Internet so Dangerous, part 2


Should you be unaware that the internet often brings out the worst in people, I believe you are lying. Or blind. Or you have been living in a cave without access to the internet for the past 28 ½ years.

Not that I’m judging, of course – I can quite understand the wish to be a hermit. Yet, such is the way of it: one has not been present on the internet if this has gone unnoticed.

There is a strange lack of self-censorship and civility when people are faced with digital keystrokes instead of real life flapping tongues and galloping lips.

It is as though people believe that the text they see is not another human being typing. It is merely machine-text texting, to be easily dismissed as a Russian bot, a troll, or some other nonsensical buzzword-effort at dehumanizing and dismissing instead of considering and digesting what is actually being said. It is remarkably easy to do. Usually, it follows the same pattern:

Person A says something.

Person B says something contrary.

Person A responds with dismissing Person B as a Russian bot. (Substitute “Russian” for whatever bogeyman is currently in vogue.) And then promptly blocks the bastard-bot, son of a thousand machine-whores that he of course is, with neither thought nor self-awareness present.

Rinse and repeat.

It is pure internet-magic from putrid internet tacticians. Every day, we stray further from God and from God’s good graces. Every day, I lose a little more of my faith in humanity.

Oh, the humanity!

This tactic is such a marvellously tried and true formula that it could easily be dubbed “Copypasta”.

Such Artful, much wondrous, wow!

Were it not for the inconvenient fact that Copypasta is made to ruin every last bit of originality, it would be an exercise in pure social experiment clickbait. Masquerading as art, just for the sake of it.

Relax, brah, it’s just a social experiment. Just as the whole rest of the world is; a science project that saw God receive a D. Maybe a D+. Good effort, terrible execution. Back to the drawing board, God. Jesus Christ, I know you can do better, buddy, now put some backbone into it!

Originality, as we so often see, is of no consequence when there are contrarians and other vile cretins to contend with on the internet. Copypasta; for fun and profit!

Besides; ones own opinion is hallowed and sanctified, no matter how inane and ridiculous. Responding to it with disagreement, however civil, is akin to harassment. But only if the victim of someone responding to their chicanery in an open forum that is open for all the forum-happy world to see happens to be a woman, or a minority. This rule does come with its own exception, as expected. For it is only when and if they are partial to the shenanigans of Social Justice, as well as being faithful adherents to the cult of woke, that it is to be considered harassment.

Of course.

One could always choose not to get engaged in online feuds, arguments, petty squabbles and such silly bickering. No matter where one is, no matter what one does, somewhere on the internet, someone is wrong. This is just a fact of life. To engage each and every person who holds different opinions, no matter how factual (because there is a vast difference between having an opinion and having a fact) seems to me to be a waste of time and energy best spent elsewhere.

Particularly so when someone argues in very bad faith, using all the mental gymnastics, all the lies and slander and smears and jet-black oily manipulation a Russian bot could ever hope to eat.

A lot of the opinions on the internet are presented as nothing but shitty reposts… strange pictures with some manner of text on them meant to elicit an immediate emotional response, either that way or this way. Seeing as every repost is always a repost of a repost, one has to get fairly tired of trying to refute them and challenge them again and again. It just ain’t worth the hassle.

Granted, this line of thinking comes from a bearded bard who is turning more introverted and reserved with every passing day. It often takes me days – or even weeks – to respond to a single private message or email. So there’s that, of course. I am not the most social of creatures, to say the least.

This is not to say that I don’t believe there are merits to online discussion. I spend far too much time reading and observing debates online to have no faith in it. However: there is precious little point in arguing with someone who has no interest in listening. And that is so often the case when encountering someone who is – as Jordan Peterson puts it – ideologically possessed. They do not talk with someone. They do not engage in discussion or debate as such.

No, no, no.

They talk at someone. Not with someone. Ears close and reason leaves the moment someone disagrees, no matter how well sourced, how well put together, how well informed. Facts and numbers do not matter. Pointing out errors in statistics, or in methodology (something I am not skilled at, but I have observed others that are extraordinarily skilled at it), for example, is inconsequential to someone who has decided that they are in the right, no matter what, and where, and when, and how.

The so-called gender wage-gap is a prime example of this. Debunked time and again, and still living on. Because these people really and truly want to be oppressed. The same can be said for the nonsensical “Pink Tax”, and most everything else they can manufacture. It is either a dirty, rotten lie, or it is half-facts that conveniently neglect to mention the other part of the equation. It gets droll and dull and boring and tiring after a while. Yet, as long as there is social currency in victimhood, it will carry on.

There is no purpose to feminism if feminism has no purpose. And the purpose of feminism – as I believe is the case with all the social justice warrior stuff, steeped in childish identity politics as it is – is to perpetuate itself. It is to keep itself going, marching forward toward an uncertain future.

In order to do so, they have to be able to present themselves as being oppressed. The cause, in itself, is the cause. It is the beginning and the end. And the middle.

What are we fighting for, fellow peoplekind-comrades of non-gender specifics?”

The Fight, comrade, the fight!”

And so it goes, on and bloody on.

If shown – if proven beyond doubt – to not be oppressed, they lose their purpose. They have no big bad daddy to fight if the big bad daddy is proven to not exist as they have presented it. So it is better to double down, ignore the truth, and carry on as though nothing happened.

It is a vile sickness, a terrible blight on society, this celebration of victimhood, this willingness to be seen as a victim, this eagerness to be counted among the downtrodden, the gleeful acceptance, this tragic ambivalence, to being “oppressed”. It is fucked up social currency in a nonsensical social game; its slap-happy followers speeding drunk down the information highway, posting one stupid so-called empowering pictogram of overcoming perceived oppression after the other, where relation to the original topic decreases with every single post. Best to not engage.

It is an obscene celebration of character-flaws masquerading as strength, where overcoming obstacles and hurdles no longer matters or are of any importance for one chooses to petition the government to ban the obstacles and criminalise the hurdles instead. And if said hurdles and obstacles are a few individuals who dislike this or do not agree with that, then that dislike, that disagreement, must be considered hate and swift action be taken promptly by the strong whip-lash hand of the law. This is prime egotism.

Particularly so when the laws and regulations that spawn from such petitioning wind up being very much discriminatory in-and-off themselves.

How can one look to a government that states that there are too many of this demographic working here, so you have to even it out by hiring quite a few of that demographic, otherwise there will be hell to pay, and claim this to be non-discriminatory?

Sorry you didn’t get the job, boy, but the government has decided that your outie is wrong for this job, we need an innie. Your credentials look great, by the way. Better luck somewhere else, buddy.

It truly is a sad state of affairs, when people are so devoid of any personality or character trait that they would resort to wallowing in wallopped victimhood instead of working on bettering themselves… instead of cultivating a personality, people cultivate victimhood. Instead of learning a new skill, instead of pouring time and energy into a hobby, people sit flat on their haemorrhoids and wallow in victimhood, going neither here nor there, but staying exactly where they are because they can not do anything but that because they are only ever a victim of this or of that.

