical cash grab of throwing a swiftly tailored hat into the ring to cash in on the eternal shaming of the swiftly tailored man. Because why not? Everybody else is doing it. The swift tailors just want to be popular.

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 18.03.2020

Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Kindle:
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Illustration: «Mouth of the Giver»

Oh, my sweet Melody!

Oh, my sweet Melody! ( , )

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?

Thou art more glitchy and more degenerate.

Rough hands do stroke the darling keys of board,

And Chaturbate’s lease hath all too short a date.

Sometime too hot the glitching face will shine,

And often is thy frozen face too dimmed;

And every bit from bit sometime will freeze,

By chance, or the AI’s changing code, unread;

But thy eternal summer shall not fade,

Nor lose possession of them tiddies that thou ow’st,

Nor shall the THOTs brag thou wand’rest in their shade,

When in eternal streams to Web thou grow’st.

So long as THOTs can breathe, or cams can stream,

So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

Well then, gentlemen – it seems the camgirls have met their match. And the whole world will stop, and hell will freeze over, and hysteria and panic will grip the stalwart tax-dodgers, and the whole of men will turn to incels, drooling misogynistically over big ol’ animated anime tiddies. Probably whilst plotting mass-murder, preferably through doing 130 KM an hour in an armoured truck of peace in a crowded street, polishing the one-eyed wonder at the same time.

All the while, wondrous anime AI Projekt Melody gently moans and glitches out in the background.

F to the U to the C to the K, my brothers – it all goes according to plan, as it was laid down by the patriarchy at our global meetup of 2019. The THOTs have met their end!

Nothing, it seems, brings more fear and terror to the bleeding heart of a feminist than men enjoying something. No matter what it is, if men enjoy it then it must be bad.

For women.

And dangerous, of course.

To women.

For nothing will cause the world to bend over and spread its tender cheeks in preparation for a good pegging more than the confusing claim that something is dangerous and harmful to women. After all, everything has to be about women. Even when it is not about women.

If something, somehow, in some way or other can be made out to be a threat to women, then it must be banned and stopped and regulated and protested and shut down and shot out of the sky.

And any man who enjoy this or that which is, presumably, a threat to women must be shamed and ridiculed until he submits to the will of the women and do as they say and demand, not as he wants or as he wishes.

As oppressed and downtrodden as women of course are, this always works in bringing on change for some reason. A woman’s pain is a call to action. It does not matter whether this pain is real or feigned. It is a call to action. The oppressors have always defended and protected their subjects, remember.

Climate change? Hurts women more. So there! Throw money, time and effort at it until it stops.

Corona-chan? Hurts women more. Despite affecting men moer. So there. Throw money, time and effort at it until it stops. As long as we focus on ending it for women.

Eating meat is misogynistic, somehow, and it hurts women and so everyone should become vegan and sing the praise of veggies and malnourishment from now until the end of time, and we must stop everything and import plant-based alternatives for the environment… for importing things from other countries are sure as hell good for the environment… far better, apparently, than focusing on home-grown stuff… stuff that don’t need to travel all that way in big polluting ships or planes. And then we shall all sit down and shut up and sing kombaya and be at peace and inner harmony; the inner harmony that only feminism can bring… Or something along those lines. Oh my, we are doomed.

I lost the plot ages ago. Every day, there’s something new and more confoundedly confusing than the day before. The contradictions never end.

Everything that is within sight has been grabbed and snared by feminism, made to be a part of their cause. This bloody ideology inserts itself into every bloody thing there is, making every fashionable cause out there a part of itself. Whether people want them to or not.

It is the Blob, devouring everything in its path and becoming bigger and more powerful by the hour. One would do well to remember the theme-song of the movie, as well as its catchphrase: “Beware of the Blob”.

It is so weird how they are able to usurp every movement, every thing there is… and people act as though this is not only completely normal, but also completely acceptable. The main focus of every fashionable cause is how it affects women. That is the most important thing.

The animated anime camgirl Projekt Melody has been making the rounds on Chaturbate. To much applause and even more dismay, it seems, as it irks feminism something awful. She also irks the flesh-and-blood camgirls, whose income is very much reliant on the terrible male gaze and the not-quite-as-terrible male wallet.

They employ the moves of the feminist fandango; the casual two-stepped misandrist mambo, shrieking and stuttering that “There must be some way this victimizes women”, as they tumble and fall from one fallopian fallacy to the next.

