This morning, my first cup of coffee appeared to be replaced with maggots. Thousands of them, squirming and gushing and being generally icky.
In disgust, and fearing that true Lovecraftian horror would soon emerge from the mass of maggots, I threw the cup of coffee at my admittedly crowded living-room wall. It proceeded to shatter into tiny pieces of cheap porcelain and coffee, revealing that there were no maggots in my coffee.
It had all been a hallucination, or a vivid daydream, or cultural enrichment, courtesy of Yuggoth.
“Maybe I’m just tired”, I thought, before I fetched a new cup of coffee with which to awaken and enlighten my melting mind, cursed with brain-fog and intelligence-drain as it is in this horrible and overcast post-apocalyptic morning of mid-february 2020.
As my gigantic brain-erection began fizzing and sizzling with the cruel and unusual rage, wrath and ruin that can only be attributed to enough caffeine to power a moderately sized Norwegian village, I embarked upon my daily crusade against the blank bleakness of the digital paper and the harsh black void of my keyboard.
Deus vult, motherfuckers, deus vult.
Even as my fingers, conspiring with my throbbing brain-boner, typed the admittedly absurd (and quite possibly stupid) maggot-coffee-introduction, I wondered why.
Why the maggots, Moiret? Why the maggots in the coffee? Seemed about as good an introduction as any other, as I sit here, waiting on the coming of Corona-chan to cleanse the world of non-believers.
Deus vult, you bastards, Deus vult.
I will admit to being mentally and physically drained today, after a fairly exhausting yesterday. Reading the news chronically and obsessively does not help matters, if I am to be honest.
Particularly not whilst drinking coffee in the morning. Which finally explains the bloody maggots and the bloody coffee. It’s all to do with the news. Or lack thereof. It has reached a point where nothing is to be trusted. Trust no-one and believe nothing. Everything mass-media manufactured news item appears to be served with a delicious side-dish of propaganda and flat flatulent lies.
Mental and physical exhaustion inevitably comes to mean that inspiration is somewhat lacking today. Yet, write I must. Or else master will beat me again.
News ain’t news no more and nothing is true and everything is fake news and I can’t trust anything any more, not even my own bloody mind. Or my own perception of my own morning coffee which, for those in the know, is where I tend to find God each and every morning. (Which is the meaning behind my avatar. Or “logo”, if you will.)
Besides, for the topic I wished to tackle today, with maggots bathing in my coffee and Lovecraftian horrors nesting in my brain, I could not figure out a proper introduction for love nor money.
In fact: today I would much rather lie down in the corner and drown my woes and worries in coffee and home-made wine. With cyanide chasers on the side. So I let my fingers do the talking, as my wife so often have asked me to do.
Then I settled for the soothing crackle of painkillers upon my ruined and ravaged nervous-system, upon my aching and failing skeletal muscular system, upon my self-deprecating illusion of literary talent and artistic merit.
Also: I have been rather obsessed with Lovecraft lately, for some odd reason. For such a silly person like myself, “lately” comes to mean the last two years or thereabouts. I don’t let go of fascinations, interests and obsessions easily, to put it as simple as I can.
Prior to Lovecraft, it was Poe.
Prior to Poe, it was Milton.
Prior to Milton, it was Bukowski.
Prior to Bukowski, it was Thompson.
Now, this is not exactly true, as these literary obsessions often happen at the same time. But it looked better written down, and sounds better when read, when saying “prior to”. Makes me sound like I know what the hell I’m doing. And we all know that appearances is everything. Any illusion given about professionalism is a good illusion of professionalism. Make of this what you will; I am rambling, as per usual.
All of these authors are dead white guys. And so it will mark me as the devil incarnate and probably some god-awful racist sexist xenophobic Trump-troll Russian bot with a homophobic love for all things pale, male and stale in the literature department. There are, after all, far too many books written by white western male authors in our libraries. And we can’t have that, and anyone who read them contribute to some manner of oppression or marginalizing or something-or-other. But that is a ramble for another day. I have to push forward to get to the actual point sometime today.
Oh, well, such is the way of things: no matter what one does, someone somewhere can – and will – build a monument to offence around it, which reaches all the way to the teary-eyed and dry-heaving heavens above. The tower of Babel has been replaced with the tower of Offence. And all they do in the tower of Offence is babble.
