And so as an inevitable result of the booking; enter the inevitably awkward promotional-thing, which I am not particularly good at… seems to be something of a curse for us highly introverted hermit-types, whose preoccupation with solitude seem to preclude self-promotional stuff like this. Rendering it nigh impossible, in fact. An introvert is as an introvert does, and what an introvert does best is not self-promotion, apparently.
See; the books have been done and ready for almost three months at this point in time, and was released into the wild furry yonder-wonder of the interwebs about two months ago. And I have only just realized that I need to do some semblance of advertisement for the glorious bastards, steeped in soggy kneed brutality as they so clearly and so blatantly are.
With me being the brilliant jackboot-wearing, (in actual fact, I wear a pair of damned cool cowboy-boots, which I am not entirely convinced that I am cool enough to wear, but nevermind), patriarchal tyrant which I so clearly am, this ought to go without saying. Still, it bears repeating. Because if you repeat a lie often enough, it becomes truth unchallenged and unquestionable. Thus; the world is a white supremacist patriarchy, and we are all racists mo-fo’s with more privilege than sense and more throbbing rape-engines than we know what to do with, lying dormant beneath our belts and behind our easily undone flies, ready, willing and able to unleash hell and damnation at a moment’s notice.
And why shouldn’t we? Hell, that’s all we’re good for anyway, in this strange and malformed world of ours in which hatred and bigotry is the worst thing one could possibly engage in, unless it is pointed, gushing, squirting and bleeding, direct at the hearts of your everyday ordinary man, who is evil incarnate; vile tyranny clothed in man-flesh – preferably white man-flesh, I must add. Or else I will be painted as a racist or an islamophobe or whatever else the jingles advertise as the no-no thing of today. The world has gone completely bonkers. Identity-politics is a curse and a blight and it eats itself, little by little, burning up and burning out and floating into the ether like ash and shadows and dust. It is inevitable, really, that it will collapse in on itself… crushed by its own weight. The aftermath will be interesting to behold, as someone has to clean up that damned mess. Which brings me back to those regular, everyday guys whose sole preoccupation is to keep himself (and his family, if there is one) fed, clothed and content. The working-class, the “lumpen proletariat” which this strange and new incarnation of the so-called left, the progressive hordes of kindness and inclusivity, (if one subscribes to the simplistic left-right politics thing, that is) so utterly and completely despises that they have no time nor interest in actually listening to what they have to say about this brave new world we live in. The aristocracy is back, fellow patriarchal tyrants. And it is big and it is bold and it is every bit as snobbish, despicable and elitist as any former incarnation of aristocracy. Our aristocrats are over-educated bottom-feeders; elitist academes with no grasp of the real world. Or Elitist politicians with one foot in the cradle of censorship and the other in the grave of tyranny, deciding what is and is not free speech, attempting through some obscure ritual, to re-awaken the corpse of tyranny to come into the world like a zombie, gnawing at our brains and telling us what we are allowed to speak. It then follows that it will tell us what we are allowed to think. Hate-speech is whatever the supposed victim of hate-speech says that it is. And we are all in trouble for it.
Still, going back to the working-class for a bit – and hold up a second; I have been told that there ought to be a curfew for men, whose capacity for self-sacrifice in the name of good far outweighs their capacity for violence in the name of evil, but who cares about that, right? After all – there is mighty hysteria to unleash upon the screaming banshees, who so much long for enemies and shadows to fight that they are willing to paint themselves as pointless and deluded victims, completely incapable of performing even the simplest of tasks without falling down and crying; without reducing themselves to a shivering mass of tears and vomit, labelling it strength in adversity. Even when the adversity is highly manufactured scapegoating there to create a potential enemy of every man out there, who is so beastly and so naughty by virtue of their genitals that they can’t be trusted. Hatred of one group is wrong, is dastardly, is brutally naughty and must not be engaged in. Unless, of course, it is men. Once again. Men, upon whose bent backs and troubled heads may be placed all the burdens and all the sins of the world; a sacrificial scapegoat to be whipped and chased into the desert, filled with demons and whatever else of the evils of our world which we so long to place into something concrete, something we can touch and taste and feel and see as opposed to understanding that wicked people do wicked things, irregardless of anything but the wickedness in their – most likely – brutalized and traumatized psyches.
Alas; I forgot: evil actions can only be excused by past trauma when it is done by someone who is deserving of protection and empathy. Which is to say: someone who is not a man, and preferably not a white man at that. Identity-politics is for pillocks. It is the most basic, the most simplistic damned thing to ever emerge this side of a cellphone-game. Which, of course, explains perfectly well why it is so damned popular. Hell; anyone can point at someone for their outward appearance and shout “white devil” or “man-devil” or something to that effect, and so bring the full fury of their whole tribe down on their confused heads, whose downcast eyes state nothing but “hells bells, but I just went out to buy some milk, and now there’s all these people here yelling at me and accusing me of some manner of wickedness and vileness…”
The hatred is so obvious and so blatant by now; the pot has boiled over and the serpent-moon has fled the scene, leaving destruction and despair in its wake. These are harvest-times; the moon is a glowing orange orb in the sky. Now the time has come for the serpent-cult to reap what they have sown; madness and hysteria, brutality and bloodshed… for all. The purge has begun, the scales are tipping, the pendulum swinging again and the great ghastly guffaw in the sky screams censorious bullshittery in our ears and in our eyes, spat upon as they are by the holy spectre of some quivering squirting vulva in the sky the size and density of three suns.
Now come the harvest, here come the purge.
And in the purge, and in the harvest, one needs something to do in the down-time, where the downcast eyes spend downcast time spitting downcast wine on the downcast lies.
So why not buy these two humble books of mine? Seems last year was a productive year for me. At least if one is to go by the size of the books, which, admittedly, may not be a measure of anything but my fingers lacking any ability to shut the hell up and let less be more for once… But, no matter. It is what it is, and if you should wish to wallow in the despair I create within my shattered world – caught between the pages in these tomes of excellence and death-like silence – alongside some clown-pill honka-ma-tonks, both volumes are now up for sale on that most sacred of censorious web-sites; amazon. Please take a gander at the links below, whilst I attempt to explain the volumes such as they are.
The lyrical contributions to the clown-world infrastructure of 2020 are collected in a volume titled “For the sake of my beard: Contrarian lyricism in the age of conformity”. I went full professional with this one, boys, let me tell you: each of the attempted lyrical pieces within is accompanied by an attempt at commentary, explaining my thoughts on the pieces, alongside random stray-thoughts that went unfiltered through my strange and maggoty mind and wound up on the paper within, probably having little to do with the pieces but random acts of ranting, but, hey, these are ranting times.
The more conventional pieces are collected in a tome of equal splendour, but less professionalism (as it is lacking in insightful commentary and witty analysis), entitled “But you will never get my leather jacket: even more contrarian ramblings in the age of conformity”. It probably goes without saying that not everything written in that strange and broken year of 2020 is collected within these two tomes of magic and grumbling. Not everything is up to snuff, in truth and in honesty. Some of it is just plain bad.
No matter; snuff or no snuff: if you wish to contribute to my ever-increasing insanity and solitary confinement, please consider purchasing the books and so help me raise the little patriarchal tyrant I’ve now suddenly got plopped into my lap, courtesy of what Hannah Wallen has dubbed “the knock-up fairy”. I am neck-deep in dirty diapers at the moment; literally up shit creek without a paddle. And, of course, loving every second of it. Even though I swear the days have gotten shorter since my son arrived.
But You Will Never Get My Leather-Jacket:
For the Sake of My Beard:
And that was that.
Until next time, gentlemen: I’ll catch you later.
PS: For lack of any new creative input from my accusatory fingers, please enjoy this hasty rewrite of Bob Dylan’s timeless classic “The Times they are A-changin’”,An anthem for the me-too era of hysteria and dubious accusations;
The Boning, it is a-changin’:
Come gather ‘round brothers
wherever you bone
and understand that the consent
you once had is gone,
and accept it that soon
you’ll be accused of some rape;
If your life to you is worth savin’
then you better start jerkin’,
or you’ll drown for the cunt
for the boning it is a-changin’.
Come writers and journo’s
who preach platitudes with your pen
and keep your eyes wide
the chance won’t come again;
we won’t bone too soon
for the consent’s still in spin
and there’s no tellin’ when that it’s lackin’,
for the consent now
may be withdrawn anytime
for the boning it is a-changin’.
Come senators, congressmxn
please heed consent;
don’t stand in the frat-rooms
don’t block up metoo,
for he that gets boned
will be he who is jailed,
for consent can be withdrawn.
It’ll shackle your penis
and rattle your balls,
for the boning it is a-changin’
Come brothers and sisters
throughout the land
and don’t consent to
what you can’t understand;
your cocks and your boxes
are beyond your control;
your enthusiasm is rapidly fadin’.
Please don’t go for the contract
if you can use your hand
for the boning it is a-changin’.
The consent is withdrawn
the allegations are cast
the metoo-moment
will come at long last
as the boning last decade
will soon be your last;
the consent is rapidly fadin’
and the first eager fuck
will be the last one,
for the boning it is a-changin’.
Please consider purchasing my books in order to support my descent into insanity:
Some time back, I was on the receiving end of one of those questions that are oh-so-common to those of us in this rag-tag crew of deplorable men’s rights people; foul-mouthed misogynistic heathens, charlatans, warlord barbarians and insufferable mouth-breathers that we all so clearly are.
As one would expect if one has been following my rambling man-baby whining for some time, I didn’t bother replying. I simply can’t be bothered to engage in pointless internet-spats. I have a life outside of the internet, as difficult as that may well be to believe to those who have conjured this mental image of MRA’s as basement dwelling fedora-wielding neckbeards with mommy-issues, tiny dicks, morbid obesity and hygiene problems. None of which magic mental images are, for some reason, considered body-shaming… besides: people drop all pretences of civility when granted the magical aura of relative internet anonymity. And so ad hominem attacks take the place of actual arguments all too often. And I don’t much care for that.
Despite the often aggressive and confrontational tone in my ramblings, I am fairly civil when actually talking to actual people. Too civil by far to be counted amongst the legions of brave internet warriors, engaged in swash-buckling insult-flingings and strange adventures in neo-linguistic acrobatics designed to piss people off. In short: I’m just too nice for the internet.
As a person, I am very shy, careful and reserved. When I introduce my ramblings with “humble hermit host”, I am not exaggerating. I am one wife and a soon-to-be-born daughter away from being considered a true and proper hermit. This is not to be confused with being a shut-in. It has nothing to do with any illness, be that psychological or physiological. I just happen to enjoy solitude; being very comfortable in my own company. More people should learn to be just that, in my humble opinion. Luckily, my wife is of the same character. Even when the rampaging hordes of feministas scorned believe that she is not, going so far as to claim her introverted nature to be a product of me oppressing her wild desire to be bubbly and extroverted… because of course it is. This has happened more than once, more than twice, more than thrice. And from several people, all wielding the high-and-mighty banner of frantic and ferocious feminism. For obviously, none but they know how my wife ought to act. According to the feminist hordes, my wife does not act as a proper lady ought to act. Her behaving as she wants to behave is a problem that can only be remedied by her being forced by the feministas to act according to their image of how a modern woman should act. Very interesting, that. As such, feminism attempts to remove personal agency from my wife and so mould her in their image. A mockery and an affront and an insult to her, in actuality… but, to their beady little pig-eyes, it is them aiding her in her liberation from my pasty patriarchal hands; liberating her from chains which she can not properly see for not being illuminated from within by the scorching, raging, frenzied and cleansing flame of feminism.
But I digress.
I just find it so ridiculously hilarious that the forces supposedly there for female liberation are the ones demanding obedience from my wife; demanding the power and influence to wield her in their image of a proper lady, fainting, damselling and hysterics included.
There is a difference, undoubtedly, between attacking a set of ideas and attacking an individual subscribing to a set of ideas.
I cherish the former and am not fond of the latter, bleeding heart and empathetic arsehole that I am.
Of course; to the irate feminist, attacking feminism is attacking the feminist in question personally. For that is the extent to which these people have allowed themselves to be engulfed by an -ism: criticism of feminism is not only criticism of feminism, but criticism of any individual feminist as well as of women as a group and that ever so elusive term “equality”. And we all want equality, surely?
That is the level of power and influence feminism holds; the power and influence to claim the monopoly on not only women’s issues, but also on men’s issues and the entire idea of equality between the sexes. This is terrifying on its own, as no single idea nor movement nor ideology should be allowed to claim the monopoly on anything.
Make no mistake about it: any “official” discussion or debate on sex and gender is a feminist discussion or debate, feigning both debate and discussion. No other ideas factor into it. This is not good. It ought, in fact, to be cause for concern. Particularly so when this particular set of ideas deem men as a group to be enemies; an out-group that must be changed and altered to suit a feminist idea of how men should be. For men can not speak on behalf of themselves. Feminism is the force to speak on behalf of men, even when only being about women despite being about men as well… it is confusing, but that is the nature of the beast. An easy in for every out. Feminism helps everybody. Except when it doesn’t. But then, it is not real feminism. Because it never fucking is.
As time flew and the wings of feminism grew, along came intersectional feminism, granting them even more power and influence; now the beast demands to hold the reigns on any-and-all social issues which any-and-all supposedly marginalized minority-group may or may not suffer.
The oppressed group of women and of feminism sure as hammered holy hacking-cough hell hold an awful lot of say-and-sway; wields an awful lot of institutional influence and power. I suppose that comes with the territory. None but the oppressed have any real power, you know. It sounds strange, but that is apparently the level we are at in this moment in time. Much hoo and even more woo and pound me too, pretty please, and I shall pound you too, why not, woo-hoo and a merry honk honk to me too.
But, yeah – all rambling aside for the moment: the question I was asked was one of those silly, simpering and ridiculous ones, in which the obvious assumption that men have all the rights, all the power, all the privilege and then some, lies floating on the surface like a blueish-green and bloated corpse in Hillary Clinton’s bondage-chamber bathtub, complete with amplified incredulous tone and hurt fee-fees galore: “Which men’s rights are you really fighting for?!?!?!?” For the mere notion, the mere idea, the mere mention that men deserve human rights and someone to speak their case is a highly offensive notion to those who are convinced that men either have no sex-specific issues, or that men are the issue in-and-of themselves… this idea is often masquerading as the notions of “toxic masculinity” or “fragile masculinity” or some such nonsense that have these fancy academic ideas behind it, and so it is really not hating on men, honest to god, and it is only there to help men get better, honest to god, and so forth and so on… all evidence and articles titled “why can’t we hate men?” and similar to the contrary.
These questions are seldom, if ever, put forth with any honest intention of learning. This I have learned. Quite the contrary. They are put forth, more often than not, with the intent of mockery and ridicule, usually ending with the salty caps-lock-scream of “Incel”, followed by a metaphorical run-away, trails of keyboard-crumbs, cheeto-dust, earwax and offended sensibilities floating behind as a passing reminder of eternal internet folly and social justice brain-bleaching done with baseball bats soaked in plan-b pills and spermicidal cream. The offender then thinking to themselves (one assumes) that “Oh boy, I done triggered them incels good this time! Hopefully, mistress will be kind to me tonight, oh my, oh lawd, have mercy, I might get a crack at dat crack…” if male, or “Oh lawd, how them mens hates the wamens, daring to disagree with a lady saying they should all be killed, oh lawd have mercy!”, if female. Or, well, that’s how I picture them anyway, in my more spiteful and petty moments of unadulterated hate-speech-glee. The truth is most likely not this. It has to do with propaganda… which is a bit more worrying, truth be told.
And so here I sit on a snowy, cold and windy late morning in January, silliness and naivety trailing from my mind onto the keyboard and the flickering screen in front of me, actually assuming the question to be asked in good faith, attempting to reply to it before taking a long break from this rambling-business in order to devote my attention and devotion whole-heartedly to my daughter in her first precious months of life. Obviously in order to inflict nefarious patriarchal brainwashing upon her so that I can oppress her just as much as I oppress my wife. For there can be no greater wish from a father and a husband, truly. Hell, I’m gonna get accused of that, and worse, before long anyway. So why the hell not poke fun at it before it begins? Whatever nonsense they fling your way, gentlemen, you wear that shit like an impenetrable armour. I mean; I would have told them to eat shit, but I’m not entirely sure about the legality of encouraging cannibalism, so I leave that be for the moment.
This will be a lengthy one.
Obviously. The pre-ramble is bad enough.
Oh my, but I just can’t shut up, can I?
The length of it stems from the very simple reason that it is not an easy question to answer. Not for any lack of causes; not for any lack of proper problems; not for any lack of proper evidence; not for any lack of conviction in the very clearly terribly regressive, woman-hating and offensive belief that men deserve rights and that men, as a group, have their needs, problems, issues, experiences and whatever else ignored, neglected or worsened by the current state of affairs.
