Why I am an Anti-feminist, part 7

«Selfportrait as a jester, a rogue and a bit of a bastard»

This wilful misunderstanding of the social game as well as the sexual game tuned us onto a frighteningly forceful application of new rules and guidelines that don’t really work in accordance with how human beings interact.

Quite a lot of our interaction and our communication is non-verbal, based on body-language… subtle hints and movements and changes in tone and mannerisms.

Which is why, for example, sarcasm is so difficult to read that Redditors tend to use that “/s” to indicate smart-ass sarcasm. Otherwise, it is taken as serious. For lack of body-language and tone of voice. Given that our communication these days tend to be more written than it is spoken, more digital than it is physical… I wonder if we have not removed ourselves too quickly and too hastily from physicality, confusing ourselves to believe that the rules of face-to-face communication need to mirror that of written communication, instead of the other way around?

Or – more frightening – that the lack of physicality, the lack of body-language has created a generation incapable of reading, using and comprehending body-language? To such an extent that a friendly touching of the arm or the shoulder can be interpreted as some terrible affront, something akin to assault – or sexual assault. As we have seen at least one dude – young, shy, awkward teen – be sentenced to a fine of 250 GBP and five fucking years on the sex offender registry for touching a girl on the arm and the waist on two separate occasions. What used to be normal human interaction is now considered a terrible trespass on someone else’s bodily autonomy…

This should be terrifying. It should be a sign that we – that is the western world – are declining rapidly into our own undoing. When someone can be judged and sentenced – by law – for something so minor, so petty, so insignificant, we are not on the right track. Not as a society, not as a civilization and not as a people. If we have become so frail that we can not handle normal human interaction without breaking down in hysterics, spending social resources… no, wasting social resources and time, we are manufacturing our own doom and demise. Now, of course, it is only women who are allowed to be so frail – men still have to put up with just about anything this shambling mess of a society can throw our way. Any complaints will bring shame and ridicule our way, and loads of non-arguments, stupidity and personal attacks from arrogant imbeciles floating in the steaming pile of their own hubris. That hubris has the same aroma and texture as grade-A Bullshit, by the way.

On Friday, the 25th of October, I was out walking my dogs. I was approached by a cute lil’ old lady. She seemed to be in her mid-to-late seventies, though she might have been older. This lil’ old lady was all smiles and laughter, complimented me on my beard – actually touched it, then proceeded to touch my arm and told me that she enjoyed seeing men having beards nowadays. On account of masculinity. We then chit-chatted for a little while, before we parted ways with a “good-bye” and a friendly waving of the hands. Body-language again.

This small chance encounter made my day, if I am to be perfectly honest. It was one of those slightly surreal every-day happenings that don’t mean all that much, but can bring about quite a lot of joy. It is those small things that make a difference. That is what ought to be cherished. And remembered.

Such small things – such tiny compliments – I believe, is particularly important to men who seldom – if ever – receive compliments on their appearance. Or compliments at all, for that matter. Which is a sad state of affairs all on its own. It says a lot about our societies, though I can not possibly comment on that without the inevitable “male tears” and “fragile male ego” nonsense from the very empathetic feminist squads hiding in the bushes and believing themselves to be above any form of criticism.

Such small gestures of kindness is just that – small gestures of kindness – unless you are caught in the throes of hysterics, lured into the belief that everyone is out to get you. Which is what feminism has managed to lure women into believing – that all men are out to get them, preferably for rape – with or without given consent (heh) – but quite possibly and probably also for violence and murder.

This is nothing but fear-mongering, akin to psychological terrorism, for all I care.

This fear-mongering is perpetrated to such an extent that what used to be normal human interaction – light touches, friendly gestures of intimacy, trust and bonding – or a friendly invitation to intimacy, trust and bonding – is now considered threatening, is now considered violence, is now considered assault or sexual assault… if it is a man doing it. And, no, intimacy does not equal sex.

To my eyes, this is nothing more than an extension, the natural end-game and only possible outcome of the old tattle-tale that men have only one thing on their minds. And that one thing is sex, I have been led to believe by scores of women who seem perfectly able to read minds, as well as being perfectly unable to listen to what men have to say on the matter. There can be no other reason for a man to touch a woman than a wish for sex. This despite how or where he touches her – intent be damned, context be damned, everything be damned but the subjective feelings of the woman. It doesn’t matter much what men say in regards to men, the male brain, the male body, male sexuality or what-have-you. It matters what a woman says. Doubly so if it is a feminist woman, and quadruply so if she is a professor of gender studies, feminist basket-weaving and underwater gynocratic ballet. Because this does make perfect sense, you see, in a society in which everyone is entitled to their opinion as long as they are not male, in which case they are not allowed opinions on this, that or the other. Unless they align with feminist thought and fancy, in which case they are almost entitled to their opinion on this, that or the other. Except this thing, that topic and that other thing.

Oddly enough, I doubt the police would be willing to take me seriously if I told them that I felt violated and assaulted by this lil’ old lady touching me without my explicit consent or invitation. On two occasions! Oh, the horror, oh the humanity, and so forth and so on.

This is not to say that I think people should just ignore their own personal boundaries or the personal boundaries of other people. I believe nothing of the sort. Still, there has got to be an understanding that human beings – much like other animals – are physical beings first and foremost.

Our bodies, our stance, our unspoken language, communicate far more than our words ever will. It is easy to spot a liar based on their body-language, for example. Words can say this and they can say that and they can say the other. This does not matter if the language of your body says quite the opposite. And language – such as we have it – is a fairly new invention, all things considered. It is a great tool, to be sure and to be certain – though, admittedly, it may also be a barrier.

Is it not incredible to think that people who do not speak the same language, who do not even speak languages similar to one another may still communicate quite effectively, understand the other person and also make the other person understand them simply through hand-gestures, body-language and things of that nature? It might not make for the most intricate of discussion, but it is still enough to understand the other on small things.

I think it is absolutely incredible. Though I am going off on a bit of a tangent here.

What I am trying to get at is that I believe we have, in many ways, killed – or at the very least effectively subdued – a very normal and human form of interaction and communication through mass-hysteria – and possibly through an over-use of written communication. We replaced body-language with pictograms in the form of emoticons. Because we had to figure out some way to communicate body-language, pose and facial expressions to convey properly the tone and as such the intent of a message, of the written word.

Communication is dead. Oddly enough due to communication becoming more frequent, constant and easy. What a strange world we live in. The smaller the world gets, the more we are in touch with each other, the more we lose touch with each other. Drifting away, as it were, into self-contained bubbles of social media and other such maladies of the modern age where nothing much matters but the image we can present of ourselves – an image that is superficial… which may, at a single word, be shattered and broken like the illusion it is. For we present and reflect only the best of ourselves – or, rather, what we believe to be the best of ourselves, how we would like to be perceived rather than who we are. It is not so much deceiving other people as it is deceiving ourselves, duping ourselves into believing that who we present ourselves to be through social media is who we either are or who we really want to be. Or who we ought to be, empty virtue-signalling and hollow flashing of morals included. This can not possibly be sustainable. The best way – in my honest opinion – to get to know oneself is to seek solitude and meditation, to learn how to be alone, how to enjoy being alone. Which we seem to never be in this age of social media madness, constantly competing with our digital neighbours over petty things… my lawn is greener than yours. And my house is cleaner. And my virtue is greater. And my kids match my sofa. And I was groped twice by a stranger, whereas you were only groped once. I deserve more sympathy, more empathy and more of that sweet victim-cred. Pound me too, you malicious bastard. (Why won’t anyone pound me?)

This avoidance of physical communication is worsened quite a bit through the ridiculous weaponization of female fragility employed so effectively by the frantic forces of feminism, demanding every touch – however small and insignificant – be deemed verboten, considered a horrible affront and assault… if it is a man touching a woman. The same goes for a man merely looking at a woman in a manner she feels is improper. Cue the swooning, the sniffing salts and the whole shebang. I fail to see how this constant state of hysteria… of inner turmoil and frailty is a reflection of strength. But that will have to be as it is, I suppose. There is little personal strength in breaking down over small and insignificant things. Though, as I suspect is the case and the point, there is quite a lot of social power for women to present themselves to be weak and in need of protection. Which is where this weaponization of fragility always ends up; a call to change this and change that so women shall feel safe. With an emphasis on feel.

I am absolutely certain that women are far more touchy-feely than men in general. Where men punch each other on the shoulder in a gesture of trust and camaraderie, women hug. As an example. Not to mention that women tend to complain about men’s lack of intra-sexual intimacy… or intimacy at all… or complain if there is too much of it, for that matter.

Of course, the feminist hordes tend to explain this all away with this nonsensical screech of theirs that men have nothing to fear from women, whereas women have much to fear from men. For men are such terrible, vile and violent creatures that any touch, however slight, is an act of violence and of rape. Therefore, women may touch men and men may not touch women. Mental gymnastics to properly explain away why this call of theirs for equality is ever so lacking in equality. Odd that they fail to mention the scores of white knights that jump into battle to save m’lady from the horrible trespasses of the man, with a good ol’ fashioned arse-whooping of the beastly man the result more often than not. Oh well, never mind, no matter.