How could it not victimize women?

Men enjoy it, so it can not possibly be anything but an attack on women. Anything men enjoy is an attack on women. Because women have to be up front and centre in anything. Even leaving women alone is an attack on women.

Despite men being supposed to leave women alone.

Even when we aren’t supposed to leave women alone, because there are articles a-plenty about how men need to step up and date and marry women.

The feminist thought-process is a most remarkable one.

He avoids me. Must be misogyny.

He approaches me. Damn right it’s misogyny.

He doesn’t care either way. You better believe that’s misogyny.

And so forth and so on and so frothing at the mouth.

It all begins with it being an affront/an attack/an exclamation of hatred of women/whatever as long as it is misogyny, and then that line of thought is followed until it is figured out how it victimizes women.

The conclusion is the beginning, the path to the conclusion nothing but a manifestation of that conclusion… a necessary evil, one could say. The Melody nontroversy is the sexbot nontroversy all over again. The misandrist mambo is exceptional.

I remember reading an article on sexbots in which it was stated that men are raping their sexbots, amongst other moronic assertions: ( ). And it is the strangest thing, as one can not do anything to a literal object that could be considered rape.

Does one rape a fleshlight? Probably not, though the feminist hive-mind have objected to the fleshlight as well. Of course and as expected. Men using sex toys are sad and lonely creatures, after all.

Does one rape a dildo? Absolutely not. Women using sex toys are liberated and empowered women, after all.

That is how it is presented where sexbots are concerned. It is rape. Even going so far as to claim that sexbots – you know – fancy dolls that are bought for no other purpose than masturbation, however fancy that masturbation may be, have to be programmed to be able to give consent. Or not give consent. Because that is what one wants from ones expensive masturbatory device… its ability to say no to being used for what is, essentially, its sole purpose. If the sexbot can not consent, it is rape.

Of an object.

Of a doll.

It makes not a lick of sense.

Unless one realises the reason for the hysteria.

And that is quite simple.

Being the gatekeepers of sex is having an enormous amount of power. Women are, by and large, the gatekeepers of sex. Women do the choosing, men do the competing.

And men are, by and large, far too fucking thirsty and pussy-begging for our own good.

Manipulating men to do this or that through thinly veiled and alluring promises of possible fornication – or perhaps naught but a glimpse of titty – is incredibly easy. Losing that power to an alternative would be an incredible loss of power.

And so it must be stopped, by shaming and ridiculing men who engage in masturbation with a sexbot or who drool and masturbate to the lurid images of a glitchy anime camgirl. By claiming that it is hurtful to real women, despite real women not being involved in any way, shape or form.

All the while, watching real life camgirls, or watching regular porn is also misogyny. As is attempting to strike up a conversation with a woman, should she not be interested.

Let’s get this straight: watching real women in pornography or through camshows is, according to feminism, proof of men’s hatred of women and of patriarchal oppression and objectification and of this and of that. Yet: watching animated women instead of real women is also proof of the same. Preferring the animated is definitive proof of hatred of women, yet so is watching real women. It is wrong either way, gentlemen. Just as it was designed to be. No matter what men do, it is wrong in one way or other and men must fix themselves and that is all that there is to that.

Incels are, of course, held forth as the great big bogeyman they have become regarding the Projekt Melody nontroversy. For a man that is involuntarily celibate is the most misogynistic thing there is, and so that group of people most be made out to be the prime audience of luscious Melody. Given that “Incel” has become the go-to insult and the most popular buzzword in this day and age of feminist mass-hysteria, this is no surprise.

Incel is so used and overused, so spent and ruined by people who don’t really know what it means or what it really entails, but who still know that the use of it is a powerful way to shame a guy. Married men with children are referred to as incels. It is ridiculous. But that is how it goes with these sudden buzzwords of shame and ridicule.

I remember, back in 2007/2008, “Emo” being one of those suddenly appearing buzzwords of shame and ridicule when ones dislike of something had nothing to stand on but ad hominem attacks.

I remember it being wildly popular in the bloody god-awful fucking art-school I attended at the time, where the teachers would label the art from students they did not like as being very “Emo” and so dismiss it in its entirety based on naught but that bombastic buzzword. As quickly as the buzzword came, it went away. To be replaced with something new. This happens all the time.

Now it is “incel” that is being used in this way and in this manner, with those using it not really thinking about its meaning, its origins, its anything but that it can be used as a way to shame and ridicule a man; a quick and easy shutdown so that they do not have to think and consider anything beyond that hasty dismissal.