Yet, I do get where it comes from, to an extent.

Hurdles and obstacles are incredibly difficult to overcome. I have overcome quite a few myself, and still have a whole hell of a lot to overcome. This despite being a severely privileged white, cis-gendered, heterosexual male, basking in the glow of my eternal privilege and bathing in the rich waters of whatever it is the patriarchy is supposed to give me for free. I assume free handjobs and a harem of scantily clad lesbians or bi-curious women feeding me grapes. Unfortunately, the patriarchy has been slow in paying me my dues. Ah, well, all good things come to those who wait.

I have overcome severely disabling anxiety, shut-in tendencies and a particularly rough encounter with psychosis. None of these were easy to overcome. I have also struggled with a chronic depression for close-to two decades. For living with the constant tension from this anxiety (amongst other things) for almost fifteen years, I now live with chronic pain and fatigue which, at times, are close to unbearable. Yet: the dogs must be taken for walks, the apartment must be cleaned, food must be cooked, my rambles must be written, then ranted, raved and uploaded, etc etc. All these things help in overcoming whatever it is that needs to be overcome. A wise course of action.

The easy path to take, when faced with these hurdles, is to lie down and give up. On everything. It is the easiest path, and it is the least fulfilling path. Sure; I may complain about it. I may bitch and moan about my insomnia and my pain. Particularly when writing. This is very cathartic. I have no interest in using it as a tool to get my will, or to get cheap sympathy-points. Which, for all intents and purposes, are rare currency where men are concerned any way, so why bother? Get over it and do carry on, pretty please with sugar on top.

Yet, to some people, this so-called weakness, this so-called oppression, this victim-identity gives a reason for existing. It gives a perverse sense of purpose.

Which is why, I believe, you see feminism complain that the latest overpriced god-damned luxury-item Iphone is too big for the tiny and inferior female hands, and so this is supreme sexism. I can hardly think of anything more of a bloody god-damned fucking privileged upper-class-twat first-world non-issue than that. Bloody petty whining from insecure victims with a degree in supreme victimology from the university of woe-is-me! I can’t even bloody afford an Iphone. Where’s my victim-credentials, you absolute turd-maggots? I’m too privileged. That’s my problem.

Of course.

Oh boy.

They may not be able to overcome the terrible burden of having tiny, childlike hands… but, ye gods, are they adept at objecting to the so-called oppression from the luxury brands which they are privileged enough to afford. It is topsy-turvy with gravy on top.

They may, at the very least, post about this terrible oppression on the internet in the most glorious slacktivist way. Why should we care about the disturbing amount of male suicides or work-related injuries and death? Why should we make it illegal to genitally mutilate baby boys, subjecting them to torture and possible death? There are more important matters at hand: the tiny ferret-like hands of the female and its relation to the phallocentric Iphone, mirroring, as it does, all of patriarchy through all our ovary-acting herstory of hysteria. Feminism is quite adept at turning everything into a zero-sum game. They believe that talking about men’s issues will detract from feminist issues – which are not the same as female issues – for the very simple reason that they wish to detract from male issues. It is projection. Feminism plays the zero-sum game, then pretends everyone else does as well.

And so there is a purpose to life for these baby-handed ferrets, and that purpose is to force the entirety of the world to fall to their knees and praise the cult of woke, the church of social justice, the grand majesty of feminist up-fuckery with all their victim-hierarchies and weird penis envy.

Enter censorship.

Enter the cold and uncaring ban-hammer fantastic.

Enter tiny Iphones for the small-handed females with their inferiority-complex.

Enter highly subjective hate-speech laws and hate-crime and whatever and whatnot.

Enter a slow and steady slip-slide into censorious totalitarianism, into thought-controlling authoritarianism, into elitist victimhood circles and their laws on compelled speech, compelled thought, manipulated language from lascivious language manipulators of a herd-like victim-mentality… who believe they are doing good, who believe they are working from liberal principles… yet do nothing but push the walls ever closer… who do nothing but tighten the screws and limit liberty as much as can be.

Or am I being too harsh, too snarky, too sarcastic, even?

I don’t know man… I more or less gave up any discussion on the internet aeons ago. I mean – one could probably make the case that me writing and posting what I write and post is discussing on the internet. But when I flat out refuse to engage in debates and things of that nature, am I really adding to a discussion, or am I just sitting in a fortified compound I refer to as my apartment, screaming at the walls and clawing at my own eyes so that I shall not have to see any more of those god-damned, god-awful, god-forsaken reposts? That is, if I am able to keep my mind on track long enough to not get distracted by random passer-by thoughts that somehow allow themselves to be weaved into an already way-too-long rambling rant… Ye Gods, But I do Blabber on when I write. Probably for reasons of not being a good speaker.

I used to take part in discussions. With fondness. Not too long ago, in all actuality. Yet, when I realised that any topic could easily be turned into something completely unrelated, I kinda lost interest, lost faith and lost touch with the whole universal kerfluffle. No matter which discussion, someone had to come along and make it about the plight of women and how feminism will save us all. I wish I were joking. I am not.

I once joked on Facebook that “There is nothing wrong with society, when taken in moderation”. I got so much god-damned flak for that simple and silly little joke that I lost faith in humanity for a few weeks. For those who are uninitiated: there is quite a lot wrong with society. Also: all faults of society are to be blamed on white men. I was given a few lectures after that very obvious joke. The internet sure as hell brings out the best in people.

To get back to the hurdles and obstacles thing a bit: The anxiety I used to struggle with was the kind of anxiety that made me not leave my apartment, that made me lock myself away and throw away the key. I fixed this by picking myself up by the scruff of my scrawny neck and kicking myself in the ass enough times to make a difference. It was not an easy journey. Not by any stretch of the imagination.

But I managed it, and though I still feel that old anxiety creeping up from time to time – particularly in times of high stress, or at times when my insomnia is very bothersome – I no longer struggle with anxiety.

Thus, I found myself joking around with a good friend of mine who had experienced similar struggles with anxiety in the past. This joking around was done on Facebook. (And so comes another Facebook-anecdote from the fabled days of yore.)

Eventually, we got around to the terrible anxiety experienced when buying toilet paper. Stupid as fuck, of course, but that is anxiety for you – completely irrational and absolutely absurd. And, as expected, hilarious in hindsight. If you, as a grown man, can not laugh at yourself for experiencing anxiety when buying toilet paper, you have lost all humour and might as well dig a hole in the bottom of your bed, from which to never re-emerge.

Well, who should pop up from the ferns and grasses of the luscious lands of Facebook, but a wild feminist? Now, clearly, seeing two guys talking in a joking manner about some irrational yet severe discomfort they had experienced… experiencing two guys talking lightly about having experienced tough times due to pathological anxiety was too much for her delicate sensibilities to handle!

Here, one assumes that she thought, were two guys who had forgotten what is important in life. In fact: they had forgotten who it is that really struggles, and so they need a gentle reminder.

