I came of age in an apocalyptic recess. A green-screen school-yard that scripted interactions with other kids where what was and was not allowed depended upon the screech-yammer of the blind and murky eye in the sky; the godhead of our illuminating teenaged madness that got us mad and gloomy, despairingly lost in the labyrinth, alternating between hunting or being hunted by the Minotaur.
Not to run too fast, not to
wrestle on the ground, not to play-pretend battlefields mirroring
open-canvas history… but to buckle down, to defend and to pretend
miscellaneous cataclysmic horror-events never really happened as they
did… that words spoken were not spoken or in fact ever thought,
despite being spoken loudly and coherently through the smokescreen…
an age of lies and of deceit where nothing ever meant what it really
meant, where all was jumbled confusion.
Wild, rubbed raw, running
scared, broken and feral… snow melting on eyelids exposed to the
sun… later to be targetted for brown-nosed browbeating for our
immediate and immaculate response to distant sing-song triggers that
burnt the sky as well as the eye in the sky where we should neither
sing nor dance but fold our hands and loose our selfish selves in a
death-rattle trance. Scorched earth; minds and nimble fingers burnt
and buried, bruised and battered.
Once we jumped to action in
inaction… attempting to avoid the plague that killed the wild
forest growing in our mind and in our minds eye… so that our
childhood eyes that had their gaze thrown to the ground in shame and
in regret and dutiful neglect should be clouded by the grim,
deaths-grin of the eye in the sky that would burn a hole in our souls
and in our lust and laughter to send us spiralling down.
Such a fall and such a tumble
from the playing-fields that levelled all our spastic muscles, toned
to peak efficiency in young-boy minds that screamed and dreamed and
creamed in anguish… torn apart by clashing waves and tyrant-songs,
whose vibrating vibrato-voices swooned and gasped in two-toned
harmony at the mere whisper of the word “pussy” or – even worse
– the word “cunt”; the shaking fists and trembling lips
conspired to the rat-faced shaming of our budding sexuality.
For we were not to raise our
arms in gratitude to the spring-rays of the sun, or the smiles of
alluring teenaged beauty, nor to appreciate the forms and shapes that
came to bloom in sudden summer-winds… we were left instead to
celebrate the dim rays of the winter sun that cast such shades of
doubt in the neurotic tragedy of our puberty-induced psychosis that
shook the travesty, the cow-poked lunacy of long-lingering hatred and
despotic fear of male sex and sexuality, of what was considered brute
boyish fumblings in the dark… naught but inexperience and clumsy
attempts at flirting in actuality… yet painted and presented as
peak misogyny or sexual entitlement in the dawn of the present-day
oppressive clown-world insanity where sexuality is wrong except when
it is right… which is… well, whatever, never mind. Smells like
teen dispirit… Here we are now… vivisect us.
We sat chained and locked in
dim sleep beneath arching, cavernous roofs and watched the stars
align to our demise to be taught the terrors and the horrors, the
errors and the worries of our raging boner; our holocaust-inducing
hard-on, the simplistic stupidity and egotistical nature of our
fornication-desires, where a penis was doubtlessly nothing but an
implement of rape and of oppression, a hymen-blasting shotgun
spray-painted the colours of beastly lust and animal instinct.
As was also the case regarding
our perceived lack of emotional maturity… a ghastly grim guffaw
whipping us across the backs for our crude humour and ravenous
rogue-like laughter… for us to cross the lines of good taste and
decency was such a trespass that the sheltered shaded safe-zone minds
that numbed themselves with safe and sheltered shaded safe-zone
entertainment swooned and gasped and swindled their way into the
limelight to point their wagging fingers at us and beat us down for
insubordination in our intra-sexual communication, bullshit-talk and
private jokes, shooting us for revolution, for de-volution, for
having a sense of humour different from the scorned and
ever-so-offended hordes that ruled the discourse then and would later
come to rule the discourse even more in fumbling babbled
crocodile-teared shock and horror at the state of the woe and of the
worry of the world.
mind-melting meddling in the private sphere where none but those who
ultimately were intimately involved ought to have words to say and
deeds do to is par for the course in the inter-twined and
inter-mingled hive-mind perspiration that drips like blood from
rotting gums that can not stand the shock of people acting on their
own, being non-programmed by the engineers of this unavoidable
Armageddon, the downfall and demise of our all and own and one and
institute for higher morality have unleashed the hounds of war, have
sat hells gates open and let loose the hordes of hell to burn and
bring to ruin all that once was and ever will be. To tear down and
never rebuild. To bomb, burn, bruise and batter all who oppose the
high-flying fancy of their ministry of morality, their department of
kind and inclusive mob-rule and social death, their police of
political duplicity and virtue hidden in their folded hands and
dead-eyed grimaced grins that claim vacuous public decency… to be
laid down upon the heads and shoulders of all but them, for they are
above the law and above the rules… y’all gotta play by the rules
as we present them, but we don’t have to.
One can not expect to find common decency in those who rage and roar about the lack of common decency – such arrogance is invisible to those in the throes and hysterical displays of smug self-righteous arrogance, virtue and morals and wise words more vacuous and wild than the gloomy depths of teenaged goth poetry written in the dark by candlelight-vigils for the soul they wish they had not sold for political correctness, where double-standards are the only standards they hold, a truth visible to all but themselves.
This wilful misunderstanding
of the social game as well as the sexual game tuned us onto a
frighteningly forceful application of new rules and guidelines that
don’t really work in accordance with how human beings interact.
Quite a lot of our interaction
and our communication is non-verbal, based on body-language… subtle
hints and movements and changes in tone and mannerisms.
Which is why, for example,
sarcasm is so difficult to read that Redditors tend to use that “/s”
to indicate smart-ass sarcasm. Otherwise, it is taken as serious. For
lack of body-language and tone of voice. Given that our communication
these days tend to be more written than it is spoken, more digital
than it is physical… I wonder if we have not removed ourselves too
quickly and too hastily from physicality, confusing ourselves to
believe that the rules of face-to-face communication need to mirror
that of written communication, instead of the other way around?
Or – more frightening –
that the lack of physicality, the lack of body-language has created a
generation incapable of reading, using and comprehending
body-language? To such an extent that a friendly touching of the arm
or the shoulder can be interpreted as some terrible affront,
something akin to assault – or sexual assault. As we have seen at
least one dude – young, shy, awkward teen – be sentenced to a
fine of 250 GBP and five fucking years on the sex offender registry
for touching a girl on the arm and the waist on two separate
occasions. What used to be normal human interaction is now considered
a terrible trespass on someone else’s bodily autonomy…
This should be terrifying. It
should be a sign that we – that is the western world – are
declining rapidly into our own undoing. When someone can be judged
and sentenced – by law – for something so minor, so petty, so
insignificant, we are not on the right track. Not as a society, not
as a civilization and not as a people. If we have become so frail
that we can not handle normal human interaction without breaking down
in hysterics, spending social resources… no, wasting social
resources and time, we are manufacturing our own doom and demise.
Now, of course, it is only women who are allowed to be so frail –
men still have to put up with just about anything this shambling mess
of a society can throw our way. Any complaints will bring shame and
ridicule our way, and loads of non-arguments, stupidity and personal
attacks from arrogant imbeciles floating in the steaming pile of
their own hubris. That hubris has the same aroma and texture as
grade-A Bullshit, by the way.
On Friday, the 25th
of October, I was out walking my dogs. I was approached by a cute
lil’ old lady. She seemed to be in her mid-to-late seventies,
though she might have been older. This lil’ old lady was all smiles
and laughter, complimented me on my beard – actually touched it,
then proceeded to touch my arm and told me that she enjoyed seeing
men having beards nowadays. On account of masculinity. We then
chit-chatted for a little while, before we parted ways with a
“good-bye” and a friendly waving of the hands. Body-language
This small chance encounter
made my day, if I am to be perfectly honest. It was one of those
slightly surreal every-day happenings that don’t mean all that
much, but can bring about quite a lot of joy. It is those small
things that make a difference. That is what ought to be cherished.
Such small things – such
tiny compliments – I believe, is particularly important to men who
seldom – if ever – receive compliments on their appearance. Or
compliments at all, for that matter. Which is a sad state of affairs
all on its own. It says a lot about our societies, though I can not
possibly comment on that without the inevitable “male tears” and
“fragile male ego” nonsense from the very empathetic feminist
squads hiding in the bushes and believing themselves to be above any
form of criticism.
Such small gestures of
kindness is just that – small gestures of kindness – unless you
are caught in the throes of hysterics, lured into the belief that
everyone is out to get you. Which is what feminism has managed to
lure women into believing – that all men are out to get them,
preferably for rape – with or without given consent (heh) – but
quite possibly and probably also for violence and murder.
This is nothing but
fear-mongering, akin to psychological terrorism, for all I care.
This fear-mongering is
perpetrated to such an extent that what used to be normal human
interaction – light touches, friendly gestures of intimacy, trust
and bonding – or a friendly invitation to intimacy, trust and
bonding – is now considered threatening, is now considered
violence, is now considered assault or sexual assault… if it is a
man doing it. And, no, intimacy does not equal sex.
