Did they beat around the bush with long lost loveless lovelorn and forlorn semantics?
Painted atmospheric pictures, like re-imagined language reinterpreted in high-flying faulty psychedelic dreams inside busted and broken ice-cream vending-machines, or gold-laced panties veiled and luxuriously hidden in the throbbing urban sprawl outside some seedy bar where sanity and virginity came to die or to be lost?
Did the academically-challenged-yet-still-academically-inclined hordes and their pile-of-shit alterations of the spoken word beat the low-brow humour out of you; smack you upside the head with a-symptomatic bricks until the words “cunt” and “bitch” and “bossy” were deemed symptomatic of a piss-streamed steaming society in which women were hated and demeaned, even when still allowing for “bastard” and “dick” and so-and such?
Strange songs sung like alien words flowing from the bowels of shit within the postmodern reconstructive, reductive, restructured pandemic of classic romanticism as feels beds and becomes real eels to the gutter-mouthed lazy wannabes whose intellectual curiosity is hampered only by an inability to question the presently prevailing presented narrative – the truth-as-truth-is-told in piss-poor skewed ballads nakedly sung through high-strung sermons from the high priestess of the majestic church of woke, cowering behind an altar of impenetrable academic gobble-de-gook word-salad-finery… kook – kook – kook say the degree-holders, the burden-boilers, the over-educated layabouts; those who are ever so sourly oppressed by their education-dance… those who can count all the way to potato, if nothing else.
Did they make you dance the linguist dance in a new-speech trance where your words meant what they felt they meant as opposed to what you said they meant; their spoken, their sensed, their unseen censored truth from rusted throats that creaked and moaned with every slight variable ululation of disgust, with every moaned and marbled word that cracked and broke in high-pitched wails as the nails shut in, the doors were closed, the teary-eyed and bleary-mouthed shutters tore the questions down?
Drawn in handcrafted paper-pulp, like being caught between a rocking chair and a bard’s place – insufferable dialogues gone monologuish in a roguish day-night that finds one strapped to a bed of academically inclined landwhales who spurt, who sputter, who shake, shimmy, shave and shiver at the mentioned word “maleness” – whatever that means at any given moment – or who tremble profusely and wet their silken sad uncertain panties profoundly at the terrible whispered no-no-word “masculinity”, hitherto and from now until the end of time dubbed as raw “toxic” trash, yet only those aspects of it which they do not like which change and alter and become something else or something less or something more depending on which aspect they want to attack at that particular top-hat-and-monocle rocking moment. Oh boy, oh girl, oh non-gender-specific bi-neural-beating brown-nosed sycophantic trans-trendsetting alien-loving-kin, what a delicious pickle we seem to have lost ourselves in.
Did they label your masculinity as toxic, rot your guts, your brains, your balls and cock with promises of possible, yet pernicious and pre-emptive redemption through the might and almost awesome influence of feminist pedagogy on your splinter-celled mind-interference to reduce your testosterone-poisoning down to manageable levels, whilst simultaneously spouting gibberish about how women who behave badly also suffer from toxic masculinity as opposed to toxic femininity, given that femininity – despite being naught but a non-existent socially constructed patriarchal cuntural phenomenon of the meanest, foulest, most oppressive kind – is all that is good in the world and the void and various other such gizmo-grabbing muh-feels arguments?
Beautifully crafted strings of nonsense like sugar poured over vomit and rot – a linguistic exercise in semantic futility – struck blind and incoherent by awe-inspiring word-salad gobble-de-gook, meant to sound profound whilst being mundane as the shallowest of fucks; neither given nor received but poured like molten metal into our eyes and ears.
For decades – at least since the 70’s – the feminist hive-mind have attempted to make the private political and the political private. (As well as attempting to dictate what we may or may not do with our privates in our own homes). I am sorry to say that they have succeeded.
That is to say: as long as it is the private lives of women and the experiences of women, it has come to fruition. Granted and mind you, this only ever applies if the women and their experiences go with the fallopian flow of the feminist ideology.
For a woman to have experiences countering the feminist narrative is an obscenity, when seen through the myopic lenses of feminism, all strange and weird and twisted and so-and-such. Her experiences are merely her experiences, and does as such not reflect the experiences of women at large. The experience of a feminist woman, however, is the experience of every woman everywhere, since time immemorial… some strange and hitherto unknown ancestral memory… stored in the genes, probably. At some point, the scientists will discover a feminist gene. And all shall be made clear and all will be understood.
The feminist experience of womanhood applies even to those women that have not experienced it. Those that have not experienced what the feminist women have experienced are blind to this experience on account of internalized misogyny or patriarchal influence or some other divine intervention, some hypnosis forced down her throat from the grand patriarch… mind-rape and other obscenities, one more obscene than the next.
The slaves are very complacent and content, you see.
And patriarchy appears to be a kind and tolerant master.
Also, the slaves have no other choice.
And so, we must listen to the experiences of (feminist) women and believe whatever a (feminist) woman has to say.
Even if it makes no sense.
Which is even more obvious.
When success is reached, one must then demand more. For if there is one thing and one thing only to be said about feminism, with absolute certainty, it is this: the show must go on. In order for it to constantly perpetuate itself, it must have an enemy and a cause to fight. And so goalposts are moved and everything changes from one day to the next. So the results from the battles of yesterday which were won must now be turned on its head and fought against. The results of the victories of yesteryear must therefore become the battle of the current year.
Which amuses me something awful.
Doubting my words?
Take a look at the history of the birth-control pill. How that came to be. Then take a look at feminist women complaining about the birth-control pill in this absurd and ridiculous current year of ours.
It is almost as though these women are merely looking to complain about something for the sake of being able to complain about something. It is a very interesting observation, even if I do say so myself. Victimhood is currency. And has been so for quite some time, longer than the current oppression Olympics, that’s for damned sure.
Not that any of this matters, of course, for internal contradictions and moving goalposts within the movement don’t matter, of course. Because there are approximately seventeen billion different forms and guises of feminism, each more delicate and prone to error than the last.
And really fucking convenient.
Were one so inclined, one would almost start believing that this claim is a mere smokescreen; a distraction from any and all form of criticism of the serpent-cult. “Well, my dude, that’s, like, not my feminism, my dude. So I’m not, like, answerable to that.”
Like, real convenient, my dudette, real convenient indeed.
One can not argue the point either, for her experience matters more than anything else. At the very least at this moment in time and for that experience and in that particular corner of insanity. Her experience of feminism is an experience of feminism as an ultimate good. And so it must be true, and all evidence to the contrary be damned. Up to and including calls to kill all men, which is from that part of the movement which is not real feminism… either that, or it is merely a joke – just as the “male tears” mugs, t-shirts and various and sundry is naught but a joke. Which would not bother me in the least, were it not for the blatant double standard of the thing. Men have lost their jobs for less than what a feminist spew from their face-orifice every two minutes or so.
And so, in that moment – at the moment of arguing a point – feminism becomes a staunch, hardcore, brutally individualistic movement. Until, that is, her experience is to be used as an example of the experience of all women everywhere. Then it becomes one of the most collectivist movements the world has ever seen. Collectivist when it suits them, individualist when it suits them. The experiences of women always matter and must always be believed. Excepting when they don’t matter and must be dismissed. Which is, as are all things, something feminism gets to decide.
This brings an interesting point to the whiplashed head-space of this humble wordsmith: what about the experiences of men?
To which the answer is as simple as it is stupid.
The experiences of men don’t matter.
For that is just the experience of that one man.
Also, he is probably full of lies and bullshit.
And so we do not need to listen to the experiences of men.
For men trade only in lies in order to enslave and subjugate women.
For even when men suffer and struggle, it is all about women.
For men think only about women, as is the natural order of things, given that everyone only ever think about women and everything is only ever about women and the experiences of women.
This, I suspect, is one of the reasons why every single discussion on men and the issues predominantly affecting men are hijacked by hordes of pissed-off women, feminist or not, proclaiming in loud and snarling voices that “what about the whamens?” For nothing can be discussed or said or stated or treated or seen or viewed or thought without including women. Even if it is as simple as celebrating fathers and the work that fathers do, women must be put first and always be included. The inverse does not apply.
When attempted, the feminist hordes screech that this is about women and that men always hijack every conversation. So get out of here with your man-spreaded man-splained man-terruptions and various other man-so-and-suches.
Projecting again, my dear?
Even when it has got fuck all to do with women, it has to be about women. That is exactly what the feminist stormtroopers do where the concerns of men are concerned; they hijack the conversation and derail it so that it has to do with women instead of men. And all and sundry support. For women receive empathy from both men and women, whereas men do not. To a ginormous extent. This, it has to be said, leaves no room and no space and no time and no place for any discussion about the personal experiences of men. Particularly not when the feminist hordes have lied and framed it in such a way that any discussion on the experiences of men and the issues men face are an attack on women overall.
This is quite bothersome.
See, I am a staunch believer in making people live by their own rules. The rules have to apply to everyone equally. That would be equality, you see.
Then, it goes without saying, if one is to listen to and believe the experiences of women without question, one must also listen to and believe the experiences of men. Without question.
Which no-one does, and which even less than no-one gives a flying fuck about. Those that do care are demonized for hating women… followed by attempts to shame them into silence and oblivion. For everything has to be about women. And men be damned, doubly-cursed and thrice-neglected for being so wicked as to believe that they matter just as much as women matter.
Unless, of course, it is from the experience of a feminist man and his struggles against his trademarked TOXIC MASCULINITY. Then he is to be hoisted to high heavens and celebrated in perpetuity for speaking truth to power and un-learning his maliciously misogynistic masculine matters.
Which is to say that he bends the knee and presents his balls, shaft, neck and mind to the feminist hive-mind and their undisputed ruler, ms Queen Bee Supreme. He is still not to be trusted, of course. But at the very least he is a better man than that man over there who has, as of yet, not disavowed his masculinity, his maleness and his supreme patriarchal power.
…Supreme patriarchal power and privilege which he supposedly has, even after being divorce-raped, after losing custody of his children to a vindictive ex, after three failed suicide attempts for reasons of homelessness on account of losing his job for failing to show up after a severe depression following family-court proceedings that will put him in jail soon enough for failing to pay both alimony and child-support for children he is not allowed to see any more on account of a vindictive ex. Not that his struggles matter either, for the feminist hive-mind have done their best in convincing the world that fathers do not matter in the lives of children; only mothers do. And the rest of the “village”. Everyone, in fact, except fathers, are important in the lives of children, according to the hive-mind.
That he can not pay for reasons of losing his job is irrelevant. When he goes to jail for failure to pay, it is even more difficult to get a job.
But this does not matter, for we do not need to listen to the experiences of men, nor do we need to show any understanding for their plight. All he has to do is pay up and shut up. He is not a living, breathing human being.
He is a dead-beat dad.
Reduced to ashes.
Though, admittedly, he is still needed for financial support.
For he has to take responsibility.
He’s just not allowed equal responsibility in raising his children.
But this don’t matter none.
Now, for those of us who have spent some time pondering and wondering issues such as the aforementioned, we have been told that it does not happen. Women are never vindictive or wicked. When men have no contact with their children, it is only ever because they are vindictive and wicked, not the other way around. Only men have the capacity for arseholery. Women do not. They are angelic and sacred creatures, and no woman would ever refuse the father of her children to see his children. It is only ever a father who would refuse to see his children. For fathers are deadbeats. All of them. Besides, women are better caretakers and so obviously they are the ones who should have full custody of the children, and her word should be law.
