The goose that lay the golden squabble

«Cross the frozen borderline»

Deal with it, forget about it, don’t give a fuck about it.

The identity-pundits are pining for relevance. This nonsensical outrage-culture of ours is the fabled goose that lay the golden egg for those who wish to be seen as relevant… for those who look for a higher purpose; a purpose greater than themselves. Outrage sells and mob-rule is a frightening thing. People throw themselves at it with all the filth and the fury a bored and overeducated upper-class twit could ever muster.

God-damnit, but we need something to fight and to champion, for fuck sake. Gotta be some banner to flock behind so that we don’t fade into irrelevance and have to look at ourselves for a change… ain’t nothing the fuck wrong with me… it’s the rest of the world that needs to change. And such is the way of it, trickling down from moronic diatribes posing as intellectual lectures breeding revolutionaries perfecting the art of petty squabbles solely to distract from what is really going on behind the scenes: honest-to-god cultural revolution.

We’ve had it so good – relatively speaking – for so long that we don’t really know what struggle is, it seems… people are lost in a vacuum, soulless and squabbling, manufacturing first-world outrage to get a sense of reason and of relevance, of purpose and of pathways. There are many paths towards fulfilment, I believe. Screaming and raging about absolute nonsense ain’t one of them. At the very least it’ll fill that gaping hole in the soul for about fifteen minutes.

Then it is to be replaced with the new outrage as one refuses to look at the gaping hole in the soul and fill it with some manner of personhood… of cultivating an actual personality for a change.

I honestly believe that if one works on bettering oneself, all good will follow.

Instead of celebrating ones god-damned neurosis and mental health issues, learn to deal, to cope, to conquer and come out the other side.

Fucking god-damned safe-zones and trigger-warnings do nothing but let the wound keep festering. Overcoming anxiety, for example, means exposing oneself to that which causes anxiety.

Hell: I struggled with anxiety to the point of being a complete shut-in for many years, until I kicked myself in the arse and challenged it. Damned fucking difficult it was, yet it was bloody well worth it.

I remember suffering an extreme panic-attack whilst standing in line at the post-office. Shaking and sweating and with that bloody numbness in my face and that fucking tightness in my chest which makes one get that sudden sense of impending doom. Still, I got my pale, sweaty, shaking arse to the counter and did what I was there to do. In the process I learned a valuable lesson: getting the bloody mail, going outside ain’t gonna kill me.

…then I got kicked out of a supposed “mental health support group” on Facebook by pointing out this simple fact: it is possible to get better, but it lies with oneself first and foremost. These groups on Facebook, man… they are not focused on healing, for the most part. They are focused on wallowing in self-pity: on remaining ill, on comparing illnesses to see whose got it worse and whose got it better. “Help me wallow in misery, pretty please!” Now, of course, I am painting with a broad brush here. I’m sure that some of these groups are actually focused on healing from whatever ailment instead of wallowing in it and celebrating it.

People riling one another up – or, rather, dragging one another down – into the utter depths of despair is a peculiar thing to see. Particularly so when getting kicked the fuck out for being bold enough to proclaim that healing and recovery is possible, one just has to work on oneself, challenge oneself and whatever and what-not. The reason for me being kicked out was that I was “twisting reality”, whatever the bloody hell that means.

Social media is anything but social. I would dare propose that it is anti-social.

And yet, in the murky muddied depths of anti-social media, the eternal quest for purpose and for petty squabbles carry on. Gotta stay frightened, gotta stay outraged, gotta stay mentally ill, gotta stay working towards some greater good which is, well, whatever, undefined and unapproachable by those who are not woke enough and thusly not human enough to warrant any consideration from the permanently offended middle-to-upper-class twits whose got nothing better to do with their lives than be over-educated simpletons, screaming into their pillows at night because the moonlight shining through their curtains is too bright and the government ought to intervene and fix the moon. Hell, blow it out of the sky. The moon is way too reminiscent of the eye of Sauron, or something like that. And that is just way too damned terrifying.

For lacking any real problems in life – for lacking any purpose and in order to fill that gaping hole in the soul; the void left by unimaginative and soul-sucking boredom and vapid descents into complete and utter irrelevancy, the fantasy-race of Orcs are something to get professionally offended about. The supposedly horrible woman-hating slur “Karen” weren’t enough of a nonissue to get up in arms over, unfortunately. That the whole nonissue of the Karen-slur appears to be started by someone who considers all men to be subhuman scum that ought to be placed in concentration-camps is of little relevance. “Karen” is more offensive than all that, which ought to tell one a whole hell of a lot about the world which we live in and how said world views men. But, oh, well, never mind and no matter – no mind and never matter. The first rule of this life is that men, as a group, may be subject to whatever the hell and women, as a group, may not be subject to anything except pampering, provision and protection. Which, one assumes, ultimately leads to either women being confined to their homes for their safety from the horrible men out there, or men being placed in concentration-camps at worst or given a curfew at best… in order to protect the poor and frail whamens who see rapists and murderers behind every beer-bellied t-shirt and beer-quaffing blue-collared slob. It seems that the Karen-outrage from the permanently offended and sneering Karens out there didn’t get quite the traction the morons were hoping for. Instead, it achieved mockery and contempt. As it bloody well fucking should.