Try buying sanitary napkins, boys.”, she wrote. For women are the only ones who need to buy sanitary napkins, and so that trumps buying toilet paper. One presumes, obviously, that toilet paper is bought and used by both sexes.

Take that, patriarchy.

Women-worsting 101, and oh the humanity, oh the insanity, oh the double-edged dildo of narcissistic vapidity!

To this I replied that I had often, and with absolutely no anxiety whatsoever, bought sanitary napkins (and chocolate) for my wife when need arose. Which is the truth. Particularly the chocolate-thing. There is one thing – and only one thing – to do when your significant other is on her period, and that is to retreat into a safe corner and throw chocolate at her until better times come around! Granted, I put that thing about buying chocolate in there to rile the feminist in question up a bit. But I was civil about it.

The wild feminist replied with “Maybe it will be easier if you pretend that you are buying her toilet paper”. This reply made absolutely no sense, given the context of anything. I had just stated that I had no issues with buying sanitary napkins. Or toilet paper. Not any more. I understood not a damned thing about that sentence, and I said as much. What in the hell was there to pretend?

I never got a clear reply to that.

Though, it transpired that she had never had any problems with buying sanitary napkins either. So, then, what was the bloody point of the exercise, except to come swooping in and state that women have it worse than us guys, despite her not experiencing any difficulties with buying sanitary napkins and us experiencing anxiety when buying bloody toilet paper?

Men can not experience any problems whatsoever – however stupid those damned problems may very well be – without being reminded by feral foaming-at-the-mouth feminists that women experience worse problems, so men should just shut up until women get over their collective neurosis. Which they will never do as long as they can use it as a bloody bludgeoning tool.

In fact, I am very surprised that she did not infer that I might be gay, since I was anxious about buying toilet paper yet had no problems buying sanitary napkins… Because why not? One must, after all, always question a person’s sexual preferences without any real reason. And these social justice warrior types… these feminist types… they trade in stereotypes all the bloody time, despite claiming to oppose stereotypes.

It is such a strange self-contradiction on their part that there is no wonder they do not see it. After all; they keep telling people to check their privilege, seeing nothing of their own. Or their own hubris and absolutely god-awful crap-shit-fuck behaviour, for that matter.

But, ah well, the internet does bring out the worst in people. And so too does the cult of woke, the church of social justice and all the various -isms and isn’ts and aint’s that flow from its drooling mouth. (Of interest: I also got flak for posting a picture of myself with a beer and the caption “cheers guys!” I did not include girls, and so this was a trespass most foul. Herpidityderpidoo, they have precious little to worry about when they feel entitled to police what people say.)

There is precious little that is as terrifying, as gut-wrenchingly nauseating, as someone who considers themselves to be morally superior to everyone around them. These people use their so-called moral superiority as a supreme stick of justice, beating people with it until they either submit or the guardian of supreme morality labels them a racist fascist misogynistic white supremacist Russian bot and blocks them.

Or, as is the case when any one of the Twats on Twitter who have bowed their neck and pledged allegiance to the holy spectre of feminism confront a –ghasp – female MRA, they will misgender them (despite the church of woke considering misgendering as hate-crime most foul).

For, ya know, women can not possibly think about anyone but women. If they do, they are gender traitors and, as such, not to be trusted. It is absolutely impossible for a woman to actually care about men, according to these venomous intellectual vagabonds. These twitter-twats will always question a person’s gender, just in case it’s really a man. Or, well, that is to say: they will always assume it is a man. For men can be dismissed easily and shamed into obedience and compliance, whereas women can not.

Women are not to be touched.

Men, on the other hand, are dehumanized in no small way through the wondrous whimsy of the frail and frantic feminist few, alongside the social justice warrior hive-mind and all their hastily assembled damaged-goods-from-IKEA identity politics nincompoops. This is made evident by taking a quick peek at just about every media there is, be that news media, social media, mass-media mediocrity and so forth and so on. Never has it been more trendy to hate on guys for nothing but being guys. Nor has it ever been so commonplace as to be completely and utterly invisible to those who have not had their eyes and minds forced open by the grim spectre of self-annihilating reality.

Reality is as reality is, but reality can be bent and twisted and turned on its head by rabid ideologues and religious nutcases with more opined convictions than rationality… just package the message in neat language with pretty bows of select statistics; the finely tuned instruments of id-pol and the hive-mind both, and you are on easy street.

Then you will be allowed to sit back and watch as reality burns in front of your eyes… As those who claim to despise and hate stereotypes and stereotyping, who lecture others about their wickedness, their unconscious bias, their conformity-phobia do nothing but spout stupid stereotypes, engage in severely biased and bigoted behaviour, and fear everything and everyone who goes against their grain and mass-media induced psychosis.

In the reality as seen through the eyes of rabid ideologues, women can not possibly oppose feminism. Nor can women oppose social justice, seeing as women are sugar and spice and everything nice. For social justice in all its forms is naught but sugar and spice and everything nice. Despite being tyranny disguised as liberty.

And so, any woman who oppose, any “marginalized” group who oppose the double-stink group-think of the social justice/feminist swarm must be a white straight guy in disguise. And there is nothing more heinous, more depraved, more dangerous, more privileged and entitled than a straight white guy.

On the internet, all girls are men and all kids are undercover FBI agents. This seems to be their line of thinking, made evident by their high-strung joy whenever they commit the horribly trans-phobic hate-crime of misgendering a female MRA or just a woman who oppose the social justice warrior hive-mind. No living by their own rules for these people, of course. Rules of censorship, conduct and behaviour only ever apply to the bad people. And they are not bad people. Even when doing the exact same thing they say that others should not do. Herp goes the derp.

Truly, there are no girls on the internet. Except those who subscribe to the one true faith. They are not to be questioned. They should be allowed to shit all over the carpet with no repercussions.

Well, excepting those-who-shall-not-be-questioned and the THOTS, who appear to have been able to turn Tits or GTFO into a valid and lucrative career-option, there are no girls on the internet.

Mind you: I’m not judging. To each their own. The choice is theirs, after all. I don’t much care how people make their money on the internet.

However: one can not flash exorbitant amounts of flesh and skin in one beat of the lions mane, then turn around and complain about sexual objectification of women online in the flap of a lions cock.

That would be hypocritical at worst and completely and utterly stupid at best. Sexual “objectification” of women will only stop when women stop objectifying themselves sexually for fun and profit. Which I sincerely doubt will ever happen, as long as there are thirsty dudes out there willing to pay ridiculous amounts of money for the slight chance of seeing a nipple. Or even cleavage.

Jesus naked monkey-ball wanking on a chain-link fence – guys would do well to heighten their standards a bit, if I am to be perfectly honest. Seeing a pair of tits on cam ain’t worth the bother or the money, brother.

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 22.02.2020

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On Sports Banter and Maggot-infused Coffee:


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.

And terrifying.