This line of thought implies that women are not human beings. It implies that women are some morally superior entity, one step above men on the evolutionary ladder. At least in the morality department.
And this is bullshit.
Just as men can be flawed, women can be flawed. And women using their children as a shield in divorce-court is not unheard of. Far from it.
But: we do not listen to the experiences of men, nor do we believe in the experiences of men. So when stories like these are told, they are either not heard or not believed. Speaking about it brings the feminist whip-crackers out in full force, ready to whip anyone into submission by claiming that pointing this out and speaking about it implies that this is something every woman does, and that this is something men say to subjugate, enslave and abuse women. Also: it is an attack on all women everywhere, and that is the worst one could possibly do. Women are a protected class, you’ve got to understand.
If a man fights for custody of his children, it must be because he is an abuser of women. He just wants to hurt the mother. It is never the other way around.
Divorce courts are heavily biased towards the mother, towards the woman. Much for reasons of feminist lobbying. Big and powerful feminist organizations fight against equal shared child-custody, on the basis that it hurts the mother and the child for mothers are the better caretakers. And other such nonsense.
Then the same feminists will claim that it is misogynistic of the courts to assume the mother to be the better caretaker, and so it really is the fault of men – that is the patriarchy – that fathers do not get equal custody rights.
Which is very interesting, and the best case I have ever seen of a self-fulfilling prophecy. As well as dubiously implemented hypocrisy. Though, of course, it does not matter. For that is one feminism, not the true feminism.
And the herp did derp.
As it is known to do.
And here I sat, thinking that the best course of action would be a default 50/50 shared parenting. That would be the most equal outcome. And to get rid of alimony, of course. For that is the most preposterous stupidity; the most bass ackwards thing to still be a thing in this tainted and fragmented current year of ours. Though, as one should well be aware of by now, equality – when spoken by feminism – does not equal equality.
I doubt any changes will be made or seen, unless the experiences of men are listened to and taken seriously. This is difficult to do. Because the experiences of men are so often shooed away and neglected as being of no importance when they are not pissed away as lies, fibs and bullshit designed only to hurt women. Because everything is only ever about women. Feminism has had decades of social engineering in which they have tricked our societies into believing that all men everywhere are extraordinary privileged. This makes it even more difficult. When this has been taught in schools – taught to children – it is not easy to unlearn. It becomes a baseline belief; a foundation for their worldview.
The apex-fallacy called. It wants its straw-man back. And its logical fallacy.
The above must necessarily lead to the experiences of men not being told. Who, in their right mind, would wish to share their experiences – their deeply personal, troubling and difficult experiences – when they are either waved away as lies and bullshit, or simply ignored by just about everyone? This is often the experience of men when trying to share their experience. Dismissed out of hand and outright waved away as lies. Or, of course, painted as an attack on women.
If you have not done so already, I would recommend grabbing a copy of the wonderful book “Sons of Feminism” (https://www.amazon.com/Sons-Feminism-Men-Have-Their/dp/1775081303), edited by the equally wonderful Janice Fiamengo. This is a collection of the personal experiences of men. It is a difficult book. As well as being a very good book. It is even inspiring and uplifting in ways which I can not properly explain. It is more of a felt sensation than a tangible and easily definable sensation. At least it was for me when I first read it. It is phenomenal, and it was a brilliant idea.
That book is one of the main reasons for me doing what I do, though there are quite a few reasons more – as there always is. This one kicked me over the edge, right out of my hibernation, one could say.
I believe that, if men’s rights are ever to be taken seriously, there is a need to talk about our experiences as men. The feminist hordes wanted to make the political private and the private political.
Which is a god-damned bother, in all honesty.
I have been in opposition to this nonsense for quite some time. Yet, it is what they did. And so maybe we ought to take them on their word and turn it about – to make them live by their own rules and their own wishes. To properly show that equality means exactly that: equality in all. That is to say: equal treatment. Equal treatment would then mean that the personal experiences of men is to be granted the same treatment that the personal experiences of women is granted. If not, feminism proves itself – yet again – to be a force for anything but equality.
Men need to talk about their feelings more, they say.
Then they attack, ridicule, smear and shame when we do.
I bathe in male tears, I drink male tears.
And other such misandrist piss-pottery.
Men must talk about their emotions!
I oppose the killing of all men, on the grounds that it is a disturbing thing to say and to do.
No, not like that.
Can’t even take a joke, lol, masculinity so fragile that I bathe in male tears.
Well, then, ignoring for a moment or two that men do, in fact, talk about their feelings and experiences (and would do so even more, were it not for feminism dismantling any and all male-only spaces on grounds of muh discrimination), albeit in a way and in a light not accepted by the feminist brigades and their mighty state of hysteria, I propose that men do.
That we speak openly and unashamed about our experiences in the feminist culture we inhabit; in the misandrist mass-media-manipulated moronic culture of ours, where equality only ever means whatever the feminist forces of frail and fragile femininity propose that it means.
Mind you: I am not proposing that men, in general, take part in the current climate of victim-culture; the woe-is-me fuckery that all and one are so engulfed and devoured by.
Far from it.
There is more than enough of that stupidity going around. If one has been a victim of something, the best thing one can do is to get over it and stop being a victim of it. One can never overcome something if one perpetually makes oneself a victim of it. Granted; for some people, I can see where the temptation lies.
It is far easier to live a life devoid of responsibility for anything, up to and including the course ones life has taken, by merely pointing to some victimhood and stating that this – and this alone – is the core reason for them fucking up at every turn. It is, at the very least, much easier, or, well, safer, than overcoming trauma and trials and tribulations. Overcoming trauma, trials and tribulations is excruciatingly hard work. Believe you me, I know. I have a handful – or more – of traumas myself, which I have spent quite some time overcoming. Some of which I have not yet gotten over.
I refuse, however, the cape of victimhood and the dunce-hat of the victim mentality. This does not mean that my story shall never be told, my experience never shared. For there is a difference in presenting a story and painting oneself as a perpetual victim.
What I propose is not the victim-culture shenanigans, but an honest, decent, rational and not least of all truthful sharing of our experiences within the feminist culture, within the misandrist male-bashing, male-hating culture.
The truth, such as the truth is. And nothing but that.
The more stories that are told and that are shared, the more it will have to be heard, until it can no longer be ignored. Until it has to be heard. Until it has to be shared and understood that not all is milk and honey in the land of men.
That it is, in fact, quite the contrary.
That, maybe, it is about damned time to give some due consideration to the plight of men; some understanding about what men go through and some empathy to boys and to men. That is not bloody god-damned fucking painted and presented in the tainted twat-light of feminism, wherein the biggest problem men have are their masculinity – their core nature, in fact.
I tell my own experiences on occasion, though I admit to often chickening out of it. For reasons of it being dismissed and waved away so easily. That is, however, what happens every time one goes against the feminist narrative. It is dismissed. For feminism is the word of the day, the dominant ideology and the most magnificent and most malicious church there ever was; great and terrible. And it helps both men and women, despite not being about helping men, except when it is about helping men as well, which is not now, but then, or there or not now, but after, and trickling down and much mulchy.
At some point, the truth will come out and reality will present itself. One can only hope that this will happen sooner rather than later; before it is considered illegal to speak such as we in this loosely knit movement do.
Considering that “misogyny” is proposed to become illegal in Great Britain – whatever the hell that means – and considering the rise of the hate speech laws, I am frightened that it will soon be considered misogyny to merely oppose feminism; that non-feminist writings, anti-feminist activities will be considered hate-speech and so become subject to penalties. Which would not surprise me. Those that can not win through honesty will win through suppression. Suppressing the freedom of people to speak their mind – as hate-speech laws do – is exactly that. Turning “misogyny” illegal could only ever mean deeming it illegal to oppose feminism. For misogyny, as we all well know, means whatever a feminist says that it means. And this includes attacks on feminism. For feminism has turned feminism into a term that means “women”, not the ideology of feminism. Just as equality means whatever the hell a feminist says that it does in the heat of the moment, misogyny means whatever the hell a feminist says that it does in the heat of the moment.
And misandry, on the other hand, does not real and is not hateful. For if that was to be made illegal – which I do not for one second propose that it should be, except if misogyny is made illegal – feminists would not be allowed their platform of speech. For they do think about and talk about men all the bloody time, even when they claim that they don’t.
And that is that for this particular radical and rebellious ramble. I hope you enjoyed it. Join me next week, if you so please, for more of why I am an anti-feminist. It is closing in on the end for this particular series, I believe. What the future holds will be interesting, I hope.
One of the things that most confound me in this ever-lasting current year of confusing culture-wars and social justice nonsense is this willingness from women in general, whether feminist or not, to be considered victims and to consider themselves as victims.
Whatever can be held forth as an example of victimhood will be grabbed, smeared in their faces like blood and warpaint, then held forth as a supreme example of the perpetually victimized woman.
The best example of this, I believe, is the wage-gap. The feminist lie about this has been debunked over and over again.
Time and time again.
Again and again and again.
And still it is being used to justify their infantile victimhood-complex, used as proof of overt discrimination; used as an example of why feminism is still ever so sorely needed in this age of the mighty hysteria.
The truth is out there for everyone to see. The wage-gap, as feminism prefers to present it, is long since debunked. And then it is debunked again. And a third time, just for good measure.
It is, in fact, an earnings-gap.
Meaning: men work more than women, men take on more overtime, men are better negotiators than women, men take less sick-leave, men work more dangerous jobs… and so forth and so on.
There is also this pesky little factoid to contend with: it is illegal to pay someone less or more depending on their sex.
Which makes me wonder where all the lawsuits are. Where are all the companies going bankrupt from having to pay legal fees, being sued into oblivion, being assaulted day and night by police-forces, besieged by law and order from clearly breaking the law?
Not that this matters much, of course. For lately I have seen the feminist hordes move the goalposts ever so slightly, and apparently unseen and unnoticed, cloaked by the nights veiled satin madness. This time around, being unable to still keep the wage-gap lie going as they used to, they claim it instead to be proof that typical female professions are considered of less worth than typical male professions… further keeping the wage-gap myth going, despite it being debunked. And no evidence needed, of course. Believe women. Even when they make no sense and present no evidence but their own assumed assertions. For women have got to be victims. Otherwise, what is the bloody point of feminism?
The feminist hive-mind are well aware that the pay-gap is false. They just don’t give a fuck. Or they choose not to believe it, as victimhood just taste so damned sweet in their mouths and scatter-brained infantilism. A feminist will roar in your face, spittle and drool flying everywhere, that “Did you know that women are paid less than men? And – no – this has nothing to do with the aforementioned reasons. We are discriminated against, I promise! Fuck-face!”.
Followed by a kick to the chest to send one plummeting down the morally decayed and emotionally bankrupt bottomless pit of dread feminist despair; victimizing and infantilizing the poor whamens one second of free-fall at a time.
This I can not grasp. They are well aware of the debunking. They just don’t care. They want to be discriminated against. They want to be victims.
So strong. So tough. So resilient. Nevertheless, she persisted. And all other pathetic platitudes and select sentences that say little, but sure as hell help in boosting some frail and frantic feminist egos. It sure must feel good to be constantly validated and celebrated, no matter what you do. Or don’t do. Even when just doing things you’re supposed to do. Or not supposed to do.
