Illustration: «Reach», 2019, Moiret Allegiere
In order to bring your regular blue-pilled and blue-balled man to his knees, whimpering and stuttering profound expressions of regret, you need two things. A woman. And shame. This is something that is difficult to spot at first, as it seems to be a thing that has been cemented in our cultural evolution just as much as it has been fixed in the midst of our biological evolution. As such, it is something that gets taken for granted, by both men and women. A part of the social game and fabric of our mutually assured societal suicide; a living, breathing entity trapped within the basement-dwellings of our primal reptilian longing to fornicate and procreate.
Women are the gatekeepers of sex; of fornication and procreation and thusly the ones who decide whether or not a man is allowed to create any form of progeny… or to see his lineage dwindle and die.
Little wonder then that we are willing to put up with so much ridicule and shame from the fairer sex than we would ever be willing to put up with from men. This is not to say that we should put up with it. It is to say that it is so commonplace that it is nigh impossible to see unless you have your eyes opened wide by some personal tragedy or by forcefully applied reason, logic and common fucking sense. And when you do not see it, you take it for granted. It is part of the social fabric; the way things have always been and always will be. Unless we change it.
See, during my much-needed hiatus from writing on these topics, I have not been lazy. Nor have I kept myself out of the loop, as any sane individual would do were they to take a break from everything. I am clinically insane. As a result of this, I can not take a break from things no matter how much my aching body and decaying mind tell me that they need to. The show must go on, I suppose. Well, the show and my obsession on certain topics of the day.
I am not someone who will willingly participate in a debate. Hell; I have to be dragged kicking and screaming out of my cave just to go outside and get something to eat, leaving behind me a trail of despair and destruction much befitting a pseudo-hermit like myself. Winding up in some online debate with a perfect stranger would be, to my gobsmacked intestinal tract, an ulcer in waiting and a prolapsed back emerging from the shackled shadow of the somewhat social teenager I used to be, with all the gloomy angst and mysterious stranger vibes I could conjure forth from my then-emerging extreme introversion.
No, I am not one for debates. I always wind up muttering, stuttering, mumbling something incomprehensible and then doing my best to fade into the woodwork or dig a hole in the ground where I could sleep for a thousand years.
Cause I am tired, I am weary.
My Twitter profile is a living testament to this, as one would expect. My tweets are few and far between. The “likes” I have doled out lovingly to the masterful guards standing in the way of the rampaging feminist hordes, shielded by facts and wielding flaming words of immense illumination are not that few and far between, as I very much enjoy reading and watching debates online. Whether that be professional debates in professional settings, or on online forums like Reddit or Twitter or what-have-you.
Used to be I’d watch or read debates on just about everything, in order to get a grasp on the thought-processes of people and the arguments espoused from either side of a debate. It didn’t matter then, and it don’t matter much now whether I agreed with any side or not. My interest lies in seeing and understanding a side, understanding their reasoning and their conclusions. Keeping an open mind is key to this; to view things from as many perspectives as possible, and then letting what makes the most sense guide my own view and opinion on things. Lately, what debates I have read and/or seen have been mainly feminist vs non-feminist/MRA’s. For obvious reasons.
And what is so absurdly and incomprehensibly gobsmacking in these debates – if you would even want to call them that – is the amount of shame and personal attacks ushered forth from the feminist harpies. There is very little argument of any value to be found – if there really are any.
There is a constant flow of shaming and ridicule, and that is more or less that. And these people seem to be absolutely unaware of this. It is funny to watch and to behold how their regular shaming tactics don’t work on men who have woken up to this horrifying fact and facet of life and the social fabric. How they take it all in stride as the frightbat tunes of shame and ridicule fall on deaf ears completely in tune with the harmonious winds of their own mad-genius laughter as they watch these tried-and-true tactics be completely useless in the face and eyes of the enlightened and noble transcendent spirits.
In encountering non-feminist women, the shaming tactics get even worse and more ridiculous.
Cause this is unknown territory – these are uncharted waters, captain, and we don’t have any particular framework to navigate. We can’t seem to shame them for the size of their genitals any more, nor their lack of sexual prowess and/or ability to provide for and protect a woman and children. God-damn, what should we do then? Well, arr, damned if I know, matey. I assume that there can not possibly be women who think like this, and as such it must be a man clothed and disguised as a female internet-persona as a fantastically smart way of bringing shame upon the global sisterhood. Because that is what I would do, god-damnit!
Clearly, no woman could possibly be opposed to the feminist mindset of being an eternal victim and permanently downtrodden; of being constantly so beat down by the world that she could not possibly be expected to navigate it on her own without breaking into hives, sweaty panic and full frontal feral nudity and madness in protest of the sexualization of her voluptuous body-rolls and ginormous foot-impact on the soil.