Honk, bloody honk, you magnificent bastards – honk, bloody honk. Now, let me talk to the fucking manager.

The fantasy race of Orcs, you see, have become a picture of dark-skinned individuals; a pernicious portrait of the coloured people of colour… a dastardly demented way of telling people of a certain pigmentation that they are savage sub-humans. Apparently. It is an affront and an attack on specific races and specific cultures that are, according to the winds of woke, socialized into violence and into brutality and savagery and barbarism and whatever else.

Now; the more observant amongst us will probably have noticed that the only ones who are openly drawing the lines between the savagery of the Orc and the supposed savagery of the “lesser races” are the ones who are supposedly opposed to viewing certain groups of people in this light.

One wonders, then, why these warriors for social justice; these enlightened individuals of wokeness – all so white as to be transparent, and so woke as to be abhorrent, one must add – draw these lines between the uncivilized, savage and barbarian Orcs and certain genetic populations of particular cultural adherence. One would not be amiss in stating, quite bluntly, that this reflects more on them than on any one else engaged in pen-and-paper role-playing, or wherever else the Orcs pop up as a terrible depiction of these genetic populations; these savage cultures where man-flesh is eternally on the menu. Feminism comes calling for man-flesh, one assumes. The age of men is over; tonight they’ll taste man-flesh. Gobble. Gobble.

Can you taste the bitter fucking irony and sarcasm bleeding from my sweaty palms and hissyfit-throwing fingers? I’m pissed right the fuck off. Well, no, that is not true in the least. I am disappointed. Very, very disappointed in a culture that has gone so far off the deep end as this.

For fuck sake, people. Get a fucking god-damned grip. Of course: one assumes that these people have such terrible weakness in their hands that they can barely get a grip on their luxurious vitamin-water or Starbucks-coffee or whatever it is that the cool kids are drinking these days. Men will always be needed, if not for anything else but get the lid of the pickle-jar. Ho-ho; shots were fired – I predict future articles about women being very capable of getting the lid of the pickle-jar, thank you very much, and we are strong independent fish that don’t need no man-handed bicycles. Not with these new kinds of lids… and especially not with these strange tools manufactured simply to make it easier to remove the lids from the pickle-jar. Come to think of it: I predict future articles in which it is stated that the lids of the pickle-jars are sexist. That seems to be the more likely outcome of the coming pickle-jar controversy. Wouldn’t surprise me. Shit: nothing surprises me any more.

Orcs, as they were created by Tolkien back in the fabled days of yore, are aspects of humanity just as much as all the other races of Middle-fucking-earth are aspects of humanity; allegories of certain traits of the mental make-up of the human fucking race. Certain traits, not certain races.

See; they were elves once. (Or, well, that is one possible origin-story. Tolkien, it seems, had a few to go around.) Then they got ruined, tortured and malformed by the big meanie Morgoth. Damaged beyond compare; they are now broken and ruined. An image, perhaps, of what happens to people who are exposed to the atrocities of war and come home damaged beyond repair. Written by someone who had experienced war, and the outcome of war.

But, no, of course, to the outraged outrage-mob who dwell in the shades of simplistic duality where all is black or white, they are a certain genetic population; depictions of certain cultures which they themselves have decided are savage. None but these people who are offended on behalf of other people see this and get up in arms about this. They gobble the golden egg of outrage so much that they have nothing else to poop but remnants of failed outrage. They defecate outrage from every orifice. Everything is something else. And one can never be happy, one must ever be outraged. There is no purpose beyond the great outrage, no life beyond the vast nothingness of permanent sneers and demands to speak to the manager of western society and culture.

Add the postmodern, deconstructionism or whatever else fancy jargon and piss-pot philosophy they lay on it to the mix, and you’ve got people saying that the intent of the author don’t matter, the intent of whatever don’t matter because it all depends on the eye of the beholder, not on that which is beholden. Objective reality don’t exist. It is all subjective. Which is, of course, self-defeating when taken to its logical conclusion, but that don’t matter much in the grand scheme and schism of things. Because consistency don’t matter – winning (and whining) does.

At the end of the day, it comes down to power and to control. They don’t like this or that or the other, and so it must be banned, censored and cancelled for the convenience of the new, sterile and synthetic dawn. Out with the old and in with the new. All that is old must go, and all that is new must be embraced. All must change according to their whims and fanatical fancy. For their progressively woke utopia, their woke-topia, depends on uniformity of thought, of speech, of opinion and of habit. And we can’t have that without banning everything that goes against that, however much or little it goes against that, however imagined or however manufactured. It’s just gotta go because it hurts their feelings that people are disagreeing; it hurts their fee-fees that someone might not want to bend the knee and bow their necks to the guillotine of social justice and the cult of woke.