When this so-called discrimination has been disproved and debunked, one should believe that the feminist platoons would be well pleased with themselves. That they would pat themselves on their chubby back-fat in self-congratulatory, self-celebratory glee (as is, of course, their greatest talent) and be pleased with this lack of discrimination.
It is, however, the other way around.
They celebrate perceived discrimination.
Not lack of discrimination.
For their core reason for existing is to perpetuate feminism. If discrimination is disproven, they weep and carry on as though the discrimination is there. Can not let pesky facts get in the way of the narrative. If the narrative is disrupted, they have no reason to exist. If they have no reason to exist, they can not carry on. Then they would have to actually cultivate a personality instead of merely being a feminist.
That would be a difficult task indeed, for someone whose main goal, focus, career, belief and reason for fucking living, existing, breathing and feeling has been centred around the spiralling drain of feminism all their live-long life. It is a dangerous thing, to make an ideology such a big part of ones identity that one is adrift in the void without it.
They want to be victims. They want to be seen as both weak and helpless – in need of provision and protection – and as strong and independent – a woman needs a man as a fish needs a bicycle, after all.
And a strong, independent fish can not be expected to live long on land. They need to live in water. Take a fish out of water, and it will die. Take a feminist out of feminism; that is to say: victimhood, and she will die.
Though it is true that they don’t need a man.
They need government intervention instead of a man. Implement this law and that law and all those other laws for positive discrimination. You know: actual, written in law for all the world to see discrimination. Blanket discrimination that favours one sex over the other sex.
Then pretend and feign discrimination over this and that and all the other this’s and that’s. Roaring and screaming, snarling and gnarling and snivelling and weeping that they are ever so discriminated against for being women, despite all these laws in their favour and their favour only, so please, daddy, give us some more. For they are the meekest and the most oppressed and the strongest and the most independent all rolled into one neat sausage roll.
In the windblown wastes of Norway, we have a “law of equality”. The wording of the law says that it favours women and minorities. An odd phrasing for a law supposedly in place to guarantee equal treatment, as it clearly favours women… and minorities. Quite contrary to equality. It was proposed that the wording of the law should be altered so as to actually be equal.
You know; gender-neutral.
The feminist hive-mind protested, and so the law remains; gendered discrimination written into the law of equality that is there to work against gendered discrimination. Favouring the sex that is – for some reason – considered the oppressed and helpless sex. And so the law of equality is held forth as proof that women are oppressed… otherwise, we would not need that law to be gender-specific, now would we? Check mate, misogynists.
It is a strange patriarchy to live in, in which women are so favoured that they have special protection under law; in which their voices are heard so clear and taken so seriously that a law that is there to guarantee their privilege remain as-is. Odd as well, considering the feminist screech that everything must be gender-neutral.
Except that which favour women, of course. Which is peculiar and odd. In a society in which women are eternally oppressed and downtrodden, where men are eternally privileged and protected, it is incredibly strange to me…
Of course, the feminist hive-mind will screech and jabber that men don’t need those laws for they are written in the very foundations of our society and our culture. Unseen, but still there. Despite all evidence to the contrary.
When boys and men suffer disadvantages, we don’t need to care about that. Because girls and women suffer more. Why else would there be laws in place especially for girls and women and none for men, if girls and women did not suffer more? Check mate, foul misogynist.
Truly, we live in a society.
We exist within a world in which we have been told that all men everywhere oppress women; in which all men everywhere benefit from the oppression of women.
Now; I have had more than enough feminists scream in my face; either through the internet or in real life to really and truly wonder how – if I were so terrible an oppressor – these women would dare scream in my face as they do. Surely, if women are so scared of men as feminism claims, no woman would dare behave in that manner when facing the terrible and terrifying enemy of their mythology and legend.
When a feminist woman feels so emboldened as to personally attack me for me doing nothing but give my wife a compliment on her appearance… or chew me out for daring to be born on the 8th of March and so celebrate my birthday on the international day of the master-sex… or for referring to my girlfriend at the time as “my girlfriend” instead of using her name, I have to wonder how real that oppression is… and how deep the victimhood goes.
I can not be the only one who consider it weird that women are so terrified of men, and still feel so safe and fancy-free in our proximity that they attempt to control our speech, our behaviour and how we should not celebrate our birthday when it happens to fall on the same day as the international day of the Aryan sex… because celebrating my birthday on the day of my birth distracts from the celebration of women, when those two days just so happen to be the same. Because of course it does.
Alas, for women, there is currency in victimhood. Because people in power will listen to women in distress. As will everyone else, for that matter. There is a need – deeply rooted – within all of humanity to protect women. Now, this protection will be different depending on culture and time and place and whatever. It is still there, however. Women are to be sheltered and saved from this and from that, from tit and from tat and from arse and legs. Biologically, women are more important than men. And men are not as important as women. Women and children first; and to hell with the men… and the boys.
On the Titanic, boys over the age of eight was considered to be men, and so, potentially, left behind to die. (Dr. Charles Pellegrino, “Her Name, Titanic” McGraw-Hills Publishing Company, 1988) So that adult women should survive. How terribly oppressed; how very much treated like chattel when their right to live is greater than that of 8 year old boys!
I would consider being allowed to live where others are expected to die – in fact, to sacrifice their lives for me – a severe privilege. But what the hell do I know, here I sit close-to-weeping after reading an account of a ten year old boy left behind on the Titanic to die; basking in the glow of his eternal male privilege and all the accumulated wealth of his life-time of oppression.
All ten years of it.
Muh patriarchy hurts men too. Because of course it bloody does. Everything must be blamed on men.
I see precious few feminists complaining about “women and children first”, and other very clear female privileges… unless they are able to paint that as women being victimized, of course. Which they will. Though, they will still be reluctant to change it.
One can not take anything away from women, you know. You can only give to women, of course and as expected.
Particularly so when that which is given is taken from men. For men deserve nothing, but to give.
I may sound hyperbolic. But I struggle to see anything but that in situations where men – and young boys – are expected to give their lives so that women shall survive.
That is an extreme example, of course, and I will freely admit to that. It still holds true, however.
We must have so-and-such percentage of women in leadership, and we must have this-and-that percentage of women in this field of study or in that field of study. And on. And on. Talent and merit matters not; only sex. And skin-colour. And other such superficial things. But mainly sex. Because women matter more than anything else.
Women, first and foremost, must be protected from their own choices. But only if they identify as feminist.
I remember the Las Vegas Shooting of 2017, which prompted discussions from feminism on Toxic Masculinity and male violence and all that other stuff which one has come to expect from those who celebrate every single tragedy of this nature for reasons of being able to push their narrative… standing on the corpses of the victims to propagate their political platitudes and say, in voices loud as thunder, that there is something wrong with men.
Remember: it is only a mental health issue when women do something wrong.
Though, of course, considering that masculinity for bullshit-reasons is considered a pathology, one could make the claim that discussions on how terrible men are is a discussion on mental health. This assumes, of course, that one agrees with “traditional masculinity” being presented as a pathology. Which one has to suffer the psychopathology of feminism to agree with.
I remember reading about one young man – a Jonathan Smith, age 30 – who saved about 30 people during the Las Vegas shooting, through his bravery. As a reward for his courage, he got shot in the neck and will, with all likelihood, live with the bullet lodged in his neck for the rest of his life. If that is not enough of a reward for his self-sacrifice, he will also have to live with hearing people blame masculinity, blame men and – by extension himself – for what happened that night. Sweeping generalizations about men and the wickedness of men are par for the course; part and parcel of living in the end-days of western civilization.
There are no sweeping generalizations about the kindness of men; the capacity men have for self-sacrifice, the protective nature of men, and so forth and so on. People have attempted.
Yet, oddly enough, every time someone brings forth the kindness and goodness of men in general, they are attacked for neglecting women… for discriminating against women, for not mentioning the achievements of women. And men are attacked for being violent, being rapists, being this and being that. For one can not say a single word of good about men. Men are obsolete, remember. There is only one sex, and that sex is female.
If anything good is said about men in general, women – whether blatantly feminist or not – will scream victimhood and demand women be included in what is said. For women are victims of someone saying something good about men. Women are victims by not being catered to all the time, by not being celebrated constantly.
It is rage-inducing.
It strikes me as weird, wacky, self-indulgent and incredibly egotistical.
There is no room in our societies to celebrate men. There is only room to celebrate women. There is no room in our societies to harbour empathy for men; all empathy must go to women, all celebration, all everything.
Otherwise; the feminist hordes will screech and writhe in agony.
For anything positive said about men is like kryptonite to a feminist; a most potent allergen. She will break out in hives and in anxious sweat; she will break out in asthmatic fits of rage and wrath and ruin. Then she will cry and weep and demand that women be celebrated and men be neglected. For men have had it all for all time.
And that is true.
Men have had all the ridicule, all the shame, all the self-sacrifice, all the deaths, all the violence, all the neglect, all the abuse our societies could ever willingly lay on the shoulders of an identity group for decades.
And not a damned thing is done about this. For trying to do anything about it further cements, in the minds and eyes and claws and teeth of feminism, the oppression and neglect of women and the so-called constant celebration of men.
Even when men are vilified and made to look like some parody of a James Bond villain… over-the-top and ridiculous. Even when masculinity itself is smeared as something destructive and dark and dangerous, something pathological that must be un-learned and done away with. Men can not be victims. Even when we are victims. For even then, men shall be vilified. For pointing this out means we hate women; that we suffer and struggle from both fragile masculinity and toxic masculinity. And all is wrong with men, and in the world of men there is nothing correct, nothing right, nothing good and proper and true.
And this is also true.
Because feminism has seen to it that nothing shall be good, proper and true in the world of men through refusing men to speak on men’s behalf, through refusing the world to celebrate men and masculinity.
And that is that for this ramble; it was a good vacation and a very good Christmas. And now I struggle to get back into the habit of writing every day since I allowed myself to be a bit of a lazy bastard for two weeks. Oh well; I shall regain my composure and my insane and nimble fingers to wag my tongue at insanity once again. Join me next week, if you please, for more rants, ravings, writings and ramblings.
A raging beam of unfocused energy so destructive, it tears through anything – even the fabric of reality itself. And it rips, it rends, it tears and beats and breaks. It claws and gnaws and it bites and it burns.
Anger, when accumulated lies, like a blood-clot, centred, in the torso or in the back of the skull, spreading through the body like a toxin… taking its toll on muscles, tendons, nerves… on joints and bones, on mind and body both.
Anger renders insanity a viable option to sanity; irredeemable unreality a viable option to reality. It clouds the mind and clouds the vision, fogs it down and breaks out in weird psychedelic patterns like spirals pointing down into the maelstrom, into the vortex, into the wild and incomprehensible asbestos jungle of irrationality… into weird, obscene and perverse pantomimes like burlesque shows done in acid-baths… upside down and ridiculous, pointless, pissing into the wind.
Anger is to be trained, to be tamed, to be overcome, to be focused… a raging beam of focused energy so constructive that it tears through the illusion and the tricks and hits and kicks and snarls and roars. Just like any other overwhelming emotion, it ought to be channelled direct from its source, from its festering wound, from its inflamed tendons and burning muscle-tissue. It ought to be called out to play and then to dance a mocking dance, in a frenzied trance, channelled, controlled, focused… from the internal source, pointed straight at the face of the external source.