We have been sold this idea, for decades, that women are worse off than anyone else… and that men are at the root of it all. Feminism is the force that sold us this idea. Coupled with a natural gynocentrism, it is amplified to a ridiculous extent.
Particularly white men are the problem, though men in general are nasty pieces of shit. See, for all its claims about not hating men; for all the ridiculous ideas spewed forth from the gaping rectum of feminist thought that it is not about hating men… it is about hating men. Identity politics, I have come to learn, is simplistic, naive and woefully tribalistic. It does not, in any way, shape or form cause anything but division.
I would dare state that one would not exactly be lost in the woods or drowning in a puddle of nu-metal mud to reach the conclusion that an idea pathogen stating that one group of people – by virtue of their birth – are evil enough to oppress another group of people by virtue of their birth, assumes evil intent on part of the group supposedly doing the oppression.
That is exactly what feminism does.
It assumes sociopathy on behalf of men – on behalf of all men everywhere. For what else could it possibly do, when believing all men everywhere to be so nasty, wicked, evil; so lacking in empathy and basic human decency to willingly oppress and enslave (women were treated as chattel, after all, hurr-durr) not only their wives or girlfriends, but also their sisters, mothers, grandmothers, daughters, etcetera.
This would require a special kind of wickedness; a special kind of lack of empathy and common decency reserved mostly for sociopaths of the Ted Bundy variety. Yet that is the root of feminist thought and dogma; a trail of breadcrumbs that can be traced all the way back to the declaration of sentiments at Seneca falls in 1848. Men are, by nature and by culture, so wicked and morally lacking as to oppress those whom they claim to love. That is the foundational theory of feminism, gentlemen.
The history of mankind is the history of men’s oppression of women, it is stated. And women have just been too damned weak, timid, frail and stupid to do anything about it except for right now. And right then. And right there. And right now, all the way back to hallowed antiquity, one assumes. Patriarchy-theory is a conspiracy theory put forth by an honest-to-god paranoid schizophrenic. People believe it, though. One assumes it is easier than taking control of ones own life and destiny to believe that all ones flaws, faults and failings are the product of the ones who really and truly hold the reigns; the puppet-masters, be they reptilians, the illuminati, the Freemasons, the patriarchy or clusters of sentient sawdust from pornhub-dimension DD-MILF-69. (In before someone accuses me of doing the same with feminism: I do not hold feminism responsible for my own faults and flaws and failings – of which I assure you I have plenty. I do, however, hold them responsible for making it so that the issues men face are neglected, trivialized, routinely ignored, mocked and ridiculed.)
And here I could tick of a list of boxes, mentioning and going in depth on all the men’s rights which we in this special basket of deplorable soggy kneed bastards are fighting for… even when there is disagreement in the ranks on the severity, importance or whatever of any certain topic of contention. The so-called manosphere is not exactly tied together by a common set of beliefs, such as feminism is. It is, I am very happy to say, not an -ism. Should it devolve into an -ism, I will run away screaming in fear and in terror. The social justice ideologues; the feminists and the critical race theorists and analysts, the cult of woke preachers, the postmodernists and the academics and psychologists may all declare masculinity and the men’s rights movement to be ideological in nature. But these people view everything in terms of ideologies, it seems. And so too must everyone else, by their reckoning. For they are the only ones to hold the handle on the well of truth. Men’s rights advocacy is an action. Just as human rights advocacy is an action. For that is precisely what it is: human rights advocacy, albeit with a focus on men. For men’s issues are neglected.
I could mention male genital mutilation of children still being motherfucking legal despite being an obvious violation of bodily autonomy and, for that matter, the child’s religious freedom where this applies… I could mention lop-sided divorce-courts and even more lop-sided child custody. I could mention domestic violence being overlooked when men are the victims and women the perpetrators (looking at you, donut-munching duluth-model), or that the wording of the law in a multitude of places is such that men can not be raped by women, thus rendering rape a crime done solely by men where women are the prime victims… which is no wonder, as a man raped by a woman is counted as “made-to-penetrate” or something like that, thus not making it into the official statistics on rape in quite a lot of places. Also the work of feminism. For North America, it is the work of Mary P. Koss. She considers it improper to label men forced to have sex by women as rape.
Because of course it is.
Can’t skew the rape-statistics in favour of the feminist narrative if men raped by women were to be counted in the rape statistics. Rape requires penetration of the victim to be counted as rape. Forced envelopment is not rape. You can thank feminism for that, despite feminism insisting that this is the fault of the patriarchy.
Interesting, that.
Highly interesting.
Almost makes one think that the vast armies of coffee-shop feminists out there have no idea about what their movement is or has done… or still does.
Which is no wonder, in honesty, since it is effectively sold to us through every institutional orifice as only being about equality. Thus, opposition to feminism means opposition to equality to the huddled masses… and worse of all, it has come to mean opposition to women. Shock and horror follows. Anyone opposing feminism is thus guilty of opposing women and equality and women’s equality, whatever the fuck that means at that precise moment in time.
The same holds true for child custody; the presumption being that the mother is the best parent. Apparently, this too is the fault of the patriarchy, burdening women with the horrible task of caring for their – one hopes and one assumes – beloved children… Strange, then, that the feminist organizations fight tooth and nail against a default shared parenting post-divorce… Strange, too, that the horrible dead-beat dads out there so long to see their children that they often commit suicide when denied this. Parental alienation is a thing that occurs, and it is mainly perpetrated by women. I can scarce imagine a worse form of abuse.
I remember when Spain put forth the idea of a default 50/50 custody. It is some years ago now. The feminist hive-mind broke out in hives and sweaty, itchy rashes, claiming this to put women’s rights back a hundred years or whatever. Fathers being allowed to see their children? This is obviously a trespass on the rights of mothers and a horribly regressive action. Despite women obviously being burdened by having to take care of their children. Really strange behaviour all around. I suppose these were not real feminists, because they never are, depending on the what and where and how and such. A brilliant out, this no-true-scotsman-fallacy. No real feminist would enjoy sugar on their porridge, nor would they enjoy the “tender years doctrine”. Unless they do, which makes them unreal real feminists of the ethereal variety, all ghostlike apparitions and magic incantations and such.
One could also point to the articles popping up in the British tabloid press about how horrible it was for women to see their children only on the weekends… you know; like fathers have been made to do for decades. What a horrible crime to do to women; “forcing” them to care for their children is just as nasty as “forcing” them not to care for their children.
Nevermind the fathers, though, they don’t matter and besides – fathers seeking custody of their children is just another tool in the toolbox of the oppressor and the abuser, despite it also being oppression and abuse for mothers to gain full custody. Yeah. The loopy nature of it all is such that, no matter, it can be turned around to be bad for women and the fault of men. Loop-de-loop and the glorious return of the Ourobouros.
I could also mention male lack of reproductive rights. We have none. I could mention how much money is spent on researching female health as opposed to male health. This despite feminist insistence that male-specific illnesses is granted more money and time than female-specific illnesses. Feminist reality is not measurable reality. It is a different kind of reality. The Norwegian government has recently begun their third exploration on female health. Still has not done one on male health, despite men dying younger by this and that and the other. Not that this matters, of course. It is only men, after all.
I could mention the lack of attention and focus on male suicide. Male underachievement in schools. Men dropping out, not only of education but also of society as a whole. Female criminals given leniency in law where male criminals are not, also known as the sentencing-gap. (This delightfully defended by the scores of feminists scorned as being because men are more likely to re-offend. Gendered discrimination is quite alright, as long as it favours women and hurts men…) All, of course, painted to be the fault of men, in the dubious guise of the patriarchy. “It is men doing it”, they say, assuming this to be a got-cha. Brilliant. This is psychological projection, though. Since feminism as a whole blame the opposite sex, they assume those in opposition to feminism must also do just that. This is nonsense. Both men and women are responsible for society, with all its wrongs and rights. But that, I suppose, lacks in dualism and is way to nuanced a view, in this era of the black-and-white thinking.
This they also claim, despite feminist lobbying; despite judges in Great Britain being told to be especially lenient towards female offenders; despite feminism wanting to get rid of prisons for women all together.
To reiterate, and please don’t get me wrong – men are also at fault. It takes two to tango, after all. And men, in their prime state of evil misogyny, can not easily say no to women. That is our nature and our social conditioning, and it is not an easy pattern to break out of. Particularly not for young men in the full bloom of their pointed, poignant and throbbing manhood.
Oh, excuse me. I near forgot: it is not the fault of men. It is the fault of the patriarchy, which is men but it is really not men even if it is men. A system designed to help men at the expense of women, which also hurts men and often more than it hurts women, but still hurts women more. Harumph. Defund gender studies, please. It is a silly place.
Feminism doesn’t hate men. It just named everything perceivable and measurably bad in the world after men, and can’t stop grumbling about the horrible nature of men. Even bad things done by women are the fault of men, be that internalized misogyny or women suffering from toxic masculinity. No toxic femininity here, no sirre-bob. Men’s flaws are the fault of masculinity, and so too are women’s flaws.
When presenting the world as being run solely by men, despite there being quite a lot of women leaders and influences around – particularly in education and academia – the blame can always be put on men. Despite feminist lobbying groups lobbying for all manner of nasty and discriminatory laws, rules and regulations. That is, of course, positive discrimination. For it favours women, and so it is all quite alright. Men don’t matter. And never have. Men are disposable. And that is the crux of it all: the empathy-gap.
Feminist thought is deliberately twisted and obscured, made just so as to create an easy out for every in. As long as women can be shown as victims and men as perpetrators, or at the very least show women as oppressed and men as privileged, there are no limits to the amazing mental gymnastics, the twisting and the turning.
Attacking feminism is not an attack on women. The two are not one and the same. Just as advocacy for women does not mean feminism. Just as I have no problems with advocacy for men, I have no problems with advocacy for women. There’s that whole human rights thing again.
What I have issues with is the ridiculous, the incredible focus our society has on women and all their ills, manufactured and overblown or not, and the equally ridiculous and incredible lack of focus on men’s issues, no matter what they are.
All this whilst feminism insists that women are oppressed, their voices never heard. To believe this to be truth, particularly when shown evidence to the contrary, one has to be wilfully blind.
One of feminisms complaints is that men always pop into any discussion on women’s issues with “but what about the menz?!?!?”. Well, that is really not all that strange, considering how often any and all issue is made to mainly affect women; how any discussion has to be about women first and foremost.
There is no room to discuss men’s issues, and so we have to make that space, take that room. Particularly regarding violence. Men are the main victims of violence every-fucking-where. And still, we must end violence against women. Men don’t matter, because men are the ones being violent. Interesting, that. One should care less about the victim on the basis of sex. Sharing genitals with ones attacker immediately makes the attack matter less; the victim less of a victim.
Violent women also exist, but we don’t talk about them. Women, after all, are wonderful.
Imagine that.
I could tick of a lot of boxes. My main thing, though – my main area of focus is all a matter of perspective.
To make it clearer, it is a matter of the male perspective. The male experience. Something which we don’t care much about in this crazy and lopsided world of ours. Every debate on sex, or on gender, is not a debate. It is a feminist circle-jerk where the voices of women are the most important – if those voices are feminist women, of course – and the voices of men are only ever heard if they show deference, allegiance and submission to the feminist perspective and the feminist narrative. Men, after all, are obsolete. Because feminism told me so.
The age we live in is an age where the battle-cry is one of “lived experience”. The lived experience must be taken seriously and taken into account. But only if it is the lived experience of women. The lived experience of men don’t matter. Probably because that would punch a giant fist-shaped hole in the chest-cavity of the feminist narrative.
By denying, ridiculing or outright refusing to let the stories and experiences of men be told and heard; by allowing nothing but the stories and the experiences of women to be told and heard (#believewomen #metoo, for example) the feminist narrative of the poor, timid, helpless, frail, oppressed and eternally victimized woman reigns supreme. Particularly so – and to reiterate – when only allowing for the experiences of feminist women to be told.
Women, such as my wife, whose experiences run quite contrary to the feminist victim-narrative, are not “allowed” to tell their stories. They are ridiculed by the forces supposedly there to liberate women and allow them to tell their tales of woe and worry. They are bootlickers of the patriarchy, vile gender-traitors and hopelessly brainwashed by the might and influence of the patriarchy. They are victims too, but they can’t see it and so feminism can attack them with whatever harassment they deem proper, despite harassment of women online being a terrible thing to happen to women.
I don’t believe women to be the problem. Nor do I believe men are the problem. Feminism is. Gynocentrism is. Human nature is. And it is big, and it is mighty and it is institutionalized; it is long and it is hard and it is uncut, and it is poking at our communal anus with the full force of evolutionary instinct behind it.
Men who tell their stories are routinely mocked and ridiculed.
I bathe in male tears, I drink male tears, fragile man-baby, whining man-children, and similar sentiments are thrown around by the feminist hordes, whose claim that men will be fixed and salvaged from their horrible masculinity if they only open up and talk about their emotions and experiences fall flat on its face when faced with men who open up and talk about their emotions and their experiences. Because the above are thrown about, laying ever more proof about the gaping fissure that is the empathy-gap atop the already giant pile of proof.
It is only anecdotal, it is lies and it is bullshit; we are only saying this to hate on women, then it is #notallwomen, then it is gendered stereotyping, then you just want to chain women to the kitchen, then it is this and it is that and it is the other. All manner of diversionary tactics are deployed so that the male experience can be dismissed, unless it falls in line with the feminist narrative.
Feminism has become the dominant ideology in this day and age; one which all and sundry must show allegiance to, under fear of being cast out and ostracised. Ideological purity is demanded.
And the female experience is celebrated and held up as truth-without-doubt. If and when it falls in line with the feminist narrative. And so too is the male experience – if and when it falls in line with the feminist narrative. The personal must be made political. The anecdotal must be taken as truth. One must, above all else, believe women. By which it is meant that one must, above all else, believe feminism.
And so come the teary tales of teary torture; of oppression and abuse. All terrible stories, no doubt. All stories that must be believed, no matter.
And that is the sign of the times, the banner under which all shall flock, gather and celebrate. The lived experience.
OK.
I believe men should follow the call of the mighty herald; that we should all flock to the same banner: to tell our lived experience, our stories, our experiences of life in a feminist culture where girls and women are celebrated, be that individually or as a group… and where boys and men are routinely mocked and ridiculed, be that as individuals or as a group. This is a sure sign of the empathy-gap. Boys and men experience far less empathy than do women and girls, all the time and all around. Even when feminism declares the opposite. Which don’t hold sway the moment feminism comes calling that the issues of men is that they are told to “man up”, which one assumes is proof proper of the empathy-gap, but, oh well, consistency don’t matter when the reasoning is emotional first and foremost.
With feminist influence all around, this can only get worse before it gets better.
And so, little by little, I tell my stories. I share my lived experience. Amongst other things, obviously.
A very difficult thing to do, in all honesty.
Firstly because of my introverted nature.
Secondly because the very personal and private nature of the things makes it rather difficult to do.
Thirdly because of the mockery and ridicule that always follows; the insults and the name-calling, the shit-flinging and knuckle-dragging idiocy of adherents to the serpent cult, so hell bent on seeing women as oppressed victims that the mere mention that men are not doing good and are not treated well is seen as an attack on the decency and humanity of women.
For feminism is psychological projection given material shape and form and substance. What feminism does, feminism believes us to do. Few MRA’s blame women. Many blame feminism, this is true. But feminism is not women. And pointing a finger towards feminism is not pointing fingers towards women, even when they falsely claim that it is.
The patriarchy, I have come to believe, is feminism projecting their own thoughts and actions towards men – all men. This is what feminism does when in power, and so that must be what men do when in power. Albeit with the sexes reversed. And all the protests; all the shutting-down of talks on men’s issues; all the fuck-faces and bomb-threats and pulling of fire-alarms; all the disturbances; all the refusals to set up men’s groups on campuses; all the shutting down of male-only spaces; all the tearing down of everything to do with men’s rights is proof proper of feminism not only neglecting, but actively opposing any mention of issues facing men if they themselves do not wield control of the talks or the groups or the conferences. All must be seen from the crocodile-teared vantage-point of feminist victimology. Feminism must hold the reigns, or else.
The patriarchy is not a nefarious group of shadowy figures pulling the strings behind the scenes, but all men. Men must fix themselves, men must better themselves, men must take a long and good look at themselves and their masculinity, men must unlearn their toxic masculinity, men must become more feminine, men must do this and men must do that and men must do all the other. And when men do this and that and the other, the hordes wonder where all the good men have gone; men dropping out of education and not getting them high-and-mighty jobs means there are less men that are suitable marriage-material. This is also shown as a problem affecting women. Men suffer – here’s how this impacts women. To which I might actually agree, in a way. Not in the way feminism presents it; not in the way our gynocentric societies may present it, but in the way I think: when one suffers, when one struggles, the whole will eventually suffer. Our societies will not exactly thrive with scores of distraught, disenfranchised and purposeless men floating around like driftwood eternally crashing against the shores of contempt and judgement.
