And so as an inevitable result of the booking; enter the inevitably awkward promotional-thing, which I am not particularly good at… seems to be something of a curse for us highly introverted hermit-types, whose preoccupation with solitude seem to preclude self-promotional stuff like this. Rendering it nigh impossible, in fact. An introvert is as an introvert does, and what an introvert does best is not self-promotion, apparently.
See; the books have been done and ready for almost three months at this point in time, and was released into the wild furry yonder-wonder of the interwebs about two months ago. And I have only just realized that I need to do some semblance of advertisement for the glorious bastards, steeped in soggy kneed brutality as they so clearly and so blatantly are.
With me being the brilliant jackboot-wearing, (in actual fact, I wear a pair of damned cool cowboy-boots, which I am not entirely convinced that I am cool enough to wear, but nevermind), patriarchal tyrant which I so clearly am, this ought to go without saying. Still, it bears repeating. Because if you repeat a lie often enough, it becomes truth unchallenged and unquestionable. Thus; the world is a white supremacist patriarchy, and we are all racists mo-fo’s with more privilege than sense and more throbbing rape-engines than we know what to do with, lying dormant beneath our belts and behind our easily undone flies, ready, willing and able to unleash hell and damnation at a moment’s notice.
And why shouldn’t we? Hell, that’s all we’re good for anyway, in this strange and malformed world of ours in which hatred and bigotry is the worst thing one could possibly engage in, unless it is pointed, gushing, squirting and bleeding, direct at the hearts of your everyday ordinary man, who is evil incarnate; vile tyranny clothed in man-flesh – preferably white man-flesh, I must add. Or else I will be painted as a racist or an islamophobe or whatever else the jingles advertise as the no-no thing of today. The world has gone completely bonkers. Identity-politics is a curse and a blight and it eats itself, little by little, burning up and burning out and floating into the ether like ash and shadows and dust. It is inevitable, really, that it will collapse in on itself… crushed by its own weight. The aftermath will be interesting to behold, as someone has to clean up that damned mess. Which brings me back to those regular, everyday guys whose sole preoccupation is to keep himself (and his family, if there is one) fed, clothed and content. The working-class, the “lumpen proletariat” which this strange and new incarnation of the so-called left, the progressive hordes of kindness and inclusivity, (if one subscribes to the simplistic left-right politics thing, that is) so utterly and completely despises that they have no time nor interest in actually listening to what they have to say about this brave new world we live in. The aristocracy is back, fellow patriarchal tyrants. And it is big and it is bold and it is every bit as snobbish, despicable and elitist as any former incarnation of aristocracy. Our aristocrats are over-educated bottom-feeders; elitist academes with no grasp of the real world. Or Elitist politicians with one foot in the cradle of censorship and the other in the grave of tyranny, deciding what is and is not free speech, attempting through some obscure ritual, to re-awaken the corpse of tyranny to come into the world like a zombie, gnawing at our brains and telling us what we are allowed to speak. It then follows that it will tell us what we are allowed to think. Hate-speech is whatever the supposed victim of hate-speech says that it is. And we are all in trouble for it.
Still, going back to the working-class for a bit – and hold up a second; I have been told that there ought to be a curfew for men, whose capacity for self-sacrifice in the name of good far outweighs their capacity for violence in the name of evil, but who cares about that, right? After all – there is mighty hysteria to unleash upon the screaming banshees, who so much long for enemies and shadows to fight that they are willing to paint themselves as pointless and deluded victims, completely incapable of performing even the simplest of tasks without falling down and crying; without reducing themselves to a shivering mass of tears and vomit, labelling it strength in adversity. Even when the adversity is highly manufactured scapegoating there to create a potential enemy of every man out there, who is so beastly and so naughty by virtue of their genitals that they can’t be trusted. Hatred of one group is wrong, is dastardly, is brutally naughty and must not be engaged in. Unless, of course, it is men. Once again. Men, upon whose bent backs and troubled heads may be placed all the burdens and all the sins of the world; a sacrificial scapegoat to be whipped and chased into the desert, filled with demons and whatever else of the evils of our world which we so long to place into something concrete, something we can touch and taste and feel and see as opposed to understanding that wicked people do wicked things, irregardless of anything but the wickedness in their – most likely – brutalized and traumatized psyches.
Alas; I forgot: evil actions can only be excused by past trauma when it is done by someone who is deserving of protection and empathy. Which is to say: someone who is not a man, and preferably not a white man at that. Identity-politics is for pillocks. It is the most basic, the most simplistic damned thing to ever emerge this side of a cellphone-game. Which, of course, explains perfectly well why it is so damned popular. Hell; anyone can point at someone for their outward appearance and shout “white devil” or “man-devil” or something to that effect, and so bring the full fury of their whole tribe down on their confused heads, whose downcast eyes state nothing but “hells bells, but I just went out to buy some milk, and now there’s all these people here yelling at me and accusing me of some manner of wickedness and vileness…”
The hatred is so obvious and so blatant by now; the pot has boiled over and the serpent-moon has fled the scene, leaving destruction and despair in its wake. These are harvest-times; the moon is a glowing orange orb in the sky. Now the time has come for the serpent-cult to reap what they have sown; madness and hysteria, brutality and bloodshed… for all. The purge has begun, the scales are tipping, the pendulum swinging again and the great ghastly guffaw in the sky screams censorious bullshittery in our ears and in our eyes, spat upon as they are by the holy spectre of some quivering squirting vulva in the sky the size and density of three suns.
Now come the harvest, here come the purge.
And in the purge, and in the harvest, one needs something to do in the down-time, where the downcast eyes spend downcast time spitting downcast wine on the downcast lies.
So why not buy these two humble books of mine? Seems last year was a productive year for me. At least if one is to go by the size of the books, which, admittedly, may not be a measure of anything but my fingers lacking any ability to shut the hell up and let less be more for once… But, no matter. It is what it is, and if you should wish to wallow in the despair I create within my shattered world – caught between the pages in these tomes of excellence and death-like silence – alongside some clown-pill honka-ma-tonks, both volumes are now up for sale on that most sacred of censorious web-sites; amazon. Please take a gander at the links below, whilst I attempt to explain the volumes such as they are.
The lyrical contributions to the clown-world infrastructure of 2020 are collected in a volume titled “For the sake of my beard: Contrarian lyricism in the age of conformity”. I went full professional with this one, boys, let me tell you: each of the attempted lyrical pieces within is accompanied by an attempt at commentary, explaining my thoughts on the pieces, alongside random stray-thoughts that went unfiltered through my strange and maggoty mind and wound up on the paper within, probably having little to do with the pieces but random acts of ranting, but, hey, these are ranting times.
The more conventional pieces are collected in a tome of equal splendour, but less professionalism (as it is lacking in insightful commentary and witty analysis), entitled “But you will never get my leather jacket: even more contrarian ramblings in the age of conformity”. It probably goes without saying that not everything written in that strange and broken year of 2020 is collected within these two tomes of magic and grumbling. Not everything is up to snuff, in truth and in honesty. Some of it is just plain bad.
No matter; snuff or no snuff: if you wish to contribute to my ever-increasing insanity and solitary confinement, please consider purchasing the books and so help me raise the little patriarchal tyrant I’ve now suddenly got plopped into my lap, courtesy of what Hannah Wallen has dubbed “the knock-up fairy”. I am neck-deep in dirty diapers at the moment; literally up shit creek without a paddle. And, of course, loving every second of it. Even though I swear the days have gotten shorter since my son arrived.
But You Will Never Get My Leather-Jacket:
For the Sake of My Beard:
And that was that.
Until next time, gentlemen: I’ll catch you later.
PS: For lack of any new creative input from my accusatory fingers, please enjoy this hasty rewrite of Bob Dylan’s timeless classic “The Times they are A-changin’”,An anthem for the me-too era of hysteria and dubious accusations;
The Boning, it is a-changin’:
Come gather ‘round brothers
wherever you bone
and understand that the consent
you once had is gone,
and accept it that soon
you’ll be accused of some rape;
If your life to you is worth savin’
then you better start jerkin’,
or you’ll drown for the cunt
for the boning it is a-changin’.
Come writers and journo’s
who preach platitudes with your pen
and keep your eyes wide
the chance won’t come again;
we won’t bone too soon
for the consent’s still in spin
and there’s no tellin’ when that it’s lackin’,
for the consent now
may be withdrawn anytime
for the boning it is a-changin’.
Come senators, congressmxn
please heed consent;
don’t stand in the frat-rooms
don’t block up metoo,
for he that gets boned
will be he who is jailed,
for consent can be withdrawn.
It’ll shackle your penis
and rattle your balls,
for the boning it is a-changin’
Come brothers and sisters
throughout the land
and don’t consent to
what you can’t understand;
your cocks and your boxes
are beyond your control;
your enthusiasm is rapidly fadin’.
Please don’t go for the contract
if you can use your hand
for the boning it is a-changin’.
The consent is withdrawn
the allegations are cast
the metoo-moment
will come at long last
as the boning last decade
will soon be your last;
the consent is rapidly fadin’
and the first eager fuck
will be the last one,
for the boning it is a-changin’.
Please consider purchasing my books in order to support my descent into insanity:
Some time back, I was on the receiving end of one of those questions that are oh-so-common to those of us in this rag-tag crew of deplorable men’s rights people; foul-mouthed misogynistic heathens, charlatans, warlord barbarians and insufferable mouth-breathers that we all so clearly are.
As one would expect if one has been following my rambling man-baby whining for some time, I didn’t bother replying. I simply can’t be bothered to engage in pointless internet-spats. I have a life outside of the internet, as difficult as that may well be to believe to those who have conjured this mental image of MRA’s as basement dwelling fedora-wielding neckbeards with mommy-issues, tiny dicks, morbid obesity and hygiene problems. None of which magic mental images are, for some reason, considered body-shaming… besides: people drop all pretences of civility when granted the magical aura of relative internet anonymity. And so ad hominem attacks take the place of actual arguments all too often. And I don’t much care for that.
Despite the often aggressive and confrontational tone in my ramblings, I am fairly civil when actually talking to actual people. Too civil by far to be counted amongst the legions of brave internet warriors, engaged in swash-buckling insult-flingings and strange adventures in neo-linguistic acrobatics designed to piss people off. In short: I’m just too nice for the internet.
As a person, I am very shy, careful and reserved. When I introduce my ramblings with “humble hermit host”, I am not exaggerating. I am one wife and a soon-to-be-born daughter away from being considered a true and proper hermit. This is not to be confused with being a shut-in. It has nothing to do with any illness, be that psychological or physiological. I just happen to enjoy solitude; being very comfortable in my own company. More people should learn to be just that, in my humble opinion. Luckily, my wife is of the same character. Even when the rampaging hordes of feministas scorned believe that she is not, going so far as to claim her introverted nature to be a product of me oppressing her wild desire to be bubbly and extroverted… because of course it is. This has happened more than once, more than twice, more than thrice. And from several people, all wielding the high-and-mighty banner of frantic and ferocious feminism. For obviously, none but they know how my wife ought to act. According to the feminist hordes, my wife does not act as a proper lady ought to act. Her behaving as she wants to behave is a problem that can only be remedied by her being forced by the feministas to act according to their image of how a modern woman should act. Very interesting, that. As such, feminism attempts to remove personal agency from my wife and so mould her in their image. A mockery and an affront and an insult to her, in actuality… but, to their beady little pig-eyes, it is them aiding her in her liberation from my pasty patriarchal hands; liberating her from chains which she can not properly see for not being illuminated from within by the scorching, raging, frenzied and cleansing flame of feminism.
But I digress.
I just find it so ridiculously hilarious that the forces supposedly there for female liberation are the ones demanding obedience from my wife; demanding the power and influence to wield her in their image of a proper lady, fainting, damselling and hysterics included.
There is a difference, undoubtedly, between attacking a set of ideas and attacking an individual subscribing to a set of ideas.
I cherish the former and am not fond of the latter, bleeding heart and empathetic arsehole that I am.
Of course; to the irate feminist, attacking feminism is attacking the feminist in question personally. For that is the extent to which these people have allowed themselves to be engulfed by an -ism: criticism of feminism is not only criticism of feminism, but criticism of any individual feminist as well as of women as a group and that ever so elusive term “equality”. And we all want equality, surely?
That is the level of power and influence feminism holds; the power and influence to claim the monopoly on not only women’s issues, but also on men’s issues and the entire idea of equality between the sexes. This is terrifying on its own, as no single idea nor movement nor ideology should be allowed to claim the monopoly on anything.
Make no mistake about it: any “official” discussion or debate on sex and gender is a feminist discussion or debate, feigning both debate and discussion. No other ideas factor into it. This is not good. It ought, in fact, to be cause for concern. Particularly so when this particular set of ideas deem men as a group to be enemies; an out-group that must be changed and altered to suit a feminist idea of how men should be. For men can not speak on behalf of themselves. Feminism is the force to speak on behalf of men, even when only being about women despite being about men as well… it is confusing, but that is the nature of the beast. An easy in for every out. Feminism helps everybody. Except when it doesn’t. But then, it is not real feminism. Because it never fucking is.
As time flew and the wings of feminism grew, along came intersectional feminism, granting them even more power and influence; now the beast demands to hold the reigns on any-and-all social issues which any-and-all supposedly marginalized minority-group may or may not suffer.
The oppressed group of women and of feminism sure as hammered holy hacking-cough hell hold an awful lot of say-and-sway; wields an awful lot of institutional influence and power. I suppose that comes with the territory. None but the oppressed have any real power, you know. It sounds strange, but that is apparently the level we are at in this moment in time. Much hoo and even more woo and pound me too, pretty please, and I shall pound you too, why not, woo-hoo and a merry honk honk to me too.
But, yeah – all rambling aside for the moment: the question I was asked was one of those silly, simpering and ridiculous ones, in which the obvious assumption that men have all the rights, all the power, all the privilege and then some, lies floating on the surface like a blueish-green and bloated corpse in Hillary Clinton’s bondage-chamber bathtub, complete with amplified incredulous tone and hurt fee-fees galore: “Which men’s rights are you really fighting for?!?!?!?” For the mere notion, the mere idea, the mere mention that men deserve human rights and someone to speak their case is a highly offensive notion to those who are convinced that men either have no sex-specific issues, or that men are the issue in-and-of themselves… this idea is often masquerading as the notions of “toxic masculinity” or “fragile masculinity” or some such nonsense that have these fancy academic ideas behind it, and so it is really not hating on men, honest to god, and it is only there to help men get better, honest to god, and so forth and so on… all evidence and articles titled “why can’t we hate men?” and similar to the contrary.
These questions are seldom, if ever, put forth with any honest intention of learning. This I have learned. Quite the contrary. They are put forth, more often than not, with the intent of mockery and ridicule, usually ending with the salty caps-lock-scream of “Incel”, followed by a metaphorical run-away, trails of keyboard-crumbs, cheeto-dust, earwax and offended sensibilities floating behind as a passing reminder of eternal internet folly and social justice brain-bleaching done with baseball bats soaked in plan-b pills and spermicidal cream. The offender then thinking to themselves (one assumes) that “Oh boy, I done triggered them incels good this time! Hopefully, mistress will be kind to me tonight, oh my, oh lawd, have mercy, I might get a crack at dat crack…” if male, or “Oh lawd, how them mens hates the wamens, daring to disagree with a lady saying they should all be killed, oh lawd have mercy!”, if female. Or, well, that’s how I picture them anyway, in my more spiteful and petty moments of unadulterated hate-speech-glee. The truth is most likely not this. It has to do with propaganda… which is a bit more worrying, truth be told.