Obsessing over old, dusty and decaying literary works (or obscure extreme metal from eastern Europe) beats obsessing over sports, however.
I have always considered professional sports a waste of time and money that could be better spent elsewhere. Like being loaded onto a rocket and blasted into the sun. Or sunk into the depths of R’lyeh, to be lost there in non-euclidean geometry for evermore. Or placed in a container atop the mountains of madness, then blown to smithereens.
Regarding sports banter, Quote the snowflakes: Nevermore.
My own dislike of professional sports aside, I can easily understand why people enjoy watching it, reading about it, learning about it and obsessing over it. A man needs a hobby and a man needs his entertainment… and his obsessions. Why not? I can’t think of any reason why not.
Ann Francke, on the other hand, can think of plenty reasons why not. All of them ridiculous. Not Anne Frank of diary-fame. A different Ann Francke.
And so we come, at long rambling last, to the main point on today’s agenda.
Sports banter amongst men at work may encourage laddish behaviour, and so should face the wrath and ire of frail and frantic feminism on the battlefield of allowed speech.
See pestilent article linked below.
Then marvel and be amazed at the unfettered arrogance on display.
Sports banter leads to tall tales of the sexual exploits and conquests of the weekend, see, and so men should not be allowed to talk about things men generally find interesting in order to not keep women out of the limited social folds of the corporate machine. God forbid that men should be able to bond with other men over shared interests. Men must be isolated and contained, each in his own cell, for the safety and inclusion of women. With the added bonus of tearing down any manner of male camaraderie, mentoring and fellowship.
For sports banter is not inclusive enough. And probably not diverse enough. Definitely not feminine enough. And absolutely not feminist enough.
Anything said, spoken, thought, done, danced, sung, spelled, spun, spat, vomited, grunted, sweated or otherwise secreted, written, rambled, raged and rotoscoped must first and foremost pass the test. The test is whether or not women may take part in the conversation.
Apparently, to the eyes and drab drool of feminist women, nothing is more terrible and terrifying than not being the centre of attention at all times.
Imagine something as horrible as not being able to put oneself in the midst of a conversation as a soaring centre-piece of whatever and what-not.
Imagine the terror of not taking part in a conversation once in a while.
Imagine being so bloody arrogant as to demand rules be put in place so that people shall not talk about something which does not interest you in particular.
It is absolutely, mindbogglingly, insanely arrogant.
Ann Francke, she who did not live in a cupboard, invokes the slippery slope with ghastly grimaces of delight, as she states that there is but a small step from sports-banter to tales of sexual conquest.
Laddish behaviour – one assumes she refers to any and all masculine behaviour – must be stomped out and left to die. For all things masculine are terrible. Men are maggots, and are to be gagged and blindfolded for the convenience of women in whatever workplace they co-inhabit.
What is even more extraordinary is that she – in almost the same breath – claims that she does not suggest that it should be banned. Even when that is exactly what she suggests, since it ought to be curbed according to her.
Just your everyday double-speak from the forked, serpentine tongues of feminism, where A and Z is the exact same thing, where 2+2 equals 5, where yes means both no and yes, where no means both yes and no. All is possible in the land of Feministan, also known as the land of make-belief.
I will have to admit that women do not seem as strong and powerful and empowered and independent as all that if they have to demand men not talk about bloody sports in the workplace for reasons of feeling left out of the conversation. There is nothing particularly strong, independent, empowered or mature about demanding certain topics – which are completely tame topics – be banned from workplace banter. Particularly so under the preposterous pretence that it might cause men to slap each other on the back and talk about their sexual conquest over the weekend. For men think only about sex and sports. And beer. Of course. Which is not true. I have absolutely no interest in sports.
One would think, and not unreasonably in my humble opinion, that any mature adult human being – be that human being male or female – would be able to accept that, sometimes, not all conversations include topics that one self is interested in, and that it is quite alright that one can not participate in that conversation at that point in time. Sometimes, believe it or not, people will talk to someone other than you. And sometimes people will even talk about things that don’t interest you.