Women, on the other hand, must not do anything but smash the patriarchy. Which is not all men, even when it is men that is routinely mocked, ridiculed, scorned and I would even dare say abused by this ridiculous thought-virus that have grown into a vast global movement, hell-bent on something, whatever that something may be. It is petty squabbles and even pettier grievances amplified to the nth degree. Whatever it is, it must be made to be an issue predominantly affecting women. The whole world in chaos from the brewsky bug? Here’s how women are most affected. Let me count the ways. One, two, double-fart and shart.
One could almost believe it to be a tactic of diversion; to flood the stream of information with all these horrible issues affecting women that must be fixed and mended, in order to drown out the voices of men.
And so, the silent majority, who don’t delve into this and who don’t really care much about it either way, swallow the news and swallow the stories and go on their merry way; of course I support feminism – I support equality, I support women – hell; my wife can do whatever she wants, I have always supported her choices, so I must be a feminist… and on and on.
And the coffee-shop feminists flood the vile corners of the internet where men congregate to hate on women; plotting the downfall of women in order to rape, ravage, ruin and so-and-such, with the same old sentiments that we are all so accustomed to and most likely bored to death by: that is not real feminism, feminism is about equality.
And none of these supposedly real feminists have any idea or any inkling about what rules, laws and regulations the mighty, influential, powerful feminists have put in place that directly damages boys and men; that ignores them and revels in their plight.
When I talk about my experiences in schools and in education, I am telling the truth. I am telling my lived experience.
What happens under the radiant stare of feminist ideologues masquerading as teachers, set loose upon the unsuspecting troops of children there to learn is not a just, decent, equal or good thing.
In school, I was routinely told of the immaturity of boys by teachers – one in particular; the violent nature of boys and men and the oppression of girls and women which we so terribly maintained through being boys and becoming men.
Our sexuality was base, primal, raw, impulsive and violent. And so too was our rough-housing, our way of playing.
As opposed to the clean, gorgeous, saintly and beautiful morality and sexuality of girls and women; as opposed to the ordered and calm playtime of the girls.
Time and again, this was told and presented. Anytime there was an opportunity to highlight girls and bring down boys, it was well spent and well worn.
And come teenage years and puberty, plenty girls in class and in school became ardent followers of feminism, fighting tooth and nail against the patriarchy and the oppressive nature of men… and boys. What else could they possibly become? They had been taught that they were oppressed. Despite being allowed to protest and speak and all that other stuff; cheered on by teachers and such.
Very strange and peculiar, that. But no matter: the patriarchy works in mysterious ways.
One of their “causes” I remember, was complaining that a male doctor earned more than a female nurse. This is ridiculous, but, again: no matter. It is feminism, after all.
I also remember one of them chewing me out on my birthday because my birthday just happens to fall on the international day of the master-sex. Grand and glorious, no doubt. My celebration of my birthday distracted from the horrible plight of women. And so goes the worm, burrowing into the minds of those susceptible to indoctrination. Because that is exactly what it is.
Of course; I can not blame teenagers for acting like immature teenagers. Goodness gracious me. However: when still acting like a teenager when one is in ones thirties, one might take a look at growing up and reaching some level of emotional and intellectual maturity.
The letter of the Norwegian law states about equality that it’s main focus is to help women and other minorities. For this is equality. And, of course, proof proper that women are oppressed and discriminated against ever so much.
Why else would the law state this?
The law quite clearly proves that boys and men are – by law – discriminated against, but that don’t matter much in the double-speak days of this dreary dusty daze.
Boys and men need not apply. To anything.
And we do so with gusto, given how many boys and men drop out completely. We surely do not apply. We do not partake.
We become bruised and beat and battered, forgotten and neglected and forlorn… completely lost and cast adrift. What Warren Farrel has dubbed “the boy crisis”.
What we suffer, struggle through and experience is of little matter and no relevance. Me too was only about women. This the few men who dared take part and tell their stories were told. Men must make their own social media malarkey. For the stories of men is only anecdotal, despite lived experience in itself being purely anecdotal; despite the whole of the me too nonsense being highly anecdotal. The stories of men are only told to distract from women, foul diversions cast by even fouler men.
But that’s the way of it – women’s anecdotal experience is to be believed and seen as part of a whole, where men’s anecdotal experience is to be seen on a case-by-case basis, then dismissed, then ridiculed, then thrown away like lies and bullshit…
And this ought to be changed.
And this must be changed.
And that is, as stated, a matter of perspective.
A matter of the male perspective; not a female perspective, not a feminist perspective, but the male perspective. The male experience. That is what I wish for; what I fight for – if you will allow me some rather dramatic language. I would rather not have to fight this fight, but that’s how it goes.
The “right” to be heard without being dismissed from up high as this or as that or the other; without being treated like David Copperfield asking “Please, sir, could I have some more?”
The right to object to feminism without being labelled this and that, accused of hate-speech and so summarily cancelled, cast out of the this and the that. Hell; I’d be happy to just be able to enjoy a beer outside without being accused of oppressing my wife… as actually has happened. Or, you know – be able to study without being accused of the same. As also have happened. Apparently, since this is something that repeats and repeats and repeats, this is impossible to do, if male.
Granted, to claim the “right” to be heard without being dismissed or ridiculed is a ridiculous right to claim. What I mean by this, you see, is the right to be heard by the fucking government, whose salaries are very much paid by our taxes.
See: I have contacted the Norwegian department of equality – there to fix all in matters of muh discrimination – several times regarding fairly obvious discrimination of boys and of men, and have been dismissed each and every time. The last time, they told me to not contact them again. Which is interesting.
And a wee bit terrifying.
The department of equality is not a department of equality. It is a department for women, mainly ran by women. They don’t follow their own rules about gender representation in the workplace. There’s too many women there according to the gender-qouta nonsense, in actuality. They don’t follow their own rules.
But, no matter, I will be contacting them once more soon enough about yet another case of obvious gendered discrimination. And I expect to be dismissed again.
It would be very nice to see some actual attempts at working on male-specific issues from the powers-that-be. From a perspective that is not feminist. For the feminist perspective states only that men must change.
Women struggle, society must change.
Men struggle, men must change.
That pipe-dream of mine will never happen as long as the feminist influence is such as it is. Feminism plays a zero-sum game.
I, for my part, only wish for the voices of men to be heard amongst all the clamour. For not all is milk and honey in the land of men, and the causes and the reasons and the solutions… all of this is more complex and more convoluted than can be explained by any system, no matter how complex and how marinated and steeped in ideas, be that the so-called red pill philosophy or feminism, be that traditionalism or progressivism, conservatism or liberalism… Any set of ideas that attempt to easily define complex systems have its own peculiar flaws.
At the end of the day, it is not group identity that defines us; it is not random chances of birth; haphazard chromosome-dances or genetic fluctuations. What defines us is our humanity, our personality, our psychology, our unique individuality.
What makes us us is our stories and our experiences.
And those stories and those experiences I wish to be told and shared and spread around. For we are all a product of what has happened; a product of our stories and our experiences and our lives.
The common man’s experience. Those matter.
Not dusty, dry and dreary academes with high-and-mighty hoity-toity ideas, with heads so far up the clouds that their feet forgot how to touch the ground… or with heads so far up their arse they believe their farts to be gusts of inspiration… not putrid politicians whose fingernails have never had dirt beneath them; whose main preoccupation is the harvesting of votes and the continuation of their careers… who will do and say anything to gain the majority vote… which just so happens to be the female vote.
Not billionaires or celebrities who lost touch with the real world decades ago… who believe everyone to be part of the same bubble as they, saying in all but these exact words: “let them eat cake”.
Common everyday men whose lives are as common lives are; trying to get by, trying to feed himself, trying to care for those closest to him. Those whom he loves. Whom he is told that he oppress and abuse and neglect, no matter what he does. For the goalposts are always and ever moving, and it can never be good enough as long as they are allowed to be kept moving.
We have paid tribute and deference to feminism for so long that feminism has become nigh-invincible, has become untouchable, unquenchable, almost illegal to criticize.
If so-called “misogyny” becomes illegal, as they try to achieve in Great Britain, you can bet your balls and shaft and all that feminism will become illegal to criticize… after all, none but feminism gets to decide what constitutes misogyny.
Or equality.
Or women’s issues.
Or men’s issues.
Or masculinity.
Or femininity.
Or whatever else that matters, for that matter.
This is an amount of power no movement should ever achieve, no -ism should ever wield. Particularly not one who proposes to be an oppressed and marginalized voice, oppressed and marginalized by the remaining half of the global population, no less.
I have stated before, and I will state it again: I do not believe men to be oppressed. That is not the word I would use. I would not use this word for women either. Neither here, nor there.
The eternal dance done between men and women is not one of oppression and abuse, I wholeheartedly believe, but one of cooperation and trust; of each doing for the other in order to survive.
A pact and an agreement… unwritten rules made out of necessity in order that we should survive as a species.
An agreement where, now – due to feminist influence – the female part is absolved but the male part remains; to be a provider and a protector. Liberation from gender-norms is just for women. Though it is claimed to be for men as well, the #heforshe nonsense disproved that. For what is #heforshe but no more and no less than what men have always done? To provide and to protect. With an emphasis on protect.
No.
Men are not oppressed to my eyes.
Not by women, not by feminism and not by society.
No more or no less than any other group. We are, however neglected; our stories ignored and our troubles dismissed. We are disposable, expendable and all-too-much dependable. We are forgotten and we are cast adrift. For all that matters is to help women and to listen to women. And that must change. Otherwise, the whole fucking thing will explode.
And I don’t much wish for that.
And that was that, guys. I will be taking a fairly long break from writing and rambling now, in order to care for my daughter and in order to bask in the rays of fatherhood, sleep-deprivation and exhaustion included. I don’t know when I will be back to rambling as per usual, though I may update on occasion as time and duty allows. Of course, I will pop in to shill my highly professional self-published books. Though this goes without saying. What kind of writer would I be, if I did not attempt – at every single moment – to sell my hate-speech wares to those unfortunate enough to fall into my web of tricksy words?
Until then: take it easy. I’ll catch you next time.
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Moiret Allegiere, 16.01.2021
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(AN: I’ll be taking a break until some time in January, Happy holidays, and I’ll catch you next year!)
In the previous part of this ramble, I mentioned my own experience with a miscarriage. Our experience, I should say of course. Yet – I will focus here on my thoughts on it and my experience with it. It is not my place to share what my wife thought about it and how she reacted to it. I respect her too much to do that. Her feelings and experiences on the matter are her own. Suffice it to say that it was a harrowing experience for the both of us. For this reason, it becomes my experience.
I mentioned it, and will talk about it here, for the very simple reason that it really got me thinking about men’s absolute lack of any reproductive rights. My reasoning for this will be made abundantly clear later on.
I will not bore you with the gruesome, gory details. There is no reason for that.
It all began when my wife started bleeding.
Getting a trip to the hospital in order for my wife to get checked out once she started bleeding turned out to be remarkably difficult. For three whole days she bled, before any professional medical help was made available. This despite frequent calls to the hospital, to immediate care and to her doctor. This I only mention for the absurdity of it… one should think that a possible miscarriage would be considered important enough to warrant immediate action. Guess not. What the hell they were smoking, I have no idea. I can only deduce that the bastards were too busy dipping into the hospitals supply of prescription medication to do their bloody job. The potential loss of an unborn child ought to be considered important enough for them to get their heads out of the medicine cabinet for long enough to do what they are supposed to be doing. I could go on a long and phenomenal rant about our supposedly “great” and “fantastic” health-care system, but that would be digressing too much. This experience with the health-care system, coupled with other experiences of my own that has nothing to do with anything related to reproduction, has given me an opinion of the thing that is not exactly good. To be fair, though – this is not blaming the people who work in health-care. Excepting psychiatry, I have – with one exception – never had anything but positive experiences with the people working in health-care, be they doctors or nurses. It is blaming the system put in place by our putrid and pestilent politicians.
Now – we were very much looking forward to becoming parents; laying plans to move to a bigger place, how to wrap our somewhat strained economic situation around being fresh-faced parents, sharing our hopes, our dreams, our fears and any other thoughts that would arise from this gargantuan, severe, and very much welcome, change in our lives. It was a planned pregnancy through and through, as we had not that long ago decided that the time was ripe for us to throw our respective genes into the great blender of life to see what comes out the other side. Fare thee well, loose and irresponsible existence, (not really, but it serves as a great dramatic phrase), welcome responsible living. In other words: it was incredibly exciting. A source of great joy for us both.
Until that great joy was shattered by the aforementioned bleeding, which is not exactly a good thing for a woman to have happen during pregnancy. After the three days of trying to get help passed, we were finally able to get some medical assistance… on the fourth day. And so my wife turned up at the hospital for the screenings and the ultrasound and the checking-outs, only to learn that the foetus had died quite some time – probably weeks – before the bleeding began. This was a so-called “missed abortion”. Meaning, if I have understood it correctly, that her body had not registered it for what it was when it happened, and so did not expel the “clump of cells”. Of course, this added another layer of shock and disbelief to an experience that was already filled with shock and disbelief. Shock and disbelief at both losing our child and the lack of care from the health-care system.
What remained of the foetus had to be removed by, quite bluntly, kick-starting the abortion with pills. This my wife opted to do at home. These gory details, I shall spare you.
What happened next made the thing very real, and the thoughts and the feelings; the grief and the pain surrounding this became very real indeed. I find it very difficult to write about… my thoughts straying away from the topic at hand with gusto; my mind seeking to not relive it, but to leave it in the past where it belongs. Still: I consider the grief I experienced during this, and for a fairly long time after this, to be of such importance that it has to be shared… if only to make a point, which will be made clear at the end of this ramble. At least I hope it will be made clear. It is an interesting thing for me to observe, this reluctance I have – probably unconscious – of telling this story. Usually, I experience very few problems and hurdles when writing.
Writer’s block, as it is so delightfully called, is something that happens to other people. This should, I suppose, be made evident by how often I post. Usually, I am two or three weeks ahead of my schedule. Now, this is not to say that all my ramblings hold the same level of quality. Some are better than others. However: I have never posted anything which I disapproved of; never published anything I don’t consider worthy of publishing. Other people, I suppose, will probably disagree with this. Which is all fine and dandy.
Yet now, writing about this devastating experience, I find that whatever force that exist inside me; whatever force that flows from my fractured consciousness, be that a conscious or unconscious flow; whatever force that bleeds through my fingers onto the keyboard and the screen in front of me have taken to stuttering, stumbling and struggling something fierce… like that kid I was way back when, in school, when holding presentations for the class; a terrifying thing that rendered me tongue-tied, sweaty and awkward every time I so much as thought about doing it, let alone did it. (I am not a people-person by any stretch of the imagination). It is, I find, incredibly difficult to put into concrete and definite words the thoughts and emotions I struggled through during this experience. Which is fitting, of course. It was an incredibly difficult experience. Harrowing, even. And so it is incredibly difficult to write about. Particularly so when writing about it may make it seem as though I am trying to score cheap points and random internet-clicks on a personal tragedy; using it for my own gain. It is with some reluctance that I write about this, just as it was with some reluctance that I began writing about all this MRA-stuff at all. There are other things I would rather write about, but this MRA-stuff seems to me to be the most important thing to talk about in this day and age; the most neglected thing at this precise moment in time. I hope it turns, and it does seem – at times – as though the tides are ever so slightly turning. Only time will tell, I suppose. I believe that we in this men’s rights thing are the progenitors of something great; that we are standing at the threshold of remarkable change and that the history books, if nothing else, will be kind to us. This is in the long run, obviously. For now, the powers-that-be are not kind to us, dastardly crew of rag-tag rogues, rascals and rebels that we are.
Anyhow, and introspective musings aside, the task at hand must be completed. The sense of grief and of loss at this harrowing experience was felt as a tactile sensation. The moment I received the news about what had actually happened, it felt as though I was sucker-punched by a big brute of a bastard direct in my solar plexus. I found breathing to be difficult; my mouth dried up and my throat clenched up. All the hallmarks of a classic panic-attack, though with a tangible external reason.
