Split straight down the archetype; a ramble on identity and purpose

«Muses be crazy, yo»

(AN: I will be taking some time off for reasons of health. A mind can not function properly when running on very little sleep for a very long time. Add to this insomnia the chronic pain, and the shit hits the fan. No updates next week. Will be back the week after, though. Hang tight and have a good one!)

The weight of the world can be crushing. The rush, the stress, the constant buzz and activity expected of any functional member of society can be devastating. There is this current in our cultures that constantly push and pull in this or in that direction. To achieve, to succeed, to be constantly on the move and never take a break. Seems we turned into a society of over-achievers, where a glorious corporate career is celebrated and considered to be more important, to be more rewarding and more gratifying than a simple life, or a humble life, or family-life, or doing with ones life as one wants to do with ones life.

This culture we have created is a culture that can not help but create chronic stress. How much freedom; how much downtime does one have in ones life?

We are pushed out the door; trained into stress from the moment we are born, it seems. Straight from the womb to kindergarten, then to school, then to more school, then to work, then to the grave. To school, where one learns how to be productive; I.E. how to be a busy working-bee, to work, to tired toil permanently. From the cradle to slavery, if you will allow me some overt (and not particularly clever) melodramatics.

If one does not contribute, one does something wrong.

Of course; as men – we do something wrong if we contribute as well as doing something wrong if we don’t contribute.

Time to step down, men, and give women your place, the hive-mind will say. Then they’ll turn around and say that men who earn less than women are not good and decent marriage-material.

Women out-earn men; there must be some way this victimizes women. Men become poorer; women most affected. It is a very interesting thing to behold. One would not be amiss in saying that the serpent speaks with a split tongue; one would almost be inclined to believe that hypergamy is real. But that would be a misogynistic thing to say, apparently, so I will leave it unsaid, unwritten and unseen. You did not just hear me say it, did not just see me write it. You are hallucinating.

It’s probably stress-induced.

You should see a doctor for it.

If one does not succeed in this or in that, one is a loser. This seems to be the thing; men who do not succeed or who fall to the sides, who drop out, who become disabled and can’t work are not proper men. Men are defined, and define ourselves by what we do instead of who we are. This is a damned shame, but that seems to be the way of it. It is not good, and it is not healthy. Pushing oneself too hard is damaging.

This is not, of course, to say that people should not strive for success; that people should not strive towards excellence in whatever field. Far from it; I long for some success myself in my chosen field(s).

It is not, however, the most important thing in the world. Who one is should always be considered of more importance than what one does. The line that separates work from man and man from work ought to be clearer than it is. The first line written in a man’s perception of himself should not first and foremost be his profession. When all one defines oneself as is ones work, work is all there is. To my eyes, this can not bring anything but stress.

I used to refer to myself as an artist and a writer. And that was all that I was, and I was at a loss for anything else. It was not what I did, it was who I was. Which of course resulted in me not doing much except write and draw constantly… as though I wasted time if I did not do so. (Now, on the other hand, I refer to myself as a scribbler of lines and a semi-professional rambler. Seems fitting.)

Anyhow; I went to art-school and learned how the world of art operates and got disgusted with the whole scene. Then I got a book professionally published, experienced far from decent treatment by the publishers and so got disillusioned with the whole thing.

Thus; if I was an artist, I had to be part of that scene… and that was not in the least bit tempting.

If I was a writer, I had to deal with preposterous publishers and all that stuff… and that was not in the least bit tempting. And this is not to mention the seemingly unending demands for shoulder-rubbing and being bubbly and social and such that do not befit a grumpy pseudo-hermit such as myself.

I wanted no part of either of these worlds. They both seemed plastic, synthetic and phoney to me. Still do, in actuality. Self-congratulatory and self-aggrandizing; people who believe that the worth of their artistic work is of more importance than that of the so-called low-value work.

You know; the work of those who actually lubricate the cogs and wheels of our society; who keep the gutters clean, who keep the sewers working, who keep the electricity on, who collect and remove the garbage, and so and such.

Champagne-socialists with a bloated sense of their own importance.

As such, I was neither an artist nor a writer.

In fact, I lost faith in both art and writing for many years.

Cue existential crisis.

Cue identity crisis.

Cue me being confused and confounded for years, due in no small way to never defining myself from anything but what I did, never really figuring out who I was. Add to this a culture in which men are never really encouraged to do anything about this, and the shit hits the fan. There is a not insignificant amount of books focusing on women finding themselves, seeking themselves, celebrating themselves, whatever. Many of these have become best-sellers, blockbusters and whatever else. “Eat, Pray, Love” comes to mind as one example. I read it. It is dull and it is boring and superficial (albeit hiding its superficiality beneath a plastic layer of depth… the movie is even worse) and it is obviously not written for men. I have no issues with this, of course. I have issues with this being a message delivered solely to women: that it is very important that they find themselves and so and such and this is empowering and fantastic and screw the patriarchy, am I right, girls?

Men don’t need to do that. And those who propose that men might do good in doing just that are nothing but woman-hating misogynists for daring to consider themselves and their own needs; for daring to put themselves first.

Of course: this is not to say that I don’t consider art or literature to be important, because I really do. I still love art and I still love literature, being a man of culture and good breeding as I am. (Cue sardonic and self-deprecating laughter.) But to believe that it is the most important; to believe that one is a better class of people due to being able to draw a straight line, or due to being able to string two sentences together is naught but absolute rubbish. This, of course, was a tangent and a half.

Struggling with a crisis of identity is a profoundly difficult thing. Men have no identity of their own any more; no healthy masculine identity “allowed” by mainstream culture. Just about all the old male archetypes have been, in one way or other, deemed misogynistic and as such an oppressive tool of the patriarchy, and besides – not only men can have these roles, women can do everything men can do, and so forth and so on.

Men, one comes to learn after hearing from the conveniently cuntish cultural chaos, can not do everything women can do. Women can birth children. Men can not. And so women, by default, have an archetype, an identity, that is solely theirs and that is solely feminine: that of a mother. And this is an incredibly important thing – don’t get me wrong. Just a damned fucking shame, then, that the traditional family unit has been deemed a patriarchal tool of oppression by the feminist hordes, and as such broken up and verboten. Fathers, they have said and sprayed and lied and spat and spun for decades, are not essential and are unimportant. As anything but providers. A father is a walking wallet and little more. Women can do the whole shebang on their own… albeit with financial support from the father, who is shamed and blamed for being a “deadbeat dad” who don’t want nothing to do with his children. A damned shame, then, that the courts favour mothers and the feminist hordes bitch and moan and complain about discrimination whenever a 50% shared parenting default is presented as law… conjuring forth all manner of vicious images and lies about fathers only seeking custody of their children to punish the mothers, and that children will not be safe from abusive fathers and so and such. Nevermind abusive mothers; they don’t exist… of course and as expected. Add to the mix the push some years back from certain feminist groups to remove father’s day and replace it with the conveniently dubbed “special person’s day”, because some children don’t have fathers in their life and so this would hurt them a lot, apparently. The observant among us, who have not gobbled the raw chicken of gynocentrism and feminism, will notice that mother’s day would not be replaced with “special person’s day”, for some strange and peculiar reason. That fathers would not have a day to be celebrated would undoubtedly hurt fathers, but they don’t matter and they don’t exist. As anything but external and permanent wallets.

So not even the role of father is an allowed masculine identity. Women can do that as well. And provider, and protector, and all that was typical male identities.

Warren Farrel refers to this crisis of identity as a “purpose-void” in his book, “The Boy Crisis”. It comes recommended, though I don’t agree with everything the man says.

Purpose-void sticks, though. Because that is exactly what it is. Boys are not built up, are not told anything positive in regards to their identity and their being. Everything good they can do, girls and women can also do. And everything bad they can do, only boys and men can do. So there is no masculine identity left that is “allowed” but a negative one. Yet – the expectations are still there, evidenced by a thousand articles like cigarette-burns up and down the arms of boys and young men: where have all the good men gone, where are the men that pay for dates, that provide, that protect, that are chivalrous and all that other stuff which is both discriminatory and empowering towards women. A not insignificant amount of women, it seems, wants to act like a bitch and be treated like a queen. Equal treatment in a relationship translates into traditional expectations from the male, full and fancy freedom for the female.

Here’s a handy and non-PC hate-speech tip for the women out there: If you want a man to pay for a date, you are going to have to earn the privilege of him doing so. And no – despite the claim that men only ever think about sex – this does not mean that you must put out. How to earn the privilege, you’ll have to figure out yourself. Do some soul-searching and see what comes up. This should be interesting.

The message presented is what it is: he shall provide the most, yet he shall also participate in the domestic duties. Don’t matter that he works more, that he works harder and so and such. Everything needs to be split down the middle. Except the bills. And the workload outside the home. Men also tend to have a longer distance to travel to and from work, so one can add even more time away from home.

There is the strange double-speak: despite the role of provider not being an accepted male identity, it is still an expected male identity.

I don’t see anything wrong in being a provider. That is to say: I don’t see anything wrong in a traditional relationship if that is what people want to engage in. This should be a topic of discussion for those who are involved in the relationship, and only for them. The personal really does not need to be political. It becomes a problem when the role of provider is both one that is expected and one that a man is to be shamed for; constantly reminded that his efforts – and by extension himself – are neither valued nor needed for the family or the relationship. There is no respect or understanding for the sacrifice of the male; the female, we are told, sacrifice oh-so-much and whatever and what not. And so the male need to pick up the slack, need to get of his lazy arse and help out more. He does not do good enough, no matter what he does.

And, besides, he is constantly reminded through dreary television and news and social media and what-not: he is not needed, his efforts not appreciated.

And so, what is to be done?

A big, flaming, politically incorrect and ferocious middle-finger can only go so far. Shitposts and edgy memes, despite their humour and ability to at least open a few eyes a bit, does little but act as a source of catharsis – albeit a very functional source of catharsis. I do love me some spicy memes.

All the archetypes are gone; stripped from the male just as his testosterone-levels; declining and declining, dwindling and fading. Which, oddly enough, is not seen as a crisis as much as it should be. I wonder why.

It is rather simple. First: men need to learn how to say no to women. Really. This does not mean to say no to everything just to be an arsehole. It means to say no when you don’t wanna. I know; this does sound obvious. Yet: men, we prove time and again, have an incredibly hard time saying no to women. Far too fucking thirsty is your average man. Pussy-begging and what-not.

Secondly: focus on yourself, your needs, your wants, your hobbies, passions, interests, whatever. This can be done, even in a relationship. Profound and unexpected, I know, but there you have it – it is completely and utterly possible to focus on oneself as a man, as a human being, and still be in a functional relationship with a woman. Any woman who does not accept this is a woman not worth the time of day.

Oh, my, what a terrible misogynist I must be.

The trick is learning to expect the same from women as you would from men.

Oh my, them’s fightin’ words to the feminist equality-brigade. Equality for me, but not for thee, they’ll say and sway as they stumble on their luscious backflab. Oh boy, I’m mean-spirited today. I just got laid. I’m bursting with testosterone and my beard has grown four inches since this morning. Shame about the male pattern baldness, but, oh well – must be proof of testosterone-poisoning or something to that effect. Besides; the feminist-hordes kinda laid the ground rules for viciousness and spite. I am simply returning the favour: speaking in their language.

And this is a complete lie. For if I did, I would be calling for a culling of the females; calling to kill them all. And I would never do that. Hell: I don’t target women either: I target feminism. And feminism, you have to understand equals neither women nor equality.