Very difficult to grasp, I understand, but there you have it: the world consist of more than women, be that one individual woman, or women as a group. I should not have to spell this out, but such is the state of the world.
This is almost as absurd as the “women poop at work” article… Of course, the implications of Ann Francke whose diary is not published, is far worse, as this goes for the jugular – so to speak – in attempting to curb something as innocent as sports banter at work.
Men, believe it or not, are quite capable of managing themselves without having a woman around to act as a moral guiding force, deciding what is or is not acceptable behaviour or suitable topics for discussion. Women do not have to act as parental figures to grown-ass men, demanding that they behave in a manner that pleases them and talk only about things which women are interested in. And men should not accept that the will of women dictate their behaviour or topics of discussion amongst them. It is ridiculous.
Now, I do of course understand that there is a difference between the workplace and just about any other place. I understand that there is a difference in accepted (or expected) behaviour in professional settings as opposed to non-professional settings.
I also understand – despite the strange brutish man-beast Ann Francke of the non-famous diary have manufactured in her sheltered head-space – that men talking about sports does not equate to men talking about the latest cheap thrill picked up in a bar come closing time late Saturday night. But, ya know, laddish behaviour and the stereotypes of men reign supreme in the minds of those who claim to dislike the use of gendered stereotypes.
Sports banter makes women feel left out and not included, she continues, with all the poor swooning ladies she can paint for us in-between her snarling and thinly veiled contempt for men and all things masculine.
Ignoring, for a moment, that not all men enjoy sports and that some women in fact enjoy sports, I would propose that these women may take their feelings of being left out and kindly fuck off.
Admittedly, I may be harsh here – blame that on the maggots in my coffee and the strange influence of Yuggoth on my mind – but it seems rather egotistical, self-obsessed, entitled and narcissistic to me for women to expect and demand that everything; every single conversation, every single happening, every single event, has to revolve around them in some way or other, be that them as a person or their interests.
It also seems contrary to the notion of women being strong ‘n’ tuff ‘n’ capable if they can not handle guys talking about a topic which does not interest them in the workplace.
But what the hell do I know?
I have been designated the role of oppressor, so I am of course not allowed to comment on anything. Particularly not where sex and gender is concerned. Except how horrible, terrible, vicious and cruel me, myself, I and the rest of the guys are, of course.
Despite not being allowed to comment on anything, I have to wonder – do these “rules” of inclusivity, these “rules” of accepted workplace banter extend to female topics of discussion? If you will allow me to think in stereotypes for a moment; would one stomp out women discussing the latest manufactured reality-television drama? Or make-up? Or fashion? Shopping? Footwear?
Women discussing fashion choices, shoes or reality television at work may lead to birdish behaviour. It may even encourage them to cover each others faces in yogurt and cucumber-slices and perming each others hair whilst discussing last months period or the lack of batteries in their monstrous vibrators. For that is the only thing women talk about, right? Vibrators and periods?
One would not be amiss in thinking that this would make men feel less than included in the conversation. It should be curbed so that all and one might feel included in the workplace.
It has to be equal, after all. All and one must feel included. So any topic of discussion (stereo)typically feminine must be curbed, lest it leads to men not feeling included.
If there is one thing feminism has been, and continue to be, remarkably good at, it is infantilizing women. It is painting women as absolutely incapable of dealing with anything. It is painting women as egotistical entitled twats who demand that everything revolves around them. If it does not, then women must be protected from it. Clearly to such an extent that women must be protected from topics of discussion which they are not interested in.
At the same time, it proves that it views men as inherently more mature and capable than women. For men not only accept that not every bloody discussion has to involve something that is of particular interest to them, men are expected to do so. Just as mature adults should be expected to do, of course. In fact; men are mature enough, and are considered to be mature enough, to accept that people do not have to bend over backwards to accommodate their slightest whim and fancy. Women, apparently, are not considered mature enough to accept that people sometimes discuss things that are outside their sphere of interest. Still, it considers men as absolutely incapable of acting properly without a woman being present to supervise them, since women are more mature and definitely more moral, prim and proper and all that jazz.
The whole ting is bloody ridiculous. Bring forth the fainting couches gentlemen; there is a strong and independent whamen coming to work here!
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- Moiret Allegiere, 19.02.2020
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