As proven, however, through the witch-hunt that is #metoo and other such trite and treacherous social movements, men have much to fear from women utilizing the government, social media and the press as their weapon of choice… in so doing, if there is no punishment by the justice system, there is sure to be social ramifications, rendering the man effectively dead and imprisoned, a social outcast from now until the end of time. It does not matter whether the courts find him innocent or not. The court of social opinion will still remember, will still pass judgement and will still punish. Add to this that the #metoo movement excluded men completely, thus creating the illusion that only women experienced things of this nature – as is, of course, most befitting of a feminist movement hell-bent on portraying men as terribly as possible and women as saintly as possible – and you’ve got yourself a decent firmament to build upon where the re-writing of the social contract is concerned, once again with women up front and centre. Women are victims, men are perpetrators. And so, women must be protected from men through implementations of laws that are anything but gender-neutral, even when feminism claims to wish for complete gender-neutrality. Interesting, is it not? Take a look at the recent alterations of the penal system in the UK, and you will see what I mean. Equality under the law has come to mean that the law favours women… by the letter of the law, not only the bias of any judge or jury in the courtroom. It is frightening. And it is spreading like a cancer.

…For that is sure-as-the-living-breath equal treatment of the sexes; one set of rules for one sex to follow, and a whole other set of rules for the other, be those rules societal or governmental, be those laws unspoken social contracts or written laws. Anything goes. And anything contrary to equal treatment of the sexes is for sure equal treatment of the sexes when seen through the frantic eggshell-frail enlightenment of the feminist hive-mind AD. the current year. Equality means whatever the hell the feminist forces of frail and fragile weaponized femininity say that it means at any given moment. And to hell with objections, logic, reason and other such trite trash from the patriarchal cis-white-heteronormative rape-brigades and their white supremacy, whether those that object be men or women, black or white. One is, after all, either a feminist or a sexist. And this is not totalitarian, nor is it tyrannical. For feminism told me so. It says so in the dictionary, remember.

You can find the definition of feminism directly underneath the word “manipulation” or the phrase “manipulation of language” in the dictionary.

I suggest a popularization of the term “Femipulation”. Because why the hell not? The feminist hive-mind gender terms for the sole purpose of insulting and belittling men and masculinity, so why should they not have a taste of their own medicine?

I am also very fond of “Ovary-acting”, “Cunt-fusing” and “Fem-steria”.

Besides; “Man-ipulation”? “Man”? As in “Men do this”? Bah, humbug – this will not stand. Men don’t femipulate. Only feminism femipulates with all the femcels they can muster.

Obviously, I jest. As much as I enjoy using such words in jest – to shine a light on the stupidity of words such as “mansplaining” and “manspreading”, I am not serious in my usage of them. Nor would I ever use them in any proper discussion or argument… should I ever poke my head out of this hermit-cave of mine to partake in a discussion, which I highly doubt… But see – see how easy it is – to feign outrage… to wilfully perceive something as something other than what it is. History, herstory, humankind, peoplekind, woman, womxn, womyn, whamyns…

We should never have graduated from being apes. We are barely domesticated primates, I think. Particularly so when watching the bars close and people file out drunkenly at night, all screeches, gibbering, roars and shit-flinging; body-language, touching, hugging, intimacy and all that jazz… which we seek to outlaw, eliminate and annihilate until we all live inside bubbles of bloated self-importance or tragic self-segregation, later to blow up from lack of oxygen or from overdosing on sniffing our own farts… until the whole thing goes down the drain in a cosmic gang-bang where only our lack of sense and empathy gets a taste of the good old fashioned willy-wetting and the humpbacked beast of a thousand backs… where mutual respect and co-operation is given a forced double penetration by the terrible beast of the apocalypse, this time wearing the wart-speckled face of political correctness and wielding the double-edged dildo; one dildo named “shame” and the other “ridicule”… And I looked… and beheld an angle…

All the while, the world grows ever more chaotic, society grows ever more confined and controlled and regulated… down to the minutest detail of our day-to-day lives being governed and censored. For the political must be personal and the personal must be political, to such an extent that people prod their noses where they have no justifiable reason to prod their noses, mingling in the affairs of other people and asking “why does she cook dinner, what do you do then?”… ignoring any and all which the man do in a relationship in order to shame him for having a partner that does anything in a relationship.

We are not on the correct path. We are breaking down. Bit by bit, we are eroding and slipping into the sea. Caught in self-aggrandizement, hollow virtue-signalling, petty squabbles and this constant state of confrontation, resentment, anger and self-importance to the point of absolute absurdity. Everything has become vague and wishy-washy, washed out with bleach until nothing means anything and anything can mean everything. Because nothing matters any more. We have had a good run of relative stability. And now it all comes crashing down. With a whimper and a shiver, not a giant explosion, not a gigantic bang.

Here ends part seven. Join me next week for more of this cruel and unusual ramble, lest I fall into the singularity and get swallowed by cocaine-covered clowns. Makes about as much sense as anything, I suppose. Honk. Honk.

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 09.11.2019

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

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

«Bareback Insomnia»

Myths and superstitious legends take their toll. We had a good run… and a greater roll… and the lengthiest tumble… past glories are duplicated in a faulty paper-copier… to come out broken, ripped and torn in a weird copycat display… a shattered mirror reflecting freedom and liberty… where freedom is drawn hastily, outlined in strange dystopian prose, painted with the ink and trembling ire of surveillance through social and governmental power… Of course you are free and have your freedom, sir and saintly madam, as long as you don’t act free and act out your freedom.

The hard and the soft power combined, standing in harms way to harm the way and shatter sheltered minds a-plenty… To then permanently save them from shattering through rules and regulations designed so that no-one of the sheltered and the sacred shall ever have to hear anything they dislike… which, according to the whim of the double-speak fairy Godmother of supreme morality, may or may not include someone merely disagreeing. It all depends on the pre-designed political correctness of stated opinion or fact or truth. It is, after all, far more important to be morally and emotionally correct than it is to be factually correct. So spake the fleeting fairy of flimsy morality and flimsier virtue. Of course you are free to speak and express yourself through freedom of speech and expression… as long as you accept all these limitations on your freedom to speak and to express yourself… as well as the governmental penalties should you transgress and act out that freedom…

Hate-speech laws ain’t nothing but a slow, dark cloud of tyranny… it is a storm beating down on us from afar… an inevitable decline into compelled speech… of forced conformity of thought and of opinion. Making it illegal to say something must simultaneously mean it is illegal to hold that opinion. If you can not speak your mind, how can you possibly have a free mind? Of course I believe in freedom of speech, but freedom of speech should not extend to ideas which I object too….

On a superficial level, we stand free as free could be… to express whatever and whichever… to walk the path less trodden by feet less swollen… complete expression of self is absolutely allowed… though you can not express disagreement with someone else’s complete expression of self, should your values in some way align with the dark side of the force… And what is Light and what is Dark is decided in the dark by drunk hens henpecking social interaction to drunk, drugged and despairing death. Should your values not align, you are free game for the feral forces of the mob and of the pack. And the government, for that maddening matter. Slow death by a thousand pecks.

Hounded, de-personed, un-personed and disappeared loudly, with horns blaring, through the frenzy of the pack; the soft power of sublime social pressure… wild hens hunting the heretic by any means necessary… threats of violence and use of violence is all part of the game; no need to argue or discuss. Attack the person, not the argument. Superficial ad hominem… Reductio Ad Hitlerium, ya dig? All who do not fall into this is fucking Nazi-scum, alt-right pack-rats, fascist collaborators extraordinaire.

After all, the person is not a person any longer. The person is an object, an enemy, a scapegoat upon whose frame all scorn and hatred and ridicule may be placed and laid to rest upon the browbeaten skeletal frame of his simian shoulders.

…Insert Sure, Jan meme, for maximum efficiency in dismissal and put-down… rid yourself of toxic fuckaroos…

External appearance is now marvellously and magically, through smoke and mirrors, through wild and lengthy yarns spun in campfire-tales told frantically by mad-eyed unblinking hens, far more important than internal whatever… content of character matters little when faced with the overwhelming argument of skin-colour, sexuality, sex and gender. Ho-ho-ho, bloody well fuck off.

If you look like this, you’ve got to think like that… it goes without saying… tribal belonging through external appearance first and foremost… a subversive, a remarkably childish superficial take-over manufactured in myriad mind-melt manipulations… to think like this, you ought to look like that. Don that uniform and wear the insignia of the tribe, burnt and branded on your buttocks by your handlers… you’ll wind up without anything resembling true within… without within, within stands without. Shattered and shamed, tattered and torn, broken between a rock and a hard place… or between a cock and a hard face… You are not allowed that hair, buddy-boy, lest you swear allegiance to this tribe… nor that colour of pants… might as well tattoo a swastika on your inner thigh, you lowly, low class something-or-other.

Superficial values is identity-politics wish-wash. It is smoked reams of light masquerading as epiphanies to break the boredom of modernity. Grand words, the grand wazoo and much ado about abso-fucking-lutely nothing…

First world problems presented as profound difficulties… whimsical realms of absolute and acute madness; inflammation of the right and the left brain hemisphere… epileptic fits of tongue-twisting tattle-tales… the new academic lingo is speaking in tongues in histrionic fits of crazy ecstasy… a religious trance to last a hundred years… or two seconds flat, replaced seconds later with some new petty grievance-fuelled annoyance, presented in the same histrionic ecstasy… All hail the high Goddess Annoying Intellectual Ramble and her clouded descent into the babbled afterlife.

Ramble on, my wayward world… there’ll be cheese when you are done. Cheese and whine for maximum madness.

At times, I think we need a good old fashioned war. At the very least, please give us a small crisis… something substantial in this dawn of the insubstantial, in this doom where anything means nothing and nothing means anything, in this age of the great gobble-de-gook, the fantastic swoon, the hallowed swan, the wondrous woo, the gargantuan woozy whimsy of wilful vanity wandering wonderingly within the borders of our manufactured frailty… our remarkable parody of reality.