Thirdly: figure out your strengths. And cultivate them. More importantly: figure out your weaknesses. And conquer them. This is a long, slow and tedious process. In fact: it is a constant process. As it damned well should be: nothing worthwhile is over and done with inside of two minutes. Except a quickie.

Lately, I have found it fascinating, the shame and ridicule that is thrown men’s way through television and whatever else as men go through their “midlife crisis”. I suspect you all know the stereotype; the middle-aged man trying to recapture the glory of his youth, making a complete fool of himself in the process… rightfully and justifiably returning to his proper role and place as the follies of his crisis is revealed in full: he is nothing more special and exemplary than what he has been for years, and nothing is worth recapturing as there is nothing there to grasp.

Allow me to present a differing perspective on the male mid-life crisis.

This is a man who wakes up, just about halfway through his life, realising that he has spent most of his life working and providing; sacrificing himself and his passions and hobbies and whatever else in the process. There has been precious little time for himself, precious little focus on his needs and wants and desires, his hobbies and interests. In fact: they have been considered childish, or brutish, or selfish and whatever else and so have been pushed to the wayside and forgotten: better to settle down with a movie and focus on the relationship than it is to play silly video-games with his friends in the evenings, for example. After all: both him and her work most days, and hardly ever see each other and what about her needs and what about the relationship and what about the family and when will they ever spend time together?

In realizing how little of himself he has actually realised; in realizing how much of himself he has actually sacrificed, he seeks to reclaim himself from the shadows.

You know: like women are encouraged to do through just about every form of media there is. “Eat, pray, love”, anyone? Women who do this; who go through the same process are celebrated and encouraged. Men who do this are ridiculed and mocked.

Mayhaps the mid-life crisis would be lessened, the foibles and follies of recapturing something that has been lost would be unnecessary, if men were not expected and encouraged to complete and utter self-sacrifice, be that for society overall or for the women in their lives and for their families.

At the very least, in times past, men got a certain amount of respect and gratitude for their capacity for self-sacrifice. There was some manner of social reward for them in doing so. Which, one assumes, kept the whole thing going for a good and long while. Now, on the other hand, there is just this constant nagging… this constant bitching and moaning and complaining and it is never good enough; there is no respect and no gratitude, no social rewards but the constant flow of what can only be referred to as thinly veiled contempt. Prompting him constantly to give more, to do more, to sacrifice more, and more, and more.

Because it is never good enough.

And even when doing what all the articles and all the women who write said articles say, it is never good enough.

Self-sacrifice to the point of self-annihilation, and still expected to do more.

Such is the plight of man. And it ain’t getting any better. The tide will only turn, the winds will only chance, when men stop. When men focus on themselves and their own gratification; when men come to realize that their true self lie within themselves – as corny as that may very well sound – and not in what they do or in how well they can provide. Better to be poor and content than rich and miserable. Better to be self-actualized than to be self-sacrificed.

Know thy self, and all that is good will follow.

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 02.05.2020 (The year of the apocalypse-bat)

Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07ZB6K2JX
Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1692495518

Howling at a Slutwalk Moon, a collection of previous blog posts:
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Vol 1 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZTPDPR
Vol 2 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075714184
Vol 2 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZR25NL
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Masks

«A portrait of the artist studiously studying in his study»

(AN: This did not turn out as I wanted it to turn out. I blame that on insomnia. Damned difficult to focus when running on precious little sleep for weeks on end. Still uploading it, though. Enjoy it for what it is.)

There’s masks hanging on the walls and floating ‘round your head as you diligently walk about, go roundabout, turn out and out and out…

Whispering sweet nothings in your ear, softly caressing your hair with oily air as you wear and tear and burn and yearn and earn…

The constant drone, the noise and hum, the buzz, the bomb, the dialogue-gap that bridges the divine divide between spun truth and lies…

An eternal drum that snaps and beats, that clangs and bangs, that cheats then waits behind the scenes to amplify a long lingering disease…

Tenaciously clinging to decayed ideas, habits, shapes and forms that never die, evolve or grow to go nowhere but here and now…

Whispered married token love from windbag masks that fly so low, that fly so slow, in summer-evenings drunk as hell on rage and ruination…

Amorously, amorphously, antagonistically digging fingernails into your eyes and brain and ears to shove the whispered whispers deeper in…

Strange token words of love when once he is so woefully begot; how good she did – got herself a moderately decent provider if nothing else…

A marvelled measured miraculous maverick”, the woe-betide-us masks will say: “one halfway decent man as all the rest are trash”

A man is little to the masks but his title or his job, his work, his errands and his sacrifice of self for the greater self that is his better half…

A man is little more than dirty deeds that need be done to maintain the lumpy city-walls that separate the city from the wild…

It’s not that we don’t like men”, the masks will shout into the wind, “women are just so much better, see”, says the writing on the city-wall…

Some people never passed the test, never got across that kindergarten-line that separate bad cooties from the sex, you see…

Remarkably childish and simplistic, yet there there it is such as it is, was, ever shall be – a childhood thing that never left.

A man ought to be seen as more, and ought to see himself as more in turn, than the sum total of his work and of his labour’s paycheck-fruits…

do diligently slave away”, the masks will say and sway and pray; “sell your soul to work and toil and death”, for them and for the greater good…

To provide and to protect, to preserve and to perish; to come home and to be kicked right in the teeth and in the throat by mass-media supreme.

Stunned and shunned and shamed through malignant mass-media’s day-time choke-hold-chats showing man to be but a bumbling buffoon…

Buffoonery and brutality; violence and vulgarity – either dumb and somewhat tolerable, or dangerous – completely, utterly intolerable…

Clinging to school-yard breath, berated and demeaned and yet; “Step up, men, and do your part”, masks will yell, then vaguely promise love…

A formal invitation into the fold”, say they – a cluttered greeting-card – to do our part over and about again; #HeForShe for she, for sure, for she.

There’s nothing new beneath the sun for those who play, who creep and crawl, who live and die in the shades and in the sunday-shadows cast…

There’s nothing new beneath the sun, nor will there ever be; what was our yesterday is the norm of our today; masks of a different shade of grey.

To labour limitless and in love’s labour lost; to seek validation and verification in what he does and not in who he is.

For who he is, say the grey-specked masks of malignancy, is a pig, a beast, a brute, a bastard come to ravage and to rape the earth.

For who he is, say the grey-and-floating masks of misplaced malady, is one who must be cleansed and then redeemed through sacrifice of self.

A self that’s little more than specks of dust floating in the air, to be hoovered up and tossed aside as someone else gets gratified…

And that’s all fine and dandy – now read my lips and middle-finger, pretty, pretty please – kindly bugger off and boldly fade away.

Vulgar masks do babblelogues and babble on and on: a living dance that sways the current culture, regurgitating old chivalric ideals…

Packaging old static metastasis in new and fancy language; rules for thee and not for me, or mine, oh my, oh goodness, gracious me.

Walking away: leaving well enough alone never tasted as sweet as this; a middle-finger never sounded better than it does right here and now.

The masks will ruminate and they will huff and they will puff and bloat and swell in anger and resentment, shown and blown in great guffaws…

And they will shame and blame and ridicule and conjure vivid images of inceldom and vague sentiments of violence and rapey over-under-tones.

They will whimper and they’ll cry and scream with wild cry-bully crocodile tears; they’ll postulate profusely on irresponsibility and men.

There’s no reason to keep listening, to remain forever shamed, to remain a slave eternal to ridicule or preposterous acts towards proposed penance.

Society, as it stands, is in shambles – it crumbles before our eyes, ground to dust from the I, me, we, at the top all the way to the bottom dregs.

If men are obsolete as the masks claim and roar and scream, then men are obsolete and should as such not be called to dance or to do no more.

Nothing to see here and nothing to do; the masks proposed we leave. And who am I to argue such wisdom from such wise toothless crones?

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 29.04.2020

Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07ZB6K2JX
Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1692495518

Howling at a Slutwalk Moon, a collection of previous blog posts:
Vol 1 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/107571074X
Vol 1 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZTPDPR
Vol 2 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075714184
Vol 2 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZR25NL
Vol 1 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075717094
Vol 2 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075723078

Other links:
Redbubble shop: https://www.redbubble.com/people/Moiret/shop
Blog: https://moiretallegiere.wordpress.com/
YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC3IaCxAXE3pQd7PCdvHoaaA
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twatter: https://twitter.com/MAllegiere
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On Frank Zappa and moral hysteria; a rant:

«Nude posing at the end of time»

Back in the 1970’s, the phenomenal musician (and professional grumpy bastard), Frank Zappa, was asked a fairly simple question.

Not only was it a simple question; it was one of such monumental stupidity and entitlement that it could only ever have come from the quivering lips of a ferocious feminist scorned: why was this terrible misogynistic male so mean to women in his lyrics?

Now, anyone who has spent any amount of time listening to Frank Zappa will have noticed a few things about his music, his lyrics and – perhaps – the man himself;

1: he was god-damned brilliant. I would dare say he was a genius, though I admit to being a drooling fanboy of his, and as such very biased in his favour. I even named my first dog after him. (She is a bitch, and a tiny chihuahua. Somehow, it seems rather fitting.)

2: His lyrics kick in all directions. Nothing is ever sacred and absolutely no-one is safe. He himself stated that “Yes – my lyrics are stupid. So what?”

In the musical world of Frank Zappa, lyrics was a necessary evil – a thing that had to be present in music in order for the music to sell, as so very few people listen solely to instrumental music. They were, in fact, nothing but a means to an end. Thus, silly, absurd and comedic lyrics became his thing. Because why the hell not?

In reply to the question, he answered that women need to learn how to take their lumps, same as men.

And this is absolutely true.

There is the thing of it, I think: feminism may very well preach equality – women in general may very well preach equality; may claim to very much be in favour of equal treatment of the sexes, thank you very much, it is the current year, after all.

Yet what is said and what is done are two quite different things. I believe a thing people have to learn as quickly as possible is that people’s words and people’s actions are quite often not the same. Quite the contrary. They clash and they crash very often. Human beings are complex and intricate creatures, filled with internal contradictions and inconsistencies. This is just part of human nature, I suppose.

It is not always easy to practice what one preaches, though I would sorely wish to see more people do so. This, however, requires a lot of introspection and “soul-searching”. This seems to be rather difficult at the present moment, as narcissism is on the rise and everything is always someone else’s fault. As is so often the case, people are not even aware of their failure to walk the talk, to practice what they preach. Particularly so when feminism has tricked the entirety of the western world into believing that men treat other men with all manner of respect and adoration; with all manner of underhanded deals and preferential treatment and what-have-you’s which they do not grant to women.

This is, as I have come to understand it, psychological projection on part of women in general, and within feminism specifically. They would treat other women preferentially: their in-group bias is way stronger than that of men. So, to their eyes – being unable as all hell to tear their gaze away from their navel – there is no reason why men would behave differently. “We would do this, and so they must also do this”. Add some solipsism into the mix, and you have yourself a cake not fit for human consumption. In fact, it is a cake which they both want to have and to eat.

The fact that Frank Zappa poked fun at men in his lyrics – quite often, and in quite fabulous ways – was forgotten by the feminist scorned, who only noticed women being poked fun at. One assumes that she was quite alright with poking fun at men in general. One also assumes that she did not notice that men were poked fun at because that was a message she agreed with; that this was something inherent to her view of the world and as such was a statement of fact, not a matter of men being ridiculed.