It is so much easier, so much simpler, to label someone this or that, and in so doing dismiss and delegitimize everything that is being argued. For there is no reason to consider anything an incel has to say, is there? After all – they are one of the many identifiable enemies of this time and in this place… nothing but a part of the shunned and shamed out-group. And the out-group must not be considered in any way, shape or form.

Incels – if they are men – do not deserve any empathy or compassion.

If they are women, then we must write articles about how hard it is for them and how men really need to date them, and so forth and so on. Women are entitled to sex and companionship, ya know.

If a woman is involuntarily celibate, there is something wrong with the men around her. Men must shape up.

If a man is involuntarily celibate, there is something wrong with him as a man. And men must shape up.

It boils down to there being something wrong with men either way. Strange and peculiar, but that is the way of things as things are.

I believe the word “Incel” is such a powerful shaming device because the social success, the worth of a man at all, is apparently tied to whether or not he has been able to bed a woman. Which is complete and utter bullshit, of course.

The measure of a man’s worth, be that to himself or to society, should not be whether or not he has been able to fuck a women.

It is also incredibly weird how the feminist claim is that men hate women so-so-so much, yet all our worth is apparently tied to whether or not we are able to bed a woman. From their own mouths.

One should think that there would not be so much of a man’s worth tied to bedding or being in a relationship with a woman if women truly were as hated as the hive-mind claims.

These people, who think slut-shaming is such a terrible thing, see absolutely no qualms in virgin-shaming a man.

The same can be said about the body-positivity movement, who see no qualms in shaming a guy for his height or dick size or whatever… but don’t you, as a guy, dare have any preference in weight or whatever in a woman.

The whole of the feminist movement is a shambling mass of contradictions and moronic attitudes. Of course; it can easily be explained as not being contradictory, considering that they have othered their opponents to such an extent that any attacks on their opponents are not attacks on a human being… rather, it is attacks on a terrible drooling and snarling beast-like creature.

Just a damned shame that that which they have othered is half of the god-damned human race, then.

One assumes that the woman, for a man, becomes nothing but a fancy trophy when seen through the eyes of feminism… who don’t hate men, you know, except when they do, which is never, except when it is. Which, incidentally and as it happens, is always, as all the so-called faults and flaws of men are the prime gobble-de-gook of feminism.

For a movement that is supposedly about women, they sure spend an awful amount of time complaining about men, up to and including what men do that does not have anything whatsoever to do with women.

No wonder, of course, as they have decided that all men, through all of history, have had nothing better to do with our time but to oppress women.

They have made men the enemy.

Or, to put it another way: they have decided that all women, through all of history, have been so weak of will, so powerless and so completely and utterly useless that they have allowed men to oppress them for all but the last hundred years or so.

They have made women their own enemy.

Except that women are still oppressed, according to the whimsical will of feminism. Even when women are powerful. The use of patriarchy theory is ingenious in a way, as it can be used to explain just about everything. Women doing something feminism do not like women doing means that the women have been brainwashed by the patriarchy to do its bidding. Any woman who do not conform to the ideals of feminism is brainwashed by the patriarchy; tricked into believing that she enjoys what she does, and so must be liberated by feminism.

And so is any man who do not conform to the ideals of feminism; brainwashed by the patriarchy into being such as he is as a man. He too must be liberated by feminism, as he is a defective woman. Feminism helps men too, you see. But first women must be liberated, then men shall follow. And all shall fall in line with the flat-faced feminist fiasco.

And now, through the might and influence of feminism, men have been told for decades that they must leave women alone. There is something wrong with male sexuality, and women are not interested and if she is then you will know, but you must never touch or attempt any conversation… except when you must, when is when you aren’t being creepy, which is entirely based upon her subjective opinion of your behaviour, your appearance and your income… And you must take a hint and you must not take a hint and you must not misinterpret a hint, nor must you believe that which was not a hint to be a hint… and you must be able to read her mind, because she can not be expected to tell you yes or no… and, most of all, you are not entitled to anything yet you must do all you can to impress and prove yourself to be worthy… even when you mustn’t.

The dating game, the whole sexual game, has been muddled and confused for men for a long time. Post-me-too, it has become even more so. All the power of sex and of dating is placed in the laps of women, and all the responsibilities to engage in it has been placed in the laps of men. Men are still expected to make the first move, still expected to take that risk.