From the mouth of the river straight back to the mouth of the river, as it were, feeding on and off itself until it is transcended… until all that is left is a laughter like a flame, burning brighter than the brightest fucking flame.
Anger, once channelled, becomes an incredibly constructive force. Let loose to become substantial, to become creation, to become inspiration, to become all that is, was, ever shall be… it goes from being the end of days to being the beginning of days.
You’re damned fucking right that I’m angry.
And so fucking what… and no fucking wonder.
For years and years, there was this unfocused mass of anger tearing at my throat and at the base of my skull… rage turned inwards, to become, essentially, self-destructive and self-deceptive self-annihilation, effectively self-devouring insanity, paving the way for depression and anxiety and eternal anguish… locked in the jaws of hell itself… in the jaws of hell myself, more like… With no release for that destruction, that all-devouring darkness festering within but the time-slap dance of next level nihilism and dread despair, doomed eternally to equal parts self-pity and self-loathing.
Pitiful and pathetic, in a word or two.
Perhaps with a smidgeon of self-deprecating humour thrown in there for good measure.
I see no strangeness in my anger, no oddities and no misguided notions of this or that or the other. When things are as unbalanced as they are, as irredeemably hateful and neglectful and – with no illusion of it being anything but – unjust as they are in the public discourse – or pubic discourse more like, on the subject of sex and gender… where men are painted as permanent patriarchal perpetrators of pestilent penetration and obscene oppression, I see little wonder and even less strangeness in my anger… or the anger of any other man who finds himself in the situation, in the shit-stew, in the aching bones and broken body of arrhythmic anguish and anger.
When the whimsical worries and petulant whining of one sex and one sex only is uttered constantly, up to and including the horrible sexism of the air-conditioning, whereas the woes and worries of the other sex is scorned, ridiculed and beat like an abused child in perpetuity, anger is a particularly well suited emotional response.
Particularly so when the abused is blamed for their abuse. And make no mistake, nor any other piss-take about it: blaming boys, blaming men, blaming masculinity itself for all that is wrong in the world is abuse. Blaming masculinity itself for all that is wrong with the emotional world of boys and men is abuse. It is constant, chronic, permanent, perpetual abuse that is celebrated by the culture at large; a bird flipped right in our cracked and bleeding faces through the wonders and the glory of the majestic cuntural revolution we are pissed and prodded into in this awe-inspiring dawn of the Honk.
You are damned fucking right that I am angry.
And I am damned fucking right in my anger.
All the blabber-mouthed blubber-talk we are force-fed about how everything has a negative influence on the self-image and self-esteem of girls and women… how pictures of slim women, for example, makes girls anorectic… How it is an unrealistic body-standard; a beauty-ideal handcrafted by the greedy hands of thirsty and oppressive men…
(Pictures of titties sell products. Mainly to women, since women are the ones who consume the most product and spend the most money… but that is beside the point – it is only there for the sexual gratification of men, you see and have got to understand with every inch of your throbbing patriarchy-muscle (Incidentally, “Throbbing Patriarchy Muscle” is my wife’s pet name for my penis. AKA my awe-inspiring rape-implement of doom). Even when this line of thought, that only straight men would drool at the feet of a picture of a slim woman, through the reasoning of the social justice warrior and feminist hive-mind is absurdly heteronormative. Not that internal consistencies matter all that much, mind you. Not when there is outrage to be generated and revenue to be had from said outrage, be that social revenue or actual revenue.)
These ads and images have got to be changed, even outlawed, you see. So that the poor girls should not grow up to be slim women, caught in the throes of anorexia, which is, apparently, any woman who is not morbidly obese if one is to believe the fat-activists. But, no mind, little matter. Or, well, much matter, little mind.
For all that talk, that grunted gibberish, that buzz and thump, there is virtually no talk that this bombardment of constant negative messages we are spoon-fed regarding the nature of boys, the nature of men, the nature of masculinity itself is harmful to the emotional well-being of boys and men. No condemnation of this complete and utter contempt for boys and men, showcased and highlighted as it is as being some supreme moral good.
It is rage-inducing.
There is no acknowledgement that maybe, just maybe, painting men in their entirety as some wicked, cruel, false and flawed evil entity hell-bent on destruction and oppression has a negative impact on the self-esteem, the image of self and the belief in self of boys and men. No acknowledgement whatsoever that constantly belittling, attacking and devouring boys and men and masculinity is damaging. Boys and men don’t feel anything, according to the whims and bleeding gums of Queen Neoteny and her awesome state of Hysteria. And when we do, what we feel is wrong, how we hurt is wrong. The reason is something-something muh toxic masculinity something-something.
It is rage-inducing.
Psychological torment and emotional abuse is A-OK, as long as you point the cerebral gun directly at the minds of boys and men… As long as you vomit this contempt straight at the hearts and souls of boys and men, it is OK. The sick is dripping on us from every level of society; misandry made manifest in law; made to be a natural part of every day social interaction, part of the social fabric, in truth and as a matter of fact. And they dare – they have the audacity – to present it as being of help to boys and men, as lending us empathy and understanding.
It is rage-inducing.
Or, well, there is talk that this is harmful to boys and men – and society itself, for that matter. Yet, those of us who do talk about it are scorned, ridiculed, laughed at and labelled misogynists, as carriers of the virus of fragile masculinity and toxic masculinity… as incels and abusers and oppressors and rapists and rape apologists and violent madmen and God knows what else… as long as there is a somewhat suitable label to throw around, the labels and the insults and the dismissals will rain down upon us; so much vomit and rot straight from the horses mouth. For added emphasis and sympathy, the feminist will feign fear and terror at any objection to feminism – claiming it to be terrifying and frightful and making her feel unsafe… a true picture of strength, resilience and independence. Obviously.
It is rage-inducing.
Then this anger from men will be used to further paint men as inherently dangerous to women and children and society and the world and the universe and God and the Devil and our neighbours and their pet poodles. As defective and destructive, disruptive and demonic. This despite the anger being directed at feminism as a set of ideas, not women as a group. This does not matter to a mind and a world-view that is incapable of separating their sex from an ideology. Which says more about them than it ever will about us, but this don’t matter much to a society caught in lies, slander and hysteria.
The terribly trembling forces that be do nothing but dismiss those of us who dare to talk about that which we dare talk about. When once one has been dismissed as a misogynist, an oppressor and abuser of women – with no evidence provided, nothing substantial presented as proof – one is fair game for all the scorn and hate and shame and ridicule society has got to offer. For simply highlighting the struggles of men through a lens not tainted by feminist ideology, we are hated. Hate and shame and lies and slander packaged with deliberate care and sent our way from the fair and frail forces that never cared to listen to or think about what we are, in fact, saying, writing, screaming and singing… choosing instead to only listen to the voices of the narrow and malicious mainstream narrative that dared paint all men everywhere as violent oppressors of women and all women everywhere as oppressed by violent men.
For ever and ever and in thy kingdom lost.
For the anger of men is dangerous, is unpalatable, is to be presented as abuse in itself, then quenched, then drowned, then taken into the presentation of the predatory patriarchy-theory, the pestilent propaganda that furthers the cause of the hive-mind and all its clinger-ons and orbiters… that never once stopped and paused and considered and wondered why this anger exist; that never once took the time to listen and understand where the anger stems from. Choosing, instead, to smear and ponder, to point fingers and propose that they know where the anger comes from. Choosing, instead, to believe that they – not we – are the ones to tell everyone everywhere why we are angry.
It is rage-inducing.
You are damned fucking right that we are angry.
And we are damned fucking right in our anger.
This rage, this anger, this accumulated energy that rends, rips and tears at the inside of the self… of the body and the mind, the heart and the soul, must be let loose. It must be purged, expelled, let out of the system lest it festers and ruins and breaks a man down. If not channelled properly, anger is incredibly destructive – either to one self or to society at large. Now, of course, a bunch of angry and self-destructive men focusing their rage inwards is damaging to society as well as the one man himself.
That is besides the point… at least at the moment of pointing. The point I am trying to point at is a simple one – when channelled properly and expelled graciously, anger may very well be an incredible force of creation and construction, be that for the self or for the world. Though preferably for both.
Some men do martial arts, some men lift weights, some men do this and some men do that… it does not matter what, at the end of the day, as long as one does something constructive with ones anger instead of cultivating it as some roaring, burning, destructive inner crass and crusty calamity… a tumour or an ulcer that grows and grows, becoming fatter and fatter for every new slight, every new trespass, every new whatever… until it kills.
For my part, I chose writing as my main outlet for all my anger and rage and disillusionment.
And I am all the better for it, by every conceivable metric. Even though healing from grief, loss, anger and despair is a slow, long, arduous and constant process, I am all the better for it. And wiser, I would dare say. Insofar as I can be considered wise, I suppose.
In my writings, rants, ravings and ramblings, there is a release of pressure that would otherwise build and build and build, culminating in an explosion. Doing as I do and being as I am, this explosion would become an implosion, beating in and down on myself until there would be nothing left of me but a smear on the carpet of a bathroom after a drunken stupor.
And that thought, in itself, is rage-inducing.
Better, then, to write and rave and rant and ramble for as long as I am able.
Until I get considered a foul purveyor of hate-speech and get shipped of to the Gulag for re-education and re-examination of my frail, toxic and incredibly violent masculinity.
Back in 2016, a video made the
rounds through the commentator-communities of YouTube. And beyond.
This would be the ridiculous,
god-damned awful, horribly brain-dead, superficial-as-a-valley-girl
video “36 Questions Women Have for Men”. If you have not
seen it yet, you should. Go watch it now. I’ll have coffee, wine
and strange and exotic pharmaceuticals waiting for you when you come
It is safe to say that, if
this video was a child, it would be referred to as having a face that
only a mother could love. It would be caught trying to smoke its own
socks in the one and only gender-neutral toilet in its school,
because the cool kids told it that this is what the cool kids do. It
is that one kid that everyone knows should really be getting special
education, but who does not, for some reason or other. Mainly to do
with its parents.
In other words: it is
ridiculous, stupid, mentally and emotionally challenged. It should be
locked up for its own protection, in a padded cell with a
straight-jacket and a bottle of finely aged antipsychotics, its
tongue tied down so it did not accidentally swallow it and
subsequently choke to death.
Of course; this child would
have already choked on its own sense of self-importance, slipped on
its own dribble and landed straight on its arse. Which is to say –
it would slip on its pride, and land on its honour.
I really and truly enjoyed
watching it being torn to shreds by everything and everyone able to
get their wonderful hands and biting tongues on it.
Though it is, without a
doubt, low-hanging fruit.
Sometimes, that is just
exactly what one needs. I am not going to beat a dead horse and
respond to that video. We should really leave it alone. It is already
And, oh the humanity, oh the
woe and oh the torture never ends!
I’m just using it as a
necessary tool; an introduction to this part of my cruel and unusual
It is incredibly funny to me –
bordering on hilarious – that the supposedly oppressed class can
speak to their supposed oppressors like the women in that video did.
That is – with impunity.
It is almost as though women
are most definitely not oppressed and men are certainly not their
oppressors. That these nincompoops are unable to see this is
something I am absolutely unwilling to believe. No-one can be that
stupid, that lacking in self-awareness, and still be able to breathe
and stand at the same time.
