And I am not any good at this.
In my infinite wisdom and finite cleverness, I have committed yet
another book. A full frontal assault on poetry this time around. Even
when it is a well known and long established fact that poetry won’t
make you any money, it will only make you mad, I can not for the life
of me stop writing it. Or reading it, for that matter. Which just
goes to show that some wretched shrivelled and clinically insane
person out there will pay actual money for poetry. For reasons of
The collection is titled
“Lonely Train-station Blues; Poetry for the Lost Boys”. And it is
more or less exactly what the title says that it is. Though the focus
in this collection is more on the personal and the spiritual than it
is on the gender-stuff which take up most of my time and creative
endeavours, it is safe to say that gender still plays a part. For the
poetry within is very much written for the Lost Boys of our era and
of our decrepit day and age.
If poetry ain’t your thing,
the collection at the very least has got some very decent cover-art,
even if I do say so myself. Any income from potential sales go
straight into keeping me alive, kicking, loaded on caffeine and full
of piss, vinegar and ram-jammed rebellion for further blog-posts and
channel updates. In short; it supports the blog and the
After round and about six
months, I think, I will start posting the poetry within to the blog
and the Tubes, one poem every two weeks. Probably on Mondays…
because I can’t stand Mondays, and so I need to get some enjoyment
from those wretched days. I have mentioned before that nothing I do
will be behind a paywall. This includes fancy frivolities and deep
dives into such pretentious dribble as poetry.
The collection is available as
paperback and for Kindle-devices. No illustrated edition this time
around, I am sad to say, as I lost my faith in visual art some time
back and have only recently started getting it back. Better to lose
faith in visual art for a while than it is to lose faith in humanity
as a whole, I suppose.
Hope you will buy it and enjoy it. I find the collection is best enjoyed alongside a bottle of finely matured red wine, a handful of Valium and a chainsaw.
It would be safe to say, by
peeping but a little beneath the crows-silver that lines the surface
of feminism, that it does not exactly hold the greatest opinion of
women. It does hold feminist women in great regard, bordering on
deification. But that is not your average woman, that is feminist
women. And it does have some weird holier-than-thou hang-ups
regarding female nature, despite neither masculinity nor femininity
being natural according to them. It is a weird thing. And an
incredibly strange trip.
In my writings, I tend to
focus on men and the opinion feminism has in regards to men. The
reason for this should be easy to understand: society, as it is, does
neither talk nor care about the plight of men. Feminism insists the
opposite, despite it very clearly not being true. One needs look no
further than beyond the political indoctrination; the tangled web of
lies which feminism have placed over our eyes.
They point to the top one
percent in society, see mainly men and state that this means women
are oppressed and men are oppressors. Otherwise, why should there be
so many men at the top? This is known as the apex-fallacy. In looking
only to the top, they neglect looking at the bottom. And at the
bottom of society, in all the negative statistics, all the
destructive statistics, all the suicides, all the homelessness, all
the workplace fatalities, all the drug-addictions, all the
alcohol-addictions, all violent crimes – excepting rape, and this
may very well be for reasons of rape not being recorded as rape when
it is a man being forced to penetrate a woman – and so forth and so
on, we find an overwhelming amount of men.
Men die younger than women.
Men lose custody of their
children during divorce.
And despite new studies
showing that domestic violence is so close to being 50/50 in regards
to who is the victim and who is the perpetrator that the few
percentages difference does not matter all that much, shelters for
men seeking to escape domestic violence hardly exist, whereas
shelters for women exist a-plenty. Interesting to note is also that
there are higher incidents of domestic violence in lesbian
relationships than there are in both male homosexual relationships
and heterosexual relationships. It is also worth noting that in most
cases of domestic violence, the violence is reciprocal, with both
instigating and amplifying and playing on one another’s terrible
tendencies and broken psyche. In non-reciprocal domestic violence,
the woman is the perpetrator more often than not.
And yet, police – and
society overall – have a hard time believing men to be victims of
domestic violence. They have a hard time believing that women are
capable of being abusive. More often than not they end up arresting
him instead of her, thus adding severe insult to severe injury. And
feminism doth protest, with all their might, whenever someone
attempts to create a shelter for abused men. For that would be
sharing societal resources with men. And that will not stand. For all
of the resources of society must go to women. This includes empathy.
…This must be that equal
treatment they keep telling me about.
I find it interesting and
peculiar that feminism will claim that MRA’s don’t do anything
but bitch and moan about feminism, then protest when MRA’s attempt
to open shelters for abused men, or attempt to get the government to
do something about the plight of men, or have conferences attempting
to shine a light on the issues predominantly affecting men.
Feminism claims that MRA’s
don’t do anything to help men, then protest and complain when MRA’s
do something that would help men.
I am lucky to be cynical. This
nonsense surprises me less since I have learned to expect it. That is
what a lifetime of overt hostility will get you.
All these problems facing men…
all these issues that men face are neglected, shooed away and
forgotten. It saddens me and it angers me and – at the worst of
times – it depresses me. I have no problems with the issues
primarily affecting women being taken seriously. I have severe
problems with the claims that women – only women – suffer, or
that the suffering of women is so much worse and more important than
that of men. No matter what it is, it is a woman’s issue.
So you see articles popping up
stating that men are lonely, and this is a burden on women. And men
are earning less college or university degrees, and this is a burden
on women. And on. And on. And on. Never have I ever encountered such
incredible egotism, such rampant selfishness and disregard for other
human beings. The loneliness and social isolation of men are a
burden. On women!
I have severe issues with this
lopsided approach to equal treatment, where equal treatment of the
sexes has come to mean nothing but give this shit to women, for
they are women. And
this makes sense, of course, in a society in which we have learned
that only women matters at the same time we are told that men get
everything handed to them. Double-speak and psychological projection…
and a good serving of horsepiss and bullshit.
Not that long ago, I wrote a
response piece to an article.
The name of my piece is:
“Crucified in Toilet Cubicles – A Tale of Women Pooping”. This
was a rare spur of the moment thing, written and then recorded for
the tubes within the span of two hours. Not my finest work, in all
honesty. I usually don’t do responses like that. The simple reason
for this is that I tend to think very slowly, I consider and I ponder
and I doubt myself and my abilities to such an extent that it surely
has got to be a sign of some neurological defect. When I finally get
around to responding, the original piece is long forgotten, tossed to
the annals of internet history. As we all know, in internet time one
day is damned close to seventeen real-life years.
Originally, I was planning on
posting something other than the poop-piece. But this had to come
first. It was, quite literally, a much needed shit-post. And the
reason I reacted so viscerally, so quickly, so roughly and so
brutally to that one article is very simple. The article I responded
to, if you have not read it, was published in the New York Times and
was a tale of woe and worry about women pooping at work, and how hard
this was for them.
Due to the patriarchy and due
to men and so and such and blah blah blah. I reacted so viscerally to
this article due to this – this petty god-damned fucking non-issue
about women having their own small neurosis, their own petty personal
hang-ups about pooping – this is given attention.
This needs to be taken
seriously. This is being published. This is being pushed as an
important issue affecting women. While at the same time, at the same
god-damned time, men are not afforded shelters, men commit suicide at
frightening rates, men lose access to their children, men lose in
education, they lose in the workplace, they drop out of society. And
no-one cares about this, no-one touches this, no-one views this as a
problem but a few who are labelled god-damned misogynists by the
feminist hive-mind that consider women being scared to poop far more
important than men killing themselves. It is safe to say that it
really struck a nerve with me. And with good fucking reason.