And so here I sit on a snowy, cold and windy late morning in January, silliness and naivety trailing from my mind onto the keyboard and the flickering screen in front of me, actually assuming the question to be asked in good faith, attempting to reply to it before taking a long break from this rambling-business in order to devote my attention and devotion whole-heartedly to my daughter in her first precious months of life. Obviously in order to inflict nefarious patriarchal brainwashing upon her so that I can oppress her just as much as I oppress my wife. For there can be no greater wish from a father and a husband, truly. Hell, I’m gonna get accused of that, and worse, before long anyway. So why the hell not poke fun at it before it begins? Whatever nonsense they fling your way, gentlemen, you wear that shit like an impenetrable armour. I mean; I would have told them to eat shit, but I’m not entirely sure about the legality of encouraging cannibalism, so I leave that be for the moment.
This will be a lengthy one.
Obviously. The pre-ramble is bad enough.
Oh my, but I just can’t shut up, can I?
The length of it stems from the very simple reason that it is not an easy question to answer. Not for any lack of causes; not for any lack of proper problems; not for any lack of proper evidence; not for any lack of conviction in the very clearly terribly regressive, woman-hating and offensive belief that men deserve rights and that men, as a group, have their needs, problems, issues, experiences and whatever else ignored, neglected or worsened by the current state of affairs.
We have been sold this idea, for decades, that women are worse off than anyone else… and that men are at the root of it all. Feminism is the force that sold us this idea. Coupled with a natural gynocentrism, it is amplified to a ridiculous extent.
Particularly white men are the problem, though men in general are nasty pieces of shit. See, for all its claims about not hating men; for all the ridiculous ideas spewed forth from the gaping rectum of feminist thought that it is not about hating men… it is about hating men. Identity politics, I have come to learn, is simplistic, naive and woefully tribalistic. It does not, in any way, shape or form cause anything but division.
I would dare state that one would not exactly be lost in the woods or drowning in a puddle of nu-metal mud to reach the conclusion that an idea pathogen stating that one group of people – by virtue of their birth – are evil enough to oppress another group of people by virtue of their birth, assumes evil intent on part of the group supposedly doing the oppression.
That is exactly what feminism does.
It assumes sociopathy on behalf of men – on behalf of all men everywhere. For what else could it possibly do, when believing all men everywhere to be so nasty, wicked, evil; so lacking in empathy and basic human decency to willingly oppress and enslave (women were treated as chattel, after all, hurr-durr) not only their wives or girlfriends, but also their sisters, mothers, grandmothers, daughters, etcetera.
This would require a special kind of wickedness; a special kind of lack of empathy and common decency reserved mostly for sociopaths of the Ted Bundy variety. Yet that is the root of feminist thought and dogma; a trail of breadcrumbs that can be traced all the way back to the declaration of sentiments at Seneca falls in 1848. Men are, by nature and by culture, so wicked and morally lacking as to oppress those whom they claim to love. That is the foundational theory of feminism, gentlemen.
The history of mankind is the history of men’s oppression of women, it is stated. And women have just been too damned weak, timid, frail and stupid to do anything about it except for right now. And right then. And right there. And right now, all the way back to hallowed antiquity, one assumes. Patriarchy-theory is a conspiracy theory put forth by an honest-to-god paranoid schizophrenic. People believe it, though. One assumes it is easier than taking control of ones own life and destiny to believe that all ones flaws, faults and failings are the product of the ones who really and truly hold the reigns; the puppet-masters, be they reptilians, the illuminati, the Freemasons, the patriarchy or clusters of sentient sawdust from pornhub-dimension DD-MILF-69. (In before someone accuses me of doing the same with feminism: I do not hold feminism responsible for my own faults and flaws and failings – of which I assure you I have plenty. I do, however, hold them responsible for making it so that the issues men face are neglected, trivialized, routinely ignored, mocked and ridiculed.)
And here I could tick of a list of boxes, mentioning and going in depth on all the men’s rights which we in this special basket of deplorable soggy kneed bastards are fighting for… even when there is disagreement in the ranks on the severity, importance or whatever of any certain topic of contention. The so-called manosphere is not exactly tied together by a common set of beliefs, such as feminism is. It is, I am very happy to say, not an -ism. Should it devolve into an -ism, I will run away screaming in fear and in terror. The social justice ideologues; the feminists and the critical race theorists and analysts, the cult of woke preachers, the postmodernists and the academics and psychologists may all declare masculinity and the men’s rights movement to be ideological in nature. But these people view everything in terms of ideologies, it seems. And so too must everyone else, by their reckoning. For they are the only ones to hold the handle on the well of truth. Men’s rights advocacy is an action. Just as human rights advocacy is an action. For that is precisely what it is: human rights advocacy, albeit with a focus on men. For men’s issues are neglected.
I could mention male genital mutilation of children still being motherfucking legal despite being an obvious violation of bodily autonomy and, for that matter, the child’s religious freedom where this applies… I could mention lop-sided divorce-courts and even more lop-sided child custody. I could mention domestic violence being overlooked when men are the victims and women the perpetrators (looking at you, donut-munching duluth-model), or that the wording of the law in a multitude of places is such that men can not be raped by women, thus rendering rape a crime done solely by men where women are the prime victims… which is no wonder, as a man raped by a woman is counted as “made-to-penetrate” or something like that, thus not making it into the official statistics on rape in quite a lot of places. Also the work of feminism. For North America, it is the work of Mary P. Koss. She considers it improper to label men forced to have sex by women as rape.
Because of course it is.
Can’t skew the rape-statistics in favour of the feminist narrative if men raped by women were to be counted in the rape statistics. Rape requires penetration of the victim to be counted as rape. Forced envelopment is not rape. You can thank feminism for that, despite feminism insisting that this is the fault of the patriarchy.
Interesting, that.
Highly interesting.
Almost makes one think that the vast armies of coffee-shop feminists out there have no idea about what their movement is or has done… or still does.
Which is no wonder, in honesty, since it is effectively sold to us through every institutional orifice as only being about equality. Thus, opposition to feminism means opposition to equality to the huddled masses… and worse of all, it has come to mean opposition to women. Shock and horror follows. Anyone opposing feminism is thus guilty of opposing women and equality and women’s equality, whatever the fuck that means at that precise moment in time.
The same holds true for child custody; the presumption being that the mother is the best parent. Apparently, this too is the fault of the patriarchy, burdening women with the horrible task of caring for their – one hopes and one assumes – beloved children… Strange, then, that the feminist organizations fight tooth and nail against a default shared parenting post-divorce… Strange, too, that the horrible dead-beat dads out there so long to see their children that they often commit suicide when denied this. Parental alienation is a thing that occurs, and it is mainly perpetrated by women. I can scarce imagine a worse form of abuse.
I remember when Spain put forth the idea of a default 50/50 custody. It is some years ago now. The feminist hive-mind broke out in hives and sweaty, itchy rashes, claiming this to put women’s rights back a hundred years or whatever. Fathers being allowed to see their children? This is obviously a trespass on the rights of mothers and a horribly regressive action. Despite women obviously being burdened by having to take care of their children. Really strange behaviour all around. I suppose these were not real feminists, because they never are, depending on the what and where and how and such. A brilliant out, this no-true-scotsman-fallacy. No real feminist would enjoy sugar on their porridge, nor would they enjoy the “tender years doctrine”. Unless they do, which makes them unreal real feminists of the ethereal variety, all ghostlike apparitions and magic incantations and such.
One could also point to the articles popping up in the British tabloid press about how horrible it was for women to see their children only on the weekends… you know; like fathers have been made to do for decades. What a horrible crime to do to women; “forcing” them to care for their children is just as nasty as “forcing” them not to care for their children.
Nevermind the fathers, though, they don’t matter and besides – fathers seeking custody of their children is just another tool in the toolbox of the oppressor and the abuser, despite it also being oppression and abuse for mothers to gain full custody. Yeah. The loopy nature of it all is such that, no matter, it can be turned around to be bad for women and the fault of men. Loop-de-loop and the glorious return of the Ourobouros.
I could also mention male lack of reproductive rights. We have none. I could mention how much money is spent on researching female health as opposed to male health. This despite feminist insistence that male-specific illnesses is granted more money and time than female-specific illnesses. Feminist reality is not measurable reality. It is a different kind of reality. The Norwegian government has recently begun their third exploration on female health. Still has not done one on male health, despite men dying younger by this and that and the other. Not that this matters, of course. It is only men, after all.
I could mention the lack of attention and focus on male suicide. Male underachievement in schools. Men dropping out, not only of education but also of society as a whole. Female criminals given leniency in law where male criminals are not, also known as the sentencing-gap. (This delightfully defended by the scores of feminists scorned as being because men are more likely to re-offend. Gendered discrimination is quite alright, as long as it favours women and hurts men…) All, of course, painted to be the fault of men, in the dubious guise of the patriarchy. “It is men doing it”, they say, assuming this to be a got-cha. Brilliant. This is psychological projection, though. Since feminism as a whole blame the opposite sex, they assume those in opposition to feminism must also do just that. This is nonsense. Both men and women are responsible for society, with all its wrongs and rights. But that, I suppose, lacks in dualism and is way to nuanced a view, in this era of the black-and-white thinking.
This they also claim, despite feminist lobbying; despite judges in Great Britain being told to be especially lenient towards female offenders; despite feminism wanting to get rid of prisons for women all together.
To reiterate, and please don’t get me wrong – men are also at fault. It takes two to tango, after all. And men, in their prime state of evil misogyny, can not easily say no to women. That is our nature and our social conditioning, and it is not an easy pattern to break out of. Particularly not for young men in the full bloom of their pointed, poignant and throbbing manhood.
Oh, excuse me. I near forgot: it is not the fault of men. It is the fault of the patriarchy, which is men but it is really not men even if it is men. A system designed to help men at the expense of women, which also hurts men and often more than it hurts women, but still hurts women more. Harumph. Defund gender studies, please. It is a silly place.
Feminism doesn’t hate men. It just named everything perceivable and measurably bad in the world after men, and can’t stop grumbling about the horrible nature of men. Even bad things done by women are the fault of men, be that internalized misogyny or women suffering from toxic masculinity. No toxic femininity here, no sirre-bob. Men’s flaws are the fault of masculinity, and so too are women’s flaws.
When presenting the world as being run solely by men, despite there being quite a lot of women leaders and influences around – particularly in education and academia – the blame can always be put on men. Despite feminist lobbying groups lobbying for all manner of nasty and discriminatory laws, rules and regulations. That is, of course, positive discrimination. For it favours women, and so it is all quite alright. Men don’t matter. And never have. Men are disposable. And that is the crux of it all: the empathy-gap.
Feminist thought is deliberately twisted and obscured, made just so as to create an easy out for every in. As long as women can be shown as victims and men as perpetrators, or at the very least show women as oppressed and men as privileged, there are no limits to the amazing mental gymnastics, the twisting and the turning.
Attacking feminism is not an attack on women. The two are not one and the same. Just as advocacy for women does not mean feminism. Just as I have no problems with advocacy for men, I have no problems with advocacy for women. There’s that whole human rights thing again.
What I have issues with is the ridiculous, the incredible focus our society has on women and all their ills, manufactured and overblown or not, and the equally ridiculous and incredible lack of focus on men’s issues, no matter what they are.
All this whilst feminism insists that women are oppressed, their voices never heard. To believe this to be truth, particularly when shown evidence to the contrary, one has to be wilfully blind.
One of feminisms complaints is that men always pop into any discussion on women’s issues with “but what about the menz?!?!?”. Well, that is really not all that strange, considering how often any and all issue is made to mainly affect women; how any discussion has to be about women first and foremost.
There is no room to discuss men’s issues, and so we have to make that space, take that room. Particularly regarding violence. Men are the main victims of violence every-fucking-where. And still, we must end violence against women. Men don’t matter, because men are the ones being violent. Interesting, that. One should care less about the victim on the basis of sex. Sharing genitals with ones attacker immediately makes the attack matter less; the victim less of a victim.
Violent women also exist, but we don’t talk about them. Women, after all, are wonderful.
Imagine that.
I could tick of a lot of boxes. My main thing, though – my main area of focus is all a matter of perspective.
To make it clearer, it is a matter of the male perspective. The male experience. Something which we don’t care much about in this crazy and lopsided world of ours. Every debate on sex, or on gender, is not a debate. It is a feminist circle-jerk where the voices of women are the most important – if those voices are feminist women, of course – and the voices of men are only ever heard if they show deference, allegiance and submission to the feminist perspective and the feminist narrative. Men, after all, are obsolete. Because feminism told me so.
The age we live in is an age where the battle-cry is one of “lived experience”. The lived experience must be taken seriously and taken into account. But only if it is the lived experience of women. The lived experience of men don’t matter. Probably because that would punch a giant fist-shaped hole in the chest-cavity of the feminist narrative.
By denying, ridiculing or outright refusing to let the stories and experiences of men be told and heard; by allowing nothing but the stories and the experiences of women to be told and heard (#believewomen #metoo, for example) the feminist narrative of the poor, timid, helpless, frail, oppressed and eternally victimized woman reigns supreme. Particularly so – and to reiterate – when only allowing for the experiences of feminist women to be told.
Women, such as my wife, whose experiences run quite contrary to the feminist victim-narrative, are not “allowed” to tell their stories. They are ridiculed by the forces supposedly there to liberate women and allow them to tell their tales of woe and worry. They are bootlickers of the patriarchy, vile gender-traitors and hopelessly brainwashed by the might and influence of the patriarchy. They are victims too, but they can’t see it and so feminism can attack them with whatever harassment they deem proper, despite harassment of women online being a terrible thing to happen to women.
I don’t believe women to be the problem. Nor do I believe men are the problem. Feminism is. Gynocentrism is. Human nature is. And it is big, and it is mighty and it is institutionalized; it is long and it is hard and it is uncut, and it is poking at our communal anus with the full force of evolutionary instinct behind it.
Men who tell their stories are routinely mocked and ridiculed.
I bathe in male tears, I drink male tears, fragile man-baby, whining man-children, and similar sentiments are thrown around by the feminist hordes, whose claim that men will be fixed and salvaged from their horrible masculinity if they only open up and talk about their emotions and experiences fall flat on its face when faced with men who open up and talk about their emotions and their experiences. Because the above are thrown about, laying ever more proof about the gaping fissure that is the empathy-gap atop the already giant pile of proof.
It is only anecdotal, it is lies and it is bullshit; we are only saying this to hate on women, then it is #notallwomen, then it is gendered stereotyping, then you just want to chain women to the kitchen, then it is this and it is that and it is the other. All manner of diversionary tactics are deployed so that the male experience can be dismissed, unless it falls in line with the feminist narrative.
Feminism has become the dominant ideology in this day and age; one which all and sundry must show allegiance to, under fear of being cast out and ostracised. Ideological purity is demanded.
And the female experience is celebrated and held up as truth-without-doubt. If and when it falls in line with the feminist narrative. And so too is the male experience – if and when it falls in line with the feminist narrative. The personal must be made political. The anecdotal must be taken as truth. One must, above all else, believe women. By which it is meant that one must, above all else, believe feminism.
And so come the teary tales of teary torture; of oppression and abuse. All terrible stories, no doubt. All stories that must be believed, no matter.
And that is the sign of the times, the banner under which all shall flock, gather and celebrate. The lived experience.
OK.