They know they are not being
They are riding the
gravy-train of self-important smugness, arrogance and the incredible
sensation that their shit don’t stink. High on their own fumes of
moral indignation and self-righteous imbecility, they know themselves
and their ideology to be considered untouchable by the culture at
Were women as oppressed as
these fools claim, they would never have dared to make this video for
fear of the bogeyman Patriarchy smashing down on them with all the
fascist jackboots and cruel whips it could muster.
Strange how that did not
Of course; cue the inevitable
calls and cries of misogynist harassment and patriarchal interference
for people responding to their video in which they do nothing but
insult, condescend, stereotype and belittle men in the name of holy
feminism and her cohort gynocentrism. The self-perpetuating and
self-fulfilling prophecy has come full circle. Women can say whatever
the hell they like about men in general, and if men dare respond –
well now, that is an outrage and absolute proof that what they are
saying is true as well as the necessity of the movement. Add to this
the chronic case of the one rule for me, another for thee sickness,
and you’ve got yourself feminism 101.
Though I am not going to
respond to the video, I will take one quote from the video as a
starting point, paraphrasing it a bit: “Why do you make women
talk about men in movies when you can sit around and
talk about boobs for hours?”
Men are – just as women are
– not a grey homogeneous ooze. The actions of one man are not the
actions of every man in existence. It is also incredibly funny that
this is, in fact, a video where women do nothing but talk about men.
Or talk down to men. Whatever you want to call it. Which kind of
disproves that point a little.
Which only makes me think that
anything a feminist claims that men do is something she does herself.
It is psychological projection from someone who is incapable of
understanding that other people act differently to herself.
Now, to be fair, I believe we
are all guilty of psychological projection in some way or other. The
only reference-point we have are, after all, our self. So it would be
fairly natural to assume other people react or act in a manner
similar to us. More so for people who have problems with empathy, if
I understand correctly. It is, however, something that one can learn
not to do. This involves introspection and an understanding that
oneself is not the blueprint for humanity, though, and this is
clearly something that does not come easily to the feminist hive-mind
in the garden of voluptuous hysteria… or aboard the gravy-train of
grace and hubris.
For my own sake, I can not
remember the last time I discussed boobs with any one of my friends.
Granted, I discuss boobs with my wife from time to time, but that
tend to be because she brought it up after seeing boobs in the
Bada-bing scenes from the Sopranos and commenting on the terrible
boob jobs. And, yeah, they are fairly terrible.
You know, boobs may be great
and all… but it really is not an interesting topic of discussion.
Besides, I have always been
more a fan of legs than I have ever been of boobs. Legs are far
better than boobs, and I will happily fight anyone who says
otherwise. Or I will offer them a pint of my finest home-brew and
make them see the error of their ways. Whichever may come first. I
can only assume that what women – in particular feminist women –
do when they are alone, is talk about men and nothing but that.
Either that, or they are terrified that men do not talk about women
when men are alone together. There can be no other topics of
importance or interest for men than women, right?
You know, I have received
unsolicited tit-pics on Snapchat, back in the days when I was dumb
enough to use it. To which I responded that I have always enjoyed
legs far better than I have ever enjoyed tits. This did not get me
any response. Probably should have called the cops on them for sexual
harassment, come to think of it. But, oh well.
T & A aside, what I am
rambling my way towards is this: feminism often make the claim that
men oppose feminism because feminism focuses on women.
…To which I would dare say
that it is quite the contrary. The main point of contention is that
feminism focuses so very much on the perceived evil of men. So much
so that it borders on obsession; a grotesque display of obsession.
Like some frenzied, mad ex-girlfriend that can not understand the
meaning of the words “leave me alone, you crazy person!”,
feminism lays the burden of blame and shame on men for being men. It
does so all the time. It has the worst, the lowest opinion of men.
Painting us all as terrible oppressors, misogynistic bastards and so
forth and so on. For nothing but being born as boys, for growing up
and becoming men. At the same time, feminism tend to call on men to
rise up and do all we can to make the world a better place. For
Men must give and sacrifice so
that women shall feel safe. From other men. And if men do not do
that, men are shamed by feminism. And by society at large. Men are
disposable tools to be used for the betterment of society, for the
safety of women and for the safety of children. Chivalry is not dead.
And feminism, with all its claims of equal treatment, are the ones
keeping it alive. Whenever it suits them.
Traditional expectations where
gender-roles are concerned is still a thing when it comes to the
expectations we put on men – to protect, and to provide. And most
men, I am willing to bet, do this quite willingly. It gives a sense
of purpose that is much needed in the lives of boys and men. This is
something men have done for millennia. I don’t think this is
something we will ever get rid of, despite men walking away, despite
MGTOW, despite all that jazz. It seems to be something we are
biologically hardwired to do.
Now, we have grown smart
enough as a species to be able to make conscious decisions to walk
away, to work on ourselves, to be aware of how we interact with
society – and with that I mean all of society, not only men, not
This is, in all honesty, all
well and good. More power to you.
I find myself turning my back
on society more and more in my own way. At some point, I really just
got tired of all the shit-flinging, imbecility and hypocrisy on
display in the public discourse. Civility is dead. All that is left
is civil disobedience. And that is a misplaced, poorly managed, never
thought through parody of civil disobedience from sheltered
nincompoops who do not really understand the what, how, when, where,
why and such.
Everything has become so
scathingly, so eye-scarringly black and white. It is either this, or
it is that. Opposition to this must as such necessarily mean complete
allegiance to that.
I often wonder if this is due
to our dwindling and very limited concentration-spans, making
concentrating on something for a prolonged period of time a difficult
prospect for most. This giving rise to merely a surface understanding
of various issues. It is easy to point at one thing and claim that
this – this one thing is what needs to be fixed. Then, and only
then, all of this and all of that will be in perfect order.
And then one could probably
argue that this is exactly what I am doing when I focus so much of my
writing and rambling on the forces of feminism. To which I can only
reply that I have a lot of things to get out of my system where
feminism is regarded before I feel – and here the emphasis is, I
absolutely admit, on the word “feel” – ready to tackle other
I consider it very dangerous
when one ideology, when one set of ideas, are given the monopoly on
any one concept. Particularly so in regards to such a strange and
ever-changing concept as “equality”. More voices should be heard
than only the one. And feminism have become so mighty, so big and
powerful that it is able to – quite successfully – kill other
voices attempting to speak on the topic. That is a dangerous thing.
This is something I would say no matter which set of ideas are
granted a monopoly, to be perfectly honest. Particularly so if this
set of ideas have the power to shut down voices in opposition. Any
-ism that shames and threatens other voices into silence or
compliance or obedience is dangerous. Protesting is one thing.
Refusing people to listen to other voices is quite another.
This black and white thinking
is the price to pay for immediate satisfaction through immediate
outrage, and facts and nuance be damned.
…Though I am obviously not a
MGTOW, being a married man and all, I absolutely understand where it
comes from. The best one can do is to carve out a space for oneself –
to follow ones own path toward happiness and self-fulfilment. Which
feminism consider wise words to give to women, but horrible words to
give to men. For, to the eyes of feminism – and to a sure and
certain extent, society as is – if a man does not make the
betterment of women’s lives his main priority, he is not a real
man. That is putting it very simple, obviously.
If there is anything we ought
to have learned by now, it is this: the only ones allowed to judge
whether a man is a real man or not are women as a group, not men and
most certainly not the man being scrutinized at that moment in time.
That is the level of insanity
we are at. There are more than enough books, articles, lectures and
so and such out there by women telling men what to do in order to be
a real man. Which tend to be what the one woman want to see in a man,
and never mind the men themselves – men are there for their
amusement and their convenience. This is supreme entitlement driven
forth and weaponized by the frantic forces of feminism.
It is not without reason that
the word “boy” used to refer to a servant. Just get the boy to do
it. See what I mean?
As an example, it is a
constant source of amusement to me that men are still expected to pay
on dates. Scores of women get offended if they are expected to split
the bill. No strong independent women to be seen there, I gather –
some fish most certainly need a bicycle. At the very least where
dates are concerned. This is a traditional expectation.
And though I am very much
aware that there are women out there who do pay for dates or split
the bills, they are in the minority. To be clear – how people chose
to delegate responsibilities in their personal relationships is their
business and their business alone. I have no interest in meddling,
nor should anyone else. My point is only this: one can not expect one
side to fulfil the traditional expectations and then be outraged when
the traditional role is expected from the other side. One must give
in order to receive. This goes for both parties.
There is this interview with
Emma Watson – she of the hypocritical he-for-she funk and flurry –
on YouTube in which she magically and majestically swirls
triumphantly through the garden of mental gymnastics to explain why
she still expects men to pay on dates, despite feminism, equal
treatment and so and such. And despite being filthy stinking rich
The traditional roles are very
much alive and well where men are concerned, but it is not to be
reciprocated in kind. If you want a woman to fulfil a traditional
role, you are a misogynistic bastard. You, however, must fulfil a
traditional role. If not, you are a misogynistic bastard. For that is
equality as seen through the eyes and bleeding gums of feminism:
supreme entitlement, because men owe women ever so much and
yada-yada-yada, blah blah blah. And you want to be seen as a real
man, do you not? And a real man does whatever the hell a woman and
society says he must do, at the cost of his own safety, sanity, life,
limb and economy.
This “real man” rhetoric
is complete and utter shit. A real man is a real man if he says he is
a real man, and he does whatever the hell he wants to do, shame and
ridicule be damned. Whether that shame and ridicule comes from women
or from other men should not matter. Rise above the self-flagellating
and self-sacrificial bullshit and do your thing, whatever that thing
I was bullied for reading
books when I went to school. Literature is one of my first and
greatest loves, one of my greatest pleasures in life. Always have
been, and always will be. Apparently, this is not something real men
do. Whatever the hell this means. Granted, I was singled out for
bullying… so whatever I did would give get me bullied. This one
stuck out the most to me. Because there is something precious and
special about some imbecilic moron with the vocabulary of a toddler
proudly boasting about never having read a book in his life
ridiculing and belittling someone for reading books, referring to the
practice as stupid. Stupid. Maybe I am expecting too much from kids
aged sixteen, but – god-damn, if that is not some ridiculous
It must also be mentioned,
mainly for my own amusement, that the girls were not particularly
interested in leaving a party and going home with someone whose main
accomplishment in life was having a complete collection of
Dostojevskij and Jens Bjørneboe on his shelf. Can’t say that I
blame them – I am very much aware that I am a boring, introverted
social fuck-up with all the charisma of a wet and well-worn sock. I
was, however, led to believe that women and girls both preferred
intelligence to brutishness, calm mannerisms to “toxic
masculinity”, a cultured mind to a fornicating mind, and so and
…Now, had I owned a car or a
motorcycle, on the other hand – in other words, being able to
provide something of value…
There is this constant
bombardment of messages aimed at boys and men. Mainly from women. And
more often than not feminist women. About how men are supposed to be
and act and do and think and behave and not behave and live and love
and fuck and breathe and eat and die.
And the messages are
self-contradictory more often than they are not, unreasonable at the
best of times and completely and utterly shining, burning and
flashing with entitlement. In particular when taking into account
that men can not say a single god-damned thing about women and how
women should be – or, for that matter, what kind of women they want
to share their lives with – without being rained on by the great
and glorious feminist brigade. And any and all woman and simpering
white knight in the immediate vicinity of your tweet or twatter or
private conversation in a public space.