Then came the grief; the thoughts on what could have been, had only the foetus survived. I had experienced what I can only refer to as visions when once the pregnancy was confirmed; visions of my future as a father, of our new life as mother and father… I envisioned camping trips, hikes in the woods, playtime and bed-time readings… sentimental as it of course is, I envisioned us all; me, wife, baby, our two dogs, snuggled up on the sofa with a fire burning in the fireplace and other such niceties which, all sentimentality aside, remains a remarkably potent force when it comes to cleaning up and removing any fears about the trials and tribulations that come with being a first-time parent. These visions… all these hopes and dreams removed and wiped away opened the floodgates and gave room for a grief so profound, so deep and so terrifyingly real, that I can say with absolute certainty that I had never before experienced anything as devastating as this. Which is a remarkably strange reaction to losing something that is considered to be nothing but a “clump of cells”…
As time passed, so too did the grief pass. With slow ticks and even slower tocks, the healing process was nearing completion. It was dark times; a long and gloomy night… the long, dark teatime of the soul. Again.
Yet, it passed, as all things eventually pass if one opens up and makes room for healing… if one allows oneself to not be stuck perpetually in grief.
In the process of healing, I found room to think. And what I found in this dark and devastating teatime of the soul was even darker and – potentially – more devastating. My wife, requiring no input from me, could have terminated this pregnancy at her wish and will and fancy, should she have wished to do so. She could have had an abortion without requiring my consent to do so, thus throwing me head first into these deep, dark and murky waters of grief, all with the blessings of the government as well as society overall.
This is an incredible, incredulous, amazing amount of power that women have over men. A power that has no counterpart, that has no equal. When it comes to children, men are completely at the mercy of women and the state. And it is so strange to me, so remarkably peculiar, that men who abandon their children, (no doubt far fewer in numbers than our present-day mythology would have us believe, just as women who engage in parental alienation are far more frequent than our present-day mythology would have us believe), are considered as deadbeats, as irresponsible, as this and that and the other… whereas women who terminate their pregnancies – in essence killing not only her child, but the child of the father as well – well, now, that is her right and she should be free to do so. He should have no say in it, just as he should have no possibility to opt out of becoming a father. He is completely at her mercy. He has no rights. Does this seem fair to you? It does not seem fair to me.
(Sidenote: To give an idea of the Norwegian government and its views on abortion-rights: Poland recently banned abortions. One of our political parties, putrid and pestilent as they are, proposed that Norway should make it so that Polish women could travel to Norway in order to get an abortion… all paid for by the state, that is to say: our taxes. Why they should be granted this luxury, having presumably not paid any taxes to Norway that would afford them that privilege, remains an elusive mystery to me… This is particularly insulting to me, on a personal and – probably slightly spiteful – level, as I have to pay through the nose for the pain-killers which I use to combat the severe and debilitating pain I live with every day as a result of a chronic pain condition. Yet Polish women should be granted free abortions by us as though it is nothing? This does not seem fair to me.)
Now, I know my wife well enough (14 years will do that) to know that she would not willingly and knowingly put me through such an ordeal. Every choice we have made have been a shared choice. Yet – she has the power to do this, should she wish to do so. Just as every woman out there has the power to do this, to place such a burden of grief upon the shoulders of every man out there.
I recall, with fondness and with gratitude, the support which both my wife and myself received from family and friends during this moment of grief. It was substantial and it was appreciated. Still is, in honesty. Yet, I can not help but wonder if I would have received such understanding; such an outpouring of support, had my wife elected to terminate the pregnancy without my knowledge or consent… were it only I that lost something which I did not want to lose, I wonder if the support would have been the same, or if I would have been left to fend for myself, receiving little understanding, little empathy, as to why I felt such a sensation of grief. The question, of course, is rhetorical. Hopefully and most probably, I shall never learn the answer to it.
Had my wife done something like this; terminated the pregnancy without me having any say, or sway, or knowledge of it… I doubt that I would be able to forgive her. I would have experienced it as a severe… as an unjustifiable trespass; as her stomping on my feelings and – as such – on our relationship. And, I fear, no-one would have supported me or understood the reasons for the anger, grief and (most likely) resentment that would have resulted from it.
As it stands, I am very happy to report that we are now expecting a baby girl – our very own “shield-maiden of the patriarchy”, if you will allow a silly little joke – early next year. This, of course, will render me a de-facto patriarch; founder of my very own (he-he) clan. This time, the pregnancy appears to be going just as it should. And I am very excited about the prospect of becoming a father. This, inevitably, means that I will have to take some time away from my ramblings next year… a paternal leave, if you will. But that is just how it has to be. I will, of course, return when things have settled and I am used to the new daily routines that fatherhood inevitably carries with it, to carry on rambling into the void and into the ether. Writing, raving, rambling and ranting is in my blood, and I can’t not do it.
Just as my sense of justice – of what is right and wrong – is a tangible sensation, felt pressing at the point between my eyes. Even when the rewards of rambling about what I ramble about are few and far between, it remains to me a harsh necessity in a grim and unjust world.
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Moiret Allegiere, 12.12.2020
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So there I stood outside in the pouring rain, cold winds of late November digging through my clothing and clawing through my skin, all the way to the bone. Breathless, I gazed at the chaos surrounding me; the debris and the detritus and the destruction that followed in the wake of the gargantuan task at hand. Rain soaked through my clothes. I was drenched to the bone. It was getting very cold, and I was getting rather tired.
I had been engaged in the same task for about a week at that point: rough, tough and heavy manual labour; sawing down trees and sawing them up even further, to guarantee next years supply of firewood. Three to six hours a day. I’m still not done, of course.
This is all done with a hand-saw, I might add. No fancy chainsaws for this bearded bard, whose approach to manual labour apparently reside in the backwater eras of time, where neither electricity nor fossil fuels existed to power engines. How’s that for being reactionary?
As one might well suspect, not using a chainsaw is my own choice. So I can’t complain overmuch about that. The exercise and muscle-gain from doing this manually far outweighs the muscle-fatigue and subsequent increase in these god-damned chronic pains of mine. Given time, it is sure to help me with the chronic pains. As long as I manage to keep going when the going gets tough. It is, in short, good for me. Even if I must admit that it sure as hammered hell don’t feel like it at this moment, as my body is screaming in pain and the mind has retreated; hiding somewhere in the sinuses, attempting to escape the inevitable… namely carrying on with the task as soon as I am done writing this particular ramble. The ramble took longer than I thought it would. It is now, at the moment, a week since I began rambling. Somewhat surprising, really. Then again: preparing for fatherhood does take quite a lot of time and energy, so maybe not all that surprising when all is said and done.
The firewood is stored in a rather impromptu storing-unit which I built myself using wood from the trees I had only just felled. Not exactly an overly artistic, or particularly clever, piece of architectural design. It sure as hell won’t win any engineering prizes. It gets the job done and so it functions as advertised. That’s about all it does and that’s about all that matters. It was also rather fun to build. All the materials was cut down and collected by myself, so it was a rewarding experience. There is no shame, I believe, in taking pride in ones work. Quite the contrary – I believe it is of great value and even greater importance.
Despite the temperature outside now being exactly what one would expect of the temperatures of early December in Norway, I am looking forward to going outside and carrying on with it. Writing this honestly feels like wasting time. Which it of course isn’t, yet manual labour is sure as hell underrated. Particularly so when one gets a good flow in it.
Alas: there’s little that can be done when it’s as dark outside as it is. That’s what waking in the wee hours of the morning will get ya. I am writing this at about five in the morning, with a pot full of coffee and a head full of sleeplessness. There was precious little sleep tonight… and in order to get something constructive done before the rest of the house wakes up, this ramble seemed like a good idea. Of course, it follows my early morning ritual of relaxing and reading a bit. My, how good slow and lazy mornings are. Highly recommended, if you haven’t tried it.
But I digress. Back to the beginning of the ramble: with howling icy winds and frosty rains and all that other stuff us poor Vikings are so accustomed to over here in the frozen wastes of Norway pissing down on me, I stood thinking about muh emotional labour. (it really ain’t easy, having to think about how to do this sawing-stuff, ya know. Very hard work, that. Dangerous for my mental health, even. Not as though doing things in and around the house is expected of adults…) The government ought to reimburse me properly for doing all this work around the house. It seems only fitting, after all. Why should I do my own work in my own time for the benefit of me and my own without being reimbursed for it? It is unfair, really. Not as though the work – and the result of the work – is reward enough in itself. Hells bells, but I demand pay for taking care of my own home and growing family, god-damnit! Not to mention having to listen to my wife talk. That is such a horrible thing, obviously. If this sounds bad, I would like to point you in the direction of the silly feminist idea of emotional labour… Many are the morons whom I have read state that listening to ones male partners problems is such a hefty and thankless toil for women. For we all know, (despite the feminist insistence that the main problem of men can be traced back to the fact that they don’t open up and talk about their problems), that the main issue with men is that they can’t stop burdening their partners by talking about their problems. There is some mental disconnect here, but I’m sure that’s just coincidental. Oh well; can I tempt anyone with a fresh mug of delightedly heated male tears?
This I have learned from the full ferocious fury of feminism and its fanciful wit: domestic chores, in all their gruelling, life-destroying and soul-sucking difficulty; in all their horrible and harrowing demands, are considered to be amongst the worst things ever. It’s literally fascism, Nazism and misogyny with a side-helping of domestic violence and probably some white supremacy, why not.
Supposedly, all these demanding and debilitating domestic duties are a burden heaped upon the shoulders of women, beasts of burden as they so obviously are, poor things. And so it follows that taking care of ones own home is something one ought to be paid for. Preferably by big daddy government. If one just so happen to be a woman. I see no reason why this should not also extend to the chores done by men, but, ya know – men don’t do no domestic work worth talking about. Except doing most of the hard, heavy, physical out-doorsy stuff like mowing the lawn, preparing firewood, various repairs in-and-around the house, raking leaves, shovelling snow, building and maintaining this and that and the other, changing the tires on the cars, etc. etc. (Not to mention any-and-all to do with hooking up electronics… I still have nightmares from rigging up our surround-sound system; oh, the dubious and strange horror of it all!)
Yet, for some reason these are never counted as proper domestic chores. Only the traditionally female chores are to be counted as that. Such as cooking, cleaning, doing the laundry and similar safe inside-stuff.
Gee, I wonder why.
Might have something to do with the fact that it would quite possibly prove the feminist assertions about women bearing the brunt of the domestic chores wrong.
It might actually disprove the silly notion that women are domestic slaves, bound to the wish and the will of the all-mighty patriarchy and their terrible footsoldiers in the guise of their oppressive-as-fuck husbands or partners.
It might, in truth and in fact, bring up something which would be quite bothersome to the prevailing narrative as presented to us by bored feminists with an ability to bitch and moan and complain about trivialities that by far exceed their ability to do some actual god-damned honest work.
It might, when all comes into its all, show that men do far more of the domestic duties than the dominant discourse would have us believe.
Why, one could almost be tempted to believe that the domestic duties are split fairly evenly based on some biological differences like the always pesky differences in upper body strength. Somehow, this difference in upper body strength makes it easier for men to do the heavier and harder stuff. This is clearly unbelievable. Nothing but a patriarchal smokescreen; a lie concocted in order to chain women to the kitchen and to the washing-machines and other such domestic duties of a dreary, tyrannical and destructive nature.
It might, in actuality, show that maybe men do more of the domestic chores and duties than what we have been presented. (It is not women that are given to-do lists or honey-do lists by men. Quite the opposite, in fact. Just saying. Women can demand men do, men can not – under any circumstances – demand that women do. This don’t count as domestic duties, nor as demands of course – they are nothing but simple requests. Besides: men must take responsibility and keep their home in working order. By the way: I have only ever received one “honey-do list” myself. It tells me to grab a beer and relax. In that order. I am perfectly fine with that.)
Observation shows me that every time the domestic duties of men – the things mentioned above – are brought up as an argument against the nonsensical wailing that women do everything of that horrible domestic stuff like cleaning and cooking, the results are usually the same; the counter-arguments always as inane: “these are not things done everyday!” Which is true, on the face of it. One does not prepare firewood every day of the year. Nor does one shovel snow or rake leaves every day of the year. Or mow the lawn. The seasons dictate that this is rather difficult to do every day of the year. Still, there is always something that needs to be done every day of every season of every year. Besides, it is not really comparable to loading the dishwasher and folding laundry, extremely physically demanding and emotionally taxing work as it so clearly is.
The work which men tend to do outside of the home are often more physically demanding. Men also tend to work longer hours and less part-time than women do. With this knowledge, one would not be amiss in believing that men tend to be more tired, drained and – dare I even say exhausted – when the workday is done. Besides, it is really not all that strange that the one who opts to stay at home following childbirth, for example, is also the one expected to do the brunt of the housework whilst the other party is out working. This is usually women. Gee, I wonder why. Probably patriarchy. Because of course it is. Still – some men become stay-at-home dads. I would of course expect the same from them. Even though men who opt to stay at home and not work are often painted and presented as lazy freeloading bastards, living of the work of the woman, whilst women opting to stay at home and not work are considered to be domestic slaves; imprisoned women never reaching their full potential; forced into domestic servitude by the horrors of her tyrannical partner and the terrible patriarchal society which we live in. Odd and peculiar that.
I once lived with a woman who complained because I didn’t fold the laundry – particularly the fucking socks – properly. “Properly” meant nothing more and nothing less than how she folded it. The fact that there are more than one way to do something did not factor into it, for some odd reason. It weren’t as though I just rolled it all into a ball and threw it into a corner of the room, to lay there and be forgotten. I did fold it such as I had learned to fold it. This, however, was not good enough. Because it wasn’t how she did it. So, every single god-damned time I folded the damned laundry, she went ahead and redid all of it.
You can probably see where this is going.
Eventually, I just stopped folding the damned laundry and let her do it, since she always redid it anyway. Why should I worry about that fucking stuff, when all I got was complaints, followed by her redoing it? Logic clearly dictated that she should be free to do it exactly as she saw fit. What followed, after a few weeks of this, was her complaining that I never folded the laundry. As one would expect. I told the truth of why I stopped folding the bloody laundry, and was told that all I had to do was to learn how she did it. This was clearly the superior way of folding the fucking laundry. Particularly those motherfucking socks. I tried telling her that there are more than one way of doing something, and that it would cost far more energy for me to learn a new way of doing something than it would cost for her to just accept that her way was not the only way; that sometimes people do things differently to her. It did not compute. The relationship did not last. Probably not due to the laundry-folding debacle, but who the hell knows, right?
At the very least, I learned something from the experience. Women make more of a fuss over the housework than men do. Quite often, it is their way or the highway. If things are not up to snuff, such as women consider it, they will redo it, only then to complain that men don’t do enough of the housework. This instead of accepting that there are multiple ways of doing something; that perfection is not necessary and that something is cleaned when it is cleaned. Not everything has to be done according to the whims of the great matriarch. I would think it rather selfish, actually, to demand things be done exactly as one self does it. As long as it is done to a satisfactory manner, that should be good enough. More often than not, it is done to a satisfactory manner. It’s just done in a different manner. That, of course, is heresy. It seems to me that many women quite simply mistake efficiency when doing chores for sloppiness when doing chores. Just because something takes less time when done by someone else does not mean that it is done in a lazy and sloppy manner. It means that it is done in a different manner. Because there are more than one way of doing things.
Doing the domestic chores should be reward enough in itself. Having a clean home, having clean clothes, having warm food, having firewood, having a garden free of weeds, etcetera, is its own reward. I believe it is wise that one takes pride in ones work, be that outside or inside the home; at work or at home. There is no shame in that. And one should enjoy being in a clean house where the work that needs to be done is done. That ought to be reward enough for domestic chores.
Adult human beings are expected to be able to care for themselves. Shocking, I know. This includes domestic chores, dull and boring and monotonous as they may very well be. The older I get, though, the more I come to appreciate the mundane. Cleaning can quite easily turn into a profound – I would even dare say meditative – task, where one is engaged in the same thing that one has been doing for years on end, free to let the mind wander and think about other stuff on account of the mundane tasks being something one is so accustomed to that it is done almost automatically. Though I admit that I much prefer the heavier, harder, more physically demanding tasks – the traditionally male chores – to that of cleaning and especially cooking (I am not a good chef, not by any stretch of the imagination), I think cleaning is not without its merits where the profundity of the mundane is concerned.
A lot of the problems in our societies of today, I believe, can be traced back to automation and the boredom that follows. Everything, with a few exceptions, is automated. The laundry is no longer done by hand. We have dishwashers. We have self-cleaning ovens. Automated heating. Ready-made meals that only require heating for a few minutes, if that. We have all these conveniences of the modern age.
What used to take a long time to do is over and done with in a matter of minutes. Just about every morning, for example, since I get up way before the rest of the house, I clean the kitchen. Which means that I put stuff in the dishwasher, hand-wash what few items we have that are not dishwasher-safe and wash the kitchen-counter, as well as sharpening our kitchen-knife. At worst, this takes thirty minutes of my day. Usually, it takes about ten minutes. Not exactly a gruelling, life-devouring task. I also make sure that our dogs dishes are filled with food and water. The same holds true for laundry. That is the domain of my wife, for the most part. And is done much in the same way – automated, over and done with fairly quick.