Deal with it, forget about it, don’t give a fuck about it. Let them fade away; floating out to sea on their own imbecility. Sooner or later, the bombs will drop and the tides will turn and this outrage-culture will fall flat on its permanently offended Karen-snarl.

I hope.

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 23.05.2020

Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07ZB6K2JX
Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1692495518

Howling at a Slutwalk Moon, a collection of previous blog posts:
Vol 1 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/107571074X
Vol 1 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZTPDPR
Vol 2 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075714184
Vol 2 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZR25NL
Vol 1 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075717094
Vol 2 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075723078

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Typewriting Monkeys Are Silent Now

«Lament»

(

Inspired by things such as this: https://www.spiked-online.com/2020/01/22/failing-white-working-class-boys/

https://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-7996889/The-plight-white-working-class-boys-taboo-subject-Westminster-says-Tory-MP-Ben-Bradley.html

https://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/2018/01/03/white-working-class-boys-left-behind-negative-impact-focus-ethnic/

)

The typewriting monkeys are silent now,
the grand ivory towers all crumbling now,
false narrative-pushers all set to blow,
learn-to-code troops all buried in the snow.

Howling winds passing wide desolate corners
besieged by lickspittle corporate-goon mourners,
warming their atrophied reflexes in oil-barrels burning,
detoxing from the opiate of the people with tremendous yearning.

The high-and-mighty will taste the salt of the earth,
the flat-fisted commie-coughers aiming for rebirth,
long-suffering white working-class boys tossed to the winds of woke,
sacrificed by identity politics that would rather see them choke.

The neurotics left them dying in the poppy-fields,
pining for their fathers in the woke-washed battle-fields –
mouths gagged with dilapidated industrial war-machines;
hands bound with penetrative razor-sharp amphetamines.

Boyish flesh matter little to the woke-machines of war;
disposable bodies for the grind and for the great whore –
synthetic synapses snap and pop and crackle so;
back to the back-benches, buddy-boy, back to the hoe.

Back to the machines and back to the synergy,
fusion of flesh and bones, cogs and wheels and energy,
back to being crushed, to being ground to dust,
dead in the streets, dead for the typewriter’s lust.

Typewriting monkeys bravely opining oh so loudly,
magnificently, wondrously, virtuously declaring oh so proudly
solidarity with the cast-aside and the disenfranchised,
excepting those whom they themselves declare should be despised…

Blue checkmarked, holier-than-thou and eggshell-frail,
humble sales-peoplekinds wagging their elitist tail
at any inconsiderate attack on all they’d see fail:
burnt-out bodies of those who are pale and male and stale.

Celebrations of victory for manufactured equality
ring through ivory towers’ post-logic academy;
naught but women and minorities here –
notice that brilliant diversity, dear?

Notice that air of post-reason equity;
a flame burning for those of a desired identity –
a raging non-gender-specific, non-binary hard-on;
soft bigotry of low expectations getting its freak on.

A lament seems proper for the white working class boys
who were sacrificed, who were given no choice,
who were told no at every step and at every stage,
now dancing to the beats of some unfathomable rage.

Rage that turn to ruin, to wrath and feverish despair,
to loneliness and hopelessness, to terror and to fear
that breaks, berates and belittles them
as the monkeys stand ready to pre-condemn.

As they always have and always will, in actuality –
ready to attack those of an ill-fated identity
whose time has come to be the enemy
in round-about ways of repeating history.

Social justice is a far cry from being just or fair;
it reeks of revenge: an everlasting nightmare,
prepaid moral aloofness and hollow virtuous grandiosity:
empty sentiments and platitudes with no perspicacity.

Arrogant loudmouth screeching of immense brutality;
no depth, no height, merely superficial immediacy –
petty first world problems to flaunt identity-flairs
until such time as the next non-issue comes up the stairs.

Yet, it hides a cancer beneath its festering sore:
once power is received, it will always lust for more –
once the boundaries of what is considered fair is moved
the new boundaries are never easily removed.

Once society identifies its very own scapegoat-enemy
it will not rest or stop, will never let him be;
evil begets evil, and history remains the same:
we’ll always need something or someone to blame.

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 20.05.2020

Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07ZB6K2JX
Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1692495518

Howling at a Slutwalk Moon, a collection of previous blog posts:
Vol 1 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/107571074X
Vol 1 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZTPDPR
Vol 2 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075714184
Vol 2 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZR25NL
Vol 1 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075717094
Vol 2 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075723078

Other links:
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Minds: https://www.minds.com/Moiret
Flickr: https://www.flickr.com/people/152465815@N04/

Lonely Train-station Blues #2: Sleep

(As promised; part 2 of my collection of poetry «Lonely Train-station blues – poetry for the lost boys». The collection can be bought by following the links below.)

Raise the chains
towards death.

We cling to
immortality
rampant in
immorality,

believing strange
notions
decaying
in streets and
in gutters
believing
in sleep
long

and

arduous.