I have been verbally harangued
many a time in public by self-proclaimed feminists who believe they
have the god-given right to charge in on any-and-all private
conversation and private relationship if they don’t like what they
hear or see – or believe that they hear or see.
Entitlement, thy name is
If you don’t believe me, try
telling the world that you – as a man – want a traditional
marriage where the woman stays at home and you provide.
And see what that gives you.
Conversely, and for amusement, try saying that you – as a man –
want to stay at home and expect your wife to provide for you and the
family, to be the main breadwinner, as it were.
Both are equally wrong and
terrifying; signs of misogyny and toxic masculinity and what-not and
what-do’s and what-don’ts, what, what, what. Kyle’s mum will
always be a bitch, no matter how selfrighteous.
The inverse applies as well –
if a woman wants to stay at home, the feminist brigade will submit
their opinions on her poor choices in life whether she wants to hear
them or not.
There is not a single coherent
message delivered. There is only the messages – the constant
bombardment – that men and boys must do this, do that, do the other
stuff even when that contradicts the previous stuff. It is never good
enough, for there is always something to bitch and moan and complain
about where men are concerned.
I am aware that many of these
articles written about what men must do, need to do and so and so are
written by different people with different views.
This is not the point. Or,
well, were I playing the collectivist blame-game that feminism plays,
it would be the point. And that is exactly the point – feminism
plays the game of collectivism and tribalism, where men are one group
and women another group. Therefore, anything one man does reflects on
every other man.
The reverse do not apply.
Anything one woman does is her
actions, and does not reflect on every other woman. When it suits
feminism. Any one man is representative of men. Any one woman is
representative of her self and her self only. When it suits the
powers that be. So that painting all women with a broad brush is
terrible behaviour, and painting all men with a broad brush is
expected, accepted and celebrated behaviour.
It is a confusing time. And
has been so for years and years, as the dominant cultural narrative
has shifted more and more towards the trembling might and fury of
feminism. Which in turn opens the discourse for women to say whatever
the hell they want about men – as long as it is in line with
feminist thought and philosophy. At the same time, it closes the
doors for men so that men can not say anything about women, including
what kind of woman they would like to settle down with. Men are not
“allowed” sexual or romantic preferences, whereas women are. And
any positive thing said about men must include women, otherwise it is
perceived as a slight against women. Any positive thing said about
women need not include men, and any who say otherwise are labelled an
incel by people who have no idea what incel means.
There will be more on this later. Here endeth part five. Join me next week for part six of this never-ending rave and ramble.
It would be safe to say, by
peeping but a little beneath the crows-silver that lines the surface
of feminism, that it does not exactly hold the greatest opinion of
women. It does hold feminist women in great regard, bordering on
deification. But that is not your average woman, that is feminist
women. And it does have some weird holier-than-thou hang-ups
regarding female nature, despite neither masculinity nor femininity
being natural according to them. It is a weird thing. And an
incredibly strange trip.
In my writings, I tend to
focus on men and the opinion feminism has in regards to men. The
reason for this should be easy to understand: society, as it is, does
neither talk nor care about the plight of men. Feminism insists the
opposite, despite it very clearly not being true. One needs look no
further than beyond the political indoctrination; the tangled web of
lies which feminism have placed over our eyes.
They point to the top one
percent in society, see mainly men and state that this means women
are oppressed and men are oppressors. Otherwise, why should there be
so many men at the top? This is known as the apex-fallacy. In looking
only to the top, they neglect looking at the bottom. And at the
bottom of society, in all the negative statistics, all the
destructive statistics, all the suicides, all the homelessness, all
the workplace fatalities, all the drug-addictions, all the
alcohol-addictions, all violent crimes – excepting rape, and this
may very well be for reasons of rape not being recorded as rape when
it is a man being forced to penetrate a woman – and so forth and so
on, we find an overwhelming amount of men.
Men die younger than women.
Men lose custody of their
children during divorce.
And despite new studies
showing that domestic violence is so close to being 50/50 in regards
to who is the victim and who is the perpetrator that the few
percentages difference does not matter all that much, shelters for
men seeking to escape domestic violence hardly exist, whereas
shelters for women exist a-plenty. Interesting to note is also that
there are higher incidents of domestic violence in lesbian
relationships than there are in both male homosexual relationships
and heterosexual relationships. It is also worth noting that in most
cases of domestic violence, the violence is reciprocal, with both
instigating and amplifying and playing on one another’s terrible
tendencies and broken psyche. In non-reciprocal domestic violence,
the woman is the perpetrator more often than not.
And yet, police – and
society overall – have a hard time believing men to be victims of
domestic violence. They have a hard time believing that women are
capable of being abusive. More often than not they end up arresting
him instead of her, thus adding severe insult to severe injury. And
feminism doth protest, with all their might, whenever someone
attempts to create a shelter for abused men. For that would be
sharing societal resources with men. And that will not stand. For all
of the resources of society must go to women. This includes empathy.
…This must be that equal
treatment they keep telling me about.
I find it interesting and
peculiar that feminism will claim that MRA’s don’t do anything
but bitch and moan about feminism, then protest when MRA’s attempt
to open shelters for abused men, or attempt to get the government to
do something about the plight of men, or have conferences attempting
to shine a light on the issues predominantly affecting men.
Feminism claims that MRA’s
don’t do anything to help men, then protest and complain when MRA’s
do something that would help men.
I am lucky to be cynical. This
nonsense surprises me less since I have learned to expect it. That is
what a lifetime of overt hostility will get you.
All these problems facing men…
all these issues that men face are neglected, shooed away and
forgotten. It saddens me and it angers me and – at the worst of
times – it depresses me. I have no problems with the issues
primarily affecting women being taken seriously. I have severe
problems with the claims that women – only women – suffer, or
that the suffering of women is so much worse and more important than
that of men. No matter what it is, it is a woman’s issue.
So you see articles popping up
stating that men are lonely, and this is a burden on women. And men
are earning less college or university degrees, and this is a burden
on women. And on. And on. And on. Never have I ever encountered such
incredible egotism, such rampant selfishness and disregard for other
human beings. The loneliness and social isolation of men are a
burden. On women!
I have severe issues with this
lopsided approach to equal treatment, where equal treatment of the
sexes has come to mean nothing but give this shit to women, for
they are women. And
this makes sense, of course, in a society in which we have learned
that only women matters at the same time we are told that men get
everything handed to them. Double-speak and psychological projection…
and a good serving of horsepiss and bullshit.
Not that long ago, I wrote a
response piece to an article.
The name of my piece is:
“Crucified in Toilet Cubicles – A Tale of Women Pooping”. This
was a rare spur of the moment thing, written and then recorded for
the tubes within the span of two hours. Not my finest work, in all
honesty. I usually don’t do responses like that. The simple reason
for this is that I tend to think very slowly, I consider and I ponder
and I doubt myself and my abilities to such an extent that it surely
has got to be a sign of some neurological defect. When I finally get
around to responding, the original piece is long forgotten, tossed to
the annals of internet history. As we all know, in internet time one
day is damned close to seventeen real-life years.
Originally, I was planning on
posting something other than the poop-piece. But this had to come
first. It was, quite literally, a much needed shit-post. And the
reason I reacted so viscerally, so quickly, so roughly and so
brutally to that one article is very simple. The article I responded
to, if you have not read it, was published in the New York Times and
was a tale of woe and worry about women pooping at work, and how hard
this was for them.
Due to the patriarchy and due
to men and so and such and blah blah blah. I reacted so viscerally to
this article due to this – this petty god-damned fucking non-issue
about women having their own small neurosis, their own petty personal
hang-ups about pooping – this is given attention.
This needs to be taken
seriously. This is being published. This is being pushed as an
important issue affecting women. While at the same time, at the same
god-damned time, men are not afforded shelters, men commit suicide at
frightening rates, men lose access to their children, men lose in
education, they lose in the workplace, they drop out of society. And
no-one cares about this, no-one touches this, no-one views this as a
problem but a few who are labelled god-damned misogynists by the
feminist hive-mind that consider women being scared to poop far more
important than men killing themselves. It is safe to say that it
really struck a nerve with me. And with good fucking reason.
We live within a cultural
narrative, within a maddening societal zeitgeist that have decided
that all the small and petty issues, all the personal hang-ups and
personal grievances of women are more important than anything men go
through. Men don’t suffer any hardship, don’t ya know.
Ms. Poopypants and her
neglected toilet-trip is a worse story of far more importance to
society than Mr. Suicide and the ex-wife that won’t let him see his
god-damned children. And all the while – all the god-damned,
motherfucking, cocksucking, unlubricated anal-fisting, horse-sodomite
while – the feminist hive-mind snarls and gnarls and gnaw their
bones, claiming that men have it ever so good and women have it ever
so bad. And people listen to them. All the time. People listen to
them. And they claim – they dare to make the claim – that they
help men as well. It turns my stomach to rot. As it turns the
entirety of society to rot and ruin.
The feminist way to help men
is to have a panel of only feminist women gibbering and cackling and
clucking about how men are obsolete and what men need to do to fix
themselves. Men need not apply. Only women are allowed to tell men
what to do, what they need to do and how to live their lives. Men are
not allowed to speak on behalf of men. That would be misogyny. Men
are not allowed to speak on behalf of women either. That too would be
misogyny. Men are not allowed to speak at all. For that is misogyny.
See the tactic?
Here, within my shattered
basement-cavern throne room, you’ll get it mansplained to you by
yours truly; the grand majestic manspreading patriarch supreme, whose
testicles are just as much a tool of oppression as is his swinging
cock, from now until the end of time to be referred to as a savage,
unmutilated rape-implement of doom and wanton destruction.
No wonder that people struggle
to comprehend the fact that men have problems in society. Feminism
have told their fairy-tales for so many decades that people would
rather believe that sooner than they would believe objective reality,
sooner than they would believe measurable reality. This horrible
insistence from feminism that all the problems of men are due solely
to men as are all the problems of women do nothing but taint
everything in shades of deep period-blood crimson. It is
rage-inducing. And so simplistic, though wrapped in enough magic
wordsalad gibberish to sound profound.
For men to be saved, they must
first cleanse themselves of masculinity. For masculinity is the
problem and femininity the solution, despite both being social
constructs. As of course feminism is as well, but that is a social
construct we shall trust as opposed to the social construct of
gender, despite gender being biological when it suits feminism.
Men and masculinity are the
cause of all the problems of society as well as being the solution to
all the problems in society. According to feminism, which tend to
view women as objects – mere automatons with no agency of their
own, no ability to do anything about anything but be acted upon.
That is unless they bend the
knee to feminism, thus becoming part of the feminist machine and move
with the click and crack and dubious twirling of the cogs and wheels
and pins and buttons and clockwork within. Women are nothing without
feminism; can do nothing without moving with the machinery of
…And they claim that men
have a poor opinion of women.
Feminism does not consider
women to have any manner of agency or self-determination. Were I a
woman, I would very much be insulted by feminism pretending to speak
on my behalf, painting me as an emotionally frail and fragile wreck
so prone to being ruled and governed by the terrible forces of men
that I am completely unable to make my own choices and have my own
thoughts. On anything. Thus needing feminism to think for me, act for
me, speak for me and do everything but take a piss for me.