All who dwell within our borders are set to collapse at a moment’s notice, mind and sanity and inner strength bastardized and sodomized in equal measure… the fall, the oh so timely fall into superficiality and moral beastiality… excuse me, moral inner-species erotica… with not a smidgeon nor a shade of shame and self-reflection to be found or to be had.

We have grown depraved and decadent, bereaved of manual labour and drowning in automation… we have nothing to seek or reach… so few hurdles to overcome that we need to manufacture them for those whom we have considered worthy of having hurdles… and we need to neglect them for those we have considered unworthy of having hurdles… You can tell who is whom by their superficial characteristics, dont’cha know

Big Brother is watching… as is Big Sister; the hard and the soft moral bludgeon… one with a monopoly on violence, the other with a monopoly on social death and shame and decay… stray but a little from the trodden path, the accepted discourse and opinion, and the forces of the weak and of the frail – as they chose to refer to themselves – will beat down on you with all the frail force that can be gathered at the tumbling Touretted tick of an NPC, render you all but dead and imprisoned within the cage of what-is-ok-to-speak-and-to-say…

The age of conformity sprung forth from the grimy loins of political correctness, where facts don’t matter and matter is insubstantial… and something that sorely needs to be said and be spoken may not be said, spoken or discussed despite the importance of the thing… for it would be politically incorrect and so deemed verboten by the frail forces that dominate the discourse… do not say that; it could potentially hurt someone’s feelings, buddy-boy. Even if your brothers are dying, do not say that. For it will hurt the feelings of the frail forces that rule with an iron glove; the soft tyranny of manufactured pettiness and frailty… the sham that is the social game and social rulebook intertwined and conspired to smack you between the eyes, and then to lay eggs within your central nervous system. Spreading, inflaming your tissue and killing you slowly.

We’ve got the hive-mind hierarchy of frailty, also known as the progressive stack… You can be attacked in any manner if you are at the bottom of the progressive stack… or was that the top? It’s all so topsy-turvy, upside down and uncomprehendingly cunt-fusing.

A for effort, fail for execution… dragged outside for a proper execution for failing to follow the flow of the fault-line of the frail and frantic few… the choir offended, my gooey goodness, how loudly they sing and shriek and whine and mutter most incoherently in the grimy greed and darkness of their silent superficiality… their vast calls for ideological superiority…

In the bubble, safe and sheltered, shameless and superficial, pointing to this and only this to state with absolute certainty that you are that and only that; a terrible straight white male – the worst of the bunch, a natural force of pure evil… Antichrist sprung from the loins of a fertile ball-blasted Basilisk Cock-goblin to wreak bloody havoc on the world and all that dwell within.

Boiled, and boiled and then reduced to the bare essentials of appearance; straight, white, male… or pale, male and stale, as the saying goes.

That is all you shall be judged upon, and to hell with anything going on within… within is out, ya know, ya see, ya dig; without is in – the hip, woke hipster squad deemed it so incredibly appropriate to appropriate stupidity in the guise of woke intellectualism, see. Now take your toxic whiteness, your toxic maleness and your toxic social construct heteronormative heterosexuality and kindly bugger off and die.

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 06.11.2019

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

Howling at a Slutwalk Moon, a collection of previous blog posts:
Vol 1 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/107571074X
Vol 1 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZTPDPR
Vol 2 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075714184
Vol 2 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZR25NL
Vol 1 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075717094
Vol 2 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075723078
Other links:
Redbubble shop: https://www.redbubble.com/people/Moiret/shop
Blog: https://moiretallegiere.wordpress.com/
YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC3IaCxAXE3pQd7PCdvHoaaA
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Crucified in Toilet Cubicles; A Tale of Women Pooping:

«At the Feet of Her Porcelain Altar»

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  • Moiret Allegiere, 21.09.2019
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My book – Howling at a Slutwalk Moon, a collection of previous blog posts:
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Peculiar Prescription Predicament (Or: I’ve got them ol’ Psychiatry-blues again, mama):

poppy red

All windows barred and shut and closed and covered. Silent swansongs from afar seek his ears and drool upon his knees and folded hands, folded now as if to pray, yet releasing only the golden voice of drowning whispers that might, on second glance, have been a scream of abstract epiphanies or rejected freak-ideas. Chewed, shot, regurgitated and shell-shocked, he lies there beneath ominous clouds of benzodiazepine-blue above, pining for release.

Masques line the walls of his single-celled organism living room cell, eyes that gaze and see nothing but blue-streaked shades of blues and the malevolence of benevolent pill-tyranny from shutter-bug masques and cliques that never once revealed their own face or true shape, yet claimed allegiance to the holy lost tradition of past healers mystical path.

Modern-day shaman rites in therapist couches and classrooms overrun by borderline infantile infanticide; Xanax double-takes that see young boys and men Xeroxed and ritualistically Ritalinized into completely oblivious oblivion. Or stroked and stoked into opinionated opiate-ponderings where and when all else fails on the long and winding road towards a cure for their peculiar predicament prescribed and defined as such from long-fingered hang-tooth nailbiters chewing on their last whistleblowing efficacy delicately, mulling the plight of their patients over in their heads above industrial-sized governmental coups in cocktail-party conversations with the best and brightest purveyors of rare drugs and synthesized herbal refreshments.

Or else euthanised euphorically and lovingly with Lithium and her alarmingly alluring grace; assorted whites and yellows and heavy metals; aluminium coils wrapped neatly around his neck and twisted tenaciously on the back of his tongue, spreading the woefully woke and aware inflammation further through his central nervous system, assaulting his brainstem and his neural interface, waking now and seeking madness, rampage, full frontal fevered frenzy.

…but succumbing to alluring traits in couch-lock cock-blocked bliss-and-blues as the medics and the healers both state with defined certainty that tribal states and views and love are not for him or his. For in his future lie naught but a blissfully unaware lifestyle-choice of hermits in the hermits cage and cave, built by the hands and hungry pens and mouths of vicious freelance isolationists and sanity separatists with concerted Ritalin or Concerta-grips around his morning bathroom routine, tangled in the lonely web of spiked-drink-greens upon his walls and consciousness that dread and die and dared defy the soothing chill and body-buzz of Venlafaxine-induced hyper-aware hyperactivity.

That lack of sleep from spiked brain-processing brought up from the depths of Effexor and her spectral shape mimicking amphetamines that kick-started body rush and muscle spasms, lockjaw-pains and clenched teeth and facial muscles… that then fed into an acute and immediate psychosis of delightful rarity and delicacy exploding from the shattered force of the tranquillized child lost deep within the mad-mind-maze of this spectral spectre spectator spectacle flooding the body with unknown chemicals and neurotoxins which were then to be quelled and conquered by the psychotics dream of anti-psychotics; graceful Zyprexa and her ruby lips injected into the tongue or corners of the eyes to kill the roaring madness and woefully misplaced energy whipped to a torrential monsoon by Venlafaxine. Oh boy.

Better soothe them nerves, old boy, to sleep and then to slumber some; take this casket or this suitcase or this ancient hearse filled to the point of structural collapse with alluring chemical remedies for your peculiar plight and predicament; uppers or downers of our choice by our hand and lingering pen-pal prescription delivered straight to your mailbox; instant Nirvana, instant enlightenment, instant radiant bliss, chronic constipation and a lingering impotence manifesting in the shape of a limp-noodled pinhead-dick.

And have we told you of our healers way, our ancient traditions brought to the front-and-centre of our world and dreary days; culture born from our holy ghost and divine presence; pop-psycho-babble amazingly popular in these streets named now after pharmaceutical companies dealing in bliss-by-the-bottle-and-the-handful salvations; four bucks a pop and we will promise transcendent pit-stone euphoria in blissful remedial Remeron sleep-and-slumber. We can promise Benzo-Buddha beauty and benevolence; numb and unfeeling, uncaring, a stoics dream and vital lifeline handcrafted by mechanical interventions in the deadlined supply-line and brought to life by starstruck seashore sellers of sensual sanity.

Or else we do have Prozac and Xanax, Cipralex or kiss-my-arse and various other tonics and bitters and swamp-snake snake-oils for your immediate release onto the loving bosom of God, in order to bring you to your knees praising God and his divine eternity in permanently persisting paradise; entire civilizations drugged into compliance and forgotten, lost within the murky swamps without a guiding light, with no need for guiding lights when there are no place to which one should wish to be guided.

Just flow and just feel nothing in this chemical bliss and castration of your muddled murky masculine mind blinded by insufferable individual ideology.

Soothed to the point of imaginary tentacle extraction and playtime alien brainwave interference by our galaxy of pop-goes-the-weasel pills that promise all and deliver nothing; all at once. And we can deliver salvation and we can deliver bliss and we can deliver you to the gates of paradise by scribbled lines from pens and needles in your feet and in your stomach and your heart and spine and soul and all.

For immediate release, in this day and in this age is prescribed from immediate need, from lack of patience, for lack of accumulated strength and wisdom to stand still in the coming storm, to call the storm to play ones own part and then become integrated into one self – conquered and defied, leashed and curtailed within and subdued by ones own strength of will.

The mouthy masques of psycho-babble babblelogues do babble on, solving issues of severe substance with substance-abuse court-ordered and mandated by vast and vague wishes of state-sanctioned uniformity – prescribed psychiatric prophylactic psycho-pills to conquer all and mend the beast – or, failing that, at the very least hiding said beast behind the merchant masques that stutter and then stammer so, to turn the beast within a docile, slumbering mess. Yet still being there within the brain and the fluctuating chemistry therein, it will once in a while pop up and come out to play, prompting us to crawl back into psycho-thematic couches and chairs to be prescribed some more and then some more, time and time again.