A process of
permanent
dissolution
and disillusion,

Building train-stations
in which
to grieve
the passage of time
black-footed
sure-footed

and lost

within these
withering ruins
of time,
where we
choose
to sing and
dance
and not to live
and not let live

as we raised
the chains
and waved at
death as
though
death would
never come
for
us.

Sheltered
in time
long forgotten and
blown away
from minds
blown away
excessively
poignantly
in pregnant
silence
about to burst
and give birth

to us.

At the moment
of death,
at the peak
of existence,

to us.

At the tail-end
of fear

at the beginning
of despair

to us

who laughed
where once
we wept

who sang
where once
we lived

who died
where once
we knew.

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 18.05.2020

Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07ZB6K2JX
Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1692495518

Howling at a Slutwalk Moon, a collection of previous blog posts:
Vol 1 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/107571074X
Vol 1 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZTPDPR
Vol 2 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075714184
Vol 2 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZR25NL
Vol 1 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075717094
Vol 2 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075723078

Other links:
Redbubble shop: https://www.redbubble.com/people/Moiret/shop
Blog: https://moiretallegiere.wordpress.com/
YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC3IaCxAXE3pQd7PCdvHoaaA
Bitchute: https://www.bitchute.com/channel/EvbGZyTZSraY/
twatter: https://twitter.com/MAllegiere
Gab: https://gab.com/Moiret_Allegiere
Minds: https://www.minds.com/Moiret
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Coming Soon: My Generation Killed Rock «n» Roll

Well, shit, I went and did it again!

Coming soon; another collection of contrarian ramblings. Most of the blog-posts of 2019; our previous current year. Cleaned them up some and threw them at paper, in the hope that they will stick. It will be available as a paperback and for Kindle. Titled “My Generation Killed Rock ‘n’ Roll”, because we kinda, sorta did. Besides, it’s a great fucking title – even if I do say so myself.

Missing from this collection, apart from a few ramblings which I thought were a bit repetitive, is the whole “Why I am an Anti-feminist” spectacle. They were so plentiful that they deserve their own volume, which will be coming out at some later date. Just gotta find the time to edit, re-write and so and such. Were I to put them in this volume, it would have been an enormous amount of pages. Keeping the “Why I am an Anti-feminist” series out of it, it is still at a whooping 425 pages. It was a productive year, if nothing else. Hopefully, it will prove itself to be quality as well as quantity.

Due to the brewsky bug, everything has been postponed. “My Generation Killed Rock ‘n’ Roll” was supposed to be published in March. But, oh, well – shit happens.

I could sit here all day, blowing smoke up my own arse and stroking my own ego in an effort to convince you to hand over your hard-earned cash for this chronicle of chaos. But I won’t. Rather, I’ll let someone else convince you (and stroke my ego for me). Listen to what this glorious triumvirate of deplorables have to say about the tome:

«No one chronicles with more tenderness and lyricism the contemporary conditions of men’s lives.»

– Janice Fiamengo, Professor of English (retired), University of Ottawa

«From the seductive opening lines to its final, unsettling conclusions, Moiret Allegiere’s, “My Generation Killed Rock N Roll,” is the gripping biography of a society living in the abyss of an ideological curse. It’s a page turning revelation of a book, punching at our sacred delusions with brass knuckles and tearing down the last of our pretty lies. It’s a brilliant, blockbuster effort that reminds me why Moiret Allegiere is my standalone favorite writer on men’s issues.»

– Paul Elam

My favorite men’s issues writer has done it again. Have you ever dreamed of wearing x-ray glasses? Allegiere takes apart the cultural hatred towards men in such a clear and effortless manner that is exactly what it feels like. You get to see right through the bullshit. He has a profound grasp on how the parts fit together and this book shares that in a unique and accessible fashion.

Reading My Generation Killed Rock and Roll will give you an extended and deep view into our cultural madness. Insightful, wonderfully offensive, clear… and did I mention he is really funny? My Generation Killed rock n roll consolidates the many ways our culture spouts its anti male venom. Highly recommended.

– Tom Golden

Hopefully, that’ll convince you to throw money at my book and, in so doing, support both the channels and the blog in a not insignificant way.

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 17.05.2020

Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07ZB6K2JX
Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1692495518

Howling at a Slutwalk Moon, a collection of previous blog posts:
Vol 1 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/107571074X
Vol 1 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZTPDPR
Vol 2 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075714184
Vol 2 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZR25NL
Vol 1 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075717094
Vol 2 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075723078

Other links:
Redbubble shop: https://www.redbubble.com/people/Moiret/shop
Blog: https://moiretallegiere.wordpress.com/
YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC3IaCxAXE3pQd7PCdvHoaaA
Bitchute: https://www.bitchute.com/channel/EvbGZyTZSraY/
twatter: https://twitter.com/MAllegiere
Gab: https://gab.com/Moiret_Allegiere
Minds: https://www.minds.com/Moiret
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Disconnect from Reality

«A portrait of the artist being devoured by his beard»

There is a strange disconnect from reality when speaking with women and men who have been intravenously injected with feminism since early childhood. It seems they don’t think about what they are saying. They just say it. Otherwise, the glaring double-standards, double-think and double-speak of their bloody obvious hypocrisy would most certainly be obvious. It sure as all hell is obvious to anyone who has swallowed the red pill. In fact: it ought to be obvious to anyone who has two working braincells to rub together.