When everything is as automated as it is, one is left with quite a lot of free time… more than enough time to think and to ponder and to consider. Or, failing that, more than enough time to be bored to death. Boredom, I have come to understand, is a product of immaturity more than anything else. A mature mind may very easily find a way to entertain itself; to keep both mind and body busy. Keeping busy and keeping oneself occupied is important. Also: in our day and age, one should be hard pressed indeed to not find a source of entertainment. Yet, that is not good enough for some people. It is way more important to conjure forth complaints from the hallowed realm of the petty grievance, and as such manufacture some drama in order to break the mundane dullness of every-day life; the void of purposelessness that stares one in the face. This easily happens when there is so much free time to use and to spend as one sees fit.
Keeping busy keeps depression at bay and it occupies the mind and it occupies the body. When someone is incapable of finding something to do; something to occupy their time, boredom inevitably follows if one has not taught oneself how to entertain oneself, leading the way to overblown resentment; amplifying petty grievances and other such naughty little things that may well be detrimental to ones mental health. I doubt social media helps in any way, shape or form. One might easily become pre-occupied with finding a steady stream of petty little items of annoyance in an attempt to find someone to blame for something within that don’t feel quite right. All amplified by people of a similar ilk on social media. One is in great need of a scapegoat, after all. It’s only human. Working on oneself is such a chore and such a bother. That is something only men are commanded to do, no matter how ridiculous or how unfair it is. Far better to externalize all grief and guilt and shame and boredom and whatever else; far better to move the locus of control from the internal to the external and blame everything and everyone but oneself.
And so women may blame their male partners for all the this and that on a small scale; the boredom of being a home-maker in an age where just about everything is automated – a luxury, really – becomes a position of prime enslavement. On a broader scale, our feminist society just up and blame men in general for not doing enough in and around the house, despite doing their fair share and then some – if the out-doorsy stuff; if the building and maintaining stuff; if the repairing stuff; if the hooking up of electronics stuff and so and such is present and accounted for. Why not just blame men in general for various other petty and overblown grievances while we’re at it. Hells bells, but life is so easy (relative to the past, and especially in the West) in the here-and-now that difficulties must be manufactured. For fuck sake, there must be something to complain about and there must be someone to blame for the complaints which are amplified and manufactured to an obscene degree. Why? Life without drama is so boring, ya know.
In places where life every day is a genuine struggle for survival; where every day is a rather difficult day; where the work-life balance is not such as it is in more developed places… in places where all day every day is filled with some task to do or other… do you honestly expect to find petty, imagined and ridiculously overblown grievances such as mansplaining, manspreading, manterrupting, manslamming and other such nonsense given front-page coverage on the news?
It seems rather obvious to me that such silliness as the above is a product of immature minds bored to death from having nothing to do; of people who struggle to find some purpose and something to do. People who, quite simply, can not for the life of them figure out a way to occupy themselves. People who have been sheltered and catered to for most of their lives; whose view of themselves and their opinions is such that it has never been challenged before, be that by themselves or by other people. Our present era is depraved and decadent, and we are dull and we are bored and we are hooked on the immediate satisfaction; hooked on everything being instantaneous. If something takes more than five minutes to do or have done, we freak out and we lash out.
When most of ones needs are taken care of; when most of the chores are automated; when most of ones time is free time, is down time, is boring time… petty, small, manufactured and maybe even completely made-up, imagined, miniscule issues becomes bloated, overblown and gigantic issues that must take centre-stage. Lacking in concentration and lacking in patience and lacking in the ability to just be and to just let be. I can not be the only one who find it remarkable that the popular battle-cry of this day and age is one that demands the government intervene in everything; that personal life must be dictated and controlled by governmental policy… up to and including demanding payment for doing domestic chores. But that ought to be a different ramble – this has gone on for far too long already.
One could always just relax and take it easy, keep oneself occupied and find something constructive to do. Maybe rest on ones laurels for a little while. Enjoy life for once, without digging up miniscule issues to distract oneself – as well as society at large – from larger issues. Feminism is profoundly talented in this regard; manufacturing issues in order to stay relevant so that this tangled mess that is our societies do not turn around and pay service to the problems, issues and lives of men in general.
However; taking it easy, being grateful, learning how to keep occupied, understanding that adult life is marked by obligations and chores and duties and other such things would require some honest-to-god gratitude and some decent maturity, amongst other things. And where’s the fun in that?
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Moiret Allegiere, 09.12.2020
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In the previous part of this ramble, I promised you a rather amusing anecdote. I might have told it before, but it is such a great story that I felt like re-telling it. Besides, it will be slightly more fleshed out and – hopefully – way more entertaining this time around.
It all happened in the long gone and far away year of 2018. A feminist woman in her 50’s shared a news article to Facebook wherein it was written that a certain political party in Norway considered allowing for men to sign away their rights and responsibilities in case of a pregnancy. So-called paper abortions.
She commented on this with: “(political party) must have been smoking their socks.”, no doubt a very lucid take on the topic, delivered with all the self-righteous smug arrogance one expects from a feminist who, more like than not, have spent most her time in an echo chamber, having nothing but nodding heads with that dim thousand-yard stare of learned compliance and helplessness surround her. Well formed arguments are immaterial; a cheap insult is more than enough when someone is so mean and wicked as to try and open up for men to actually have some reproductive rights. So they had, of course, smoked their socks for daring to propose measures be taken to implement some actual equal rights and equal treatment in that luscious law of ours.
My wife, always the fantastically feral muckraker, commented with the following simple statement: “I actually believe the sexes should be granted equal rights”, knowing full well the can of worms this would open.
The feminist in question responded with: “That is good, (name of my wife), but let me tell you how equality actually work”. Rather condescending, wouldn’t you say? Here’s this feminist, woman-splaining, cunt-plaining and fem-sulting my wife, all in one sentence. Behaviour that, were it to come from a man towards a woman, would be dismissed as that most horrible act of “mansplaining”, the man of course to be thoroughly shamed and dragged through the streets towards the laughing stock for daring to so condescendingly explain something to a woman.
However, when it comes from a (feminist) woman, it is quite alright as my poor wife quite clearly needed to unlearn the tyrannical, patriarchal and (most likely) white supremacist notion that equal treatment means equal treatment; that equality means equality… particularly before the law.
My wife, not missing a beat, responded with more-or-less the exact same comment she just posted: “I actually believe the sexes should be granted equal rights.” A couple of guys came to the defence of my wife, flabbergasting the feminist in question even more. People disagreeing with her and her hallowed feminist approach to equality (which of course translates into privileges, rights and superiority for women and women only)?
This was an absolute outrage!
This was not how people should behave.
People were supposed to agree, blindly and without question.
Especially women. Men, of course, don’t know any better on account of being men.
But women?
How very dare she – a woman – propose that, maybe, men have been given the short end of the stick? How dare she point out one of the many areas in which women are treated favourably, be that by society or by law? How dare she point out one of the many areas in which men are treated unfairly, be that by society or by law?
It was the wonderful voice of feminism, after all. ‘
Anyone who disagrees with it must, by definition, be a vicious woman-hating bastard. Or a woman with internalized misogyny; brainwashed into servitude and such by the awesome might and influence of the patriarchy.
A discussion commenced, in which the feminist got increasingly irate and irrational, throwing out arguments that one would be familiar with if one has but a passing knowledge of the pro-lifers and anti-abortionists and their arguments. Things like “One has to be aware that sex can lead to pregnancy”, “They can keep it in their pants” and “One has to take responsibility for ones actions”.
Of course, she was all for abortion for women. Even when the arguments she used could just as well be used against abortion for women. Responsibility and accountability is a male-only trait, apparently. At least through the fever of feminist fancy. Cognitive dissonance, double standards, mental gymnastics and similar remains a predominantly feminist trait.
The guys, and my wife, kept discussing with this feminist, who in the end simply responded with the incredibly well-thought out and considered argument: “Blah!”.
A brilliant, soul-crushing argument, no doubt. There was no bouncing back from this. She was victorious; her opponents beat and bruised and bloodied, lay face-down on the battlefield of ideas… never to rise again.
The guys asked if she was, perhaps, a bit annoyed… a wee bit irritated… angry, even.
My wife just repeated what she had already said, stating yet again: “I actually believe the sexes should be treated equally”. An attempt to bring the point home, obviously.
The feminist replied that she was neither irate nor angry, neither annoyed or antagonised, thank you very much, she was just tired of discussion.
She then proceeded to promptly delete the entire thread, wiping away any and all evidence that she had made a complete and utter fool of herself. Her arguments did not stand up to scrutiny, nor were they thought through. This much was glaringly obvious, as she was completely incapable of arguing her case when met with actual arguments to the contrary of her conniving conviction. Insults flew and tantrums were thrown, but arguments were lacking. And when there were arguments to support her case, they were – as I just mentioned – nothing but well known pro-life arguments. Albeit with a focus on male responsibility.
Her reaction to both the article and the ensuing discussion was evidently an immediate and purely emotional reaction, with no thought or reason behind it. She was completely incapable of seeing that her arguments could just as easily, with the same rationale, be used against abortion for women. That they, in fact, are used against abortion for women.
Until, of course, it was pointed out to her, in part prompting the aforementioned brilliant argument of “Blah!”, and the subsequent deletion of the thread.
Immediate outrage is as immediate outrage does. Reason does not factor into it. Merely an immediate emotional reaction to a proposal that men should be, perhaps, granted reproductive rights similar or equal (within the limits of our different biologies, obviously) to those enjoyed by women. It is only fair, after all.
This proposal was reacted to by vile vitriol and calls for responsibility on part of men, from someone who supposedly champions a movement there to fight for equality between men and women, and the rest of the seven thousand genders that either exist or don’t exist, depending on what argument is needed to be made.
Where women have rights, where women demand rights, men have responsibilities. When men fight for these very same rights, women see no qualms in shaming them for their supposed irresponsible nature… even when championing women’s rights to free themselves of the very same responsibility which men need to take… which men have no choice in taking. Women want to have their cake, and eat it too.
Just remarkable.
And so the tale came to an end, with the feminist most likely not learning anything from the incident, except, perhaps, a strengthening of her core belief in the immaturity, immorality and irresponsibility of men; the wickedness of masculinities so evident in their wish for equal treatment of the sexes… as well as getting an even firmer belief in the obvious brainwashing the pestilent patriarchal society we live within subject its poor women to.
After all: a women holding her own opinions, contrary to feminist opinion, can not exist as anything but proof of patriarchal brainwashing and societal indoctrination into subservience and obedience to men, bastards as they all are.
Add to this some typical murmurs about my wife being reactionary, being a boot-licker of the patriarchy, a pernicious pick-me, wanting to go back to a time where her existence could amount to nothing but (according to feminist revisionist history) being pregnant and barefoot in the kitchen, etcetera, and you’ve got yourself a fantastic feminist filth-sandwich to rival all other phenomenal filth-sandwiches. Women are strong, free, independent and must be listened to no matter what they say. Unless they go against the feminist dogma. Then they may well be made subject to any scorn and ridicule. Why; then they are no better than mere men, scum of the earth as they so clearly are!
To make the claim that the men’s rights movement, scattered and rag-tag as it is, as a whole is a reactionary movement is a ridiculous claim. Particularly so when such a big chunk of it fight for men’s reproductive rights… a fight that is, in fact, both radical and progressive.
Or merely fighting for men’s bodily autonomy… a luxury which we do not have, from the moment of our birth, as long as male genital mutilation of infants remain legal, accepted and common. It does not matter whether any one man is a victim of male genital mutilation or not. As long as men live within a society in which it is not only legal, but also broadly accepted, men have no bodily autonomy, no ownership over their own bodies.
The lack of bodily autonomy; of self-ownership could easily be used as an argument in regards to men’s lack of reproductive rights as well. A man must pay child-support, whether he wanted the baby or not. He must alter his life based upon a woman’s choice, no matter his wishes.
With his body, then, he does the labour needed to earn the money needed to pay the child-support. His body, his life, his future are all things over which he has no control in this – and many other – circumstances. These are all domains over which women and the state hold sway. This is an incredible amount of power for anyone to hold over anyone.
Speaking up about it, protesting it and objecting to it as a man, does little but open oneself up for shame and for ridicule; being called selfish and egotistical, irresponsible and whatever else… shaming that is considered a grave injustice, if thrown towards a woman opting for abortion. Despite it being very much the same thing – not wanting to take responsibility for a child that – more often than not – is the result of ones own choices and actions, thus choosing not to do so.
Only one party has that choice. Only one party has the power to force the other into parenthood. Remarkable, is it not? One can not force a woman into anything; be that an individual or the state or the government. That would be discrimination, that would be sexism, that would be misogyny, that would be horrible. Men, on the other hand, can be forced into whatever and asked to accept, not object, not protest… merely to take this duty, to take this responsibility alongside all the other duties and responsibilities, and carry on living with one foot firmly in the grave already.
Now, I can obviously not disagree with the fact that one has to be aware that sexual intercourse can lead to pregnancy. This is a true statement. There is no denying that.
With the plethora of options available for women, both pre-and-post-conception, however, it is difficult not to reach the conclusion that the “accidental pregnancies” often are planned “accidents”.
“Happy little accidents” happen more often than we think, I believe, through trickery and deceit. And in that case, women have all the rights and men have none. A man may be “baby-trapped”, and there’s not a damned thing he can do about it. He has no self-ownership, no course of action… only sexual abstinence or suicide.
The major part of the discussion regarding abortion – if we were to have an honest discussion, not one fuelled by feminist egotism and rhetorical trickery – should centre around when a foetus is to be considered alive. Some say at the moment of conception, others say a few weeks or months into its development. The pro-life stance has nothing to do with wanting to control women’s bodies. It has to do with believing that the foetus is a live human being, even in the womb, even early in the pregnancy. Logic then dictates abortions to be murder of a child. It follows that life, any life, should not be ended willy-nilly.
The pro-choice stance, the feminist stance, is more often than not an argument from selfishness: women’s ownership of their bodies and their lives, and thus their right to decide what happens with that body and that life… As well as the body and life of a man. But who cares about them, right? They should be aware of the possibilities for pregnancy. Like – how stupid are men, really, to not be aware that fucking can lead to pregnancy? Sigh and harumph.
A major flaw in the typical feminist, pro-choice argument arises when one comes to the (to my eyes) inevitable conclusion that the foetus is its own body, its own person, existing as more than merely an extension of the mother’s body. Not to mention – as touched upon in part one… repetition is a fairly decent way of hammering the point home – that the foetus is also built from the body of the father. He provides sperm, thus rendering the foetus a part of his genetic material, of his body; a marvellously engineered and – I would even dare state – miraculous creation of them both… a fantastic product of male and female co-operation, if ever I saw one. The father’s contribution matters remarkably little to the eyes of feminism, society, the government, the state and the law, excepting when it does… when is when he has to understand that sexual intercourse can lead to pregnancy. In other words: when he has to take responsibility for his (and hers) actions.
To the feminist mind; to the pro-choice mind, the growing baby is nothing but a clump of cells.
To my mind, this is a rather disturbing mindset.
A “parasite”, I have heard it referred to by some.
To my mind, this is a completely disturbing mindset.
Luckily, it does not seem to be a mainstream view of the thing.
I have come to the realization, after reading and watching discussions and debates on pregnancies and abortions and such, (being the anti-social observer that I so obviously am, I am fond of reading and watching debates and discussions… not in taking part), that whether or not the foetus is nothing but a clump of cells; whether the foetus is a growing and living baby, a human being, or not, depends on one thing.
That one thing is a simple one.
It depends on whether the woman wanted it or not. If she wanted it, it is a growing baby with life and potential and a future and what have you. If the woman didn’t want it, it is nothing but a clump of cells.
Pro-choicers would not grieve if experiencing a miscarriage, if it was nothing but a clump of cells. Were the foetus merely a clump of cells, a miscarriage would not be worthy of any amount of grief.
Once again, I can only reach the conclusion that the opinion of the thing depends on what is needed in the moment, not on any fixed, any constant values.
Thus, it appears to me to be a fickle and emotional thing. In other words: what feels right there and then, not this, not that, but both of them, depending on the mood at the time.
To make one thing perfectly clear: This is not an attack on pro-choicers as individuals. Not as such. They are free to have and to voice their opinions. As we all should be. What bothers me is the dishonesty of the argument, painting it as being about a woman’s ownership of her body when it so obviously is not.
Proof, perhaps, that our society cares more for women than we do for children, even babies?
Let me also state this: this is not to take anything away from the grief experienced by either parent due to miscarriage. Miscarriages, I know from personal experience, are gruesome affairs… not to be taken lightly.
I have no doubt that any expecting parent, whether pro-life or pro-choice, whether expectant mother or father, will feel this loss as something real and something significant, something substantial, and as such will grieve this loss as any parent would grieve the loss of their child.