We live within a cultural
narrative, within a maddening societal zeitgeist that have decided
that all the small and petty issues, all the personal hang-ups and
personal grievances of women are more important than anything men go
through. Men don’t suffer any hardship, don’t ya know.
Ms. Poopypants and her
neglected toilet-trip is a worse story of far more importance to
society than Mr. Suicide and the ex-wife that won’t let him see his
god-damned children. And all the while – all the god-damned,
motherfucking, cocksucking, unlubricated anal-fisting, horse-sodomite
while – the feminist hive-mind snarls and gnarls and gnaw their
bones, claiming that men have it ever so good and women have it ever
so bad. And people listen to them. All the time. People listen to
them. And they claim – they dare to make the claim – that they
help men as well. It turns my stomach to rot. As it turns the
entirety of society to rot and ruin.
The feminist way to help men
is to have a panel of only feminist women gibbering and cackling and
clucking about how men are obsolete and what men need to do to fix
themselves. Men need not apply. Only women are allowed to tell men
what to do, what they need to do and how to live their lives. Men are
not allowed to speak on behalf of men. That would be misogyny. Men
are not allowed to speak on behalf of women either. That too would be
misogyny. Men are not allowed to speak at all. For that is misogyny.
See the tactic?
Here, within my shattered
basement-cavern throne room, you’ll get it mansplained to you by
yours truly; the grand majestic manspreading patriarch supreme, whose
testicles are just as much a tool of oppression as is his swinging
cock, from now until the end of time to be referred to as a savage,
unmutilated rape-implement of doom and wanton destruction.
No wonder that people struggle
to comprehend the fact that men have problems in society. Feminism
have told their fairy-tales for so many decades that people would
rather believe that sooner than they would believe objective reality,
sooner than they would believe measurable reality. This horrible
insistence from feminism that all the problems of men are due solely
to men as are all the problems of women do nothing but taint
everything in shades of deep period-blood crimson. It is
rage-inducing. And so simplistic, though wrapped in enough magic
wordsalad gibberish to sound profound.
For men to be saved, they must
first cleanse themselves of masculinity. For masculinity is the
problem and femininity the solution, despite both being social
constructs. As of course feminism is as well, but that is a social
construct we shall trust as opposed to the social construct of
gender, despite gender being biological when it suits feminism.
Men and masculinity are the
cause of all the problems of society as well as being the solution to
all the problems in society. According to feminism, which tend to
view women as objects – mere automatons with no agency of their
own, no ability to do anything about anything but be acted upon.
That is unless they bend the
knee to feminism, thus becoming part of the feminist machine and move
with the click and crack and dubious twirling of the cogs and wheels
and pins and buttons and clockwork within. Women are nothing without
feminism; can do nothing without moving with the machinery of
…And they claim that men
have a poor opinion of women.
Feminism does not consider
women to have any manner of agency or self-determination. Were I a
woman, I would very much be insulted by feminism pretending to speak
on my behalf, painting me as an emotionally frail and fragile wreck
so prone to being ruled and governed by the terrible forces of men
that I am completely unable to make my own choices and have my own
thoughts. On anything. Thus needing feminism to think for me, act for
me, speak for me and do everything but take a piss for me.
Whatever I may mean about
this does not matter, though. It will be dismissed as mansplaining,
horrible misogyny and harassment of women. For feminist women are so
strong and independent that they can not stand people disagreeing
with them. This is mansplaining; in actual fact meaning nothing but a
man saying something a feminist dislikes. And so goes the herping of
It would probably come as no
surprise to learn that I am pissed off at feminism. As well as being
pissed off with… …no – not pissed off. I’m not angry with
society. I am just disappointed. Severely disappointed at a society
so dumb and unthinking as to fall for the lies, slander, bullshit and
poop-flinging antics of feminism. Yet, my rants, ravings and
ramblings are nothing – absolutely nothing. You should hear my wife
going off on them. It… it ain’t pretty.
M’lady is most displeased
with the current state of affairs.
That is putting it nicely.
But what would you expect?
Individual feminist’s have spoken to her previously in so
condescending tones that you should think they believed they were
talking to a child, not an intelligent adult woman with agency and
self-determination. Because she thinks for herself. And in so doing,
does not allow feminism to think for her. And in so doing, to the
eyes of the feminist hive-mind, she has allowed some horribly
misogynistic patriarch in the guise of her husband to think for her.
She has internalized her soggy knees. This is how feminism see women
that do not agree with feminism. As petulant, wayward children,
worthy of condescension at best and scorn at worst.
Chew on that for a little
Feminism view women as so
incapable of thinking for themselves that, if they do not subscribe
to the feminist narrative, they must be under the spell and curse of
the patriarchy, allowing the patriarchy to think for them. It is
either feminism or internalized misogyny, not neither and certainly
not a woman picking and choosing her own path and her own god-damned
role in life. That is verboten. Strictly. Punitive measures will be
taken. This is black and white thinking. That alone should be a red
flag. The out-group is bad. The in-group is not. No matter what they
do. This is cult-like thinking. And people would do well to be
And women such as my wife, to
the feminist hive-mind, are free game and may be hunted at will. They
have lost their woman-card; they have become strange outliers that
are neither feminist nor man, but some horrifying mutant creature.
They should have their vaginas taken away, according to Linda
Sarsour. They are effectively outlawed, not to be protected by
feminism who would – were it a feminist woman suffering the
treatment non-feminist women suffer at the hands and blubbering
mouths of feminism – state quite bluntly that one can not treat
women like that; it is harassment and violence and misogyny and other
such buzzwords that don’t mean anything any more on account of
This proves once again that
feminism does not care for women nor for men nor for any sex. They
care for feminism and they care for women who subscribe to the
Whose strength and
independence is such that they can not stand a man explaining
something, can not stand a woman thinking for herself. Were their
tall tales to be scrutinized and exposed to the unwashed masses,
feminism would lose its power and its funding. And that would be
their downfall. Everyone who oppose must therefore and by necessity
be ganged up on, curb-stomped and left for dead for fear that they
would otherwise prove without a doubt that the empress has no
clothes. Or skin, for that matter.
I have been called this and
labelled that and referred to as the other since I started writing on
all this stuff. I have been told that my opposition to feminism could
not possibly mean anything but me wanting to go back to a time that
would allow me to chain my wife to the kitchen to cook dinner and
birth children and do nothing but that. I keep referring to this
incidence. And I will explain why it keeps popping up. It is not
because the words are hurtful, nor that they hurt my trademarked
fragile masculinity. It is the absurdity of the thing, the
assuredness of the statement delivered for reasons of me opposing
feminism being the dominant -ism in our crackhouse societies.
It is complete and utter
absurdity; penny dreadful tales sold in bulk by feminist ideologues
with cancer of the reason which, unfortunately, has spread to the
sense. It is fear mongering and vapid attempts at shame that does
nothing but piss me off and strengthen both my resolve and my
opposition. And my throbbing rage-boner.
How anyone can believe that
stating something like that as truth would change my perspective of
feminism is beyond me. Telling me what I think and believe when I
know that I think and believe quite the opposite is stupid. And it is
incredibly lazy. Intellectual dishonesty at its very best.