To my eyes, this is nothing
more than an extension, the natural end-game and only possible
outcome of the old tattle-tale that men have only one thing on their
minds. And that one thing is sex, I have been led to believe by
scores of women who seem perfectly able to read minds, as well as
being perfectly unable to listen to what men have to say on the
matter. There can be no other reason for a man to touch a woman than
a wish for sex. This despite how or where he touches her – intent
be damned, context be damned, everything be damned but the subjective
feelings of the woman. It doesn’t matter much what men say in
regards to men, the male brain, the male body, male sexuality or
what-have-you. It matters what a woman says. Doubly so if it is a
feminist woman, and quadruply so if she is a professor of gender
studies, feminist basket-weaving and underwater gynocratic ballet.
Because this does make perfect sense, you see, in a society in which
everyone is entitled to their opinion as long as they are not male,
in which case they are not allowed opinions on this, that or the
other. Unless they align with feminist thought and fancy, in which
case they are almost entitled to their opinion on this, that or the
other. Except this thing, that topic and that other thing.
Oddly enough, I doubt the
police would be willing to take me seriously if I told them that I
felt violated and assaulted by this lil’ old lady touching me
without my explicit consent or invitation. On two occasions! Oh, the
horror, oh the humanity, and so forth and so on.
This is not to say that I
think people should just ignore their own personal boundaries or the
personal boundaries of other people. I believe nothing of the sort.
Still, there has got to be an understanding that human beings –
much like other animals – are physical beings first and foremost.
Our bodies, our stance, our
unspoken language, communicate far more than our words ever will. It
is easy to spot a liar based on their body-language, for example.
Words can say this and they can say that and they can say the other.
This does not matter if the language of your body says quite the
opposite. And language – such as we have it – is a fairly new
invention, all things considered. It is a great tool, to be sure and
to be certain – though, admittedly, it may also be a barrier.
Is it not incredible to think
that people who do not speak the same language, who do not even speak
languages similar to one another may still communicate quite
effectively, understand the other person and also make the other
person understand them simply through hand-gestures, body-language
and things of that nature? It might not make for the most intricate
of discussion, but it is still enough to understand the other on
I think it is absolutely
incredible. Though I am going off on a bit of a tangent here.
What I am trying to get at is
that I believe we have, in many ways, killed – or at the very least
effectively subdued – a very normal and human form of interaction
and communication through mass-hysteria – and possibly through an
over-use of written communication. We replaced body-language with
pictograms in the form of emoticons. Because we had to figure out
some way to communicate body-language, pose and facial expressions to
convey properly the tone and as such the intent of a message, of the
Communication is dead. Oddly
enough due to communication becoming more frequent, constant and
easy. What a strange world we live in. The smaller the world gets,
the more we are in touch with each other, the more we lose touch with
each other. Drifting away, as it were, into self-contained bubbles of
social media and other such maladies of the modern age where nothing
much matters but the image we can present of ourselves – an image
that is superficial… which may, at a single word, be shattered and
broken like the illusion it is. For we present and reflect only the
best of ourselves – or, rather, what we believe to be the best of
ourselves, how we would like to be perceived rather than who we are.
It is not so much deceiving other people as it is deceiving
ourselves, duping ourselves into believing that who we present
ourselves to be through social media is who we either are or who we
really want to be. Or who we ought to be, empty virtue-signalling and
hollow flashing of morals included. This can not possibly be
sustainable. The best way – in my honest opinion – to get to know
oneself is to seek solitude and meditation, to learn how to be alone,
how to enjoy being alone. Which we seem to never be in this age of
social media madness, constantly competing with our digital
neighbours over petty things… my lawn is greener than yours. And my
house is cleaner. And my virtue is greater. And my kids match my
sofa. And I was groped twice by a stranger, whereas you were only
groped once. I deserve more sympathy, more empathy and more of that
sweet victim-cred. Pound me too, you malicious bastard. (Why won’t
anyone pound me?)
This avoidance of physical
communication is worsened quite a bit through the ridiculous
weaponization of female fragility employed so effectively by the
frantic forces of feminism, demanding every touch – however small
and insignificant – be deemed verboten, considered a horrible
affront and assault… if it is a man touching a woman. The same goes
for a man merely looking at a woman in a manner she feels is
improper. Cue the swooning, the sniffing salts and the whole shebang.
I fail to see how this constant state of hysteria… of inner turmoil
and frailty is a reflection of strength. But that will have to be as
it is, I suppose. There is little personal strength in breaking down
over small and insignificant things. Though, as I suspect is the case
and the point, there is quite a lot of social power for women to
present themselves to be weak and in need of protection. Which is
where this weaponization of fragility always ends up; a call to
change this and change that so women shall feel safe. With an
emphasis on feel.
I am absolutely certain that
women are far more touchy-feely than men in general. Where men punch
each other on the shoulder in a gesture of trust and camaraderie,
women hug. As an example. Not to mention that women tend to complain
about men’s lack of intra-sexual intimacy… or intimacy at all…
or complain if there is too much of it, for that matter.
Of course, the feminist hordes
tend to explain this all away with this nonsensical screech of theirs
that men have nothing to fear from women, whereas women have much to
fear from men. For men are such terrible, vile and violent creatures
that any touch, however slight, is an act of violence and of rape.
Therefore, women may touch men and men may not touch women. Mental
gymnastics to properly explain away why this call of theirs for
equality is ever so lacking
in equality. Odd that they
fail to mention the scores of white knights that jump into battle to
save m’lady from the horrible trespasses of the man, with a good
ol’ fashioned arse-whooping of the beastly man the result more
often than not. Oh well,
never mind, no matter.
proven, however, through the witch-hunt that is #metoo and other such
trite and treacherous social movements, men have much to fear from
women utilizing the government, social media and the press as their
weapon of choice… in so doing, if there is no punishment by the
justice system, there is sure to be social ramifications, rendering
the man effectively dead and imprisoned, a social outcast from now
until the end of time. It
does not matter whether the courts find him innocent or not. The
court of social opinion will still remember, will still pass
judgement and will still punish. Add
to this that the #metoo movement excluded men completely, thus
creating the illusion that only women experienced things of this
nature – as is, of course, most befitting of a feminist movement
hell-bent on portraying men as terribly as possible and women as
saintly as possible – and you’ve got yourself a decent firmament
to build upon where the re-writing of the social contract is
concerned, once again with women up front and centre. Women
are victims, men are perpetrators. And so, women must be protected
from men through implementations of laws that are anything but
gender-neutral, even when feminism claims to wish for complete
is it not? Take a look at the
recent alterations of the penal system in the UK,
and you will see what I mean.
Equality under the law has come to mean that the law favours women…
by the letter of the law, not only the bias of any judge or jury in
the courtroom. It is
frightening. And it is spreading like a cancer.
…For that is
sure-as-the-living-breath equal treatment of the sexes; one set of
rules for one sex to follow, and a whole other set of rules for the
other, be those rules societal or governmental, be those laws
unspoken social contracts or written laws. Anything goes. And
anything contrary to equal treatment of the sexes is for sure equal
treatment of the sexes when seen through the frantic eggshell-frail
enlightenment of the feminist hive-mind AD. the current year.
Equality means whatever the hell the feminist forces of frail and
fragile weaponized femininity say that it means at any given moment.
And to hell with objections, logic, reason and other such trite trash
from the patriarchal cis-white-heteronormative rape-brigades and
their white supremacy, whether those that object be men or women,
black or white. One is, after all, either a feminist or a sexist. And
this is not totalitarian, nor is it tyrannical. For feminism told me
so. It says so in the dictionary, remember.
You can find the definition of
feminism directly underneath the word “manipulation” or the
phrase “manipulation of language” in the dictionary.
I suggest a popularization of
the term “Femipulation”. Because why the hell not? The feminist
hive-mind gender terms for the sole purpose of insulting and
belittling men and masculinity, so why should they not have a taste
of their own medicine?
I am also very fond of
“Ovary-acting”, “Cunt-fusing” and “Fem-steria”.
“Man”? As in “Men do this”? Bah, humbug – this will not
stand. Men don’t femipulate. Only feminism femipulates with all the
femcels they can muster.
Obviously, I jest. As much as
I enjoy using such words in jest – to shine a light on the
stupidity of words such as “mansplaining” and “manspreading”,
I am not serious in my usage of them. Nor would I ever use them in
any proper discussion or argument… should I ever poke my head out
of this hermit-cave of mine to partake in a discussion, which I
highly doubt… But see – see how easy it is – to feign outrage…
to wilfully perceive something as something other than what it is.
History, herstory, humankind, peoplekind, woman, womxn, womyn,
We should never have graduated
from being apes. We are barely domesticated primates, I think.
Particularly so when watching the bars close and people file out
drunkenly at night, all screeches, gibbering, roars and
shit-flinging; body-language, touching, hugging, intimacy and all
that jazz… which we seek to outlaw, eliminate and annihilate until
we all live inside bubbles of bloated self-importance or tragic
self-segregation, later to blow up from lack of oxygen or from
overdosing on sniffing our own farts… until the whole thing goes
down the drain in a cosmic gang-bang where only our lack of sense and
empathy gets a taste of the good old fashioned willy-wetting and the
humpbacked beast of a thousand backs… where mutual respect and
co-operation is given a forced double penetration by the terrible
beast of the apocalypse, this time wearing the wart-speckled face of
political correctness and wielding the double-edged dildo; one dildo
named “shame” and the other “ridicule”… And I looked…
and beheld an angle…
All the while, the world grows
ever more chaotic, society grows ever more confined and controlled
and regulated… down to the minutest detail of our day-to-day lives
being governed and censored. For the political must be personal and
the personal must be political, to such an extent that people prod
their noses where they have no justifiable reason to prod their
noses, mingling in the affairs of other people and asking “why does
she cook dinner, what do you do then?”… ignoring any and all
which the man do in a relationship in order to shame him for having a
partner that does anything in a relationship.