I know this grief excruciatingly well, having experienced it myself, twice, not all that long ago. But more on that next time, for the final part of this ramble. Suffice it to repeat that I do not doubt the sincerity of their grief at all.
Still, I can not help but find it fascinating that a foetus is a clump of cells or a living human being, depending on whether or not it is wanted. Schrödinger’s baby is alive or not alive, depending on circumstance. Anything, I suppose, to distance oneself from the knowledge of what an abortion actually is; anything to remove the burden of knowing what one is about to do, or what one just did.
As is the case with the treatment of boys and men in our society, it seems that it is preferable to turn a blind eye and enter a state of denial so as not to look at the facts of the matter. If this society of ours was to take a clear and lucid look at the state of things, it would be ashamed of itself.
Things would have to be re-evaluated one after the other.
Behaviours and institutions; entire systems would have to be changed and a whole host of people would have to take a long, good and hard look at themselves, their behaviour and their treatment of other people, be that treatment undeservedly benign or undeservedly wicked… they would have to re-evaluate their way of navigating the world. This is something I find most people have a hard time doing. Introspection is not in vogue, even when calls for it (mainly on the part of men) are.
And so it is easier to not look at it, easier to deny, easier to be wilfully blind to the facts than it is to look at the facts as the facts are.
And that, my friends, is fact. At least according to my magnificent beard, and the little man that lives within it.
That concludes this section of the ramble. Please join me next week for the conclusion.
You see, your luscious Twitterati-scheme seems to me to be so very lost and so very stagnantly, so blatantly confused; your U.N-Women-thing appears to extend beyond your U.N-women-thing into the whole of your dirty U.N-thing. At a casual glance, it sure does appear as though your view on human rights… your entire attitude towards that slithering serpentine sermon of “equality” seem nothing more than perfect platitudes; a dull word that lost its meaning through its intense over-thought overuse, overanalysed in smug self-righteous sheltered shells within the agoraphobic avenues of academia; that lost its meaning when once those who stepped forth proudly and courageously as the proud champions and warriors of eternally effervescent equality engaged in active warmongering and warfare all day and every night, pitting men and women against each other… trench warfare where none but those who aim to distract from other things come out on top, engaged in the dastardly double-speak so positively popular in this decrepit day and age.
When, I should much like to know, will we see a U.N.-men to counterbalance and to counteract your gynocentric approach to human rights and to equality, where only the one matters and the other must pay the price and the cost? When will you get it into your tremendously thick and tortured tatter-heads that those bastard men, whose lives and whose suffering you seem intent on not only ignoring, but enabling, are not the ruling class, nor the oppressor class based on their junk, simply because you exclaim that this is so?
Believing in a conspiratorial fairytale you see, my lovely damsel-in-distress-U.N., does not mean that it is real and true beyond the confines of your echo-chambers where all truth is subject to the wailing whining whims of self-reported subjective suffering, so exceptionally eloquent in enduring denial and crisis maximisations as it has become.
One should, I most preposterously dare argue, believe that an institution so high and mighty as yourself would be able to understand exactly what an apex-fallacy is… yet it most certainly does not, as you make abundantly clear through your steady salty Succubus flow of vapid, vain, venomous tweets in which you always argue that women always have it worse, no matter the where and how and when of the thing… and on the day – the 19th of November – where men were supposed to have their achievements celebrated and their issues highlighted, you just had to go and make it about women don’t-cha know. For women never get high-lighted or celebrated apparently, as your filthy, bloated, decadent, arse-hat, smelly-pants, syphilitic, coprophiliac, sheltered, selfish, egotistical, fund-stealing, lying-through-your-teeth, single-celled organism will have us believe.
(Excepting when they do, which supposedly and apparently is to be all day every day all year… even as you make the claim that men are the ones celebrated and with issues highlighted all day every day all year… such brilliant projection… even on that one day where men are supposed to be celebrated and have their issues highlighted, women are to be celebrated and have their issues highlighted… you know; those male issues you so vehemently deny exist… which you, when you can no longer deny it, turn upon its head and blame it once again on men… eternal actors and agents as we are, as opposed to women who are – through the ignorant eyes of your imbecilic ideology – absolutely incapable of acting as agents in the world… mere objects to whom things just happen, why not.)
Oh, my dear U.N., how goes your tinkle-tweeting?
Oh, my dear U.N., is that you that I hear bleating?
For your illustrious illusionary ideals; your inconsistently illuminated ideology is nothing more and nothing less than what has always been, and what will ever be, with nothing altered but a fresh new coat of paint that tries – and fails – to hide the rust and rot beneath. Your glorious gargantuan gynocentric gyrating is genuinely grotesque, yet it stands as nothing but an ancient age-old chivalry; yet it stands as nothing but one more harrowing, hallowed hallmark of hallucinatory gynocentrism… an idea as old as the caves in which man lived ages past: women must be protected for the good of the tribe; for the continuation and survival of the tribe… Damselling and women-worsting, why the hell not. It’s worked so well for all of eternity, ya know.
Men, whose lives and well-being you clearly see as useless, fruitless, worthless, pointless unless their existence is to be that of providers and protectors; self-sacrificing to the extreme in order that the women (and maybe the children) shall not only live and not only survive, but that they shall thrive. Men, you make it painfully and abundantly clear, deserve neither well-being, nor life, nor praise… and especially not to thrive. Even on a day supposedly dedicated to celebrating them and to highlight those issues that are majority theirs.
Now, of course, I get it, dear, I saw it through your tweet and twatter; read it in the bylines of your burly bygone bloodletting – men exist merely to sacrifice, or to be sacrificed, upon your preciously preserved preposterous pussy-altar.
Yet, one should think it possible – one should think it probable – one should think it precious of you to put down your gicantic gynocentric gauntlet for a day and celebrate men, the achievements of men and the value of men for but one single day; to leave us one day free of your chronically constipated case of cock-a-doodle complaints; your shaming and your brow-beating… to give us this one day supposedly there to celebrate men without feeling the need to point out the one fact that all of us who have gobbled red pills are so well aware of: men can only be seen as worthy human beings through what they can do for women. The measure of a man’s worth is what he can do for women; how he can support women… nothing inside himself is of any worth or value to such high-and-mighty fuck-tards as yourself… He is not and he has not, nor shall he ever be or ever have, any value in-and-off himself. You make this abundantly clear.
Oh, my sweet U.N., how goes the wielding of your iron glove?
Oh, my sweet U.N., I suspect you mistook servitude for love.
The measure of a man’s worth, my defunct darling U.N., ought to be measured by more than what he can do for women. This is something which you clearly can not see – something which you, quite obviously and blatantly and clearly enable with your magnificent might, your insufferable inconsiderate influence…
You know; those pesky things which you yourself believe that women do not have, despite your frail and frantic faulty fragile feminist fuckery managing to slither its way into every puzzling and perplexingly powerful part of our socially suicidal societies, taking control of the reigns only to use said reigns to beat our boys into a bloody pulp of self-sacrificial simping servants, only to whip our men into compliance with your whining, wailing, weeping wish that men shall exist as nothing but a shameful soulless servant to that superior saint you made of women.
It should not be that difficult to speak but one good word about men in general, without having to point to your preposterously pestilent proposal that men’s only worth – men’s only value to the world and to society – lies in what men can do for women. In ourselves, you make it clear my dear U.N., we have no value.
For just one day, none of you so-called champions of earnest equality saw fit to celebrate men; for just one day, you could not shut up about what you so cuntishly consider to be the faults and flaws and failures of men – failures, flaws and faults which – I can not stress this enough – according to your vicious, vile and venomous view, (vividly and wide-eyedly viewed through your vague and voluminous vaginal viewpoint, without any wandering doubt on my part), come from nothing but us being born as brutish boys, later to become such malicious masculine men… a force that, through your eyes, is seen as nothing but an extreme and negative destructive force.
Let’s celebrate men on this day for men by putting men down and making it all about women, why don’t we? Just as it always is, was, ever shall be.
There was a case over here in the frozen wastes of Norway some years back, in which a man was tricked into fatherhood. Now, I am certain that there are plenty such cases that we never get to hear about. Without a doubt. But this one stuck out due to the man in question making it a case, running to the media and whoever else was willing to listen.
The guy hooked up with a woman for what he thought was a one-night stand. The woman told him that he didn’t need to wear a condom, since she was on birth-control. All fine and dandy, one supposes, until he suddenly got the news that he was out to be a father, with all the expectations of child-support and such.
Turns out she lied about being on birth-control, dishonest, lying bitch that she was. Rape by deception, anyone?
This was done on purpose.
Reason given? She wanted a baby.
That’s all the reason needed, apparently.
As expected, people in general were not sympathetic to his plight. For men, consenting to sex is consenting to parenthood. Doesn’t matter that she lied about birth-control. Doesn’t matter that her intentions were dishonest. Doesn’t matter what he wanted, wished for or whatever – she was pregnant, she had a child, and he was responsible. Even when he took her on her dishonest, lying word. Her choice, his responsibility. Such as it is, was, always shall be.
People were not kind to him. Neither understanding nor empathetic. For men, as we all know, empathy is a rare commodity. This is not something new to those of us who have choked on the proverbial red pill.
He had to understand, the commenters said, that sex could lead to pregnancy. If you play the game, you have to understand the rules. That she lied was of no concern: he should have known better than to trust her. He should have worn a condom. He should have taken responsibility to protect himself (and probably her as well), despite her claiming to take responsibility by using birth-control.
She, to the eyes of the public, is exempt from her responsibility, even when she lied in order to get pregnant by him. Seems any man would have done. He just happened to be available. It is so astonishingly remarkable to hear feminism – and society in general – claim that men are the irresponsible, childish and immature ones when women are not even expected to take responsibility for their wilful trickery and deceit, whereas men are made to take responsibility for being tricked and deceived. Women are wonderful, ya know.
Now, to be honest, I have to agree – without a doubt – that it was at best naive of him, at worst stupid of him, to blindly believe the word of a woman whom he did not properly know. However: this does not negate the fact that she purposefully, willingly, knowingly lied to him, thus misleading him so that she could have her baby. A woman, you understand, has the god-given right to have a baby. (Norway recently allowed for single women to be impregnated using donor sperm, thus creating even more single mothers) She also has the god-given right to not have a baby, depending on this and that and whatever. No need for her, then, to understand that fucking can lead to a child. That is only for the man to understand and take responsibility accordingly. A man has no rights, only responsibilities. Not only for his own choices, but for the choices of a woman. Even when deceived; even if the baby was a product of a lie, now caught in the clutches of a dishonest mother and a father who never wanted a child in the first place. I can’t help but wonder about this woman and her psychological make-up, when she is clearly capable of lying about something with such long-lasting consequences, showing no remorse even when the consequences do not only affect her. It undoubtedly affects both the father and the child.
His wants, needs, wishes and such don’t matter. Men effectively have no reproductive rights. This lack of reproductive rights are so remarkable that a boy who is below the age of consent and who is, as such, a victim of statutory rape will be forced to pay child-support to his rapist. At least that is the case in the USA.
I see no reason to believe this to be much different in other parts of the world. The bill has to be paid by someone. Why should the government pay the bill? Why should the mother pay the bill, even when the child was a product of her raping him? That would make her responsible for her actions, and we can’t have that. The boy must be held responsible, god-damnit. Even when he could not – by law – consent to sex. One would assume that an inability to consent to sex would also render one incapable to consent to fatherhood, but the clown world don’t work like that. That would not be fair in clown world. Honk Honk, say the judges and the law and the politicians. Honk Honk, say society and the garbled masses, Honk fucking Honk, say the media and the enablers of this strange and peculiar female lack of agency.
As the news spread about this poor unwilling father in Norway, the case of this man spread, and the commenters were still vicious in their removal of responsibility from the woman. A few commenters felt sorry for him, but still conceded that he had to be aware of the risks associated with a good old fashioned willy-wetting.
He, being a man, should be the responsible party and own up to his mistake. Take it like a man. That was the general consensus, the words whispered on the wind, as it were. Even when it, quite blatantly, was her dishonest deceit that made the situation such as it became.
His pleading fell on deaf ears. The law was unyielding, and so too were the murmurs on the street: if a man has sex with a woman, he has to be aware that this can lead to a pregnancy. And if she is pregnant, she holds all the cards and all the rights. He holds only the responsibility of fatherhood. Sounds awfully familiar, does it not? As though it is a song we have heard, a tune we have danced to for decades upon decades: women have rights, men have responsibilities. Women need not pay for their freedom, men must pay for the illusion of freedom. Even when women purposefully and evidently lie, they have rights. Misleading someone; tricking someone into parenthood is not a problem. If the dishonest party is a woman. Women can lie, even when the lie has long-lasting and dire consequences, with impunity. Men can be tricked, can be made subject to fraud, and still be held responsible for her actions.
At the same fucking time as this case was running the gauntlet of mass-media madness, articles started popping up here and there and everywhere regarding “stealthing”.
“Stealthing” refers to a man removing a condom during intercourse without informing his partner. This, the murmurs stated, ought to be considered as rape. Now, I would absolutely agree that it is immoral and dishonest, but rape? That is pushing the boundaries a bit. Sexual assault, perhaps, but not rape. We all know that the feminist hive-mind have been pushing more and more things under the umbrella of “rape”. This is no exception. In fact; it should be punishable by law, said the hordes and the wailing banshees in perfect harmony.
Imagine someone being so mean as to purposefully, willingly, with malice aforethought lie about using protection. Whoever heard about something so wicked and so mean-spirited? Whoever knew that such terrible men existed out there?
Men had to take a deep look at themselves and how they treat women, because this behaviour was unheard of. Absolutely horrible. All men everywhere was complicit in this for the sole reason of wielding a penis. Didn’t matter whether any individual man had done this, he was still responsible by virtue of cock.
No-one, it seems, picked up on the obvious cognitive dissonance on display. The very same pundits, the very same news-outlets, the very same society that had condoned, made excuses for and protected the lying, thieving bitch of a woman; the very same public, the very same society that had doomed the poor man whose predicament introduced this ramble to take responsibility for her choices now stated that the very same behaviour was rape, and should be punished. If done by a man towards a woman.
Un-fucking-believable. Though hardly surprising.
This was years before I myself started writing about all this gender-stuff, but I remember it with clarity as one of those huge red pill moments in my life… one of those remarkable happenings that gently nudges one in a certain direction. Proof proper that men and women are not treated equally, be that by society or by law. Proof that men are, contrary to what we have been told, at a huge societal and legal disadvantage. We have no reproductive rights. Not only that – men and women are not treated the same, be that in the eyes of the law or in the eyes of the public, even when doing the exact same thing.
The only illusion men have of reproductive rights is abstinence. To keep it in our pants. But then man are shamed and ridiculed for being incels and virgins. Women may be slut-shamed, (mostly by other women). This is true, though more like than not not to the extent feminism claims. Men, on the other hand, are virgin-shamed. “Incel” is so commonly used as a slur and an insult nowadays; thrown towards us damned soggy kneed bastards in the manosphere with careless abandon, that one should be blind to not notice it. For a man not to have sex, there must be something wrong with him. Whether it is by choice or not, there is something wrong with him.
Granted – to the eyes of society overall, there is something wrong with a man if he actively pursues sex as well, or relationships with women, for that matter. Men have only got one thing on their minds, after all. And it’s disgusting, as all and sundry will tell us. Over and over again. In fact – there is something wrong with men, full stop and no matter. Unless he is handsome, rich, or both, one comes to learn.
Tricking a man into becoming a father, by whatever means available to a harrowing harpy, is referred to as “spermjacking” or “spurgling”. It is, in fact, common enough to get its very own fancy new-speak words. The man is held responsible, no matter. If the woman decides to go through the trash to find a used condom, gather up the sperm and use this to impregnate herself, he is held responsible.
Men have no reproductive rights, have neither societal say nor legal sway over what happens to his genetic material. His sperm is a gift given to the woman willingly during intercourse, even if it is in a condom post-sex. Or delivered via a blowjob. If she wants to keep a baby, he’s on the hook. If she wants to terminate the pregnancy, he has no rights what-so-ever. It is her body and it is her choice after all. That is the famous slogan, handcrafted by sloganeering women so egotistical and selfish that they are incapable of understanding that it is not only her body, it is also part of his body – part of his genetic material – as well as being the body of the as-of-yet unborn child. Claiming that it is “her body, her choice” is dishonest on the face of it. But it is a sly and wonderful rhetorical trick, playing upon our willingness to protect women above all else. Even at the cost of children. Women are wonderful, and they must be protected. Most of all, they must be protected from agency and responsibility.