It is the most absurd tactic;
claiming that I would do something that I know I would not do, that I
am saying something that I do not say nor ever have said or would
say, that I hold opinions which I do not hold in order to shame me
into compliance when I know full well that I do not hold these
opinions which the feminist hive-mind lay in my mouth is brain-dead,
egotistical ramblings from someone who obviously is so used to
getting everything just the way they want that anything opposing
their world-view can not possibly exist and thusly must exist either
as lies or as pure, raw, savage and unfiltered hatred of women on my
part, including hatred of my wife. One would believe that, were the
feminist to really and truly believe that I hate all women –
including my wife – the feminist would not believe that shaming me
for hating women would work…
It is the craziest thing.
It is saying, in so many
words, that “I don’t care what you really say, I have decided
in my ruptured mind, that this is what you say. And I feel no
reservations in telling you what you say, because you obviously do
not know what you say or think or mean. I am the one who knows what
you say or think or mean, not you.”
You must forgive me this rant.
It just boggles my mind something awful that anyone can look to the
writings of someone else and tell that someone that they have written
something which they have not written, and expect this to be taken
seriously as an argument by the one who wrote the bloody thing to
begin with. That is the tactics of feminism; illogical attempts at
smearing and shaming, putting words in the mouths of other people and
trying to convince them that this is what they said and what they
meant, not what they actually said and actually meant.
It is so ridiculous that I am
wasting energy and precious calories getting so worked up about it.
Granted, given my wife and her incredible cooking skills, I could do
with losing some calories. Particularly around the gut-area. But that
is not the point. The point is that I need to loosen the chains on my
wife. She has expressed interest in leaving the kitchen to use the
bathroom. I’ll be right back…
For all the insistence that I
am a horribly misogynistic bastard, for all the claims that I am only
looking for something to complain about, for all the emotional
reasoning behind the complaints in regards to my writings and the
narcissism barely hidden behind the feminist moaning about it, for
all the attempts at reading my mind and telling me what I really
think as opposed to what I actually think, I would dare say that I
hold women in much higher regard than feminism does. Because I
believe women to be adult human beings.
I would dare make the claim –
and truthfully so – that I not only believe that the sexes should
be treated equally, but that I live it. That is equal rights, equal
responsibilities, equal consequences. Equal rights and equal lefts,
in other words.
No hand-up, no hand-outs, no
deification of either sex. No fucking chivalry. Respect is earned,
not given, no matter which sex. And it is earned by how one behaves.
If a woman acts like an insufferable cunt, she is worthy of just as
much of my scorn as a man that acts like an insufferable knob-head.
If a woman acts properly and
treats other people with respect, she is worthy of just as much
respect as a man that acts properly and treats other people with
This should not be that
difficult to understand. It is treating the sexes equally. Nothing
more, and nothing less. This is men and women being held to the same
This bullshit about respecting
women is the most concentrated bullshit I have ever encountered. It
is quadruply distilled bullshit of the highest potency. And I am a
connoisseur of fine vintage bullshit, having amassed quite a
collection over the course of my life.
This “respect women”
bullshit elevates women to something other than humanity, something
that must be respected solely for the genitalia between her legs.
Where men have to earn
respect, women must be given respect no matter how they act or behave
merely for being women.
I don’t have any time for
that dribble. No-one should have any time for that piss-pottery.
Men and women are of equal
worth and equal value as human beings. This is my firmly held
conviction. Absolutely equal worth and absolutely equal value. This
means that I respect women just as much as I respect men. And I
respect men just as much as I respect women. Conversely; I have just
as little respect for women as I have for men. It depends not on ones
sex, but on ones behaviour, on the content of ones character.
I am a firm believer that what
goes around comes around. Act like an arsehole, you are going to be
treated like an arsehole.
This is something the feminist
hive-mind have forgotten or – more likely – simply neglected in
their quest for respect of whamen. It is another fanciful and
terrifying way for them to shut down any opposition by the oldest
tactic in the book; the shaming of the male.
When opposition to their
drivel is met with “you have no respect for women!” most
blue-pilled and blue-balled men tremble and fall to their knees and
do everything in their power to prove that they do, in fact, have
respect for women. And then the conversation moves from whatever he
originally opposed to whether he respects women or not. It moves from
a topical discussion to a discussion about his character. Wherein he
must defend himself against all manner of accusation. And, in
defending himself he has admitted to being at fault. In admitting to
being at fault, there is no stopping the feminist hive-mind. For they
have spotted weakness, smelled blood in the water and so they close
in for the kill.
One must never apologize to
these people and their smear-merchant tactics.
This happens without a fault.
It is the oldest tactic in the book. A man can not stand to be shamed
by a woman. Must be because all men hate women and have no respect
for them. Heh. Fucking. Heh.
Well, then, dear feminist:
have you no respect for men?
Here endeth part 4. And there is more yet to come. You know; I might just clean all this up later when I am done with it and publish it as a book. It reached a point where my literary cup literally runneth over with words and hasty typing. And I need money for hookers and cocaine. Or at the very least for caffeine and dogfood. Join me next week for part 5.
It is closing in on mid-day,
Saturday, October 12th, 2019. I am a bit hungover.
Admittedly a normal state of being come Saturday, having delved a bit
too deeply into the waters of life the day before.
That is what a bucket-load of
home-brewed concoctions and loud music will get you.
Rock’n’roll ain’t dead.
Neither is Punk, for that matter. It just got old, developed a bad
case of rheumatism and had to take it a bit easy for while.
Usually, I don’t do much
writing on Saturdays. Or, well, that is to say – I tend to work a
bit on other projects. Things that are not necessarily related to
men’s human rights. More of the personal/spiritual stuff that I
would focus a lot more on were it not for this god-awful gender stuff
being of far more importance. The personal realm can wait. As can the
spiritual realm. These don’t matter much in the grand scheme and
schism of things. “Things” in this instance being a fancy word
for a society that appears to have gone well past its sell-by date.
No, the personal/spiritual
stuff I write does not matter all that much. Not when the basic
humanity of boys and men are being eroded beneath our feet; a great
wide chasm opening up to engulf us and then close above us. To leave
us forever devoured by the world; soulless, homeless and absolutely,
We are lost beneath the dead
and decaying waves of a split-seamed society that turns its
whip-stroked back on boys and men more and more for every passing
day. It may very well sound as though I am being hyperbolic. Mayhaps
even overly dramatic. Maybe I am… I am afraid to say that I don’t
think this is the case.
I first encountered this
article two days ago. October tenth. On the day of its release. I Was
planning on doing a piece on it next week. Maybe postponing part four
of my unending ramble of why I am an anti-feminist. Just
needed some time to think about it, devour it and consider it.
I tend to leave the more
poetic stuff for Wednesdays. Then focus on a bit heavier, lengthier
stuff for the Saturdays. This allows me to write both prose-poetry
and more conventional opinion pieces once a week. Writing is my first
and greatest love. Or at the very least my greatest outlet for the
whatever and whatnot. But I can’t for the life of me get this thing
out of my head. It is an absolute atrocity. And trust me and believe
me and upon my oath and my honour both: I do not use the word
And I find myself at a loss
for words. This is not something which I am used to. Not when I am
writing. I am often at a loss for words if I were to speak to someone
whom I don’t know all that well, not being the best versed in
social interactions. Chalk that up to introversion, shyness, anxiety,
social awkwardness, whatever you want. All in all, it does not
matter. I fare much better with the written word than I ever will
with the spoken word.
And no wonder, in all honesty.
The topics that I write about
is not particularly accepted within the murky depths of society as
society stands. The feminist narrative has all but won. And we are
all shackled and chained beneath its iron-grip and flimsy iron will.