I believe men should follow the call of the mighty herald; that we should all flock to the same banner: to tell our lived experience, our stories, our experiences of life in a feminist culture where girls and women are celebrated, be that individually or as a group… and where boys and men are routinely mocked and ridiculed, be that as individuals or as a group. This is a sure sign of the empathy-gap. Boys and men experience far less empathy than do women and girls, all the time and all around. Even when feminism declares the opposite. Which don’t hold sway the moment feminism comes calling that the issues of men is that they are told to “man up”, which one assumes is proof proper of the empathy-gap, but, oh well, consistency don’t matter when the reasoning is emotional first and foremost.
With feminist influence all around, this can only get worse before it gets better.
And so, little by little, I tell my stories. I share my lived experience. Amongst other things, obviously.
A very difficult thing to do, in all honesty.
Firstly because of my introverted nature.
Secondly because the very personal and private nature of the things makes it rather difficult to do.
Thirdly because of the mockery and ridicule that always follows; the insults and the name-calling, the shit-flinging and knuckle-dragging idiocy of adherents to the serpent cult, so hell bent on seeing women as oppressed victims that the mere mention that men are not doing good and are not treated well is seen as an attack on the decency and humanity of women.
For feminism is psychological projection given material shape and form and substance. What feminism does, feminism believes us to do. Few MRA’s blame women. Many blame feminism, this is true. But feminism is not women. And pointing a finger towards feminism is not pointing fingers towards women, even when they falsely claim that it is.
The patriarchy, I have come to believe, is feminism projecting their own thoughts and actions towards men – all men. This is what feminism does when in power, and so that must be what men do when in power. Albeit with the sexes reversed. And all the protests; all the shutting-down of talks on men’s issues; all the fuck-faces and bomb-threats and pulling of fire-alarms; all the disturbances; all the refusals to set up men’s groups on campuses; all the shutting down of male-only spaces; all the tearing down of everything to do with men’s rights is proof proper of feminism not only neglecting, but actively opposing any mention of issues facing men if they themselves do not wield control of the talks or the groups or the conferences. All must be seen from the crocodile-teared vantage-point of feminist victimology. Feminism must hold the reigns, or else.
The patriarchy is not a nefarious group of shadowy figures pulling the strings behind the scenes, but all men. Men must fix themselves, men must better themselves, men must take a long and good look at themselves and their masculinity, men must unlearn their toxic masculinity, men must become more feminine, men must do this and men must do that and men must do all the other. And when men do this and that and the other, the hordes wonder where all the good men have gone; men dropping out of education and not getting them high-and-mighty jobs means there are less men that are suitable marriage-material. This is also shown as a problem affecting women. Men suffer – here’s how this impacts women. To which I might actually agree, in a way. Not in the way feminism presents it; not in the way our gynocentric societies may present it, but in the way I think: when one suffers, when one struggles, the whole will eventually suffer. Our societies will not exactly thrive with scores of distraught, disenfranchised and purposeless men floating around like driftwood eternally crashing against the shores of contempt and judgement.
Women, on the other hand, must not do anything but smash the patriarchy. Which is not all men, even when it is men that is routinely mocked, ridiculed, scorned and I would even dare say abused by this ridiculous thought-virus that have grown into a vast global movement, hell-bent on something, whatever that something may be. It is petty squabbles and even pettier grievances amplified to the nth degree. Whatever it is, it must be made to be an issue predominantly affecting women. The whole world in chaos from the brewsky bug? Here’s how women are most affected. Let me count the ways. One, two, double-fart and shart.
One could almost believe it to be a tactic of diversion; to flood the stream of information with all these horrible issues affecting women that must be fixed and mended, in order to drown out the voices of men.
And so, the silent majority, who don’t delve into this and who don’t really care much about it either way, swallow the news and swallow the stories and go on their merry way; of course I support feminism – I support equality, I support women – hell; my wife can do whatever she wants, I have always supported her choices, so I must be a feminist… and on and on.
And the coffee-shop feminists flood the vile corners of the internet where men congregate to hate on women; plotting the downfall of women in order to rape, ravage, ruin and so-and-such, with the same old sentiments that we are all so accustomed to and most likely bored to death by: that is not real feminism, feminism is about equality.
And none of these supposedly real feminists have any idea or any inkling about what rules, laws and regulations the mighty, influential, powerful feminists have put in place that directly damages boys and men; that ignores them and revels in their plight.
When I talk about my experiences in schools and in education, I am telling the truth. I am telling my lived experience.
What happens under the radiant stare of feminist ideologues masquerading as teachers, set loose upon the unsuspecting troops of children there to learn is not a just, decent, equal or good thing.
In school, I was routinely told of the immaturity of boys by teachers – one in particular; the violent nature of boys and men and the oppression of girls and women which we so terribly maintained through being boys and becoming men.
Our sexuality was base, primal, raw, impulsive and violent. And so too was our rough-housing, our way of playing.
As opposed to the clean, gorgeous, saintly and beautiful morality and sexuality of girls and women; as opposed to the ordered and calm playtime of the girls.
Time and again, this was told and presented. Anytime there was an opportunity to highlight girls and bring down boys, it was well spent and well worn.
And come teenage years and puberty, plenty girls in class and in school became ardent followers of feminism, fighting tooth and nail against the patriarchy and the oppressive nature of men… and boys. What else could they possibly become? They had been taught that they were oppressed. Despite being allowed to protest and speak and all that other stuff; cheered on by teachers and such.
Very strange and peculiar, that. But no matter: the patriarchy works in mysterious ways.
One of their “causes” I remember, was complaining that a male doctor earned more than a female nurse. This is ridiculous, but, again: no matter. It is feminism, after all.
I also remember one of them chewing me out on my birthday because my birthday just happens to fall on the international day of the master-sex. Grand and glorious, no doubt. My celebration of my birthday distracted from the horrible plight of women. And so goes the worm, burrowing into the minds of those susceptible to indoctrination. Because that is exactly what it is.
Of course; I can not blame teenagers for acting like immature teenagers. Goodness gracious me. However: when still acting like a teenager when one is in ones thirties, one might take a look at growing up and reaching some level of emotional and intellectual maturity.
The letter of the Norwegian law states about equality that it’s main focus is to help women and other minorities. For this is equality. And, of course, proof proper that women are oppressed and discriminated against ever so much.
Why else would the law state this?
The law quite clearly proves that boys and men are – by law – discriminated against, but that don’t matter much in the double-speak days of this dreary dusty daze.
Boys and men need not apply. To anything.
And we do so with gusto, given how many boys and men drop out completely. We surely do not apply. We do not partake.
We become bruised and beat and battered, forgotten and neglected and forlorn… completely lost and cast adrift. What Warren Farrel has dubbed “the boy crisis”.
What we suffer, struggle through and experience is of little matter and no relevance. Me too was only about women. This the few men who dared take part and tell their stories were told. Men must make their own social media malarkey. For the stories of men is only anecdotal, despite lived experience in itself being purely anecdotal; despite the whole of the me too nonsense being highly anecdotal. The stories of men are only told to distract from women, foul diversions cast by even fouler men.
But that’s the way of it – women’s anecdotal experience is to be believed and seen as part of a whole, where men’s anecdotal experience is to be seen on a case-by-case basis, then dismissed, then ridiculed, then thrown away like lies and bullshit…
And this ought to be changed.
And this must be changed.
And that is, as stated, a matter of perspective.
A matter of the male perspective; not a female perspective, not a feminist perspective, but the male perspective. The male experience. That is what I wish for; what I fight for – if you will allow me some rather dramatic language. I would rather not have to fight this fight, but that’s how it goes.
The “right” to be heard without being dismissed from up high as this or as that or the other; without being treated like David Copperfield asking “Please, sir, could I have some more?”
The right to object to feminism without being labelled this and that, accused of hate-speech and so summarily cancelled, cast out of the this and the that. Hell; I’d be happy to just be able to enjoy a beer outside without being accused of oppressing my wife… as actually has happened. Or, you know – be able to study without being accused of the same. As also have happened. Apparently, since this is something that repeats and repeats and repeats, this is impossible to do, if male.
Granted, to claim the “right” to be heard without being dismissed or ridiculed is a ridiculous right to claim. What I mean by this, you see, is the right to be heard by the fucking government, whose salaries are very much paid by our taxes.
See: I have contacted the Norwegian department of equality – there to fix all in matters of muh discrimination – several times regarding fairly obvious discrimination of boys and of men, and have been dismissed each and every time. The last time, they told me to not contact them again. Which is interesting.
And a wee bit terrifying.
The department of equality is not a department of equality. It is a department for women, mainly ran by women. They don’t follow their own rules about gender representation in the workplace. There’s too many women there according to the gender-qouta nonsense, in actuality. They don’t follow their own rules.
But, no matter, I will be contacting them once more soon enough about yet another case of obvious gendered discrimination. And I expect to be dismissed again.
It would be very nice to see some actual attempts at working on male-specific issues from the powers-that-be. From a perspective that is not feminist. For the feminist perspective states only that men must change.
Women struggle, society must change.
Men struggle, men must change.
That pipe-dream of mine will never happen as long as the feminist influence is such as it is. Feminism plays a zero-sum game.
I, for my part, only wish for the voices of men to be heard amongst all the clamour. For not all is milk and honey in the land of men, and the causes and the reasons and the solutions… all of this is more complex and more convoluted than can be explained by any system, no matter how complex and how marinated and steeped in ideas, be that the so-called red pill philosophy or feminism, be that traditionalism or progressivism, conservatism or liberalism… Any set of ideas that attempt to easily define complex systems have its own peculiar flaws.
At the end of the day, it is not group identity that defines us; it is not random chances of birth; haphazard chromosome-dances or genetic fluctuations. What defines us is our humanity, our personality, our psychology, our unique individuality.
What makes us us is our stories and our experiences.
And those stories and those experiences I wish to be told and shared and spread around. For we are all a product of what has happened; a product of our stories and our experiences and our lives.
The common man’s experience. Those matter.
Not dusty, dry and dreary academes with high-and-mighty hoity-toity ideas, with heads so far up the clouds that their feet forgot how to touch the ground… or with heads so far up their arse they believe their farts to be gusts of inspiration… not putrid politicians whose fingernails have never had dirt beneath them; whose main preoccupation is the harvesting of votes and the continuation of their careers… who will do and say anything to gain the majority vote… which just so happens to be the female vote.
Not billionaires or celebrities who lost touch with the real world decades ago… who believe everyone to be part of the same bubble as they, saying in all but these exact words: “let them eat cake”.
Common everyday men whose lives are as common lives are; trying to get by, trying to feed himself, trying to care for those closest to him. Those whom he loves. Whom he is told that he oppress and abuse and neglect, no matter what he does. For the goalposts are always and ever moving, and it can never be good enough as long as they are allowed to be kept moving.
We have paid tribute and deference to feminism for so long that feminism has become nigh-invincible, has become untouchable, unquenchable, almost illegal to criticize.
If so-called “misogyny” becomes illegal, as they try to achieve in Great Britain, you can bet your balls and shaft and all that feminism will become illegal to criticize… after all, none but feminism gets to decide what constitutes misogyny.
Or equality.
Or women’s issues.
Or men’s issues.
Or masculinity.
Or femininity.
Or whatever else that matters, for that matter.
This is an amount of power no movement should ever achieve, no -ism should ever wield. Particularly not one who proposes to be an oppressed and marginalized voice, oppressed and marginalized by the remaining half of the global population, no less.
I have stated before, and I will state it again: I do not believe men to be oppressed. That is not the word I would use. I would not use this word for women either. Neither here, nor there.
The eternal dance done between men and women is not one of oppression and abuse, I wholeheartedly believe, but one of cooperation and trust; of each doing for the other in order to survive.
A pact and an agreement… unwritten rules made out of necessity in order that we should survive as a species.
An agreement where, now – due to feminist influence – the female part is absolved but the male part remains; to be a provider and a protector. Liberation from gender-norms is just for women. Though it is claimed to be for men as well, the #heforshe nonsense disproved that. For what is #heforshe but no more and no less than what men have always done? To provide and to protect. With an emphasis on protect.
No.
Men are not oppressed to my eyes.
Not by women, not by feminism and not by society.
No more or no less than any other group. We are, however neglected; our stories ignored and our troubles dismissed. We are disposable, expendable and all-too-much dependable. We are forgotten and we are cast adrift. For all that matters is to help women and to listen to women. And that must change. Otherwise, the whole fucking thing will explode.
And I don’t much wish for that.
And that was that, guys. I will be taking a fairly long break from writing and rambling now, in order to care for my daughter and in order to bask in the rays of fatherhood, sleep-deprivation and exhaustion included. I don’t know when I will be back to rambling as per usual, though I may update on occasion as time and duty allows. Of course, I will pop in to shill my highly professional self-published books. Though this goes without saying. What kind of writer would I be, if I did not attempt – at every single moment – to sell my hate-speech wares to those unfortunate enough to fall into my web of tricksy words?
Until then: take it easy. I’ll catch you next time.
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Moiret Allegiere, 16.01.2021
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There was a case over here in the frozen wastes of Norway some years back, in which a man was tricked into fatherhood. Now, I am certain that there are plenty such cases that we never get to hear about. Without a doubt. But this one stuck out due to the man in question making it a case, running to the media and whoever else was willing to listen.
The guy hooked up with a woman for what he thought was a one-night stand. The woman told him that he didn’t need to wear a condom, since she was on birth-control. All fine and dandy, one supposes, until he suddenly got the news that he was out to be a father, with all the expectations of child-support and such.
Turns out she lied about being on birth-control, dishonest, lying bitch that she was. Rape by deception, anyone?
This was done on purpose.
Reason given? She wanted a baby.
That’s all the reason needed, apparently.
As expected, people in general were not sympathetic to his plight. For men, consenting to sex is consenting to parenthood. Doesn’t matter that she lied about birth-control. Doesn’t matter that her intentions were dishonest. Doesn’t matter what he wanted, wished for or whatever – she was pregnant, she had a child, and he was responsible. Even when he took her on her dishonest, lying word. Her choice, his responsibility. Such as it is, was, always shall be.
People were not kind to him. Neither understanding nor empathetic. For men, as we all know, empathy is a rare commodity. This is not something new to those of us who have choked on the proverbial red pill.
He had to understand, the commenters said, that sex could lead to pregnancy. If you play the game, you have to understand the rules. That she lied was of no concern: he should have known better than to trust her. He should have worn a condom. He should have taken responsibility to protect himself (and probably her as well), despite her claiming to take responsibility by using birth-control.
She, to the eyes of the public, is exempt from her responsibility, even when she lied in order to get pregnant by him. Seems any man would have done. He just happened to be available. It is so astonishingly remarkable to hear feminism – and society in general – claim that men are the irresponsible, childish and immature ones when women are not even expected to take responsibility for their wilful trickery and deceit, whereas men are made to take responsibility for being tricked and deceived. Women are wonderful, ya know.
Now, to be honest, I have to agree – without a doubt – that it was at best naive of him, at worst stupid of him, to blindly believe the word of a woman whom he did not properly know. However: this does not negate the fact that she purposefully, willingly, knowingly lied to him, thus misleading him so that she could have her baby. A woman, you understand, has the god-given right to have a baby. (Norway recently allowed for single women to be impregnated using donor sperm, thus creating even more single mothers) She also has the god-given right to not have a baby, depending on this and that and whatever. No need for her, then, to understand that fucking can lead to a child. That is only for the man to understand and take responsibility accordingly. A man has no rights, only responsibilities. Not only for his own choices, but for the choices of a woman. Even when deceived; even if the baby was a product of a lie, now caught in the clutches of a dishonest mother and a father who never wanted a child in the first place. I can’t help but wonder about this woman and her psychological make-up, when she is clearly capable of lying about something with such long-lasting consequences, showing no remorse even when the consequences do not only affect her. It undoubtedly affects both the father and the child.