Now, for more-or-less full disclosure: this comes from someone who is not completely opposed to abortion. Not as such. I believe it should be restricted and not embarked upon easily, nor should it be taken lightly. My main reason for not opposing abortion full stop is a simple one: abortions will always happen, whether in the relative safety of a hospital or not. If we were to remove access to abortion, I fear we would see a rise in “backyard abortions”; things done with knitting needles and other unsavoury things, quite possibly by equally unsavoury characters. The health-risks, and as such the societal risks, involved with something such as this is too high for me to consider it a worthy risk.
Abortions should not, however, be treated as a form of birth-control on its own. The way I see feminism going on about it in the USA, that is apparently where we are headed. With “we”, I of course mean western society as a whole. Abortions as a secondary birth-control, not as a heavy-hearted choice done due to no other options being available reveals, to me, a frightening, twisting and turning path, spiralling ever downwards. As it stands, women have quite a few options available other than abortion. Adoption. Safe haven abandonments. Morning after pill. Things of that nature, none of which require the killing of an unborn child, though some of these of course require the pregnancy be carried to term. None of which options require the consent of the father. Women do not consent to parenthood when they consent to sex. Only men do that. Not to mention the plethora of birth control options available to women. All these options are both liberating and oppressive simultaneously, depending on the point needed to be made by feminism at the moment. Men, on the other hand, have condoms or abstinence. This is, as stated, painted as a trespass upon women when and if necessary, as the horrors of having a wide array of options and possibilities available to them is discriminatory towards them. Why? For putting the responsibility on their shoulders. Even when feminism pushes for state-sponsored birth control pills for women. It is astonishing. Everything is discriminatory towards women, even things that are – by their admission – not. Almost makes one believe the whole damned movement of feminism to be a highly opportunistic one, wherein the only thing that matters is whether or not it can be painted as some disadvantage to women at that particular moment. Consistency matters not. Only the immediate argument matters.
When I see people celebrating their abortions as if that is some grand and glorious achievement, I am filled with something remarkably similar to disgust… almost turning me into a misanthrope. But only almost. Terminating life should not be cause for celebration. Happily, this is not the norm. Not at the moment, any way.
This idea that opposing abortion is something done solely by (old and white) men attempting to control the bodies of women is disgustingly dishonest. In fact; both men and women oppose abortion in just about equal numbers. Not that this ought to matter much – pitting the sexes against each other (my tribe do this, your tribe do that, boo, boo) is something done solely to perpetuate a nonsensical gender war, funnelling resources, privileges, power, might and rights direct towards feminism under the guise of creating equality between the sexes. As long as men can be painted as the enemy of women, the facts don’t matter. Nor do intellectual consistency.
But I digress.
It seems only fair to me that, if women shall be free to terminate pregnancies as they wish, men should be free to write away any responsibilities for a child if they so wish. So-called paper-abortions.
It should go without saying that I don’t think men should be free to sign away any parental responsibilities if women are not allowed to do the same, by whichever means available to her. It also goes without saying that signing away any parental responsibilities also means signing away any parental rights. If he signs it away, he has absolutely no rights to see his child or take part in anything to do with his child. Also: signing away his rights and responsibilities should only, I think, be allowed within the same time-frame that a woman has to choose whether or not to have an abortion. This, of course, would carry with it a law saying something to the effect that women have to inform the prospective father about a pregnancy within so-and-such a time. If she fails to deliver on this, he has the choice to opt in or not to opt in as he wishes. No matter how far ahead the pregnancy is. Fair is fair, and equal should be equal after all.
This, I fear, will never happen. For the simple reason that it would be treating the sexes equally, and in this age of equality that is the last thing you’ll see happen. I wish I were joking. Equality does not mean treating everybody the same, as the pundits and the pestilent purveyors of political platitudes say.
Personally, I believe people should be more thoughtful about how and who and when they fuck. Given that I have no interest in living in a society in which laws dictate (more than they already do) how and whom we should fuck, I understand that this is not something that can be done through any other means than people considering their sexual partners more carefully. To, in essence, end hook-up culture through a re-evaluation of values at an individual level. I understand, of course, that I sound like a prudish puritanical fuck with this. Which I would like to stress that I am not. In fact, I am about as sexually liberal as they come. What consenting adults do is for no-one but the consenting adults to decide.
However; I happen to believe that the best course of action to be taken in order that a society is to function properly is to honour and celebrate the oh-so-unpopular-in-this-day-and-age nuclear family, given of course that this family also functions properly. (This is with the understanding that relationships sometimes break up completely naturally, and as such are not salvageable… measures ought to be taken, I believe, to try and salvage it for the sake of the children). It is undeniably in the best interest of the child to have both parents actively involved in the raising of said child, preferably as a couple functioning as a highly co-operative unified force.
Self-aware and somewhat self-deprecating trad-con musings aside, I also think it would be prudent for paternity tests to be mandatory at birth, given how prevalent paternity fraud actually is. Frighteningly so. As a matter of fact, it is illegal in France for a man to get a paternity test done. Illegal. That really says a lot, don’t it? That is an incredible amount of power handed to women, and an incredible lack of power handed to men. It is illegal for a man in France to know with absolute certainty whether he really is the biological father or not.
Relatively recently, over here in Norway, one of our moderately popular political parties actually proposed that paper-abortions be made available to men. With much the same rules as I rambled about above. Nothing to be taken too lightly, in other words. As I don’t think it should be. As much as I am aware that unplanned pregnancies do happen, I like to believe that most pregnancies are either planned, or at the very least seen as a source of joy to both parties involved. This proposal met with viciousness and vitriol from the feminist hordes, as expected. Because only women shall be free to chose whether they want to be parents. Men shall not be gifted this freedom.
Men have no reproductive rights.
They can keep it in their pants. Try saying this to women, and the effects are remarkably interesting. Telling a woman to not spread her legs if she does not wish to become pregnant is, once again, (old white men) trying to control a woman’s body and tell her what to do. The hypocrisy is phenomenal, the double-standards tangible… felt as a tactile sensation, like spiders crawling up and down ones spine. The feminists opposed to paper-abortions for men apply the same arguments that pro-lifers – you know, those enemies, those vile haters of women who are opposed to abortion – apply, albeit with the sexes reversed. Astonishing. But more on this in part two, wherein I shall share a rather amusing anecdote regarding my wife, Facebook, a feminist in her fifties and the aforementioned proposal that men be allowed to sign away their parental rights and responsibilities. You know, such as women are allowed to for ridiculous reasons of bodily autonomy, self-ownership and other such nifty rhetorical tricks.
Also astonishing: The father does not matter in the raising of a child, the feminist hordes have been saying for quite some time. Until, that is, it becomes a possibility that he can opt out. Then he suddenly matters. As a source of child-support, if nothing else. It is laughably hypocritical, but there you have it. Equal treatment does not mean equal treatment, as we all should damned well know by now.
And that was that for this part. Please join me later for the next instalment. This turned out bigger than I thought it would. This happens with some regularity.
Lying spread-eagled in front of the feet of mercy and of justice, tipping the scales of justice luminaries; two-penny-pinching strands of hair from the judge and her sorority-hammer, said the glum-spoilt woman softly spoken: “But, but, but, your honour, I’m used to this lavish lifestyle supplied by his sizeable income”.
Please see link.
“Say no more!”, the justice luminary drooled and dribbled, spoon-feeding the pig-like beast of justice legionnaire at her breast with nails and spikes and sulphuric acid, turning the pig-like beast swollen, red, inflamed… a boom-bubble set to burst when thrown straight at the brainstem of the magnificently malicious man standing there, justice-fencing the glum-spoilt woman armed with a pair of tits, some unbalanced scales and a shield the shape of a remarkably expensive pussy.
Please see link.
The malicious man, armed with nothing but being unwed and shielded with nothing but never even living together, wearing the elusive armour of we ain’t even got children together, pesky items though they were, came to the battle pre-gagged, partly blinded and with both arms tied behind his back on account of gynocentrism and (presumably) androphobia: the strong, powerful and independent women of the world sure as filtered fuck need a male provider and protector in their lives. Even when he, by choice, no longer is in their lives.
Fish, it transpires, are in desperate need of bicycles. According to the hysterically screeched orders pouring from the labia of the great quivering pussy in the sky, this is as expected and as it should be.
To “even” the playing field so that she is guaranteed to win and he is guaranteed to lose.
To “even” the playing field by privileging one at the expense of the other.
To “even” the playing field by making us unequal in front of the pig-like beast of the law.
Equality, we have come to learn through the thought-virus of feminist wailing, alongside the partially blinded banshee-howls of the justice legionnaires, does not mean treating everybody equally.
That would be such a ridiculous notion. That would be preposterous. ‘cause we ain’t the same and we ain’t equal and so should not be treated equally, except when it suits the powers-that-be, and so we can not expect that we should be treated the same. Particularly not when existing in that most oppressed state of being known as “woman”.
As such, in this pestilent asbestos-light of our great and glorious “reset” – insufferable rhetoric much akin to “the great leap forward” known from Maoist China, but I digress – this is equality as pondered and as promised by the ones who change the definitions and the meanings of words with the same frantic frequency as a germaphobe with obsessive compulsive disorder would change his socks.
Women are incapable and handicapped by virtue of their gender, as stated by their wondrously enabling champions. As such, they deserve. What they deserve depends upon the time of day and the mood and the menstrual cycles and whatever else. What they deserve is not as important as the knowledge that they deserve. And the pig-like beast of justice legionnaire see no qualms in giving them that which they deserve, no matter what it is that they deserve at that moment and in that time and in that head-space belonging to that head-case.
After all, they are strong and independent victims who don’t need no supporting wheels on those bicycles that fish don’t need. The fish may not exactly need the bicycles, yet it is remarkably evident that they crave some bicycles. With supporting wheels.
Such is fairness in the halls of the justice legionnaires and its pig-like beast, for equality before the law no longer means what it usually means, and so too does the law of the land no longer represent the law as the law stands.
The law has become subject to subjective opinion by people who are, objectively speaking, absolute teeth-lying arseholes. As such, the law is open to harsh, lurid, emotional interpretations… Now being read and pondered in much the same way as one would read dense, allegorical poetry with no absolute meaning concrete, no interpretation sat in stone. Equal treatment and fairness, one comes to understand, means whatever the harrowing hate-fuck equal treatment brigades demand that it means in that moment.
What does any of this have to do with supposed equality, you might ask. To which a rhetorical question is in order: do you honestly believe such a judgment as the man in the case linked up top has met with would be put upon the shoulders of a woman? Do you honestly believe a man would be entitled to a woman’s resources in this way?
One can usually twist and turn the law and the equality-platitudes to fit some pre-conceived idea… to point the lactic-acid finger of a glum-spoilt woman scorned from not agreeing to a marriage due to refusing the prenuptial contracts straight at the wicked heart of the malicious and malignant man who paid for her existence for years, enabling gold-digging all the while.
What a strange existence that must be, to be paid solely for her company and little else… to, in essence, be paid in riches purely for existing. What a grand and glorious achievement, to be sure, to be something remarkably akin to an escort or a high-class prostitute.
That they weren’t married, weren’t living together, had no children together makes no matter. Nope, it matters not at all when facing down a justified justice luminary whose allegiance lies with the sisterhood and not with the expectancy that the law should be lawful; that justice should be just… whose allegiance lies with her fellow women scorned more so than it does with the actual honest-to-gunk-and-goo law such as the law is. It is difficult to not smell the bullshit-stench of female in-group preference… Nothing matters, except the feelings of the woman. As such it most certainly appears. Nothing matters but the sisterhood. Nothing matters much but the justice granted to the pussy and the power of said pussy, flowing from the pussy which, one comes to learn, wields an awesome and awe-inspiring, amount of power.
The value of pussy has been steadily increasing these past couple of years. The charts are… off the fucking charts.
Now, it seems that the value of pussy lies at a decent 600.000 dollars a year for ten years. This is not counting the money spent prior to these ten years. A strange and peculiar way to pay, but that’s what happens every single bloody time one is stupid enough to put forth a down-payment when the goods are not guaranteed to arrive whole, unspoilt… or sane. Much like investing in a Sarkeesian Kickstarter, come to think of it. It may look good in the beginning, and then the cracks and the failure to deliver is evident. It is a sham and a fraud, and I don’t much care for the direction our societies are going.
Not that my thoughts on the matter matters: as long as women can get free shit for being women, it’s all good and quite alright. Most peculiar; the strong and independent whamens can not get a job but is reliant on a man to support them with far, far, far more than is needed to live… even post-relationship.
Women, I have come to realize through the wailing of the feminist hordes, are simultaneously fiercely independent and self-destructively dependent. (Personally, I happen to believe women to be far more capable than their eternal victimhood-screechers would have us believe, but that would probably be mansplaining, so I’ll refrain from commenting on that.)
Breaking down gender-roles one tactical assault-victimhood at a time, as long as men remain as providers and protectors in the social game where the rules are rigged and ever stacked against them. This is the new-age woman according to their champions; a remarkable beast with no concrete shape or form, constantly in flux between this and between that… a shape-shifter who don’t ever know what she wants, but who sure as hell knows how to get it.
This new-age woman is Schrödinger’s strong and independent woman.
One can not be certain about the state of her dependence or her independence before opening her box and checking… preferably a few times, just to be on the safe side.
And so alimony must be paid to keep her living lavishly, as she was accustomed to on account of his (rather stupid and naive) generosity. This despite no legal contract binding them together in the whips and thongs and chains of holy matrimony… despite no children but hers from some previous entanglement with another malicious male (for which she, apparently, also was paid… there seems to be some particularly patriarchal pattern of woman-hating here, but I just can’t see it), despite no cohabitation but the occasional sleepovers and vacations. Sleeping over and living in the same place whilst on vacation now counts as cohabitation. Remarkable. With this mental gymnastics in place, she is still entitled to his resources for ten motherfucking years. For they did live together on occasion, even when not living together such as us mere mortals would know it. It is astonishing. Though not at all surprising, really.
Contributing nothing financially, she deserves to be forever taken care of financially. Anything else would be misogyny and woman-hating evils of the most male supremacist sort. Probably something to do with white supremacy as well, why not. Just throw it all into the mix; blend it until it bleeds inconsistencies, and then devour it with a side-serving of cognitive dissonance resting atop a bed of mental gymnastics.
Leeches will leech.
Parasites will feed on the host, stealing resources and energy.
And this is quite alright and A-OK. You see: removing the parasite is an act of unimagined curly-toed cruelty… not feeding the parasite with ones own lifeblood is to be considered as cruel and unusual punishment most severe, and so must be punished even more severely with a steady flow of blood from the host to the parasite, even post-removal of the parasite. Does not the parasite also have a right to live, to life, to thrive? Since the life of the parasite is dependent upon its host, it is what it is. Can’t do nothing about that, sir, now – pay up. That’s just the way of nature, sir. Kindly open your veins for this monthly payment. We’ll come back for more later on.
Each month.
…For ten years…
And the pig-like beast of immaculate justice squeals and squirms and spits and shivers in the arms of the illuminated justice luminary, setting precedence for further cases of a woman scorned when his resources get lost to her… and so, tangled in the web of libido and of lies lies she, spread beneath the breathing banner of his resources, digging for gold with all the precision of a homing pigeon, more or less admitting to being a high-end prostitute. For sure, that is what it seems to be. For the privilege of seeing her, the price must most surely be paid. And her class of woman don’t come cheap.
“Don’t you worry, little girl – Daddy will provide”. The Judas-judge hath spoken. The truth is come and shown, and now we know the truth: men are never safe from the rape of divorce-court, no matter what precautions men may take. Not being married is no longer enough to keep the ravages of divorce-proceedings at bay. Incredibly illuminating.
Relationships, you see, have become a luscious money-making scheme for shameless serpents utilizing full body hypnosis; selling pussy to the highest bidder… preferably if the price of pussy is such that it can be paid time and again like a monthly subscription service, even post-pussy-abandonment. Any precautions be damned. Don’t matter, no worry, never matter, no mind. Generosity is to be punished.
Gentlemen, take note. Always split the bill, always share the financial burdens of a relationship as evenly as possible. Don’t ever pay for shit if you don’t get shit.
Reading comments to this case, one sticks out the most to me… or, well, one argument, not one comment in particular. It goes something like this: “He is filthy rich, so he is able to pay. I don’t feel sorry for him”.
Which is a great argument, obviously. Allow me to counter it with another argument, of much the same finesse and cleverness: “The moon is up there above us somewhere. He shouldn’t pay. I don’t feel sorry for her.” Then it is said that she quit her job so that he should provide for her, and so she is still entitled to his money.
Yet, I wonder: Was she forced to quit her job?
Again, it begs the question: Are women incapable of doing anything of their own free will? Sure seems like it. Women are such frail victims that all their acts and all their actions are dictated by someone else. Not a particularly empowering message, but if it is hidden behind enough gobble-de-gook, it seems empowering on the face of it. Having no agency and not needing to take responsibility is such magnificent empowerment. In eternal victimhood lies the eternal path towards irresponsibility. ‘twas the patriarchy that done did it, xir, not I, never I.
