Woke-wept wishy-washy Hollywood hogwash, fearsomely feminist, transcendentally talentless thunder-cunt terrariums… films filmed feverishly to majestically milk the mad molten money-cow, the effervescently elusive elitism of this crunchy catatonic, charismatically chaotic church of cold and clammy wailing wilful wokeness.
If you don’t want to watch the movie, boy, there’s a whipping and a wallop and a whomping waiting just around the bend. These tragic, trite, talentless miserable Mary Sue movies with their memorably miserable Mary Sue characters flunk and fail and falter on account of maliciously misogynistic masculine males who would not spend their man-made money on female-made, female-lead films, ya see, ya know, ya got to understand. The quality of the film does not matter, mister.
It has got absolutely nothing to do with the films themselves being petulant plotholed political platitudes presented in filmic form; a cinematic serpent-cult sermon from the hallowed church of woke whose wonder and whimsy turned to wailing and whining in the starless, moonless, loveless wah-wah night; the long night of a thousand wails.
Nor does it have anything to do with them being latent late-to-the-party lifeless lullabies; ravaged radical remakes of labours long loved and honoured; lazy as only a long-suffering monochromatic writer of infinite inspirational drought could manufacture… dreamt up drearily at the widows peak of a horrible hangover following days of decadent Dionysian debauchery… movies made manically merely to push, prod and preach woeful woke whinging on a spit-roasted slew of mass-manufactured media-made hot-button issues of the vain and vacuous woe-is-me-and-everyone-like-me variety, fuelled by cringy, crazy, colourful cocaine-binges and threats of immediate incineration if not worshipping in the wondrous well of the vapid church of woke.
Nope, nah, nix, null and void!
Men just hate women so much that they do not watch movies made by women, or movies that star women, or movies that are made solely for women and the enjoyment of women. That is the only reason for much beloved movies and fantastic franchises remade and rebooted into woke-washed whining ‘n’ wailing failing to become box-office smash-hits, raking in billions of bastard-drilled money. Even when capitalism is evil and so is the money-game.
When all else fails, claim misogyny. And all your troubles and all your despair shall evaporate and vanish, and all the truths and all the lies shall be made as clear and as bright as the dim moon of a darkening funeral sky.
It is the most luscious lubricant for the lolling lips and wailing whips of the frail and frantic feminist few; the tried and terribly true tactic – the female shaming of the male.
Far be it from the forces of the frenzied fevered and ferocious few to come to grips, to come to terms, to comprehend, to croak through comatose concern that maybe, maybe, maybe baby, they done did a goof.
Far be it from the tenacious troops of the terribly trembling tribe to see, to grasp, to get, to understand that maybe, maybe, maybe baby, skilful execution of ones art and chosen handicraft is more important for people and their enjoyment of said art and chosen handicraft than any overtly political echo-sphere message embedded therein; that any message one would inflict upon the unwashed masses and their maddeningly mediocre misogynistic man-lives has got to play second fiddle to the base that is the art.
Translated into nincompoop, that is to say: the frame is not the painting… the painting is the painting.
Far be it obviously also from the platoons of the permanently pestilent, the preposterously peremptory, to admit, to understand, to come to clinical terms with the un-fact of the day; the horrendous hate-speech and wrong-think of the dismal drudgery that is today: men and women are different in their likes and dislikes, their interests and fascinations, the art and media they wish to consume.
Also: this is quite alright.
Far be it from me, as well, to assume in apostate assumptions, or harbour heretical hallucinations about the order of the day, though admittedly it seems to me that maybe, maybe, maybe baby, women did not watch the flicks and films and self-salutated salivated screen-scream-secretions either… So why no spinal-severing chastises of the wacky women whose internalized misogyny refused them to go watch your killer-bee queen-bee regurgitated Hollywood Mary Sue feminist hogwash?
Now, may haps, may chance, maybe, your movie just weren’t that good.
Or is it so that no strong independent whamen would go see a movie on her own, on account of having to pay for the ticket her own damned self instead of having a man pay for her ticket, as of course is tradition?
Oh boy, what a can of worms that would be to open!
What a can of wormy worms indeed!
Men are obsolete, mister, excepting when they’ve got money.
Then we need them to watch our movies, and we’ll shame them if they don’t.
For if men do not enjoy something they are told they must enjoy, they simply hate women. And must therefore enjoy it or suffer the consequential shaming. Enjoyment under fear of ridicule and shame if you do not enjoy. A phenomenal way to truly get people to truthfully watch and truthlessly enjoy your movies, luscious lady of the lisp and latex; ingenious in its complexity and in its stupidity.
To disprove the thesis of the misogyny, of the vile bro-code ballad, they must learn to enjoy and consume something they do not wish to enjoy or to consume.
This they must learn and do through shame.
Otherwise, they just hate women.
Even when they do not wish to watch a mediocre-at-best movie; another lazy remake or reboot from the dying hell-well of Hollywood Hogwash, lacking in inspiration and belief and originality and anything but the woke-washed wailing of the vapid and the vacuous virtue-signal.
For that is the order of the day.
And all shall love it, or despair.
Hallowed eternal be the Hollywood-woke; the church of the latter day twats.
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- Moiret Allegiere, 15.01.2019
Howling at a Slutwalk Moon, a collection of previous blog posts:
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