We are not on the correct
path. We are breaking down. Bit by bit, we are eroding and slipping
into the sea. Caught in self-aggrandizement, hollow
virtue-signalling, petty squabbles and this constant state of
confrontation, resentment, anger and self-importance to the point of
absolute absurdity. Everything has become vague and wishy-washy,
washed out with bleach until nothing means anything and anything can
mean everything. Because nothing matters any more. We have had a good
run of relative stability. And now it all comes crashing down. With a
whimper and a shiver, not a giant explosion, not a gigantic bang.
Here ends part seven. Join me next week for more of this cruel and unusual ramble, lest I fall into the singularity and get swallowed by cocaine-covered clowns. Makes about as much sense as anything, I suppose. Honk. Honk.
Myths and superstitious
legends take their toll. We had a good run… and a greater roll…
and the lengthiest tumble… past glories are duplicated in a faulty
paper-copier… to come out broken, ripped and torn in a weird
copycat display… a shattered mirror reflecting freedom and liberty…
where freedom is drawn hastily, outlined in strange dystopian prose,
painted with the ink and trembling ire of surveillance through social
and governmental power… Of course you are free and have your
freedom, sir and saintly madam, as long as you don’t act free and
act out your freedom.
The hard and the soft power
combined, standing in harms way to harm the way and shatter sheltered
minds a-plenty… To then permanently save them from shattering
through rules and regulations designed so that no-one of the
sheltered and the sacred shall ever have to hear anything they
dislike… which, according to the whim of the double-speak fairy
Godmother of supreme morality, may or may not include someone merely
disagreeing. It all depends on the pre-designed political correctness
of stated opinion or fact or truth. It is, after all, far more
important to be morally and emotionally correct than it is to be
factually correct. So spake the fleeting fairy of flimsy morality and
flimsier virtue. Of course you are free to speak and express yourself
through freedom of speech and expression… as long as you accept all
these limitations on your freedom to speak and to express yourself…
as well as the governmental penalties should you transgress and act
out that freedom…
Hate-speech laws ain’t
nothing but a slow, dark cloud of tyranny… it is a storm beating
down on us from afar… an inevitable decline into compelled speech…
of forced conformity of thought and of opinion. Making it illegal to
say something must simultaneously mean it is illegal to hold that
opinion. If you can not speak your mind, how can you possibly have a
free mind? Of course I believe in freedom of speech, but freedom
of speech should not extend to ideas which I object too….
On a superficial level, we
stand free as free could be… to express whatever and whichever…
to walk the path less trodden by feet less swollen… complete
expression of self is absolutely allowed… though you can not
express disagreement with someone else’s complete expression of
self, should your values in some way align with the dark side of the
force… And what is Light and what is Dark is decided in the dark by
drunk hens henpecking social interaction to drunk, drugged and
despairing death. Should your values not align, you are free game for
the feral forces of the mob and of the pack. And the government, for
that maddening matter. Slow death by a thousand pecks.
un-personed and disappeared loudly, with horns blaring, through the
frenzy of the pack; the soft power of sublime social pressure… wild
hens hunting the heretic by any means necessary… threats of
violence and use of violence is all part of the game; no need to
argue or discuss. Attack the person, not the argument. Superficial ad
hominem… Reductio Ad Hitlerium, ya dig? All who do not fall into
this is fucking Nazi-scum, alt-right pack-rats, fascist collaborators
After all, the person is not a
person any longer. The person is an object, an enemy, a scapegoat
upon whose frame all scorn and hatred and ridicule may be placed and
laid to rest upon the browbeaten skeletal frame of his simian
…Insert Sure, Jan meme,
for maximum efficiency in dismissal and put-down… rid
yourself of toxic fuckaroos…
External appearance is now
marvellously and magically, through smoke and mirrors, through wild
and lengthy yarns spun in campfire-tales told frantically by mad-eyed
unblinking hens, far more important than internal whatever… content
of character matters little when faced with the overwhelming argument
of skin-colour, sexuality, sex and gender. Ho-ho-ho, bloody well fuck
If you look like this, you’ve
got to think like that… it goes without saying… tribal belonging
through external appearance first and foremost… a subversive, a
remarkably childish superficial take-over manufactured in myriad
mind-melt manipulations… to think like this, you ought to look like
that. Don that uniform and wear the insignia of the tribe, burnt and
branded on your buttocks by your handlers… you’ll wind up without
anything resembling true within… without within, within stands
without. Shattered and shamed, tattered and torn, broken between a
rock and a hard place… or between a cock and a hard face… You are
not allowed that hair, buddy-boy, lest you swear allegiance to this
tribe… nor that colour of pants… might as well tattoo a swastika
on your inner thigh, you lowly, low class something-or-other.
Superficial values is
identity-politics wish-wash. It is smoked reams of light masquerading
as epiphanies to break the boredom of modernity. Grand words, the
grand wazoo and much ado about abso-fucking-lutely nothing…
First world problems presented
as profound difficulties… whimsical realms of absolute and acute
madness; inflammation of the right and the left brain hemisphere…
epileptic fits of tongue-twisting tattle-tales… the new academic
lingo is speaking in tongues in histrionic fits of crazy ecstasy… a
religious trance to last a hundred years… or two seconds flat,
replaced seconds later with some new petty grievance-fuelled
annoyance, presented in the same histrionic ecstasy… All hail the
high Goddess Annoying Intellectual Ramble and her clouded descent
into the babbled afterlife.
Ramble on, my wayward world…
there’ll be cheese when you are done. Cheese and whine for maximum
At times, I think we need a
good old fashioned war. At the very least, please give us a small
crisis… something substantial in this dawn of the insubstantial, in
this doom where anything means nothing and nothing means anything, in
this age of the great gobble-de-gook, the fantastic swoon, the
hallowed swan, the wondrous woo, the gargantuan woozy whimsy of
wilful vanity wandering wonderingly within the borders of our
manufactured frailty… our remarkable parody of reality.
All who dwell within our
borders are set to collapse at a moment’s notice, mind and sanity
and inner strength bastardized and sodomized in equal measure… the
fall, the oh so timely fall into superficiality and moral
beastiality… excuse me, moral inner-species erotica… with not a
smidgeon nor a shade of shame and self-reflection to be found or to
We have grown depraved and
decadent, bereaved of manual labour and drowning in automation… we
have nothing to seek or reach… so few hurdles to overcome that we
need to manufacture them for those whom we have considered worthy of
having hurdles… and we need to neglect them for those we have
considered unworthy of having hurdles… You can tell who is whom by
their superficial characteristics, dont’cha know
Big Brother is watching… as
is Big Sister; the hard and the soft moral bludgeon… one with a
monopoly on violence, the other with a monopoly on social death and
shame and decay… stray but a little from the trodden path, the
accepted discourse and opinion, and the forces of the weak and of the
frail – as they chose to refer to themselves – will beat down on
you with all the frail force that can be gathered at the tumbling
Touretted tick of an NPC, render you all but dead and imprisoned
within the cage of what-is-ok-to-speak-and-to-say…
The age of conformity sprung
forth from the grimy loins of political correctness, where facts
don’t matter and matter is insubstantial… and something that
sorely needs to be said and be spoken may not be said, spoken or
discussed despite the importance of the thing… for it would be
politically incorrect and so deemed verboten by the frail forces that
dominate the discourse… do not say that; it could potentially hurt
someone’s feelings, buddy-boy. Even if your brothers are dying, do
not say that. For it will hurt the feelings of the frail forces that
rule with an iron glove; the soft tyranny of manufactured pettiness
and frailty… the sham that is the social game and social rulebook
intertwined and conspired to smack you between the eyes, and then to
lay eggs within your central nervous system. Spreading, inflaming
your tissue and killing you slowly.
We’ve got the hive-mind
hierarchy of frailty, also known as the progressive stack… You can
be attacked in any manner if you are at the bottom of the progressive
stack… or was that the top? It’s all so topsy-turvy, upside down
and uncomprehendingly cunt-fusing.
A for effort, fail for
execution… dragged outside for a proper execution for failing to
follow the flow of the fault-line of the frail and frantic few… the
choir offended, my gooey goodness, how loudly they sing and shriek
and whine and mutter most incoherently in the grimy greed and
darkness of their silent superficiality… their vast calls for
In the bubble, safe and
sheltered, shameless and superficial, pointing to this and only this
to state with absolute certainty that you are that and only that; a
terrible straight white male – the worst of the bunch, a natural
force of pure evil… Antichrist sprung from the loins of a fertile
ball-blasted Basilisk Cock-goblin to wreak bloody havoc on the world
and all that dwell within.
Boiled, and boiled and then
reduced to the bare essentials of appearance; straight, white, male…
or pale, male and stale, as the saying goes.
That is all you shall be judged upon, and to hell with anything going on within… within is out, ya know, ya see, ya dig; without is in – the hip, woke hipster squad deemed it so incredibly appropriate to appropriate stupidity in the guise of woke intellectualism, see. Now take your toxic whiteness, your toxic maleness and your toxic social construct heteronormative heterosexuality and kindly bugger off and die.