It is not without reason that I refer to it as a tyrannical,
totalitarian ideology; the dominant -ism of our day and age. That I
choose not to speak on these topics in public – that I choose to
write about them in the way that I do instead of debating those who
may, for lack of a better descriptor, be called my ideological
opponents may very well get me labelled a coward. And I may very well
be a coward. Truth be told, I don’t care. At the very least I do
some small thing in opposition, however small the part in opposition
I play really and truly is.
When I am writing, it is a
whole other matter in regards to the words. They tend to come flowing
out of my haphazardly thrown together, aching, borderline broken
joints and fingers and muscles as though shot from a double-barrelled
shotgun deep within my very soul. Which, in truth, is where they come
I don’t believe I have ever
tried to hide the fact that my writings come from an emotional place
– that is to say – they are tainted and given form and shape from
the emotional state I am in at the moment of writing. This is not to
say that my reasoning or my arguments are based on emotion. Far from
it. The delivery, however, is. Such is the realm of art, I think. At
the very least the realm of art which I inhabit. It may very well be
that I am a fairly sensitive man. I write poetry, for Christ sake! I
don’t see anything wrong with this. For the simple reason that
there really is nothing wrong with this. It is what it is.
When looking at this article…
no, not when looking at this article. When looking at the fate of
this young man… his doom, as it were…
I don’t know what I feel.
I know what I think.
There is no doubt about what I
There is no doubt about this
absolutely horrid display of injustice. Malicious, vicious, brutal,
destructive, savage, uncaring, cold, callous… an absolute disregard
for this young man’s life, his mental health, his emotional
well-being… All for being socially awkward. All for a false
pretence. All for the girl and the justice system deciding that they
know his intent better than he knows his own intent.
And I feel only cold.
This is what feminism has
done. Welcome the feminist utopia; the age of untangled
enlightenment. In the dark. With neither flint nor tinder to light a
fire to warm your bones by or illuminate the corkscrew path ahead of
The intent – the true intent
– of this young man does not matter. Nor does it matter that
absolutely no-one was hurt in any way, in any real, tangible,
measurable way. Except the young man. The subjective feeling of the
young woman in question decides not only his fate, but his intent.
Her subjective feeling in the moment trumps his original intent. Were
he socially anxious and awkward prior to this, you can be damned sure
he will be socially broken and destroyed after this. This is obscene.
It is a travesty. And yet, I am not in the least bit surprised. I
doubt anyone really and truly is. Western civilization is broken. I
fear beyond repair. And I am frightened. Honestly. Truly, really, to
the depths of my heart, frightened.
One can not apply logic to
this case. Nor can one apply reason. Because the girl, her parents,
the entire god-damned justice system has not done it. This is not a
case built on evidence. It is not a case built on reason. It is not
even a case built on any criminal act. It is a case built entirely on
emotion. On subjective feelings. This case should never have been a
case. It should not have been a criminal thing. It should have been
thrown out; laughed out of the courtroom and the hands of any
law-wielder with any amount of self-respect. Or respect for their
profession. Being socially awkward should not carry with it
punishment by law. Yet it does, in the land of the damned. Which is
to say the UK.
The offence – if you can
even call it that – carries a maximum sentence of ten years. And a
lifetime – if I understood it correctly – of being on the sex
offender register. For touching a woman’s arm and waist. Because
the woman… no, the overgrown girl-child was certain he was going to
touch her breast. How is that proven? I don’t understand it.
How does one go about proving
the intent of someone else without employing some hitherto previously
unknown psychic telekinetic abilities? “I think it would have
been on my breast had I not moved”, she says. She thinks. She
feels. With all her awesome neoteny and arrogance.
…Therefore, it has to be
true. That is the evidence presented. And that is the evidence
accepted. The unbelievable mind-reading abilities of an overgrown
girl-child ruining the life of someone else, who is – by his own
admittance – socially awkward and anxious and overwhelmed by
And it is not that I don’t
understand the importance of having and maintaining personal
boundaries. Of course I do. I am not a big fan of being touched by
strangers myself. But does anyone really and truly believe this is a
case of sexual assault? And does anyone really and truly believe that
this warrants punishment? Particularly punishment that may be as
severe as ten years imprisonment and a lifetime subscription to the
sex offender register?
The young woman stated that “I
struggled for a couple of months afterwards”. For being touched
on the arm and waist. Sounds to me as though someone really, really,
really wants to be a victim of something in order to push away any
responsibilities she may have for her own life. Or just to get them
sweet victim credentials that are oh so popular at the moment.
Particularly so when taking into account that she apparently was
unable to finish her mock exams and then apply to Oxford University.
Seems very convenient, does it not? Also sounds as though she is not
cut out to be part of wider society if this small, petty and – for
all intents and purposes – absolutely harmless happening is enough
to ruin her for months on end.
Admittedly, this is
speculation on my part.
Everyone is looking for
someone to blame, you know.
…As long as that someone is
And it is so excruciatingly
easy for a woman, in the madness of today, to push the blame onto a
man. Any man.
A man is not a human being,
after all. That is what we have been told and taught for decades. Men
are nothing but rape-machines, and any contact with a man can not
lead to anything but unwanted sex. They don’t deserve our empathy.
They deserve nothing but scorn. Men do not seek anything but quick
and cheap sex. Usually by force. That is the myth and legend being
told and presented. And so it must be true. A man could not possibly
wish to have a relationship with a woman without sex being up front
and centre in his mind and at the tip of his throbbing, mutilated
rape-implement. This is what the feminist hive-mind as well as
traditional views have told us about men, creating a generation of
neuroticism, sexual hang-ups and neo-puritanism in the process. To
such an extent that touching a woman’s arm and waist is now
considered sexual assault, carrying with it a maximum sentence of ten
years. And a lifetime in the sex offender register.
…you know, the amount of
times I have been touched on the arm, shoulder, hand, chin, beard,
cheek, butt and – on one occasion – groin by women – often in a
state of inebriation – whom I did not properly know at the time are
not few. Believe it or not, given my not exactly dashing good looks
as well as my lack of charisma. I wonder if either the police or the
courts would have taken me seriously if I reported them? Or if anyone
else would have taken me seriously, for that matter.
Come to think of it, I once
had a woman follow me around in a pub, constantly putting her head on
my shoulder and whispering sweet nothings into my ear. A compliment,
for sure, though I was not particularly interested in her, not being
a fan of one night stands at any point in my life. This happened when
I was eighteen. I wonder if it is too late to file charges? For me,
it would have been too late no matter when I did it.
We all know this.
Had I been bestowed a vagina
upon birth, however, it appears that this resting of her head on my
shoulder would be enough to ruin her life for good. In particular
since her sweet whispered nothings were slightly on the sexual
innuendo side of things. Besides; women tend to touch other people
more in casual conversation than men do, be that other women or men.
It is alright when they do it, of course.
Because men have nothing to
fear from women, as the petulant peddlers of prime bullshit will
peddle you from their long-reaching serpent tongues and spineless
…Well, boy howdy, do I have
something to tell you. And that is this: evidently, we do. Very much
so. This is violence by proxy, using the government. This is
violence, intimidation and kidnapping. A young woman using the
government as her weapon of choice. And now this young man will carry
with him the label of sex offender for the rest of his life. Which, I
fear, will not be a long and happy life. I hope this young woman will
realize what she has done at some point in her life, and that regret,
shame and guilt will follow her to the end of her days.
I am usually not this
But this is absolutely
horrible. Given, of course, that the information presented is true. I
have not seen anything to indicate otherwise.