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

Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Kindle:
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Internet So Dangerous, part 1

«Forbidden Fruit»

The internet is dangerous, I’ve been told. Particularly for women. Because of course it is, as are all things. If you do not know that by now, buddy-boy, you are either blind or you are deaf or you are stupid. There’s no two ways about it: if it happens somewhere, no matter whom it happens to, women are most affected. At least it must be spun that way.

Still, one should be fairly safe on the internet if one takes care and watches ones steps, as it were. However, since it is such a dangerous, such a wild and wacky place – particularly for women – I thought it would be of interest to write on the terrible dangers of the internet, for all the world to marvel at and furthermore dismiss.

Beyond the borders of the screen, where all sanity goes to die, women are in grave and terrible danger… horribly assaulted by the fell misogynistic males who traverse and guard the dankest pits, the most nauseating cesspools of the internet. Most of the internet is a hive of scum and villainy, as one would well expect, populated by men as it is. As long as you do not talk about / B /, though,you ought to be safe.

Now, me being a naive and innocent gentleman and scholar; naught but a humble thought-crime salesman in fact, I have of course never traversed the dangerous tundra that is / B /. I am far too gentlemanly, far too delicate, for such an endeavour. I can not talk about it for not having experienced it, in fact, so I do not talk about / B /. Yet, as I have understood it through the scholarly articles I have read on the topic, / B / is where all hope and dreams goes to die. It is a graveyard for all that is good and noble and feminine and true, a massgrave for sugar and spice and everything nice. As such, it is for fools as myself who still cling to a tiny floating burrito of hope, of course, out of reach and out of bounds.

There used to be a certain sense of personal freedom, of individual liberty, of anonymity on the internet. Even when it is solely populated by garbage-people clothed in phallic symbolism. Beyond hope, I hope that it will one day return. With gusto, with wild, furious, maddening songs and battlecries, roaring… triumphant trumpets blaring wildly in the echoing cavern where the censorship-brigades lie weeping for having lost the battle…

But it is not this day. Nor is it the day after today or the day after tomorrow. I fear that it will be a good and long while until we are allowed to be anonymous again.

Net-neutrality is all but dead.

Just as God is dead.

And we killed it, just as we killed him.

All of us, with our weeping and our inaction, our apathy and our lethargy.

We killed it.

And so it has become legend.

And so it has become myth…

Legend and myth; morality tales told to children sitting lonely and sleepless in bed at night, tales to make them behave…

If you don’t behave, child, anonymity will find you. For anonymous is legion.”

And the child will tremble and hide its freckled face beneath the covers, wishing that the tale will both end and continue… the duality of peoplekind as only a child, in its adoring innocence, can portray it.

Fear, and love, terror and intrigue all in a pint-sized package.

The child has been told all its life that Anonymous never forgives; that Anonymous can be a horrible, senseless, uncaring monster… it is the creepy sounds outside at night… like fingernails scratching at the window… wolves howling at the door… blizzards that turn to ghostly screams in the child’s mind… Anonymous is still able to deliver, despite being long dead. It is a ghost, a ghoul, a zombie, a demon, sent to kill and to maim and to ensnare the child’s soul… to capture it for an eternity of torment in the very bowels of hell.

As expected, Anonymous is particularly fond of young female victims… male children do not run free of them, of course. They will be twisted and malformed; forced into obedience, made to succumb to the wicked weirdness of the internet… forced to merge and to become Anonymous themselves.

But the girls… oh, the girls… their fate is better left unsaid, so as to create unfathomable horrors as warnings in the tender minds of young girls so that they shall never dare step outside the boundaries set there by their opulent masters; so that they shall stay in their proper place and later turn and run and weep so that the government and various tech-giants shall finally slay the mythical beast that is, and shall forever be, known as Anonymous. For, in order for the censorship-brigades to win and Anonymous to lose, girls and women must be irrationally afraid and angry at that which they have been told makes them afraid, all the time.

Following such observations, one sits, as one does, browsing Twitter. Beholding, watching and – yet again – observing all the twats that tweet and twatter about everything, yet managing, by some strange magic, to say absolutely nothing.

It is naught but free-form forums limited to snark and salvation in equal measure. With rules of conduct so strange and convoluted as to be impenetrable. Denser than the densest dope, stranger than the strangest stranger.

Supposedly, the rules of conduct apply to everyone equally. And so it should be safe, even for women. Yet, as one will experience time and again: there are no real rules about posting.

This is self-evident, as people are still allowed to be mean towards women online. The fact that people are mean – often meaner in fact – towards men on the internet is of no matter, little consequence and whatever. And the uncomfortable fact that most “misogynistic” abuse encountered by women online comes from other women, not men, matters even less. For, through mental gymnastic galore and burlesque, men can still be blamed for the actions of women.

If you will allow, gentlemen, as we are all men of the world here… men who have been around the block a few times, so to speak… know what I mean, nudge nudge, wink wink? We all know, gentlemen, that being mean to women online usually means nothing more and nothing less than merely disagreeing with them.

That is harassment.

Particularly when facing down a stampeding feminist, or a stampeding horde of feministas.

It is pure vile misogyny to disagree with women – particularly with feminism, and misogyny is the worstest thing there is to encounter on the internet, no matter how factual ones rebuttal to the inane ramblings of a feminist is. Non-feminist women are free game and good pickings, so have at them all you like. Yet, do not touch a feminist woman with the gentle stroke of your keyboard. That is harassment, misogyny and all that other terrible stuff. And we can not have that. For added effect, the words racism, fascism, white supremacism, rape, wifebeater, etcetera, in any one of their forms, will also be used and spent like some drunk billionaire spending money during a wild weekend in Vegas.

After a while of flawed and faulty moderation and some observations on the liberal use of the grand ban-hammer fantastic by whip-and-chain moderators, one comes to learn that there are no real rules about moderation either.

Enjoy your ban.

Pro tip: to avoid being banned, don’t refer to people as “retarded” if they ain’t retarded, yet spouting retarded arguments. Refer to them, instead, as “mentally deficient” if they ain’t mentally deficient, yet spouting mentally deficient arguments.

For those who are in the know, in the flow, in the midst of the stream – that is, the ones who count themselves as woke – are protected from moderation, as opposed to those who refuse to be ensnared by the church of woke. The prophets of woke must do something particularly egregious in order to be banned, in order to be moderated, as opposed to those who are not woke, who may be banned for the disastrous crime of disagreement. Tactics from the cult of woke include, but are not limited to, mass-reporting, harassment, doxing, dog-piling, brigading and various and sundry. There are, in fact, accounts on Twitter made for no other reason but to take down and ban the accounts of those of a political persuasion whom they do not agree with. Some of us would, perhaps, consider these poor people as having no life, no purpose, whatsoever. But, then again, some of us are merely hateful, bigoted and various and sundry and so can be easily ignored and dismissed.

The cult of woke is a peculiar and confusing thing, and its adherents, its prophets, its followers and clingers-on deserve each other more than anyone has ever deserved anyone else in the whole history of hysteria.