His wants, needs, wishes and such don’t matter. Men effectively have no reproductive rights. This lack of reproductive rights are so remarkable that a boy who is below the age of consent and who is, as such, a victim of statutory rape will be forced to pay child-support to his rapist. At least that is the case in the USA.
I see no reason to believe this to be much different in other parts of the world. The bill has to be paid by someone. Why should the government pay the bill? Why should the mother pay the bill, even when the child was a product of her raping him? That would make her responsible for her actions, and we can’t have that. The boy must be held responsible, god-damnit. Even when he could not – by law – consent to sex. One would assume that an inability to consent to sex would also render one incapable to consent to fatherhood, but the clown world don’t work like that. That would not be fair in clown world. Honk Honk, say the judges and the law and the politicians. Honk Honk, say society and the garbled masses, Honk fucking Honk, say the media and the enablers of this strange and peculiar female lack of agency.
As the news spread about this poor unwilling father in Norway, the case of this man spread, and the commenters were still vicious in their removal of responsibility from the woman. A few commenters felt sorry for him, but still conceded that he had to be aware of the risks associated with a good old fashioned willy-wetting.
He, being a man, should be the responsible party and own up to his mistake. Take it like a man. That was the general consensus, the words whispered on the wind, as it were. Even when it, quite blatantly, was her dishonest deceit that made the situation such as it became.
His pleading fell on deaf ears. The law was unyielding, and so too were the murmurs on the street: if a man has sex with a woman, he has to be aware that this can lead to a pregnancy. And if she is pregnant, she holds all the cards and all the rights. He holds only the responsibility of fatherhood. Sounds awfully familiar, does it not? As though it is a song we have heard, a tune we have danced to for decades upon decades: women have rights, men have responsibilities. Women need not pay for their freedom, men must pay for the illusion of freedom. Even when women purposefully and evidently lie, they have rights. Misleading someone; tricking someone into parenthood is not a problem. If the dishonest party is a woman. Women can lie, even when the lie has long-lasting and dire consequences, with impunity. Men can be tricked, can be made subject to fraud, and still be held responsible for her actions.
At the same fucking time as this case was running the gauntlet of mass-media madness, articles started popping up here and there and everywhere regarding “stealthing”.
“Stealthing” refers to a man removing a condom during intercourse without informing his partner. This, the murmurs stated, ought to be considered as rape. Now, I would absolutely agree that it is immoral and dishonest, but rape? That is pushing the boundaries a bit. Sexual assault, perhaps, but not rape. We all know that the feminist hive-mind have been pushing more and more things under the umbrella of “rape”. This is no exception. In fact; it should be punishable by law, said the hordes and the wailing banshees in perfect harmony.
Imagine someone being so mean as to purposefully, willingly, with malice aforethought lie about using protection. Whoever heard about something so wicked and so mean-spirited? Whoever knew that such terrible men existed out there?
Men had to take a deep look at themselves and how they treat women, because this behaviour was unheard of. Absolutely horrible. All men everywhere was complicit in this for the sole reason of wielding a penis. Didn’t matter whether any individual man had done this, he was still responsible by virtue of cock.
No-one, it seems, picked up on the obvious cognitive dissonance on display. The very same pundits, the very same news-outlets, the very same society that had condoned, made excuses for and protected the lying, thieving bitch of a woman; the very same public, the very same society that had doomed the poor man whose predicament introduced this ramble to take responsibility for her choices now stated that the very same behaviour was rape, and should be punished. If done by a man towards a woman.
Un-fucking-believable. Though hardly surprising.
This was years before I myself started writing about all this gender-stuff, but I remember it with clarity as one of those huge red pill moments in my life… one of those remarkable happenings that gently nudges one in a certain direction. Proof proper that men and women are not treated equally, be that by society or by law. Proof that men are, contrary to what we have been told, at a huge societal and legal disadvantage. We have no reproductive rights. Not only that – men and women are not treated the same, be that in the eyes of the law or in the eyes of the public, even when doing the exact same thing.
The only illusion men have of reproductive rights is abstinence. To keep it in our pants. But then man are shamed and ridiculed for being incels and virgins. Women may be slut-shamed, (mostly by other women). This is true, though more like than not not to the extent feminism claims. Men, on the other hand, are virgin-shamed. “Incel” is so commonly used as a slur and an insult nowadays; thrown towards us damned soggy kneed bastards in the manosphere with careless abandon, that one should be blind to not notice it. For a man not to have sex, there must be something wrong with him. Whether it is by choice or not, there is something wrong with him.
Granted – to the eyes of society overall, there is something wrong with a man if he actively pursues sex as well, or relationships with women, for that matter. Men have only got one thing on their minds, after all. And it’s disgusting, as all and sundry will tell us. Over and over again. In fact – there is something wrong with men, full stop and no matter. Unless he is handsome, rich, or both, one comes to learn.
Tricking a man into becoming a father, by whatever means available to a harrowing harpy, is referred to as “spermjacking” or “spurgling”. It is, in fact, common enough to get its very own fancy new-speak words. The man is held responsible, no matter. If the woman decides to go through the trash to find a used condom, gather up the sperm and use this to impregnate herself, he is held responsible.
Men have no reproductive rights, have neither societal say nor legal sway over what happens to his genetic material. His sperm is a gift given to the woman willingly during intercourse, even if it is in a condom post-sex. Or delivered via a blowjob. If she wants to keep a baby, he’s on the hook. If she wants to terminate the pregnancy, he has no rights what-so-ever. It is her body and it is her choice after all. That is the famous slogan, handcrafted by sloganeering women so egotistical and selfish that they are incapable of understanding that it is not only her body, it is also part of his body – part of his genetic material – as well as being the body of the as-of-yet unborn child. Claiming that it is “her body, her choice” is dishonest on the face of it. But it is a sly and wonderful rhetorical trick, playing upon our willingness to protect women above all else. Even at the cost of children. Women are wonderful, and they must be protected. Most of all, they must be protected from agency and responsibility.
Now, for more-or-less full disclosure: this comes from someone who is not completely opposed to abortion. Not as such. I believe it should be restricted and not embarked upon easily, nor should it be taken lightly. My main reason for not opposing abortion full stop is a simple one: abortions will always happen, whether in the relative safety of a hospital or not. If we were to remove access to abortion, I fear we would see a rise in “backyard abortions”; things done with knitting needles and other unsavoury things, quite possibly by equally unsavoury characters. The health-risks, and as such the societal risks, involved with something such as this is too high for me to consider it a worthy risk.
Abortions should not, however, be treated as a form of birth-control on its own. The way I see feminism going on about it in the USA, that is apparently where we are headed. With “we”, I of course mean western society as a whole. Abortions as a secondary birth-control, not as a heavy-hearted choice done due to no other options being available reveals, to me, a frightening, twisting and turning path, spiralling ever downwards. As it stands, women have quite a few options available other than abortion. Adoption. Safe haven abandonments. Morning after pill. Things of that nature, none of which require the killing of an unborn child, though some of these of course require the pregnancy be carried to term. None of which options require the consent of the father. Women do not consent to parenthood when they consent to sex. Only men do that. Not to mention the plethora of birth control options available to women. All these options are both liberating and oppressive simultaneously, depending on the point needed to be made by feminism at the moment. Men, on the other hand, have condoms or abstinence. This is, as stated, painted as a trespass upon women when and if necessary, as the horrors of having a wide array of options and possibilities available to them is discriminatory towards them. Why? For putting the responsibility on their shoulders. Even when feminism pushes for state-sponsored birth control pills for women. It is astonishing. Everything is discriminatory towards women, even things that are – by their admission – not. Almost makes one believe the whole damned movement of feminism to be a highly opportunistic one, wherein the only thing that matters is whether or not it can be painted as some disadvantage to women at that particular moment. Consistency matters not. Only the immediate argument matters.
When I see people celebrating their abortions as if that is some grand and glorious achievement, I am filled with something remarkably similar to disgust… almost turning me into a misanthrope. But only almost. Terminating life should not be cause for celebration. Happily, this is not the norm. Not at the moment, any way.
This idea that opposing abortion is something done solely by (old and white) men attempting to control the bodies of women is disgustingly dishonest. In fact; both men and women oppose abortion in just about equal numbers. Not that this ought to matter much – pitting the sexes against each other (my tribe do this, your tribe do that, boo, boo) is something done solely to perpetuate a nonsensical gender war, funnelling resources, privileges, power, might and rights direct towards feminism under the guise of creating equality between the sexes. As long as men can be painted as the enemy of women, the facts don’t matter. Nor do intellectual consistency.
But I digress.
It seems only fair to me that, if women shall be free to terminate pregnancies as they wish, men should be free to write away any responsibilities for a child if they so wish. So-called paper-abortions.
It should go without saying that I don’t think men should be free to sign away any parental responsibilities if women are not allowed to do the same, by whichever means available to her. It also goes without saying that signing away any parental responsibilities also means signing away any parental rights. If he signs it away, he has absolutely no rights to see his child or take part in anything to do with his child. Also: signing away his rights and responsibilities should only, I think, be allowed within the same time-frame that a woman has to choose whether or not to have an abortion. This, of course, would carry with it a law saying something to the effect that women have to inform the prospective father about a pregnancy within so-and-such a time. If she fails to deliver on this, he has the choice to opt in or not to opt in as he wishes. No matter how far ahead the pregnancy is. Fair is fair, and equal should be equal after all.
This, I fear, will never happen. For the simple reason that it would be treating the sexes equally, and in this age of equality that is the last thing you’ll see happen. I wish I were joking. Equality does not mean treating everybody the same, as the pundits and the pestilent purveyors of political platitudes say.
Personally, I believe people should be more thoughtful about how and who and when they fuck. Given that I have no interest in living in a society in which laws dictate (more than they already do) how and whom we should fuck, I understand that this is not something that can be done through any other means than people considering their sexual partners more carefully. To, in essence, end hook-up culture through a re-evaluation of values at an individual level. I understand, of course, that I sound like a prudish puritanical fuck with this. Which I would like to stress that I am not. In fact, I am about as sexually liberal as they come. What consenting adults do is for no-one but the consenting adults to decide.
However; I happen to believe that the best course of action to be taken in order that a society is to function properly is to honour and celebrate the oh-so-unpopular-in-this-day-and-age nuclear family, given of course that this family also functions properly. (This is with the understanding that relationships sometimes break up completely naturally, and as such are not salvageable… measures ought to be taken, I believe, to try and salvage it for the sake of the children). It is undeniably in the best interest of the child to have both parents actively involved in the raising of said child, preferably as a couple functioning as a highly co-operative unified force.
Self-aware and somewhat self-deprecating trad-con musings aside, I also think it would be prudent for paternity tests to be mandatory at birth, given how prevalent paternity fraud actually is. Frighteningly so. As a matter of fact, it is illegal in France for a man to get a paternity test done. Illegal. That really says a lot, don’t it? That is an incredible amount of power handed to women, and an incredible lack of power handed to men. It is illegal for a man in France to know with absolute certainty whether he really is the biological father or not.
Relatively recently, over here in Norway, one of our moderately popular political parties actually proposed that paper-abortions be made available to men. With much the same rules as I rambled about above. Nothing to be taken too lightly, in other words. As I don’t think it should be. As much as I am aware that unplanned pregnancies do happen, I like to believe that most pregnancies are either planned, or at the very least seen as a source of joy to both parties involved. This proposal met with viciousness and vitriol from the feminist hordes, as expected. Because only women shall be free to chose whether they want to be parents. Men shall not be gifted this freedom.
Men have no reproductive rights.
They can keep it in their pants. Try saying this to women, and the effects are remarkably interesting. Telling a woman to not spread her legs if she does not wish to become pregnant is, once again, (old white men) trying to control a woman’s body and tell her what to do. The hypocrisy is phenomenal, the double-standards tangible… felt as a tactile sensation, like spiders crawling up and down ones spine. The feminists opposed to paper-abortions for men apply the same arguments that pro-lifers – you know, those enemies, those vile haters of women who are opposed to abortion – apply, albeit with the sexes reversed. Astonishing. But more on this in part two, wherein I shall share a rather amusing anecdote regarding my wife, Facebook, a feminist in her fifties and the aforementioned proposal that men be allowed to sign away their parental rights and responsibilities. You know, such as women are allowed to for ridiculous reasons of bodily autonomy, self-ownership and other such nifty rhetorical tricks.
Also astonishing: The father does not matter in the raising of a child, the feminist hordes have been saying for quite some time. Until, that is, it becomes a possibility that he can opt out. Then he suddenly matters. As a source of child-support, if nothing else. It is laughably hypocritical, but there you have it. Equal treatment does not mean equal treatment, as we all should damned well know by now.
And that was that for this part. Please join me later for the next instalment. This turned out bigger than I thought it would. This happens with some regularity.
There’s just too much to talk about, I find. The world has gone insane. And the news are all crazy, the mass-media all shady; dealing in mad opinion editorials all the while, force-feeding us their sick alongisde their bile.
No real-time replenishment here, buddy – it’s all pre-planned, pre-ordained, pre-ordered and pre-delivered. Neutrality is dead. They all have an agenda, though some more covert than others. And you are supposed to filter out the shit from the piss; separate the vomit from the puss and then be left illuminated, uplifted, full of facts, information and understanding.
All the news are bad.
Disentangled from the machinery, we swim lonely and broken towards islands of insufferable isolation… egged on by mad manufacturers of maladjustment and mayhem. Revolution brewing in the streets all across the west, cold, hard, claw-hammer-like, it is beat into our brains: the future that we supposedly want; the future decided for us by they… a strange multiheaded hydra reaching the apex of orgasm through division and through tribalism, through stoking the flames and feeding the fire of civil war throughout… a war of information and of misinformation, of ideologies and of ideas; a subversive war of subversion and submission, of submissive subversion, labelled either fake news or conspiracy theories depending on ones own shivering smile and glassy-eyed stare.
All the news are bad.
And those of us who are what one would cautiously label “information-junkies” seek through the insanity and the madness and the badness; seek through the rage and the anger and the sloganeering with eager hands and eyes and tongues and ears, lapping up bad news and hatred and the smell of war with every twisted slut-walk-titty, every so-called “mostly peaceful protest” goon-patrol that scream their filth into the air on account of lacking in self-discipline, in maturity, in having the ability to keeping themselves occupied with something constructive… in this age of the immediate, we lack in concentration and we lack in focus and we lack in the ability to sit still and appreciate what we’ve got.
All the news are bad.
We lap it up. We learn. And then we spiral, and then we fall through the void to come out the other side, gently gazing at the starry skies above, thinking: “What the hell happened, and how the fuck did it come to this?”
Then we’ll plant our aching arms and bones, our melting minds and bodies firmly in the ground, dig our roots deep into the rot and putrefaction and stand there and gaze and scream and fester unoriginally, decaying in the spiral staircase of the Gods of our day-and-age; the holy triumvirate of Propaganda, Politics and Pestilence that stare at us like we were strangers in a Shakespearian play, not belonging to the stage and then kicked out and hastily forgotten, neglected, tarred, feathered, shamed and abused by dainty little hands and dim-witted dimple-smiles, crucifying us for subversion for speaking true tongue telepathy to the powers-that-be.
All the news are bad.
Failing that, it is cunty celebrity gossip… vapid and pointless.