Are women really this incapable of taking responsibility for their actions and their lives? The answer seems to be yes. Women are to be considered just as helpless and dependent as children, not yet mature enough to be trusted to make their own decisions and take responsibility for themselves. This is a terrifying thing, for sure. And it is a remarkably debilitating way of navigating the world. A view of women which I really don’t condone or agree with.
One would not, one supposes, be the only one struck by a stray thought or two regarding this strange case. One would not, one assumes, be the only one whose thinking twists certain things within this case upon its head.
Her lifestyle shall not be altered on account of the break-down of the relationship, say the pig-like beast of justice legionnaire. She is used to this, and so she must continue to have this… despite there apparently being no legally binding anything to grant her this (except her pussy and her tits, one assumes… both of these two sexual characteristics serve as a powerful shield; a lawful contract in their own right). Never underestimate the gynocentrism of society, culture, the law and – most obvious of all – the family courts… and of men in general. Oh yes – men in general are just as complicit in this as anything else is.
Since she is entitled to his money and resources for quite some time post-relationship on account of her being used to living like this, why should he not also have something which he has become accustomed to?
I propose that, twice a month for ten years, in order for him to not lose anything from his life that he has grown accustomed to, she must come over to his place and suck his dick the first week of the month, then fuck him senseless the last week of the month. Each and every month for ten years. It is not too much of a stretch of the imagination to conclude that he has grown accustomed to (at least) the occasional fuck and the occasional blowjob. With this in mind, it really isn’t fair that he shall go without this part of his previous lifestyle simply because the relationship is no longer there.
There’s just too much to talk about, I find. The world has gone insane. And the news are all crazy, the mass-media all shady; dealing in mad opinion editorials all the while, force-feeding us their sick alongisde their bile.
No real-time replenishment here, buddy – it’s all pre-planned, pre-ordained, pre-ordered and pre-delivered. Neutrality is dead. They all have an agenda, though some more covert than others. And you are supposed to filter out the shit from the piss; separate the vomit from the puss and then be left illuminated, uplifted, full of facts, information and understanding.
All the news are bad.
Disentangled from the machinery, we swim lonely and broken towards islands of insufferable isolation… egged on by mad manufacturers of maladjustment and mayhem. Revolution brewing in the streets all across the west, cold, hard, claw-hammer-like, it is beat into our brains: the future that we supposedly want; the future decided for us by they… a strange multiheaded hydra reaching the apex of orgasm through division and through tribalism, through stoking the flames and feeding the fire of civil war throughout… a war of information and of misinformation, of ideologies and of ideas; a subversive war of subversion and submission, of submissive subversion, labelled either fake news or conspiracy theories depending on ones own shivering smile and glassy-eyed stare.
All the news are bad.
And those of us who are what one would cautiously label “information-junkies” seek through the insanity and the madness and the badness; seek through the rage and the anger and the sloganeering with eager hands and eyes and tongues and ears, lapping up bad news and hatred and the smell of war with every twisted slut-walk-titty, every so-called “mostly peaceful protest” goon-patrol that scream their filth into the air on account of lacking in self-discipline, in maturity, in having the ability to keeping themselves occupied with something constructive… in this age of the immediate, we lack in concentration and we lack in focus and we lack in the ability to sit still and appreciate what we’ve got.
All the news are bad.
We lap it up. We learn. And then we spiral, and then we fall through the void to come out the other side, gently gazing at the starry skies above, thinking: “What the hell happened, and how the fuck did it come to this?”
Then we’ll plant our aching arms and bones, our melting minds and bodies firmly in the ground, dig our roots deep into the rot and putrefaction and stand there and gaze and scream and fester unoriginally, decaying in the spiral staircase of the Gods of our day-and-age; the holy triumvirate of Propaganda, Politics and Pestilence that stare at us like we were strangers in a Shakespearian play, not belonging to the stage and then kicked out and hastily forgotten, neglected, tarred, feathered, shamed and abused by dainty little hands and dim-witted dimple-smiles, crucifying us for subversion for speaking true tongue telepathy to the powers-that-be.
All the news are bad.
Failing that, it is cunty celebrity gossip… vapid and pointless.
I saw, at the moment of writing (about a week before the US election), an article about Norwegian celebrities and what they wish shall happen in the US elections. Another one was of a past-her-prime former reality television star who now happened to be unemployed. What’s the bloody point? Who the hell cares about this nonsense? Obviously, someone has to care, considering that it is made and told and then sold to us to give us an illusion of news; an illusion of something happening; an illusion of life behind the turpentine-screens of our burning eyes, of our computer-screens, our aching heads and twisted minds…
Unless, of course, people only care because we are sold this idea that we should care… that we are moulded into this vacuous celebrity culture, sold ideas and told which ideas to care about… things that have no matter, that have no soul, that have no impact upon anything but the very same vapid celebrity-culture where people are celebrated merely for being celebrated… where people are famous merely for being famous.
And so the clock turns and the world burns and the opinion-shapers shape vague and ill-informed opinions that trickle down the pyramid of shit, hitting those at the bottom thinking: “my oh my, I idolise this celeb-tard, mayhap I shall alter my opinions so that my opinions shall match their opinions, obviously enlightened as it is on account of their stardom-status.”
This despite the celeb-tards being guided by their puppeteers to say and speak and mean and do exactly that which will get them hired, will get them cold hard cash from the spread legs and arching backs of those who deem to deify the celeb-tards with all their body, booty, mind and flesh. Oh, how brave, how subversive, how remarkably courageous these people are to spew the popular opinion of this day-and-age, my how much bravery is needed to parrot the popular politics, propaganda and pestilence of the day!
In this hour, waning as the light of the west is, waning as the notion that all should be treated equally under the law is, waning as the idea of individuality is… with classical liberalism (trademarked, bottled and sold pre-assembled for our enjoyment) dying in the streets and cranky cockswaddle collectivism taking its place… in this hour and in this dim light of death and of destruction, as we lay dying, it is easy to lose hope and to lose faith.
Gods be damned, but there is precious little hope to glean, to snatch, to take and to keep. These sure do seem like hopeless times, devoid of purpose and of life and of meaning and of truth and of beauty as they are.
These sure do seem like hopeless times and hapless days, where chaos reign supreme and madness gains the upper vote from crusty motherfuckers feigning proper personalities to unleash upon the world; all charismatic-like and down to earth in 100-room mansions, locked away in ivory towers seeking praise for… bathing? Singing? Sighing? Living? Existing? Being virtuous in hollow pointless platitudes that don’t mean anything?
Dunno.
Don’t care.
It’s still superficial and hollow and empty, such as our cultures and our societies allowed itself to become… a hollow husk, a vapid void of self-indulgence and decay, guided by celebrities who know not here from there, who can not count beyond potato, who do not have their feet planted on the ground, but who seem to think themselves able and deem themselves worthy to speak on our behalf nevertheless.
Disengaging for a while… checking out, going off the grid and reading neither news nor gossip for a while is recommended from time to time. Otherwise, the information becomes too much, the bad news too rough-and-tough, too heavy to carry.
The past few weeks, I have spent reading. Mainly stuff not relevant to what I tend to ramble about. And it has been bliss, though I admit to it putting me out of the loop a bit and for a while. Which was kinda the point of the whole exercise. Obsessive “studying” of certain topics can lead to troubles down the road, if no actions are taken to lead the thoughts onto something more soothing for the nerves. Delving into bad ideas and bad news day after day can be – and is – gruelling and possibly dangerous… he who gazes into the abyss, and all that. (And there came my credentials as a scholar, an intellectual and a gentleman! When in doubt – quote Nietszche. Even if spelling his name is such a bother.)
It is remarkably easy to become disillusioned and dispirited; to feel completely disenfranchised by the whole thing, by the whole split-schism-divide-and-conquer thing going on, so obvious to anyone but those who stopped looking, I suppose. Or who don’t care to look, for that malicious matter.
It is even easier to despair completely when seeing and noticing what is happening all around, with laws and regulations being implemented that, quite brazenly, brashly and blatantly are discriminatory towards men – and that is white men in particular – and yet are tossed aside as not being discriminatory due to them being a result of positive discrimination, which is supposedly not discrimination because the word “positive” is placed in front of it, and so it is alright. Some years back, might have been 2016 or 2017, I read an interview with a woman working with something to do with employment. Deciding who to employ and stuff like that. Featured in the interview was a picture of her, all cross-armed and trademarked strong, independent whamen. You know the stance, the picture, the posture. That is the picture they all get; the stance and posture they all use. Such strength, much bravery, wow.
Beneath the photograph was a quote from the interview, obviously highlighted due to its incredible brilliance and bravery; its supreme intellectual thingamajig. The quote, translated from Norwegian, read “Have a plan at the ready so that you don’t only employ white men in their 40’s”. Very interesting, I thought. Imagine so blatantly advocating discrimination based on sex and race and age, and getting away with it. One should believe that ones merits is what should matter, not ones sex nor ones gender. Alas, that is not the case.
I sent this to the Norwegian department of equality, pointing towards the obvious discriminatory nature of her employment practice. Not that I like the department of equality, of course. I find it Orwellian, dubious, authoritarian and unnecessary, steeped in all the new-speak and double-think any such department could possibly have. It has to do with making the troglodytes follow their own rules. They figured that nothing discriminatory was spoken and that nothing of a discriminatory nature was done. Very interesting, no? Rules and laws are for other people. That is to say: undesirables.
It appears that people forgot that, for all those who are supposedly affected positively by this discrimination (and that is a big “supposedly”), there are entire groups that are quite clearly affected negatively. But those groups don’t matter on account of some cornholed, shoe-horned, buttholed idea of exquisite privilege dribbling from the drooling mouths of Marxist propagandists disguised as academics, presenting class warfare and urging tribal warfare in a new – one could almost say postmodern – light that makes little sense to anyone with a brain running on reason and not on self-righteous fumes of indignation and hogwash. Often, these are people so sheltered from opposing ideas that the mere notion that people can disagree is alien and frightening to them. And so mere anarchy is loosed upon the world. Brimstone and fire, cats and dogs living together, and so forth and so on.
The idea that certain groups of people are – by virtue of nothing but random chance, by virtue of the superficial characteristics of their birth – inherently privileged, and as such a group acceptable and open for attack, is not a new idea. It is as old as time itself. Nothing ever changes, merely the time and the place and the people. We’ve got to place our collective maladjustment, our collective rage and our collective anger somewhere. Seems to be about as human, as unavoidable, as religion and morning erections.
And so, too, are fear-mongering news and bad news. It generates interest and it generates income and it generates the scorn and the rage and the anger needed to perpetuate the fear-mongering, leaving us docile and apathetic to other stuff that might be more important than the petty stuff like man-spreading and man-splaining and what have you… the low hanging fruit which one gets ridiculed for pointing out and mocking… “that’s just a few people with no reach”, or whatever is claimed… and so, we forget or we ignore the greater problems which is the implementations of laws… governmentally accepted discrimination. Institutionalized discrimination, in fact, so blatant and so obvious that one should be hard pressed to understand why in the ever-lasting fuck it is accepted. But, no matter – all the news are bad, and so too are all the (white) men of the world, and from these horrible monsters we must be protected.
Do you not feel fear? Do you not feel terror? Do you not wish to be protected from the privileged group who would crush you under the boot were it not for brave warriors who dare to punch and kick up, who dares to fight the establishment despite quite clearly being the establishment? Nevermind that these brave warriors are at the top. That’s not important right now. Optics and presentation is everything, facts and reality are not.
All the news are bad.
And sometimes, one must step away and step back. Take a break from the whole shebang and leave well enough alone for a little while. To focus on other stuff for some time. Sometimes, one must simply go off the grid. Experience something other than the bad news. It is way too easy, getting locked into an eternal negative feedback loop. And that is not healthy. Consuming something other than the bad news becomes a necessity for a good life. The ability to detach and so become a neutral observer also becomes a necessity. I’m not good at this, in truth and in honesty. I tend to get very involved – the aforementioned “obsessive studying” are more than just words. Were it not for caffeine and dogs, I would have gone completely insane some time ago.
It is very easy to lose faith and to lose hope and to consider just shutting down and quitting whatever it is that one does.
It seems to me that whatever it is that I do with these ramblings of mine… my attempts at raising awareness of what I consider to be not only important and neglected issues, but also terrifying (in the long run) issues; my attempts at spreading some awareness about the troubles facing men in this dystopian present we inhabit are impotent and fruitless. Because so few are willing to listen, and even less are willing to care. Most choose to ridicule, to mock and to point and stare in feigned disbelief at someone so out of touch with reality that they dare care about the plight of men when there are so many issues of more importance… like the plight of women.
This despite there being so many remedies to the plight of women implemented by government, embraced by institutions and forced by rule of law… particularly when compared to the plight of men, which are just about as ridiculed by government as it is by the rest of the world. State-sanctioned ridicule and neglect of one particular group; governmentally allowed and socially accepted discrimination of one group. This should be considered a very frightening and a very negative thing. Yet it is not.
Quite the contrary. It is celebrated and accepted far and wide, to such an extent that people such as myself who dare speak against it are painted in the most vile and negative light imaginable. Libellous statements, smear-tactics and shaming, lies and deceit, scorn and ridicule, are quite alright tactics to use when facing down such terrible people as us in this loosely knit men’s human rights movement. Who knew that human rights should only extend to certain kinds of human beings, as opposed to being extended to all human beings? Who knew that hatred of one group should become so common-place as to not even be considered hatred? Who knew that this should be accepted? Anyone with more than a passing knowledge of history, one supposes, as this is nothing new. The groups change and the times change, but it is a constant. We need an enemy, we need an out-group. Apparently. All to feel good about ourselves and our own flaws and faults and failures. We must have someone to blame, why not?
Misandry is so commonplace now that it is all but accepted by the culture at large. This ought to stand as proof proper for gynocentrism and the disposable male. Yet it does not. For it is so damned commonplace as to be invisible.
It is easy to lose faith in ones work and ones convictions when it is proven, time and again, that so few are listening. Easy to feel as though one should merely pack up and leave, to let the rabble sort itself out and, in the end, let the whole thing run its course and burn itself – as well as everything around it – down to the ground in the process. To start anew when all this madness, all this nonsense, all this bullshit is done and gone.
But then, who would be left to stand in the storm? Who would be left to deliver a counterpoint to the accepted “facts” of today? It may feel hopeless and pointless, but I don’t think or believe that it is. And that is the important part.
If succumbing to despair and defeat, no-one would be facing down the storm; no-one would deliver a counterpoint. And that would be even more devastating, even more frightening and destructive than consuming, filtering and trying to understand and observe the constant barrage of bad news on a regular basis. That would be even more devastating, even more frightening and destructive than not objecting to the status quo; than not – in a simple word – rebelling.
And so, this rag-tag movement of ours has got to soldier on as best we can. To focus on the small victories and the small goals. Which, in my humble opinion and experience, is merely raising some awareness amongst the general population. To point out the this and the that and all that stuff, even when the jackboot-stilettos come stomping.
Gather up your penitents you high and mighty fuck, and give disease where we had none and call this land, this street, this lowly blue-hand bog-boy servant-class your own.
Call us wretched sinners out to dance and to rejoice in the new light, in this new dawn, where ghastly songs come pouring out of meat street whore-mouth gaslighting machines known previously as “journalists”;
now some strange blasphemous creation, some strange and strained new abhorration that sought to sink and stink into our throats, infecting them with puss and then with rot and cancerous only-fans baiting jail-bait longing blue-balled blues.
Prey, young miss, then pray, and then pretend and play, in limp-noodled noodle-armed complex office-complex duplexes that what you dub “objectivity” is naught but biased curtains drawn across your eyes, dimly lit though they are from lack of soul-searching within:
that which you present as truth is gobble-garble bloggery presented as a starry-eyed new-speak-fact, all bleary-eyed with vampire lips that kiss the neck and suck the blood and floppy cocks of those who fell before you there in front; vicious beasts whom you doomed to death when you wished death upon them in your gorgeous “neutral and objective presentation of the news” where mesmerizing truth played sticky second sickly fiddle to the song you longed to sing;
where mesmerizing truth turned upside down and inside out to the outrage that you sensed and felt as your emotional instability turned to news-reports within your keyboard-cubicle, within your cube and square, within your safe-space bubble.
And we, who sit and channel anger righteously at your front-door, were made to pay pittance upon your pity-altar, grieving as the grievous studies were where you transcended methodical journo studies, metamorphosing, then melting to become diaries hastily written and lazily smitten by the tongues that lashed at someone else’s back, lost at home and in your bed where you spread your legs for lies and offered up journalistic integrity for sand, for dust, for salt.
Moiret Allegiere 