Which weren’t all that bad, I assume, when the risk was only the risk of rejection and a small amount of ridicule. Post me-too, however… Post #BelieveWomen and the incredibly weird and nonsensical currency of victimhood, the risk is no longer only rejection and a small amount of ridicule… the risk is being labelled a pest and a sex offender; it is having ones name and character smeared through social media and mass media for doing nothing but showing romantic or sexual interest… possibly not even romantic or sexual interest, as everything is now based upon the completely subjective experience and opinion and emotion of a woman, and the intention of the man in question be damned and doubly cursed and sent to hell.

The risk has become far greater than the reward.

And so men turn to the alternative; to bots and sextoys and anime camgirls. Things that are not real women. Because women – through the awesome might, through the awesome handwringers of feminism, have made it perfectly clear that men should just leave them alone.

Women ain’t interested and men ain’t entitled to sex, or to their time, or to anything to do with women. And so men just step away, turn away, drop out and leave well enough alone.

After all – the only thing on a man’s mind, as has been beat into the throbbing brain-inflammation of the societal zeitgeist for all eternity – is sex, and any conversation attempted with a woman if a woman is not interested in a conversation has to be the man feeling entitled to her time and her sex and a glimpse of her over-valued and deflated titties.

And so men now leave women well enough alone.

Yet that is not what we are supposed to do, because that is also wrong and is clear proof that we hate women.

No matter what it is, if men do it or if men find enjoyment in it, it is wrong and must be bitched and moaned and complained about, and men must change their ways and look into themselves and figure out what is wrong with them. And men must control the behaviour of other men, and protect women over all else and over all other. This despite women not needing men. So men must protect and defend women, yet a woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle.

No matter what men do it is an affront to women and an attack on women and proof of men’s overall hatred for women.

More fuel, in fact, for the feminist fire. Who claim to speak on behalf of the wishes of all women, yet shudder and rage and roar at any generalizing of the wishes of women… The thought that men do not obsess over women as feminism believe men to do do not even enter into their minds. It is not a thought that is entertained.

And I am sorry to be the one to break it to you, lovely luscious ladies of lullabies and loss of love, but men do in fact have more important things to think and talk about than women, for the most part and believe it or not. Not everything men do or say or think revolve around women. Nor does it have to.

Since the feminist hive-mind keep assuming that men only ever think and talk about women, I can only assume one of two things: either women in general do nothing but think and talk about men, or women in general are terrified that men do not only think or talk about women.

The message still remains the same: men must step up their game and men must change themselves to accommodate the ever-changing whims and will of women overall and feminism specifically. Even when neither is a monolith, except when it suits the powers-that-be-trembling-at-their-knees.

Yet, the opposite is never the case. Instead of thinking that maybe – just maybe – there is something wrong with this bloody culture, this fucking society and the way it treats men… instead of thinking that maybe women in general – and feminism specifically – should stop and do some soul searching, some thorough introspection, stop and breathe and figure out why men seemingly prefer sexbots and animated anime camgirls to real women… that maybe there is something about women and the way our societies treat women; how our societies teach women to view and treat men as well as how our societies overall view and treat men that cause this to be the case…

Instead of doing this, they shame and smear and ridicule men yet again; painting men as rapists-in-waiting, as pathetic incels, as woman-hating misogynists for doing nothing but that which men have been told to do: to stay away from women for we are not entitled to their time or to sex or to anything, really.

Men drop out and fall away.

From everything.

Women most affected.

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 14.03.2020

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And it was never truth:

«Quick Impressions of a Move»

The glass ceilings have all been busted. The window-widows all in tatters, glass-holes in the walls smashed open using crowbar-aesthetics. Our far-out sisters labelled the day as night, the night as day, the morning as mourning. And they dubbed the sun the rain.

“The whispered fracture”, the whisperers rejoice, clothed in fully nurtured climate-change absurdity.

And it was never truth.

Stories bottled up and stored by simpering simpletons that smell of pussy-hounds, canonized past grievance tales flow and fly into the minds and frumpy eyes of legendary professorial rats, churned and burned and high-and-mighty, stinging once and singing twice, never to be stung.

“Clean them out”, the cleaners whine, dressed in a stained and muddied garb of funky nuclear fusion.

And it was never truth.