The cult is auto-cannibalistic by its very nature, by its core design. The woke shall eat the lesser woke; the lesser woke, in turn, shall eat the woke. And the lying shall lay down with the lame.

And both shall play the blame-game, the name-and-shame-game.

Until the rapture, until the end.


Of course; one must never, under any circumstances, migrate to different sites. There must always and ever be a tech-giant monopoly, a technopoly, no matter how censoriously moderated the moderators chose to moderate, no matter how much of a cancerous polyp on the anus of humanity they may be.

The message delivered then is a simple one: if you enjoy any rival sites – don’t!

For the rival sites are filled with Neo-Nazi scumfucks, crypto-fascist marginalizers, male supremacist white-faced smirkers and other such terrible entities, who, by their vague association with the fundamentally flawed and faithfully fascist concept of free speech, wishes for nothing but the subordination of women and other disadvantaged minority-groups. (the fact that women are not a minority does not factor into it. Minority does not mean what it used to mean, due to the voodoo of lackademia.) These sites must, by necessity, be taken down as best they can be taken down, banned and shadowbanned and blacklisted by the tech-giants and the iron-glove with which they rule the internet.

It does not matter what one says, it does not matter what one does. Supporting and frequent other sites than the bulbous sites that the tech-giants have conjured forth from the abyss means that you are, in fact, a fascist. Fascist being yet another of the vague in-vogue-words that no-one really knows what means any more, yet spend until it is completely spent and pointless.

In the glowing light of the Technopolis, all your carefully picked arguments can be ignored. For no-one knows your own mind better than those who have decided to ignore your position and your words, your actions and your deeds in order to push and present their smear-job caricature of you.

Anything you say can and will be used against you.

Anything you say can be turned into something else.

Your opinion as well as the fact of the matter matters little.

The hive-mind hath spoken.

The hive-mind is always right.

So it is.

The hive-mind and its tactics change according to the whims and will and fancy of Ms. Queen Bee Supreme. (Ms. Queen Bee Supreme of course being the current societal, cultural or academic feminist or social justice warrior zeitgeist.)

Lately, over on the men’s rights subreddit – which I frequent often, though in the guise of a ghost… always reading, never writing – concern-trolling has become the latest trend and tactic of the hive-mind scorned by concern for men.

Alongside the obscene assault of concern-trolling, one may often encounter seven thousand varieties of the “not real feminism” fallacy.

Which is to be expected. Most subscribers to the ideology of feminism know precious little about feminism, it appears. Those who oppose it know quite a lot about it. Know thy enemy, as the saying goes.

Scratch the surface, and the point, the rust and muck, of the exercise – that is, the concern-trolling, the attempted tone-policing – becomes as clear as the empty gaze of a vacuous garden-variety feminist.

The point of the exercise is, of course, furthering the feminist agenda and the eternal feminist talking-points, one feigned concern, one falsely presented empathetic gaze at the plight of men at a time. (One can easily spot it by seeing them use the term toxic masculinity over and over again.)

These people ought to be ignored.

Just as we do not negotiate with terrorists, we do not argue with trolls. It means that they win.

They are there to spread pestilence, famine, war and death. No matter the mask they wear at the moment.

The best tactic is to ignore them. Let them scream, splutter and blubber into the void of their own dismal sense of “equality”.

In doing so, they will potentially learn that the harder they try, the harder they will fail. Of course; this is somewhat doubtful. These people never learn from their mistakes. Instead, they double down, convincing themselves that if they fail in epic proportion, it may just become a winning failure.

I blocked the bastards, see?! That means I won!!”

Followed by a long and drawn-out REEEEEEEEEEEE, a lengthy herp and some epic derp.

Even if they do believe themselves to be winners, there is comfort in the knowledge that every win fails eventually.

Every imagined win is destined to fail.

And the mighty do fall and the tremulous do tremble for every fall.

Yet, the trembling forces tremble on, marching towards the gates and winning inch by bloody inch.

Hate-speech and hate-laws and crimes of a hateful nature.

As long as that which is hated is what they do not wish to be hated.

What they themselves may hate is quite alright… for their hate is not hate, it is, instead, opposition to oppression. And the oppressed have every right to hate their oppressors. In the heat of the moment, the troglodytes, goblins, orcs, ogres and nincompoops forget that everything that can be labelled can be hated… that one can not condition hatred, stupid as hatred very well may be, out of people.

One can not force someone to like something, to love something, to approve of something. That is quite contrary to liberty. Like it or not, to live in a free society is to allow for people to hate what they hate, to love what they love, even if one disagrees. Not allowing for this is to not live in a free society. Particularly egregious is this when both allowing and celebrating certain types of hate against certain groups.

When mere criticism of one group gets labelled hate, whilst actual calls for genocide and violence and genocidal violence to another group is not… when this is based solely on arbitrary characteristics… one does not live in a society that is free and open and easy-going. One is living in a prison where freedom is, in fact, slavery.

Hatred may very well be stupid, futile and way too simplistic. Yet, it will never go away. When implementing laws that determine what is and is not OK to hate, all one does is push certain groups even further underground.

Hate breeds hate.

And hating certain groups is still nothing but hate, no matter ones justification, no matter whether allowed socially or accepted through laws. The more you hate it, the stronger it gets. Underground and unseen by feeble-minded nimrods who believe that nothing is to be taken seriously except that which they consider serious, which, for all intents and purposes, is anything but serious.

By which I mean that it is anything but rational. Even the most robust feminist argument is based on feelz before reelz, ya dig.

Particularly so in the latter days of our societies. With this used as truth, a woman who feels unsafe is unsafe, no matter the truth of the matter. And if a woman feels unsafe, she must be protected. Particularly on the internet, where there are so many dangers lurking right beneath the surface.

Apparently, this tale as old as time, this fainting-couch woman, is originality made manifest. Seen clearly in feminists disciples parroting feminist dogma from feminist internet-users using old tattle-tale dialectics like used-car sales-peoplekinds, presenting it as original content.

All new rims, good steering, fantastic tail-lights, good deal, brakes usually work, buy it now.

Even when it is an old and decrepit rustbucket…

Original content is original only for a few seconds before getting old. And feminism is old, ancient, dead and decaying. It is an old and decrepit rustbucket.

Still, it clings to its glory.

Burrowed in the pale and flabby skin of society like a tick, spreading disease, chronic pain and a solid case of good old ickiness. Now, it is not merely feminists who believe this. All the white knights with their bulging mass and alpha-posturing will jump out of the woodwork to defend m’lady and her honour, no matter if she is clearly in the wrong or not.

For if there is one thing one can believe in, with utmost sincerity, it is the weakness and frailty and powerlessness of the strong, powerful and empowered woman. Manufactured as it is by the frail and frantic forces of feminism and enabled by a society that swoops in to save and to shelter and protect and provide for women, no matter who suffers something more or who suffers something less.

Social justice is a farcical farce, ladies and gentlemen, and feminism is at the forefront of it all.

Because why shouldn’t it be?