If people were to open their eyes… if people were able to remove their gynocentric blindfolds and see the world proper, the first thing to be noticed would perhaps be a certain elevation – one could almost say deification – of women and of womanhood. Women being sat atop a throne made from delicate and fragile flowers; a throne that would topple and crumble to dust at the slightest breeze. It is not rare to see women – whether blatantly feminist or not – go up in arms at the slightest hint of a joke being cracked at the expense of women, claiming this to be proof definitive of a society that just hates women ever so much, dont’cha’know and so we must have all of this and all of the other to lift women up in this society in which women are hated so much that they get all this preferential treatment… as well as a movement supposedly only for them; a movement that shall hold the monopoly on all things sex and gender; a movement which one must have balls of polished nuclear warheads to dare defy, under pain of social ridicule and death.

Women are hated, so a movement solely for women gets all the say and holds all the sway on all the things.

Makes perfect sense, of course.

And I am the emperor of Norway, keeper of the seven keys and dictator for life in the tiny island nation of Hwat Teh Fcuk.

Poking fun at typical female idiosyncrasies, at female stereotypical behaviour is a big fat no-no, and all who commit this most heinous act are misogynistic poopy-heads whose mother was a hamster and whose father smelled of elderberries. And the feminist hordes will fart in their general direction. All the while saying that we should kill all men and stating with absolute certainty that men, that masculinity, that maleness and whatever else is all that is wrong with the world; that all men must take responsibility for the evil of one man, and so forth and so on. And one can not help but wonder; if merely cracking jokes at the expense of women in general is proof of a society that hates women – what does it say about a society in which it is quite alright for academics to publish deathly serious articles titled “why can’t we hate men”? What does it say about a society in which this article is not only alright to publish, but where the author of said article is being presented as a victim for facing backlash to her blatant hatred of the male sex? A society that hates women and adores men would surely not present a woman that shamelessly presents her hatred of men as a victim of men when men – quite rightfully – react to being hated for nothing but them being men.

Jokes perpetuate negative stereotypes of women, and furthers the oppression of women.

Articles justifying hatred of men – published in mainstream media – is proof that women are hated. I will keep repeating these points until people fucking listen. Repeat, repeat, repeat.

The whole world has gone insane. Completely and utterly insane, locked within a moral hysteria built upon vapid moral grandstanding and virtue-signalling by power-hungry navelgazers whose values are just as deep and firmly anchored as a loosely knit fart.

Ah, shit, this nonsense is trendy now.

Gotta hop along; social validation is the most important thing in the world, after all.

#MenAreTrash! Am I right, sisters? Now – let me get a crack at that pussy. Shit: men may be trash. But I am the exception to the rule. I consider all other men to be trash because I believe them to think and act exactly like me. Now, let me get a crack at that crack. Maybe some good old fashioned simpering, whimpering and puppy-eyed begging will make it so that she touches my penis. Please touch my penis!

#CancelMen, for fuck sake. What does a brother have to do in order to get laid around here? I’ve been self-flagellating for hours on end, but they’ve only been spitting in my eyes. And I am an ally to the noble cause, for Goddess’ sake. Still permanently othered, of course, being but an ally… but I am an ally to the cause of pussy-power. Even wore the pink pussy-hat, for fuck sake.

Please touch my penis.

Ahem.

Carrying on:

Poking fun at typical male idiosyncrasies – at male stereotypical behaviour – is quite alright.

This happens every single day, every which where one should so happen to look.

And I am perfectly fine with this, without a doubt. The ability to laugh at oneself is a transformative tool. Empowering, if I may be so bold as to borrow a buzzing phrase from the feminist handbook. People would do well to not take themselves so damned seriously all the time.

What is bothering, on the other hand, is the feminist hive-mind having fits of hysteria whenever a woman is poked fun at. What is bothering is – as is so often the case – the blatant double-standard of the thing; the hypocrisy, the idiocy of it all. Add to this the inability of people to see this for what it is: anything but equal treatment. Can’t see the forest for a bunch of pretty little lies.

Treating the sexes equally does not mean that women should be a protected class of people, never to be made subject to the same mockery and ridicule that men are made subject to.

Just take a look at your average sit-com for examples of this. Or talkshows… day-time television in general, for that matter. Men are bumbling fools, not elevated moral guardians such as women are.

This notion that preferential treatment of women equals equal treatment of the sexes ties very nicely and neatly into a study done by one Amy Yeung ( https://uwspace.uwaterloo.ca/handle/10012/6958 ), in which it is revealed that women consider it to be sexist when men treat women worse than they would treat other men, that women consider it sexist when men treat women just as they would treat other men… considering it only to be equal treatment when men treat women better than they would treat men.

I find this very interesting, as it explains the squeaks, squaks, cuckoos and cackles, moans, marbles, howls and rise of feminism in no small way. It explains perfectly well how a movement can push for preferential treatment and label this as equal treatment. Women view preferential treatment of women to be equal treatment of women. So-called “benevolent sexism” is still detrimental to women, of course. Because what isn’t? Yet they push for it. Who can fathom the feminine mind? Not my wife, that’s for damned sure. By her own admission.

It’s OK, brothers – my wife is an honorary man; a de facto member of the Patriarchy. Our greatest secretary and coffee-fetcher, in fact.

Oh boy, I’m going to the special feminist circle of hell for that one.

Not that I believe feminism, or most women, really, able to see this for what it is. I don’t believe most men are willing to see this for what it is either: women are precious, and must be protected and one can not make fun of women for exactly that reason.

Besides, it supposedly lowers ones chances of getting laid, and men have drives, desires and needs, god-damnit(!) Dick Hardy is a most potent negotiator. Too bad he is fucking brain-dead.

No matter, never mind.

She Said! He said! Chivalry is far from dead!

And if chivalry is dying; if men treat women equally… if men treat women like they would treat other men, articles start popping up from wherever and whatever mourning the death of chivalry and oh and woe-is-me, but where oh where have all the good men gone?

Of course men should pay on dates – women deserve to be taken care of and feel special. But the relationship has to be equal; step up, men, and do your part of everything… whilst paying for everything.

What, women doing their part? Nah, that is just some patriarchal entitlement – yet another unreasonable expectation of women… male entitlement to this and that and the other, as a matter of fact.

Men should not enjoy their women having an orgasm – that is peak male entitlement right there. Imagine finding enjoyment in ones partner being given enjoyment by oneself. Shock and horror!

Still: women should damned well have at least one orgasm for every ride into funky-town, thank you very much. Just don’t enjoy it while you’re at it, boy. No-one cares if your jaw is frozen solid and your hand is cramping up; get to it, buddy!

What; you want pointers?

Nah, man, you’ve got to know your way around a woman’s body by instinct and intuition alone… Imagine the entitlement in wanting a woman to tell you what she enjoys and how to do it proper… the pure nerve of expecting a woman do something in the sack – goodness gracious, what prime male entitlement this is! Also – fleshlights and sexbots are objectifying women and mass-manufacturing rapists, and so to do porn and masturbation is akin to cheating and, hey, where are you going? Oh, my, why can’t I ever find a good and decent man?

People in glass-houses can not smell their own shit. Instead of listening to what is being said when feminism is criticised, they jump into the very same aforementioned hysterics, put words in your mouth and pull strawmen out of their own arse to set on fire. Screaming that women are not hysterical, but perfectly rational and capable of reasonable discussion, fuck you very much and besides, you make her feel threatened and unsafe by your mere presence, fuck-face.

Add a solitary screech about “PATRIARCHY!!?!!?!?!!!” in there, and we have ourselves a winner, ladies and germs. Men have to accept jokes made at the expense of men in general. Televised stereotypes of men? Ain’t nothing wrong with that. To which I would agree, in all honesty. Reverse the sexes, and the shit-show begins. Apparently, men are capable of humour and of laughing at themselves, whereas women are not. Is it masculinity that is fragile, then, or is it perhaps femininity?

#FemininitySoFragile.

Back in my facebook-days, I was part of a Facebook-group that focused on record-collecting and HiFi equipment. As one would expect, men being far more object-oriented than women, this group was overwhelmingly male. I would hazard a guess at it being 98 percent male.

The discussions on records, music and equipment went as one would expect. Typical male banter; friendly insults and the like.

“What the hell kind of piece of shit equipment is that to play that record on? This record deserves tubes blown by the exotic virgins of lala-land and gold-plated cables, handspun by the queen of England, for fuck sake – bunch of amateurs in here.”

You know what kind of friendly banter I am referring to. All in good fun.

And it was good fun, while it lasted.

For, you see, the feminists entered the room; probably smelling a predominantly male space populated by horrible men in dire need of being civilised by the elevated forms of womanhood; a goddess in the guise of feminism come to save these barbarian men from themselves. Come to make sure the good ol’ boys don’t have too much unsupervised fun.

Though I can not prove this, I will dare state that the sole reason for these two feminists being in this group was tone-policing and feminist propaganda, as the only damned thing they posted in there had to do with women and with feminism.

Even when posting pictures of their records or whatever, they always included some fucking feminist “factoid” alongside the picture. Seemed rather planned, if I am to be perfectly honest.

Every day with that shit; feminism me here and pay-gap me there and horrible titties on the covers or on posters on people’s wall over there, making it such an unsafe and non-inclusive group for the women in the group and no wonder there were so few women there and so-and-such and blah-di-blah and shame the male for he is a true bastard-barbarian. How fucking entitled does one have to be to demand people remove posters that are deemed offensive by fragile feminists from their own walls in their own bloody homes? Feminist-levels of entitlement. And fragility.

#FemininitySoFragile

Whenever a woman enters a predominantly male space, it is expected that the men therein shall alter their behaviour so as to not offend her. It does not matter how many men there are in the space or in the group: the word of this one woman has to be law. And, by damn and fuck-me-right-in-the-ear: men agree and comply and alter their behaviour to suit the woman, for some ridiculous reason. Female entitlement is enforced by men. There is no denying this. You are allowed to say no to women, you know. Even Dick Hardy is allowed to do just that. In fact, Dick hardy must be encouraged to do just that. So much of this god-damned shit is on our shoulders, gentlemen. You don’t have to put up with it, you know.

So I left this group. After about a week of seeing these two women – might have been one woman with two accounts, come to think of it – constantly posting feminist nonsense, I had just about had it. Then I reached my tipping point, the scales were waxed and the shit slid off and hit the fan, spreading it way more than anyone should accept.

One dude in the group had the nerve, you see, had the unmitigated audacity to refer to Yoko Ono as “the bitch that ruined the Beatles”.

Oh boy.

Oh my.

Oh girl.

Oh fragile femininity supreme.

What a shit-show that turned out to be; a macabre and grotesque cabaret. The feminist footsoldiers came rolling in, floating on the wind by virtue of their bingowings, frothing at the mouth, spittle flying every-which-where, demanding the post be removed, claiming that this group was nothing but a bunch of misogynists; a sorry nest of gender-fascists, in fact.

Yes.

They actually used the term “gender-fascists”.

This, then, was the moment they had been waiting for. Finally, they could spring into action on behalf of scorned women everywhere; women who have to put up with female artists being disliked like male artists are disliked. What horror was this?

Irrational emotionally laden screeching followed. A woman can not be criticised. Not even a female artist. One has to worship the ground she walks on. Any one man can not have any one individual opinion on any one woman; neither the woman nor her caterwauling – that is to say, her art – may be subject to criticism. For any critique of a woman, or her art, necessarily must mean that one hates all women by virtue of their sex. And this has to reflect on the entirety of the group, for men – as we all well know – are a homogeneous blob; a mass of testosterone and brawn and perfectly erected penises that have neither solitary opinions nor individual personalities.

And so many guys in that group simpered and drooled and fell to their knees in abject shock and horror; apologizing profoundly and profusely on behalf of the group. A few brave men dared defy the feminine deity that had entered the space; but the damage was done, the battle was won and the female tyranny reigned supreme that day. All the men had learned of their folly and been given a whipping for their insolence in talking back to their superiors.