Stories passed from lips to lips in grand ol’ oral traditions; straight from the horses mouth unto the riders mouth and ears, whose shining teeth atop his pussy-beggars throne willingly would close about the jugular, viciously pinch and twist and rip and tear to bleed the bulging bastard dry and dead.

“Pinch the nerve”, the pinchers sing, fully naked in the streets despite their lucid fear of the male and his hypnotic gaze.

And it was never truth.

Grim and ghastly stand the statues in defiance to whatever-next. Genocidal hubris on the glasshouse-agenda, nostrils flared and muscle called for, strong oratory warriors; powerful yet powerless amazing amazon women called to sing from behind their casting couch deals.

“Me too me too me too”, the pack-happy trend-hopping outrage-consumers shriek, drained of colour and of light.

And it was never truth.

Funded and fanged, clawed and hissed and throwing hissy-fits atop the podium, atop the pungent stares that line the walls of brown-nosed social media, the mass-media savvy organizers organize and leave their frenzied shrieks echoing in our ears for all eternity—claiming they are never heard.

“We are being silenced”, the voiceless scream into the lingering lime-light; there for them and only them, for they are never heard.

And it was never truth.

Nibbled minds obscured by clouds, deluded and delusional and trapped within the victim-gates of some strange lock-and-key rage inside the shelters of the safe-and-sane; a gated community for all whose echo-voices will forever echo back at them in nights of drooling ecstasy.

“Believe women”, the believers quack, needing neither evidence nor due process in this dawning of the word before the truth.

And it was never truth.

One can not default to believing women without defaulting to disbelieving men. Such a strange precedence this sets, that sex shall be believed and not the truth believed instead. Such a strange world this is indeed, where one is seen to never lie and one to always lie.

“Gobble gobble gobble”, say the ruling class, the venomous intellectual elite, the academic nincompoops. The masses follow, never thinking.

And it was never truth.

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 11.03.2020

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Considering Consent


At every stage of a sexual encounter, enthusiastic verbal consent has to be received. Sounds good on paper, does it not? Sane, safe and consensual.

I doubt that very many people would disagree with the notion that consent to fucking is necessary. Non-consensual sex is, after all, nothing but rape. And rape – despite what the feminist hive-mind would have one believe – is the most frowned upon crime there is, often considered more of a trespass on people’s bodily autonomy than murder.

If you can believe that.

However gruesome I consider rape to be – and I consider it to be quite gruesome – I would dare say that being murdered is worse. But what the hell do I know? I am not allowed to speak on the topic, given that I was gifted a penetrating rape-implement of doom at birth, which I occasionally refer to as my throbbing patriarchy muscle.

Just add this topic to the list of other topics which the feminist hive-mind have decided that men are not allowed to talk about by virtue of them being men, would you please?

The list is getting quite lengthy.

It is almost as though one would be inclined to believe that men talking about things – well, anyone but a self-declared feminist, really – takes control of the narrative away from the mouths and eager hand-wringers of feminism, and so everyone but feminists, yet men in particular, must not be allowed to talk about some things in order to make the feminist view of things the mainstream view of things… the only view of things, in fact.

The idea that verbal and enthusiastic consent has to be given and received at every stage, every escalation of events, in a sexual encounter neglects – one assumes wilfully – one very important aspect of human communication: most of our communication is non-verbal. Body language is one of our most powerful, most potent, tools of communication. We use it and we read it subconsciously, all the bloody time. Usually, people don’t need to say that they are uncomfortable, or if they are comfortable. Looking at their pose, their posture, the movement – or lack thereof – of their hands, arms, legs, whatever, is usually more than enough to tell you most of what you need to know. It does not matter whether it is a sexual scenario or not. Non-verbal communication is incredibly powerful, as well as being universal.

I doubt anyone would be surprised to learn that human beings are sexual creatures; that sex is one of those rare pleasures in life. Oddly enough, it is simultaneously one of the most profound and one of the most mundane pleasures of life. As such, we seek sex. I would dare propose that we seek it more or less all the time, constantly tuned into a strong biological desire to fornicate.

And there is nothing wrong with this.

Most of us are quite capable of self-control. Those who are not are, despite the feminist claim, in the minority.

The latter day puritans and their confounding monologues regarding sexual consent is a strange and peculiar thing. Demanding, first and foremost, enthusiastic verbal consent at every stage of the deed… something which would remove the fun, playful, spontaneous nature of sex. Not very sexy to stop every five minutes to check in, one assumes. But, ah, well, never mind and no matter – there is nothing sexy about sex, after all. Except when it is, when is when it isn’t.