If there is any talk about victimization, feminism has got to swoop in to make sure and to make certain that women are up front and centre. As original and predictable as a good old fashioned copypasta. As we all well know, being gentlemen and scholars all, the woes and worries of any given feminist is nothing but feminist copypasta. And copypasta is made to ruin every last bit of originality.

(AN:I know; I was supposed to write less about feminism and more about other things. But inspiration struck some hours ago, and now I am rambling my way through something that was supposed to be short, quick, easy, to the point and somewhat humorous. It turned out to become tender finger-gymnastics for my insomniac hop-scotch mind. Oh, well, finger my diddle and pound my nostrils – it is at the very least extraordinarily fun to write. Even when the short piece had to be split into multiple pieces on account of my rambling mind going every which where except towards the direction I pointed it at. Such is the way of things.)

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 15.02.2020

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Coming Out!!

«4 Horsekins of the Wah-pocalypse #2: Pestilence»

“It’s not easy being green”, claims Kermit the Frog.
Damn bastard ain’t got a bloody clue.
Shit-head knows nothing of troubles.
Should have been through what I’ve gone through.

For years, I have self-identified in a particular manner.
Not that anyone cares, or believes me, for that matter.
See; I am a rarity – undoubtedly, an odd peculiarity.
Not at all comfortable in this weird human odyssey.

See; my self-examined identity reveals a hairless blob,
An icky gelatinous thing, an insubstantial gob.
You wanna talk discrimination, micro-aggressions,
double-sanded white privileged post-colonial oppressions?

You wanna talk trans-phobia, male privilege banality,
horrible smirking-whilst-white-and-male criminality?
Try tackling the terribly vicious Medusozoa-phobics,
all damned bigoted pale and male and stale geriatrics.

Bah, humbug! Barely lucid hubris from a tone-deaf bard!
From here until the end of time, I revoke thy victim-card,
I strip you of your place atop the victim-pedestal,
I refuse you unearned pity no matter how hard you bawl!

My self-identity by itself causes violence.
I’m forced by bigotry into a life of utter silence,
by sick-minded phobics of the screech-and-run-variety.
(If they don’t beat me with sticks on account of anxiety)

My pronouns don’t matter, cause nobody cares.
So I just blubber along this lonely trail of tears,
laid down for me, as it is, by faces twisted in disgust.
(Though, some fetishize and greet me then in animal lust.)

No-one believes me, and I doubt they ever will
as I lie face down on the beach, completely naked and still.
It sure is hard being me, with no-one to trust,
just me and the sand turning slowly to dust.

It’s such a hard life for the naked, the timid, the gelatinous,
naught but phobic passers-by with disgust clear and obvious.
And the ladies most frigid, the gentlemen all impotent…
oh, were I only God, were I only omnipotent…

Were I only God, I would force them all to love me.
To hell with free will, to hell with such nonsensical absurdity!
It is rampant phobia, a wicked lack of understanding me;
clearcut case of discrimination, I think, as I blubber out to sea.

Alas, I am neither omnipotent God, nor impotent man.
My identity is one which all and one would wish to ban:
A lonely non-binary translucent jellyfish-kin,
destined to throw the dice of life, never to win.

This bushy beard of mine; each strand a mimicked tentacle,
beneath the water where it floats, such a gorgeous spectacle.
My flabby belly growing by my hand and choice alone,
for years of non-gelatinous privilege now made to atone.

For those who have non-gelatinous privilege have no inkling,
know nothing of Medusozeic woes or worries… all that wrinkling,
that flabbiness, that blobbiness, that terrible lack of blinking,
that floaty feeling, in the ocean, fearing predatory eyes twinkling…

And behind me, at my back, children poke and prod with sticks,
giggling or screaming bloody murder. (Children are such dicks.)
Surrounded by vicious sociopaths, made from all of people-kind,
every age and shape and sex there is, flesh and bone and little mind.

I have no backbone, this is true. In fact, I have no bones at all.
Bones are present in my bio-body, standing 5.8 feet tall…
yet that is just a lonely skin-mask, a saddened human mannequin,
a host to the wailing, longing soul of a gelatinous other-kin.

Piss right off with your quick points of personal privilege,
your caterwauling, comrade-headed opposition to a civil age;
a wondrous age where non-binary translucent jellyfish-kin
may play the game of loving life, come out on top and win!

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 05.02.2020

Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Kindle:
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The Dangers of Dating While Woke

«Quick Snapshot Done in Artistic Despair, Lacking Artistic Flair»

Inspired by this trite and troglodytal whinge-fest:

One rule for me, and another rule for thee and for thou and for thine. Such is the swinging, flapping, luscious bingo-wings of things such as things are at this point in terribly trembling tremolo-time; a twice sidestepped waltz where the dancer can not help but step on her own tongue and handcuffed hands.

The dating-scene, you see, my brothers and partners-in-crime, has turned viciously, maliciously, misogynistically obscene. It has become obtuse scream-time lost in flash-pan-dating feministas fisting twice whore-hopped chlamydia calamities, deep-fried in hysterics and histrionics… table-turning duality; the cosmic singularity of the woke-washed dating crowd whose love-lorn electro-pop hymns call out for shelter-kittens in the lonely night of their malcontent.

A fanged problem-bespectacled grin pokes out from beneath the lead-covers of a penthouse nuclear shelter. Rough-and-tumble concrete corners poured in adolescent hormone-highs; weird dopamine bursts of immediate and immaculate dreams to calculate the terrible, the female-bashing, women-hating, misogynistic rise of men who dare – in their effervescently ever-present arrogance, their perpetually perpetuated toxically masculine ways and vices, in their cock-drunk ball-shacked arrogance – to decide for themselves whom they should wish to date. Woke journos and blue-check-marked twitter-twats all sharpen their pencils and their fingernails en mass, fingernails that are, incidentally, registered – for concerns of safety – as lethal weapons of mass deconstruction. Then take the time to take the temperature and find the tune to which their wrath and ire sing today, and hammer out their piss-takes and shit-shined immediate emotional upheaval for all the world to see. And woe betide them, and any who are such as them – which, for the solipsistically inclined, are all and anyone. The rest do not exist.

Lo, what a terrible thing to see and to behold! A man who dares – dares with all the demented daring in his dastardly daring-do – to have dating-preferences not accepted by the tolerant, the liberal, the thought-leaders, all elite-prone and inclined to intoxicating virtue by virtue of their shaming of the virtually impure and improper whose unshaven face and unwashed mass is lacking virtue… so impure, as opposed to the purity of the latter day sexual puritans who allow for all and any form of sexual clamour, chaos, debauchery and excess, as long as no straight white male should be so egotistical, so selfish, so daringly bold and wickedly aligned as to have his own preferences on the seamless dating-scene.




Shlock and stinking, horrifying, gasping smegma-cock!

Followed by various other immediate words, ululations and weird background susurrations of immense shock and awe and horror there to boot!