I am lucky in that, I suppose, as I have about two and a half braincells left, having never devolved into watching reality-television and as such burning that last half braincell out of my head, leaving me a bit more than the standard pair to work with.

Barely.

Sometimes, my cognitive abilities are working and not flat-lining from stress and clickbaity YouTube videos. But only sometimes.

On one of many forums on the internet dedicated to women, I was lucky enough to behold a woman write what she wanted in a man.

She wanted a man who opened the doors for her, who pulled out her chair for her, paid the bills, carried the heaviest grocery-bags and so forth and so on with all the typical and nonsensical chivalry one has come to expect.

She carried on with stating that she wanted all this, not a man who pushed her into a traditional gender-role.

Chew on that one for a bit.

He was supposed to fulfil the traditional male gender-roles; the expectations of chivalry and sacrifice. She was not supposed to fulfil any of that which is traditionally expected from women in a traditional relationship.

Of course; in demanding these acts from her boyfriend she could not help but push herself into a standard gender-role as well. This was not obvious to her… or any other woman on the forum, for that matter. They all clucked their tongues and pecked at their keyboards with all the hen-pecked hen-pecking a nest of hens could ever inspire. Yes! That is exactly what we want, need and deserve!

I enquired as to why she found it alright to push him into a standard gender-role whilst expecting him not to push her into one. For that was exactly what she was doing.

She never replied.

Imagine that.

Feminism helps men too, you see. Except when that means women giving up on their privilege. As the feminist hordes are known to say: Privilege is invisible to those who are privileged. Yeah. I can see that. Check your privilege, shitbird.

I am certain that this woman never thought about it like that. Nor, it seems, do anyone who babble on like this. Men and women alike. It has become a standard response, programmed into our basic operating system until it becomes an instinctual response, or, rather, a habitual response. Of course the guy shall do this and that and the woman do none of it.

That’s just how it is supposed to be. That is equality.

What in the hell kind of fucking misogynistic arsehole are you that you expect anything from a woman? Men are not entitled to a woman’s anything. Women, on the other hand, are entitled to a man’s everything.

Here’s one for the ladies: If you want to be treated like a queen, it is only reasonable to expect you treat your man like a king. Give, and you shall receive. Expect only to receive, however, and you are an entitled princess. Expecting not to give anything back is acting like a spoiled child. And this is not an endearing trait in anyone, man or woman. Difference between men and women, it seems, is that women are defended and celebrated when acting like a spoiled child, men are not. That’s our woman-hating culture for you.

YASSSSSS!

Slay, Queen!

Pro-tip: any relationship need to be built on mutual respect. Both doing, giving and receiving in equal measures. It does not matter who does what, as long as things that need to be done are done. It is supposed to be mutually beneficial. That is part of the bargain, part of the deal, part of whatever and what-not.

People don’t think before they speak. Not thinking before one speaks is a very human thing, of course. It is easy to get caught up in the moment and just let the tongue waggle freely on ones chin. And we all have our own internal contradictions and such to deal with.

Being less-than-perfect biological machines, this is a given. But the extent to which this is present in those who have gobbled feminist rhetoric is astonishing to me. Feminism is not only speaking with two tongues – it is speaking with two tongues that reside somewhere deep within the owners rectal cavity. No matter the words that are spoken, they will still be full of shit. They come from a place that is full of shit. A repository of shit, if you will. These tongues don’t waggle freely on the chin as much as they waggle freely on the unwashed buttocks of their owner.

Observing behaviour such as the aforementioned makes it very difficult to believe that women actually know what they want. Dismissing traditional gender-roles with one tongue whilst not only expecting it, but embracing and demanding it with the other tongue is quite the example of cognitive dissonance.

Also: a man carrying the heaviest bags would, one assumes, be an expression of toxic masculinity… you know; celebrating physical strength and all that… whilst also being wicked enough to assume that the woman can not do the heavy lifting. Women can do everything men can. Except the naughty things. That is the domain of men and men alone, even when women do the naughty things.

You can’t have it both ways, ladies. And that is a fact.

Expecting the traditional roles from the male does simultaneously place the female into a traditional role, whether she sees this or not. If the male is expected to provide and to protect, the female is obviously expected to be both provided for and to be protected from.

If the male is to pay for the meal, say, she is being provided for. If the male is to carry the heaviest bags, say, she is being protected from the “strain” of carrying the heaviest bags. In expecting and embracing this, she is simultaneously expecting and embracing the old gender-role of being provided for and protected from.