Or else be met with disbelief and stark defiance should we propose a differing solution to the drug-induced lazy euphoria of couch-lock-bliss and energies curtailed or wired or both at the same time, drowning in chemicals that tell the nervous system to do diametrically opposed things simultaneously; to be wired and to be subdued. To be fully aware and energetic, yet to be unaware and unconscious.

In this haze and marvelled madness lies he still; subdued and pill-popped, pondering his peculiar prescription predicament by the hand of God and the Government, merging, melding and meddling, becoming one and the same, indistinguishable and wonky and clad all in white flowing gowns.

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 – Moiret Allegiere, 17.08.2019

___________________________________________________________________________________________

My book – Howling at a Slutwalk Moon:Vol 1 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/107571074X
Vol 1 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZTPDPR
Vol 2 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075714184
Vol 2 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZR25NL
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Vol 2 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075723078

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Yet Another Shooting, and Yet we Miss the Mark:

Male poetry reading 2019 lowres

Illustration: «Group of men reading poetry, 2019», Moiret allegiere

My original intent during my writing session this morning and afternoon was doing a short – or long and rambling, as these things tend to become – piece on hobbies. That is – the importance of hobbies and how they correspond to male health and emotional well-being.

Waking up far too early after yet another night of restless sleep due to severe pain coursing through my entire body combined with this foggy head-space that always follow whenever my symptoms flare up like mad hissing snakes, however, I find the prospect of doing a piece on that terribly difficult. Not so much because of my scatter-brained state of being at the moment, but because there are more pressing matters to attend to. Which just so happen to be both more difficult to write about as well as more pressing. Which is funny, in a slightly sardonic way, I suppose. As the assumption must be that the hobby-thing which I thought of writing about is far easier to tackle with this failing and ailing body and psyche of mine than is the topic I chose. Who can fathom the mind of a bearded bard? No-one. Not even the bearded bard himself.

In order to explain; this topic is more pressing – more pressing at my subconscious – a sensation of strange pressure at the base of my skull – nerves pinched and writhing in agony and soulful despair – something that needs some form of immediate release. Because things I mull over and think about tend to manifest themselves in weird and peculiar ways in my muscles, tendons, bones and joints. Some strange materialisation of the psyche. Psychosomatic illness; pain and death and despair, mind and body working in perfect asymmetrical harmony. Or disharmony.

Did I not know any better, I would say that this culture of ours is making me ill. It is far more complex than that, of course. But it sure as hell ain’t helping.

It was not a good morning to wake up too, nor was it a good world to wake up too.

Usually, I don’t write on relatively recent events. There is a sense of urgency in doing so which does not pair well with my own tendency for long, slow and deliberate thought on a topic – any topic. This is not to say that I consider myself to be stupid.

In all honesty, I do not and I am not.

In order to be even more self-deprecating: I am probably smarter than you believe that I am, yet not as smart as I myself believe that I am. Make of that what you will. I find poking fun at myself makes life more bearable. Something which would translate well to society at large, seeing how everyone and their mums take themselves way to fucking serious, which brings the point to a boil: we have no more room for humour as release or as a point of healing. Because everything is offensive to someone, and no-one can laugh at themselves any more, or at anything else for that matter. Because someone will take offence. Leaving one avenue for self-expression and healing completely closed for everyone.

I tend to prefer looking at – or attempting to look at – the big picture, the grander topics, the greater ideas and so forth and so on, not singular events, happenings or articles. With a few exceptions, for sure.

In order to combat my own insecurities, whichever they may be, I want to be sure that I can defend both morally and factually whatever statements I make. Hence, the long, slow and deliberate thinking I do. Chalk that up to neurosis, if you so wish. I will admit my various insecurities to be plentiful, albeit in a steady decline since I finally began working through them and move onwards with this steady shuffle of mine towards healing.

Which includes self-deprecating humour which somehow people tend to take more seriously than they should. I find that the more serious a topic, the more release is found the moment someone cracks a joke. And an illness causing constant, widespread and chronic pain as well as fatigue is really god-damned serious. Which makes it perfectly reasonable to find release through humour instead of being bogged down with frustration, resentment and anger.

Granted – when this is posted, the topic at hand will no longer be considered recent events in the split-second memories our mass media and social media have brought down upon us. It might as well have been last years news. Or last decade.

…Whatever.

But, Moiret, why this long tangent on humour and release and healing and other metaphysical conundrums of the human soul and condition?

Well, now, my friends, come closer to the fire and I will tell you why: Men, by and large, are the ones telling “offensive” jokes at subjects that are supposedly not to be joked about. And women, by and large, are the ones being offended by these jokes. This goes yet again to show that men and the way men attempt to heal and lighten or brighten the day or the mood are not understood. Instead of attempting to understand humour and the reason for morbid humour, it is painted as men not having empathy and not showing proper behaviour in light of a tragedy. Shame, again, is the point. This removes yet another avenue for men to heal, as we can no longer crack jokes for fear of shame and ridicule from the whamens. Causing build-up of internal pressure that finds no release, for all our ways of release are deemed verboten and in bad taste. Despite being quite the opposite, were only these troglodytes able to understand humour, the reason for humour and the one simple fact that I was told once by someone who worked in a late-stage terminal disease ward; that being that there were nowhere and no-one he had ever been or ever met who had such a grim and morbid sense of humour as those who were months or weeks away from death. It eases and it releases. Humour is far more, and goes far deeper, than merely laughter for the sake of laughter.

This lack of humour, or that is to say: the offence taken at all manner of humour and – by extension – the masculine path to healing brings me to that which is pressing on my subconscious mind; the recent mass-shootings in the USA. If that is not made obvious by now. That is to say – not so much the recent shootings. They are severe tragedies, as are all things of this nature. I, for one, don’t give a flying fuck about what politics brought this into being on part of the shooters.

I don’t care whichever ideology or unnecessary, old-fashioned and outdated side on the left/right political axis they claimed allegiance to. I think it would be safe to say that people who commit such terrible crimes are damaged beyond repair no matter which self-splitting and soul-leeching ideology they subscribe to. It is not necessarily the recent shootings that bother me, as it is that these types of shootings happen at all. Seems to be so commonplace now. Though, this might just be because news travel faster now, and are more sensationalised than ever they were before.

The sensationalism following in the wake of these absolute tragedies always drag with it in its current the usual political pundits and leeches trying to score quick and easy partisan political points on the corpses of those that died before they are even cold. They bathe in the blood of the victims and they feast on their flesh like the vicious cannibals that they are.

And here I am.

Writing on it myself.

I don’t know whether this makes me a hypocrite of the highest order or not. Probably, it does. What I will say in my defence in regards to this is simple: I have no interest in pointing fingers at any political party or any politician. Our western societies are divided enough as it is. And the rank stupidity exhibited on both sides of the great political divide is enough to make me vomit bloody chunks of cancerous sickness.

What sickens me most is of course the usual mass media purveyors of fake news and dubious reporting. This may be bias on my part. I suspect, however, that it has more to do with their reach as compared to those that are not of the mass media persuasion than any bias on my part. Though, I have no problem with admitting that the bias is there.

The so-called reporting I have seen on these tragedies have not been journalism as much as it has been opinion-pieces pointing fingers here, there and everywhere.

…Well, not here, there and everywhere in regards to the mass media pundits. They spew their usual trite and predictable trash, blaming toxic masculinity, blaming men, blaming white men in particular, blaming Donald Trump, blaming the fluent and gaseous, ever-changing, never-static and poorly defined “far right” – their enemy of choice; the Emmanuel Goldstein of their world and their warped and wretched minds that seems to have barely survived a failed coat-hanger abortion.

There is little use, to my eyes, in pointing fingers at this one thing over here as opposed to this other thing over here to try and explain these horrible happenings in the simplest way possible.

Because the partisan political ploy and play on display is far too simple and far too easy, far too emblematic of the great chasm that suddenly appeared in the midst of our societies – that is, the entirety of western civilization. Though this split – this far too obvious and far too ideological split – seem to be greater and more dangerous in North America, it is something that has spread, and continues to spread, all over the west.

These are dangerous times we live in. Not only in regards to violence, but in regards to unthinking stupidity, in regards to immediate knee-jerk reactions from everywhere and everyone. It is one thing for some random person on the vast cesspit of social media to spew some uninformed garbage in regards to things of this nature. It is quite another for so-called journalists who are supposed to hold some manner of journalistic integrity to do the same. This goes for politicians as well. Using tragedies such as these – standing on the corpses of the victims in a blatant attempt to harvest votes and boost ones own popularity – ought to be career suicide. Yet, they keep doing it. And people keep celebrating it. Never once seeing beyond their own ideological idealization of the whatever or the whichever, and never once understanding – or attempting to understand – a broader picture than “men are prone to violence because they are men”. Neglecting the fact that the pain of men is taboo (shameless plug: check out Tom Golden of menaregood.com and his books on male healing for more on this), and that the path men tend to take towards healing is not understood as anything but the wrong path for not being the same path that women tend to take, leaving little cultural acceptance for both the pain of men and the ways men tend to heal.

And I sit here now. Attempting to write on it. Tom Russell filling the room with melancholy tunes from the fantastic “Blood and Candle Smoke” album. Trying to sort out my own thoughts on the matter, as this impacted me far more than I believed that it would when the first reports started trickling in.