Please, sisters of the revolution, do but forgive me this one time my patriarchal wickedness, my masculine confusion, for here I truly, surely, openly must confess to be at a horrible loss for words!

Being at a loss for words is, as we all should well know by now following the enlightened scriptures and scruples of the revolutionary sisters of the junior anti-male-sex league, the domain of men and men alone.

Still, ye gods, but these women do speak in tongues indefinitely, with pause for neither breath nor thought; with nary a gasp for air, or for allowing another to speak their bastard-mind, or elucidate upon his roguish, pimpish words of such incredible, yet dangerously arrogant, eloquence. Not only is he showing all his egotistical, maniacal, selfish, soggy-kneed insanity… but it is dangerous to boot.

The clear and obvious question presents itself. In fact, it pokes its uncut penis-head out of the fly-by zipper-zap, stares at you and then remains: dangerous for whom, and for what reason dangerous, exactly, and exactly how is it dangerous that men should self-choose whom to date in the current year of the looming apocalypse; of the monochrome background-sounds of kittens wailing in despair, in this era, in this night of a thousand crazy box-wine pimping cat-ladies of serendipitous delight and curious, may haps even questionable moral character, with no sight, no sound, no foghorn-howl of any manner of self-awareness or insight into the double standard so blatantly, boldly, fully, clearly on display?

Well, as are with all things dangerous in-and-off nature, it is mostly dangerous for women and women only. Least ways, that is what and who and where and when and why we should care and only care and then care some more, just for good measure.

Then we ought to be afraid – scared straight, or, well, perhaps scared square or gay – by the pure puerile ignorance presented so ferociously by this atonal utterance of a man whose dilapidated cervix, whose rust-speckled vocal-box and barbarian, savage tribe-like preferences in dating is such a terrible burden on the poor and unblemished women of a certain character of woke character-assassination.

Surely, then, the man must be made subject to scrutiny by the grand feminist inquisitor. Clearly, he must suffer the consequences of such horrible non-feminist and anti-revolutionary activi-titties and be sentenced to virtual stoning by the woke twitterati and its gated community of close-knit knitters of other peoples personal preferences. He shall be sentenced and thrown in jail, awaiting execution.

Though, to be frank, as the beautifully non-violent squad of woke hipsters and their brothers, sisters, comrades and confused non-binary xirs and xadams in antifa-arms are opposed to violence, he shall first be washed in the holy liquid; the pungent milkshake of salvation. Furthermore, he shall be saved through a death of personality so that he comes out the other side a richer, more tribally aligned, more morally sanctified productive member of the community. Here is one who shall be saved through re-education and mind-melting milkshake-washings; here is one who must be saved through mobbing, dog-piling, bullying, harassment and so-and-such and all the others.

For no man shall be allowed to date those whom he should wish to date. And no man shall be allowed to be aroused or romantically inclined towards those whom the woke hipster-squad and their vibrato-followers of ire, wrath and jellyfied, petrified, sanctimonious moral aloofness have decided are un-persons, non-persons, never to be saved or canonized or taken into the realm of woke, there to live and love forever more.

Nay, no man shall be so proud, so bold, so sexually selective as to intone in words so rough and dangerous that he will not date women with whom he disagrees on the hallowed topics of the church of woke. For is it not written that whomsoever of a woman hath preferences that are not desired in the womb of double-ham-slammed woke-washed fisticuffs shall not the ladies suffer to live? Or something to that effect?

Nay, hear me, ye men of dubious moral character, your existence is only to serve, to please, to shut up and to get on your knees to present the saintly maidens of the calloused church of woke with your this and all your that and all that which is your other. For all your thoughts, words, deeds, speech, income, money, house, land, laundry, opinions, self belongeth to the cosmic church of the vaguely woke. And only women are allowed romantic preferences or sexual preferences in the wacky dating-game. All else is bigotry and naught but bigotry, so there, so then, so that.

The age of men has ended.

Here comes the age of the Orca.

In the age of the Orca, no-one stopped to ask why this man, this simpleton, would not date the lovely luscious ladies of the woke. Maybe, ye gods, maybe, there is something wrong with the maleficent madams of mockery and murmurs. Maybe they are the ones to be deemed dangerous, not he or men like him…

For celebrating narcissistic banality, vicious solipsist insanity that allows for no other opinion but their own, no other values than their own, no other well-being but their own… For celebrating vapid vacuum-values made to disintegrate and interchange and dissolve into the air and ether the moment something and someone new comes along is not something made for prosperity, for pair-bonding or for longevity.

For double standards are the least titillating thing there is, and unhidden hatred of ones partner on the basis of their sex and grim double-balled tango doubly so.

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 29.01.2020

Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Kindle:
Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Paperback:

Howling at a Slutwalk Moon, a collection of previous blog posts:
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Vol 1 Kindle:
Vol 2 Paperback:
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Wake Me Up Before You’re Woke, Bro

«Lost Years», 2019, Moiret Allegiere

Wake me up, before you go-go.

Or hang there suspended in the air, like a yo-yo.

Doomed to reach forever for the floor or roof, never grasping either.

Wake me up before you’re woke, bro.

(I don’t really care. I’m cooler than you will ever be.)

Flabbergast me with peculiar readings from thy hallowed book of woke, credited to some unknown author, some manufactured grievance-monger, a strange peddler of rare woes and stranger virtues, exotic neurosis and fabled ills.

Sing me soulful songs and mournful ballads half whispered with Pestilence and War in mind, with vague visions of worried threefold cuckoldry floating in amygdala-butter-cream betwixt your eyes and bottom-heavy dreams.

Bruise my wretched sinner-mind with your lack of impulse control moulded and later on perplexed in stoned and strange beatnik-rhymes with Famine and Death crawling slow and low behind your visions of transgressive bottom-falling pegging.

Pin your dreams to these walls you built to enshrine the sanctity – and scarcity – of maidens fair and fairer maidens still to come whom, distressed and dutifully dishevelled, damsel so profoundly as to leave a tailored stretch-mark on your jeans and late-stage nightmare rape-scenario cream-dreams in lonely nights yet to come.

Tell me once again of your boyhood period; your male menstruation malady wherein float all the worries lovingly attached to your manly vulva and peculiar brain-drain testicular cellulite-stain that sought to erase all trace of toxic masculinity from your self-loathing male shadow side.

A shadow-side that wholly swallowed and devoured the nursery-rhymes to an extreme extent – there’s no difference whatsoever between a lady and a man – meaning, thus, of course and clearly, that a man may menstruate and ladies may have cock and balls and even more transgressive non-gender-specific fluid fog-horn things.

Wake me up before you’re woke, bro.

(I don’t really care.

You’ll never be as woke as me.)

Yes, xir, I do deem it imbecilic and inconsiderate that you stand and sit and then proclaim, all high-and-mighty and mightily insane, that I am a bigot of the highest order for my refusal to put a ladies succulent and delicate penis in my mouth.