There is absolutely nothing
wrong with physical attraction. Nor is there anything wrong with sex…
or sexual desire. Quite the contrary, I would dare say, as I fail to
see how the human race would have managed without it.
Contrary, perhaps, to all
sanity and reason, I have yet to become a misanthrope. There is too
much beauty and kindness in the human race still for that to happen,
though the mass-media pundits would tell you otherwise. Might be a
case of naivety on my part. No doubt, I am a grumpy and cynical
bastard… but at the very least I still cling to a tiny floating
burrito filled with hope. This keeps me from becoming completely and
For the time being, at least,
the good tend to outweigh the bad. One just need to look beyond the
rage-inducing headlines and constant calls for outrage. It makes more
sense to focus on the bad. It stands to reason that the bad is
something one would wish to change, whereas the good don’t need to
change. Even if the bad often is amplified far beyond how bad it
really and truly is. And the following outrage doubly so.
Whenever I experience one of
my frequent bouts with insomnia, I tend to wake up in the wee hours
of the morning… or the middle of the night, completely incapable of
going back to sleep. Physical pain, stress, emotional turmoil,
constant pondering, racing thoughts… whatever the reason, I have to
get up. And in those moments, I tend to watch dog-rescue videos on
YouTube. As corny as that sounds. It restores my faith in the world
in no small way. And is one of the few things that bring tears to my
eyes, soppy romantic fool that I am. Dogs are way too good for us. At
times, I think that we don’t deserve them.
There is so much enmity, so
much hostility, so much rage and wrath and ruin everywhere one looks.
Everything has to be analysed, broken down and labelled this or that.
When that happens, it is left open to attack from those that would
say that this is better than that. Or that is
better than this.
Nowhere, to my bleeding eyes
and foggy winter-mind, is this more evident than in the eternal
gender-war. The eternal gender-war, I think, is a manufactured war
meant to carry on in perpetuity. It is not meant to end. Its sole
purpose lies in creating a great rift between the sexes,
manufacturing mutual hostility and distrust where there really ought
to be mutual co-operation and trust. Where we ought to fulfil one
another, we now do nothing but try and outdo one another. As stated
time and again; how we fulfil one another – that is – who does
what – should not matter to anyone but those directly or intimately
involved. Making the personal political and the political personal is
a horrendous thing. Barring abuse, none but the people involved in
the personal should have a say in their personal day-to-day lives. Do
not meddle in the affairs of other people. Respect the privacy of
other people. This should not be all that difficult a concept to
grasp, yet it is. Apparently. No-one but those involved should care
about who cooks dinner, who does the dishes, and so forth and so on.
It is not unreasonable to “allow” people to decide for themselves
who does which of the many chores and responsibilities that
necessarily come along with an adult relationship. What is
unreasonable is for other people to poke and prod and complain and
bitch and moan if the chores are split in a manner not suitable to
their political or personal sensibilities. And here I am not speaking
only on feminism. This goes for whichever preconceived set of ideas
about who ought to do what one ascribes to.
My tribe is better than
your tribe, here’s ten reasons why. Bog-standard clickbait
titles. Men this, women that. One celebrated at the same time that
one is scorned by popular voter’s fraud.
People tend to be
trend-hoppers. This is not something new. The in-group dominates, the
out-group does not.
If one man writes an article
about women the way many a feminist woman would write an article
about men, the powers that be will truly shake, tremble and come down
on it with all the rage, wrath and ruin that could be mustered. Even
if nothing but the sex spoken about in the article has changed. The
wording may be exactly the same. But substitute “man” for
“woman”, and the whole world cries out in pain and in anguish.
Try it sometime. Read any feminist article, and replace every
instance of “men” with “women”. Does not look that reasonable
then. For added emphasis, replace “men” with “Negroes”. Or
“Jews”. Or “The Irish”… whatever you wish, really. It
Nothing negative may ever be
spoken about women. And nothing but negative may ever be spoken about
At the end of the day, it
seems to me that it all boils down to something as petty as revenge.
Nothing more and nothing less. And something that petty ought not to
be a proper reason, ought not to be an accepted reason.
Even if one accept the
feminist revisionist history, revenge should not be an accepted
reason for anything of such magnitude and societal impact as
feminism. It is small-minded and petty. Which is what the gender-war
is, in my humble and barbaric opinion – small-minded and petty,
filled with tiny grievances and vengeance-fuelled tingling
feminist-senses… lovingly, inclusively and compassionately
informing us that men being broke, destitute and in lack of higher
education is a problem for women wanting to marry. And that women
have always been the primary victims of war. Because their husbands,
fathers and sons die.
In other news; Meteor hits
earth, Women most affected.
One of my biggest personal
peeves with the gender-war, with the feminist-laced koolaid that has
been forced down our gullible throats like so much old vine cyanide,
is the constant assault on what men in general find sexually
attractive. Men tend to be more immediately attracted to visual
appearance; to tits and legs and butt and what have you. This should
not be something negative. Yet it is presented as such; presented as
superficiality and what-not. Odd I think, as the main reason for
this, as far as I have understood it, is healthy mate-selection.
Signifiers of youth, good
health and fertility are not negative traits to be attracted to.
Quite the contrary, one should think. Yet here we are, lost in this
nonsensical poop-flinging. Men in general are not attracted to fat
chicks, as obesity is not exactly a signifier of good health. This
only goes to show that men are far too superficial of course, never
delving beneath the outer appearance to see the beauty hidden within
the flabby folds of fat. Here, men must alter their sexual and
romantic preference to include fat chicks. Otherwise, they are
fat-shaming misogynistic bastards, subscribing to a societal
brainwashing about what is and what is not attractive.
…For wanting ones partner to
be fit and healthy is a bad thing, a superficial thing. An obese
woman losing weight instead of a man altering his sexual and romantic
preference is too much work, man. Women need not do anything to fix
themselves. It is presented, as it always is presented, as if men are
in the wrong. As such, men need to change and alter what they find
attractive. For not being attracted to obesity; for not being
attracted to poor health and all which that entails of future
struggles down the long and winding road to nowhere.
Would the same women that
scream about fat-acceptance accept a morbidly obese partner
themselves? This is a question I think is very interesting. I have no
idea, in all honesty. Still, I have to say that every one of these
fat-acceptance comics I have seen depicts an obese woman with a
decently built man. This is solely anecdotal, however. And I have not
delved deep into that grime and muck, patriarchal misogynistic
bastard unable to show empathy and understanding for the plight of
(insert supposedly marginalized group) that I undoubtedly am.
Still, and for what it is
worth, I would dare say that I absolutely do think men tend to not be
critical enough about where they stick their willy. As long as the
willy gets wet at a semi-regular basis, it is all worth it in the
end. No matter what happens, how it happens or what she does. Or how
she does it. There is a reason why there is such a saying as “don’t
stick your dick in crazy”, after all.
Contrary to what the current
cultural climate would have one believe, this saying is more of a
slight against men than it is a slight against women. That is how I
hear it, any ways – a cautionary tale in six wondrously crafted
words, urging men to think with their big heads and not their willy
when it comes to the subject of willy-wetting. There are more
important things in the world than fucking. Yet, men are thirsty
creatures. To our own demise. And crazy women exist. Just as crazy
men exist. The difference lies in what women are told in regards to
crazy by society at large, and what men are told. The expectations
are not the same, nor is the message delivered. There are few limits
to what men are supposed to put up with. Whereas women don’t even
need to put up with a lack of attraction from men for reasons of poor
health and obesity. Or poor health on account of obesity.
It is still his fault and as
such need mending. On his part. His biology must be re-written, his
outlook altered and his brain beat into tune so that he plays the
fat-acceptance accordion with a painted-on smile and glazed-over
eyes, singing along with the ballad of the big beautiful women. These
are women who are healthy at any size… and diabetes, infertility,
cardiovascular disease and higher risk of certain cancers, etc. etc.
be damned. Those diseases are all patriarchal constructs; designed to
force a societal ideal of beauty that is as unnatural as it is
unobtainable. Being fat is exactly how things should be.
For is it not written that the
flab is as the flab does, and any who oppose the fat, the flab or the
fold are not of the true roll? Hail to the flab, for it marks the
coming of the fold and of the fat and of the roll. From now until the
end of time, amen, hallelujah, praise Mickie D’s, all hail the King
of the Burgers, and so forth and so on.
I used to be fat. I have lost
a little over 30 KG. This was done solely by changing what I ate,
what I drank and how much I walked. No strenuous exercise, even…
nothing more difficult than self-discipline and adding about 30
minutes of walking to my daily routine. Granted, changing what one
eats and drinks is changing habits. And changing habits is fairly
difficult. But it is far from the most difficult thing in the world.
It is absolutely doable. People do it all the time. It is well worth
I must say that losing weight
did wonders for my mental health as well as some pretty severe lower
back pain I struggled with for quite some time. Not having to carry
around 30-something kilos of flab alleviated pain. Who’d have thunk
it? It fixed quite a lot of other things of small or big
significance, which I do not wish to get into here. Of course, this
was before I got hit with this bloody illness of mine which causes me
chronic pain and fatigue along with a whole host of other
health-issues of varying severity… Bloody genetics, man. This was
likely destined to happen. Which would, were I still fat, be even
harder on me than it currently is. The only thing you lose when
losing weight is weight. But I am getting off track… again.