It is Wednesday, the seventh of August at the time of writing. This will – most likely – be published a week from now, when all the gun smoke has cleared up and the corpses gone cold. The memory will still linger in some corners of the web, and the sense we attempt to make of tragedies of this nature will be no closer to any semblance of sense. Because it is, in one word, senseless.

My sneaking suspicion – prediction, if you will – is that it will be mostly forgotten, replaced by some new outrage or sensationalised tragedy. The happenings, that is. The rhetoric from all who chose to use it as some quick political weapon will not be forgotten, nor will it be subdued.

Please note that I do not consider possibly fruit-bearing discussions on the possible causes and solutions of and to things of this nature to be quick political potshots.

There is a difference, I think, in pointing fingers of blame hastily at whatever or whomever is in stark opposition to ones own political beliefs and in attempting to find a root cause.

That is to say: there is a difference in stating as absolute fact that this is caused by some defect in men as a group, and in saying that there is something wrong with how our societies treat men that cause them to lash out in a manner such as this – what might that be?

For example.

For there is absolutely no reason in denying or refusing to admit that it is mainly men – and mainly young men at that – who commit such vile acts. That would not be factual. Nor would it be helpful to any cause I wish to champion. Or at the very least spread awareness about.

There is, however, reason to deny the statements made that there is something wrong with men as a whole that cause this. For the very simple reason that men are not defective – being a man is not some biological or cultural defect. There is nothing wrong with masculinity as masculinity is. And there is nothing wrong with men as men are.

There is also reason to deny that it is mainly white men doing this. Because that is not factual either.

But my main gripe, my focus is not on ethnicity, not on matters of race or skin colour or creed or race relations or what-have-you. That is reserved for those who claim to abhor racism, yet do little but encourage hatred and division along lines of skin-pigmentation. And so I am careful when mentioning these factors, as I know very little about them. In particular in regards to North America.

I don’t think there are any easy explanations or simple solutions to these problems. Tragedies such as these will happen and they will keep happening. This is just a sad fact of life – people snap. People reach their breaking point, and they snap. This is something we will never get rid off. I believe, however, that we – as a society – would be able to reduce the amount of such tragedies in a not insignificant way. With solutions that are not simple. Yet would, I hope, be helpful and bear fruit were they to be implemented.

And I have, actually, a few propositions. I admit – willingly – that this is speculation on my part. It seems very obvious to me, though.

I would also like to state that these are based on thoughts, beliefs and values that permeate the structure of my philosophy and my life, and as such are not something that popped up in my mind as immediate responses to these tragedies. This is important for me to mention, as I spent the previous 1600 or so words attacking knee-jerk reactions and quick-and-easy political potshots to these tragedies. I am fully convinced that these propositions of mine would make for better societies overall, not only in regards to extremes such as these.

These are of course not my thoughts and opinions alone; I have a lot to thank the voices, thoughts and work of the likes of Tom Golden, Paul Elam, Janice Fiamengo, the Honey Badger Brigade, Warren Farrel, Erin Pizzey, as well as a multitude of other voices that dare defy the cultural norm and narrative of this day and age. Credit needs to be given where credit is due, and I have a lot to credit these incredible people and their incredible work for.

What sticks out the most to me is that our societies have to acknowledge and understand that the empathy-gap exist. That is: that men are met with far less empathy and understanding than women are, which I think goes a long way in explaining why young men blow up in such a spectacular manner.

These young men are – more often than not – men who have met nothing but hostility and a lack of understanding in this ripped-apart world of ours. From home-life to school to work. They are, as is my understanding, deeply damaged, neglected and ignored men. And damaged people damage people. Or they damage themselves. Or they do both – going out in a blaze of fucking glory and bloodshed, taking as many people with them as they fall as they can.

I would think it bloody obvious that people who snap like this are not well. Mentally healthy people don’t do things like this.

After a tragedy such as this, there is – rightfully – little compassion shown the perpetrators. In my way of thinking, however, showing compassion, empathy and understanding for their troubles before they reached the breaking point would go a long way in defusing the bomb, as it were.

It would behove us, then, as a civilization to not celebrate a cultural zeitgeist that do nothing but paint men and masculinity as inherently defective, that do nothing but place the burden of blame for everything wrong in our ramshackle societies on the shoulders of young men, that do nothing but tell them when they attempt to heal that their way of healing and coping and dealing is wrong. It does not do anyone well having to live with the sword of Damocles hanging over them; to live with the claim that the original sin of masculinity dangles there on a piece of flimsy string, ready to force them to break and snap and kill, maim and mutilate and rape.

When men – be that individual men, or the broader men’s rights movement – speak on issues affecting them as individuals, or men as a group, our societies would do well to listen instead of demonize and smear, instead of shutting down conferences and writing article after article filled with lies about the wickedness of this loosely knit movement.

It is often stated that men need to be more in tune with their emotions – that men need to speak about their emotions more. This presupposes firstly that there are people willing to listen, which is seldom the case. Secondly, it presupposes that men and women deal with their emotions in the same way. Which we do not. It also presumes that men do not understand their own emotions. Which we bloody well do.

There are differences in how men and women deal with difficult emotions, and men are drawn more towards action or solitude than are women.

This can not be stated enough.

Assuming, given this, that men would be cured if only they spoke about their emotions as women do are built around the presupposition that the feminine way is the correct way, and that the masculine way is the wrong way. Once again stating – in so many words – that boys and men are, really, only defective girls and women. Men have an incredible ability to be together in silence – doing something together, yet enjoying silence and merely being in the presence of a good and trusted friend. Men face their enemies and stand shoulder to shoulder with their friends, as the saying goes. The way our civilization has managed to dismantle and destroy any male-only spaces (yet keeping female-only spaces) has removed this one very simple act of healing through action or through silence.

Just the knowledge that this friend with whom one is doing whatever – even if it is just building something together, fixing something, fishing, whatever – is one to be trusted, one who has ones back, goes a long way in making a man feel safe and secure in the knowledge that he is understood.

And when demanding that women be let into what was formerly male-only spaces, thusly removing – under the preposterous pretence of gender discrimination – male only spaces, this male bonding and subsequent healing disappear. Giving rise to ever more broken men who truly have no path to tread in a society in which they are told that all that they do are wrong.

We inhabit societies which have created an entire generation of disillusioned and disenfranchised young men for whom traditional societal expectations have not changed in the least.

This despite the claim that gender-norms have been torn down for all. This claim is simply not true.

It can be as simple as men still being expected to not only make the first move in regards to a date, but also be expected to pay for a date. Or it can be as difficult as men still being expected to sacrifice themselves and their lives to save other people. This is something mainly men do. Just as it is mainly men perpetrating mass shootings. Yet these sacrifices made by men are never mentioned, never celebrated as the grand virtue of masculinity that it is. And make no mistake – I believe that this is a biological trait in men. Re-enforced by culture, for sure, yet encoded in our biological make-up and as such nothing that will ever be done completely away with.

Whenever men do anything bad, it is put up everywhere as men doing something bad. The dominating words then being men and bad, creating a clear link between these two words. This happens despite the good actions of men far outweighing the bad actions of men.

I would think it about time that our cultures began celebrating not only women but also men. There is absolutely no justifiable reason behind labelling it equal treatment when one sex is placed on a pedestal, built up and aided at the detriment, bullying and shaming of the other sex. Equal treatment would mean actually that – equal treatment. Either both sexes get built up, or neither do. Either both sexes still have traditional expectations enforced by culture, or neither do.

To be clear: I see absolutely nothing wrong in celebrating the contributions or importance of women for society as a whole. What is wrong is the lack of celebration of the contributions and importance of men for society as a whole. It is this constant buzz, this constant wretched you go girl nonsense no matter how small and insignificant a contribution any woman may have made.

I remember an article celebrating a female electrician for the simple fact that she was a female and an electrician. Women, then, are to be celebrated merely for doing their job. And yet, men, who are the ones by and large doing all the dangerous work, all the backbreaking labour, who sacrifice and sacrifice all the time, are not celebrated. They are demonized by the very same forces that celebrate a woman for nothing but doing a job that men do all the time.

Young men and boys live in a confusing culture. For it claims one thing – the eradication of gender-norms and traditions – whilst showing, quite clearly, that the traditional expectations are still there where they are concerned. And then the men are blamed and shamed for these traditional expectations as though they are at fault for them being there. Even when it is women – by and large – that expect men to pay for dates, to make the first move, to initiate the whole she-bang.

Claiming that both sexes are treated equal, whilst doing nothing in regards to treating the sexes equally does not make for anything but confusion. This double-standard is clear as the dawn where violence and rape and sexual assault and so forth and so on are concerned as well.

Women and men are the same and can do the same thing is the message delivered all the god-damned time.

This message makes an exception where violence, sexual assault and rape are concerned, however. For that is still the domain of men and men only. To such an extent that men who have suffered violence, rape, sexual assault and so forth at the hands of a woman are not believed, are met with ridicule and laughter and hollow mockery, and are victim-blamed into silence. Only for these same forces to then complain that men don’t talk about their emotions. And then, when this is brought up, the blame is yet again laid at the feet of men. For is it not the ideology of masculinity that has made it impossible for men to speak openly about things of this nature? That is the claim. Despite the fact that feminism does nothing but ruin the spaces where men speak about things like this, and then bitch and moan and shut down the voices of men who dare speak on things of this nature. Catch-22 and the circular logic of feminism as well as the societies surrounding us.