Earlier that day, I had posted a picture of Warren Zevon’s phenomenal album “the Wind”. I referred to Warren Zevon as a complete and utter arsehole; a narcissistic bastard with no redeeming qualities except his incredible musical and lyrical talent. He was then, and remains still, one of my favourites. Quite possibly the greatest songwriter to have ever graced this green earth. Other guys in the group agreed. Other guys in the group had posted similar things about other male musicians.

No-one reacted with anger or hostility, or claimed that we were just hating on men for them being men. Not even the feminists in the group.

Imagine my shock.

Criticising a female artist, on the other hand, means that the entirety of the group hates women.

Women in male spaces can not help but destroy the male spaces, it seems. Helped very much by the simpering men therein. Much like Yoko Ono, in fact. Women really need to learn how to take their lumps, how to take criticism. Women need to learn that criticism of one woman does not equate to hatred of all women everywhere.

… Much like Yoko Ono, in fact.

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 25.04.2020

Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07ZB6K2JX
Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1692495518

Howling at a Slutwalk Moon, a collection of previous blog posts:
Vol 1 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/107571074X
Vol 1 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZTPDPR
Vol 2 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075714184
Vol 2 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZR25NL
Vol 1 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075717094
Vol 2 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075723078

Other links:
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The future through a visionay beard

«God searching for his car keys after a night out with the boys»

Inspired by Nostradamus, or by St. John of Patmos, or by a tiny critter living under my bed who’s been whispering into my ear at night… intrepid explorer of the not-too-distant future as I am, strange visionary shaman, mind-bending consumer of fresh woo incense and devourer of present-tense nonsense took I the deep plunge into the shadows of the collective subatomic consciousness… a visionary journey gifted to me by feasting on the strange and exotic mushrooms that grow in my beard, nurtured by caffeine and plucked by hand by forty basement-dwelling neck-bearded virgins, each fedora-tipper more delicate than the last.

Yes, true seeker of truth and of knowledge esoteric, occult and divine – I, your humble humid hermit host, have visited the future through paths unknown to lesser mortal men.

I mean; I’ve got to have something going for me if this writing-gig don’t work out. Why not settle for visionary journeys, time travelling, astral spectatorship and such?

A backup-plan is for sure a necessity.

And I have been told that it pays very well.

Though, of course, for true spiritual seekers such as myself, payment is not a necessity. I am far above and beyond such needs and desires of the flesh. You can read all about it in my forthcoming book; “Breatharianism for the sustainable future of mankind: a green new veal (Or: how I learned to say no to flatulent cows and love the micro-organisms of the air)”.

Alas: as much as I would love to guide you through my green new veal and teach you the breath-taking, breathless pleasures of breatharianism, that is not the course my dissolving ego plans to take on this fine spring morning of the year of the apocalypse. I promised you a journey into a future shared – one which all and one will be part of in synchronous harmony, tangled in our common web and in our unified strands of fiberoptic leg-hair that stand on end and yet will be combed down by children in the guise of dog-faced pony-soldiers.

Yes, I, the awakened and enlightened Moiret of the Beard; he who conquered the blanket of malcontent, who spoke truth to the soft pillow of maladjustment, who bathed in the dangerous waters of a tranquil beach one summer-evening long ago, who besieged, battled and defeated the weird and wondrous wine of the beloved bastard Burgundy… whose beard is of such a magnificent magnitude that it single-handedly fought the horde of Babylonian single women and won, using naught but a pointy stick and a banana – yes – the very same – have travelled to the future, have seen the future and come back to tell a tale of much wonder and delight, of terror and of trepidation!

My wandering soul carried on the wings of my soaring spirit-animal; a most magnificent bat, saw I beneath me on the pedantically paved paths of the future-streets, peoplekinds of all shapes, sizes and sexes walking in single file; each in their own plastic bubble, wireless transmitters attached to cranial implants; rabbit-ear antennae poking out from their significantly shaven heads… shaven so as to signify cleanliness and perfect personal hygiene following the outlawed outbreak of that which shall not be named, shamed or blamed.

Be it by magic or by some strange significant rhythm riding on frequencies unheard by my inferior ear, I do not know, yet the single file I saw beneath me all pressed forward in perfect unison, step by step and wobble by wobble, maintaining a distance of two meticulously measured meters despite the plastic bubble wrapped about their person-hoods.

Looking ever closer, saw I there on the immaculate pavement strange pictograms – amazing, awe-inspiring hieroglyphics put in place to tell the people standing and walking there where their proper place to stand would be so that they would be forever put in their proper place.

Ever so often unknown vehicles, strange chariots of power, would buzz by or stop there before the pavement and before the people walking there, who then stopped abruptly and, standing silently and deathly still, slowly turned to meet and greet the hosts within the buzzing vessel.

The hosts of the vessels, wearing strange garments of blue, with duck-billed masks, all crafted from some strange and unusual material unknown to me and not the bubbles I had seen the others wear, would then come out from the sides of the unknown carriage carrying some strange device which I took to be a tracking-device of sorts and, with many a flirt and flutter, would beep and boop their way through the line until – I assumed – they found the one whom they were seeking for. The others there in line would look away, would avert their gaze as the hosts rolled and bounced the one away into their strange carriage that then would buzz away and from then and there see the line go forth again.

Turning around to gaze upon the sky above saw I there, to my shocked surprise, a dome of glass above and all around; sealing the city which I visited inside its frosted walls.

Atop most buildings waved a flag of a most peculiar design, wafting mechanically, synthetically, alluringly, in the lack of breeze; a crimson hue beset with splattered specks of gold – the symbol, seemingly, of glorious global unity.

With the help and guidance of my spirit-guiding sacred bat, soared I down to street-level to see giant screens adorning the walls of all the buildings erected there, on whose mirroring surface messages appeared, informing the people walking there to do not touch or hug or fornicate; to not congregate or dance or sing in groups… even not in pairs of two and two, under pain of punishment severe, as this might topple and bring down the tower grandiose of globally ensured fantastic unity.

A temporary measure said the signs, both above and below eye-level.

On all the corners of the streets saw I solitary rooms in which to donate either blood or sperm or eggs for the cause of continuation and survival.

A temporary measure said the signs, both above and below eye-level.

Each and every one and all donation were freely donated or not; there was a phenomenal freedom to choose – either to give or to abstain; there were no mandatory donation of blood or eggs or sperm, though one would be clearly suspected of being ill or otherwise infected by that which shall not be named or blamed or shamed, if one failed to donate twice weekly and so lose some privileges such as the ability to purchase groceries or go to work or the privilege to feed oneself. All for the greater good and for the good of that which is greater than oneself, of course, for sacred unification and for hallowed unity.

A temporary measure said the signs, both above and below eye-level.

Then saw I later on down the line bunkers filled with sickbeds underneath the ground; women a-plenty hooked up to breathing apparatuses and noticed, for the first time, that within the bubbles each person carried about their neck a paper or a passport of sorts which could easily be both read and scanned by all who were in close proximity.

Upon this passport which were given twice hourly updates, stood the status of the person – whether ill or well, whether privileged or oppressed and so and such – and points were given according to the status-updates.

A most intricately designed credit system to measure someone’s value, worth and well-being and so attribute scores accordingly. The scores, in turn, would decide whether treatment, care, compassion and such would be given and received.

A temporary measure, said the signs and whispers on the electrified wind, both above and below eye-level.

As I was floating further down to examine in closer detail the sickbeds and the rooms in which they lay, heard I shouts and screams; a cacophony most obscene, and drifted then away to examine that instead.

Closing in on the source of the caterwauling saw I female-identified person and male-identified person standing together, each in their own bubble, yet saw I that the bubbles were touching.

Such a thing I had yet to see, and so I coaxed my guiding bat to take me even closer to the source of this confounding and confusing cacophony of commotion.

“Brother-sister Blue”, shouted the female-identified person, shaven head and all; “Brother-sister Blue, brother-sister blue! This bovine brother bubbled my bubbly buttocks with his bulbous bubonic bubble!” To which the buzzing chariot which I had previously encountered buzzed up to them, post-haste, and hasted then and there out from the sides of the chariot the same strangely clad peoplekinds I had seen, strange scanners at the ready.

“Brother-sister blue,” said the male-identified person from within his bubble, antennae standing on edge atop his shaven head, “this bovine sister is speaking a bad-truth. Never once has my bubble bubbled her buttocks, except for by accident as this bovine sister so abruptly stopped before me so that I could not help but bubble into her by bumbling bubble-accident.”

“What a load of bovine excrement, bovine brother 0069,” said the largest of the strange Brother-sister blues, having first scanned the passport of said bovine brother, to be sure of their number and their status and their class, their voice concealed and strangely altered by a duck-billed doctors mask; “have you forgotten your unity catechismus already, or are you maybe developmentally challenged that you do not know the good-truth that bovine sisters never speak in bad-truths?”

The male-identified person spoke no word, either in defiance or in agreement, but stared in strange defeat at the feet of his would-be captors, as they continued: “If so – if you are developmentally challenged so that you can not separate good-truths from bad-truths, so that you can not remember the real-true good-truth of the catechismus, why then are you roaming the streets when you should be in one of our special programs to be educated and learn useful skills that would help us promote further unification?”

Tending now to the female-identified person, the smallest of the Brother-sister blues told her to carry on with her day and be at peace; the dastardly bovine brother and his trespass upon the bovine sister’s personal bubble would be dealt with as best they could, and so the bovine sister wobbled ahead, bubbled feet kept neatly in their pictographic hieroglyph-place.

Listening to the brother-sister blues as they spoke their vague words of wondering warning to bovine brother 0069, caught I their choices in my strange visionary ears; to be either banished, branded or burnt – and saw I there, reflected in their glassy eyes, a look of strange puzzlement and surprise as alluring freedom rang within his bubbled soul; freedom – be that through death or banishment – seemed a price and a reward rather than as punishment most severe.

And then I felt myself being pulled through time and space anew; vision ended for this time… and woke then in anxious stream-of-consciousness-cold-sweat, free-form-gasping on the floor of my silent Spartan kitchen, drawing nourishment and comfort from the air surrounding me, as strange colours danced at the far edge of my vision and with whispers of the future ringing in my head sat I then down here to write of what visions I had seen.

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  • Moiret Allegiere 22.04.2020

Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07ZB6K2JX
Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1692495518

Howling at a Slutwalk Moon, a collection of previous blog posts:
Vol 1 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/107571074X
Vol 1 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZTPDPR
Vol 2 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075714184
Vol 2 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZR25NL
Vol 1 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075717094
Vol 2 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075723078

Other links:
Redbubble shop: https://www.redbubble.com/people/Moiret/shop
Blog: https://moiretallegiere.wordpress.com/
YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC3IaCxAXE3pQd7PCdvHoaaA
Bitchute: https://www.bitchute.com/channel/EvbGZyTZSraY/
twatter: https://twitter.com/MAllegiere
Gab: https://gab.com/Moiret_Allegiere
Minds: https://www.minds.com/Moiret
Flickr: https://www.flickr.com/people/152465815@N04/

Spread too far: A ramble on Chronic pain

«The Great Wazoo»

My mind has been slowing down lately. These chronic pains of mine have worsened. Increased significantly in severity. It is excruciatingly difficult to focus when ones entire body is in agony; burning with red-hot searing pain. Nerves going haywire; firing random signals of severe pain… a stinging, burning sensation that envelopes the entirety of my body. Joints, muscles, tendons… skin and bones and all.