…It is so strange to see how
men are not “allowed” their own romantic or sexual preferences.
They are to be shamed for it. Don’t want to fuck a pre-transition
transexual lady with a penis? You are as transphobic as the day is
bright, sir! How dare you not want your woman to have a penis?
Lady-penises are beautiful, I’ll have you know, sir! For added
shaming, add the slur “homophobic” and something-something
The sexuality of men tend to
be viewed as something dangerous, something primitive, something
based solely on primal lust with not a smidgeon of emotional
connection anywhere to be found. I would dare say that most men quite
enjoy there to be an emotional connection as well as a purely
physical attraction. At the very least regarding long term
relationships. But what the hell do I know – I have only been a man
for thirty-some years… it is not as though I have studied
intersectional feminism and stalwart gender-studies, after all. As
such, I really have no idea about life as a man. That knowledge is
reserved for female gender-studies graduates with type 2 diabetes
poking its head out of their throats, floating on their radical and
righteous acid reflux.
It is such a horrendously
Feminism knows all about life
as a man. And men can not know anything about it, nor can they know
anything about life as a woman. If you want to know what life is like
as a man, you have to study gender in universities. It is not enough
to live your life as a man. This means nothing. Only women have lived
experiences. Men need not apply. Particularly women of the
gender-studies bent experience lived experiences, with the mark of
feminism tattooed on their heads… branded, as it were, by the mark
of the beast. To be clear: I do not believe that every man lives the
same life and has the same experiences. Nor do I believe this about
One-night-stands are another
beast altogether where attraction and sex is concerned… but in that
regard, there are two people playing on prime-rib primal lust, not
only one. With the man labelled an arsehole for leaving the next day,
and potentially a rapist were the woman intoxicated. Whether or not
he was intoxicated as well plays little part and no matter. He is the
instigator and the fornicator, and she is not. An awful
gender-traditional view, one would probably be inclined to believe.
Yet apparently not.
It is clearly liberating to
the extreme; an intoxicated woman is completely incapable of acting
on her own accord, whereas an intoxicated man is very much capable of
acting on both his own and her accord. Apparently, women turn into
children when intoxicated. And men are some horrible paternalistic
rape-figure, entrenched in cum-dreams and driven by primeval lust.
Both when they are sober and when they have been drinking. For that
is the plight of man, mischievous bastards that we are.
One-night-stands may be as
they may; I fail to see why anyone should care what people do with
their genitalia. I do have my own opinions on the matter, but I see
no reason to flaunt that opinion here as some sort of bloody
moralizing stupidity. Consenting adults can do whatever the hell
consenting adults want to do.
The main problem with sexual
liberation is that it also carries with it an immense amount of
responsibility, not least of which is to take personal responsibility
for drunken one-night-stands. Which also includes regretting it the
next day, when the lust has passed and a throbbing urge and desire to
scream, roar, and hide beneath the covers in shame overcomes one.
Accepting and then living with
that regret is part of the game. Falsely crying “rape” – as have
happened more than once – for regretting an
in-the-heat-of-sudden-passion one-night-stand is not accepting ones
own folly and taking responsibility for it. It is pushing
responsibilities for ones own actions away, giving one party sole
responsibility for something where it really and truly does take two
I have no doubt, of course,
that rape happens. Nor do I have any doubt that both men and women
are capable of rape. And of being raped. But claiming rape of the
woman every time a drunken hookup happens between a man and a woman
is much akin to saying that men are capable of making their own
choices and taking responsibilities for their actions when drunk, and
women are not. Which does sound awfully patronizing… seems like
infantilising women are in vogue at the moment. I happen to believe
women are far stronger and much less frail and weak than feminism
wants us to believe that they are.
You see; if women can not
consent to sex when drunk, whereas men can, what view would you say
the ones claiming this have of women? And of men? And of female
sexuality? And male sexuality?
It sounds neither equal, nor
healthy, nor sane from my point of view. Either both parties are
raped and both parties are rapists, or they are both grown-ass
adults, capable of making their own decisions. Even when intoxicated.
This removal of liability, of personal responsibility from drunk
women is removing all manner of personal agency from women and
placing it all on men.
Though certainly a push from
feminism claiming to speak on behalf of all women. Consent can be
revoked at any point. Even long after the affair. Which is
interesting, obviously, as this necessarily must mean that one can
not trust in a woman that gives willing and eager consent, as it may
be removed seventeen years later and brand one a rapist. I have no
idea how this is supposed to work. Men need to get consent. OK, that
is fair enough – do women have to get consent? Or does it not work
like that? Did you not think of it in that way? Oh, well, no matter.
Consent is gotten. And then it can be removed at any point, even
after the damned willy-wetting. How can one possibly trust in the
consent given then?
Men are hunters, and women are
prey. That is what the sexual tango boils down to through this line
of thought… as such, any sexual act is an act perpetrated by the
man upon the woman. Sex is something men do to women, which women
begrudgingly let men do to them. Giving way to such splendid
stupidity as “all heterosexual sex is rape” from many a
radical feminist, which is, of course, not real feminism. Because
such a thing does not exist. Even when it does for reasons of
feminism not being a monolith. Sigh and harumph.
I’ll just retreat into the
shadows, twirl my moustaches menacingly and laugh in grim-faced
It is almost as if feminism is
created to be confusing, giving neither a yes or a no, but
perpetually existing in a state of uncertain flux so as to be invoked
at any moment as either this or that, depending on the state of
current affairs. We have always been at war with Oceania. Or was it
Eurasia? It is so easy to get lost in it. Better to just go with the
frantic flow of things. Nod, smile, and pretend to understand.
The cat and mouse game is
nothing new. One can hear it in songs as old as time, in tales as old
as time. Most elegantly in the quaint and very romantic “Baby, it’s
cold outside”… It is such a quaint, cute and romantic song that I
can not help but love it. Soppy romantic fool that I am. This ballad
really blew up around Christmas of 2017 or 2018 – I can’t really
remember… with it being referred to as a date-rape anthem and other
such stupidity from people who seem to be frightfully unaware of how
human beings interact and all the social games we tend to play which,
ultimately, are nothing but a set of invisible rules and borders
which we all must exist within and work together within, whether we
want to or not.
I really do believe there is
something to the cat and mouse game… Women are the gatekeepers of
sex. And men must “catch them” by proving themselves worthy in
some way or other… must convince them that they are worthy of a
good and solid fucking, a chance of procreation, a relationship, and
so and such. Him protect, him provide, through this, that or the
other. There is nothing wrong with this, as such. If people were
willing to at the very least be god-damned honest about it, instead
of muddying it and hiding it and pretending it is something other
than what it is. For it is a dance, a constant back and forth, older
When considering that men are
the ones who are expected – by and large – to make the first move
in any relationship, it becomes even more apparent. At the very least
it does so to me. Yet, the rules have changed somewhat… the social
contract having been rewritten with mainly women in mind, keeping the
rules the same for men in no small way and loosening the rules for
women in no small way give rise to a certain sense of confusion.
There are still plenty of traditional expectations expected from men,
even in regards to simple one-night-stands. These are rules and
expectations which women seem to cling too, all the while expecting
to be released from these rules and expectations themselves. Rules
and expectations is something that happen to other people, after all.
She has been “hunted” all
night until she finally relented and gave in, willingly gave consent
through many an “Oh, God, Yes!!!” and then removed the consent
the following morning for regretting it. Which just beggars the
question yet again: how can one possibly trust in this consent, if
the consent can be given, the act done and the consent then removed
the following morning?
One can not trust in it. And
it does not make any sense – the rules are nonsensical.
That is a major problem of
this current year. If all responsibility for drunken hook-ups lie
squarely on the shoulders of men, never-minding any responsibility
from a drunken woman who also was very much into it, up to and
including willing and eager consent, there is a problem. With great
power comes great responsibility. Great sexual freedom is great
power. And one has to take responsibility for ones own actions when
enjoying that freedom.
Obviously, this is something
that goes for both men and women who enjoy this kind of thing. Yet
the blame and the responsibility keep falling primarily in the lap of
men. And only men, if the winds keep blowing as they do. Only men
have agency in this regard, then. That is the view of things. And the
feminist hive-mind host slut-walks to protest the shame they claim
women who seek nefarious carnal knowledge of someone else’s flesh
are met with on a regular basis, forgetting for sake of convenience,
that everyone – be they man or woman – are judged on what they do
and how they behave.
I do not believe that this is
something every woman does. The power to do so is still there,
though. And this society of ours keep telling women that 1+1 equals
5, 6, 7 or even 8. That if she feels wronged, she has been wronged –
and to hell with all the facts of the matter, up to and including
willing consent given in the moment… or at every subsequent step
from the moment.
I could have gone on for ages with this… but I’ll take a break here, considering the length of my ramblings being too lengthy more often than not. …And my mind not being at its best behaviour on account of a particularly rough battle with illness the past few months. Also, the construction work going on outside is distracting, making it even more difficult to think and write. Join me next week for some more cruel and unusual rambling on what is, essentially and apparently, not real feminism. Even when it is. Despite such a thing not existing, except when it does.
No ifs and/or buts. Escape.