…For this is obviously driven by the culture we inhabit. And the culture we inhabit have listened nothing to men’s advocates where this is concerned. Quite the opposite. Yet, the blame falls on men whenever these topics are brought up, which is odd considering that it is feminist lobbying that brought these double-standards into dubious and neglectful policy in the first place. We just conveniently chose to forget that fact, I suppose.

The point being – men need to be listened to when we speak, the problems of boys and men are not that they are boys and men. It is that we live within a society which do nothing but smear and scorn and shun and ridicule and blame men and masculinity for being nothing but men, for being nothing but masculine. As though the mere trait of masculinity, the mere existence of a man as a man is enough to bring doomsday upon his fractured head and torn shoulders, breaking from the weight of the world.

There is also the issue with fatherless homes to consider. Boys who grow up without fathers do not do well in life. Girls who grow up without fathers tend to do better, but still do worse than girls who grow up with fathers in the home. Fathers are important. I am not interested here and now in placing any blame at the mother or the father for the absence of the father. It is not as easy as placing blame here or there. Because the blame is seldom here nor there on a societal level. On an individual level, it most assuredly can be. That would be another ramble, another long-winded and depressive affair that surely need to be explored. But this is long enough, and going of on yet another tangent would not do anyone any service. My view-count is low enough as it is – ha ha.

Suffice it to say: fathers need to be in the lives of their children. Children need their fathers to be in their lives. Particularly young boys. For stable, good, loving masculine role-models are of immense importance to them.

And to girls.

This is not something new. This is not some wicked scheme of the patriarchy to downplay the role and importance of the mother. Or, for that matter, force women to be mothers. Whatever the hell that means. This is the pure and unfiltered truth. And our societies… their celebrations of single motherhood have got to stop. There needs to be a celebration of both parents, a re-implementation of the family unit, of understanding the importance of a whole and functional family. Not necessarily in any traditional sense, as I have come to understand it.

Just the simple fact that both parents need to be present for the good of the child, be that child a boy or a girl. Even if these statements will bring hate and fury, rage and ruin upon my insomniac head and crippled ass from scores of single mothers feeling slighted and attacked for me daring to state that fathers are just as necessary and important in the life of a child as are mothers. There is genuinely something deeply wrong with a culture that celebrates the absence of one parent, that only celebrate the achievements and acknowledges the importance of one parent. That neglects the importance of the masculine and over-amplifies to the point of tonal distortion the importance of the feminine. This has gone to such an extent that we now have people lobbying to change father’s day to “Special Persons Day”, because – they claim as the reason – some children don’t have fathers. Some children don’t have mothers either, but no-one is lobbying to remove mother’s day, for some strange reason. For, you know, single fathers do also exist. Even if it is rare. And this is rare because of the biased nature of family courts, which holds as the golden standard of parenting the mother, no matter who is the best parent in any individual relationship. Of course, despite feminist lobbying to not have 50/50 as the default custody, this is also blamed on the patriarchy and therefore by extension men. If this does not tell us something about how our cultures view fatherhood, nothing will. It does not matter how small or big the movement lobbying for the removal of father’s day is. It is bad enough that it not only exist, but are given media attention.

Despite what one would probably be led to believe, considering the overarching theme of my writings – I do not place the blame on this solely on feminism. Though I do consider feminism to play a major part in it, and though I consider feminism to be a global fraud and sham, a blight on this earth and a foul and horrible den of hypocrites, double-standard aficionados and control-freaks that will eventually cause the collapse of our civilizations by crafting and crafting again, this narrative, by spinning and spinning again, yarns that do nothing but exaggerate and amplify a manufactured and nonsensical gender-war that does nothing but create rifts and lack of co-operation and understanding where there should be co-operation and understanding between the sexes – there is far more at play in this than that of their forces and their forces alone.

We also have gynocentrism to contend with, we have the biological impulse in men to protect women, we have the – from what I understand – biological bias exhibited in women’s greater in-group preference as opposed to men’s greater out-group preference where the sexes are concerned. Meaning that both men and women will rather look out for the interests and well-beings of women as a group than men as a group. Then there are trad-cons and white knights and the blue pill and the whole buckaroo banzai, the whole fucking thing. There are more forces at play than feminism, and feminism exploits all these other forces, being little more than trad-cons in alluring disguise. It is, as are all things, more complex than it is not. And as much as I would like it to be as simple as pointing a finger of blame at feminism and nothing but that, it really ain’t. I have a bone or two to pick with feminism, for sure. And I tend to focus on it. This does not mean that I am not aware of the other forces at play, making the coinci-dance of society such a difficult fox-trot that I always end up stepping on my own nose when trying to learn the moves.

I must also make it perfectly clear that I do not absolve the young men who go on these shooting sprees of any guilt. The responsibility of their heinous actions fall flat on their shoulders, and so they must also suffer the consequences of these actions. It is a far greater problem than men = bad, is what I am getting at. Obvious to anyone but those who have decided that men = bad, I suppose.

In order to combat mass shootings – in order to do something to reduce the risks for these tragedies to happen – we need to show more understanding and compassion and empathy towards men and boys and what they go through. We need to understand – on a grand scale – that men and boys are not so privileged as we have been led to believe. We have got to stop bombarding boys and men with messages of their inherent wickedness. And we need to stop telling girls and women that they can do no wrong, whatever they do. For – as it stands – any action done by a woman is empowering in some way or other, even if that entails nothing but doing her fucking job. Either, we start celebrating and building up boys and men in the same way we do girls and women, or we celebrate and build up neither. As the world is now, boys and men get all the hatred, all the shaming, all the dark and despicable forces we would rather see hidden in the shadows. And girls and women get all the celebration, all the love and care and empathy and compassion we can find, no matter if this is deserved or not. This goes for gendered scholarships as well. Women outnumber men in higher education, and there is still this immense push to get women into higher education. Even when boys and men are dropping out completely.

We have got to understand that bombarding men constantly with messages of how horrible they are, how bad and vicious and evil they are, has a terrible effect on young men and boys.

Particularly when we see, time and again, women being praised and praised and then praised some more. Our societies – our cultures – show nothing but contempt for boys and for men, made possible by some strange and predetermined biological traits perhaps, yet amplified immensely by a culture that has decided that its one scapegoat, its one wrench in the mechanism, is men.

For our cultures are in the act of auto-cannibalism; are in the midst of self-destruction. They are melting down due, in no small way, to the insistence, the message, the constant reminder that boys and men are no longer necessary – that masculinity is archaic and toxic – that women and femininity are the only saving grace we have. Despite us needing both in co-operation to survive and to thrive, we have decided that we only need the one and that the other should be destroyed. And destroy it they will. Bit by bit and piece by piece, tearing it down from within individual men who are shown and are told over and over that – no matter what they do – they do only wrong. That they can do nothing right.

And all that they experience is a loss of love. A loss of love from the culture surrounding them, and a loss of love for themselves. And they have no purpose. And they have no place. And they have no help. And they gain neither empathy nor understanding for their plight, being told that they are privileged patriarchal oppressors. And there is no guiding hand, no guiding light, no masculine role-model whom they may emulate and aspire to become. And there is nothing but the constant droning, the constant gnawing, the constant tearing-down of the self and all that is, was and ever will be the self. And they reach the end of the rope and they snap.

And the rope becomes a hangman’s noose; tied about their necks. And seeing nothing but death and seeing nothing but destruction and seeing nothing but despair and neglect and hollow tunes and mockery of their misery, they stand upon the gallows and upon the trapdoor underneath their feet, destined to die and destined to take as many with them while they fall as they can.

And then – when the fall is over and done with, when the damage is dealt and the damage is done, when the neck is snapped and the body is dead – the internal injuries now externalized – the whole vicious circle begins anew. For now, his actions and his rampage and his massacre are shown as absolute evidence of the rhetoric that brought him to the breaking point in the first place. Building ever more of the same. Repeating and continuing the rhetoric; a perfect circle that perfectly feeds into itself and into our cultural narrative and the societal zeitgeist, solving nothing yet claiming to solve everything. Rinse and repeat. Ad infinitum.

   – Please like, share and subdcribe

   – Moiret Allegiere, 14.08.2019

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Lies and Slander in the Domestic Violence Industrial Complex:

Healing lowres

Illustration: «Healing», Moiret Allegeire, 2019

Stumbling through the dark corners of the internet one fell morning, attempting to do research on the subject of domestic violence interspersed now and then with one of my dogs barking at some odd happening outside every two minutes, I crawled through the muddiest sludge of the world wide wonder-web to exhume this piece of preposterous writing: https://papers.ssrn.com/sol3/papers.cfm?abstract_id=2790940 .

Within this piece of writing, aptly titled: The Feminist Case for Acknowledging Women’s Acts of Violence, we find clear and concise evidence in the form of them admitting it that the feminist movement, or the women’s movement or whatever label one wishes to ascribe to it, built the domestic violence movement upon lies at worst and blatant misrepresentations at best. Of course, this being a feminist movement it goes without saying that the entirety of their hogwashed bullshittery is based upon either outright lies or snivelling misrepresentations of clear facts presented with the most serpentine of forked tongues, quivering lips and trembling forms, saying in a childlike voice designed to mimic the most awesome form of Neoteny: Please, I am such a frail and powerless woman – help me, big strong man whose strength and protection I don’t need but will manipulate at want when I need it. Even if I don’t need it, really.