But that is the thing of it: feminism speaks with the two tongues of the rectal cavity; screaming about equality and breaking the traditional gender-roles, yet still retaining the female privilege of the traditional role. And men don’t matter much; we are merely there for their amusement and subsequent debasement. Human-doings, not human-beings.

They want the one, but not the other. Or, to put it another way – they don’t want the one, but they want the other. No traditional expectations for women, but traditional expectations for men. Men are still to be shackled with the traditional role. Women shall reap the benefits from their traditional role, but none of what was their part of the bargain. Because it was a bargain; a part of the social contract. Give. And you shall receive. Receive, then, and you shall damned well have to give.

Now, of course, I can’t fault people for not seeing this disconnect from reality. It is, after all, something that is being fed to us with our less-than-nutritious breakfast cereal… brain-food for the feeble-minded and demented. Something that causes a lack of emotional development… makes the cognitive faculties less than faculties and more like your regular meeting in the teacher’s lounge on a very hungover Monday morning.

Nothing good will come from it, in other words.

And so we raise a generation of girls to be entitled princesses under the preposterous pretence of women in general being so feeble-minded and useless that they have allowed themselves to be oppressed by the male sex for all of eternity; demanding everything, yet expecting to not have to give anything in return for petty reasons of perceived payback and revenge (which is a far cry from actual justice, but never mind that little factoid – boys are stupid, throw rocks at them), and this disconnect is what you get.

The reverse applies to boys.

We raise a generation of boys to be indentured servants; expected to sacrifice everything under the preposterous pretence that they have been omnipotent and malicious oppressors for all eternity, and not being allowed to demand or expect anything in return for the very same reasons.

All the while, boys are expected to pay for the so-called sins of their fathers. That these so-called sins of their fathers is manufactured politically convenient trash is of little matter, because she who controls the past controls both the present and the future. And the feminist narrative has been in control of the past for a good and long while, through education, through academia, through government and through culture, be that television or movies or books or whatever else. It seeps into us from all possible channels.

Reality is not what it is. Reality is what those who control the narrative say that it is. Twisted and malformed, but still some semblance of reality remains. Judging the past by the standards of today is not a good way of getting a picture of what the past was like. Yet that is what is being done.

Claiming that working in extremely dangerous conditions for very little pay is a more privileged position to be in than taking care of the home is… err… an interesting claim, I would dare say.

What is missing from the feminist equation is of course the male experience. And I mean the true male experience, not the male experience of the top one percent, or whatever. That the past was hard for women I am in little doubt of. Times were hard. All around. For, you see, it was hard for men as well. This is conveniently forgotten, of course – pushed to the wayside, hidden in the annals of history because we only ever care about the female experience… an experience which, of course, have been altered tremendously by the soothing application of feminist revisionism.

One can never talk about the male experience… about male issues and problems without having to mention the female experience, female issues and problems in the same breath.

So often, whenever we see some genuine mainstream effort at talking about male issues, it always begins with something along the lines of “we know that women have problems, blah, blah, blah”.

A disclaimer put in place so that the poor women should not feel left out. Because that is exactly what a society, a culture, a government and a world that just hates women would do. Obviously. It would put women up front and centre, even when looking to the problems predominantly affecting men. This makes perfect sense, if you squint, squeal and then proceed to roll around in the mud for a bit.

Now, of course, it usually follows that men in general, or masculinity specifically is blamed for the issues of men, prompting men to fix themselves and alter their venomously masculine behaviour. When men stop being men, the message goes, all will be well in the world of men. But, more importantly, all will be well in the world of women also. Apparently.

The biggest problem with men, according to the church of the latter day troglodytes, is that we are, in fact, men.

Men must give up their masculinity as long as men stay being men and keep providing for, and protecting, women, without forcing women into a traditional gender-role.

Of course.

So, man up, men, and do your part for women. And blame masculinity – that part of you that is demanded of you – for what is wrong with you. Stop doing that which you are told to do.

Do it.

Don’t do.

Do it and don’t do it at the same time.

And whatever you do, don’t wish for sex. Or a relationship. Unless she wishes for sex. Or a relationship. Then you have to read her body-language and understand her psychic hints; that you have to chase and make the first move. The cat and mouse game is still going strong, is still expected. Just be damned sure that you are reading the signs correctly. Otherwise you’ll get yourself a rape-charge, boy. Believe women. You still have to make the first, second, third, fourth and on and on move. Because she can not be expected to do that, of course. That would put the onus on her. And we can’t have that. Expectations of responsibility? OH NOES AND WOES! But you should not feel entitled to anything. And don’t ever say no if she actually initiates sex. Women do not deal well with rejection. Except that they do and men don’t, even when women don’t even when they do. But no means no, and sometimes yes means no as well… and sometimes no just means that you have to try harder.

It is not as confusing as it sounds, honest.

Insert “old lady wat” meme here.

And then carry on with your day.