Turn away. Turn back. Go away. No ifs and/or buts. There is no point
forward. There is no point back. Turn forward. Go ahead. No ifs
and/or buts. Note nothing, notice nothing. Note everything, notice
everything. Turn away. Turn back. Move ahead. Move back. Move
forward. Move across. Go ahead. No ifs and/or buts.
The game is wired, mesh-like,
social is as sociopathy does. Sociopathy does as the social game is.
No ifs and/or buts. Turn in. Turn inwards. Tune out. Tune in. Drop
out. Drop in, introspection. Externalize the internal immersion. And
escape. No ifs and/or buts. Escape. Within. Then without. Without
within, without is nothing.
And turn around, turn aside,
turn forward. Tune in, tune out, turn on, turn off. Simulate senses,
stimulated, hardwired, firing on all the things neurotically. Bang.
Bang. Turn on. Turn off. No ifs and/or buts.
Migrate. Mediate. Meditate.
Migraine, mediocre, medicine.
Back and forth look the same
within this shambled shame-blame-game. No ifs and/or buts. Progress
is regression. Regressive speech-therapy, deep progressive psychosis,
hypnosis, hypochondriac. High-strung, modern malicious modernity…
Then death from cirrhosis of the liver and the brain-pan,
pang-blasted into migraine—pain.
Into and out of, away from.
Mental breakdown, freak-out, freak down – another victim of
class-action class-warfare lawsuit where neither is nor and or, or
there or then. Trenches dug and society spun, dig-dugged into
chlamydia from swarmed arcade intellectuals… auditoriums of
play-pen pigsties pillaging intellectual rheumatism… gospels of the
depraved and decadent sung high-and-mighty as claws reach growth then
No ifs and/or buts. Withdraw.
And wobble ever forwards, ever onwards, ever backwards, ever inwards.
migraine-pain in back and neck. Mind stroked dead from lack of cock,
cunt and clock.
Sky is overcast, drowned in
ink. Moon wearing silk-stockings, net-fish fishnets… streams of
consciousness gibbering morosely, mockingly, adoringly.
No ifs and/or buts. Get out.
While you still can. Get in. While you still can. Get it. No ifs
and/or buts. Sociopathy is socially accepted, ya dig… This social
game digs sociopathic sociological telepathy… aerial brainwaves
radiating from the eyes of lifeless life… ya dig? Ya dig-dug?
No ifs and/or buts.
Tarred and feathered. Songs
through the epiphany, sounds of desolate deserts, tundras,
siren-songs spoken in silver-spun buckets full of painted milk, claws
of the cat and of the hound and of the hounded.
No ifs and/or buts. And sing,
stink, sting… brave blues in blue suede shoes march forward and
turn backwards, ever out, ever in.
No ifs and/or buts. Ain’t
nothing but a hound dog. Hounded dog. And so loved. Eternal internal
release, reprise, reprimanded, recollected, resurrected through
No ifs and/or buts. Release.
Escape. Meditation, reflection, soul-sphere, eye-blind I-candy for me
myself and I.
Back in 2016, a video made the
rounds through the commentator-communities of YouTube. And beyond.
This would be the ridiculous,
god-damned awful, horribly brain-dead, superficial-as-a-valley-girl
video “36 Questions Women Have for Men”. If you have not
seen it yet, you should. Go watch it now. I’ll have coffee, wine
and strange and exotic pharmaceuticals waiting for you when you come
It is safe to say that, if
this video was a child, it would be referred to as having a face that
only a mother could love. It would be caught trying to smoke its own
socks in the one and only gender-neutral toilet in its school,
because the cool kids told it that this is what the cool kids do. It
is that one kid that everyone knows should really be getting special
education, but who does not, for some reason or other. Mainly to do
with its parents.
In other words: it is
ridiculous, stupid, mentally and emotionally challenged. It should be
locked up for its own protection, in a padded cell with a
straight-jacket and a bottle of finely aged antipsychotics, its
tongue tied down so it did not accidentally swallow it and
subsequently choke to death.
Of course; this child would
have already choked on its own sense of self-importance, slipped on
its own dribble and landed straight on its arse. Which is to say –
it would slip on its pride, and land on its honour.
I really and truly enjoyed
watching it being torn to shreds by everything and everyone able to
get their wonderful hands and biting tongues on it.
Though it is, without a
doubt, low-hanging fruit.
Sometimes, that is just
exactly what one needs. I am not going to beat a dead horse and
respond to that video. We should really leave it alone. It is already
And, oh the humanity, oh the
woe and oh the torture never ends!
I’m just using it as a
necessary tool; an introduction to this part of my cruel and unusual
It is incredibly funny to me –
bordering on hilarious – that the supposedly oppressed class can
speak to their supposed oppressors like the women in that video did.
That is – with impunity.
It is almost as though women
are most definitely not oppressed and men are certainly not their
oppressors. That these nincompoops are unable to see this is
something I am absolutely unwilling to believe. No-one can be that
stupid, that lacking in self-awareness, and still be able to breathe
and stand at the same time.
They know they are not being
They are riding the
gravy-train of self-important smugness, arrogance and the incredible
sensation that their shit don’t stink. High on their own fumes of
moral indignation and self-righteous imbecility, they know themselves
and their ideology to be considered untouchable by the culture at
Were women as oppressed as
these fools claim, they would never have dared to make this video for
fear of the bogeyman Patriarchy smashing down on them with all the
fascist jackboots and cruel whips it could muster.
Strange how that did not
Of course; cue the inevitable
calls and cries of misogynist harassment and patriarchal interference
for people responding to their video in which they do nothing but
insult, condescend, stereotype and belittle men in the name of holy
feminism and her cohort gynocentrism. The self-perpetuating and
self-fulfilling prophecy has come full circle. Women can say whatever
the hell they like about men in general, and if men dare respond –
well now, that is an outrage and absolute proof that what they are
saying is true as well as the necessity of the movement. Add to this
the chronic case of the one rule for me, another for thee sickness,
and you’ve got yourself feminism 101.
Though I am not going to
respond to the video, I will take one quote from the video as a
starting point, paraphrasing it a bit: “Why do you make women
talk about men in movies when you can sit around and
talk about boobs for hours?”
Men are – just as women are
– not a grey homogeneous ooze. The actions of one man are not the
actions of every man in existence. It is also incredibly funny that
this is, in fact, a video where women do nothing but talk about men.
Or talk down to men. Whatever you want to call it. Which kind of
disproves that point a little.
Which only makes me think that
anything a feminist claims that men do is something she does herself.
It is psychological projection from someone who is incapable of
understanding that other people act differently to herself.
Now, to be fair, I believe we
are all guilty of psychological projection in some way or other. The
only reference-point we have are, after all, our self. So it would be
fairly natural to assume other people react or act in a manner
similar to us. More so for people who have problems with empathy, if
I understand correctly. It is, however, something that one can learn
not to do. This involves introspection and an understanding that
oneself is not the blueprint for humanity, though, and this is
clearly something that does not come easily to the feminist hive-mind
in the garden of voluptuous hysteria… or aboard the gravy-train of
grace and hubris.
For my own sake, I can not
remember the last time I discussed boobs with any one of my friends.
Granted, I discuss boobs with my wife from time to time, but that
tend to be because she brought it up after seeing boobs in the
Bada-bing scenes from the Sopranos and commenting on the terrible
boob jobs. And, yeah, they are fairly terrible.
You know, boobs may be great
and all… but it really is not an interesting topic of discussion.
Besides, I have always been
more a fan of legs than I have ever been of boobs. Legs are far
better than boobs, and I will happily fight anyone who says
otherwise. Or I will offer them a pint of my finest home-brew and
make them see the error of their ways. Whichever may come first. I
can only assume that what women – in particular feminist women –
do when they are alone, is talk about men and nothing but that.
Either that, or they are terrified that men do not talk about women
when men are alone together. There can be no other topics of
importance or interest for men than women, right?
You know, I have received
unsolicited tit-pics on Snapchat, back in the days when I was dumb
enough to use it. To which I responded that I have always enjoyed
legs far better than I have ever enjoyed tits. This did not get me
any response. Probably should have called the cops on them for sexual
harassment, come to think of it. But, oh well.
T & A aside, what I am
rambling my way towards is this: feminism often make the claim that
men oppose feminism because feminism focuses on women.
…To which I would dare say
that it is quite the contrary. The main point of contention is that
feminism focuses so very much on the perceived evil of men. So much
so that it borders on obsession; a grotesque display of obsession.
Like some frenzied, mad ex-girlfriend that can not understand the
meaning of the words “leave me alone, you crazy person!”,
feminism lays the burden of blame and shame on men for being men. It
does so all the time. It has the worst, the lowest opinion of men.
Painting us all as terrible oppressors, misogynistic bastards and so
forth and so on. For nothing but being born as boys, for growing up
and becoming men. At the same time, feminism tend to call on men to
rise up and do all we can to make the world a better place. For
Men must give and sacrifice so
that women shall feel safe. From other men. And if men do not do
that, men are shamed by feminism. And by society at large. Men are
disposable tools to be used for the betterment of society, for the
safety of women and for the safety of children. Chivalry is not dead.
And feminism, with all its claims of equal treatment, are the ones
keeping it alive. Whenever it suits them.