I am not going to divulge the information within this incredibly illuminating piece of writing in great depth or detail in this particular ramble. I think this fantastic piece deserves a ramble all on its own, to go through it in such depths as I am capable of, being neither an academic nor a scholar. Now, being an academic clearly doesn’t mean much in this terrible post-apocalyptic haze of the current year. This should be self-evident by the sluggish beasts residing within the overcrowded halls of academia. So: rather than delving into this paper in depth here and now, I will take a look at a few proper studies on intimate partner violence and see how the data contained therein correspond to this amazing evidence of feminist skewed statistics and lies most worthy of the immense judgement and subsequent thunder of our grand societal ban-hammer.

Because this piece of writing, gentlemen and ladies, is of such incredible importance to understand the way our ramshackle societies view instances of intimate partner violence through the black and white, tried, true and incredibly faulty lens of male perpetrators and female victims that I can hardly contain my glee in stumbling across it. Even if I read it with a certain anger boiling in my throat, gut and groin. In the pages of this tome of inadvisedly applied “knowledge”, it becomes painfully clear that the feminist movement combined with the domestic violence movement cares not in the least for the victims of domestic violence, be they male or female. It becomes evident – by the constant reference to the “movement” – that it is the feminist movement that matters, the women’s movement. Not facts, not truth, not reason and not the individual victims of intimate partner violence. The movement above all.

The serpent cult is alive and well.

…And only the cult matter in the grand scheme and schism of things.

It should have been common knowledge from the 1970’s at least that intimate partner violence is not a gendered issue. Once again, I would like to refer to the work of that fabulous Loving Grandmother to Us All, Erin Pizzey and her tremendous work in regards to family violence. I recommend – once again – that everyone read her story, listen to her speeches and marvel at the treatment she received at the hands of irate feminists who had an agenda to push that was driven not by any concerns for victims of domestic violence, but by a concern for their own movement, their own dogma and their own hydra-headed serpent god of false tongues and venomous fangs. She concluded, already back then, that intimate partner violence was reciprocal in most cases, built on escalation and a pattern of abuse that was generational from both sides of the dysfunctional family.

She quickly learned that the women in her shelters were just as, if not more, violent than the men from whom they fled. And so saw fit to build a shelter for abused men as well, for which she was disowned by her feminist cohorts, harassed and harangued and bullied until she had to flee the country.

Obviously, this is a condensed version of the story.

All this came to be merely because she wished to actually help those who suffered instead of pushing an agenda that was as blatantly false as it was completely monochrome in its approach to the problem.

Women are angels and saints and men are the devils lurking at the outskirts of our civilization, ready, at a moments notice, to wreak bloody havoc on all that we hold dear. That is to say: on all that women hold dear. For, should we believe the feminist dogma, men can not hold anything dear but terror, tyranny, violence, beer and rape. Preferably at the same time.

Now, closing in on fifty years later, researchers are attempting to view the problem of intimate partner violence through new and fresh lenses. Gazing at it, as it were, from a vantage point not driven by ideology and subjective opinion, but on facts and objective observations.

Imagine now, if the powers that be had listened to Erin Pizzey when she first began speaking truthfully and honestly on certain matters having to do with dysfunctional family matters. Should-haves, would-haves and could-haves are not great tools for intellectual quests, I will have to agree. And resentment and bitterness helps little in furthering anything. But this fraud and sham of a movement has done such tremendous damage where intimate partner violence is concerned that I can not help it. This new research is not anything new. Not as such. And that angers my blood and boils my brain, slowly reducing it to snark and frustration, anger and resentment.

Think of what could have been done to help both male and female victims, as well as their children. Imagine how much work could have been laid down to stop the generational cycle of abuse – to break the vicious circle of replaying past traumas in ones own family of origin.

Instead, the domestic violence movement saw fit to ensnare society within its tangled web of feminist patriarchy-theory and gibbering nonsense, painting men as the perpetrators and axe-wielding maniacs of immense power and violence. That it was the subjugation of women at the hands of both men and the state that caused intimate partner violence, and that it was men and only men who were violent both within and without the family, given the authority to do so by the nebulous and never-seen forces of the tyrannical patriarchy, the reptilian illuminati-annunaki of the feminist tin-foil-hat wearing swashbucklers of truth and glory filtered through mass-hysteria and quaint quantities of hysterical ovary-acting worthy of a hysterectomy or two.

Driven now by a longing for facts and for the feminist nonsense-mongers to remove their stranglehold on the discourse where intimate partner violence is concerned, we – as a society – need to wipe our faultily prescribed myopic lenses and put actual prescription glasses in place to view these dysfunctional family matters in an objective light, not tainted by ideologues who care for the movement and the goals of the movement, replacing the needs of the actual victims and sufferers in the process.

And so, new research floats to the top of the stagnant pool that has been the discourse for decades. From the septic tank of feminist-infused fuckery that has dominated the discourse, rises a noxious gas that may now be lit aflame and blow the whole thing up where the way we view family violence is concerned.

For: what should matter – what should always have mattered – is lending help to the individual victims first and foremost, disregarding the gendered view that feminism has put in place. Which they so clearly admit to have put in place. Secondly, the root cause of family violence should be understood so that the cycle of abuse may be broken. In order to understand it, one has to admit to and understand what both Warren Farrel and Erin Pizzey have been saying for decades; that damaged people damage people, and gender be damned. Gender should not factor into it. Especially not in these societies which we inhabit in which the claim is that gender never matters. Except when it does, of course. And when it does, it is always when it may in some way, shape or form supposedly help women. It is tempting to say that the root causes should be the first thing that matters. But that would then be done without lending help to individual victims in their immediate need. By lending help to the individual first and foremost, the root cause may be discovered and removed as one would remove a tumour.

It becomes glaringly obvious that their “containment” as they put it in the first paper linked, of female offenders and male victims has done a great disservice, not only to the men who have fallen victim to intimate partner violence, but to any-and-all attempt to grab the serpent by its tail and so refuse it to become the Ourobouros, perpetuating its cycle of abuse through generations of families uncounted. By pushing to remove female offenders, they have willingly allowed the snake to go uncaught. They have driven wedges ever further into the fabrics of our societies, into the trust and co-operation between men and women and sat fire to the entirety of the family dynamic. By their own admittance, they have neglected to catch the serpent, they have willingly destroyed the nuclear family and given birth to an industrial complex known vaguely as the domestic violence movement in which male victims – as we shall see soon enough – are not believed, are shunned, ridiculed, often arrested in place of their abuser and removed from their own home. For being beat and abused by their spouse.

All in the name of “equality”; that fantastic term that means everything and nothing all at once, depending upon the view of the feminist at the moment, depending on the position of the moon, depending on whether or not Uranus is aligned with the swinging cock of Mars to be sodomized at a moments notice and so forth and so on.

In the feminist dictionary, words do not mean what you think they mean. They change and they alter and they evolve all the time within the framework of their ideology, as whimsical and fluctuating as anything ever could be. And so, the joke lies there and I must use it: “At the flimsy will and whim of a woman”.

Thank you.

I’ll be here all week.

These are the jokes, people!

***

Looking on another study now, and of course I need to put in an addendum here – I am always a bit careful when looking at studies like this, given that I am not an academic and as such not all that versed in traversing these kinds of studies – this study is titled Differences in Frequency of Violence and Reported Injury Between Relationships With Reciprocal and Nonreciprocal Intimate Partner Violence. https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC1854883/ .

In this study, they analysed data on young adults aged 18-28 years in the US. The results showed that almost 24% of all relationships they looked at had some violence. Just about half of these were cases of reciprocal violence. In cases were the violence was not reciprocal women were the perpetrators in more than 70% of the cases. That is quite a lot, if I am to be honest. More than the feminist hive-mind and various do-goodie virtue-signallers would ever admit to. This does not matter to these people, though, as they will hold forth as arguments that this does not matter due to the fact that male perpetrators are more likely to inflict injury than are female perpetrators. If I understood the study properly, however, instances of reciprocal violence was more likely to result in actual injury than were instances of non-reciprocal violence.

This was found to be regardless of the gender of the perpetrator. I found this to be very interesting when taking into consideration that the study also tell us that “Reciprocity was associated with more frequent violence among women”. From my understanding of this quote, women were the instigators more often than men in cases of reciprocal violence. Thus leading the men therein to reply in kind. Given the greater muscle-mass and bone density of men in general, and the lesser muscle-mass and bone density of women in general, I do not find it all that surprising that women suffer injuries more in cases of reciprocal violence. It would, perhaps, be a good idea to not attempt to beat someone bigger and stronger than oneself.

Understanding that boys and men have been told since time immemorial that they should never – ever – hit a girl or a woman, no matter the circumstances, it is little wonder that the sympathies of society at large go to the woman in these scenarios, never-minding that she may very well have been the instigator. I think it would be prudent to also keep in mind the probability that people in these kinds of relationships where reciprocal violence occur are more than likely damaged people who keep replaying the same scenarios time and again, drawn to each other by a kind of mutual and subconscious desire for destruction and self-destruction, feeding into the generational cycle of abuse from ages past. Re-playing what they learned at the hands and feet of parents for all eternity. I can not imagine a worse doom than this.

The study also tell us that “the percentage of relationships in which there was reciprocal partner violence ranged from 45% to 72%”. Further evidence, then, that reciprocal violence in highly dysfunctional relationships and families is the norm more than it is not. Kinda ruins the pictures we have been painted and presented for ages now of the stereotypical wife-beating man; a drunkard and a brute with violence encoded in his DNA, allowed by both society and the patriarchy, weird deep-state shadow government that it is. A faulty image handcrafted by feminist ideologues whose interests and passions are to maintain this stereotype more than it is to solve the problem. Because solving the problem would mean that they would have to admit – as they have done in the first paper linked – that women are also violent, that men are also victims, and that violent relationships are more often than not a two-way street where there is no clear victim/perpetrator dynamic to be used in furthering an agenda.