It is peculiar… at times, at certain points of my body, I can not stand even the slightest of touch. So sensitive to pain. Gobbling painkillers does nothing but take the edge of the pain, as well as further slowing down my mind. The pain is still there, knocking at my central nervous system with all the subtlety of a 1980’s action flick. Preferably one starring Arnold Schwarzenegger.

It is an illness brought on by too much psychological stress stretched over too many years; etched into every fibre of my being. Given that all I can think about at the moment of typing is pain, I think a bit of a ramble on pain… on the fallout of psychological stress, perhaps, the inevitable collapse that happens when stretching oneself too far, spreading oneself too thin, reaching towards being good, kind and helpful towards all but oneself is in order.

I grew up with the message that men are bad and women are good tattooed on the inside of my eyelids; a fairytale presented me, myself and I as truth without a doubt – a truth that was not to be challenged lest one be met with shame, with wagging fingers, with ridicule and raw, ravaging resentment. There is no force more adept at bringing a blue-pilled man to his knees than shaming, be that shaming subtle or obvious, from a woman.

I have written about this previously, at great length and in much detail. And – to the surprise of absolutely no-one – have been met with anger, disbelief and accusations that I am simply lying.

I assume the truth is too terrible to comprehend; that the damage done to boys and young men by this type of rhetoric – the anti-male sentiments so prevalent, so dominant, so mainstream, so embedded in our cultures that we do not see it except through a great force of will – is too horrible of a thing to understand, to believe, to take into consideration or take the blame for that it is far easier to bury it under piss-and-shit accusations of lies and bullshit than it is to acknowledge what it has done, what it is doing.

If not being met with accusations of lying, it is accusations of me being weak and frail and not much of a man to be so marked, so influenced by this type of rhetoric…

As if boys and men are emotionally hollow; mere vessels of flesh and blood with no psychological processes, no emotional processes, under the skin that is able to be influenced or damaged or shaped or misshaped by what messages are delivered during their formative years. Or beyond their formative years, for that matter.

To the former, I can only reply that I don’t give a fuck whether some random person on the internet believes it or not, whether I am accused of lying or not. For, you see, the fact still remains. It will still be the truth, no matter what some random commenter on the internet claims.

To the latter, I can only reply that boys and men are also prone to psychological damage; that the psyche of boys and men are not some magically impenetrable fortress that can not be attacked and torn down. No matter how much supposed god-like strength and resilience are placed in the sculpted model of a man as he is seen by those who spit their hatred and contempt at all things masculine with impunity.

Refer to the damage done as weakness as much as you like; alpha-posturing from other men or shame from women makes little sense when the topic of ramblings are psychological damage done to young impressionable boys in their developmental years.

I really don’t care if someone considers me to be weak.

Men need to talk about their emotions and their issues and their problems, see. But not like that, not like this, not those issues nor those problems. Flaunting fragile masculinity, then. As opposed to toxic masculinity, which amongst other things are men not talking about their problems and issues and so-and-such. Almost makes me believe that the “rules” such as they are were created to make it so that a man can never win.

(Besides, wouldn’t dubbing men fragile and weak and what-not for talking about things like this be an expression of toxic masculinity if one is to go by the frantic flow of feminist expression and language? Oh well – let them bathe in male tears. They can drown in them for all I care.)

It says something about a culture, when teachers are free to stand in front of a group of children and tell them all that there is something lacking in the boys; that the girls are far better than the boys in every aspect. All this whilst meeting no resistance, no objections, nothing of the sort. Also: the girls need more help and support than the boys, even when the girls are better suited, more mature and way smarter than the boys.

Go figure.

I don’t care whether the dismal dismissal of my rogueish ramblings comes from other men or from women. It proves a point either way: there is little empathy, little understanding, little care, compassion and consideration for boys and for men. From both men and women.

The narrative for decades have been one that says that girls and women are the ones that are truly suffering, and so they are the only ones whose issues shall be looked at and taken into consideration.

So that when talking about boys and men, when showing care, consideration and compassion towards boys and men one is accused of hating women… of taking the spotlight away from women and the issues of women. Unless, of course, the issues of boys and men are seen through the lopsided lens of feminism which, as we all damned well know, places the blame squarely on men. This is done by referring to the omnipotent, omnipresent, invisible and indefinable patriarchy; an illuminati-like entity that is whatever it is needed to be at the moment it is brought up as an argument and a “gotcha”. “Oh no, we don’t blame men, we blame the patriarchy.” And all things negative are given names that have something to do with men or with masculinity, even when women are guilty of it… It is remarkable how lacking in gender-neutrality the terminology of those who supposedly push for gender-neutral language is.

One would not be wrong in thinking that merely showing empathy has become a zero-sum game; as though compassion and consideration is a zero-sum game where the one must be hoisted up to stand atop the shoulders of the other. For ever and ever and to make up for supposed past grievances and past wrongs, experienced not by the one and never perpetrated by the other. Collectivizing blame is a game as old as sin. And it never brought anything good to the table but further resentment and perpetual war. But, hey, it’s only about equality, dontcha know?

The other don’t matter – there is absolutely no possible way to show care, compassion, consideration and empathy towards both, according to the one.

We must end violence against women. Even when men are by far the group who most experience violence… instead of ending violence against all, we focus on women. Men’s experience of violence, whether that be domestic violence or random acts of violence or whatever is presented as not being as serious as that of women’s experience.

It is so damned strange, given that men are the majority victims of violence that the focus is on women’s experience of violence. Particularly strange is it, when women are supposedly an oppressed group of people, to see that women are the group given preferential treatment in law, with all manner of special governmental programs to help them and only them. Or, as is the case with the Mexican Malt Malaise that is currently sweeping the world with it’s peculiar pandemic: more men die, women most affected.

Or, as is the case with men dying younger than women: we must care about the widows left behind when the men die, instead of caring about the men that die too young, instead of trying to figure out the reasons and perhaps and perchance remedy it.

And this is all according to the UN, whose stance on human rights is that women’s rights deserve their own category separate from human rights; thus elevating women above your everyday, ordinary human being. Rather peculiar and remarkable, but who cares – it is only about equality, and in order for the genders to be treated equally, the one must be treated far better than the other. In upside-down land, it all makes sense. And thus they saw the light; the sun rising on the horizon of la-la-land.

I once received a very angry email from a very triggered and offended feminist (no surprises there), accusing me of making a gendered competition out of empathy. Furthermore; boys and men do not experience less empathy in society, she said. Which is odd, considering that me showing empathy and compassion towards boys and men was enough to send her into a frenzy and accuse me of hating women and wanting to chain my wife to the kitchen, to birth children and cook dinner and do nothing but that. Though, of course, she began the entire diatribe by stating, quite clearly, that I was obviously only writing what I write in order to be provocative and so nothing I would have said in response would have mattered. Nice.

It’s so fucking rich; feminism accusing someone of making some gender-based competition out of something when that is all they bloody do. If something is not funnelled direct into some cause for women and girls; if a bone is thrown in the direction of boys and men, the feminist platoons are at the ready, bingo-wings flailing wildly in the wind, trembling bottom lips dripping spittle and resentment, flared nostrils indicating emotional upheaval, danger-dyed hair standing on end, steam billowing from their ears, yelling about how this is taking away from women and this is a step back for women’s equality and what have you and what not. All the while shouting one down, screaming, roaring, refusing one to speak by claiming that they are being denied their right to speak. Feminism surely is a harsh mistress; and its middle name is not rationality, its maiden name not reasonable nor dialogue.

Had I known during my formative years, or during my teens, or even during my early twenties what I now know… had I been told but once during my early years that I am not an evil oppressor; that I am not a violent brute, consumed by thoughts of rape and sex and violence… that I am not some immature and egotistical being whose sole focus in the world is sex and violence and oppression and what-the-fuck-else… my trajectory through life – to this point in my life – would have been quite different.

If the message beat into my developing psyche regarding my psyche, my person… my very identity as a man, in fact, had been a positive – or even a neutral one – there is no doubt in my mind that I would not be sitting here now, debilitating pain coursing through my body, concentration lacking and painkillers always at the ready.

Instead, I was refused my identity as a man – I was refused my core being; a healthy identity as a man.

Men were defective and had to be fixed; mended in some way or other… to be always at the ready to help, aid, give of their time to lift girls and women up… to not take too much room, to not take too much time, to not think of themselves or put themselves first in their own lives. For that would be selfish.

Happy wife, happy life.

If momma ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy.

And so forth and so on. And this is as old as time itself, I think, different guises and different names and different forms and shapes, but the core concept remains the same: women are precious and must be protected. Men are disposable.

Here I sit, ripping a page from the feminist handbook; the “lived experience”, supposedly so important, so fantastic, that all else must fall to the wayside and be forgotten, neglected and destroyed as a result of it. At least if the lived experience is that of a feminist woman who spout the typical feminist things one has come to expect.

One wonders how far the importance of the “lived experience” goes when the lived experience is that of a man, or of a woman who do not wear the feminist mantle of victimhood. Not too far, one assumes. Not too far at all. Men live lives of unhampered and unhindered privilege, after all. And non-feminist women are merely brainwashed victims of the patriarchy; poor maidens in distress who must be saved from the patriarchy and from their own internalized misogyny. Blah-di-blah and gobble-de-gook.

That is what we are told. And so it must be true, and so we must tone down, step back, crawl away and do all in our power to help the girls and the women in our lives. To help, to give, to sacrifice to the point of self-annihilation. A man with a broken leg don’t matter as long as there is a woman with a broken nail in close proximity. Boys kidnapped for years upon yeas or burnt alive or whatever by Boko Haram don’t matter, don’t generate outrage. The moment some 200 girls were kidnapped, however, the entire world went up in arms. There’s no end to the outpouring of empathy and sympathy and calls to help and save and #BringBackOurGirls and whatever not. Most peculiar, considering that the lives of both innocent boys and girls are precious and should be protected; that one would assume both would be considered equally valuable in a world where gender-equality is oh-so-important. Oh well, I have it from very trustworthy sources that boys and men do not experience less empathy in our societies, so I guess this don’t matter.

Don’t worry. It may sound like it, but: I refuse to carry the mantle of victimhood. Being a victim is not part of my identity.

Strength, however, is.

Strength in adversity.

Victimhood is not a healthy identity; having a major part of ones identity be that of a perpetual victim is all well and good if one wishes to remove responsibility and have others do for one, at the expense of themselves. “You owe me for past grievance”.

A strange “luxury” which men are not afforded, despite our severe privilege. Or, well, because of our severe privilege, one assumes. No matter; the mental gymnastics are a difficult thing to master. When one becomes a master of it, 2+2 becomes 7 and feminism is only about equality.

I can not help but write about my experiences when the mood strikes me. I can not help but write truth about agony whilst writhing in agony, as it were.

There is a difference – a clear distinction – between being victimized in life and remaining a victim through life; speaking about and acknowledging the one does not necessitate the other. Having been a victim of something does not mean that one has to remain a victim of that thing for ever and ever. Quite the contrary. It means that one has to get over it. To pick oneself up by the scruff of ones neck and kick oneself in the arse enough times to make the message clear.

In short: get over it.

It is something men can, have to, must do by themselves. For the empathy-gap is clear. And so is the lack of support, be that on an individual level or at a societal or cultural level. Strength, confidence and belief in oneself becomes a necessity.

In the end, there is nothing else, there is no-one else.

Yet; when the damage is done… when the damage is so severe as to render one in chronic pain, it is difficult to not feel resentment… to not taste the bitter-sweet fruit of anger at the tip of ones tongue. Or having it stuck in the back of ones throat. It does something to one when one is told, at a young age, that one is responsible for the wrongdoings of all men by virtue of being born a boy.