Traditional expectations where
gender-roles are concerned is still a thing when it comes to the
expectations we put on men – to protect, and to provide. And most
men, I am willing to bet, do this quite willingly. It gives a sense
of purpose that is much needed in the lives of boys and men. This is
something men have done for millennia. I don’t think this is
something we will ever get rid of, despite men walking away, despite
MGTOW, despite all that jazz. It seems to be something we are
biologically hardwired to do.
Now, we have grown smart
enough as a species to be able to make conscious decisions to walk
away, to work on ourselves, to be aware of how we interact with
society – and with that I mean all of society, not only men, not
This is, in all honesty, all
well and good. More power to you.
I find myself turning my back
on society more and more in my own way. At some point, I really just
got tired of all the shit-flinging, imbecility and hypocrisy on
display in the public discourse. Civility is dead. All that is left
is civil disobedience. And that is a misplaced, poorly managed, never
thought through parody of civil disobedience from sheltered
nincompoops who do not really understand the what, how, when, where,
why and such.
Everything has become so
scathingly, so eye-scarringly black and white. It is either this, or
it is that. Opposition to this must as such necessarily mean complete
allegiance to that.
I often wonder if this is due
to our dwindling and very limited concentration-spans, making
concentrating on something for a prolonged period of time a difficult
prospect for most. This giving rise to merely a surface understanding
of various issues. It is easy to point at one thing and claim that
this – this one thing is what needs to be fixed. Then, and only
then, all of this and all of that will be in perfect order.
And then one could probably
argue that this is exactly what I am doing when I focus so much of my
writing and rambling on the forces of feminism. To which I can only
reply that I have a lot of things to get out of my system where
feminism is regarded before I feel – and here the emphasis is, I
absolutely admit, on the word “feel” – ready to tackle other
I consider it very dangerous
when one ideology, when one set of ideas, are given the monopoly on
any one concept. Particularly so in regards to such a strange and
ever-changing concept as “equality”. More voices should be heard
than only the one. And feminism have become so mighty, so big and
powerful that it is able to – quite successfully – kill other
voices attempting to speak on the topic. That is a dangerous thing.
This is something I would say no matter which set of ideas are
granted a monopoly, to be perfectly honest. Particularly so if this
set of ideas have the power to shut down voices in opposition. Any
-ism that shames and threatens other voices into silence or
compliance or obedience is dangerous. Protesting is one thing.
Refusing people to listen to other voices is quite another.
This black and white thinking
is the price to pay for immediate satisfaction through immediate
outrage, and facts and nuance be damned.
…Though I am obviously not a
MGTOW, being a married man and all, I absolutely understand where it
comes from. The best one can do is to carve out a space for oneself –
to follow ones own path toward happiness and self-fulfilment. Which
feminism consider wise words to give to women, but horrible words to
give to men. For, to the eyes of feminism – and to a sure and
certain extent, society as is – if a man does not make the
betterment of women’s lives his main priority, he is not a real
man. That is putting it very simple, obviously.
If there is anything we ought
to have learned by now, it is this: the only ones allowed to judge
whether a man is a real man or not are women as a group, not men and
most certainly not the man being scrutinized at that moment in time.
That is the level of insanity
we are at. There are more than enough books, articles, lectures and
so and such out there by women telling men what to do in order to be
a real man. Which tend to be what the one woman want to see in a man,
and never mind the men themselves – men are there for their
amusement and their convenience. This is supreme entitlement driven
forth and weaponized by the frantic forces of feminism.
It is not without reason that
the word “boy” used to refer to a servant. Just get the boy to do
it. See what I mean?
As an example, it is a
constant source of amusement to me that men are still expected to pay
on dates. Scores of women get offended if they are expected to split
the bill. No strong independent women to be seen there, I gather –
some fish most certainly need a bicycle. At the very least where
dates are concerned. This is a traditional expectation.
And though I am very much
aware that there are women out there who do pay for dates or split
the bills, they are in the minority. To be clear – how people chose
to delegate responsibilities in their personal relationships is their
business and their business alone. I have no interest in meddling,
nor should anyone else. My point is only this: one can not expect one
side to fulfil the traditional expectations and then be outraged when
the traditional role is expected from the other side. One must give
in order to receive. This goes for both parties.
There is this interview with
Emma Watson – she of the hypocritical he-for-she funk and flurry –
on YouTube in which she magically and majestically swirls
triumphantly through the garden of mental gymnastics to explain why
she still expects men to pay on dates, despite feminism, equal
treatment and so and such. And despite being filthy stinking rich
The traditional roles are very
much alive and well where men are concerned, but it is not to be
reciprocated in kind. If you want a woman to fulfil a traditional
role, you are a misogynistic bastard. You, however, must fulfil a
traditional role. If not, you are a misogynistic bastard. For that is
equality as seen through the eyes and bleeding gums of feminism:
supreme entitlement, because men owe women ever so much and
yada-yada-yada, blah blah blah. And you want to be seen as a real
man, do you not? And a real man does whatever the hell a woman and
society says he must do, at the cost of his own safety, sanity, life,
limb and economy.
This “real man” rhetoric
is complete and utter shit. A real man is a real man if he says he is
a real man, and he does whatever the hell he wants to do, shame and
ridicule be damned. Whether that shame and ridicule comes from women
or from other men should not matter. Rise above the self-flagellating
and self-sacrificial bullshit and do your thing, whatever that thing
I was bullied for reading
books when I went to school. Literature is one of my first and
greatest loves, one of my greatest pleasures in life. Always have
been, and always will be. Apparently, this is not something real men
do. Whatever the hell this means. Granted, I was singled out for
bullying… so whatever I did would give get me bullied. This one
stuck out the most to me. Because there is something precious and
special about some imbecilic moron with the vocabulary of a toddler
proudly boasting about never having read a book in his life
ridiculing and belittling someone for reading books, referring to the
practice as stupid. Stupid. Maybe I am expecting too much from kids
aged sixteen, but – god-damn, if that is not some ridiculous
It must also be mentioned,
mainly for my own amusement, that the girls were not particularly
interested in leaving a party and going home with someone whose main
accomplishment in life was having a complete collection of
Dostojevskij and Jens Bjørneboe on his shelf. Can’t say that I
blame them – I am very much aware that I am a boring, introverted
social fuck-up with all the charisma of a wet and well-worn sock. I
was, however, led to believe that women and girls both preferred
intelligence to brutishness, calm mannerisms to “toxic
masculinity”, a cultured mind to a fornicating mind, and so and
…Now, had I owned a car or a
motorcycle, on the other hand – in other words, being able to
provide something of value…
There is this constant
bombardment of messages aimed at boys and men. Mainly from women. And
more often than not feminist women. About how men are supposed to be
and act and do and think and behave and not behave and live and love
and fuck and breathe and eat and die.
And the messages are
self-contradictory more often than they are not, unreasonable at the
best of times and completely and utterly shining, burning and
flashing with entitlement. In particular when taking into account
that men can not say a single god-damned thing about women and how
women should be – or, for that matter, what kind of women they want
to share their lives with – without being rained on by the great
and glorious feminist brigade. And any and all woman and simpering
white knight in the immediate vicinity of your tweet or twatter or
private conversation in a public space.
I have been verbally harangued
many a time in public by self-proclaimed feminists who believe they
have the god-given right to charge in on any-and-all private
conversation and private relationship if they don’t like what they
hear or see – or believe that they hear or see.
Entitlement, thy name is
If you don’t believe me, try
telling the world that you – as a man – want a traditional
marriage where the woman stays at home and you provide.
And see what that gives you.
Conversely, and for amusement, try saying that you – as a man –
want to stay at home and expect your wife to provide for you and the
family, to be the main breadwinner, as it were.
Both are equally wrong and
terrifying; signs of misogyny and toxic masculinity and what-not and
what-do’s and what-don’ts, what, what, what. Kyle’s mum will
always be a bitch, no matter how selfrighteous.
The inverse applies as well –
if a woman wants to stay at home, the feminist brigade will submit
their opinions on her poor choices in life whether she wants to hear
them or not.
There is not a single coherent
message delivered. There is only the messages – the constant
bombardment – that men and boys must do this, do that, do the other
stuff even when that contradicts the previous stuff. It is never good
enough, for there is always something to bitch and moan and complain
about where men are concerned.
I am aware that many of these
articles written about what men must do, need to do and so and so are
written by different people with different views.
This is not the point. Or,
well, were I playing the collectivist blame-game that feminism plays,
it would be the point. And that is exactly the point – feminism
plays the game of collectivism and tribalism, where men are one group
and women another group. Therefore, anything one man does reflects on
every other man.
The reverse do not apply.
Anything one woman does is her
actions, and does not reflect on every other woman. When it suits
feminism. Any one man is representative of men. Any one woman is
representative of her self and her self only. When it suits the
powers that be. So that painting all women with a broad brush is
terrible behaviour, and painting all men with a broad brush is
expected, accepted and celebrated behaviour.
It is a confusing time. And
has been so for years and years, as the dominant cultural narrative
has shifted more and more towards the trembling might and fury of
feminism. Which in turn opens the discourse for women to say whatever
the hell they want about men – as long as it is in line with
feminist thought and philosophy. At the same time, it closes the
doors for men so that men can not say anything about women, including
what kind of woman they would like to settle down with. Men are not
“allowed” sexual or romantic preferences, whereas women are. And
any positive thing said about men must include women, otherwise it is
perceived as a slight against women. Any positive thing said about
women need not include men, and any who say otherwise are labelled an
incel by people who have no idea what incel means.