More frightening than this strange attempt at neglecting human nature and human communication, turning humanity into robots along the way, is the newly found and strangled idea that consent can be revoked at any time – even after the dirty deed. Days or weeks or months or even years after the fact.

This is terrifying.

One can never be sure of the consent in such a scenario. Even if enthusiastic verbal consent is given, it does not matter much. It can not be trusted for five flatulent seconds, should this come to pass.

Then one begins to wonder – what’s the point of receiving consent? What’s the point of fucking at all, if consent can be revoked post-fornication, leaving one with the greatest post-fucking blues of all time?

It has already been well established from the feminist hordes and the societies we inhabit that women can not give meaningful consent when drunk. Men are able to do so, of course, and as expected.

In a scenario where both man and woman are drunk and proceed to do the horizontal tango, the man is a rapist and the woman is raped. It is a bit strange and peculiar, to say the least, that a man is considered to be capable of giving consent where the woman is not.

Were the rules to be applied evenly, one would assume that both are guilty of raping the other, thus nullifying any potential accusation of rape. This idea that drunken sex is always rape of the woman does not compute. Not that it matters much, as the man is seen as being capable and the woman is seen as not being capable.

Now, for my own part, I believe – and have believed for most my life – that people should be more thoughtful about who they fuck, and when and where and how. At the very least, people ought to be careful and take such precautions as are necessary to minimize the risk of unwanted pregnancies and sexually transmitted diseases. Seems like common sense to me.

See, there is – I believe – a reason for sex and sexuality being controlled in one way or other through religious doctrines or social contracts or law or whatever. As much fun as it is, sex was – and is – not without its risks, unwanted pregnancies resulting in unwanted children being but a small part of it.

It seems that the sexual liberation, the sexual revolution, the coming of the birth-control pill, alongside other easily accessible methods of protection and prevention, left us confused and confounded about the very nature of sex. And the very nature of humanity…

Being free to fuck whomsoever one wants to fuck with a severe reduction of the risks usually associated with fucking leaves something out of the equation. Seemingly, it has left the very simple idea that actions have consequences, and that these consequences have to be dealt with in one way or the other. Giving consent to fuck someone in an inebriated state whom one would probably not fuck in a state of sobriety means nothing but this: one has given consent to fuck someone which one would not fuck when sober. Regretting it the next day does not make it rape. Nor can inebriation be used as a bludgeoning tool against the other party when both parties were inebriated. If the man is capable of consent when drunk, and the woman is not, then women should not be allowed to drink alcohol.

Now, of course, I don’t personally believe women should not be allowed to consume alcohol, but if women are unable to take responsibilities for their actions when drunk whereas men are, then it stands to reason that women can not be considered as mature adults capable of doing what adults do. This includes taking responsibility for their actions, whether inebriated or not.

To believe that women, when consuming alcohol, are incapable of consciously doing anything at all, and as such need to have the responsibility of their actions wiped whilst at the same time believing that men have the clarity and presence of mind when under the influence of alcohol to take responsibility for both themselves as well as women is nothing but believing women to be less than men, in every conceivable manner. And here I am supposed to be the one with a poor view of women…

And to make sure and to make certain: I am not referring to being black-out drunk, passed-out drunk or whatever. It stands to reason that someone who is passed out can not communicate in any meaningful way.

Granted – this line of thinking comes from someone who believes in monogamy and long-term relationships; someone who believes in the stability and safety of pair-bonding. Someone who is not, to put it as simple as I can, a huge fan of one night stands and other such quick and easy paths to immediate pleasure. So my bias is clear on this one.

This does not mean that I really care what other people do – if you get your kicks from one night stands and casual flings, go ahead. I really don’t care. Still – people have to understand what it is that they are doing, and what it is that they are getting themselves into. And this seems to not be the case for many people.

It is all well and good to have sex with someone in a drunken state of horny eager readiness. It is quite another thing to wake up the next morning and regret it, concluding as one regrets it that this must mean that it was rape. Even when consent was given at every stage of the encounter the previous night. Or morning. Or whenever, wherever, whatever. When consent was given, one assumes consent was given. That it can not be retroactively removed. There is no point in giving or receiving consent in the moment if it can be revoked after the fact. But, ah, well, all’s well that Orwells.