I saw, at the moment of writing (about a week before the US election), an article about Norwegian celebrities and what they wish shall happen in the US elections. Another one was of a past-her-prime former reality television star who now happened to be unemployed. What’s the bloody point? Who the hell cares about this nonsense? Obviously, someone has to care, considering that it is made and told and then sold to us to give us an illusion of news; an illusion of something happening; an illusion of life behind the turpentine-screens of our burning eyes, of our computer-screens, our aching heads and twisted minds…
Unless, of course, people only care because we are sold this idea that we should care… that we are moulded into this vacuous celebrity culture, sold ideas and told which ideas to care about… things that have no matter, that have no soul, that have no impact upon anything but the very same vapid celebrity-culture where people are celebrated merely for being celebrated… where people are famous merely for being famous.
And so the clock turns and the world burns and the opinion-shapers shape vague and ill-informed opinions that trickle down the pyramid of shit, hitting those at the bottom thinking: “my oh my, I idolise this celeb-tard, mayhap I shall alter my opinions so that my opinions shall match their opinions, obviously enlightened as it is on account of their stardom-status.”
This despite the celeb-tards being guided by their puppeteers to say and speak and mean and do exactly that which will get them hired, will get them cold hard cash from the spread legs and arching backs of those who deem to deify the celeb-tards with all their body, booty, mind and flesh. Oh, how brave, how subversive, how remarkably courageous these people are to spew the popular opinion of this day-and-age, my how much bravery is needed to parrot the popular politics, propaganda and pestilence of the day!
In this hour, waning as the light of the west is, waning as the notion that all should be treated equally under the law is, waning as the idea of individuality is… with classical liberalism (trademarked, bottled and sold pre-assembled for our enjoyment) dying in the streets and cranky cockswaddle collectivism taking its place… in this hour and in this dim light of death and of destruction, as we lay dying, it is easy to lose hope and to lose faith.
Gods be damned, but there is precious little hope to glean, to snatch, to take and to keep. These sure do seem like hopeless times, devoid of purpose and of life and of meaning and of truth and of beauty as they are.
These sure do seem like hopeless times and hapless days, where chaos reign supreme and madness gains the upper vote from crusty motherfuckers feigning proper personalities to unleash upon the world; all charismatic-like and down to earth in 100-room mansions, locked away in ivory towers seeking praise for… bathing? Singing? Sighing? Living? Existing? Being virtuous in hollow pointless platitudes that don’t mean anything?
Dunno.
Don’t care.
It’s still superficial and hollow and empty, such as our cultures and our societies allowed itself to become… a hollow husk, a vapid void of self-indulgence and decay, guided by celebrities who know not here from there, who can not count beyond potato, who do not have their feet planted on the ground, but who seem to think themselves able and deem themselves worthy to speak on our behalf nevertheless.
Disengaging for a while… checking out, going off the grid and reading neither news nor gossip for a while is recommended from time to time. Otherwise, the information becomes too much, the bad news too rough-and-tough, too heavy to carry.
The past few weeks, I have spent reading. Mainly stuff not relevant to what I tend to ramble about. And it has been bliss, though I admit to it putting me out of the loop a bit and for a while. Which was kinda the point of the whole exercise. Obsessive “studying” of certain topics can lead to troubles down the road, if no actions are taken to lead the thoughts onto something more soothing for the nerves. Delving into bad ideas and bad news day after day can be – and is – gruelling and possibly dangerous… he who gazes into the abyss, and all that. (And there came my credentials as a scholar, an intellectual and a gentleman! When in doubt – quote Nietszche. Even if spelling his name is such a bother.)
It is remarkably easy to become disillusioned and dispirited; to feel completely disenfranchised by the whole thing, by the whole split-schism-divide-and-conquer thing going on, so obvious to anyone but those who stopped looking, I suppose. Or who don’t care to look, for that malicious matter.
It is even easier to despair completely when seeing and noticing what is happening all around, with laws and regulations being implemented that, quite brazenly, brashly and blatantly are discriminatory towards men – and that is white men in particular – and yet are tossed aside as not being discriminatory due to them being a result of positive discrimination, which is supposedly not discrimination because the word “positive” is placed in front of it, and so it is alright. Some years back, might have been 2016 or 2017, I read an interview with a woman working with something to do with employment. Deciding who to employ and stuff like that. Featured in the interview was a picture of her, all cross-armed and trademarked strong, independent whamen. You know the stance, the picture, the posture. That is the picture they all get; the stance and posture they all use. Such strength, much bravery, wow.
Beneath the photograph was a quote from the interview, obviously highlighted due to its incredible brilliance and bravery; its supreme intellectual thingamajig. The quote, translated from Norwegian, read “Have a plan at the ready so that you don’t only employ white men in their 40’s”. Very interesting, I thought. Imagine so blatantly advocating discrimination based on sex and race and age, and getting away with it. One should believe that ones merits is what should matter, not ones sex nor ones gender. Alas, that is not the case.
I sent this to the Norwegian department of equality, pointing towards the obvious discriminatory nature of her employment practice. Not that I like the department of equality, of course. I find it Orwellian, dubious, authoritarian and unnecessary, steeped in all the new-speak and double-think any such department could possibly have. It has to do with making the troglodytes follow their own rules. They figured that nothing discriminatory was spoken and that nothing of a discriminatory nature was done. Very interesting, no? Rules and laws are for other people. That is to say: undesirables.
It appears that people forgot that, for all those who are supposedly affected positively by this discrimination (and that is a big “supposedly”), there are entire groups that are quite clearly affected negatively. But those groups don’t matter on account of some cornholed, shoe-horned, buttholed idea of exquisite privilege dribbling from the drooling mouths of Marxist propagandists disguised as academics, presenting class warfare and urging tribal warfare in a new – one could almost say postmodern – light that makes little sense to anyone with a brain running on reason and not on self-righteous fumes of indignation and hogwash. Often, these are people so sheltered from opposing ideas that the mere notion that people can disagree is alien and frightening to them. And so mere anarchy is loosed upon the world. Brimstone and fire, cats and dogs living together, and so forth and so on.
The idea that certain groups of people are – by virtue of nothing but random chance, by virtue of the superficial characteristics of their birth – inherently privileged, and as such a group acceptable and open for attack, is not a new idea. It is as old as time itself. Nothing ever changes, merely the time and the place and the people. We’ve got to place our collective maladjustment, our collective rage and our collective anger somewhere. Seems to be about as human, as unavoidable, as religion and morning erections.
And so, too, are fear-mongering news and bad news. It generates interest and it generates income and it generates the scorn and the rage and the anger needed to perpetuate the fear-mongering, leaving us docile and apathetic to other stuff that might be more important than the petty stuff like man-spreading and man-splaining and what have you… the low hanging fruit which one gets ridiculed for pointing out and mocking… “that’s just a few people with no reach”, or whatever is claimed… and so, we forget or we ignore the greater problems which is the implementations of laws… governmentally accepted discrimination. Institutionalized discrimination, in fact, so blatant and so obvious that one should be hard pressed to understand why in the ever-lasting fuck it is accepted. But, no matter – all the news are bad, and so too are all the (white) men of the world, and from these horrible monsters we must be protected.
Do you not feel fear? Do you not feel terror? Do you not wish to be protected from the privileged group who would crush you under the boot were it not for brave warriors who dare to punch and kick up, who dares to fight the establishment despite quite clearly being the establishment? Nevermind that these brave warriors are at the top. That’s not important right now. Optics and presentation is everything, facts and reality are not.
All the news are bad.
And sometimes, one must step away and step back. Take a break from the whole shebang and leave well enough alone for a little while. To focus on other stuff for some time. Sometimes, one must simply go off the grid. Experience something other than the bad news. It is way too easy, getting locked into an eternal negative feedback loop. And that is not healthy. Consuming something other than the bad news becomes a necessity for a good life. The ability to detach and so become a neutral observer also becomes a necessity. I’m not good at this, in truth and in honesty. I tend to get very involved – the aforementioned “obsessive studying” are more than just words. Were it not for caffeine and dogs, I would have gone completely insane some time ago.
It is very easy to lose faith and to lose hope and to consider just shutting down and quitting whatever it is that one does.
It seems to me that whatever it is that I do with these ramblings of mine… my attempts at raising awareness of what I consider to be not only important and neglected issues, but also terrifying (in the long run) issues; my attempts at spreading some awareness about the troubles facing men in this dystopian present we inhabit are impotent and fruitless. Because so few are willing to listen, and even less are willing to care. Most choose to ridicule, to mock and to point and stare in feigned disbelief at someone so out of touch with reality that they dare care about the plight of men when there are so many issues of more importance… like the plight of women.
This despite there being so many remedies to the plight of women implemented by government, embraced by institutions and forced by rule of law… particularly when compared to the plight of men, which are just about as ridiculed by government as it is by the rest of the world. State-sanctioned ridicule and neglect of one particular group; governmentally allowed and socially accepted discrimination of one group. This should be considered a very frightening and a very negative thing. Yet it is not.
Quite the contrary. It is celebrated and accepted far and wide, to such an extent that people such as myself who dare speak against it are painted in the most vile and negative light imaginable. Libellous statements, smear-tactics and shaming, lies and deceit, scorn and ridicule, are quite alright tactics to use when facing down such terrible people as us in this loosely knit men’s human rights movement. Who knew that human rights should only extend to certain kinds of human beings, as opposed to being extended to all human beings? Who knew that hatred of one group should become so common-place as to not even be considered hatred? Who knew that this should be accepted? Anyone with more than a passing knowledge of history, one supposes, as this is nothing new. The groups change and the times change, but it is a constant. We need an enemy, we need an out-group. Apparently. All to feel good about ourselves and our own flaws and faults and failures. We must have someone to blame, why not?
Misandry is so commonplace now that it is all but accepted by the culture at large. This ought to stand as proof proper for gynocentrism and the disposable male. Yet it does not. For it is so damned commonplace as to be invisible.
It is easy to lose faith in ones work and ones convictions when it is proven, time and again, that so few are listening. Easy to feel as though one should merely pack up and leave, to let the rabble sort itself out and, in the end, let the whole thing run its course and burn itself – as well as everything around it – down to the ground in the process. To start anew when all this madness, all this nonsense, all this bullshit is done and gone.
But then, who would be left to stand in the storm? Who would be left to deliver a counterpoint to the accepted “facts” of today? It may feel hopeless and pointless, but I don’t think or believe that it is. And that is the important part.
If succumbing to despair and defeat, no-one would be facing down the storm; no-one would deliver a counterpoint. And that would be even more devastating, even more frightening and destructive than consuming, filtering and trying to understand and observe the constant barrage of bad news on a regular basis. That would be even more devastating, even more frightening and destructive than not objecting to the status quo; than not – in a simple word – rebelling.
And so, this rag-tag movement of ours has got to soldier on as best we can. To focus on the small victories and the small goals. Which, in my humble opinion and experience, is merely raising some awareness amongst the general population. To point out the this and the that and all that stuff, even when the jackboot-stilettos come stomping.
Gather up your penitents you high and mighty fuck, and give disease where we had none and call this land, this street, this lowly blue-hand bog-boy servant-class your own.
Call us wretched sinners out to dance and to rejoice in the new light, in this new dawn, where ghastly songs come pouring out of meat street whore-mouth gaslighting machines known previously as “journalists”;
now some strange blasphemous creation, some strange and strained new abhorration that sought to sink and stink into our throats, infecting them with puss and then with rot and cancerous only-fans baiting jail-bait longing blue-balled blues.
Prey, young miss, then pray, and then pretend and play, in limp-noodled noodle-armed complex office-complex duplexes that what you dub “objectivity” is naught but biased curtains drawn across your eyes, dimly lit though they are from lack of soul-searching within:
that which you present as truth is gobble-garble bloggery presented as a starry-eyed new-speak-fact, all bleary-eyed with vampire lips that kiss the neck and suck the blood and floppy cocks of those who fell before you there in front; vicious beasts whom you doomed to death when you wished death upon them in your gorgeous “neutral and objective presentation of the news” where mesmerizing truth played sticky second sickly fiddle to the song you longed to sing;
where mesmerizing truth turned upside down and inside out to the outrage that you sensed and felt as your emotional instability turned to news-reports within your keyboard-cubicle, within your cube and square, within your safe-space bubble.
And we, who sit and channel anger righteously at your front-door, were made to pay pittance upon your pity-altar, grieving as the grievous studies were where you transcended methodical journo studies, metamorphosing, then melting to become diaries hastily written and lazily smitten by the tongues that lashed at someone else’s back, lost at home and in your bed where you spread your legs for lies and offered up journalistic integrity for sand, for dust, for salt.
Should you wish to be made subject to the unspeakable horror that is my lewd and indecent naked form, I will inform you that I have created an account over at Onlyfans, for your depraved and voyeuristic viewing pleasure. Why anyone, excepting perhaps my wife, should be masochistic enough to endure such a vision as my frail and decaying body is beyond me, but there you have it. It takes all sorts to run a society, I suppose.
Hey – it’s not all fine and dandy, being a humble hate-speech merchant. You have to understand this. Business has been slow lately. Seems people are not all that interested in the purchasing and subsequent enjoyment of hate-speech in this era of the commie-plague and its strict authoritarian measures. Who knew? And I’ve got to make ends meet somehow. My caffeine and my painkillers won’t pay for themselves. And so selling indecent photographs and short-style videos of my hairy, mangled and dishevelled form seemed to be a good idea at the time.
What do you mean, “No thanks”?
Do you mean to tell me that this avenue is somewhat closed to me, on account of my frail and fragile maleness? Is this some strange strand of income that is almost exclusive to women? Are female pornstars and female models paid more than males in the same professions? Is there, in fact, a remarkable pay-gap favouring women in these professions? Gasp! I am aghast! Almost makes one believe that supply and demand dictates the price and the pay and so-and-such. Huh. Who’d have thunk it? Must be gendered discrimination; must be reverse sexism. Even when such a thing don’t exist. It is merely sexism. It’s got to be. Supply and demand don’t matter much. In fact: it don’t exist as anything but some strange oligarchical and patriarchal capitalist tool of oppression.
Well then and anyhow, I guess I’m gonna have to close down shop and come up with some better, some more ingenious money-making scheme than removing my clothes for your viewing pleasure.
Do people still join cults?
Asking for a friend. You understand.
And let it also be said now, lest it should come back to haunt me some time in the future: should you, by any chance, suffer some strange, long-lingering and rare strain of PTSD after being forced by my puerile pre-ramble to picture my naked body spread out and put on full display in all it’s magnificent glory and grotesque power within your pineal gland, kindly write a letter care of “fuck all”, and fling it into the sun.
Then await further instructions on how and where and when to receive reparations. After all, one can not knowingly and with malice aforethought force these kinds of mental images on people.
Hail, all horrors, hail.
Should it not be evident already, this’ll be a rather lazy one. And that is quite alright some times. My lower back is aching up a storm, and as a result I have not slept properly for quite some time. At the moment of writing, I have spent three days on the couch, feeling sorry for myself. That’s what the supremely manly task of wood-working will get you. Add to this that god-damned daylight savings thing mucking up my sleep-schedule, and you’ve got yourself a recipe for unmitigated disaster and a good serving of Whole Foods certified grump, perfectly fried, critter-free and non-GMO. All for whiny and petulant perfection. I much prefer some cheese with my whine. Alas: I am all out of cheese and of fucks to give. So it’ll just have to be whining for the moment. Please enjoy it with cheese, if you have some.
See, I was reading the news the other day, as one does. I am not entirely sure why I still do, depressing as it is, but it is what it is.
It appears that the Norwegian mass-media have finally discovered Onlyfans. And so, too, did our THOTS, of which it appears that we have a not insignificant amount.
Shock and horror and concern followed, as it usually does whenever women do anything not condoned by the forces of feminism. Or condoned by the forces of feminism, all depending on the whims of the great quivering pussy in the sky.
No matter.