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 16.05.2020

Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07ZB6K2JX
Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1692495518

Howling at a Slutwalk Moon, a collection of previous blog posts:
Vol 1 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/107571074X
Vol 1 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZTPDPR
Vol 2 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075714184
Vol 2 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZR25NL
Vol 1 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075717094
Vol 2 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075723078

Other links:
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Karen Between the Thighs of Time

«Sunrise»

Karen between the thighs of time

Masculinity is dead, and men are obsolete.

The death of masculinity in turn, at every turn, celebrated by high-handed academic nobles hell-bent on tuneless destruction.

Autotuned destruction manufactured by salty sirens singing sulking siren-songs, lost at the seven seas or at a loss for words to weep into the seven seasons of the seasoned sea, creating post-reason and post-truth randomized fancy-sounding jargon instead – overseeing and then overlooking academic rigour in fortified compost-heaps of indoctrination previously known as high seats of noble learning; as pursuit of truth immaculate and clean… comparing apples to oranges in hallucinatory Ibogaine-dreams beneath this new green-screen moon of ours where they caught their venomous high in imaginary goddess-pasts where all was one in insurmountable harmony… where the one was lost between the thighs of time or between the tits of para-mythological synthetic pasts dreamt up by sheltered prophets of the one true faith that says, in luscious tongue-twisted and henpecked rhymes:

Masculinity is dead, and men are obsolete.

So say the high-swingers, the over-educated gold-diggers, the apocalyptically sized lie-triggers triggered by anything so long as the god-awful triggering can be used in their defence and for their splendid cause be spent and used.

Twitter gave me PTSD.

Oh woe, oh no, oh wow, oh boy.

Twitter gave me PTSD.

Say it ain’t so, oh no, oh no, for sooth, for sure: there’s no blisters on these pale and noble hands, no sun-burnt neck, no tired toil to rub the skin from these luscious lady-lisps.

Much apologizing; I meant, of course, to say “lady-lips”… lips that crack and bleed and break and moan at the discord brought from vague dissent.

How dare this cock-wielding, woman-brutalizing, manspreading defiler of sanctity and sanctititty mansplain his atrocious disagreements to the humble noble at the metaphysical top of the bookmarked Twitter-hill?

Does he not know that there is a natural order to things and that he, by virtue of his cock and balls, is so much better off than she and so should shut the fuck up as the fuck-face that he is, stay in his lane and never contradict the inane and insane ramblings of this noble woman whom he so defiled by his parade of disastrous dissent?

For doing so… disagreeing with a woman is misogyny by default; woman-hating and woman-bashing and whatever else there is to put the word “woman” in front of.

Such a terrible trespass; such a crime that ought to be punishable by banishment and later on by death.

Here come the gag-orders!

Gag him with the full fury of the peoplekinds in blue; with all the layered lawyers and brutal barristers; all the perverted politicians and corrupt constabularies the goddess can bring forth from out the flesh of the patriarchy that just hates women ever so much; that oppresses the ever-loving gobblefuck out of every square inch of their luxuriously dyed hair and painted fingernails that never once cracked or broke from shovel-lifting and sweat and blood.

And misogyny is a hate-crime, and misogyny is whatever the fuck the wearer of the problem-glasses say that it is, by gobbly golly, and so be it, for such did Karen speak and sputter.

Problem-glasses can only hide the true Karen for so long… Karen-ness, I believe and one assumes can be measured simply by looking at the wingspan of Karen’s spectacles: a spectacular spectacle brought forth from spectacle-spectacles that speaks spectacular spectacle-woes and worries.

Let me talk to the manager of men! I am most displeased with this dis-service from the hands and meaty mouths of mutton-eating men! I demand to speak with the manager of the patriarchy!

So spake Karen, and all who listened then obeyed.

Except the ones that didn’t listen or obey.

Which gave Karen PTSD from their dissent as she saw that she was no longer locked within the bowels of her aristocratically academic echo-chamber.

Oh Goodness, gracious Goddess, no! No, Karen, no! Put that footstool down! You don’t know where it’s been. Besides, you are far too delicate to lift it. Don’t overexert yourself, Karen. Breathe Karen, breathe, for fuck sake, Karen, breathe! Someone fetch the smelling salts – Karen has swooned again at being exposed to this terribly murky masculine musk!

Masculinity is surely dead.

And men are obsolete.

Evidenced as such by vague murmurs of dissent being enough to bring the high-and-mighty to their knees in problem-glassed shakes and shivers, whimpering and crying and begging for freedom from the persecution suffered at the hands of all these plebs, these peasants, these serfs and these have-nots that have it all and are so privileged that they tie the weak and meek amongst us all in knots.

Masculinity is dead. And men are obsolete.