To experience that the burdens of all the wrongs of men – whether real or imagined – are placed on ones shoulders, yet the acknowledgements of all the good of men are not… to observe that the good done by good men throughout the ages are skewed, twisted, turned and presented as being done by men, not women, for reasons of the men pushing the women away and forcing them to not do, thus cancelling and nullifying the good done by men… it does something to one.

Having ones sexuality demonized and smeared as something violent and forceful and domineering; as being two rubbed and parted ruby lips away from rape at any given moment when going through puberty and first experiencing the awakenings, the first twinges and pangs, of ones sexuality is terrible. There is a grave injustice there, hidden in the flabby folds of our school system; in academia, in pedagogy; in our governments and in our social structures… in our very cultures, in fact.

The powers that be ought to not be; those that gave the power to the forces who decided that men are what is wrong with the world ought to be shamed and shunned and relocated to pig farms in order to do some proper, helpful and constructive work for once. #RelocateBureacrats anyone? #FeedBureacratsToSewerRats, perhaps?

For years, I was living under the illusion that I had to prove that I was a good man. As opposed to those that were not; the vast majority of men, in fact.

And so I did, and I helped and I offered and I sacrificed, thinking and caring very little for myself in the process. Each and every time I did something for myself and myself only, I felt a pang of guilt – a sensation that this was something I should not do, followed by a very guilty conscience.

It sounds absolutely ridiculous and absurd, but that is the point I had been brought to… the peak of gynocentric madness, so to speak – the pinnacle of self-sacrifice. To sacrifice my self on the altar of gynocentrism, in the hallowed halls of feminism, until I was all but annihilated.

After all; I was inherently bad from being born a man, and so I must do penance and above all else help women.

Not that this did much but render me a doormat, as one would expect.

So that, at art-school where I met my wife who is just as introverted as myself, the teachers there banded together and preposterously claimed that I forced her into social isolation, thus ostracising me and effectively making me a social outcast. For my terrible oppressive nature as a man caused the introversion of my wife, according to the flaring nostrils and ideological blindness of the educators who could not fathom that a woman could chose for herself her levels of social interaction. Women are too weak, frail and so-and-such to do that, according to those who claim women to be strong and independent. There is a strange disconnect there; a peculiar double-speak way too clear and obvious to be ignored.

That’s what being a “good man” gives you: more resentment, more hatred, shame and ridicule.

And I shut up and I took the punches and that is what I was supposed to do because one should not speak against the holy tenets of feminism, nor against the sacred vulva and its followers. Being a man, I had to self-flagellate. Until the skin was ripped from my back and I was drowning in my own blood. He for she, after all. I was still not a good man, though, given that I was a man and so beset and infested with original sin. The original sin will never leave, no matter the severity of ones self-flagellation. This has been a pattern at every school I have ever attended; some worse than others, others more covert than some. Whether covert or overt, whether severe or not-so-severe, feminism has been present and has been presented as truth; political indoctrination in schools supposedly free of political or ideological bias. Political indoctrination is alive and well. Thriving, in fact. It appears to be so successful as to be invisible. When one -ism is presented as truth… when schools present a certain belief-system as fact, whatever else should one name it but indoctrination?

The beast is everywhere. It is the dominant ideology of our day and age; a roaring dragon and a terrible tyrant, spreading its bingo-wings and breathing fire at the world, claiming that the fire comes from a place of compassion – that it will, in fact, keep us warm. Those that are burnt to a crisp either don’t matter or don’t exist; the corpses that can not be concealed just an unfortunate by-product perhaps, or relics from a former era that could not adapt to the heat and the flames… reactionary morons who reacted to the fire instead of seeking shelter within it… or the flames were not from the real dragon; nor were they the real fire.

And this, amongst other things, is why I can not shut up about it.

The damage done to me by the rhetoric so lovingly spat, spewed and spun by feral feminist ideologues caused an inevitable collapse of my psychological well-being, of my sanity and of my self. And six years of poor psycho-therapy, of misdiagnosis and over-medicated slumber followed… psycho-pharmaceuticals to dull the pain and numb the mind. For the true reasons of my despair, my depression, my anxiety and anger, my insomnia and “insanity” were a topic not to be touched; the depths were not to be plunged, the hull not to be breached. Even in therapy, where the focus was supposed to be my path to recovery – my path to healing, so to speak – saying anything negative about feminism was strictly verboten. It is absolutely remarkable. It got waved away and the drugs prescribed instead. Mental health services are not there for guys, that’s for damned sure.

And so, after six years of drugged slumber; of stagnation and being completely lost – rudderless and hopeless – I said “Fuck it”, and quit it all.

Anyone who has not been caught in the grip of overmedication, who has not had their life stopped dead in its tracks from psycho-pharmaceuticals can not properly understand the power of these drugs. It is absolutely terrifying how powerful they are. And being given a cocktail of them… a good handful to gulp down every day… does nothing but halt ones development, ones evolution, ones life. Each day becomes the same as the next day… for years and years and years. Each and every day as forgettable as the last and as the next. It is a bullet fired directly into the brain of ones life, ending it there and freezing everything as it was then.

Fuck it, I’m good.

This has become my mantra for the past five years; a reminder to myself that there is no need for me to prove my worth. Not as a man, nor as a good man. Not to myself, nor to anyone else. I don’t need to prove something which I know to be true.

Fuck it, I’m good. And fuck it, so is just about every man.

As a man, one has to find strength in oneself. One has to find a way to rely on oneself. One has to be strong in adversity, to find strength in adversity, to get through it and come out the other side.

As men, we all too often stand alone in the storm. As red-pilled men, this becomes even more true, even more real.

This may sound negative, cynical, depressing even. And this may be true. I mean, I don’t believe that it is inherently negative, cynical or depressing. Rather, I believe it to be a measure of strength, a token of men’s ability to thrive and to survive even in the most damning of days, even in the most catastrophic of calamities. A man has to look out for himself and take care of himself. Because no-one else will.

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 18.04.2020

Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07ZB6K2JX
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Howling at a Slutwalk Moon, a collection of previous blog posts:
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Vol 1 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZTPDPR
Vol 2 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075714184
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Karen in a tub of roses

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So there I was, just minding my own business… bathing as one does; my bath-tub filled with warm water and rose-petals… my magnificent beard resting atop my knees to give the illusion of having more volume and weight to it than is really there, as my lovely non-gender specific Philippine lady-boy manservant Mad Onna gently and soothingly played the piano in a corner of the bathroom. In order to keep me sane and functional during this terribly trying time. You know what it’s like.

The air was filled with the sweet scent of fine wine and Goop-branded incense to cleanse my chakras and tell me just how Goopy I am. And the bath-bombs I used – my God, how beautiful and luscious and soothing they all were! This was turning out to be just another Wednesday, such as we all experience any given Wednesday. Nothing special, in other words.

Yet – I came to thinking, as so often happens when one is having ones casual Wednesday bath: if there is one thing the beer-bug has showed us – if there is one thing we should be truly grateful for during this crazy beverage pandemic – it is this: we are all really and truly the same. Under the domed and arching roofs of our piano-lined bathrooms; beyond the locked and gated confines of our mansions, we are all the same. Truly, really, obviously – we are all completely equal during this pernicious and problematic pandemic lock-down. We are all confined to these small quarters… these small private resorts of ours. Unable to socialize… unable to go anywhere, really, lest we fall victim to the frightening and ferocious fingers of this feverish fermentation-plague. There is no differences between us. There is really and truly nothing that separates us from one another. We are all in the same cosmic boat, hurtling through the empty vacuum of space on our road to eventual decay and death.

This, I thought as I rose from my bathtub, Bath-bomb coloured water dripping from my flabby body, rose petals tangled in my freshly oiled beard, was such a beautiful, such a profound realization, that I took to humming John Lennon’s “Imagine” to myself. Wondering as I did so whether or not to call up all my friends for an impromptu sing-along; a very real and awe-inspiring improvised karaoke-session, as it were. Surely, that would heal the world, mend some wounds and bring us even closer together so that we could band together in perfectly diversified and equitable solidarity.

This I pondered, as Mad Onna got done drying me up. They then proceeded to clean the bathroom and mix me my first drink for the morning.

The beverage bug really isn’t all that important, when all is said and done. It will pass, and we will all have grown closer and more equal than ever as a result of it. Who knew that a Hoppy flu would bring us so much good? But that’s me for you – always seeing the positive in everything, trying to turn something negative on its head and use it for what it is worth. After all: what good is a pandemic if one can not find some way or other to capitalize on it, be that social or economic capitalization? There is always some way to use something so that I get the attention that I so sorely crave. I am an entertainer, after all. What the hell am I, if I don’t have anyone to entertain? The rest of the world might as well not exist if it does not notice me. And, well, the same applies to me myself and I. How do I know if I exist, if the world does not acknowledge me at every tick of the clock? It gets very lonely when being isolated for two weeks, with no one to talk to but the servants. And my friends. And my family.

Mad Onna delivered me my drink, and was then allowed to adjourn to their quarters – a very decent cupboard under the stairs – for some rest and a brief nap. Well deserved, I thought. After all – their father had only recently passed away from exposure to the Mexican malt malaise. Must be a hard blow for their mother, poor thing.

Of course, I will wake them soon enough. They are getting paid close-to minimum wage, after all… and I am not one to make my own brunch to soothe the pressures of the mid-morning munchies, that’s for damned sure. I never was one for manual labour. Cooking in any capacity is such a dirty and rotten task… my skin is way too fine and delicate for such work. Good thing that we have man-servants.

See, that is the main issue I personally have with those who are opposed to immigration: who the fuck are going to clean our toilets, drive our cars or prepare our food if we don’t have open borders? Our selves? The very thought…

None of these racist arseholes ever thought of that, that’s for damned sure. Someone has to clean our toilets, and you can be damned sure that it ain’t me doing that.

No, there are far more important things to be concerned about than the brewsky blight. There’s no doubt about that.

See – I was shocked to learn recently that certain women are being referred to as being a “Karen”, for supposedly being bossy and pesky and wanting to talk to the manager and things of that nature…

This woman-hating, woman-bashing, woman-stereotyping Karen-shaming can not stand. This aggression will not stand. It is, as our most beloved manufacturer of equality, tolerance and inclusion, Julie Bindel, pointed out on Twitter – our most hallowed platform for equality, tolerance and inclusion – very sexist and classist and ageist and other such naughty things that we would never ever pull out of our arse in order to perpetuate a female victim-narrative so that the feminist movement will stay relevant.

Referring to strong and independent women who don’t need no poor customer service as a “Karen” is really the most foul misogynistic behaviour out there. It is even worse than the air-conditioner… on about the same level of sexist transgressions and micro/macro-aggressions as the Iphone being too large. Making electronic gizmos too large is of course a misogynist dog-whistle… a way to subjugate and frighten and enslave women by making us subconsciously think that “Men are far bigger and stronger and more able than women”.

This is, of course, not true in the slightest. Please, repeat the mantra after me: Women can do anything men can do, and do it in heels!

This includes talking to the manager.

When a man does it he is assertive and dominant, and when a woman does it she is nothing but a Karen… dehumanized and vilified and painted as a bossy busy-body for not taking shit from no customer service.

Women must be listened to and believed, no matter how inane and petty their complaints may seem to you personally. See, the complaints may seem petty to you. But you have never been in Karen’s shoes; you don’t know what Karen has gone through that brought her to complain to the manager in the first place. Maybe she is a victim of domestic abuse. Ever thought of that? Of course you haven’t. Everyone is so quick to judge without knowing the what and how and when and where and who of anything.