As a result of having discovered this lewd and indecent site wherein young women are forced to remove their clothes for a rather remarkable profit, after first willingly and knowingly opening an account and registering and proving their age and other such things which they are forced to do by the horrible hands of the patriarchy and the globalized male gaze of oppressive tyrant males everywhere, our mass-media manufacturers of mass-hysteria and madness saw fit to interview a couple of these models from Onlyfans.
All women, as one would expect.
One of these women claimed she had made quite a lot of money on the site. All whilst being victimized by the “creeps” who paid her money for the pictures which she willingly put up there in order to attract business and make a shitload of money, apparently by victimizing herself.
One of those interviewed – and this is most remarkable – saw fit to object to the over-sexualization of women within society… this was apparently an abhorrent problem, despite her evidently contributing to it herself. You know, by selling sexualized pictures of herself and such. This is either an interesting case of double-speak, or something to serve as proof once again that people completely lack self-awareness in this age of the great and mighty wobble.
No matter – this over-sexualization of women, it appeared, is only wrong when other women do it. Almost makes me think that these other women – the other poor and over-sexualised victims of their own lewd and indecent photographs – are her competition, and so it is only proper that they don’t suffer the sexualization forced on them by the horrible male gaze of this most pestilent patriarchy, poor girls.
Now: she didn’t say this, but it is not too far a stretch of the imagination to conclude with this. Her act of lewd and indecent nudes were a feminist act. An act of female empowerment and self empowerment and all those fine and fancy things, and so it was and it is quite alright. This goes without saying.
The others, who just so happened – by pure random chance – to be her competition… well, now, that is an act of oppression.
Quite telling, I think.
If it is proposed to be a feminist act, then it is noble and empowering, carrying neither blemish nor fault; neither double-standards nor grade-a bullshit. The others may be oppressed. This one was empowered. Even when being victimized by the creeps.
Now, this is not to cast any shade upon, nor complain about, how these women chose to earn their money. (I am curious, though, as to whether or -not they pay income-taxes on it.) To be perfectly honest: I don’t care what they show or don’t show. I don’t care if they want to pose nude for money. I have no objections. They are free to do whatever the hell they want to do, as they bloody well should be. And I am free to not give a fuck about their lewds and nudes – free to not get all up in a flurry of bonerific money-spending. Why should I?
What bothers me is the attitude presented by some towards the supporters and the fans of the models on Onlyfans. You know: those who pay their damned bloated earnings. Presenting them as creeps and what-not, showing neither gratitude, respect or compassion towards them, even when they pay quite a lot of money for a short one-on-one chat, or their pictures or videos or whatever… something that could easily be conceived as a fake relationship… aimed often enough at very lonely men.
Here, with the women willingly and knowingly selling nudes and long distance communications, the woman is still presented as a victim of creepy guys.
It is astonishing, the lengths people will go to in order to remove any responsibility and personal agency from women. Even their own damned actions are not their responsibility; their own damned choices something they are forced into. Poor things, they make loads of money, poor things. I mean – there must be some way this victimizes them, there must be some way this is the fault of men. Or, at the very least, there must be some way one can use this to complain about men. Even if these men would not have been there in that situation with those women without them opening and, one assumes, promoting an Onlyfans account wherein they sell nudes, lewds and fake relationship-banter to men. All for cash. Prostitutes of the information age, one could easily call it; hi-tech escorts. These are not terms used to pass any kind of moral judgement. It is merely a realistic view of the thing; terms spent and used and meant in complete god-damned honest neutrality. It is prostitution.
It sure as hammered hell does take a certain kind of person to do something of their own free will, make tons of money on it, and still try to make themselves a victim of it. Victimhood is good god-damned currency. Better, even, than cold, hard cash from the cold, hard wallets of cold, hard men, unfeeling and uncaring perverted creepy brutes as we all are. Women, it appears, have no free will at all. All their actions are a product of the puppet-strings of society. By which one means “the patriarchy”. Obviously. And society and the patriarchy hates them, just hates them so much!
Society will only stop this terrible and horrible sexualization of women when women stop sexualizing themselves. It is as simple as that. And I doubt women will ever stop doing something that lucrative. (At least not as long as they can still feign victimhood for their own actions…)
Nor do I think they should be forced to quit, by this side or that side. Because I hold this strange belief that any adult human being should be free to do as they please with their lives and with their bodies, see – remarkable as this may damned well sound. Coupled with this belief is, of course, that one has to be aware of the consequences of ones actions and so take god-damned responsibility for it. Making a career willingly, on sex, on sex-appeal, on ones body, only to then turn around and make oneself out to be a victim of this, (this often happens when beauty and, as a result of this, ones income, fades with age, I have noticed – strange that…), is akin to me amputating one of my legs on purpose, only to then complain that I now have to walk with a limp for the rest of my life.
Well, it would be, were there any possibility to make money by amputating my leg. Which there probably is.
Say – you wouldn’t be interested in a moderately muscular leg, by any chance?
Tired and drained and all uncertainties seem to me to be so very, very certain. Time flies by: hollow-point bullets exploding on impact, passing tired gloom-walk pedestrians trudging begrudgingly towards the point of no return – the crunch, the press, the cars whizzing and hissing by as if any destination could possibly mean anything today… brains splattered on grim industrial walls… witnesses to the horrid splatter-gore cast their eyes down, merely watching their feet stepping forwards into the caterwauling cacophony of chaos spread before them in the grim industrial sunrise… chaos erupting beneath our feet and in our broadly folded papers like sheets of toilet-paper, all digital and disenfranchised, hopelessly forlorn and war-torn, hoping for death and wishing for collapse, yet praying for neither.
Sacrosanct and salivating, society paints its grim deaths-head grin a bold and vibrant colour. Shamelessly sheltered, high society see only what they want to see and hear only what they want to hear: the only ones who exist, who act, who live and breathe behind the skull and crossbones of our world are those of a certain class and of a certain tribe that called for the curtains to fall, that called for destruction or for self-destruction of that most terrible adversary known, simply, as “men”.
News-media in digital print. Damned shame. Can’t even be used as toilet-paper these days. Lost what little value it had left when going digital. Bog-rolls incapacitating the global economy due to global crisis, and we sit and stare at screens that tell us of our inferiority and our privilege, our toxicity and our fragility and our wicked cruelty, carried out by übermensch gaslighting babble-mouths; an indescribable stench of future failures brought on by past perversions of silver-studded tongue-wiggling lesbian separatists with goddess-illusions and penis-envy, pointing nukes towards our cocks, our balls, our testosterone and masculinity, demanding payment for treason and for war-mongering… the same brain-wiped victims of schizophrenia and paranoia that celebrated the SCUM-manifesto; saw bright futures in the eradication of men; the genocidal brilliance of the gender-studies foundress, grand unified field of forceful magic mumbo-jumbo: elucidated eugenics so common-place and popular amongst the feministas, shape unknown. What wave? Don’t matter – they all reek of vomit and of rot, of self-indulging ecstasy, revelling in shared hatred and mutually assured destruction. Men must burn, men must die, “have you killed any men today? If not, why not?”, signed on book-deals, eminent calls for violence. Illegal, supposedly, but, no matter – calls for violence are no problem, when it comes from the protected class wielding pulsating pussies as a get-out-of-jail-free-card. Jokes are understood and humour no problem then. No cancelling here, old boy, merely lubricated celebrations from greasy, unwashed eyelids flickering in the shadows of mortified giants, selling abortions on the corner-clinics, celebrating death.
There’s no hatred here, buddy – you’re being paranoid and you are glowing in the saintly glow of your white male privilege, your fragile masculinity, your fear of losing your power to the wicked women whom you so hate with all your might and all your raging cock. Who cares what the bestsellers selling best-selling hatred by the pound like cheap drug-store novels have to say? No-one listens to them, they ain’t no-one and they don’t even exist. All is well when one dislikes sugar on ones porridge, when one closes ones ears, mouth, teeth, nostril, brain to the world.
Like Human Resources Clinton, hands soaked in corruption and war-frenzy, cackling like a mad henpecking hallucination, complete with blood-stained arms, with legs that kick and lips that scream in quite quiet disgust at such horrible things as men… and gay marriage… and Negroes; you know: they all look the same as she once said – supposedly a joke, yet others have been cancelled and made to stand in the laughing-stock of social media trial, become tarred and feathered and ex-communicated for far less… self-assured and self-aggrandizing important information from the scenesters and the screamsters and the queensters picking fights on the boulevard of broken face-fucked gagging hallelujahs… long-lost deep-throated factual information fall down unspeaking, unseeing, unseemly, picking votes by being opportunist to the extreme, holding neither values nor convictions beyond the permanent pussy-clenching power-grab… values change with the winds and are only counted as important if they can deliver votes and power and might and influence, why not?
Women have always been the primary victims of war.
They lose their husbands, fathers, brothers, sons, poor things, poor things.
Bleeding out in some godforsaken, strange, arsehole, shithole part of the world with cries of “momma” on his lips, just doing what he was ordered to do ain’t no suffering darling boy – check your privilege, you mutilated mess, and apologize for bleeding out. Blood got on her hands and teeth, ya know, and someone’s got to clean that gunk up.
Shit.
You ain’t nothing but government issue, didn’t you know, and no-one cares in the slightest. Put on your big boy pants and suffer, die, bleed out without this damned complicated mess of constipated complaining that you do. Or bleed out at home, dying by every IV needle intelligently placed drip-drop into your aerial arterial, still gasping “momma” in your final wishing-death-breath.
Forget compassion. Cruelty is the norm, ignorance is bliss and disposability the key to unlock the pearly gates and enter into the golden garden of paradise, where you shall be saved in death such as you could not be in life… cognisant cogs and wondrous wheels and celebrated clockwork of sanctimonious fuck-tard society greased and oiled by your blood and sweat and broken, mangled, mingled limbs and body; brave bovine boy, brave packet of governmentally issued meat – at least he died doing something good and decent and noble and true. Shame that he left someone behind, incapacitated by his sacrifice, poor girl, poor thing. Shame that he is met with hatred for his cock and balls which manifested his mad sacrifice in the first place. No bother, no, no, boo hoo – I bathe in male tears. And oh, his poor mother, and oh his poor sister, and oh his poor girlfriend/partner/wife/spouse/significant other… his sacrifice shall not be in vain, but shall be in vanity for all our thoughts and empathy go out to them to celebrate and to comfort so that he shall be remembered through the glassy stare of one more diamond-tear upon her pearly-necklaced neck.
Empty celebrations of heroics matter little and counts for naught. Died for his country in extreme bravery… killed by his country in drafted circumstance, no matter. Brave, so brave, cold, so cold, to be forced into the waiting arms of death to suffer no respect at home, no celebrations but mortifications, but pontifications about his involvement in mass-genocide and torture… War pigs make the paper; millions march to die… they shall not grow old… and if they do, they shall be shamed with white feathers floating down from high-and-mighty vice-grip hands and teeth that clench and smear his name with shame, demanding obedience and sacrifice so that she shall wear a poppy later, marking his passing with crocodile tears and demanding he be responsible for the safety of the women and the children who don’t need no man, but who needs responsibilities and societal obligations even less… and his hollow, pointless existence pointed out by white feathers and by lashing tongues… existing as nothing but a grind and a grunt and a stack of meat inside a pile of meat, all toward the massive meat-grinder, all state-sanctioned and oh-so-noble, oh-so-brave, oh-such-courage, oh and oh and oh oh oh.
Bring all your salutations; grand philosophizing rifle-exclamations pointing hollow crash-boom-bangs into the air that saw a spiralling reflection there, drain out and drain down into the vapid wonder-land beyond your state-sanctioned accusatory glare that saw the sacrifice of men as something used to beat them down and so hold them to account; to step upon their necks and kneel upon their chests: a total eclipse of the sun and of the moon that spat upon his mouth and tongue and brain and soul with accusations of baby-killery and other vile and brutal barbarisms not fit for human consumption.
He was there by popular demand and popular decree, and now he’s back and being shamed and smeared for it, or back and dead and dying, being split and so divided by the gloomy hands of power-hungry harpies harping on about this and about that, never caring either way for nothing is ever good enough and she must always be there to complain and to nag and to henpeck, to bitch and moan and lay it all on his shoulders, torn apart though they are.
None of us exist as more than a clump of cells, shivering gelatinous blobs with neither passions nor love to celebrate. Punctuated by grand-standing moral arbiters of hatred spun like cobwebs spun across our eyes, that nailed our tongues to the roof of our moth-eaten mouths and so called for us to resign when none of us could speak our case no more.
For our resignation from our high positions of power, held by us for nothing but us being men called us out of garden-states to look deep within your eyes as we, broken and solidly bruised, stared at them from the gutters thinking: “what the fuck are they on about this time?”
For our resignation is called by sheltered cushioned selfish shits that sit and stare and, swollen by self-righteous indignation and perplexing solipsism; swelled up to twice or thrice their normal size from hands that grasp the plate and teeth that bite the hands that feed, see no world outside their own borders in their upper middle-class prisons where dull parades and boredom shine and sing like year old butt that all the world is such as this, and nothing can exist outside of this.
There are no suffering amongst the men for all the men they see and know are high-and-mighty, rich and dainty, with hands as soft as baby-skin or a freshly shaven trans-elucidated other-kin… the lower classes don’t exist, filthy as only filthy peasants may be, and so they see not them nor acknowledge them as men for men are only those men they know, and all the women they have seen are just as useless, fruitless, pointless, fat and dull and bored as they themselves. It is a pampered and protected class, that’s never seen naught but there that call on us for our privilege. How strange, how very much remarkably strange, and yet, where bullshit flies there’s always shit to eat and never once did anyone dare to simply stand there in the rain and piss of shame and say a simple, gorgeous “No”.
Drug us into oblivion, you blessed school of dull short-sighted Ritalin; Fill our heads with cotton, wretched child of run-away amphetamine,
holy and so lonely in the back-streets of your cult: sit, be still, be quiet, sit and stare upon these seats where thoughts won’t be no riot, where action comes, then greets
this blissful tranquillity bottle-held and bottle-sold, a pill-popped Nirvana, dulled enlightenment where once yelled, once roared, boyish home-made Dhammaphada
that sought transcendence through mad energy, sought liberation through wild kinetic movement, there to meet, there to greet white-pill lethargy that forced upon us drug-soaked self-improvement that left us pale and glassy-eyed with full-body apathy,
leaving laser-focus in our eyes and minds, from straight eyes gazing at our heads, where that boyish energy now grinds our lack of playful life into its silent beds.
And was our love of life and love of play so bad, so wicked and so mean that all saw fit to point, to laugh, to speak and say “There’s illness here, for sure; that scene so wild, so frenzied, uncontrolled in wild play
pretending doom, feigning violence, rough and tumbling through the grass and through the fields in scuffles way too tough, and way too rough and hard to follow through!”
Alas; it were, it was conceived and seen just so: a wicked play-time overrun by that brooding brutish boyhood-sheen where a stick became a sword, a gun, a shuttle taking us where no man had ever been
before, deep into space or into dimensions untouched, unseen by adventurous humanity, brought there only by our boyish inventions, fighting a dull, a monotonous mundanity
of school and of the everyday sit-and-stare and sit-and-listen, sit-and-learn in silence… oh, ye gods, I do solemnly, willingly declare this as boredom bordering on bloody violence manifesting in our trembling night-time fear
that in the morning we must go to school once more, to swallow silence as a golden rule and pull our temper from that pool of pills to make us silent and beholden
to the insufficient babbled teaching seeing us as immature distractions to the class, so they’ll come reaching into their bag of tricks and actions, preaching and then later screeching
that something must be done at this moment, in the light of this new sun of boyhood atonement:
for the sin of boyhood play-time energy, the wicked ancient sin of “boys that will be boys”, here come garbled drug-core synergy and newly invented night-time toys from the depths of sacred psychiatry
here to mend your wicked ways, here to patch that rupture in your brains so your friendly future sit-still days will be running quickly through your veins
through the magic of this modern medicine we will take the boy out of the boys; an infection stopped by focus-heavy penicillin; a scream, a roar, a bellow turned to whispered voice as boys transform to a hero from a villain.