It is either a man, or a woman so desperate for intimacy with a man that she is willing to lie in order to get a foot within the door of his provider-protector shack. A “Pick-me” I believe is the terminology of choice to these people, so up their own ass and addicted to sniffing their own farts that they are completely incapable of comprehending the simple fact that sex and gender is not a unifying ideal; that neither sex is a homogeneous mass of drones doing and thinking the exact same thing in perpetuity. So foreign is the notion of women opposing feminism that there has to be some nefarious reason for them doing so; either an MRA – as of course are only men – posing as a woman, or a woman who can not find love and so must pretend to be opposed to the sexual inequality and infantilizing of women which feminism so clearly crafts and creates wherever they spread their filthy wings and period-blood, all hysterical and ovary-acting to anything not deemed suitable conduct for a woman. And what is suitable conduct for a woman? Anything feminism dictates. Anything feminism does not dictate is not suitable for a woman. Even if women can do whatever the hell they want. As long as they do what feminism wants, which is not what women in general want, but what feminism wants. Rinse and repeat.
The shaming of men who are opposed to feminism is much the same as the shaming of any man, whether they are opposed to feminism or not. Just another fucking Tuesday for those of us who grew up in the era of feminism. Nothing much changes there, to be frank and perfectly honest. It is the same old rhetoric of feminism when faced with the tragic horror of men and masculinity which they have always spewed from their gibbering jaws of wanton death and destruction; a constant stream of shame for men being men and doing whatever it is that men do.
And, to the eyes and fatty tissue of feminism – whatever it is that men do and are is exactly what feminism is opposed to. And this is subject to change at any moment of any day. Depends on if the moon is in the seventh house or not; if Jupiter is aligned with Mars and if the demented Moon-goddess Luna is on the rag or not.
Usually, an attempted debate devolves quickly into insinuations of a less-than-satisfactory genital size, a lack of sexual partners and sexual prowess, lack of income or ability to protect and to provide for a woman and for a family. Oddly gender-traditional, I always think, as I watch this train wreck occur in front of my eyes in slow motion. I swear to high heavens that feminism is the most gender-traditional set of entitled bastards you will see this side of a medieval romance novel. Both male and female feminists.
Words like “incel” are thrown around willy-nilly, never-minding if the man in question is in a relationship or not. I have seen feminists claim that men who are in a relationship or who are married are lying about it just to deflect from their incelhood. Further establishing the feminist view of men as beings incapable of detaching their selves from their lust to fuck; as if there is – to the poor sight of feminism – nothing more to a man than a throbbing and mutilated cock eternally on the quest for a quick rape or two in some dank alley infested with patriarchal lice and women – pick-me’s – willing to be defiled by the tragedy of male sexuality, begging for a cheap fuck to validate her existence. It is as if feminism sees men as being absolutely nothing without a woman in their life, to defile and subjugate.
Thus pouring the insufferable narcissism of feminism deeply into the cracks of our pavements and the paths on which we walk to our sudden and sullen gloom and doom. How can a man function without a woman in his life? Men, to the eyes of feminism and to society at large, are complete and utter failures if they are incapable of ensnaring some poor woman in their manspread manweb of incessant mansplained mancocks. Men are nothing without women. And women are the moral fabric of society, they shriek and shudder, as they shame men for not finding a woman and shame women for wanting so badly to find a man that they oppose feminism and the divine sisterhood to do so. Then they shame men for wanting to find a woman. And women for not finding a man. Herpityderp.
And of all the horrible things they could find to shame men for, they resolve to involuntary celibacy as the prime force behind their shaming; the core of their unending male shame: the male lack of partnership and sexual as well as emotional fulfilment.
Incels, as is my understanding of it, are often men who have been deeply damaged by society. Or who have some developmental issues, some mental issues, some physical issues that make it very difficult for them to find any meaningful companionship, platonic or not.
Often – but not always – these men have been abused and/or neglected by their parents. They have lacked love and understanding for most of their lives, and they are still incapable of finding love and understanding and so vent their frustrations on the internet, where there at the very least exist other people willing to listen to them and share a bit in their despair.
Most people do want to love and to be loved; to find emotional as well as physical fulfilment in the company of another human being. Physical contact is incredibly important to human beings. In particular in their younger years. Give a child everything but physical contact, and the child will suffer immensely for the lack of physical contact.
A whole hell of a lot of these incels are men who are deeply damaged, scorned and ridiculed by society. Who have been neglected and abused throughout their lives. Who have not found any place where they feel that they fit in or are accepted, and as a result they get angry and frustrated.
This is not to say that I agree with their venting, their anger and frustration. Nor is it to say that I don’t.
This – dear feminist horde of rampant rage and ruin – is what is called being understanding and compassionate; to show empathy. Which the entire world is in dire need of where men are concerned. The empathy-gap is real. Glaringly and obviously so, if one just manage to view men as human beings and not merely human doings; as utilities and a nifty set of tools to get the job done, the lack of empathy where men are concerned becomes really bloody obvious. Especially so the moment one takes a short pause to consider that “incel” is a term now used to shame men.