So what if the woman in front of you in the line complained that she had to pay for one of her items which she was sure she had a coupon for, even if the coupon was expired? It doesn’t matter that she stood there for an hour straight, demanding to speak to the manager… and then berating the manager for another hour over the expired coupon whilst the line was building up behind her and everyone just wanted to get their shopping done and get home.

How was she supposed to know that the coupon was expired? And furthermore: why should she accept that the coupon was expired?

Everyone is always looking to who Karen is, never caring about how Karen is…

Instead of taking the beating lying down, she sticks it to the man. This is empowering as all hell, and an example all women should follow. Referring to this behaviour as being that of a “Karen” is such an insult… such contempt and hatred shown towards your typical suburbanite soccer-mom who has her hands full with juggling her kid’s every activity, hovering over them like the loving helicopter-parent that she is, showering them with attention and love and making sure that they meet all their assignments by taking care of their homework and so-and-such for them.

Ungrateful as they are, they would do a poor job with their homework if they were to do it themselves, and this would reflect poorly on her and her abilities as a mother.

You have no idea how hard these women work – all unpaid emotional labour, I might add – to make sure their kids never face any difficulties, never have to overcome any challenges, in their life. And then they have to face being lambasted, ridiculed, smeared and shamed with this gendered slur of “Karen”… for doing nothing but being strong, empowered and independent. It really brings my piss to a boil.

So much so, in fact, that I need another drink in order to calm down. I’ll wake Mad Onna soon enough – half an hour of rest ought to be enough for even the most fatigued Phillipine lady-boy.

We’re all in this together. Equally, wonderfully, diversifiably, rose-petally, elliptically, sing-songingly, imaginingly, attention-seekingly, equitably and inclusively, we are all in this together.

Spreading such horrible woman-hate through the use of slurs such as “Karen” does nothing but further a misogynistic cause; does nothing but further give rise to toxic masculinity. All these vile men are most definitely struggling with testosterone poisoning of the foulest sort, violent rapist incel scum that they are. All men everywhere are responsible for this, and if the misogynist scumbags of the world even experienced one iota of the fear and shame and pure hatred that women experience every single day for nothing but them being women, then that would be the day of reckoning for all oppressive men everywhere. Which is, of course, all men everywhere. We are all contributing to this culture of misogyny through our terrible toxic masculinity, our testosterone poisoning, our very maleness, in fact.

If all of us mansplaining, manspreading, manterrupting men ever experienced gendered slurs such as “Karen”, we would fall to our testosterone poisoned knees; our fragile masculinity would be ripped apart at the seams, our toxic maleness would erupt from deep within the core of our ideological masculinity, our patriarchal male privilege would flow from the furthest recesses of our pale, male and stale inceldom and make itself known, make itself manifest in the form of male tears to fill the coffee-cups and bathtubs of righteous feminists everywhere. This would then do nothing but prove, once and for all, why they are right for wishing to kill all men. We are, after all, nothing but walking dildos; machines for whom a comparison to animals would be flattering… a segment of the population that ought to be reduced to, and maintained at, about ten percent of the population.

Given all this societal hatred towards women, there is no wonder at all that the future – if there is one – is female.

I’ll leave you with this, as Mad Onna is busy in the kitchen, fixing me up a snack: We are all completely equal, and boys are stupid, throw rocks at them.

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 15.04.2020

Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07ZB6K2JX
Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1692495518

Howling at a Slutwalk Moon, a collection of previous blog posts:
Vol 1 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/107571074X
Vol 1 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZTPDPR
Vol 2 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075714184
Vol 2 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZR25NL
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The Lonely Path

«Machinery»

I have very few illusions about my station in life. By most societal metrics, there is no doubt that I would be considered a “loser” – that most endearing, caring, compassionate and oh-so-loving term. Now, this is not to say that I consider myself a loser. Because, frankly, I don’t. By societal standards, however, I most definitely am.

High school drop out, pretentious art school moron, disabled and distraught by chronic illness. Funnily enough, this is a chronic illness whose origins can be traced back, step by lingering step, to my experiences in various schools. At least in part. In fact, in big part.

I have written about a few of these experiences in schools previously, only for it to be dismissed as lies and bullshit by the very voices that say we should listen to personal experiences because they matter more than anything else. If the personal experiences is that of a woman. The male experience don’t matter. One assumes because this would poke a hole in the flaccid and frigid bubble of feminism and gynocentrism.

Men can not suffer on account of anything but masculinity or masculine norms or the patriarchy that rewards them and punishes them simultaneously; that privileges and displaces them at the same time. When men suffer, it is the fault of men. And so it is when women suffer. Always and ever, it is the fault of men. For men, to the eyes of feminism, are both omnipotent and impotent; almighty Gods and useless, fragile vermin; above and beyond women just as much as we are beneath women. Not that strange, when considering that feminism is collectivist (at least when it suits them) and so see the world in terms of “us” and “them”. “Us” being women – innocent victims of “them”. “Them” being men of course, upon whose othered form “us” can paint and project whatever the grand and unified “us” could ever wish. There is no need for consistency. “They” are nothing to “us” but what “us” makes them out to be. And so “they” can be all and “they” can be nothing, as long as there is consistency in “they” being and remaining the eternal enemy of “us”.

All the while the patriarchy does all it can to make things hard for women, despite women making up the majority in higher education in just about every western nation… despite women being given all manner of special programs and treatments and what have you in said education, even when being in the majority. And more of this so-called positive discrimination, each more delicate than the last. You get my drift.

All allowed and accepted by the governing patriarchy that cherishes men so much that it has no special programs, treatments and so-and-such in store for them. For reasons of that being considered gendered discrimination. Helping men is discriminatory. Helping women is equality. To such an extent that merely pointing out areas in society in which men and boys are disadvantaged gets one labelled a hater of women. Even when women are not mentioned. Even when feminism is not mentioned. Compassion, empathy and consideration for boys and men is painted and presented as an attack on women. What a preposterously useless patriarchy this is.

When I wrote my first ever piece on the topic of men’s rights, namely “remembering rebellion”, I invoked the archetypal rebel character; the outlaw, the rogue, the quintessential rebel-without-a-cause. This I did by drawing on my experiences and memories of teenage rebellion, of being full of piss and vinegar and not giving much of a fuck about anything except vandalism and drunkenness (not necessarily in that order), except being up to no good, no-good punk that I was back then…

Juvenile delinquency, in other words.

Back then, it was rebellion for the sake of rebellion; chaos and havoc for sake of chaos and havoc. Raising hell in order to raise hell. A necessary part of growing up, perhaps, though admittedly not to the extent which I and the small group of friends (or fiends) which I ran with at that time rebelled and spread chaos and havoc.

I will admit that I am still very fond of that particular piece, even when I have written multiple pieces that are – at least in my humble opinion – far better. It was where I broke my silence on issues that had pestered me for years, and so it will always have a special place in my supremely bearded and chest-hairy heart.

There is a certain romanticism connected to the rebel character which I happily admit that I am very fond of. For whatever reason, the rebel, the rogue, the outlaw living by his own rules has a certain sheen, a certain glamour about him that is much beloved in the collective consciousness.

No wonder, I think, as someone has to stand firm with a potently erect middle-finger to remind those who are not rebellious that somewhere, somehow, someone is talking back and kicking up… that someone carries the burden of balancing the scales… or, at the very least, attempts to do so.

For every sheriff of Nottingham, there has to be a Robin Hood.

So to speak.

In such instances, the rebel without a cause is a rebel without a cause no longer – he becomes a rebel with a cause. Which may very well not be quite as romantic as a rebel without a cause. Still – I would dare state that the rebellion then transforms from fantastic romantic imagery to grim realistic necessity. Even when the legend of Robin Hood is very much romanticized. Which is kinda the point of the exercise.

Since its inconsiderate inception, feminism has been very adept at presenting itself as rebelling against the establishment. As bona fide, dyed-in-the-wool rebels.

One can not help but wonder how long that image can be maintained, as it is painfully clear and obvious that they have become the establishment. And so we have an establishment fighting against the establishment, for something which could only be described as complete social and cultural revolution – a turnabout of everything western society stands for; the classical liberal values upon which most of it is built.

Presenting it as only ever being about equality between the sexes, despite being Marxist to the core and at its barely beating, rotten and reeking heart. “Socialism in panties”, as Karen Straughan so wonderfully put it. Men are the bourgeoisie, women are the proletariat and the proletariat has every right to hate and attack and ridicule and so-and-such the bourgeoisie.

It is a beast that is attempting – and very much succeeding – to turn western civilization away from the age-old, tried and true formula of “classical liberalism” into something that is liberal in name only. It does not make much sense to me to claim liberalism, freedom and equality whilst championing laws meant to govern what people are allowed to say.

When aiming to make certain opinions illegal and punishable by law – misogyny, for example, (whilst not considering making misandry illegal), one is neither a champion for liberal values, nor equal treatment. Far from it. One is a champion for tyranny, privilege and unequal treatment.

With privilege, I mean “private law”.

And that is private law for women and women only. Particularly feminist women. Making the nebulous and ever-changing “misogynistic opinions” illegal is a dangerous thing to do, considering that misogyny means absolutely nothing any more. Just as much as various other no-no-isms means absolutely nothing any more. Racism, Fascism, Nazism, this-that-and-the-other-ism is overused… is overdone and dry and so have lost all meaning, all power, all everything. When used as a shut-down and a shaming tactic instead of a mere statement of fact, it is watered down, boiled and then evaporated. It all becomes as substantial and hard-hitting as fog. It really is pointless. And one has to wonder, in what world where women are hated as much as the feminist hive-mind claim them to be would it work wonders in their favour to shame people for hating women? It really is pointless.

Misogyny now refers to simply disagreeing with any one particular feminist woman, or with feminism in its entirety. It is, in other words, whatever a man does or says that any feminist disapproves of. It would ultimately render criticism of feminism illegal – as hate-speech, in fact.

And that is remarkably dangerous. Any -ism should not be allowed to dictate laws that specifically protect their ideology from criticism. (Make no mistake about it – feminism very much is an ideology.) That is authoritarian, that is tyrannical, that is complete and utter privilege on part of feminism and on part of women. Female privilege, as a matter of fact – female private law. One rule for me and another for thee. This becomes even more obvious when looking to the sentencing gap between the sexes – something which is strengthened in Great Britain by feminism pushing for women to never be imprisoned. The observant observer amongst us will most likely have noticed that this does not apply to men. Prison is too hard for women, but men deserve it.

Female private law.

The aristocracy is untouchable, the word of the elite is law.

The establishment establishes the prevailing cultural narrative.

And so, if feminism claims to be rebelling against the establishment despite very much being the establishment, then that is truth.

If the APA guidelines for dealing with boys and men says that their masculinity is their biggest problem – that their very nature is at the root of not only their suffering, but the suffering of girls and women as well – then so be it; that is truth and that is how boys and men shall heal from trauma. By being told that them being male is the biggest problem; by slowly and surely being turned into feminists by the forces supposedly there to help them.

Is this not a terrifying display of misuse of power?

Is this not incredibly dangerous?

Is this not political indoctrination?

Is this not putting ideology before facts, before reason and before any consideration for the well-being of the patient?

If the UN says that women’s rights are more important than the all-inclusive human rights, then so be it. That is then truth.

The fight for women’s rights becomes separated from the fight for human rights. Women then become the most important, and to hell with all notions of equal treatment. Women are not human – they are above that.

Women matter, men do not.

And that is equality, for the establishment – that is feminism – has decided that it is. Boys and men do not suffer. Girls and women do. And so we can piss on boys and shit on men to our hearts content. For they have all the power and privilege, despite being the recipients of all this hatred, shaming, ridicule, neglect and whatever else can be thrown their way by law and by popular vote.

Rebelling – so to speak – against feminism, or rather – against its hold on our institutions – becomes a grim realistic necessity. It is rebelling against the status quo, against the dominant narrative.

One could almost say that it is rebelling against nature itself, if one is a biological determinist – or something to that effect. Eggs are precious and rare and must be protected by any and all means, sperm is cheap and plentiful. One man can impregnate many women over the course of nine months. A woman is pregnant for nine months. Women are, by nature and for the continuation of the species, more rare, precious and important than men.

Welcome gynocentrism, fare-thee-well empathy for men.

Fare-thee-well men in fact – we are disposable biological entities.

It does not matter that feminism claims to be championing equality when their actions prove otherwise.

And their actions do prove otherwise, time and time again.

Shutting down talks on men’s issues, burying domestic violence research that shows women to be perpetrators and men to be victims in just about equal measures, phoning in bomb-threats to conferences on men’s issues, calling for reducing men to ten percent of the population, writing articles such as “why can’t we hate men”, the Duluth-model for dealing with domestic violence, viewing men as constant perpetrators and women as chronic victims, stating that men ought to be placed in concentration camps, refusing male groups on college campuses whilst allowing for female groups, sending death-threats (amongst other things) to Erin Pizzey for daring to attempt to open a shelter for abused men after having opened the first-ever for abused women, protesting against – and getting funding withdrawn – from shelters for abused men, calling for violence to be enacted upon men, #killallmen, making it so that women by definition – by law, in fact – can not rape men, etc. etc… these are not the actions of a movement that wishes for the genders to be treated equally. It is the actions of a movement wishing for only the one voice to be heard, for only the one side to be seen, for only women – in fact – to receive any help, any laws, any systematic or institutional anything. It is, in fact, the actions of a supremacy movement and a hate-cult.

It is the actions, words and deeds of feminism.

It does not matter that the coffee-shop feminists, the useful idiots, state that “this is not my feminism” or other such stupid, dimwitted and overused lines, lies and bullshit. Nor does it matter that “those are not real feminists/that is not real feminism”. Not when the not real feminists who brandish the sword, who cut the tongues and vocal-chords of men – so to speak – are heard, are taken seriously, get their very sexist laws implemented, get to spread their hatred through university studies such as “gender studies” as well as national fucking god-damned television.

It does not matter.

As mentioned time and again: any other -ism, any other powerful movement whose thought-leaders, whose intellectuals, whose authors and word-salad-spreaders, whose ideology-propagaters, whose propagandists and pundits and public personas spread such hatred and contempt for any other group – and that is a group that is tied together by virtue of nothing but the random haphazardness of cosmic chromosomal chance – would not be embraced such as it is, would not be excused such as it is.

Not in our present-era dimly lit enlightenment where everything and nothing is deemed offensive and verboten, that is for damned sure.

Yet feminism and its hatred, contempt and attempted destruction of men and of anything masculine – excepting the masculine in women for some reason – is excused.

Constantly, chronically, sickeningly.

And those who criticize it are attacked and smeared.

Constantly, chronically, sickeningly.

Feminism can do no wrong, and those who are feminist who do wrong are not real feminists, despite that they are since feminism is not a monolith and so they are just as much a real feminist as the coffee-shop feminist, even when they aren’t. It makes no sense, but the movement, the -ism, the ideology must be protected at all costs.

Now, who among us can spell penis-envy?

It’s remarkably easy, see.

You start with a P, and work your way to Patriarchy.

Against this, it is a necessity to rebel.

Yet – rebelling against this movement, against the establishment such as it is, is a lonely path.

A very lonely path indeed.

In that regard, I suppose I am lucky. The path I have walked through life has always been a fairly lonely path… in one way or other. As such, I am very much used to being alone… separated from the whole, as it were.

If one is not used to this… it can very much be a shock to the system. Objecting to feminism – critiquing feminism – is not like objecting to or critiquing anything else. At least not in my experience. Being a feminist is the new ideological purity test. One is either in or one is out. Just about everything else can be picked apart and criticized and one can have opinions and one can object and one can do whatever and whatnot. And it does not have the same social punishments as objecting to feminism. For some strange and peculiar reason, given that women are so hated and oppressed that one should believe it would be the other way around. But, no matter – feminism have stated that it is true, and so it must be true. Otherwise, you just hate women.

Now, I get that people would want to defend their beliefs and their world-view. This is not strange, however much I may disagree with their beliefs and world-views.

However: when one is attacked for simply advocating for boys and men… when one mentions neither feminism nor women, yet still get attacked for merely showing compassion and understanding, empathy and consideration for boys and for men then one does not defend an ideology… one defends ones hatred and neglect of one group of people. In fact, one defends a societal and cultural hatred and neglect for one group of people.

When something is as engrained in our culture… as embedded, as deeply dug-in as feminism is… presented as it is as the one and the only true movement for equality, one shall be hard pressed to oppose it. For one does not wish to be perceived as being opposed to that fluctuating term – that gaseous, nebulous, ever-changing term “equality”. In fact, people do not oppose equal treatment. People wish for people to be treated equally, by and large. People are, as a whole, quite alright.

And that is all fine and good and dandy.

And so along comes feminism, claiming to be championing equality.

And people say – hey, now, hey, wow – this sounds good. I’ll get behind that – I want people to be treated equally, god-damnit.

And so it grows and so it festers, until it is taught in schools as the one and as the only. Its ideas spread like wildfire, like rot, like the uncontested truth of this day and age… political indoctrination in schools and at work… ensnaring us and dragging us in, deeper and deeper into its web and vortex, until this -ism becomes the truth, and any questioning of it an act of rebellion so grave and so terrible that social ostracising is brought upon those who question it. For no other reason than the notion that killing them for going against it would be inhumane and barbaric, and besides – we don’t need that.

Not with our new public laughing stocks; our Facebook and our Twitter and our bloody blogosphere where these undesirables can be hung out, scrutinized and vilified as the bastard woman-hating misogynists that they are, as the reactionary dangerous whatever-and-whatnots that they are.

This may sound like hyperbole.

Considering, however, that #killallmen was trending on Twitter, that the “why can’t we hate men” article was published, that Mona Eltahawy can be interviewed about her wishes to start killing men or enacting violence upon men on statefunded national television, that Julie Bindel can write about placing men in concentration camps in mainstream publications, that Jezebel can write their “ever beat up a boyfriend? Because – uh – we have” article with little to no repercussions, (Yet Paul Elam get shit for writing a satirical reply to that piece of fucking shit article) and we are not far off.

Calling for violence against men for reasons of them being men is slowly becoming normalized. This is a terrifying thing, however hyperbolic and “oh-no-I’m-just-being-edgy” they claim it to be. It is alright to hate men because they are men. Because being a man – being masculine – is something society has taught men, not something men are by nature. According to the whims of the great feminist gobble-de-gook.

This means that they can change, and so it is only hating an idea… not a sex, not a gender. Except when it is. Whatever. Internal consistency matters little. It is all according to feminism, who view men as defective women; who view the masculine as a perverted and destructive ideology that must be torn down, erased and replaced with femininity. Unless the traditional masculine traits is made manifest in a woman. Then it is empowering and shows just how many ways there are to spell Penis-envy.

Or something to that effect.

Men must learn to open up and talk about their feelings, their issues, their everything they say. And then they proceed to shame and smear, ridicule and attack the men – such as myself – who do just that.

For it is not done as they say it should be done, and so it is fragile masculinity and so it is toxic masculinity and so it is that they bathe in male tears or drink male tears, or whatever else they do that is expressions of pure contempt and hatred, effectively shaming men for doing exactly what they claim they want men to do – to talk about their problems and their issues.

The only problems and issues men can have are what feminism says that men can have; that which feminism allows men to have. That which fits their lopsided world-view.

For, ya know, a bunch of women lovingly deepthroating an ideology that have decided that men are the problem are exactly the ones I want to speak on behalf of myself, or on behalf of men in general. Muh lived experience only ever apply when it is a woman’s lived experience. A woman – particularly a feminist woman – may very well speak on behalf of men’s lived experience as if they know anything about it. A man may not, probably for reasons of not studying it in universities but living it. And that is not the same thing, god-damnit. The theoretical trumps the practical. You should damned well know this. A gender-studied theoretical feminist approach to the male experience will always matter more than the male experience.

For it is feminist, and so it is truth because feminism has decided that it is. And feminism don’t lie. Men do, and feminism don’t. Got that, bucko?

Probably for reasons of naivety on my part, I did not expect the social penalties for writing what I write to be such as they became. There is a reason for me using a pen-name and not my real name, though I admit that it is a very lack-luster attempt at anonymity. If it can even be referred to as an attempt at anonymity. I don’t want attention focused on myself for writing what I write. I want attention to be focused on that which is written. I don’t matter. The content that is produced matter. With a slight fear of reaching far too deeply into the nest of tired old clichés than what is good for me, my writings, you the audience and the power of the patriarchy, I will state it as such: it is the cause that matters. The cause.

And now, listen, look, marvel and behold as a man becomes a radical. Even when I am pretty fucking far from being a radical, boring pseudo-hermit shut-in that I am.

But, ah, you see – the mere idea, the mere notion that boys and men may face significant issues and challenges in our societies that are specific to them and should be viewed and mended and treated as the issues, problems and societal hardships of boys and men is a radical idea; the very thought that women are not the only ones who matter when looking at problems relating to sex and gender is as radical as it gets. Imagine that: gender means not only women. In fact, it includes men. How very radical a thought, indeed!

That all is not sugar and milk and honey and expensive craft-beer in the land of men is such an alien notion to our cultures that people are shocked, terrified and offended to hear it. Both men and women. Particularly so when the idea is presented that feminism is not what is needed to fix it. That feminism, in fact, may be a major contributing factor to it. Though far from being the only contributing factor.

Gasp.

Shock.

Shudder.

Shake, shiver and such.

The path less travelled is a difficult path. Going against the orthodoxy, so to speak, makes an outcast out of one. It is a path that has to be walked, though. It has to be walked, beat, cleared and widened so that people are able to find it in the wild, where the only ideas allowed and the only thoughts expressed – beat into us, as it were – are the ones that say “men bad, women good, men have it good, women have it bad. Because of men.”. The path needs better signs, is what I’m getting at.

I am sure there are plenty of people out there – both men and women – not daring to speak out against feminism, or simply in support of boys and men. For fear of the social punishments, for fear of ridicule and shame and whatever and whatnot. I did so myself for many years. A hearty and goodly “Fuck it” helps with the fear. Learning how to be alone, enjoying ones own company helps even more. The social game is a scam. It is overrated, overvalued and overdone. There are far more important things to life than social acceptance and inclusion; way better things to spend ones time on than climbing to the top of the hierarchy. Being a “loser” ain’t as bad as people claim it to be. Particularly so when being a social “loser” in a society whose current zeitgeist values, whims, whines and whinges goes contrary to that which it proposes to believe in ever-so-much; namely equal treatment and justice for all. So-called “positive discrimination” is not equal treatment. It is quite the opposite. Positive discrimination towards some is negative discrimination towards others. The others don’t matter, of course. And that’s how it is, was and ever shall be.

All the shame and ridicule; the social punishments and the labels and whatever else is flung like shit from the loving hands of monkeys just gotta be owned. The punches gotta be rolled with. Clearing a new path never was easy, and walking it at the same time requires hard work and sacrifice.

Good thing us guys are used to hard work and sacrifice, then.

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 11.04.2020

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