I find it absolutely
astonishing that the courts are able to state, without a smidgeon of
doubt, that “The complainant’s evidence was very clear,
logical and without embellishment. We can think of no motivation for
you to touch the victim other than sexual”.
This despite him giving his
side of the story as not being sexual. It does not matter what he
says in his defence. His actions – his intentions – are not of
any importance. The importance is placed upon what the alleged victim
believe his intentions were.
And nothing else matters.
Nothing else matters.
Nothing ever will.
A woman’s capabilities of
mind-reading is all that is needed in order to destroy a man’s
Remember Emmet Till.
That is all I should have
And I am incredibly cold.
I don’t know what else to
say. The article linked really does speak for itself. This is from
the UK, the same place that granted a woman who assaulted her
boyfriend… stabbed him with a breadknife, if I recall correctly…
her freedom. She did not get any punishment. For punishment could
possibly interfere with her academic future and her future career as
a gifted surgeon. Don’t want to destroy the life of a violent
woman, of course. Her actions should not carry any consequences for
her, poor dear. A woman’s actions having consequences for her?
Goodness – that would be the day!
It is clear that the UK has a
two-tiered justice system. There is one set of rules for women and
another set of rules for men.
Where women are concerned, the
law does not apply.
And where men are concerned,
the law really and truly does apply. For the law is able to read the
minds of men and so divine their original intent, never-minding what
they themselves say. Men are nothing but liars, scumbags and
fuck-guzzling pigs, after all.
This ability to divine the
original intention of men is something women seem to have in general
and en masse. An astonishing ability, to be sure, and one that I wish
I had. It never matters what a man says in his defence. It matters
only what a woman says, no matter how absurd.
And yet the feminist hive-mind
as well as society overall dare to still make the claim that women
are oppressed and are never heard nor taken seriously.
It is a brutal, ugly, vicious
thing. And it will never end. Not as long as good men and women are
silent about it.
George Orwell was correct in
all but the year. This is the junior anti-sex league on full display.
It is the new-speak guidelines for the current year; the divinity of
womanhood and viciousness of manhood. Women are now synonymous with
God. And men are synonymous with Devil. Women are good and men are
evil. That is the language of the current year.
Fuck it, who am I kidding?
It is the language of the
current year and all the years that have gone before. A beast with
different shapes and forms, but the same beast. Even after all this
And yet, women dare to write
articles about how horrible it is that men are now refusing to be
alone with women. How horrible it is that men don’t dare to make
the first move, to do something in order to get a romantic
relationship going. No wonder. We stand in danger of imprisonment if
the woman decides she does not like us.
Though I would absolutely dare
say that not all women pushed for this or are like that – this is,
after all, the work of feminism – I fail to see that many women
standing up against this, nor do I see many women caught in
outrage-mode over this.
And no wonder! Women – and
feminism – have more important things to worry about. Such as the
lines to the women’s toilets being longer than that of men’s
toilets. Or the non-existent pay-gap. Or the nefarious pink-tax. Or
the air-conditioning. All incredibly important injustices to be fixed
and mended, clearly. Not to mention that feminism claims to fight for
men too, so really – there is no need for any men’s rights
movement to take on this battle on behalf of men. All is good and
fair. There is only equality sought here. Now, get back to the
plantation and fall on your knees and state, quite proudly, that you
would never, ever, under any circumstances, do anything but what a
woman tells you that you must do. All hail the goddess Feminism; lady
of chaos and bringer of perpetual darkness.
Men are facing quite genuine
discrimination in the legal system, in the social sphere, at schools
and at work.
So much so that any man’s
original intention does not matter – what any woman imagine his
intention to be does matter.
If you wanted to drive a wedge
between the sexes – which there really should be no doubt about at
this point in time – congratulations. That is exactly what you have
done. I hope you are pleased with yourself, ms. Feminism, ms. Queen
Now, wait ten years.
And then reap what you have
You will not enjoy the reward.
And it will all be of your
doing and by your flimsy will brought forth.
Cassie Jaye’s documentary
“The Red Pill”, is one which I highly recommend. It gives a very
good overview of the men’s human rights movement – showing the
main points on the agenda, as it were.
What I found the most
interesting with the documentary, was not the topic, nor the
interviews – despite this all being highly interesting stuff. Nope.
It was her personal journey, her video-diaries that she very wisely
included in the documentary. Probably not all that surprising, given
my own interest in the human journey, in the individual perspective.
Oh, look, you might
think – another pretentious douchenozzle with illusions
of artistic and literary talent being interested
in the individual and how the individual fares when faced with
society – how trite, how unoriginal, how woefully predictable.
And you would not be wrong.
…Well, I might protest a bit
in regards to the pretentious bit, having tried to shed that part of
art-school indoctrination through years of introspection, but
otherwise… well, there is nothing original with this in regards to
Humanity is interesting in
itself, and the journey of an individual overcoming obstacles –
which altering ones point of view undoubtedly is – is at the core
of most good characters and character development.
How one copes with it is very
interesting, and marks the difference between someone with personal
integrity and values, someone who is capable of being guided by truth
when faced with truth and someone who is not. The documentary shows
what a fantastic strength of character Cassie Jaye holds. Changing
ones mind is not easy. We tend to be very stubborn creatures.
This stubbornness should be
evident with the god-damned wage gap lie being debunked and disproven
time and time again, yet still being told and presented as fact by
those whom one would assume really ought to be pleased to learn –
without a doubt – that it is not real. Not in the way they present
One would assume the wage gap
being proven to not be true would be a sign of progress and victory
for the feminist hive-mind. But, nah, can’t have that, ya know –
that would lose them some oppression-points, some victim-currency,
some poor damsel-in-distress points. And that would rupture some of
the feminist fabric of female infantilisation, and we can not
god-damned have that. So keep telling the lies, despite being
disproven. And keep making out that women are weak-willed victims of
absolutely everything, up to and including their own choices. But, I
am getting ahead of myself.
…Even more interesting than
the documentary itself (and the incredible integrity of Cassie Jaye)
are the Red Pill Raw Files, which you can find on YouTube. These are
some fantastic, in-depth interviews that did not make it into the
final movie, for some reason or other. The interviews with the
feminists – the few that agreed to be interviewed for the movie –
are quite telling. Particularly the one with our much beloved
deliverer of Fuck-Faces and screeched Patriarchy; Chanty Binx, AKA
“Big Red”, force-feeding red pills to the hungry masses one
vicious screech at a time, despite this surely not being her intent.
I have never seen anyone within the span of twenty minutes contradict
themselves so much, nor so many times as she does in this interview.
It is the most self-contradictory stream of nonsense and gibberish I
have ever seen this side of a high-profile political debate. And it
is very telling about the state of feminism in itself, for feminism
as it is is self-contradictory. (And annoyingly self-congratulatory.)
At one hand, they claim that
feminism helps men too. At the other hand, they state, quite bluntly,
that feminism is about women and does not care about men.
Men can create their own
movement, according to the hive-mind. Which the same hive-mind will
then protest, label misogynist bullies and proceed to shut down –
by brute fucking force, harassment, violence, smears, lies, slander,
bomb-threats and other such kind and inclusive measures, any attempt
at a conference talking about the problems men face in society.
Because feminism helps men
too, so the only voices needed are those of feminism. Despite men
being told to make their own movement, not co-opt feminism. Because
feminism is only about women. Even when it supposedly helps men as
Personally, I would rather
choke to death on the proverbial red pill than I would allow feminism
to speak on behalf of men.