It is very easy to figure out who is whom and who believes what. That is to say: it is very easy to figure out who to avoid like the plague. At least if one spends any amount of time on that most hallowed platform of mediocrity and hysterics known as Twitter. The most ardent supporters of all that is good and noble and true are, invariably, the ones who are obsessed with them good old pronouns. Seems to be a mark of their tribe; something tattooed on their very souls. If NPC’s are burdened with souls, that is. Which, I believe, is open for discussion. An NPC is, after all, an NPC.
This will undoubtedly get me hunted down for hate-speech. NPC is a no-no term now, hate-spoken by hate-speech merchants on their hate-speech crusade against the righteous hordes of indignation and moral superiority.
I’ll do my very best to get information about my whereabouts post-re-education-incarceration smuggled out on toilet-paper (or something to that effect) when the pronoun-squads finally manage to smoke me out of my hole. Please come rescue me when that time comes. Bring lawyers, guns and money. And wine.
I have been told that I can not possibly mean anything of that which I write, ramble, rant and rave and that I only write it in order to be provocative and so garner attention for myself and my ramblings, thus being liable to rake in all that dough that inevitably come rolling in to all those who oppose feminism and its ilk. Because we all know that the big money lies in opposing feminism and the social justice hive-mind, not in defending it. This is just about as real as it gets. Feminism is such an under-dog, as we are all bloody well aware. There is no monetary incentive, nor is there any power to be had, for the high-and-mighty feminist hordes to keep the narrative about the poor and oppressed woman moving ever onwards, wobbling its way into the sunset one Benzodiazepine-sustained wonky wobble at a time… nor do they hold any influence or wield any amount of power worth talking about. They are absolutely powerless. So powerless, in fact, that everyone accepts their drool and dribble as fact, spread by politicians and by news-outlets and by academia and by schools and by kindergartens and by parents and by actors and by just about anybody.
Never mind that: this influence and power, and all that good cash, belongs to our tribe; our rag-tag crew of misfits and wife-beaters who just can’t find any woman willing to touch our pee-pees, and so take it out on all womankind by refusing to accept the dominant narrative as presented by the opinion-welders who hold no power except the ability to sway everyone to their thought, to pressure and lobby and more or less make one hell of a mess of things merely by pouting, screaming and throwing irrational temper-tantrums, much like spoilt children who can not stand not getting their way in life.
And you shall know them by the pronouns that they keep.
One more ridiculous than the last.
For everyone has to stand out in some way, despite being collectivized to the extreme. Everyone has to shine like the sun with the mighty quirkiness of their individual pronouns; an identity so strange and so rare as to of course render them marginalized, oppressed and downtrodden in one way or another.
Sure, some labels and some pronouns will grant them some privilege… but it is easily countered by other labels and pronouns reversing this privilege. Besides, it is an easy identifier of group-identity… something tossing them into the pile of bodies eagerly awaiting their decay and decrepitude, wherein the individual supposedly don’t matter much, even when it does because all these god-damned causes that are championed are very much selfish in nature, very much individualistic and very little collectivistic, bordering on narcissistic. “I feel this way about that,” they’ll shriek as they shamble their way on to the public square, “and so this is something that impacts all that label themselves similar to me”.
And everyone must stop and everyone must listen, because they have this certain label, this precious pronoun, and so not listening and nodding would be some manner of discrimination and oppression of a marginalized group, mostly identified by a common or uncommon pronoun or label which grants them the ability and the god-given right to speak on behalf of that group, even when solely speaking about their own individual hang-ups, neurosis or petty problems that could easily be dealt with by growing a thicker skin and understanding that sometimes – most times, in fact – things are not a product of discrimination. Though, of course and as it transpires, they are well aware of this. This is proven when one looks to the micro-aggression thing, the unconscious bias thing, and other such nonsense designed just so that one can not speak against it consciously because the offending act is not a conscious act. Thus, it is still discrimination. They are damned good at covering all their bases, and damned good at ruling through reinventing language to suit their needs.
Those who are guilty of discrimination are not aware of it, and so it is not their fault. It is the fault of society, which have imprinted these unconscious biases into the minds and thoughts of everyone. Only by subscribing to their ideology, can one cleanse oneself of this and see the world – and ones own rotten behaviour because of the world – as it truly and really is, and so make amends according to ones own pronouns and labels and group-identity. And some must make more amends than others, some must pay more penance than the rest.
But all are sinners in some way or other. At least to the eyes of those who lack the ability to see the world through the eyes of other people, who seem to be lacking somewhat in empathy despite pretending to have it in droves.
I struggle quite a lot to believe in the sincerity of those who shout the loudest and show their infallible virtue the most. It is, I must admit, difficult to believe in the sincerity of someone’s belief, morals and convictions when all they do when speaking about it is to make out how good, moral and righteous they are for supporting this or that cause.
Humility, it appears, is not the greatest strength of these stalwart champions for whatever cause is currently in vogue. Considering that it also tend to change as the trends change, as the cause célèbre unavoidably changes, it is even more difficult to believe in the sincerity of their fight. It is almost enough to make one believe that it’s all about virtue-signalling for woke points; all about gathering as much admiration as possible from the social media infected world in which we now dwell, wherein all our movements and opinions, all our virtues and all our vices are constantly monitored… where one must always outdo the other in moral righteousness and in fighting the good cause, whatever the hell that cause is at this particular time, in this particular hour.
This is not to say that I believe everyone who champions a cause… that everyone who burns with a desire to do good are feigning it for attention. Of course not. But, when that cause changes as the wind changes… when there is no constant, when there is this cause, that cause, all the other causes… mostly stirred up by reading one headline and then getting all up in arms about it… I find it very hard to believe in the sincerity of people’s convictions. It then becomes all about the immediate outrage, which is replaced by a new outrage next morning as the previous one is forgotten. The Pronouners had their communal hissy-fit, and so they are done with it. Or they are embarrassed and don’t talk much about it after more information is unearthed, rendering their outrage a phoney one. As it usually is.
The case of the Covington kids is of particular interest, of course.
Not only does it show how quick these non-judgemental, tolerant, inclusive wielders of a thousand pronouns are to intolerant judgement, it shows how remarkably dishonest… how remarkably muckraking the mass-media manufacturers of make-believe news stories are in their quest for outrage-clicks and outrage-bucks.
When the ones who are supposed to spread the news are so quick to judgement and so hastily outraged, how in the world are we supposed to believe the rest of the world can manage to take it easy, to not go into full-blown outrage mode the moment someone says or does something perceived to be so horribly outrageous as to invoke the wrath and fury of the general population? Waiting for information is old news. We don’t have time for that in the information age, because all information comes flying at us at lightning speed.
And so too do our emotions; the immediate outrage comes quickly and leaves quickly. Like a quick fuck in the bathroom of a public library, leaving nothing but sweat, cumstains and a strange sensation of disappointment.
One can train oneself to not immediately fly into full frenzied outrage mode by regulating ones emotions as well as lengthening ones attention span. But where’s the fun in that? Shit – it’s no fun. It’s straight up boring. It’s good to let loose, you know, just let fly and consequences be damned. Full tard-rage incoming, roar and scream and bellow and let out all that anger, all that frustration, all that righteous and justified adult toddler anger, angling for a bite or two so that one can yell and scream and curse some more at those who dare propose one waits before reacting in the most vile and destructive, aggressive and terrible manner possible. But that can not be done. For that inner feeling of hopelessness… that deeply buried root of the anger… that maladjusted thing that lies somewhere deep within that causes all this rage and wrath and ruin must be let loose and must be let out.
People who are quick to anger tend to burn within; tend to be angry by something other than that thing that sparked the rage and wrath and ruin. It’s just not something people are willing to look at. Our societies have externalized everything and internalized nothing. Nothing except guilt and shame and doubt that gnaws and bites and eats one up, small nibbles at a time.
The only way to fix society is for people to fix themselves, in my humble opinion. And that is fixing themselves for themselves first and foremost. Healing, you see, is a fantastic thing. People need to stop blaming everything on something else. People need to learn humility. Need to not take themselves so damned fucking seriously all the bloody time.
In order for our societies to become less narcissistic, I believe it is prudent that we all learn to look at ourselves, to gaze within. Despite this sounding rather self-contradictory.
We need to look at ourselves in depth, not in the superficial label-me-this-and-label-me-that way that is so popular. Not in the superficial pronoun way. For that is what it is – superficial. No, we all need to take a deep breath and look at ourselves in a deeply introspective – I would even dare say spiritual – way. It is not always pretty, the things one notices about oneself and ones own behaviour – believe you me, I know. Yet it is precisely this that makes it so important. Seeing ones shadow side gives one the ability to control it. Not to suppress it. But to control it. The yin, after all, does need a yang.
External things are often beyond our control. Shit happens that will ruin your day. Sometimes even your life. This is just how it is. And one can not control it. So why bother trying?
The internal thing – the way we deal with it – are not beyond our control. It takes practice and it takes patience, but ones emotions and ones behaviours and ones way of acting and reacting can be controlled and overcome, rendering one strong enough to stand strong and tall and mighty in any storm.
Just a damned shame that this is labelled as toxic by the pronoun-squads. Just a damned shame that this is dubbed “toxic masculinity” and so dismissed out of hand. Regulating and controlling ones emotions as adult human beings is no good no more. One has to scream and roar and rage; one has to cry and weep and throw all ones emotions out into the wind, so that everyone else picks up on them and does the same. Because that is how it is at this moment in time, sick and depraved though it is. I am hysteria, hear me roar. I am immediate, hear me roar. I am outrage, hear me roar. I am a toddler, hear me roar. Despite all the roaring, it amounts to little else than a fart in a storm of farts. I am a fart, hear me roar.
And you shall know them by the pronouns that they keep.
Times are still tough. Tough times calls for tough men. And good, decent, honest-to-God potent middle-fingers.
I am concerned… deeply bothered, in fact, about the severe division within society. A division which has rendered us a society seemingly overrun by extremes, with no measured middle-path to walk.
Not, dear God, in an “enlightened centrist” kinda way.
It’s just… Every god-damned thing is so simplified, has been boiled and reduced to it’s basic skeletal frame.
Connecting points no longer connect. They stand alone, divided, scattered and reduced to extremes. That which connected them… that which connected us just floats alone, drifts away, or is gradually pushed towards one or the other of the extremes for sake of longing to connect, longing to belong. We are a society lost in the vast gulf of time, swallowed by shadows… a society with no core identity, no common cause, nothing to properly tie us together. Broadly speaking, this goes for western society as a whole. Some are hit harder than others, of course. But for now, allow me to speak broadly.
One can no longer debate, or take part in discussion. Only one side is accepted and held as truth, the other painted as a ruinous and terrifying extreme. Oddly enough by an extreme.
I used to be very fond of discussion. Believe it or not.
Back in the day, it was possible to at least disagree without it turning into a childish throwing of insults; without it erupting into accusations of this or of that, with all the shitflinging a domesticated primate could ever wish for. That all changed. Seemingly overnight.
I once – not too long ago – disagreed with a woman regarding off-kilter jokes… dark humour… on Facebook.
She sent me a PM in which she told me that she was literally nauseous that I was in disagreement with her. Yeah. Really. For pointing out that jokes are but jokes, and that humour is a way for us human beings to deal with difficult topics in an existence that is not guaranteed to be safe, she “literally felt nauseous”. Then she blocked me.
Only to contact me later through a new account, demanding I apologise to her for making her feel so bad.
I blocked her without bothering to reply. Because what in the hell do I need that nonsense in my life for?
She then contacted me through a third account, called me childish for blocking her just for us disagreeing, writing that she had never blocked me – she just closed her account because she needed a break from Facebook. Yeah right. So I blocked her again.
And so it happened once again. The same bloody pattern. Only she was even more pissed off this time. If I am so horrible as she made me out to be in that strange message of hers, why in the fuck did she want so desperately to be friends, then? Women, it appears, do not deal well with rejection. And hell knows no fury like a woman scorned.
I didn’t even bother blocking her that time. I merely ignored her.
This seemed to do the trick. I never heard from her again. Of course, I fled Facebook not that long after this, finally coming to my senses.
In the current climate, you either agree with the horde, or you are un-personed. In this climate, those who go against the hive-mind are punished. Socially at first, but it is gradually moving into law, creeping in there with all the subtlety of a sneaky finger pushed into ones rectum.
It has reached a point where people just expect agreement, or else. All is echo-chambered ad infinitum.
And people just swallow everything they are told, believing anything and everything on face value… unless it is something going against what they hold to be true. Believe all women. Except that one woman, she disagrees that we should believe all women, and so she is not to be believed.
Statistics disproving feminism and their claims, for example… or disproving the claims of the progressive hordes at all. No matter how well researched, no matter how well argued, no matter how obviously true, it is not believed. From domestic violence to sexual violence and all that lies between; if women are shown to be perpetrators and men to be victims, it is not believed. No matter what and how the facts are gathered and presented. No matter how factual it is.
And when it comes to male victims, suddenly there can be no cases that are not reported, there are no big giant dark shadow wherein lie all those victims that never told their story, never reported their assault, never reported their rape… where women are raped; where women are abused, there are loads and loads and loads of cases that go unreported. For men, there is none. Which is odd, but, hey – no-one claimed feminism to be consistent in their claims and in their views.
History, whether ancient or contemporary, is written by the victors. Victor, it appears, is a god-damned lying, thieving son-of-a-bitch.
And so too is revisionist history written by the victors.
Victor is, be that in the past or in the present, a god-damned arsehole and I don’t see why we should listen to him.
We lost that tender thread of nuance in our history. Looking at the past and seeing only women suffer, only women being oppressed and men being their oppressors as well as the cause of their suffering is neither nuanced nor true. Yet it is presented as being both nuanced and true. Looking at the world today and seeing only women suffer, seeing women as oppressed, is neither nuanced or true.
Yet, this is also presented as being nuanced and as being true.
And when it can not be denied that men and boys suffer, men and boys can still be denied any manner of help, of aid, of compassion and empathy. Because we must first fix the issues of women, and then, maybe, we can look to how men are doing. Men must fix themselves to help men. And society must change to help women. Mainly by men fixing themselves and fixing society, herp-derp.
There’s only one catch: the issues of women can never be fixed when we are so damned fucking eager to constantly manufacture ways in which women suffer, in which women are victimized. From Iphones to air-conditioning; from the commie-cough to violence; from education to work – it is always women who suffer, even when men suffer more.
Such as it is with suicide, such as it is with education, such as it is with work-related injuries, such as it is with loss of paternity, such as it is with paternity fraud, such as it is with the prison sentencing-gap, such as it is with empathy, such as it is with sexual violence (being damned close to 50/50, but no matter), such as it is with false accusations, such as it is with violence at all, such as it is with substance abuse, such as it is with social isolation, such as it is with this and that and the other – it is always made to be female problems; always made to be such that women suffer more, always made out so that women deserve more help, more funds, more of this and more of that. It is one-sided to the extreme, and neither calm arguments nor rage-fuelled rants will change it. Because we just damned well want to help women so much in this society in which women get nothing but crumbs, abuse and oppression.