Whatever I may mean about
this does not matter, though. It will be dismissed as mansplaining,
horrible misogyny and harassment of women. For feminist women are so
strong and independent that they can not stand people disagreeing
with them. This is mansplaining; in actual fact meaning nothing but a
man saying something a feminist dislikes. And so goes the herping of
It would probably come as no
surprise to learn that I am pissed off at feminism. As well as being
pissed off with… …no – not pissed off. I’m not angry with
society. I am just disappointed. Severely disappointed at a society
so dumb and unthinking as to fall for the lies, slander, bullshit and
poop-flinging antics of feminism. Yet, my rants, ravings and
ramblings are nothing – absolutely nothing. You should hear my wife
going off on them. It… it ain’t pretty.
M’lady is most displeased
with the current state of affairs.
That is putting it nicely.
But what would you expect?
Individual feminist’s have spoken to her previously in so
condescending tones that you should think they believed they were
talking to a child, not an intelligent adult woman with agency and
self-determination. Because she thinks for herself. And in so doing,
does not allow feminism to think for her. And in so doing, to the
eyes of the feminist hive-mind, she has allowed some horribly
misogynistic patriarch in the guise of her husband to think for her.
She has internalized her soggy knees. This is how feminism see women
that do not agree with feminism. As petulant, wayward children,
worthy of condescension at best and scorn at worst.
Chew on that for a little
Feminism view women as so
incapable of thinking for themselves that, if they do not subscribe
to the feminist narrative, they must be under the spell and curse of
the patriarchy, allowing the patriarchy to think for them. It is
either feminism or internalized misogyny, not neither and certainly
not a woman picking and choosing her own path and her own god-damned
role in life. That is verboten. Strictly. Punitive measures will be
taken. This is black and white thinking. That alone should be a red
flag. The out-group is bad. The in-group is not. No matter what they
do. This is cult-like thinking. And people would do well to be
And women such as my wife, to
the feminist hive-mind, are free game and may be hunted at will. They
have lost their woman-card; they have become strange outliers that
are neither feminist nor man, but some horrifying mutant creature.
They should have their vaginas taken away, according to Linda
Sarsour. They are effectively outlawed, not to be protected by
feminism who would – were it a feminist woman suffering the
treatment non-feminist women suffer at the hands and blubbering
mouths of feminism – state quite bluntly that one can not treat
women like that; it is harassment and violence and misogyny and other
such buzzwords that don’t mean anything any more on account of
This proves once again that
feminism does not care for women nor for men nor for any sex. They
care for feminism and they care for women who subscribe to the
Whose strength and
independence is such that they can not stand a man explaining
something, can not stand a woman thinking for herself. Were their
tall tales to be scrutinized and exposed to the unwashed masses,
feminism would lose its power and its funding. And that would be
their downfall. Everyone who oppose must therefore and by necessity
be ganged up on, curb-stomped and left for dead for fear that they
would otherwise prove without a doubt that the empress has no
clothes. Or skin, for that matter.
I have been called this and
labelled that and referred to as the other since I started writing on
all this stuff. I have been told that my opposition to feminism could
not possibly mean anything but me wanting to go back to a time that
would allow me to chain my wife to the kitchen to cook dinner and
birth children and do nothing but that. I keep referring to this
incidence. And I will explain why it keeps popping up. It is not
because the words are hurtful, nor that they hurt my trademarked
fragile masculinity. It is the absurdity of the thing, the
assuredness of the statement delivered for reasons of me opposing
feminism being the dominant -ism in our crackhouse societies.
It is complete and utter
absurdity; penny dreadful tales sold in bulk by feminist ideologues
with cancer of the reason which, unfortunately, has spread to the
sense. It is fear mongering and vapid attempts at shame that does
nothing but piss me off and strengthen both my resolve and my
opposition. And my throbbing rage-boner.
How anyone can believe that
stating something like that as truth would change my perspective of
feminism is beyond me. Telling me what I think and believe when I
know that I think and believe quite the opposite is stupid. And it is
incredibly lazy. Intellectual dishonesty at its very best.
It is the most absurd tactic;
claiming that I would do something that I know I would not do, that I
am saying something that I do not say nor ever have said or would
say, that I hold opinions which I do not hold in order to shame me
into compliance when I know full well that I do not hold these
opinions which the feminist hive-mind lay in my mouth is brain-dead,
egotistical ramblings from someone who obviously is so used to
getting everything just the way they want that anything opposing
their world-view can not possibly exist and thusly must exist either
as lies or as pure, raw, savage and unfiltered hatred of women on my
part, including hatred of my wife. One would believe that, were the
feminist to really and truly believe that I hate all women –
including my wife – the feminist would not believe that shaming me
for hating women would work…
It is the craziest thing.
It is saying, in so many
words, that “I don’t care what you really say, I have decided
in my ruptured mind, that this is what you say. And I feel no
reservations in telling you what you say, because you obviously do
not know what you say or think or mean. I am the one who knows what
you say or think or mean, not you.”
You must forgive me this rant.
It just boggles my mind something awful that anyone can look to the
writings of someone else and tell that someone that they have written
something which they have not written, and expect this to be taken
seriously as an argument by the one who wrote the bloody thing to
begin with. That is the tactics of feminism; illogical attempts at
smearing and shaming, putting words in the mouths of other people and
trying to convince them that this is what they said and what they
meant, not what they actually said and actually meant.
It is so ridiculous that I am
wasting energy and precious calories getting so worked up about it.
Granted, given my wife and her incredible cooking skills, I could do
with losing some calories. Particularly around the gut-area. But that
is not the point. The point is that I need to loosen the chains on my
wife. She has expressed interest in leaving the kitchen to use the
bathroom. I’ll be right back…
For all the insistence that I
am a horribly misogynistic bastard, for all the claims that I am only
looking for something to complain about, for all the emotional
reasoning behind the complaints in regards to my writings and the
narcissism barely hidden behind the feminist moaning about it, for
all the attempts at reading my mind and telling me what I really
think as opposed to what I actually think, I would dare say that I
hold women in much higher regard than feminism does. Because I
believe women to be adult human beings.
I would dare make the claim –
and truthfully so – that I not only believe that the sexes should
be treated equally, but that I live it. That is equal rights, equal
responsibilities, equal consequences. Equal rights and equal lefts,
in other words.
No hand-up, no hand-outs, no
deification of either sex. No fucking chivalry. Respect is earned,
not given, no matter which sex. And it is earned by how one behaves.
If a woman acts like an insufferable cunt, she is worthy of just as
much of my scorn as a man that acts like an insufferable knob-head.
If a woman acts properly and
treats other people with respect, she is worthy of just as much
respect as a man that acts properly and treats other people with
This should not be that
difficult to understand. It is treating the sexes equally. Nothing
more, and nothing less. This is men and women being held to the same
This bullshit about respecting
women is the most concentrated bullshit I have ever encountered. It
is quadruply distilled bullshit of the highest potency. And I am a
connoisseur of fine vintage bullshit, having amassed quite a
collection over the course of my life.
This “respect women”
bullshit elevates women to something other than humanity, something
that must be respected solely for the genitalia between her legs.
Where men have to earn
respect, women must be given respect no matter how they act or behave
merely for being women.
I don’t have any time for
that dribble. No-one should have any time for that piss-pottery.
Men and women are of equal
worth and equal value as human beings. This is my firmly held
conviction. Absolutely equal worth and absolutely equal value. This
means that I respect women just as much as I respect men. And I
respect men just as much as I respect women. Conversely; I have just
as little respect for women as I have for men. It depends not on ones
sex, but on ones behaviour, on the content of ones character.
I am a firm believer that what
goes around comes around. Act like an arsehole, you are going to be
treated like an arsehole.
This is something the feminist
hive-mind have forgotten or – more likely – simply neglected in
their quest for respect of whamen. It is another fanciful and
terrifying way for them to shut down any opposition by the oldest
tactic in the book; the shaming of the male.
When opposition to their
drivel is met with “you have no respect for women!” most
blue-pilled and blue-balled men tremble and fall to their knees and
do everything in their power to prove that they do, in fact, have
respect for women. And then the conversation moves from whatever he
originally opposed to whether he respects women or not. It moves from
a topical discussion to a discussion about his character. Wherein he
must defend himself against all manner of accusation. And, in
defending himself he has admitted to being at fault. In admitting to
being at fault, there is no stopping the feminist hive-mind. For they
have spotted weakness, smelled blood in the water and so they close
in for the kill.
One must never apologize to
these people and their smear-merchant tactics.
This happens without a fault.
It is the oldest tactic in the book. A man can not stand to be shamed
by a woman. Must be because all men hate women and have no respect
for them. Heh. Fucking. Heh.
Well, then, dear feminist:
have you no respect for men?
Here endeth part 4. And there is more yet to come. You know; I might just clean all this up later when I am done with it and publish it as a book. It reached a point where my literary cup literally runneth over with words and hasty typing. And I need money for hookers and cocaine. Or at the very least for caffeine and dogfood. Join me next week for part 5.
It is closing in on mid-day,
Saturday, October 12th, 2019. I am a bit hungover.
Admittedly a normal state of being come Saturday, having delved a bit
too deeply into the waters of life the day before.
That is what a bucket-load of
home-brewed concoctions and loud music will get you.
Rock’n’roll ain’t dead.
Neither is Punk, for that matter. It just got old, developed a bad
case of rheumatism and had to take it a bit easy for while.
Usually, I don’t do much
writing on Saturdays. Or, well, that is to say – I tend to work a
bit on other projects. Things that are not necessarily related to
men’s human rights. More of the personal/spiritual stuff that I
would focus a lot more on were it not for this god-awful gender stuff
being of far more importance. The personal realm can wait. As can the
spiritual realm. These don’t matter much in the grand scheme and
schism of things. “Things” in this instance being a fancy word
for a society that appears to have gone well past its sell-by date.
No, the personal/spiritual
stuff I write does not matter all that much. Not when the basic
humanity of boys and men are being eroded beneath our feet; a great
wide chasm opening up to engulf us and then close above us. To leave
us forever devoured by the world; soulless, homeless and absolutely,
We are lost beneath the dead
and decaying waves of a split-seamed society that turns its
whip-stroked back on boys and men more and more for every passing
day. It may very well sound as though I am being hyperbolic. Mayhaps
even overly dramatic. Maybe I am… I am afraid to say that I don’t
think this is the case.
I first encountered this
article two days ago. October tenth. On the day of its release. I Was
planning on doing a piece on it next week. Maybe postponing part four
of my unending ramble of why I am an anti-feminist. Just
needed some time to think about it, devour it and consider it.
I tend to leave the more
poetic stuff for Wednesdays. Then focus on a bit heavier, lengthier
stuff for the Saturdays. This allows me to write both prose-poetry
and more conventional opinion pieces once a week. Writing is my first
and greatest love. Or at the very least my greatest outlet for the
whatever and whatnot. But I can’t for the life of me get this thing
out of my head. It is an absolute atrocity. And trust me and believe
me and upon my oath and my honour both: I do not use the word
And I find myself at a loss
for words. This is not something which I am used to. Not when I am
writing. I am often at a loss for words if I were to speak to someone
whom I don’t know all that well, not being the best versed in
social interactions. Chalk that up to introversion, shyness, anxiety,
social awkwardness, whatever you want. All in all, it does not
matter. I fare much better with the written word than I ever will
with the spoken word.
And no wonder, in all honesty.
The topics that I write about
is not particularly accepted within the murky depths of society as
society stands. The feminist narrative has all but won. And we are
all shackled and chained beneath its iron-grip and flimsy iron will.