Also: feminism is not a
monolith, you have to understand. Even when the ones spewing all
manner of misandrist, man-hating, malebashing, kill-all-men,
men-are-trash rhetoric and up-fuckery are not real feminists.
…Which does not make sense
in the least if feminism is not a monolith. It stands to reason that
if a movement is not a monolith, such a thing as a “not real
feminist” would not exist. Nor would there exist such a thing as a
“real feminist”. If those feminists that are not real feminists
are in fact not real feminists, feminism must be a monolith. If
feminism is not a monolith, those that are supposedly not real
feminists has got to also be real feminists.
It makes no sense.
Madam, once again you are
cunt-fusing the issue.
It seems to me that feminism,
when faced with any manner of criticism, goes the opportunist path of
responding to criticism with whatever is best suited at the moment to
be a supposed shut-down and put-down of any argument. Internal
consistency is not necessary. Which is a frightening thing, as this
must necessarily mean that there are no true values within the
ideology upon which the -ism stand. Which goes a long way in
explaining what the movement is all about. Which is the movement, and
nothing but the movement. The -ism goes above all, no matter what.
Principles are not necessary. In fact, they are more of a nuisance.
Merely the narrative that men
are oppressors, women are oppressed and to hell with all else, in
other words. Internal consistency gets in the way. As long as the
narrative can be kept, driven forward and upheld, all is allowed.
Lies are then quite alright and not an issue in itself, as lies are
necessary tools to bring the movement ever forward. There are no bad
tactics, no amoral tools. Only bad targets. And we can play “spot
the bullshit” all day long, it won’t work when faced with the
hive-mind when the hive-mind allows for so much self-contradiction,
so many lies and such ridiculous amounts of bad tactics merely for
the goal of the movement and nothing but. And I have little patience
for opportunism. As anyone should. Excepting the opportunists, I
suppose. Now, let me tell you about this bridge I am putting up for
The way I see it, this
constant self-contradiction of feminism is purposeful, in that it
serves a purpose for the movement. If feminism can be moved forward
by pointing to women being better than men based on biological
factors, then feminism will forget that it has told us for decades
that there are no biological differences between the sexes. If
feminism can be moved forward by telling us that there are no
biological differences between the sexes, it will forget the previous
admittance of biological differences. And both are supposedly true
and false in equal measures, carried on the wings of absurdity into
the hungry beaks of society.
If men can be shamed and
ridiculed by feminism for not making enough money to be suitable
marriage-prospects for women, feminism will forget the wage-gap myth
– as seen through quite a few articles on the issue during the last
The two do not match, you see.
If the wage-gap is real, it
does not make any sense that women struggle to find men that make as
much or more than they do. If the wage-gap is real, then women should
not be making more money than men and should as such not have any
problems with finding men that make more than, or as much as, they
do. It is almost as though one would be inclined to believe that the
wage-gap is a boldfaced fucking lie. Besides, one would not be amiss
in assuming women to be gold-diggers, based solely on these articles.
A man must make as much, or more, than a woman in order to be husband
material. For the notion of a wife supporting her husband and family
is horrifying, despite equal treatment and despite that none of this
should matter, were the sexes to be treated completely and utterly
As an aside; I really don’t
care which of the sexes do which of the duties in a relationship. The
important thing to understand is that there are duties and
obligations, responsibilities and work that needs to be done, that
both must chip in for a relationship to work and a family to function
properly. As long as things get done, it should not matter who does
One would not be wrong in
believing that boys and men are being pushed out of education and out
of lucrative careers by a certain sect that allows for “positive
discrimination” so that women shall be hoisted up and pushed
forward for being women and nothing but that. For the sake of saintly
vulva and vagina; for the holy uterus and ovaries, she shall be
granted access. And he shall not.
…Not to mention the fact
that men being poor, struggling financial hardships and so and such
is made out to be an issue predominantly affecting women. For men
must provide for women where relationships are concerned, despite
women being strong and independent fish that don’t need no bicycle.
His money is their money, her money is her money. Equal treatment?
Sure as hell are not equal expectations, responsibilities and
Women are oppressed by men’s
poor financial state. Men are merely tools for the benefit of women,
to the tyrannical eyes and minds of feminism. And this is accepted,
for reasons of… muh oppression, I suppose. Or feminism supposes,
proposes with all their lies and gibberish.
A real feminist does all that
feminism says that a true feminist must do. Even the stuff that
contradicts the other stuff. Otherwise, a true feminist is not a true
feminist in the non-monolithical monolith that is feminism. I have it
from reliable sources that they do not enjoy sugar on their porridge
either. No wonder, of course, as fish that don’t need bicycles
certainly do not eat sugar. Or porridge, for that matter.
I swear; everywhere I look I
see hypocrisy and double standards. The doctors can’t find anything
wrong with me, and yet I keep seeing it everywhere. I am at my wits
end I tell you! And the painkillers can’t take away this pain; no
sweet opiate-haze for me to hide this incredible burden within. I
tried antipsychotics once, but they only made it worse. Short of
divine intervention, there seems to be no cure for my particular
Boys are struggling in
education. There is no doubt about this. This is not something new.
And it is getting worse with every passing swoon and whimpered gasp.
No wonder, to anyone with some manner of empathy for the male sex.
Not with all the anti-male, pro-woman nonsense that are spewed, spat
and spouted at schools from teachers who honestly function more like
feminist indoctrination-squads than true and proper teachers. This
has, finally, led to some concern over here in the frozen wastes of
Norway. Peculiar, of course, as this is an incredibly feminist
It only took them about thirty
years to recognize the issue.
Only one generation of broken
boys and broken bones and broken futures necessary before the issue
was seen. Well, one and a half generation.
So now that the issue has been
raised… now that it has been decided that we need to help the boys
so they don’t drop out, burn out and wash out…
(Otherwise, who will do all
the menial tasks, all the hard manual labour, all the dirty and
dangerous work? Women? You must be joking! You will forgive me a bit
of cynicism. The way things have been going the past several years, I
find it very hard to believe that any real effort to help boys and
men will ever be implemented. That is to say – any effort that does
not rely heavily on the feminist lens and dubious pink-eye.)
…now that this has been
decided, as the news broke that boys must be helped in education, the
feminist hive-mind were quick to rush in and respond that we have to
help everyone, not just the one sex. Because it is not a gendered
issue, you see, when it is boys that struggle. It is god-damned
infuriating. We don’t need to help only the boys. We can help only
the girls, and this is not a problem. If girls struggle, it is a
gendered issue and must be treated as such. If boys struggle, it is
not a gendered issue and must be treated as such.
No need to help both then, if
the girls can be made out to suffer something-or-other, never mind if
it is a true something or a false other. True and false are just
patriarchal constructs. The same goes for objective reality. Logic
is, as the gender studies horde will tell us, yet another patriarchal
invention for the oppression of women. If girls struggle, we need to
help girls. If boys struggle, we need to focus on helping both.
Because it is damn close to heresy to lend a hand to the boys. In
particular if that helping hand is not shot directly from the cannon
of feminist thought and fancy. A boy needs feminism like a fish needs
a hook in the jaw.
And yet, they dare to make the
claim that boys and men do not experience less empathy within these
fracturing societies of ours. They claim that girls and women
experience less empathy, in fact. One of the arguments I have been
told in regards to women experiencing less empathy is that they have
periods and pregnancies and are expected to function in their
day-to-day life with these. Somehow, this is an example of women not
being shown empathy. Must be the reason for women being able to act
like complete and utter cunts with the excuse of being on their
All is forgiven, dear,
here, have some chocolate, poor thing, don’t know what you are
doing, it’s all those damned hormones. It’s just a couple
of stitches they had to put in my skull. Just a small hairline
fracture. No biggie.