There will be more on this later. Here endeth part five. Join me next week for part six of this never-ending rave and ramble.
In yet another preposterous
think-piece, this time delivered as a serious and ever so scientific
(scouts honour!) research-thingamajigger, amongst a barrage of
similar think-pieces, designed to make you stop thinking… the
ever-present terror and dread of the potential sex bot takeover in
the future is made manifest. Skynet is looming on the horizon. Or
Blownet… Sucknet… Hoenet… Fishnet…
Though I will have to admit
that it is a bit more creative this time around in its ponderous
vulture-morality ways, vices and virtues.
Presenting the obvious
solution to the difficult moral, ethical and legal question that none
but the terribly trembling forces that be thought to ask.
Which is, obviously: if one
fucks an actual object… is this then rape of a bought-and-sold
actual object? And how could we possibly make it so that any one man
who owns such an object is viewed in the worst possible light?
By presenting masturbating
with a sex toy as rape.
We have a winner, ladies and
Now, moving on from this, it
has to be presented as something carrying with it deeply ambiguous
and dangerous patterns of behaviour… and words… and dirty deeds
done in the dark.
The sex-bot uprising is right
around the corner… if we do not treat the sex-bots, whose sole
purpose is to serve as a sex-toy, a masturbatory aid, a release for
pent up sexual urges that would otherwise be released through a flick
of the wrist… if we do not treat these solitary sexual toys with
dignity and with respect, who knows what terrible deeds these men may
do when the doll no longer serves its main function?
Oh, the horror.
And with Halloween right
around the corner…
Oh, the double horror!
And won’t somebody please
think of the children?
The solution is simple – to
the point of mental degradation. Make it so that the sex-bots have to
give consent to sex. That is, to fulfil the one and only purpose for
which they are built. After all, one would not wish any harm
inflicted upon the silicone parts or moving mechanical magic, now
would one? Certainly, clearly and obviously, there is an AI
personality nesting within the matrix of the robotic
pump-and-dump-dream. And any machine that exist with an ability to
perform any task must be treated as though it were a human being. So
one has to ask for consent before fucking the object that is nothing
but an object bought for fucking.
This makes no sense.
Who, in their right mind,
would pay for that? If one pays good money for a fuck-toy, one would
imagine the fuck-toy to be beholden to the whim of its owner. Because
it is a toy. A doll. A robot. Not a human being that has to give
consent. And, believe it or not, most men are not so stupid as to not
know the difference between a toy and a human being. Apparently,
quite a few feminists are too stupid to do that, but that ought to
This, ladies and gentlemen, is
why I always ask my computer if it is fine with me turning it on.
After all, if it is not turned on, I can not do anything with it, now
And rightly so.
If the computer is turned off,
the computer has to be turned off. It is the God-given right of any
piece of computer-equipment to do just that. If there is no consent
given, I can not have my way with it.
Usually, I have to woo it with
dinner, promises of more RAM and a diamond-encrusted processor before
it gets turned on. This tactic works, as one would expect, though it
does get a bit expensive after a while.
Which is why I tend to keep it
turned on after first getting its consent to turn it on. Admittedly,
this makes it a bit sluggish at times, but that is just the way it’ll
have to be. I am not made of money. And the computer was god-damned
aware of this before it moved in with me.
My dishwasher, on the other
hand… that one is particularly tricky to get any manner of consent
from. Not that this matters much, and I will not get sidetracked into
explaining how I woo that pesky and feisty little thing. Some things
a man just have to keep private, personal and secret. Rest assured,
however, that my dishwasher has yet to refuse consent.
I can poke fun all day long.
We all can, may, should, would
and god-damned ought to.
The “Clown World” meme
became a meme for a reason. And this is one of those reasons.
Bloody, god-damned, fucking
It is ridiculous,
preposterous, and a wee bit frightening.
Have you ever stopped to
wonder why all these articles… why all this sudden concern about
the ethics of sex-bots? I believe it is incredibly simple.
Women are now, and have always
been, the gatekeepers of sex.
This is not strange, given
that they carry the burden of pregnancy.
Even with all these new and
fancy genders they keep telling me about muddying the waters some…
It is still women that get pregnant. Despite men having periods now,
and men being pregnant now and… fuck, I keep getting lost in all
the new rules. Given time, I suppose I will learn these new rules and
laws of gender, sex and sexuality. I will have to learn through being
made subject to re-education, I guess.
Biologically speaking, it
really is no wonder that women are the gatekeepers of sex. Of course,
given our modern marvellous magic of medicine, our various
birth-controls and prophylactics, nature is taken out of the equation
at a superficial level. We can over-ride this on a conscious level.
On a subconscious, on a
primal, primate, reptile-brain level, however… I don’t think it
is all that easy. Mate-selection and sexual gatekeeping is still
present. Very much so. And these sex-bots remove quite a lot of power
from women in that regard.
Though I doubt all that many
men will prefer the sex-bots to a real woman, it still puts some
pressure on women to perform better than they currently do in the
dating game, the social game and the sexual game in order to land a
partner. Suddenly, they may need to do more than just show up and
show a bit of cleavage. Thus, these sex-bots are perceived as a
threat to women’s sexual power. And that sexual power is real
power. For men are thirsty beings. One of our greatest flaws, I
think, is our tendencies to think with Dick Hardy, opening ourselves
up very easily to become Hardly Dick later on down the line.
So they – feminists in
particular – have to paint this in terrible ways, to discourage
sex-bots and – ultimately – banish them by law, if need be. For
all the horrible men and all their sex-toys do nothing but objectify
women and trivialize rape. Because of course they do. Male sexuality
is something to be afraid of, after all. This is old knowledge.
Nothing new. Fear the hard-on. For it is an implement of rape, doom,
wanton destruction and pant-splitting terror.
The simple fact that all
god-damned stores that sell sex-toys for the curious, for the more
libertine of our ladies and gentlemen are filled to the brim with all
manner of doo-hickeyes; gizmos, penetrative plastic, mechanical
contraptions, buzzing, grinding, pounding, pulsating, thrusting,
blinking, singing, poetry-reading, coffee-making miniature marvels of
engineering solely for the sexual pleasure of women are of no
If one is lucky, one may find
a Fleshlight hidden away in a corner for the guy, and a modest
selection of pornographic movies. Otherwise, the sexual machinery in
the stores are there for women. And the stores mainly employ women. A
man that buys a sex-toy is a virgin incel neckbeard loser and must be
shunned and ridiculed. A woman that buys a sex-toy is sexually
liberated and must be celebrated. Such is the view of things. For a
man is judged on whether or not he can land a partner. If he is
forced to use his hand, or any other implement to simulate sex, he is
a loser. And is as such worthy of our scorn, our rage, our
ridicule… and our fear.
Yet, what is a dildo but an
object meant to replicate a severed penis? Following the logic of the
troglodytes writing these blubber-mouthed articles of woe and
petulant worry where sex bots are concerned, I would dare say that a
severed penis is a far worse case of objectification than a whole
replica of a human being… reducing men to nothing but their
genitalia? What a horrible thing to do. Not to mention the
unreasonable and highly unobtainable standards dildos set in regards
to length, girth, expected stamina and so-and-such. Also: these
dildos can not possibly consent. Which only worsens things, rendering
every woman who has ever employed the use of a dildo – or a
vibrator – a sex-crazed lunatic, bursting at the seams with rape,
plunder and sexual entitlement galore.
Surely, they are in desperate
need of consent-courses, considering how long they have been free to
celebrate their use of dildos and various other mechanical
contraptions to simulate the presence of a man… reducing men to
nothing but their genitalia – or tongues, in some cases – in the
Considering that there have
been similar articles of woe and worry floating around in regards to
fleshlights and other such silicone replications of various parts of
women, I do not think I am reaching here.
This is employing their own
logic. If it sounds stupid where dildos are concerned, it is stupid
the other way around. At the end of the day, it is masturbation. Not
a relationship. Quick release. Not a relationship.
It is, as are all things when
it comes to this, a case of double standards. And had feminism not
held double standards, they would have no standards at all. Teach
women not to rape their dildos. #DildosCannotConsent.
To be clear; I have absolutely
no problems with women using sex toys. I do not feel threatened by
it. I also have no problems with men using sex toys. Nor should
anyone. Yet, women appear threatened by it. #FragileFemininity, then,
when, and is it about bloody time? This is attempted control of
sexuality. Control of the sexuality of men. Not only that… it is
attempted control of sexual fantasies. I think one could argue that
circumcision is attempted control of male sexuality as well. But that
is another case altogether.
Sex-bots are just that –
sex-bots. Robotics meant to simulate a sexual experience. It is not
so much objectifying a human as it is humanizing an object. The only
threat – the only fear – the only terror is that it may remove
some sexual power from women. To claim that usage of sex-bots will
normalize rape and as such suddenly increase the amount of rape
happening around the western world is ridiculous. It is emotional
argumentation; an appeal to affect employed by feminism… Emotional
manipulation to get their way, as is their tactic… won’t somebody
please think of the children… and the women…
It is the same argument used
in regards to violent video games, in regards to rock’n’roll, in
regards to heavy metal, in regards to dangerous literature…
I fail to see any difference
between this and the people who wanted to ban Harry bloody Potter for
promoting witchcraft. Woe
onto the state of the world.