Here come the age of feminine tyranny; an age marked by irrational fear-mongering, emotional upheaval, hysteria and all those other stereotypes of women which we have been told are not true and are, in fact, damaging to women… all held forth as shining examples of strength and of passion and of whatever else…

God-fucking-damnit, but I grow so fucking tired of pointing this out whenever and wherever. If this stereotype of women; the hysterical, the emotionally immature and volatile, the powerless, the irrational, the emotionally reasoning stereotype of women… that women can neither reason nor logic is oh-so damaging to women, these women would do well to not live up to the stereotype to such an extent that they make for perfect cannon-fodder for such articulate arseholes like myself to write a shit-post such as this on it.

Masculinity is dead, they say. And men are obsolete.

Give way, lean to the sides, cup your balls and drag ‘em up into your womb you lovely lady-boys: the feminine is the new de-facto default. Any man worth his salt is a lady through-and-through.

Even when he has no womb.

Though boys can menstruate, we’re told, in schools that reek of fuckery and neglect; that sold their souls to the politically correct narrative and, in so doing, ruined generations of children.

There is no sex and there ain’t no gender and there are no differences between the two sexes… nor are there any between the seventyleven genders, for that sexual matter that matters little to the sexuality of meaty matter. No differences, that is, except the wickedness of man which is worse than that of women ‘cause that don’t exist except when it do… which is when they are influenced by the wickedness of men, say Karen, all strung up and wound up with no manager to speak to any more.

For, you see, all the managers turned into Karens over night as the proverbial glassceiling shattered. And all that is left is a bunch of angry Karens yelling at other angry Karens.

Oh boy.

What a terrible future this is.

Masculinity is dead. And men are obsolete.

I know this to be true, for those who wished the death of masculinity and who wished for men to be rendered obsolete told me so… A panel full of women wishing for the death of men and of masculinity said so; with no man in sight to say or to claim otherwise, one would surely be a savage man-beast with feral inclinations to say otherwise.

Not that it matters, otherwise or no, considering that dissent muttered in dissenting tunes and harmonies would be deemed harassment and considered pale and ruptured soggy knees and so bring the panel to their swollen knees in PTSD-brainwaves lapping at the beach of femininity and fragility that are so linked and intertwined in the strengths of these women.

Strength, that is, that is measured in weakness shown and bragged and then later on drowned in all the jargon and intellectualism a lovely lady-boy could ever wish to eat or drink or piss or shit.

Masculinity is dead.

And men are obsolete.

This is clear and obvious and all who say otherwise are either dying or obsolete. The thing is the thing whether the thing is real or not.

So Spake Karen.

And all who spoke against are guilty of hate-speech and so should be removed from her sight and from the might and influence of the glorious wingspan of her problem-glasses.

Masculinity is dead.

And men are obsolete.

Long live masculinity.

Long live men.

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 13.05.2020

Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07ZB6K2JX
Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1692495518

Howling at a Slutwalk Moon, a collection of previous blog posts:
Vol 1 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/107571074X
Vol 1 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZTPDPR
Vol 2 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075714184
Vol 2 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZR25NL
Vol 1 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075717094
Vol 2 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075723078

Other links:
Redbubble shop: https://www.redbubble.com/people/Moiret/shop
Blog: https://moiretallegiere.wordpress.com/
YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC3IaCxAXE3pQd7PCdvHoaaA
Bitchute: https://www.bitchute.com/channel/EvbGZyTZSraY/
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Minds: https://www.minds.com/Moiret
Flickr: https://www.flickr.com/people/152465815@N04/

Lonely Train-Station Blues #1: With This Writing

(As promised, I will be uploading my collection of poetry «Lonely Train-station blues», bit by bit and piece by piece, every Monday until it is done.)

I am writing this with immense pain
in my nuclear brain cavity
thoughts numbed by existential dread
in ungained high-strung muscletension.

I am writing this with fogged down
nuclear winter thoughts
a cotton-laced mind punctured by
knitting needles absolved of sin.

With this writing I am dumbstruck
cords wrapped round my neck
with skin dry as salted leather
white as churchbell-thuds.

With this writing I am ghostlike
apparations sprung from eyes like water
overcome with cold war despair
I shall seek your smile again.

Writing this I come undone unravelled
thoughts explode from maggots
tunneling through my fractured flesh
in laserblind poetic justice.

Writing this I find my reason
pain eludes the sharpedged pen
fingers race upon the parchment
I shall seek your smile again .

Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07ZB6K2JX
Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1692495518

Howling at a Slutwalk Moon, a collection of previous blog posts:
Vol 1 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/107571074X
Vol 1 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZTPDPR
Vol 2 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075714184
Vol 2 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZR25NL
Vol 1 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075717094
Vol 2 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075723078

Other links:
Redbubble shop: https://www.redbubble.com/people/Moiret/shop
Blog: https://moiretallegiere.wordpress.com/
YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC3IaCxAXE3pQd7PCdvHoaaA
Bitchute: https://www.bitchute.com/channel/EvbGZyTZSraY/
twatter: https://twitter.com/MAllegiere
Gab: https://gab.com/Moiret_Allegiere
Minds: https://www.minds.com/Moiret
Flickr: https://www.flickr.com/people/152465815@N04/