Absolutely astonishing. Have
they no eyes with which to see, no ears with which to hear? Or –
more likely – have they no compassion to dole out to anyone who is
not of their own sex? Given women’s greater in-group preference,
the latter would not be a surprise. Given men’s greater out-group
preference, it is even less of a surprise. It is evident to anyone
that are willing and able to see the world through rational eyes not
clouded with ideology, indoctrination and the good ol’ fashioned
One of the greatest issues,
one of the core obstacles to men’s rights, is that feminism is
taught in schools as fact with no doubt. It is political
indoctrination, ideological brainwashing, delivered straight from
teachers frantic hand-waving and glaring eyes into the minds and
thoughts and subconsciousness of young children, to be left there to
fester and to spread and to become a part of their understanding of
the world. The future is gender neutral – as long as the neutral
gender is feminine. Purple penguins for the win.
This is terrifying.
For feminism is not nuanced,
it is not balanced, it is not a force for equality, but a force for
forced subjugation beneath their iron-grip and demented world-view; a
world-view that falls apart the moment one tries to challenge it.
Which, I suppose, is one of many reasons why feminism see no qualms
in censoring and stifling speech in opposition. For feminism, in
order to thrive, needs to stand unchallenged. Because it tumbles so
terribly when challenged. And so it has allowed itself to become a
censorious force, considering any opposition as hate-speech that
huwts theiw widdle feewings. This can not stand; a feminist
having her feelings hurt? That makes you literally worse than Hitler.
No hyperbole, no weaponised female fragility, no damselling to be
No, of course not.
There is no emotional
manipulation going on here, old boy.
Merely their word as absolute
truth. There is no doubt about feminism being true. Because feminism
told me that it is true. And so, any who oppose the shattered and
encaged forces of feminism must be at best a misogynist and at worst
the latest incarnation of Adolf Hitler, Mussolini, the entire Ku Klux
Klan, a severed and eternally erect rape-penis, the devil, his
grandmother, her tiny poodle named “Schlepp”, and the ghost of
sexual assaults past, present and future.
They demand, and they are
delivered, the entire conversation and the right – for some strange
reason – to chose which way the discourse go. They see fit to choke
and trample underfoot all that dare defy, giving no credence to man,
woman or child that defy their deified secular religion. And still
they claim that they are oppressed. For it is all about power in the
feminist hive-mind. And that is visible power, political power, not
social power. Well, power and collectivization. Men as a single,
homogeneous group, women as a single homogeneous group. No
individuals to be found within. Collectivized guilt, collectivized
victimhood. And all power to the collective that has been
collectively chosen to be the victims.
The dance between the sexes is
not one of oppression; not one of power or lack of power, of control
or lack of control. Nor has it ever been.
It is a dance of cooperation,
of giving, and receiving, of sacrificing a little of this so that the
other shall receive a little of that – on both parts.
It is both giving what they
may best give, receiving what the other may best give.
It is both playing on their
strengths and their weaknesses, doing what they themselves are best
suited to do.
For the sexes are different.
And difference is not something negative. It is a strength. It is
both bringing something of theirs to the table so that both may be
able to best survive in a world that is, despite all our
technological advances and advantages, a brutal and uncaring place.
In painting being different to
one another, in making the notion of “differences” into something
vile and horrible, something that necessarily must mean that one is
better than the other, they have ruined mutual respect, understanding
and compassion. They have ruined genuine cooperation and replaced it
with competition. Differences have become a tainted term, meant to
show one as better than the other despite it really meaning nothing
but one being better at this and the other being better at that.
Opposites attract, and then
they merge and then they complete one another. Men and women are not
on different teams. Quite the contrary; we are on the same team. This
gender-war is manufactured and created by elitist snobs, sprung from
the murky depths of history, written and shot into existence by
upper-class ladies with smelling salts always at the ready in case
they swoon from the brutish behaviours of the lower classes; the
unwashed masses of both men and women that are not worthy to lick her
fainting couch clean of dust, cocaine and laudanum.
Here endeth part three. Join me next week, hopefully, for part four. I have no idea how many parts there will be. When I get into the flow, it really flows. At the time of writing this, I have written enough for the next two weeks. And there will be more. God help me.
Vision blurred by manic
frights and lights. Foresight sold second-hand, used and spent, bent
and broken by years of miscalculated abuse. It is the hands of the
wonky and the wobbly that steers the ship.
A ship of fools docked in a
land governed by clowns. Social media reached peak efficiency;
everything is blindly believed if pushed hard enough.
Mad passed gas lingers in the
air presented as new-street blues-news. Sniffed and then snorted,
blown up our noses like cocaine through the pellets of time and
murdered history. Boy, oh boy, oh gender-neutral dogball-kin, that
outrage sure as hell fills the bowels and body with weird vibrant
energy, boom-banged like shots of amphetamines through bloodstreams
pumped from dried, dead, decadent, diseased hearts.
…No point now in
regurgitating truth as truthful as truth; better yet to lie and then
to hide behind the lie when caught up in the lie, tangled in the web
and wonky wobbles of truth-as-truth-presented, as they saw fit to see
it, dialysed into existence from machines that pump and clean and
puncture and then rape and burn and pillage.
Not necessarily stoned, but
stoned enough. Majestically trapped in the back-seat or the peak and
pinnacle of western civilization, twisted and burnt; sacrificial
offerings to Earnest, God of Woke, a coincidental conga-line lined
and slowly danced by drunk miniature minstrels mimicking morality
It is a weird pinnacle of
virtue and morbid hysteria, Machiavellian rules and laws to govern
morality and make victims of us all through the brute force of
tone-and-thought-policing through tough-as-nails policies ponderously
written and delivered by the clowns that rule the land, the circus
that is the ship of fools.
And all hands are on deck and
all decks are in hand as the penultimate tyrant rise from the sea and
tear the skies to shreds with fingers smooth as butter and a serpent
tongue as smooth as silk. Fangs that dribble new-speak gold-truths
doubly-plus-good ad infinitum, you dig? Well done; fantastic dance,
you great and glorious non-gender-conforming comrade, you. Now pound
The fumes of morality escaping
from pile-driver puritan porn; a noxious gas-cloud passing through
the cells of body and prison alike, spreading the duality of wokeness
through our eyes and minds that once spat wild insults; that once
snarled and growled at those who would decide what words we used.
It is an infection; a viral
infection of brain tissue and thoughts that ran to meet the winter at
the winters edge as spring and summer both went down the drain,
leaving us destitute at the death of God in us and us alone.
Flames rise high from
cancelled and censored literature. Stalwart book-burnings in all but
the flames, rising street-high and frightful, smoke blackened and
bruised seen flowing from the eyes of trigger-happy triggeratos in
joy and in celebration as the clowns and fools get to decide which
words we read in our CCTV bedchambers… hollowed out from within and
from without, spent borderline-bastard-blues… they fined a guy and
sentenced him to prison for reading fiction erotica… we are dying,
choked to death by the hands of neo-puritans, prepubescent in their
SSRI-limelight, drugged to death by anti-anxiety medications that
obviously don’t work. Pound me too, you vicious, censorious
Teen spirit smells like shit
now, like spit spat from tongues dulled by life. Your mouth is
moving. It must be. For I hear the sound of fevered fanatical
flatulence in the sacred halls of this church of Woke.