I should not have to write these silly verses, rhyming as I do with little rhyme and even lesser reason – but you see, you silly bugger, I am stranded in this weary world as much as you – and the world and weary woo now harbour even less rhyme and reason than these verses inadvertently do.

Yes, xadam, I deem it inconsistent and inappropriate that you sing your flaccid two-faced sin-song meant to shame me for not wishing to seek carnal knowledge of the flesh I do not find particularly titillating, be that titillation purely primal lust or no… particularly so when that flesh I deem so unappealing to my deviant and bigoted sexual appetite stand to attention at six inches, or more.

When last I checked, ladies did not sport pornstar-style erections threatening to poke your eyes out should you have too much fun and games, nor did gentlemen ever fall prey to the flooding of the red river running rampant, raw and raging, hormonal imbalance or no.

Never did I ever think that any long-standing dating game should ever need to be so scrutinized as your whims and woozy marbles now demand.

Imagine that!

The bleary-eyed world have now become so cunt-fused that any potential date need to be transvestigated so as not to end in penitent disaster… or in claims of bigotry and sexual frustration and despair, rendering one then effectively socially ostracised and dead.

See, the thing, the point, the electric buzz-and-drone poking at your guts and derp-pegged prolapse is this: none can make demands of what anyone else should find alluring, appealing, sexy and fulfilling of their various carnal desires.

The thing, the point, the bone-saw juggling in your ears and eyes is this: you do not get to dictate, through shame and ridicule, what or whom people find sexually appealing. As long as it is between consenting adults, obviously and clearly and so and such – I fail to see why anyone but those whose genitalia is oddly tangled and entwined in trance and dance should have a say or two.

Of course, I understand, you three-pronged stain of disaster, to your dead-eyed panic-stare, I am a cynical misanthrope; a transphobic bigot steeped in male chauvinism and patriarchal decay… an old school *insert every whatever-phobe you wish to label me as* whom you may dismiss for whatever wishy-washy reason you so wish.

Of course, you in turn have got to understand that whatever label or assertions and assumptions of -isms or of phobic or of -ists you lay upon my worried brow and broken muscle-ghost does not matter for simply not being true in any sense of the wretched word or words or wordly woe and worry.

Nor do any label or asserted assumption you conjure forth from your sacred basket of phobia-invoking dementia and dread despair change or alter any thing except the words, the labels, the supposed phobias themselves – rendering them effectively obsolete, pointless and meaningless through their exerted overuse.

Of course, I have come to understand, this does not matter any way or where or when or how and howdy-doo.

I do.

Yet you are the one – and this one thing you must never forget – who are labelling people as bigots and shaming them for not wanting to fuck someone whose genitalia do not match with their desired mate.

You are the ones who – through shame and ridicule – attempt to force people into fucking someone whom they do not wish to fuck.

You see, in days of yore and days long past and gone, we used to have a word for someone fucking someone else against their will.

I wonder what that ancient word once was?

Oh yeah.


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  • Moiret Allegiere, 20.11.2019

Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Kindle:
Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Paperback:

Howling at a Slutwalk Moon, a collection of previous blog posts:
Vol 1 Paperback:
Vol 1 Kindle:
Vol 2 Paperback:
Vol 2 Kindle:
Vol 1 Illustrated Paperback:
Vol 2 Illustrated Paperback:

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Redemption Song:

There are those who believe in redemption.

…Those who rush in with clown-like drive-by so-called take-downs, snivelling penitent cluck-clucks as the golden rays of the sun bounce of their shrivelled husk, polished and whitewashed to reflect saintlike self-reflection.

…A certain kind of self-reflection forced upon them by hollow religious sermons meant to make them unburden their beastly masculine shape and form of anything resembling masculinity. That is to say: masculinity as viewed through the mute liturgy of cross-cultural feminist zealotry; masculinity as the brutal cross that only men have to bear, upon which they are to later be crucified atop the hallowed peaks of self-flagellated Golgotha.

…A cross and burden which they must carry with them underneath the vice-like grip and ever-judging eyes of this awesome Goddess of immediate pussy-willow whips and thongs, of self-congratulatory neoteny and fruitful hips, through whose eyes and wretched form all men are sinners singing songs of sinner’s vice and virtue none.

…Within whose judging god-hand grasp and heaving bosom none shall ever be wholly and fully redeemed, yet still see and then consider their murmured self-inflicted martyrdom for the curse and for the cause as a source of grand amusement, picked then doubly-pecked at time and time again with angry knitting needles through their tortured manly eyes, their horrid, horribly horrifying perverse male gaze, or through their dubious liar-tongues that wriggle so amusingly as they choke to death on their own self-sought and self-bought self-immolation.

Never to be fully acknowledged within the church and its angelic walls, its trumpeter halls, its holy smear of period-blood, but to be referred to endearingly or mockingly as “allies” for the noble cause, caused by sex and sex alone, forever doomed to stand without the whining wall and holler at those who did not wish to enter that they are crackpot sinners, brutish bores, never to be absolved of sin.

…as he is surely soon to be…

…for all the pilgrim steps he shall endure upon the path to absolute redemption…

As all truly penitent sinners cursed with cock and balls are want to do, must he now and ever and anon carry the wormwood cross, the snivelled cluck-cluck, into the unwashed masses and their meaty mouths to meet and greet and then dole out calls for redemption as redemption is; acknowledge first the grandest of all earthly sins – the never-seen nor never-heard before privilege of being male (add a sin or more for also being white) – and then work through and then come out the other side, crawling on your knees to beg forgiveness for the sins of you and of your father and your fathers father and so forth, back through time and through the ages until you meet the protoplasmic ooze, until you greet the primordial chaos-soup from whence all men were ripped and torn, born from rape and ravaged ruin, born from perplexing shame and into shame reborn and born again, the original sin once spurted in the face of sinners straight from sinners cocks; a semen-speckled bukkake from the majestic godhead and his cohort, the grand dragon patriarch himself.

Though redemption is dearly sought and even more dearly bought, it is one to never be delivered. For the sins and trespasses one wishes to be absolved off are so grandiose in nature, so undeniably vicious and evil and cold-hearted and mean that none can say or see or think or mean that any true redemption can be had, nor absolution passed upon the shrivelled cluck-cluck husk or the beacon of his armour, rusted and then polished ‘till it turns to glass and passes then as passing gas into the stratosphere, shattered and then chewed and then passed up and passed on and spat out unto the dirt and earth where dead men walk who passed this way before, who self-flagellated ‘till their backs were sore and whipped of all but blood and bone.

For the truest of all that is true, and the realest of all that is real is the knowledge, festering at the bosom’s core of the Goddess’ high embrace – that all men are vicious and are born that way from the loins and in the groin then tangled and entwined.

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 02.10.2019

My book – Howling at a Slutwalk Moon, a collection of previous blog posts:
Vol 1 Paperback:
Vol 1 Kindle:
Vol 2 Paperback:
Vol 2 Kindle:
Vol 1 Illustrated Paperback:
Vol 2 Illustrated Paperback:

Other links:
Redbubble shop: