Why I am an Anti-feminist, part 1:

I’ve been doing this blogosphere dance, this YouTube-istan waltz and BitChute tango of mine for round and about a year now. And never once, I believe, have I addressed in simple terms why I bitch and moan about feminism as much as I do. Particularly so since the issues facing men – which are supposed to be my main concern – do in fact stem from things besides feminism. Often things that are biological in nature and re-enforced by culture. More likely than not, it would be somewhat easier to address issues affecting men in society without declaring war on feminism. It would make for less attacks along the lines of “you just hate women”, or similar silly statements which are as ridiculous as they are absurd. I doubt it, though. The preposterous claims of misogyny would come whether one mention feminism or not. For the simple reason that trying to make this society of ours realize that men also struggle somehow takes away from women. Feminism is playing a zero-sum game, where only their voice shall be heard. All must go towards women, nothing need go towards men.

You see – within the coprophilia that is feminism and the way feminism attacks anyone who oppose it lies the answer to my anti-feminism. And I must admit that I have lied to you. I can not possibly address this in simple terms. You will have to be subject to my cruel and unusual rambling yet again.

Feminism is an -ism first and foremost. In my eyes and murky mischievous mind, this alone is enough to raise some alarms. An -ism is a set of ideas and beliefs; an umbrella under whose limited roof one seeks shelter from the rain. Stray but a little beyond its clearly defined borders, and one can not help but get rained on. Feminism, as an -ism, is incredibly totalitarian and tyrannical in its approach. It does not only propose to speak on behalf of all women – no, no, no – it also proposes to have a monopoly on the concept of all things equality. It is not enough to hold the belief that the sexes should be treated equally – you also have to refer to yourself as a feminist. Otherwise, you can not possibly be for equality, according to their flightless feminist fancy. It is incredibly important for feminism that one wears the label of feminist. Were it a movement only for equality, surely it would be enough to state that one believes that the sexes should be treated equally? This is not the case. Feminism demands you wear the label of feminist. To such an extent that they will ignore someone’s wish to not be labelled as such with the wonderful fuckery that is: “Oh, so you believe in equality between the genders? Congratulations: you are a feminist.” Or, of course, claim that you are either a feminist or a sexist. There is no in-between, nothing but either/or. Strange thing to come from a movement that proposes to be nuanced. This is terrifying, no matter which movement, which -ism, which anything. But, OK, fair enough – I’ll play. If you are a feminist, you are a sexist.

It should be enough to frighten people away from feminism to look at how they attack anyone who dares disagree with their infected and ready-to-be-cut-away concept of equality (which is not equality of opportunity but equality of outcome), as haters of women; foul basement dwelling misogynists who just want to maintain the power men have over women in society. Which is odd, of course, considering the fact that the basement-dwelling bozo bogeymen of their patriarchal conspiracy can not possibly wield any manner of influence and power on account of being basement dwelling bozos with no power and no influence. Which is the claim of the feminist hive-mind, of course, when meeting any opposition. Either that or shame for lack of sexual prowess and success with women. As if the most important value a man has is whether or not he is attractive to women. From the mouth and rotting brain of feminism comes the truth…

I would dare argue – as I have done many times before – that any movement that claims to hold the monopoly, that claims to be the only voice to speak on a certain topic, is one not to be trusted. Especially not one to be trusted on to speak on that certain topic. Doubtlessly so when riding under the banner of an -ism. And I don’t care whether this be an -ism I tend to agree with or not. Nothing and no-one should be believed when claiming to be the only one to speak on this or that or tit or tat. Everything can and must be questioned.

This goes for my own convictions as well. See, as critical as I am of feminism and the ideas of feminism, I am even more critical of my own ideas. Which is one of the reasons why I tend to avoid writing on recent news and such. I go through an excruciating amount of self-doubt and hesitation before putting thoughts to digital paper. To see if they hold up. Usually they do.

One of my greatest character flaws as well as one of my greatest character strengths, I think, is my excruciating self-doubt.

Of course, I am just a nobody on the internet, merely a drink or two, that is – some slightly lowered cognitive abilities away – from becoming a good old fashioned anarchist.

I am not a massive movement with fat chunky butts placed in seats of immense power and influence such as feminism undoubtedly is. And within the broader men’s rights movement, or the manosphere, or whatever you want to call it, I am absolutely nothing but a tiny voice whispering into the broken algorithm of the Google-God.

With this in mind, I think it is only fair that a movement of such magnitude as feminism should be scrutinized more than any one individual sucker on the inter-webs. For it is the movement I am attacking, not individual members and hangers-on to that movement. With a few exceptions to this rule, as there always are.

The movement is not understood properly by society at large. This is due to feminism worming its way into the minds and thoughts and zeitgeist of our cultures as the only force fighting for equality between the sexes, and so any opposition to this must mean opposition to equality between the sexes.

This is, at best, dishonest.

Mostly, it is just lies, social engineering and brainwashing.

It seems that most everyone refers to themselves as a feminist by default. For simple reasons; this is what the term “equality” has come to mean in the heads and minds of the populace who don’t have the time or the interest to delve beneath the surface: “feminism”. And the obvious hatred of anyone male, anything masculine, is brushed away as just the ravings of a radical few, not a picture of the movement as a whole. And the obvious push for female supremacy, the obvious rhetoric that states quite clearly that women are not only better than men at doing anything, but women are also superior to men in morality and in understanding and dealing with emotions, as well as everything else, is brushed away with a flick of the wrist and a laughter that it is just building up girls after girls having been thrown under the bus for so long. In order for the sexes to be treated equally, girls and women must be treated far better than boys and men.

This is… ah… obvious, I suppose, to those who believe that preferential treatment equals equal treatment. Or who are daft enough to believe that revenge for perceived prior oppression done by none alive today and likewise suffered by none alive today is equality made manifest in goose-flesh… For equality, boys and men must suffer what imagined hardships girls and women suffered in the past. It is the sins of the father for which the son must pay, seven generations down the lie. Revenge is equality, you see, not pettiness and stupidity.

Feminism has got to be the only movement in the world where the thought-leaders, the founders of the movement, the ones that write the books, who change the laws to be anything but equal, who found gender studies courses, who wield the power of the movement are said to be “not true feminists”. It has got to be the only movement in the world in which the ones that made the movement what it is are not true adherents to its movement.

Take the term “the future is female” for example. This comes from Sally Miller Gearhart. She co-founded Women’s and Gender courses on universities. Which are still taught today. She wrote about reducing and maintaining men to about ten percent of the population. Which is where the term originates. “The future – if there is one – is female”.

This term is printed on t-shirts and proudly worn by those who have drunk the sacred period-blood and eaten the vaginal yeast communal wafer of feminism. And everyone else who believe that girls and women need a leg up, a handout and a pedestal on which to stand because, in being equal, girls are better than boys and women are better than men.

With this knowledge – that “the future is female” has its origins in a fantasy of reducing and maintaining men to about ten percent of the population – would it be inappropriate for me to assume everyone wearing this shirt to hold similar sentiments? If not, why not?

If I wore a T-shirt with a quote from Mein Kampf – taken out of context – for simply enjoying that quote, would that fly? Would it be OK for me to state that Hitlerism is not true Nazism? That the figurehead of the movement had it all wrong and was not a true Nazi? Or would people pelt me with rotten fruits and throw me into the glorious fjords of Norway, to either drift away or drown? Oddly enough, I believe wearing a T-shirt stating that “The future is male” would visit worse worries upon my head than any random quote from Adolf Hitler. That would be hating on women, you see. And that is the worst crime one could possibly commit. Far worse then killing men for the crime of being men, you must understand.

…Lo, and behold, how the herp does derp, how wondrous is this magnificent herping of the derp…

Should I not be allowed some manner of indignation that a term whose origins lie in wanting to reduce men to ten percent of the population – gendercide, in a word – is as marketable and loved as it is? Should I not consider it a bit weird that the thought-leaders of a movement are said to not be true to the movement? All par for the course in the double-think-stink of the feminist hive-mind. All hatred is justified, downplayed and forgotten. The worst I have ever heard in regards to the “men must be reduced” thingamajigger is that she was either not a “real feminist”, or she just had a very bad day.

Wow. I am stunned. That is downplaying it some, no? When I have a bad day, I am a bit grumpy and complain about my grumpiness on Twitter with a biting self-deprecation in regards to my chronic pain. I do not propose we reduce women to ten percent of the population. But, in the feminist utopia, women are never held to account for what they do. In particular feminist women. Even when they are not true feminist women and so should be open to attack by the real feminist women.

… Look how the derpy-herp herpy-derps through the meadow and the fields; how it derps in the herpy depths of the herp-derp stream…

If one believes in the history delivered by feminist revisionist historians, which looks at how women were supposedly treated in societies past, neglecting of course to look at how men were treated, it is easy to believe that women were terribly oppressed.

However: it is never as black and white as feminism pretends.

Women were protected. And men were sacrificed. And still are…

That is about as simple as I can put it, as black and white as I myself can put it. Of course; fighting fire with fire is stupid. And fighting black and white imagery with black and white imagery gives us nothing but a fuzzy black and white picture.

You see, in the dismal cosmic dance of society, for every perceived privilege men had, there were also responsibilities and sacrifices attached. And for every perceived oppression women suffered, there were also privileges and protection attached. The relationship between the sexes have always been a complex and difficult dance.

Neither black nor white nor black and white for either. Suffice it to say that the past was hard for everyone but the elite, but the aristocracy, man and woman alike. Looking only at how one side suffered does not give the whole picture. Yet, that is what is done. Just as it is done now. We look only to how women are doing, and label this equal treatment. We care only for the plight of women, neglecting the plight of men. And we refer to this as equality.

Not only women suffer. Men also suffer. And that is how it has always been. Both sexes experience difficulties within society and within culture that is exclusive to them. Helping one at the cost of neglecting the other – as feminism does – is contrary to treating the sexes equally. Completely and utterly contrary, in fact. For a movement that is supposedly about making the sexes be treated equally, it is damned good at refusing to treat the sexes equally.

I would posit that the world would do better with a human rights movement than one exclusively for men and one exclusively for women.

Were it not for feminism, I would not wear the label of a men’s rights activist. I would, more like than not, wear the label of a human rights activist. That is, if I have to wear these fucking labels at all. See, the older I get, the more I believe that all these labels, all these this-that-and-the-others are nothing but a ridiculously overcomplicated tangled mess of words and wires that only confuse and complicate everything far more than is necessary. But I digress.

…Feminism refuses to view men as complete and complex human beings. Evidenced by their hand-waving away of the various severe issues that our side – that is the manosphere, or whatever – bring up.

Smearing and ad hominem attacks is about all they have when faced with the arguments delivered from the men’s rights movement. Included in this is of course the incredibly stupid and obvious to anyone with half a braincell attempt of theirs to smear it as a white supremacist movement. That is the weirdest one. Misogynist? OK – it’s not true in the least, but at the very least it is somewhat related to the topic at hand. White supremacism, on the other hand… that is so obviously bullshit that I am amazed they get away with it. But, ya know, women are wonderful and all that.

Of course; feminism does not care much for women either. It cares only for feminism. Evidenced by how feminism treats women that do not wear the label of feminist; how they treat women that behave in a manner not accepted by the feminist hive-mind. They are gender-traitors and must be burned at the stake and have their heads put on pikes as a warning to other women that they must tow the party-line, lest the same fate should befall them. Online bullying and harassment is only an issue when it is a feminist that fall victim to it. It is not a problem when it is multiple feminist goons that perpetrate it, targetting a non-feminist traitor. This is the glorious effects of their othering of any-and-all that do not bend the knee and swear fealty to their cause.

And feminism – for all its portrayals of itself as some sort of underdog fighting the power – is not the underdog but the power. They are the establishment. Of course – it wins popular vote merely by its portrayal as an underdog. Because who does not love an underdog? The top dog. That is who. And in portraying men – in the guise of the doubtfully existent ”patriarchy” – as the top dog they have done two things (and more). 1: they have painted and portrayed themselves as the underdog fighting the top dog. 2: they have created a wonderful excuse for their shaming and hatred of men and all things masculine, hiding every instance of obvious hatred of men behind the curtain that “oh no, we are only talking about the patriarchy”. And every critique necessarily must mean that the man critiquing is guilty of being the very man they complain about. Clever.

For, ya know, the oppressed have every right to hate their oppressors. Even if it does not make sense for the oppressors to allow the oppressed such amounts of power and influence as feminism has got in these topsy-turvy worlds of ours. This should be evident to anyone.

Supposing that women are oppressed, how in the fuck are the oppressed allowed as much social influence as women as a group do indeed wield? And have wielded for some time…

Why do the oppressors – as horrible as they apparently are – allow their subjects to spew their vile hatred with impunity? It does not make any sense. And for all their blubbering about dismantling gender stereotypes, the feminist hive-mind are not doing a good job at removing the stereotype of women as irrational, hysterical, overly emotional creatures with little-to-no capacity for reason and logic… To be clear, this is not my view of women. It is, however, my view of feminism as a movement. Well, part of my view of feminism as a movement.

Supposing that feminism is fighting and are oppressed by the establishment, why then do powerful figures within the establishment – that is, political, media, entertainment, you name it – pose with t-shirts proudly stating “this is what a feminist looks like”? Were women so oppressed as feminism claims, a merely whispered accusation about foul misogyny and hatred of women would not be enough of a shutdown to derail any conversation onto the character of the man in question instead of the argument presented.

Mumbling something about “internalized misogyny” would not be enough to shut down any woman who dares move beyond the confines of the umbrella that is feminism. Yet this is what happens. Time and bloody time again. It is the worst case of the Chewbacca defence I have ever seen. It makes no sense. Yet, it works. And it works and more are in the works.

It has been led to my attention that my ramblings tend to become a bit lengthy… too lengthy, in fact. This… well, it is absolutely true. Thus, I am doing this in several parts. Here endeth part 1. Join me next week – if the heathen Gods of old are willing – for part 2.

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 28.09.2019

My book – 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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Reality is a Corporate-sponsored Victimhood Narrative:

At some point, reality has to be faced. For reality will force its way into reality on account of being god-damned reality. One can claim reality to be nothing but subjective; based solely on lived experience or some calamity that happened twenty-seven bloody years ago that now, now, now has got to be dealt with with swift and immediate social media justice; thirteen homespun steps to reach the gallows head and the peak of the noose. No evidence needed, merely the swift and quick and easy execution of the goon-squad, the blood-frenzied sharks that never see any qualms in deeming someone guilty for being named and shamed and blamed through the might and awesome influence of queen Neoteny and her mighty state of hysteria.

At the end of the day and at the end of the rope, reality will come spinning and deliver a swift and brutal kick to the teeth and the senses that will leave those with chronic emotional diarrhoea reeling and spinning head first into the drain and communal sewers of the grand and glorious brave blue world.

Reality is Chaotic Neutral, you see – it cares and it does not give a flying fuck in equal measures. It is equal rights and it is equal lefts and no-one is left any the wiser for trying to shave reality or trim its mighty beard to fit the mould of miniature tyrants who decide that reality is whatever the hell they say that it is; that reality is subjected to the whim and flightless fancy of brainlet birds that pick and peck and grasp at straws to tip-toe around the facts of the matter which are simple facts that can not be wiped away by brutal displays of emotional manipulation from those that suffer emotional castrations at the mere sight of a disputed word they have decided is offensive in the abstract haze of emotional reasoning that is the dry-heaving hysteria of our new and easily offended aristocracy.

…And that is an aristocracy that can not stand dissenting views or opinions that go against the grain and holy doctrine of their chosen saviour of the hour – a saviour that changes every hour, at the hour as the clock strikes doom and gloom and boom and guides the merry hands of society into its allotted 24 hours of reality-avoidant temper-tantrums thrown for realizing that not everyone agrees with each and every sudden call to arms to fight the bloody power of the bloody oppressors that are, at this point in time, anything and anyone as long as one of the supposedly oppressed decide that these are the oppressors, these are the tyrants and wielders of magicians words that magically marginalize those that are apparently marginalized by the might and influence of the marginalizers that appear ferociously in the dreams of those that are one the margins of society – supposedly.

The linguistic tendencies of our societies is non-inclusive to the core; it marginalizes the trembling trunks of the vibrato-mafiosos. You are no longer allowed to say “Hey guys”. For, you see, women are so weak and frail that they can not succeed if anyone says “guys” in their presence, and they are so fearful and tearful and so eloquently in denial of reality that reality must bend its knee and kiss their nimble finger-things and gizmo-rings and fungus-feet and pledge allegiance to their alterations of language and the structures of our brains. More frightening, of course, is the simple fact that these highly offended fighters of shadows and ghosts have absolutely no problems with admitting to partaking in social engineering; that they see no issues with stating, quite bluntly, that they wish to remodel our brains. This is terrifying.

There is no shame in social engineering, see, no dreary dead-eyed jabberwock too mighty yet to slay. We have moved beyond the looking-glass, gone straight into the serpents ass. For in this elegant serpent-rectum we shall rebuild society and mould it on the fancy and the whim and wallowed misery of those who have decided that they are the ones to tell us how to live and breathe and think and eat and speak and fuck and move around.

We do not live in reality any more.

We are locked within the jaws of chaos, trapped in a never-ending spiral that spiral ever downwards into the worst and most grotesque of orifices. And playing nice will get us nowhere. And playing hard-ball will get us nowhere. And nothing will get us anywhere as we left the land of reason and set foot upon the shores of insanity where insanity looms at every corner to grasp and shake the trembling minds of aristocratic revolutionaries that do not understand the context of anything but their own cold and staring eyes that gaze ever and anon into the distance, never seeing what is right in front of their eyes. Which is reality as reality is, not reality as reality is wished to be by those who never see anything but blues sung from blue toes and frostbitten blue balls in the blue winter of our blue bloody societies.

Reality is a non-existent figment of fantasy in these end-days of ours. A crumbling and decaying civilization that suffers the end-result of good times and high-flying fancies. The revolution will not be televised. It will be corporatised, syndicalised, sanitized and sanctified. It will be modelled, painted, sculpted and moulded by the hands of those that should never be close to anything resembling power, might or influence. It will be authorised, tyrannized, totalitarianised by rhetorical beasts of punctured lungs and intelligence-dysmorphia, believing themselves not only cleverer than every-man and every-woman, but cleverer than they, in reality, are. It will be a garbled mess of word-salad gibberish, saying nothing but using all the buzz-words and trendy linguistic tricks needed to make themselves sound relevant, hip, cool, down to earth and moving with the beat of the revolutionaries. Proudly proclaiming profound insights into reality as reality is by referring to reality as solipsist in nature; as my reality trumps all other realities in the reality of realities. Nothing can possibly exist outside of my sphere of existence, nothing can possibly exist that goes against my lived and experienced reality. And all that I say is truth and all that I do is truth and all that I experience is truth, even if I lie. For lie is but a facet of truth and of reality as it is a tool used to make those that do not understand my reality understand my reality. Get it?

It is a death-trip, a swollen road towards extermination. Bought and sold by the pound and bulk, corporate sponsored punk-brewed travesties from corporations glimmering with crows-nest silver, elitist finger-painting manufacturing dissent and poisoning the well, steering our attention towards non-issues so that we are bogged down with muscle-tension and chronic eye-strain making it impossible to see anything but the miniscule and laughable, the ridiculous and absurd, the first-world problems of frail and fragile ferocious fuel-for-the-fire-twats. Forcefed mass-hysteria deserving of a hysteria-ectomy, the economy of the silver-spooned ones who decided victimhood and victim mentality to be the best, the greatest, the most brilliant currency there is, was, ever has been. For no-one in their right mind will ever consider a victim of anything to be someone with whom one should disagree; that would not be considerate, would not be compassionate, would not be anything but terrible. As long as the victim inhabits certain superficial characteristics that turn their saliva to streams of silver in the eyes of those who do not wish to offend. And fuck everyone else, of course. Let them eat cake.

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 25.09.2019

My book – 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/

Crucified in Toilet Cubicles; A Tale of Women Pooping:

«At the Feet of Her Porcelain Altar»

I don’t usually do responses. This is a response, after a fashion, to this piece: https://www.nytimes.com/2019/09/17/style/women-poop-at-work.html

The New York Times (hallowed be their name!) have seen fit to inform us that women poop and that women are ashamed to poop at work. This is astonishing information. I was previously unaware of this. I just assumed that women did nothing but fix their make-up and/or gossip intimately with close friends whenever they went on one of their week-long trips to the bathroom. Now, I have only ever once set foot within the confines of a public restroom for women. And that was only because I had five minutes until my bus left and the men’s restroom was occupied. I was stunned to find that there were no campfires, no tents and no sleeping bags to be found anywhere on the premises. Considering the often obscene amount of time women spend in public restrooms, I assumed there would be. I also pictured divans, couches, lounges, a fully stocked bar and a servile non-gender specific manservant or butler to cater to their whims. There had to be, there has to be, I remember thinking. For there can be no other reason than that for them spending all that time in their sanctuary.

Of course, there is a likelihood that some manner of chromosome scanner or other hidden in the arching doorway of the restroom scanned me and found me to be a foul male and so hid all that stuff in order to keep it a secret known only to women and some token gay friends. I will never know, and I have accepted this fact. Even if it is a hard fact to accept. Some things, I suppose, men are not meant to know. Such arcane wisdom and occult secrets of the arcaniest, occultiest kind are best kept from the ragged hearts of men.

Esoteric knowledge aside, the fact remains that I stand flabbergasted, my world-view and entire life altered and damaged beyond repair by this sudden information. Do women poop? I mean – for real? It’s not just something they say for gender equality? Well, now, ain’t that something. Astonishing. Incredible. Damn near unbelievable. But there you have it.

Of course; women not feeling all that comfortable with taking a shit at work is the fault of the patriarchy. As we all know, the patriarchy does have some of their goons and lower-tier employees, which of course mean “women”, checking in on the bathroom stalls with some regularity to make sure and make certain that nothing untoward should happen in there. This includes pooping. Given, of course, that we of the patriarchy were previously unaware of the pooping of the female, we were led to believe that any odour lingering were the result of some male infiltrator. Which would, of course, be absolutely horrifying. We of the patriarchy are very pleased to learn that this is not the case, despite this putting us at odds with our previously assumed state of omnipotence. We will take this up with Dave from marketing.

The sordid affair does not end there. Oh no, not by a long shot. Would you believe it, but it turns out that women spend more time in their restrooms than men do in theirs, and that the lines to women’s restrooms are longer than those for the men’s restrooms. This is a terrible state of affairs, according to our much beloved yet, unfortunately, high-strung and neurotic whamens. Far be it from me, a small piece of the patriarchy-pudding, to pass judgement on such an item on the agenda. It seems to me that the reason for the long lines to the women’s restroom are a simple one – merely that women spend a long time in the restrooms. Now, as admitted previously, I assumed that these rooms were some luxurious resort, some hang-out where women could withdraw, have a quick drink and a chat with some friends. I assumed this to be a space for women to relax without these horrible men manspreading and mansplaining in their vicinity. As recent information have told us, however, it becomes quite clear that much of the time spent in women’s restrooms are spent pooping and covering up the tracks of said pooping. We would have furnished the restrooms with proper air-conditioning and fans to remove any proof of pooping, I suppose, were it not for the fact that these terrible tools of the patriarchy have been deemed sexist and as such are an affront to the much beloved and, yet, hated women of the patriarchy. The question then remains: what can men do in order to make women spend less time in the restrooms or in line for the restrooms? For it is obvious, women having no agency of their own, that this is something that must be mended and remedied by the governing patriarchy.

*

You know… I am supposed to be a writer. And a visual artist. At this point in my life, I was supposed to have published several novels. And collections of poetry.

I should have made some manner of name for myself within the chaotic realm of art. And writing. Those were my plans.

I am 33 years old, god-damnit. Not exactly old, not exactly young. Just closing in on middle age. And I have to sit here and tell grown-ass god-damned fucking adult women that no-one but them cares that they poop.

I have to write this strange and twisted tale of woe and worry, telling adult women that the reason for them spending time in line for the fucking toilets are women spending more time on the fucking can than men do. That this is not the fault of men, but of women. I can’t understand it. I really can’t.

You want to know what a feminist looks like? You take an adult woman. Then you strip away all manner of agency, all manner of self-determination, any semblance of a personality, anything that resembles self-awareness, add a dash of daddy-issues, a smidgeon of thinly veiled misanthropy, a solid chunk of narcissism and all the hysteria in the known universe. Then you are getting close.

It is absurd and it is ridiculous. Anything. Any-fucking-thing, no matter how trite, how childish, how small and petty, how insignificant, has to be blown up and shown to the world as some horrible affront to womanhood, no matter if it is not a gendered issue. If women in any way, shape or form can be made to look as though they are suffering some hardship, it is held forth as supreme proof of some grand patriarchal conspiracy meant to shame them for… something they themselves individually feel ashamed for. And it is not them that are the problem. No, no, no! They don’t need to work on themselves – heavens forbid – this is men’s doing, and something men need to fix. Because women must never fix anything within themselves. Men must fix it, and men must look within themselves and see how they can make women feel less insecure about taking a shit in a restroom for women where no-one but god-damned women would be to shame them for pooping. And yet, a woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle. In the holy name of Eris and various other assorted deities of chaos, corruption and madness – you want to be viewed as strong and independent? You want to be taken seriously as an adult human being with agency, self-determination, independence and so-and-such? Then stop acting like a spoiled fucking child throwing a temper tantrum because something in your morbidly hysterical world did not go exactly as you wanted it to go. Take some fucking responsibility for your own life and stop complaining to men that women spend more time on the fucking toilet than men do. Just stop spending a bloody eternity on the toilet, and everything shall be as you wish it to be.

This is what we are reduced to, gentlemen. This is what we have become. A terrible joke of a civilization, society beyond satire, satire beyond satire, even. And beyond redemption.

I would never, in my worst anxious and neurotic, twisted and insomniac nigh-terror fever-dreams believe that I would sit here now, a grown man, writing a response to – supposedly – adult women complaining about pooping. Still, it is a fitting image of our day, I suppose, that our once functional and grand societies have devolved into nothing but a hedonistic, narcissistic poop-and-fart-joke, filled with petty squabbles and personal tales of neuroticism and shame from women that are somehow the fault of men.

I was going to write great works of art. My inspirations were Dostojevskij, Frank Herbert, Tolkien, George Orwell, John Steinbeck, Dante Alighieri, John Milton, Edgar Allan Poe, Hunter Thompson, Charles Bukowski and various other greats. A wide variety of influence and styles that would somehow be blended and melded and moulded in my mind into something of my own creative output. And I was going to illustrate these great, sweeping epics of mine – or these short, angry young man novels of mine myself. Using my own art, such as I knew to make it. With the ever.-changing, yet constantly static raw rebellion of rock ‘n’ roll and punk as it once was running through my art, the one red tread of dyed yarn that would tie it all together in a conscious and coherent literary/artistic world.

But now – now – I am slowly drifting away from the angry young man. I am becoming a grumpy old man, pushed away from the joy of creating and the joy of fiction for bearing the knowledge deep within that the world – the real world – is stranger, more absurd and more surreal than any work of art, than any work of fiction could ever become. Dystopian novels are a thing of the past. Dystopian fiction is dead. Because we are living it. We are writing dystopian history, falling deeper and deeper into the trappings of decadence and fall and collapse and tyranny.

Not with a sudden fall, but with a thousand small cuts does society collapse. I could have written such beauty, such fantastic fantasies. I could have moved an entire generation to tears with but a stroke of my pen, with a word chosen with the same amount of care and dedication, passion and love as a father placing a kiss upon the brow of his first-born.

But I have to sit here, and write about women pooping. I have to sit here – I am compelled to sit here – and tell adult women that no-one but themselves can fix the time they spend waiting in line for the toilet. And I am compelled. Because ignoring these petty squabbles; allowing these miniscule problems to go unchallenged renders them untouchable. And that would be incredibly dangerous. Because, were they not challenged, it would be swallowed hook, line and stinker as truth-without-a-doubt. The petty tin-pot tyrants would be the ones that wrote history; would be the victors to whom goes the spoils. Even if I fear that this will happen regardless, at the very least I will go to my grave or to the gulags knowing that I did what little I could to challenge this.

Even if that reduced a planned artistic career to writing articles about women pooping.

  • Moiret Allegiere, 21.09.2019
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My book – Howling at a Slutwalk Moon, a collection of previous blog posts:
Vol 1 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/107571074X
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Fear and Loathing in Secondary School, part 1

My first inklings that life was a dismally unfair thing came in a blast during my years of secondary education. It was during those years, as the pre-pubescent freedom of childhood-bliss flew away to be replaced by puberty, hormones, madness and perpetual crisis; as my boyish body first manifested clear signs of manhood, that the first properly understood symptoms from the infection of feminism showed its face in classrooms as clear and as brittle as glass.

Of course; the signs were there that the girls were preferred and protected by teachers prior to this. Yet – in the prepubescent bliss of childhood, we are close to sex-less as no sexual characteristics are on display. At the very least not obviously so. The most obvious signs of sex and gender and the differences therein came from the mouths of us boys and girls who, in our childish innocence, believed the opposing side to have cooties. This made for some good moments and fond memories of chemical gender-warfare, as both sides did their very best to spread their cooties into the other camp and so infect them. In order to create spies willing to divulge the strategic and tactical secrets of the other side so that the war could be won and ended once and for all, I suppose.

Looking at it in hindsight and with that peculiar gleam of nostalgia that tend to come post-thirtieth birthday, it is clear that this was nothing more than the onset of puberty, the moment where we understood something which we could not properly articulate at the time – that is; the other side is as intriguing and fascinating as it is terrifying and kinda icky, and if I could only understand where the fuck these strange and conflicting emotions stem from I might be able to process the information properly. Besides; I never yet realised how beautiful her hair was and what in the hell does all this mean; those strange butterflies, that weird skipping of my heart, that strange and primal attraction? Better punch her in the shoulder and run away, laughing. Boys will be boys.

And so, fare-thee-well innocence, welcome confusion, welcome inner turmoil. Welcome puberty. Welcome gender-war tacticians in the shape of teachers speaking in twisted tongues, teaching all about the serpent cult of feminism. The oracle and the spectacle, the feminist ideology, the -ism told in twos and threes and twisted tattle-tales. Not as yet mentioned by name, but lying there still, coiled at the feet of the altar in front of the dismally black black-hole black-board where nimble spinning tongues and fingers spun nimbly spinning half-truths or full lies spat into our open mouths and minds that lapped it up as truth-without-a-doubt; an altar upon which we were placed as a sacrifice to the -ism, to remodel and restructure our biology and our sexuality as the horrid beasts of masculinity that we were then on the verge of becoming.

And here I find myself caught in a crossroad, with many a road to follow. Figuring out which road to walk down is a difficult one. I could express the weird confusion felt from schools telling me that what I experienced within during puberty was a social construct; that what I knew to do in order to express my blossoming masculinity was not something innate to my nature, but something learned from this society wherein all things gender is a construct and we are all blank slates.

I could explain the further confusion created as the teachers all insisted that the girls matured faster and better than the boys, even if all things gender is a social construct and so – really – there should be no differences in the level of maturation where the brains of boys and girls are concerned.

Not to mention that, if all things are a social construct, as we were told, then maturation is also a social construct and not anything to take seriously. Or that this train of thought further whisper to me that the only thing these statements meant, when taken to their logical conclusion, is quite simple: gender is a social construct. We are all blank slates. The girls mature faster than the boys. Even when maturation is also a social construct. The schools have chosen the feminine as the norm, as the way to measure maturity and the proper way to teach and to learn, in other words… This difference of maturation, this apparently incredible evidence of the moral, intellectual and emotional superiority of the girls were mentioned as often as possible, beat into our adolescent minds to make sure that we understood and remembered this so-called fact.

I could pick out single instances, single anecdotes of obvious preferential treatment of the girls – to the detriment of boys – and tell them in full. I have many of these anecdotes, many memories stored away of very clear discriminatory behaviour from the schools and from the teachers, that no-one gave a fuck about seeing as it was the boys in entirety that was singled out for social execution and shame and not the girls. See, I am cursed with a very good long-term memory and a terrible short-term memory. Might have to turn this into a series of sort. We’ll see.

…or I could try and explain how this dark cloud of shame that was forced down over the heads of the boys manifested in me personally.

…I could tell tales of how feminism wormed its way into the girls of my class and class-room-fancy, turning quite a few of them into footsoldiers for the explosive feminist revolution wielding such ridiculous arguments – hung up in the corridors of our schools come international women’s day as hand-made posters, funnily enough with loads of glitter and pink as I recall – that a female nurse earns less than a male doctor, and that this is a clear sign of gendered discrimination.

I am not making this shit up.

Opposition to this nonsense, this clear political activism was met with protest from teachers and students alike, making it very clear which opinion was OK to hold and which was not. Even when the argument presented on the preposterous posters was not one of logic or of reason, even when the argument presented made no sense at all. Disobedience is not allowed. One must not go against the holy grain and coffee-stain of feminism, lest one be shunned and publicly shamed for doing so by teachers wielding the magical double-speak staff that says that all voices shall be heard, as long as it is the voices of the girls that scream feminism in your ears and immature minds that are heard.

I remember one particular instance in a physical education class. One of our resident “mean girls” – and you all knew this girl growing up, I fucking guarantee it – the queen bitch, the bully and tin-pot tyrant, Ms. Queen bee supreme who looked down her nose on everyone and treated everyone like shit if they were not within her immediate circle of friends, buzzing around her magnificent form and shape as she wreaked bloody havoc on everything and everyone… yeah, you know the girl, you know the trope, you know the stereotype. The tropish stereotype is there for a reason, shining bright in every single high-school comedy or drama we have ever seen, just as true and magnificent as are the jocks that surround her and beckon to her every wish and demand.

It just so happens that one of her victims of perpetual bullying and mean-girl ways and vices had finally had enough and struck back. Not in any physical way, gentlemen as we were indoctrinated into being – one should never hit a girl, no matter what, you know – no, he had responded in kind to her snarling lips and on-going, for at least a year, systematic bullying with a vicious insult. I can not remember what she said that triggered his comeback, nor can I remember what he said. I was not present at the moment. No doubt, it was trivial – as these things go. Yet, in the vice-grip of confusing puberty, as we all know, nothing is ever trivial.

In this P.E. class, our entire class was made to stand to attention and listen as Ms. Queen Bee supreme stood behind the teacher, crying. Obviously, the tin-pot tyrant’s first instinct at opposition was to run crying to our teacher, playing victim. And we all had to stand there and listen as our teacher confronted the one who had done nothing but reply in kind; berating him and telling us all how horrible he had acted, how there were limits – even in hell – as our teacher, who of course was a woman, put it. DARVO-ing is learned quickly and it is encouraged brutally.

Absolutely astonishing, I thought then and I think now. If it was not made evident prior to this, it was bloody obvious after this that the girls were untouchable, no matter what they did. And I looked at the face of the one who had replied in kind as he was dumbstruck, completely aware that whatever he said, he would come out the loser and the scapegoat and that she – the bully and the instigator – now stood free to do what ever the hell she wanted to do and he could do nothing, nor could he expect justice served from those who were supposed to serve justice at our school. The stacks were stacked against him, as they were stacked against all the boys for the single crime of being nothing but boys, for the crime of becoming men. As expected, this incidence also let loose the ever-present shaming of the boys and their lack of maturity. For some reason, this was clear-cut evidence of the moral and emotional superiority of the girls; of their incredible maturity. Or the teacher just wanted an excuse to brow-beat us boys a little more for her own personal bias and satisfaction. Which I suspect to be the case, as you can always count on a dyed-in-the-wool feminist to use any opportunity to go on a petulant tirade about her most preferred topic – that is, the evil that men do.

There were many instances of this nature. The ideology of feminism shone and shimmered and enveloped all of our school and all of our schooling within its web and in its cocoons.

I remember being yelled at by a female pupil for having the gall – the audacity – of being born at the eight of march, which is international women’s day, and about as much fun as one can imagine.

That I – a foul male – would dare celebrate my birthday at this day of all women was an affront to the holy forces of fragile femininity; just that I was born on that most fateful day was enough to pull her g-string over her head and deliver an atomic mental wedgie. Such a terrible act on my part; such a display of toxic masculinity this, to dare be born on that most hallowed day! Of course, she was nothing but a bitch and an insufferable cunt caught just as much in the confusing mud of puberty as I was. But she was upheld and guided by the primal rage of feminism taught in school. And that is where the problem lies. I would not remember this as clearly now, all these years later, were it not for that fact. This was learned behaviour; accepted behaviour within the walls of our indoctrination-chambers that told her and taught her that she could act like this, with impunity, as long as the victim of her fury and her frenzy was a boy, was becoming a man, was someone who was not a woman or becoming a woman.

Yet, it was during sexual education that the searing misandry was made the most evident. Or, I should say, the most blatant. For beneath that roof and between the scarred and broken thighs of our indoctrination chamber, the ugliness and brute simplicity of male sexuality was made clear to us, as was the beauty and divine complexity of female sexuality. In a flash and a heat and what could quite possibly be referred to as a series of temper tantrums by our teacher, men and their lack of care and compassion during sex, as well as their lack of knowledge of the female body and sacred female orgasm was brought us as communion wafers; foul smelling pieces of bullshit served on a silver platter that we were made to swallow whole and make part of our one and our all. Where male sexuality was concerned, it was so simplistic – apparently – as to be waved away in a token hand-gesture; pull her, prod there, ejaculate and finish. Men, you see, did not necessarily have any manner of emotional connection to the more-or-less willing victims of their simian sexuality. Quite the contrary; ours was a philosophy of pump-and-dump. As opposed to women, whose sexuality was driven by emotional connection and nothing more and nothing less.

Sexual education was nothing but female sexual liberation and male sexual incarceration in front of the holy black-board, behind a make-shift altar of prophylactics and planned parenthood. The birds and the bees and how pregnancy works and all that jazz was mentioned, of course, as though it had to be done quickly and be done with. The purely biological reasons for sexuality, for fornication – that is – the urge to procreate – and how all that stuff actually works was mentioned briefly, and then forgotten in the rush to whip the boys with the nine-tailed cat of sexual shame for our simpering sexual simplicity.

For, you see, it was made out to be the fault of men – that is the patriarchy – that women and girls didn’t masturbate as frequently as boys and men did, that women and girls didn’t know their own bodies as well as they – apparently – should by that point in their lives.

And I can not help but think that maybe these poor and pitiful victims of a lack of masturbation would flick the bean with more regularity were they not told that their bodies and their sexuality was something sacred, something hallowed that was not to be given away or touched willy-nilly, but something to be savoured and treated as some peculiar sacrament.

Were they not told that sex is given to men and done to women, but told the simple truth of the matter: that fucking is one of our most basic primal instincts and that sex is – at the same time – the most profound and the most simple pleasure of life.

See, it sounds very traditional, does it not, that sex is something done to women by men and given to men by women? It is a very gender-stereotypical view of things; men can not control themselves and women must be protected from men. Would a chaperon be a good idea, perhaps and perchance? It is a tale as old as time, and here it was presented as something new, something profound, something liberating for women. It boggles the mind. But, it is as these things are: those who do not understand history are doomed to repeat it. It is the same-old-same-old packaged and presented as something new. Same shit, different day.

I am no prude, and I have no issues with talking about sex and sexuality. Quite the contrary – I find it to be a very interesting topic of discussion. One of the reasons for this is that I find it incredibly funny how much stock we put in it, how much of a protected and sheltered thing this very basic urge, need and drive is. For all manner of birth control has made it so that fucking is now a frivolous pursuit of pleasure more than it is a need and drive to procreate. As an aside, I would very much like to state that this does not bother me. Not in the least. The thing is; as odd and weird as it is, turning it into pleasure first and pregnancy second has made it even more protected, even more holy. Despite all our ham-fisted talks about sexual liberation and sexual revolution and what-nots and what-alls, we seem to be more neurotic in regards to sex and sexuality now than we have been for quite some time.

Almost as though one would be inclined to believe that a meaningless and pointless pursuit of immediate pleasure in one-night-stands and topless tinder-dates with no strings attached and no responsibilities lined up poisoned the well some and made for some hell-hath-no-fury-scenarios, where a lover scorned or a lover’s regret the day after a frivolous session of in-the-moment fornication made for feelings that were not shared in kind and a further shaming of male sexuality for doing just as his date did.

Men are terribly irresponsible when having no-strings-attached sex.

Women are not; they are liberated.

And if both man and woman are drunk and have drunken sex, the man is a rapist and the woman is raped. And the world is such a weird and peculiar place that confusion does not even cover it. For sooth, I do fear, sire, that we may have over-complicated matters to the point of complete and utter absurdity! I do fear that we have lost the plot ages back, that we have descended into guttural chaos and base-level desires that are never fulfilled even when we are told that this is what is needed to fulfil it. We are living in a Monty Python sketch, where one absurdity is explained with a higher level of absurdity. It is layers upon layers of absurdity, and I would be laughing my swinging dick and pendulous balls off, were I not quietly weeping in the corner. But I am getting better, I swear. I only break into hysterical fits of crying and babbling three times a week these days.

Anyhow; in those sexual education classes the boys were shamed for the girls not masturbating and not knowing their own bodies. This despite none of us knowing their bodies either, and should we wish to know their bodies we were beasts with only one thing on our minds. Not to mention that the same shame of not knowing a man’s body was not laid in the palms and prickly nipples of the girls. Odd, that. As though men are the ones who are supposed to run the show, from initiating dates to initiating sex. Or begging for it, more like…

And still; wanting sex, as a male, was a horrible thing and wanting sex as a woman was not a horrible thing, but a natural thing. Though the sex wanted by women was an emotional thing and the sex wanted by men was a primal thing, a thing of domination and subjugation. It was a confusing message sent and delivered. Sex was nothing to be ashamed of, yet it was at the very same time something to be deeply ashamed of.

We were told how incredibly complex female sexuality was, and that men would never properly understand it. Of course, the complexity of female sexuality was the complete opposite of male sexuality; simplistic enough to warrant barely a mention in front of the dismal black-board.

And were it mentioned, it was always with the barely-concealed snarl of wild mockery and disgust. This, in turn, rendered every god-damned unwanted erection a source of shame. And unwanted erections in those days of puberty happened once every ten minutes. You could set your bloody clock to it. There was nothing but spontaneous erections and a longing for some privacy and a few minutes to jerk off and be done with it. That is – if the erection came as a result of sexual desires, which it did not always do. Nor does it always do so. This is something lacking in common knowledge, as I understand it. Considering the mangled menagerie of feminist thought-and-action, an erect penis is nothing but sexual and shows nothing but sexual desire in the moment. Even when it is not. Of course; a lack of erection necessarily must mean a lack of sexual interest and something the woman should be insulted by. And the man be ashamed of. Just as he should be ashamed of his erection, he should also be ashamed of his lack of erection. The penis is there for the woman, and that is that. Objectification ho?

This is where sexual education is lacking, in their brow-beating of the male. For spontaneous erections were never mentioned or properly explained. Not as such. Erections meant nothing but the male being ready and willing to go, and that was that. It was a means to an end. For all the god-damned yammering and clamouring and claims that men don’t know shit about women’s bodies, women sure as hell know next-to-nothing about men’s bodies. Evidenced in the absolute lack of knowledge as to how erections function. Or how they do not function, for that matter. For, you know, a man can not be forced to penetrate. If he had an erection, he must have wanted it. This is the argument presented, time and bloody time again, to explain how a man can not be raped by a woman. I had a girlfriend once who honestly believed I could get an erection at will, just as if I were flexing a muscle. She was flabbergasted that this was not the case.

As much as I do believe that any sexual partner ought to know their way around their partner’s body, this is not something that should only apply to men. Yet, here we are, living in a culture where men are shamed for not knowing diddly-squat about the female body by women that do not even know that an erection does not equal sexual desire on part of the man, nor that a lack of erection does not equal a lack of sexual desire. It is far more complex than what these cretins believe.

And I lay a lot of the blame for this on the lack-luster sexual education in schools whose main focus in my day was the deification of female sexuality and the vilification of male sexuality; whose main train of thought was to teach the boys that their natural sexual urges was something to be ashamed of and to teach the girls that theirs was not. And as much as I agree with the latter, it is something that should apply to both or none. There should be no shame in sexuality, be you a man or a woman, there should not be any shame attached to wanting to fuck. Yet there were and there was, as long as it was sent in the direction of the boys.

Which is as evident now as fucking is natural, given the ongoing shaming of all things masculine from the girls and boys who grew up with this message imprinted in their developing minds and personalities and now only parrot the points they never questioned or dared looked behind and beyond, to repeat the mantra and carry on with the shaming and the glorious cuntural revolution of the feminist hive-mind; the breaking down and dismantling of all things masculine. The cloud of shame hung over the heads of the boys for which they must repent all their lives, bend their necks and their heads, kiss her ring and make amends for being such lustful and primitive primates as we are.

And this – this shaming, this perpetual demonizing and vilification of men and of masculinity – is presented as something that is supposed to help boys and to help men grow beyond the confines of traditional masculinity. Which is what, exactly? That depends on the feminist in question and the heat of the moment. But that don’t matter at all, the moment one is able to understand that nature plays more of a part than nurture does in how men act and how men behave, in how women act and how women behave.

This is not to say that nurture does not play a part. Because of course it does. We can not help but be a product of that which surround us as we grow up. We can not help but be infused with the ideas and the lessons we learn. We are a product of our surroundings. To a certain extent.

Yet; to claim that it is only nurture and not nature is to go against basic biology. It is to look at the state of nature, to look at the behaviour of animals and state that humanity is above and beyond that.

The problem of boys and men is not that they are boys and men, is not that they have been told to be boys and to be men. The problem of boys and men is that they are not being told that it is OK for them to be boys and to be men. It is that we are living in a culture that has not a kind word stored away anywhere for boys, for men or for masculinity. We are living in a culture in which we are told and taught that masculinity is something that must be done away with, that it is behaviour that is toxic, that it is learned behaviour that must be dismantled. And in its place the feminine shall thrive. In the guise of something gender-neutral. For feminism have us all shackled and in chains, have infested and infected our schools and our societies to such an extent that their philosophy is considered the norm and the guiding light. By their hands and their hands alone, the masculine shall be dismantled and the gender-neutral take hold. Just a god-damned shame, then, that what they propose to be gender neutral is remarkably feminine and that femininity is supposed to be some sort of saving grace for boys and for men who want nothing but to be free to be boys and to be men just as we fucking are.

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 18.09.2019

My book – 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

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Truth in the age of Deceit:

We live in times of universal deceit. We can not tell the truth. Bit by bit, truth is being eroded beneath our feet, as is our ability to speak it. Speaking the truth is an act of insubordination, an act of revolution. The truth is becoming a fragment of the past, a remnant of times that were, that came and went and blew away.

The doors are shut for facts and for balanced discussion of said facts. Truth means nothing lest it comes from the gut-instinct, lest it stems from the high-strung emotional turmoil that shriek and punch the air with tremors that state “I feel like this, and so it must be truth”.

And don’t you dare question my truth, my lived experience as anything but complete and utter fact that everyone of my tribe experience and have experienced and will keep experiencing seven thousand times or more.

And don’t you dare share your truth, your lived experience as fact if it contradicts my lived experience and my truth felt in the cornucopia of emotion in my safe-space sheltered heart.

And don’t you dare provide evidence, the concrete fact, the truth-and-beauty of absolute beauty in truth that speaks truth to power and tumbles the tyrants down from their thrones.

For tyranny flows from the top to the bottom, it flows from the tremors and the trembles and the fake-and-fancy inner turmoil shared by those who have had it far too good for far too long, whose tongue-twisting nursery rhymes are still sung and whispered at their bedside by overbearing parents who have told them all their lives that they can never do anything but good, that they can never do anything wrong. That, no matter what they do, they are in the right and the entire rest of the world is wrong and must burn if it disagrees. If lacking parents, substitute hired government goons.

This frantic world of ours allowed the throne to be usurped by warmongers that peddle propaganda; whose tongues and teeth are brown and stained with coagulated blood drained from the throats of subdivided willing victims of a war that stem from trying to please everyone. That is; pleasing everyone who is considered by those who wield the power of deceit to be underprivileged and oppressed in true Marxist fashion. Carried on and carried forward by champagne socialists who do not know the difference between a shovel and a pickaxe, who never saw their cheap-rent apartments disappear and turn to dust from new governmental regulations that deemed them unfit to live in, yet whose silver-tongues that claimed to do good for those that could not be choosers never did think that this would limit the availability of apartments and never did anything to alleviate this, rendering the market ever worse for those that have always been forced to settle.

There is no mistaking it. This is a war. A war that is the result of a cuntural cultural revolution that has been going on beneath our feet for fifty years or more; that has been fought in classrooms with cheap hits dealt from subversive pedagogues whose dimwitted godly light and siren-song shone and sung its way into the minds and developing personality of impressionable children who caught the words and let them fester and spread within their own nuclear brain cavity. More pawns, more peons and peasants handcrafted in indoctrination-chambers to hunt the Kulaks.

To manufacture dissent. Manufacture chaos. To spread disillusion and disharmony to the hungry masses, presenting feels as reals and wiping away any remnant of objective reality to bring forth the new-found reality, the subjective reality where every instance of emotional turmoil on behalf of one and not the other is an issue that has to be dealt with, that has to be overcome by governmental over-reach to limit what we should say and can say and how to say it, to bring forth the hate-speech laws and make them so convoluted, so confusing that everything and nothing at all may be considered hate-speech on the whim and will of whomsoever feel offended by the voice and uttered utterance of those who are considered privileged by the privileged powers-that-be that dominate the discourse, never allowing dissenting voices to be heard. And that is dissenting voices not being allowed under pain of governmental punishment, under the majestic banner of the stately ban-hammer fantastic; the tyranny of governed speech deciding what speech is the correct speech, what opinions are the correct opinions, which -ism is the only -ism one should be allowed to follow in the gloomy grim funeral rite of our liberty.

We are being ruled, governed and drugged by television and media-conglomerates that spin their so-called truths in new-speak news that starve our brains of oxygen until we are close to passing out; that blast us with new information every five seconds so that we can not process the information properly, or never read beyond the click-bait headlines calling for our permanent offence and anger at the unjust nature of the beastly world we live in. That just so happen to only be unjust for the one and not the other, in the eyes of new-speak news and their cohorts that manufacture the perpetual war. Because war is peace. Freedom is slavery. And so forth. And so on.

It will keep us distracted, wilfully sheltered from what is going on behind the canvas and the cloth of looming tyranny that aims at uniformity of speech, of voice and of opinion. We are being ruled by fear and governed by terror to make us accept limitations imposed on our speech and our expression. To label it hate-speech laws is blatantly obvious manipulation of language, telling all that do not think beyond the headlines that any who oppose this set of rules is guilty of hating something or other, and are as such not a decent person, not a good person, not a proper person but someone improper, someone to be shunned and punished for daring to defy the whatever and what-not. Anyone who hates anything is not a good person. Excepting those who hate the ones who supposedly are the haters. They are good people. When they hate what the sheltered stately state have decided is OK to hate.

For a governmental body to decide what is or is not accepted speech is tyranny clothed as compassion. It is a government telling us, in so many words, that this and only this is accepted opinion. And any-and-all that disagree hate the oppressed and are, as such, an oppressor, a bigot, a beastly bastard for whom violence is but a censored Tweet away. And so, they deserve anything that may come their way and the government will not only look the other way, but take part in the punishment. The Kulaks must be dealt with.

And this by any means.

And that is the truth.

For that is the nature of deceit.

  • Please like, share and subscribe
  • Moiret Allegiere, 14.09.2019

My book – 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/

Lord, help me, I can’t change! (More feminist encounters in the wild:)

Feminism does not have rebuttals.

Nor does it have arguments.

Not as such.

Feminism is an entity existing, living, thriving on nothing but its own hubris, on nothing but its own sense of entitlement. Strip away the hubris, mine away the decades of indoctrination and brainwashing into the serpent cult, and you are left with hollow phrases and learned tactics that is downloaded straight into the melted-machine minds of its adherents from the great feminist server in the nether realms of chaos and hysteria.

Yes.

I have been watching feminist filth-merchants in debate on Twitter yet again. For some reason, I can not claw my way out of that grand spectacle. I can not tear my eyes away from the train-wreck. Though I do not wish to partake – heavens no – I have too little sanity left to lose to do that. And arguing with a feminist brings about as much joy and reduces ones intelligence just as much as banging ones head against the shrapnel from a hand-grenade that never stops exploding.

Yet I keep reading or watching the debates stunned and perplexed, almost transfixed, ensnared by the closed minds on display. You can always tell who has a closed mind by the insistence of those that are close-minded that they are open-minded. A peculiar paradox, I know, but these are people for whom the only thought in their minds is the one that says that women are oppressed and that feminism is the path to take to fight the establishment and the consecrated conservative routines of the close-minded. Even when the intravenous injection of feminism that replaces their mental processing powers also closes their minds to viewpoints that are not infected with the ovary-shrivelling, dick-shrinking, brain-fluid-evaporating virus of feminism.

Of course; I can not fault them entirely. For feminism, this peculiar -ism, is the only -ism that has been allowed to be taught as fact in schools. At the very least for all my life. It has been allowed to be handed down like hand-outs from the hand-me-out squad to young kids, the dominant -ism and the one and only guiding light in the world. For decades. And it is so strange and it is so weird and so soul-suckingly insane that an -ism, any -ism, should be taught as fact to small children. We would not accept this were it any other -ism. We would not accept it were it communism, would not accept it were it socialism, would not accept it were it capitalism, fascism, Nazism, existentialism, nihilism, Buddhism, racism, etc. etc. In fact, we would label it political/religious/whatever indoctrination and demand it to stop. Also, we seem to accept it when it is intersectionalism as well, for some strange and peculiar reason. No-one should stand for this.

Yet, with this toxic, nausea-inducing sludge, we not only accept but we celebrate. And any and all manner of critique, any and all manner of rebuttal or protest or evidence to the contrary that is bright as the surface of the god-damned sun are met with the most vile and horrifying behaviour one could imagine. Which we would not accept from any other member of these gone-past-their-sell-by-date-societies of ours. And rightly so. Because the behaviour on display from these venomous harpies is not behaviour that should be condoned and celebrated. Yet, that is par for the course, part and parcel of living in the fantastic feminist utopia of ours, where women are so oppressed – and feminism so prosecuted – that they can behave like a vile, horrid, treacherous nest of absolute fucking cunts, and do so with impunity, with celebrations, with thunderous applause from the gawking on-lookers that drool and dribble on their shoes for lack of brain-fluid after it has evaporated on account of the feminist heat.

Welcome, my friends, to the machine.

Feminism gives women leeway to release the feminine shadow; the dark side of womanhood with impunity. With no shame nor regret. It allows for the worst kind of behaviour one could imagine; anti-social displays of crudeness, vulgarity and supposed “put-downs” that should not be accepted in any civilized society is accepted the moment it comes from the herpes-infected lips of a feminist do-gooder fighting the good fight against the established establishment that is the patriarchal kyriarchy, the grand and phenomenal godhead of oppression and terror and tyranny that, for some strange reason, allows and celebrates this behaviour from their oh-so-oppressed subjects.

Welcome, my friends, to the machine.

The lack of arguments when faced with facts that are undeniable are stunning. When arguments are attempted, it amounts to nothing more than mental gymnastics designed, in some way or other, to blame men for whatever it is. Even if it is something feminism has implemented, fought tooth and nails with all the ovary-acting they could muster to keep, it is blamed on men. One example of this is custody of children post-divorce. Giant feminist organizations have fought tooth and nail to keep the mother as the primary caregiver. Successfully so, I should add. Yet, when this is brought up as a god-damned affront to fathers – which it is – it is blamed on the patriarchy for assuming mothers to be the best caregivers and motherhood being the only role a woman should aspire to.

What a strange fucking world these people live in.

Such a weird world is this brave blue world. There is no logic, no reason, no ability to see facts, truth and so-and-such for what they are. There is nothing but the immediate emotional upheaval presented as fact because that is what she feels in the moment, in the heat of the moment. And if that is how she feels, then that is fact without a doubt. And there is the problem of it – emotions are subject to change at a moments notice.

This goes for both men and women, of course.

It is not something one should wish to build ones understanding of the world around. Emotions are fickle things. They change all the bloody time. And any understanding of the world that changes all the bloody time can not be an understanding of the world that brings any form of calm or tranquillity or satisfaction. It is all well and good, I suppose, to experience the world as a beautiful place if one is in a good mood. It is not as good to experience the world as a terrible place if one is in a bad mood. Emotional states no doubt paints ones perspective of the world. This is a very human thing, I suppose, neurotic wrecks that we are. But there is no baseline there, no tightrope to walk, no path to follow that will not dwindle and fade away. Better, then, to consider the world as a completely neutral and uncaring thing of nature; an indifferent beast that could not give a single two-handed fuck about ones emotional state at the moment. Nothing changes in the world depending on ones mood. Only ones perception, ones understanding of the world. Being able to transcend that and view the world as the aforementioned uncaring and indifferent beast, no matter ones current emotional state, gives a baseline, a balance, a slap to the face that, at the very least, anchors one to reality instead of the insane realms of subjective fantasy that is the roller-coaster of emotion.

The machine will keep going.

That is the crux of the issue, the pinnacle of madness. For when the machine has started, it is nigh impossible to stop it. And the machine began to spin its wheels a hundred years ago, or more. So that now, driven by the – faulty – understanding that women are somehow oppressed, driven by the gynocentrism in our species; the reptile brain that tell us that we must protect and cater to women above all else, lest the species die out, lest our genes are not spread, lest our seed shall fall to the earth and rise like steam to the heavens above as some perverted sacrifice to the Godhead itself from the wretched hairy palms of the hump-backed, cross-eyed midget Onan, we accept anything from the mouths of women and those who claim to fight the cause of women. For women must be protected, and if we do not protect women with our all, we must hate women with all our shrivelled soul and micro-dicks. (Not to mention that the only reason for opposing feminism – according to its adherents – is a lack of sexual access to women, telling us more than we need to know about feminism and how it views women as sexual receptacles, as well as their view of men and male/female sexual dynamics. That is: sex is something men does to women, something women give to men.)

Micro-dick is one of those trite, yet tried and true, go-to insults of the feminist hive-mind scorned. For one who has no arguments or rebuttals, shame is the apex of put-downs. And shaming men for their lack of sexual prowess or lack of ability to satisfy a woman sexually is the greatest put-down there is, in the hive-mind.

Odd, I think, that any man who supposedly hates women as much as the feminists would have us believe of any who oppose their bass ackwards view of the world should feel any semblance of shame for not being able to satisfy a woman. One should believe there would be no shame in this from someone who supposedly hates women. Because someone who hates and abhors women would, one assumes, not give two fucks about her satisfaction.

Cock-a-doodle-doo.

Of course – men not giving a fuck about female sexual satisfaction is another feminist piss-pot argument dragged up from the depths of their inability to tell a man what they enjoy in bed, or, for that matter, take some responsibility for her own satisfaction as well as his satisfaction where sexual matters are concerned. If one does not tell ones partner what one enjoys, one should not then be surprised that ones partner does not know. Cock-a-doodle-doo.

Welcome, my friend, to the machine.

Given my chosen subject matter in this radical ramble, driven by rage, wrath, ruin and enough caffeine to kill a moderately sized pony, there is a definite need to mention this as well: feminism does not equal women. Despite what the feminist hive-mind want to believe. Or what they want us to believe. A searing, brimstone-and-fire, hell and damnation, full frontal assault on feminism is not an assault on women. Or on women’s rights. It is an attack on an -ism that proposes to not only speak on behalf of all women – even the women who do not agree with it – but that also proposes to speak on behalf of gender equality, that demands a monopoly on the mere concept of equality. A more tyrannical, totalitarian and horrifying notion than that is hard to come by. Any voice who demands a monopoly on a concept, that demands to be the only one to speak on a certain topic, whatever that topic may be, is a voice that should be shunned and ignored. For anyone who claims to have all the answers to all the riddles can not be believed, must not be trusted, must be fought with all the madness of a wild beast cornered with nothing to lose. Such fell, authoritarian beasts are not to be trusted with anything, let alone power.

Feminism have come to equal women to the close-minded open-minded squad. Any woman who does not fall in line with the secular religion of feminism, with all their squalid brainwashing and indoctrination, is an affront to feminism and the divinity of the sisterhood, she is a result of patriarchal brainwashing making her internalize her misogyny. Because, to the eyes of feminism, women are so weak-willed and frail that they are absolutely incapable of thinking for themselves and making their own choices.

If she does not bend the knee to feminism and allow feminism to think for her, she is bending the knee to the patriarchy and allowing the patriarchy to think for her. It is either-or, where women are concerned, in the brain-washed melting minds of feminism. A woman exists either for feminism or for the patriarchy, never for herself. And this squad of permanently offended religious nutcases claim that our side hates women!

It is so agonizingly weird. I don’t think I have ever met anyone that has so much disdain, so much antagonism, so much raw hatred for women than a feminist meeting a woman that does not fall in line with the orthodoxy of feminism. It is an ideology built on hate for anyone who is on the outside. A misanthropic force claiming to work for equality. It makes me sick to my core that this wretched hive of scum and villainy have been allowed by our societies to be the dominant voice on all things gender, on all things sex, on all things equality.

The most radical voices of our societies today are the voices that dare defy the norm to state the simple truth, such as it is, that we are not the same, we are not equal.

Not as such.

We have different strengths and different weaknesses, we have different brains and different bodies to go along with these brains.

We are not the same.

We are not equal.

We are of equal worth, without a doubt.

And we are of equal value. Without a doubt.

But we are not the same.

See, I come from the egalitarian point of view. An individualistic point of view. A point of view that treats people based on the content of their character, based on the way they treat me and the way they treat other people. Sex does not factor into it. In particular now, post red pill blues.

This is something feminism does not like. Nor do they celebrate it. For feminism fights for women to be treated far better in society than men are treated. Based on how they imagine men are treated. Not based on how men are, in fact, treated.

And so to do trad-cons, for that matter. Though, the reasons may appear to be different at first glance, they are not. It stems from the same tide, the same rush, the same brainwave: women are the ones who carry children.

At the end of the day, we are animals. And the ones who carry the children are, biologically speaking, of more value. They must be protected. And they must be pampered and taken care of. Lest the tribe die, lest the species die, lest all fails and we do not survive.

The quest for equality which the feminist hive-mind has led us on is one of misguided equality. It is a quest for equality of outcome which is impossible, given that we are not the same. It is impossible without grand-scale social engineering. Which we are witnessing through affirmative action, through gender quotas, through lowering the standards to include more women. As we can see in the recent hissy-fit-inducing flurry of articles that state that lowering the standards of entry for women is a hand-up, not a hand-out. Hah, bah, nah, humbug.

We float and fly towards different things, based on our different strengths and weaknesses. Our choices are a product of our biology more than they are a product of some horrible scheme by the governing patriarchy that loves men so much and hates women so much that it sees no qualms in putting men in harms way and keeping women out of harms way. Were we truly living in societies that hate women, one should assume that all the dangerous and dirty jobs would be done by women that are not yet ready for childbirth, or who can no longer carry children. That would be hatred of women. One would assume that men be given all the cushy jobs. One would assume that more women than men would be homeless. One would assume the suicide rates to be quite different. And on. And on. Our societies do not hate women. Our societies protect women, and the frantic forces of feminist fragility are well aware of this. They play on this, tugging at our heartstrings through emotional manipulation and pure shaming until we do as they wish.

“You do not hate women, do you?”, she asks as she pouts her lips and widens her eyes… as she bulges what bulges there are… And any man tremble and go weak at the knees and at the groin at the sight of her awesome neoteny, at the seductive whisper of her alluring voice and her wide hips that subtly promise possible procreation in the not-too-distant-future…

The best way to choke the forces of feminism is to treat women exactly the same as we treat men. Neither better, nor worse. Exactly the same. Complete and utter equal treatment. When that is done, the forces shout and rear and whinny that men treat women so much worse than they treat men. Evidenced in this study: https://uwspace.uwaterloo.ca/bitstream/handle/10012/6958/Yeung_Amy.pdf .

Well, maybe not the best way to choke the forces of feminism. Rather, it would be the best way to show the beast of feminism for what it is; a movement seeking nothing but female privilege; to hoist women up to stand on the shoulders of men until the shoulders break out of their sockets, only for the feminist hordes to scream for more, more, more.

Just as we have done, time and time again, in different guises and different clothes and wearing different masques. The song remains the same, the band stays the same, the tribe will still be just as the tribe was. Only the names and the seasons change.

Nothing more.

And nothing less.

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 11.09.2019

My book – 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/

A quick announcement and a question:

Here I am, breaking the chains of regularly scheduled uploading to bring you this quick announcement, as well as to ask those of you who read or listen to my content fairly regularly a quick question.

In a few months time, aiming at November, I will be publishing a collection of poetry. Well, I call it poetry. Probably, it is prose presented as poetry in order to give myself some pretentious credibility within the literary world. Granted, this being a postmodernist society, anything is art and anything is poetry as long as the artist or poet points at it and labels it as such.

All semantics aside, though, it will be published as a collection of poetry. The title is “Lonely Train-station Blues; poems for the lost boys”.

The title “Lonely Train-station Blues” is the title of one of the poems within; a terrible labour of love which I laboured over for close-to three months. A beast of some 4000 words. An epic, free-form poem written in the current year where no-one in their right mind writes or, for that matter, reads epic poetry. Inspired by the likes of Dante Alighieri, John Milton and Charles Bukowski… if you can believe that. I can’t. But that is besides the point; this poem is one that I am fairly pleased with, even if I do say so myself. Which tend to mean that no-one else will enjoy it.

The topics explored is much in the vein as my other writings, though with more of an emphasis on the personal and the individual. That is – my personal and my individual experiences, with some slightly spiritual stuff thrown in there for good measure, as I stumbled upon the spiritual path some years back and am just about as confused with that as I am with everything else in this weird and wacky world of ours. Best to just walk it with a smile and a raised middle-finger, I think.

It will be published through Amazon, as my funds don’t allow for anything but that. Just as Howling at a Slutwalk Moon was published. One digital, one paperback. The difference being that, barring one or two instances, nothing in this book is published previously. As I am weary of keeping anything behind a paywall, I plan on releasing each and every poem in the book at a monthly basis. For your reading or listening pleasure. That is – one poem a month after the book has been out for some time. Not entirely decided on how long to wait before I start publishing them, so that will be something I have to consider. It will not interfere with my regular upload schedule, which is once or twice a week, depending on the length of the beast I am writing and the amount of research needed and so and such.

Now, I am aware that poetry won’t make me money. It will, in fact, only make me mad. I am not expecting many sales on it, is what I’m saying. Yet, in order to torture my poor and tortured artist soul some more, I will release it into the wild. Because, why the hell not? There can be no more harm in that than there is in what I have already released into the wild.

Work is also moving forward, albeit slowly, on a book chronicling my experiences with psychosis and psycho-pharmaceuticals and the personal transformation and eventual red-pilling that came as a result of that. I am about half-way through a rough draft. This is one that I plan to release in a similar manner, though that will not be until sometime mid-or-late 2020.

I have a few ideas for other books as well, in the red-pill philosophy vein, in the men’s advocacy vein. None of which will interfere with my regular upload schedule, but all of which are too big in scope to be blog-posts first and foremost. They will require more structure than that. These will also be published in the same way, with the book first, then each chapter at a monthly basis after such-and-such a time.

That would be all the announcements.

Now, for the question. A very simple question for those brave and heroic few who watch or read my content on a regular basis – all 20 or 30 of you.

Of course, I jest based on the size of my channel and my blog and what few views I get – I very much appreciate you taking the time to read or listen to my ramblings. I think it is very humbling that you find enjoyment in these things that I do. And so I would very much value your input.

And the question is a simple one, as these things go: are there any particular subjects you would like me to write about? Not that I am running out of things to write about, quite the contrary. Suggestions are a damned good thing to have and to receive.

And that is that.

Until next time:

Take care!

  • Please like, share and subscribe
  • Moiret Allegiere, 09.09.2019

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/