The observant social observer might have observed that these new rules of fornication are not evenly applied. Consent is only and ever an issue when it comes to women. This is, of course, to be expected when feminism is in control of the discourse and the narrative. And that is exactly what they are. These poor, defenceless, powerless and oppressed women sure do wield a lot of social power, institutional power and global influence.

Men, it is assumed, do not need to give meaningful consent because men are always and ever ready, willing and eager to fuck. A very gender-traditional – one would, perhaps, even say gender-stereotypical – view of things, in all honesty, but that is par for the course when coming from the mouths of those who claim that gender stereotypes are hurtful yet still engage in them as much and as often as they are able to.

One rule for me, and another for thee.

This is the mantra, straight from the mouths of the latter day puritans. Men must seek and receive consent at all points. Women must not. And when consent can be revoked at any point, one can not trust that the consent is given, however enthusiastic, however many times “yes” and “Oh, god yes” and various other ululations of ecstasy and consent and ecstatic consent is shouted into the great wild wondrous fog of sexual joy.

In short, it means that women can not be trusted. And this does not exactly sound like a good thing to say or think about women. Yet that is what it boils down to, when women are free to post-coitally turn a clear “yes” into an uncontested “no”. #believewomen made it so that the word of a woman shall be believed above all else.

Then a yes can not be trusted, the consent can not be trusted, the woman can not be trusted. Either women can not leave their homes without chaperones, or feminism has got to admit that women can make mistakes just as men can make mistakes, and that women are quite capable of dealing with their mistakes in a mature and adult manner. You know; like what is expected of men: to accept that they screwed up that one time, learn from the screw-up and, preferably, not repeat it.

I tend to believe that adult women are exactly that – adult women. That they are, in fact, not children who are incapable, due to their lack of emotional maturity and development, to take part in any social contract. But, of course, this means that I hate women and oppress them terribly through wielding the mighty cock-sword of patriarchal influence, being so horrible as to tell them to own their shit like men are supposed to do. Oh the horror, oh the humanity, oh the woe and oh the worry and the plight.

Sigh and harumph, but the world is such a weird and confusing place. And y’all are sure as hell adept at cunt-fusing the issue. Everything is made needlessly complicated in this information age of ours. But that’ll have to be a ramble for another day.

I believe the question of sexual consent as it is presented by feminism is, as are all things feminism, a question of control and a question of power. If one gives complete and utter control over sex – in all its forms and fancy – to feminism, and, by proxy, women, then that is a whole hell of a lot of social power. That women in general, and feminism specifically through wielding the “poor-oppressed-woman-card”, wield, and have always wielded, an enormous amount of social influence and control is indisputable to all who have choked on the proverbial red pill.

Men as a group may very well dominate the visible fields of power, the “hard power”, as it were. (Though this does not mean that men use that power solely for the good of other men… not by any stretch of the imagination.) Women as a group, however, dominate the less visible fields of power… the “soft power” of social influence. And they appear to use this power solely for the good of women, if one consider feminism to be the manifestation of that “soft power”.

I do not personally believe that it is for the good of women to be presented as helpless beings, just as incapable of taking responsibility for themselves as children are, but there you have it.

That is what feminism manages when making women out to be victims of absolutely everything, and men as being perpetrators of absolutely everything. Women are helpless children, and men their tyrannical fathers, to the eyes of feminism and society overall. Still – feminism claims to work for the good of women and so that is how it must be treated for the time being. This despite all evidence pointing to feminism really and truly only caring about feminism.

Laying all the power of sex in the lap of women, and all the responsibilities of sex in the lap of men is a very lopsided approach to things. But that is what is being done. Little by little and as gradually as can be, it is what is being done. It is painting women as poor and innocent victims of men’s perverted sexual appetites; just a pawn in their games of conquest… someone who is being lured and manipulated by men into “falling from grace”, as it were.

When moving the goalposts and re-imagining the idea of rape, of sexual consent or lack thereof… defining it as broadly as possible… one can not help but wonder if the end-goal is to make it so that all heterosexual sex becomes rape by definition, if not necessarily by action… to turn the so-called “radical” feminist fantasy of all heterosexual sex being rape from fantasy into a terrifying actual reality. To make the radical the norm. When consent can be revoked retroactively; when consent can be willingly given, yet removed post-coitally… every single man becomes, in fact, a potential rapist. Not by his actions or lack thereof, but by the will and whimsy of a woman, who gets to decide whether he lives or dies by a single word. Or by lack of a single word.

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 07.03.2020

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