That incels, men who – more often than not – find themselves at the bottom rungs of society, who are deprived of emotional fulfilment and of physical fulfilment, who are lonely and despairing, are shamed for being just that. Shamed instead of understood and shown empathy and given help. Further hammering the point home in their heads and despairing psyche – that they are not now, nor have they ever been, wanted, loved or needed.
And still this gynocentric, feminist-infested society of ours will claim that the empathy-gap is not real.
It is enough to make me feel sick to the bottom of my soul.
It doesn’t matter what the facts are. It doesn’t matter how many studies and statistics are used in these debates to prove the point against feminism. For these people, feelings are more factual than actual facts are factual. I assume this is because the feelings are immediate and thus take precedence to the ability to stop and think, ponder and consider. If something feels bad, it must be bad. Never mind if it is true or not. Thus, facts counter to the feminist narrative that has been droning on for years uncounted that feel bad can not possibly be true. Cause they feel bad, and that is that.
In my ramblings, in which I will absolutely admit that I am not as good at dropping sources as I should be, there is not a single thing I have stated as fact that can not be backed up by statistics or studies or news-articles or whatever. My lack of dropping sources stems from the fact that I am a writer, not a scholar; an artist, not an academic.
I do my very best to make it obvious when I am talking for myself and when I am referring to some study or statistic or the like.
Believe it or not, given the rambling and hop-scotchy nature of my writing, I happen to chose my words very carefully. The rambling is by choice and by design. And I very often find myself having a hard time writing something if I am just a wee bit uncertain about it. If I have not completed my – admittedly very slow – thinking or research on a certain subject, I falter and my fingers stutter over the keyboard like some drunkard at the bar, searching in vain for that last glimmer of sobriety stuck somewhere in the back of his throat. This is because I want to be as sure as I can be that I am correct in what I write and what I say and what I think. Obviously, this is not to say that I am infallible – that I am always right, like some weird angry God. It is to say that I do my very best to speak truth, even if my style of writing is very much impacted by my emotional state at the moment of writing. My writing may very well be emotional. My reasoning, on the other hand, is not.
For reasons very much unknown to me, but which are probably tied neatly into the obscurity of my blog and of my channel as well as my lack of participation in debates, I have not experienced a lot of shaming and ridicule after I began writing on these topics. Nothing near what I expected. In fact, I have been shamed and ridiculed for my sex and sexuality more before I started writing about these topics than after. I guess it is easier to attack someone who does not speak openly on things of this nature in the holy name of feminism than it is to attack someone who does.
For blue-pilled men are easier prey to various forms of Succubi and harsh siren songs than red-pilled men are. There have been some attempted shaming and personal attacks. Of such grandiose stupidity that I refuse to reply to it. Because I can not understand why in the everlasting blowjob-sunrise I should reply to non-arguments presented as arguments; to self-contradictory statements made within the same paragraph of babbling monologues as each other. I see no reason to counter shaming tactics with anything but the wall of silence which it deserves. Because shaming tactics are not arguments; personal attacks will never be arguments. They are not worthy of a reply. At least not to my eyes. There is really very little to be said to someone who is so possessed by the ghost of feminism that they would claim – without so much as a flicker of regret or doubt – that the only possible conclusion to be had from my opposition to feminism is that I want to be free to abuse my wife however I wish. There is no reasoning with this type of madness, this type of ideological and dogmatic blindness. And I don’t have the time, the energy or the health for it.
Of course; I see that the point in any debate is not so much to sway the opinion of the one with whom one is debating but those who may be looking on. Which is much the reason why I so much enjoy watching debates. Not necessarily to see a feminist PWNED and WRECKED and DESTROYED by FACTS(!!!), however much fun that is, but to see those who may have been on the sidelines getting swayed as much by the behaviour of the feminist or feminists in the debate as by the reasoned arguments by the non-feminist in question. As much as I believe that fighting fire with fire may be worth it (if only for the lolz), as much as I think that holding feminists accountable to their own standard of behaviour and thusly replying to them in kind would be a spectacular display of hypocrisy on their part, there is very little doubt in my mind that the true path towards a society in which feminism does not hold as much sway and power and might and control that they do at the moment of writing is to debate them calmly and succinctly, to disprove their nonsense with actual evidence, with cold and hard facts instead of rambling emotional tirades and ad hominem potshots.
To gently and slowly sway the public opinion.
And to those who are capable of doing just that, I tip my fedora and wriggle my neckbeard in ecstatic glee. For you are the ones fighting. I’m just sitting sheltered in some bunker somewhere, doing what I can on my part, as little as that may very well be.
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– Moiret Allegiere, 17.07.2019
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