In our hubris fought we God and fought we Devil, seeing never the one in the other or the other in the one as, speared and mutilated by the rushing of the wolves and of the ship of fools, we lay down our swords awaiting sweet death in fawning admiration of this dreaded God of Woke whose heroin-voice and whisky-hair showed us truly our sin and shame and made us cover up the shame with greater shame.
…Those who rush in with
clown-like drive-by so-called take-downs, snivelling penitent
cluck-clucks as the golden rays of the sun bounce of their shrivelled
husk, polished and whitewashed to reflect saintlike self-reflection.
…A certain kind of
self-reflection forced upon them by hollow religious sermons meant to
make them unburden their beastly masculine shape and form of anything
resembling masculinity. That is to say: masculinity as viewed through
the mute liturgy of cross-cultural feminist zealotry; masculinity as
the brutal cross that only men have to bear, upon which they are to
later be crucified atop the hallowed peaks of self-flagellated
…A cross and burden which
they must carry with them underneath the vice-like grip and
ever-judging eyes of this awesome Goddess of immediate pussy-willow
whips and thongs, of self-congratulatory neoteny and fruitful hips,
through whose eyes and wretched form all men are sinners singing
songs of sinner’s vice and virtue none.
…Within whose judging
god-hand grasp and heaving bosom none shall ever be wholly and fully
redeemed, yet still see and then consider their murmured
self-inflicted martyrdom for the curse and for the cause as a source
of grand amusement, picked then doubly-pecked at time and time again
with angry knitting needles through their tortured manly eyes, their
horrid, horribly horrifying perverse male gaze, or through their
dubious liar-tongues that wriggle so amusingly as they choke to death
on their own self-sought and self-bought self-immolation.
Never to be fully acknowledged
within the church and its angelic walls, its trumpeter halls, its
holy smear of period-blood, but to be referred to endearingly or
mockingly as “allies” for the noble cause, caused by sex and sex
alone, forever doomed to stand without the whining wall and holler at
those who did not wish to enter that they are crackpot sinners,
brutish bores, never to be absolved of sin.
…as he is surely soon to be…
…for all the pilgrim steps
he shall endure upon the path to absolute redemption…
As all truly penitent sinners
cursed with cock and balls are want to do, must he now and ever and
anon carry the wormwood cross, the snivelled cluck-cluck, into the
unwashed masses and their meaty mouths to meet and greet and then
dole out calls for redemption as redemption is; acknowledge first the
grandest of all earthly sins – the never-seen nor never-heard
before privilege of being male (add a sin or more for also being
white) – and then work through and then come out the other side,
crawling on your knees to beg forgiveness for the sins of you and of
your father and your fathers father and so forth, back through time
and through the ages until you meet the protoplasmic ooze, until you
greet the primordial chaos-soup from whence all men were ripped and
torn, born from rape and ravaged ruin, born from perplexing shame and
into shame reborn and born again, the original sin once spurted in
the face of sinners straight from sinners cocks; a semen-speckled
bukkake from the majestic godhead and his cohort, the grand dragon
Though redemption is dearly
sought and even more dearly bought, it is one to never be delivered.
For the sins and trespasses one wishes to be absolved off are so
grandiose in nature, so undeniably vicious and evil and cold-hearted
and mean that none can say or see or think or mean that any true
redemption can be had, nor absolution passed upon the shrivelled
cluck-cluck husk or the beacon of his armour, rusted and then
polished ‘till it turns to glass and passes then as passing gas
into the stratosphere, shattered and then chewed and then passed up
and passed on and spat out unto the dirt and earth where dead men
walk who passed this way before, who self-flagellated ‘till their
backs were sore and whipped of all but blood and bone.
For the truest of all that is true, and the realest of all that is real is the knowledge, festering at the bosom’s core of the Goddess’ high embrace – that all men are vicious and are born that way from the loins and in the groin then tangled and entwined.
Here I am, breaking the chains
of regularly scheduled uploading to bring you this quick
announcement, as well as to ask those of you who read or listen to my
content fairly regularly a quick question.
In a few months time, aiming
at November, I will be publishing a collection of poetry. Well, I
call it poetry. Probably, it is prose presented as poetry in order to
give myself some pretentious credibility within the literary world.
Granted, this being a postmodernist society, anything is art and
anything is poetry as long as the artist or poet points at it and
labels it as such.
All semantics aside, though,
it will be published as a collection of poetry. The title is “Lonely
Train-station Blues; poems for the lost boys”.
The title “Lonely
Train-station Blues” is the title of one of the poems within; a
terrible labour of love which I laboured over for close-to three
months. A beast of some 4000 words. An epic, free-form poem written
in the current year where no-one in their right mind writes or, for
that matter, reads epic poetry. Inspired by the likes of Dante
Alighieri, John Milton and Charles Bukowski… if you can believe
that. I can’t. But that is besides the point; this poem is one that
I am fairly pleased with, even if I do say so myself. Which tend to
mean that no-one else will enjoy it.
The topics explored is much in
the vein as my other writings, though with more of an emphasis on the
personal and the individual. That is – my personal and my
individual experiences, with some slightly spiritual stuff thrown in
there for good measure, as I stumbled upon the spiritual path some
years back and am just about as confused with that as I am with
everything else in this weird and wacky world of ours. Best to just
walk it with a smile and a raised middle-finger, I think.
It will be published through
Amazon, as my funds don’t allow for anything but that. Just as
Howling at a Slutwalk Moon was published. One digital, one paperback.
The difference being that, barring one or two instances, nothing in
this book is published previously. As I am weary of keeping anything
behind a paywall, I plan on releasing each and every poem in the book
at a monthly basis. For your reading or listening pleasure. That is –
one poem a month after the book has been out for some time. Not
entirely decided on how long to wait before I start publishing them,
so that will be something I have to consider. It will not interfere
with my regular upload schedule, which is once or twice a week,
depending on the length of the beast I am writing and the amount of
research needed and so and such.
Now, I am aware that poetry
won’t make me money. It will, in fact, only make me mad. I am not
expecting many sales on it, is what I’m saying. Yet, in order to
torture my poor and tortured artist soul some more, I will release it
into the wild. Because, why the hell not? There can be no more harm
in that than there is in what I have already released into the wild.
Work is also moving forward,
albeit slowly, on a book chronicling my experiences with psychosis
and psycho-pharmaceuticals and the personal transformation and
eventual red-pilling that came as a result of that. I am about
half-way through a rough draft. This is one that I plan to release in
a similar manner, though that will not be until sometime mid-or-late
I have a few ideas for other
books as well, in the red-pill philosophy vein, in the men’s
advocacy vein. None of which will interfere with my regular upload
schedule, but all of which are too big in scope to be blog-posts
first and foremost. They will require more structure than that. These
will also be published in the same way, with the book first, then
each chapter at a monthly basis after such-and-such a time.
That would be all the
Now, for the question. A very
simple question for those brave and heroic few who watch or read my
content on a regular basis – all 20 or 30 of you.
Of course, I jest based on
the size of my channel and my blog and what few views I get – I very
much appreciate you taking the time to read or listen to my
ramblings. I think it is very humbling that you find enjoyment in
these things that I do. And so I would very much value your input.
And the question is a simple
one, as these things go: are there any particular subjects you would
like me to write about? Not that I am running out of things to write
about, quite the contrary. Suggestions are a damned good thing to
have and to receive.