So why in the hell bother? Why bother playing nice, why bother playing at all? It does not matter how we in this loosely knit men’s rights thing conduct ourselves.
It does not matter how we say things, how diplomatic we are or how provocative we are.
It does not matter.
The message in itself is the provocative part. The essence of our message is the thing that is triggering the hive-mind, not the way it is delivered. Even when the hordes of feminism claim otherwise. Look to how gentle Warren Farrel is, for example. It doesn’t matter… He is presented as a rape-apologist, protested, shut down and un-personed. And so to is Paul Elam. Their approach is remarkably different, and yet they are treated the same. It is the message that is the problem, not the messenger nor the way it is presented.
The mere claim that men struggle, that boys suffer, that feminism – despite its claims of helping men too – is responsible for a lot of it, either through direct action or through clear and obvious negligence – is the thing that is disliked.
For the message goes against all that which feminism holds as true, all that which feminism – and society overall – has presented and believed to be true for decades. It shows feminism to be fraudulent, and it is terrifying to the frantic forces of feminism.
It threatens the power of feminism, it threatens the social power and influence of women in general… it threatens to funnel funds away from feminism, be those funds material or spiritual, monetary or social.
It threatens to take a spot in the limelight. And that can not be accepted, that can not be tolerated… and so it must be shut down. By any means necessary.
By lies, by slander, by violence and neglect, by bullshit and emotional manipulation. By claiming that MRA’s seek only the right to rape and to pillage as we please. By phoning in bomb-threats to venues where men are supposed to speak on their issues. By denying men’s groups on college campuses. By ridicule and mockery and contempt, it shall be shut down. By denying us our own voice, it shall be shut down.
Not by the hair of feminism chinny-chin-chin shall men be allowed the limelight, shall men be allowed empathy, shall men be allowed to speak on behalf of men. Only women can do that. Only feminism can do that. And if men refuse, feminism shall huff and feminism shall puff and feminism shall blow the house of men down. Smash the patriarchy! With the ferocious force of gargantuan crocodile-tears and giant fucking smears the size and colour of an ovulating moon, it shall be shut down.
And so we stand divided, scattered, devoid of purpose and of life, devoid of the possibility to speak properly on our own behalf. For if we do, we are presented as hating women. Because that is surely the mark of the issues facing men; that is surely all men think about. Women.
How god-damned selfish, how incredibly egotistical, to believe the entirety of the world revolves around women, that all men think about, all men concern themselves about, are pushing women down.
Precious few in this MRA-thing sit around complaining about women. Some do, I will not deny that. But to present that as the norm is nonsensical.
There is much complaining about feminism. This is absolutely true. One can not look to gender-issues without looking to feminism, without mentioning feminism, without seeing feminism. But feminism is not women. They say so themselves, when they claim that feminism is for everyone, not only women.
Of course, we all know that claiming this is nothing but a masquerade, a charade, a play with smoke and mirrors, but still – that is what they claim. Opposing feminism, then, is not opposing women. It would be opposing everyone. But, no matter – it all depends on what feminism needs to present itself as at that moment, it all depends on what the needs are, what the opportunity demands. If the opportunity demands A, then it is A. If the opportunity demands B, then it is B. And these are just as true as each other, and if they don’t line up, it is not real feminism and they don’t enjoy sugar on their porridge.
Feminism, as opposed to the MRA’s, do spend an incredible amount of time complaining about men. That is my main bone of contention, in fact – they talk about men all the bloody time. Seems they are obsessed with men, and with masculinity in particular.
The main issue is not that they don’t focus on men, not that they purportedly focus on women. It is that they focus on men all the bloody time. No matter what it is, it is the fault of men. Poor sleep? Men’s fault. Grumpy? Men’s fault. Poor sex? Men’s fault. Didn’t get a job? Men’s fault. Scared to poop at work? Men’s fault. Don’t like your job? Men’s fault. Women wearing make up? Men’s fault. Women spending excruciating amounts of money on clothes? Men’s fault.
Ever and always, it is men’s fault. No matter what it is, it is men’s fault.
And who is, by and large, called upon to fix this? Men. For men, flawed and horrible creatures such as we are, must fix ourselves in order for women to feel good about themselves, in order for society to be nice and good and such towards women. Men must step up and men must do this and men must do that. Damned and horrible as we are, we are still expected to help women. Strong and powerful and independent as women are, they are absolutely incapable of doing anything themselves. Or just too lazy. That’s it, straight from the horses mouth.
Feminism teaches women to never take responsibility for themselves. And it teaches men to take responsibility for everything. If that everything is the bad things, that is. All the good is either feminism or women, as made evident by the ramblings of feminism.
You know, for being a movement stating that a woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle, they are oddly obsessed with men. And so, when MGTOW happens in response and men walk away and leave them the fuck alone, feminism laments this and paints them as haters of women.
Even when doing exactly what feminism wished for men to do. At least it did so in theory. In practice, it is something quite different.
Women, you see, more so than men, crave attention.
Obvious though it is, a disclaimer is most likely fitting and needed here: this is not to say that I believe all women crave attention all the time, and that no men ever crave attention. That would be ridiculous.
But still, observations ring true: the general trend is such that women are far more likely to crave attention, be that from men or from other women. How many instagram-models are male and how many are female, for example? Who does the selfie-thing most often? Who creates these ridiculously elaborate gender-reveal parties for their children, who are the ones who want the grandest and most spectacular wedding ceremonies, and on and on and on.
It is not without reason, I believe, that the bride is the one whom all the attention is focused on during a wedding. The groom… well, now – he’s just there, having little to do with the thing. He just stumbled in there, and then it just kinda happened around him. The bride is the one who gets the most attention, and she is the one who expects to get the most attention.
At long last in these supposedly equal and inclusive societies of ours; these societies which ever and always strive for equal treatment, we have reached a point in which one side is protected and the other is not. One side can spew whatever scorn and ridicule it wishes, and the other side can scarcely protect itself.
And it gets worse, since one side is now to be granted even more protection under law than the other. Despite it already being rather skewed in favour of that side. Misogyny is a wicked hate-crime, see. And this is probably to make it into law. One can not help but wonder how long they suppose this thing can go on, before breaking under its own weight.
Who gets to decide what constitutes misogyny? The feminist hordes, that’s who. And then, when one can not debate a woman in a god-damned debate without being accused of mansplaining and similar oddly gendered terms made by a movement supposedly wanting to get rid of gendered terms, it is not much of a stretch of the imagination to conclude that misogyny will be whatever any particular woman says that it is. Up to and including simply stating disagreement. A man disagreeing with a woman? Misogyny. A man speaking to a woman without her consent? Misogyny. A man leaving a relationship? Misogyny. How far do you think they will take this, if it gets implemented? If a woman feels as though it is misogyny that is to blame for whatever… who’s there to contradict her? That would, one assumes, also be an act of soggy kneed horrors.
Given that feminist women supposedly are so frail as to suffer from PTSD due to disagreements on Twitter, this does not seem a particularly far-fetched scenario.
Given that disagreeing with women – Clementine Ford, for example – when they write some absolutely hateful wretched nonsense on Twitter… to quote but one of her twats, paraphrasing: “Honestly, the Corona-virus isn’t killing men quick enough”… given that responding to this with anger is painted and presented as the woman being harassed… the scales are surely not evenly balanced. And have not been balanced for a good and long while, since it has been able to reach such an absurd point.
I mean: what the hell do you expect will happen when wishing for death upon someone based solely on their sex? Sunshine and daisies? Granted, this is more or less what usually happens, but, hey – no matter: women are so oppressed, didn’t you know. And it is only fragile masculinity that makes men be a bit irritated, a bit agitated, when wished death upon for being men during a global crisis that sees more men than women die.
That one expects nothing of any significance to happen when stating, time and again, that one hates men simply for them being men is ludicrous.
Yet, it surely says something about the state of the world.
Now, to be honest, I am of the opinion that women of this particular bent are well aware that they will face backlash. That is why they do it. Self-fulfilling prophecy, see. “See how much the world hates women? All I ever said was that I wished all men to die, and now they call me all sorts of wicked names and threaten me with death and rape and such… this is why we need feminism.”
Still, it just goes to show how normalized misandry has become, how acceptable it is to hate men, how little empathy men are granted in the world as the world is. But for these types of women to then have the gall to turn around and claim this to be proof that we live in a society in which men hate women; to claim this as proof that the whole of society just hates women… that is beyond reason, beyond sanity, beyond anything even remotely resembling rationality. It is, as a matter of fact, feminism.
That people are so stupid, so blind, so utterly incapable of seeing what is right in front of their noses ought to prove both the effectiveness of feminism in brainwashing and indoctrinating people, as well as how omnipresent gynocentrism is in society… in our very nature, most likely.
Disagreeing with a woman is not hating women, nor is disagreeing with feminism. But that is how it is presented. Just as disagreeing with a black person is not hating black people… is not evidence of racism, whether personal or institutionalized. It is merely disagreeing with someone. Yet, the race-card and the sex-card is pulled all the time, flapping out of floppy fop-pockets and used as shields against any criticism, rendering any disagreement null and void because how dare one speak against these poor oppressed people, so oppressed that merely whispering about oppression is enough to shut the mouths of damned near all disagreement… which sounds more like privilege to me than oppression, but, hey, I don’t know jack shit about what I’m talking about because that is what feminism has told me.
Herp-a-derp-a-doo.
It has been a rather long and rocky road for me, this strange path of life. Even stranger and rockier when finally swallowing the proverbial red pill. Red pill rage is a real and truly terrifying thing, and I must admit I am very happy – one could even say lucky – to have the ability to channel my anger into writing, into something constructive, something creative. I recommend this to everyone.
Far too many men fall into self-destructive patterns in life. I was on that path myself, for a good and long while… a path of apathy, lethargy, despair, booze and self-destruction. I only started to get my life on track some six years ago, and I’ve been loving it more and more ever since.
Self-annihilation becomes a proper possibility when all seems hopeless. There is no avenue, so to speak, for men to let loose, for men to let fly, to let go of the anger. No accepted venue.
For men, according to the whimsy of feminism and the wicked will of the whamens, are uncivilized brutes that need to be civilized by women and by feminism. We need to un-learn our masculinity, to let go of that which makes us men. We must embrace femininity as our guiding light; we must succumb to the civilizing attempts of women. We have all noticed this, I suppose. In one way or another, we have all of us in the so-called manosphere experienced this.
Not to speak like that, not to dress like this, not to walk that way, not to watch that show, not to read that book, not to play that video game, not to do this and not to do that; not to play rough with ones children, not to work on that hobby for that takes time away from spending time as a couple, not to go that party, not to go the pub, not to hang out with “the boys”, not to grow ones beard… and on and on and on, all towards the one.
If men met women with similar demands, it would quite rightly be considered coercive and controlling. But the scales are not evenly balanced. And they never will be, as long as men accept this and don’t object to it. The onus is on men to stop this. For it is we who are enabling this behaviour in relationships by accepting it, by not saying “no”.
I was once in a relationship with a woman who denied me time to listen to music. Listening to music is one of my great joys in life. It was not social enough, she claimed. Movies were better, more social, apparently. And so that is what it became. Movies all the time. Her past-time interests, not mine. The same applied to video-games. Not social enough. Her past-time interests, not mine. For we had to spend time together as a couple, doing things together as a couple. This, of course, translated into doing what she wanted us to do. Spending time together while listening to music was an impossible, incomprehensible task. Forget about hanging out with male friends on my own. She always tagged along, soaking up all the attention all the while. She, however, had her “girls night”. Which don’t bother me. The hypocrisy, however, does.
The list of demands men are met with in their relationships with women are ridiculous. Men need to find the self-respect to say no, and consequences be damned. Any woman not respecting your demands; any woman not respecting that you need time for your own interests, friends and hobbies is not worth a damn. A relationship is two people, not one person, not one grand unified energy field. Two people, both with their own desires and needs. Both deserving to be heard and respected by the other. Both. Not just the one.
As men needed to be civilized by women, male-only spaces disappeared in a whiff of frenzied feminism. It was dubbed to be oppressive to women for there being only men there. Female-only spaces are, as one would expect, quite alright. For women need a space only for women, where there are no men.
That men should need the same is of course ridiculous. What does men have to fear from women? Women have no power over men, whereas men have power over women. This despite women quite clearly having the power to deny men their spaces… Also, it proves quite effectively that which feminism yearns for over all else; that which feminism is built on; that which is the only thing feminism sees in the world: power. Their constant usage of the apex fallacy is proof of this as well. Seeing only the men at the top and neither noticing nor caring about the men at the bottom can not mean anything but those men being so invisible due to their lack of power as to be immaterial, as to not exist to the frail and frantic forces of frenzied feminism.
And so it transpired that men must police the speech of other men in those few places where women dare not and can not tread, such as in locker-rooms or whatever.
It falls on men to tell men that they can not speak like that. God-damnit, it is insulting towards women even when no women are present to be offended or insulted. Jokes of a sexual nature diminishes rape, objectifies women and contributes to rape-culture. #Killallmen, on the other hand, does not contribute to anything but allowing a woman to let of some steam.
That men must police the speech of other men finally gives an answer to the age-old question: if a man says something with no woman there to hear it, are women still offended? The answer, of course, is yes. For men must police the speech of other men so that no women that can not hear it is insulted and offended. Even when women are not present, they expect to wield influence, expect to dictate what is or is not allowed speech. That is rather remarkable.
The path towards healing for men, and for society for that matter is, I believe, men building self-respect. Simple as that. Men learning that it is quite alright to say no to a woman, no matter how damned thirsty a man may be. Men learning to say no to the demands of society when society becomes irredeemably stacked against him. To put aside the feathers of self-sacrifice and go towards himself instead, to walk his own path in defiance; a path of love and eventual healing. “Fuck it”, he’ll say, “I’m good”, as he walks on down the inner path to peace and prosperity and other such sugary things, probably all beginning with the letter P.
I wish I knew this when I was younger. A lot of pain would have been avoided that way. But, oh well – what’s done is done and what counts is the now. And the now beckons, the present beckons, life beckons with more opportunities post red pill than it ever had before.
And this sounds strange. One should believe turning ones back on society would offer up less opportunities… yet, that does not seem to be the case. This is the path of love; the path of self-respect and self-sufficiency.
To constantly learn, constantly acquire knowledge and skills to help oneself in life. To become self-sufficient and to realize ones potential… and to release ones potential; a human being doing what a human being does. To have value in existing, to see value in ones own life and in one self first and foremost, not merely in that which one does. To hell with the rat-race, and to hell with the noise and the press and the stress and the crunch. To hell with society. Shit, it’s been telling men that we are obsolete for a good and long while. Might as well manage without us, one supposes. Why the hell not? Seems this has been the plan no matter, no how. To carve out that bubble of happiness, to walk the path less trodden… and to be and to become god-damned, motherfucking free.
For my part, and to allow myself to be very personal for a moment… well, more so than usual – I chose family as my main purpose. I chose fatherhood as my main purpose. We have our first baby on the way. It is very difficult not to write about it all the bloody time, not to talk about it all the time, for the incredible joy that this brings me.
That is the path I chose. The path of love and of truth. Despite the anger so evident in my ramblings, I am not an angry person. Believe it or not.
For I have this outlet, see, and I hope more people will find such an outlet. Not only does it spread awareness (at least I bloody well hope that it does), it functions as a healing-process all alone on its lonesome, selfish as that may very well be. Time and again, anger is let loose, it flies loose, it evaporates and leaves one calm, content and – dare I even say – happy.
Society such as it is deserves all our middle-fingers, and we deserve all our self-respect.
Moiret Allegiere 