It is not without reason that I refer to it as a tyrannical,
totalitarian ideology; the dominant -ism of our day and age. That I
choose not to speak on these topics in public – that I choose to
write about them in the way that I do instead of debating those who
may, for lack of a better descriptor, be called my ideological
opponents may very well get me labelled a coward. And I may very well
be a coward. Truth be told, I don’t care. At the very least I do
some small thing in opposition, however small the part in opposition
I play really and truly is.
When I am writing, it is a
whole other matter in regards to the words. They tend to come flowing
out of my haphazardly thrown together, aching, borderline broken
joints and fingers and muscles as though shot from a double-barrelled
shotgun deep within my very soul. Which, in truth, is where they come
I don’t believe I have ever
tried to hide the fact that my writings come from an emotional place
– that is to say – they are tainted and given form and shape from
the emotional state I am in at the moment of writing. This is not to
say that my reasoning or my arguments are based on emotion. Far from
it. The delivery, however, is. Such is the realm of art, I think. At
the very least the realm of art which I inhabit. It may very well be
that I am a fairly sensitive man. I write poetry, for Christ sake! I
don’t see anything wrong with this. For the simple reason that
there really is nothing wrong with this. It is what it is.
When looking at this article…
no, not when looking at this article. When looking at the fate of
this young man… his doom, as it were…
I don’t know what I feel.
I know what I think.
There is no doubt about what I
There is no doubt about this
absolutely horrid display of injustice. Malicious, vicious, brutal,
destructive, savage, uncaring, cold, callous… an absolute disregard
for this young man’s life, his mental health, his emotional
well-being… All for being socially awkward. All for a false
pretence. All for the girl and the justice system deciding that they
know his intent better than he knows his own intent.
And I feel only cold.
This is what feminism has
done. Welcome the feminist utopia; the age of untangled
enlightenment. In the dark. With neither flint nor tinder to light a
fire to warm your bones by or illuminate the corkscrew path ahead of
The intent – the true intent
– of this young man does not matter. Nor does it matter that
absolutely no-one was hurt in any way, in any real, tangible,
measurable way. Except the young man. The subjective feeling of the
young woman in question decides not only his fate, but his intent.
Her subjective feeling in the moment trumps his original intent. Were
he socially anxious and awkward prior to this, you can be damned sure
he will be socially broken and destroyed after this. This is obscene.
It is a travesty. And yet, I am not in the least bit surprised. I
doubt anyone really and truly is. Western civilization is broken. I
fear beyond repair. And I am frightened. Honestly. Truly, really, to
the depths of my heart, frightened.
One can not apply logic to
this case. Nor can one apply reason. Because the girl, her parents,
the entire god-damned justice system has not done it. This is not a
case built on evidence. It is not a case built on reason. It is not
even a case built on any criminal act. It is a case built entirely on
emotion. On subjective feelings. This case should never have been a
case. It should not have been a criminal thing. It should have been
thrown out; laughed out of the courtroom and the hands of any
law-wielder with any amount of self-respect. Or respect for their
profession. Being socially awkward should not carry with it
punishment by law. Yet it does, in the land of the damned. Which is
to say the UK.
The offence – if you can
even call it that – carries a maximum sentence of ten years. And a
lifetime – if I understood it correctly – of being on the sex
offender register. For touching a woman’s arm and waist. Because
the woman… no, the overgrown girl-child was certain he was going to
touch her breast. How is that proven? I don’t understand it.
How does one go about proving
the intent of someone else without employing some hitherto previously
unknown psychic telekinetic abilities? “I think it would have
been on my breast had I not moved”, she says. She thinks. She
feels. With all her awesome neoteny and arrogance.
…Therefore, it has to be
true. That is the evidence presented. And that is the evidence
accepted. The unbelievable mind-reading abilities of an overgrown
girl-child ruining the life of someone else, who is – by his own
admittance – socially awkward and anxious and overwhelmed by
And it is not that I don’t
understand the importance of having and maintaining personal
boundaries. Of course I do. I am not a big fan of being touched by
strangers myself. But does anyone really and truly believe this is a
case of sexual assault? And does anyone really and truly believe that
this warrants punishment? Particularly punishment that may be as
severe as ten years imprisonment and a lifetime subscription to the
sex offender register?
The young woman stated that “I
struggled for a couple of months afterwards”. For being touched
on the arm and waist. Sounds to me as though someone really, really,
really wants to be a victim of something in order to push away any
responsibilities she may have for her own life. Or just to get them
sweet victim credentials that are oh so popular at the moment.
Particularly so when taking into account that she apparently was
unable to finish her mock exams and then apply to Oxford University.
Seems very convenient, does it not? Also sounds as though she is not
cut out to be part of wider society if this small, petty and – for
all intents and purposes – absolutely harmless happening is enough
to ruin her for months on end.
Admittedly, this is
speculation on my part.
Everyone is looking for
someone to blame, you know.
…As long as that someone is
And it is so excruciatingly
easy for a woman, in the madness of today, to push the blame onto a
man. Any man.
A man is not a human being,
after all. That is what we have been told and taught for decades. Men
are nothing but rape-machines, and any contact with a man can not
lead to anything but unwanted sex. They don’t deserve our empathy.
They deserve nothing but scorn. Men do not seek anything but quick
and cheap sex. Usually by force. That is the myth and legend being
told and presented. And so it must be true. A man could not possibly
wish to have a relationship with a woman without sex being up front
and centre in his mind and at the tip of his throbbing, mutilated
rape-implement. This is what the feminist hive-mind as well as
traditional views have told us about men, creating a generation of
neuroticism, sexual hang-ups and neo-puritanism in the process. To
such an extent that touching a woman’s arm and waist is now
considered sexual assault, carrying with it a maximum sentence of ten
years. And a lifetime in the sex offender register.
…you know, the amount of
times I have been touched on the arm, shoulder, hand, chin, beard,
cheek, butt and – on one occasion – groin by women – often in a
state of inebriation – whom I did not properly know at the time are
not few. Believe it or not, given my not exactly dashing good looks
as well as my lack of charisma. I wonder if either the police or the
courts would have taken me seriously if I reported them? Or if anyone
else would have taken me seriously, for that matter.
Come to think of it, I once
had a woman follow me around in a pub, constantly putting her head on
my shoulder and whispering sweet nothings into my ear. A compliment,
for sure, though I was not particularly interested in her, not being
a fan of one night stands at any point in my life. This happened when
I was eighteen. I wonder if it is too late to file charges? For me,
it would have been too late no matter when I did it.
We all know this.
Had I been bestowed a vagina
upon birth, however, it appears that this resting of her head on my
shoulder would be enough to ruin her life for good. In particular
since her sweet whispered nothings were slightly on the sexual
innuendo side of things. Besides; women tend to touch other people
more in casual conversation than men do, be that other women or men.
It is alright when they do it, of course.
Because men have nothing to
fear from women, as the petulant peddlers of prime bullshit will
peddle you from their long-reaching serpent tongues and spineless
…Well, boy howdy, do I have
something to tell you. And that is this: evidently, we do. Very much
so. This is violence by proxy, using the government. This is
violence, intimidation and kidnapping. A young woman using the
government as her weapon of choice. And now this young man will carry
with him the label of sex offender for the rest of his life. Which, I
fear, will not be a long and happy life. I hope this young woman will
realize what she has done at some point in her life, and that regret,
shame and guilt will follow her to the end of her days.
I am usually not this
But this is absolutely
horrible. Given, of course, that the information presented is true. I
have not seen anything to indicate otherwise.
I find it absolutely
astonishing that the courts are able to state, without a smidgeon of
doubt, that “The complainant’s evidence was very clear,
logical and without embellishment. We can think of no motivation for
you to touch the victim other than sexual”.
This despite him giving his
side of the story as not being sexual. It does not matter what he
says in his defence. His actions – his intentions – are not of
any importance. The importance is placed upon what the alleged victim
believe his intentions were.
And nothing else matters.
Nothing else matters.
Nothing ever will.
A woman’s capabilities of
mind-reading is all that is needed in order to destroy a man’s
Remember Emmet Till.
That is all I should have
And I am incredibly cold.
I don’t know what else to
say. The article linked really does speak for itself. This is from
the UK, the same place that granted a woman who assaulted her
boyfriend… stabbed him with a breadknife, if I recall correctly…
her freedom. She did not get any punishment. For punishment could
possibly interfere with her academic future and her future career as
a gifted surgeon. Don’t want to destroy the life of a violent
woman, of course. Her actions should not carry any consequences for
her, poor dear. A woman’s actions having consequences for her?
Goodness – that would be the day!
It is clear that the UK has a
two-tiered justice system. There is one set of rules for women and
another set of rules for men.
Where women are concerned, the
law does not apply.
And where men are concerned,
the law really and truly does apply. For the law is able to read the
minds of men and so divine their original intent, never-minding what
they themselves say. Men are nothing but liars, scumbags and
fuck-guzzling pigs, after all.
This ability to divine the
original intention of men is something women seem to have in general
and en masse. An astonishing ability, to be sure, and one that I wish
I had. It never matters what a man says in his defence. It matters
only what a woman says, no matter how absurd.
And yet the feminist hive-mind
as well as society overall dare to still make the claim that women
are oppressed and are never heard nor taken seriously.
It is a brutal, ugly, vicious
thing. And it will never end. Not as long as good men and women are
silent about it.
George Orwell was correct in
all but the year. This is the junior anti-sex league on full display.
It is the new-speak guidelines for the current year; the divinity of
womanhood and viciousness of manhood. Women are now synonymous with
God. And men are synonymous with Devil. Women are good and men are
evil. That is the language of the current year.
Fuck it, who am I kidding?
It is the language of the
current year and all the years that have gone before. A beast with
different shapes and forms, but the same beast. Even after all this
And yet, women dare to write
articles about how horrible it is that men are now refusing to be
alone with women. How horrible it is that men don’t dare to make
the first move, to do something in order to get a romantic
relationship going. No wonder. We stand in danger of imprisonment if
the woman decides she does not like us.
Though I would absolutely dare
say that not all women pushed for this or are like that – this is,
after all, the work of feminism – I fail to see that many women
standing up against this, nor do I see many women caught in
outrage-mode over this.
And no wonder! Women – and
feminism – have more important things to worry about. Such as the
lines to the women’s toilets being longer than that of men’s
toilets. Or the non-existent pay-gap. Or the nefarious pink-tax. Or
the air-conditioning. All incredibly important injustices to be fixed
and mended, clearly. Not to mention that feminism claims to fight for
men too, so really – there is no need for any men’s rights
movement to take on this battle on behalf of men. All is good and
fair. There is only equality sought here. Now, get back to the
plantation and fall on your knees and state, quite proudly, that you
would never, ever, under any circumstances, do anything but what a
woman tells you that you must do. All hail the goddess Feminism; lady
of chaos and bringer of perpetual darkness.
Men are facing quite genuine
discrimination in the legal system, in the social sphere, at schools
and at work.
So much so that any man’s
original intention does not matter – what any woman imagine his
intention to be does matter.
If you wanted to drive a wedge
between the sexes – which there really should be no doubt about at
this point in time – congratulations. That is exactly what you have
done. I hope you are pleased with yourself, ms. Feminism, ms. Queen
Now, wait ten years.
And then reap what you have
You will not enjoy the reward.
And it will all be of your
doing and by your flimsy will brought forth.