And the agenda is also something they would then have to admit to; burying facts for sake of their ideological convenience and the advancement of the movement, the movement being, at the moment, in a state of siege as more and more people are questioning the societal narrative which we have been spoon-fed for decades; their toxin forced down our throats and injected into our veins from powerful institutions of education, mass-media and more.

This state of siege, I assume, is the main cause and reason for the first paper linked – the fear of loosing their stranglehold on the conversation, the debate and the topic forcing them to change tactics so as not to be shown as the bigoted and ideologically possessed and blinded serpents that they are.

There is this radical notion that has been with me, you see, part of my world-view for all my life, based as much on personal observations as it is on objective analysis, that both men and women are capable of tremendous good as well as tremendous bad. That is to say: women are just as capable as men. And men are just as capable as women. For good. And for evil. This goes in stark opposition to the dominant cultural narrative of our societal psychosis – that men are evil and women are good by default. An awfully traditional view of things, one would have to admit.

The study further states that “In fact, men in relationships with reciprocal violence were reportedly injured more often (25.2%) than were women in relationships with non-reciprocal violence (20%); this is important as violence perpetrated by women is often seen as not serious.”

Gee Whiz! I wonder why it is not seen as serious. Could it possibly be due to the massive influence from the feminist movement in regards to this, I wonder, I ponder, I think and I consider as I sip my coffee and listen to the soothing blast beats and throaty screeching of black metal of the foulest and meanest sort? Note also, that I take my coffee as black and soulless as my metal. It helps with the anger, releases the venom and soothes the mind something fierce. It also wires me up magnificently.

…Could this possibly also have something to do with the gynocentric nature of our species, wherein women are to be protected and as such are given excuses and quite a bit of leeway in regards to the abuse they may inflict upon their spouse and their children? It is a meme at this point, but I think it wise to repeat it here: women’s act of violence prompts us to discuss matters of mental health. And it prompts us to manufacture excuses. Such as that she was abused, either as a child by her father or by her spouse, which forced her to carry out her acts of abuse and violence. Men’s violence, on the other hand, prompts us to demonize all men, telling all men that they need to take responsibility for ending this, starting with looking at themselves in the mirror. It also sparks discussions on toxic masculinity and other such nonsense. When men are violent, it is because they are men. When women are violent, it is either because of men or because of mental health issues, urging us to feel sympathy for her and give her understanding.

What a beautiful shell of a world we inhabit. The post-apocalyptic wasteland is nothing like what I was lead to believe through the movies I grew up on.

Were I not cautiously optimistic, I would have turned into a raging misanthrope by this point in my life. Better to channel that rage not unto humanity as a whole, but onto ideologies that purposefully and cleverly have taken control of the discourse, have tied a noose around the necks of our societies and our civilization, have swarmed their way into our collective consciousness as the truth-speakers, the enlightened and empathetic ones seeking only to establish gender equality, despite proven to be filthy, rotten, tongue-tied-and-twisted liars time and again.

I think it wise to end this part of the ramble with another quote from the study in question, which makes it easy for me to segway into the next segment of my incessant rambling: “Regarding reporting biases, there has been much discussion of whether there are differences in reported IPV by the gender of the reporter. A meta-analysis of the reliability of the conflict tactics scale concluded that there is evidence of under-reporting by both genders, and that under-reporting may be greater for men.”

Small wonder, that, as men are not believed more often than not. Small wonder, that, when men are ridiculed by the forces supposedly put in place to help victims of domestic violence. Of course, in light of the glorious feminist revolution, victims of domestic violence automatically mean “women”. As such, close-to all resources available are merely there for female victims. This based on the false belief that only men are violent, only women are victims, for ever and ever, hail Dworkin, praise feminism, eternal glory be to the collective, amen.

The last study to gaze upon is also the one I think is of the most interest. It is titled “The Help-seeking Experiences of Men Who Sustain Intimate Partner Violence: An Overlooked Population and Implications for Practice” and can be found here: https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC3175099/ .

As one would assume, given the title of the study, it looks on the experiences of men when seeking help because of domestic violence. Unsurprising to any who have delved into the weird and wacky post-red-pill world, but probably surprising, bordering on unbelievable to any who have not, the study show that men experience barriers when calling domestic violence hotlines. It contains some very interesting quotes from men who have been foolish enough to attempt to seek help and understanding from the resources available. I will look mainly on their quotes, as the stories of men who suffer intimate partner violence are so often neglected and never told.

Also – I would like to make it clear that I do not use the word “foolish” lightly. Nor do I use it as a slur against the men who attempted to seek help from the resources available. I use it to define – to underline – the severity of the issue. I use the word “foolish” for the simple reason that, as the world and the web in which it is ensnared stand, it is a foolish and futile endeavour. This is due to the domestic violence industry being so tainted, so poisoned, by the might of the feminist industrial complex that one would be hard-pressed to find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy this side of the good part of Star Wars. As this quote from a man contacting a domestic violence agency would attest to:

They didn’t really listen to what I said. They assumed that all abusers are men and said that I must accept that I was the abuser. They ridiculed me for not leaving my wife, ignoring the issues about what I would need to do to protect my 6 children and care for them.

but it is not about hating, shaming or blaming men, you must understand. It is all to do with equal treatment of the genders, as the feminist furies would have you believe, with all their piss-pottery and slack-jawed yodelling. Because those who hate men are not real feminists, ya know. And they don’t like sugar on their porridge, either. Strange, then, that these feminists who are not the real feminists are the ones who have decided the rules and law of the land where the mistreatment of male victims of intimate partner violence are concerned. The not real feminists, apparently, are the ones in control of the movement, are the ones who control the discourse, change the laws, neglect male victims and their children and do nothing but further the narrative that women can do no bad and men can do no good. The real feminists, however, are the ones that do not do this, the ones who do not wield any power or influence within the movement which they subscribe to. The leaders of the movement are not real feminists. The ones who have laid the foundations for the movement and steered us all into these days of apocalyptic madness and rampant misandry enforced by law are not the real feminists.

And Hitlerism, you must understand, is not real national socialism. Real national socialism is something quite different. And on and on the circle goes. Where it ends, no-one knows. Nor where it begins.

I am given to understand that there exist no real feminists. Because this is the excuse whenever these hateful, bigoted purveyors of nonsense and neglect parade their hatred of all things male and masculine around town; that they are not real feminists. And when the leaders of a movement are not real adherents to a movement, it is safe to assume that there exist no real feminists, and that it is all a washbasin filled with toxic waste, vaginal sludge and phlegm.

It is fucking nasty, is what I am getting at.

Time and again, these excuses pop up. And people believe it, all the fucking time, people believe it. That the leaders of the movement – the movers and shakers of the law of the land – the ones implementing all manner of vile treatment of men and preferential treatment for women based on naught but sex – are but a vocal minority, a loud-mouthed gangrenous few who do nothing and accomplish nothing and are thusly of little consequence to the movement as a whole, despite the fact that these trademarked not real feminists are the ones responsible for male victims of intimate partner violence, as well as their children, not only not being believed, but not receiving help at the hands of the plentiful resources available to victims of intimate partner violence. Given that the real victims, ya know, are women and women only. But no – that is not real feminism. They just wield all the power and influence in the name of holy feminism and its wriggling, spineless serpent-goddess. And those who are supposedly real feminists do nothing to stop these so-called fake feminists. How very weird.

You know what?

I don’t often say this, but I will make an exception.

Fuck you!

Fuck you right in the ear and the nostrils with a barbwire-dildo laced with ferret-piss and honey, covered in angry ants!

This work shows that men often experience barriers when seeking help when calling domestic violence hotlines, for instance, men who sustained all types of IPV report that the hotline workers say that they only help women, infer or explicitly state that the men must be the actual instigators of the violence, or ridicule them. Male help-seekers also report that hotlines will sometimes refer them to batterers’ programs. Some men have reported that when they call the police during an incident in which their female partners are violent, the police sometimes fail to respond. Other men reported being ridiculed by the police or being incorrectly arrested as the primary aggressor. Within the judicial system, some men who sustained IPV reported experiencing gender-stereotyped treatment. Even with apparent corroborating evidence that their female partners were violent and that the help-seekers were not, they reportedly lost custody of their children, were blocked from seeing their children, and were falsely accused by their partners of IPV and abusing their children. According to some, the burden of proof for male IPV victims may be especially high.

Now, colour me prickly surprised and oddly titillated – could it really be? Well, yes, of course it could really be. The most infuriating bother of it all is that feminists will go out of their way to claim that this treatment is the fault of men, of toxic masculinity and of the patriarchy and that feminism is the force needed to fix it. This despite them being the reason for this sad state of affairs in the first place. At least now we have an admittance from their own filthy and bloodstained hands that they have knowingly “contained” – their word – instances of male victims and female perpetrators, so one would be inclined to believe that this excuse would no longer work.

Yet, it will still work.

It will still be presented as being the fault of men. Whilst in actuality being a combination of the succubi forces of feminism and the gynocentric nature of our species designing a cultural cutlery narrative that women are victims, even when women are the perpetrators. I can imagine no harsher punishment – no harsher and more foul treatment – than being arrested for being assaulted by ones partner, adding insult to injury one snakelike slither at a time, with the godawful feminist dogma whispering in his ear that this is the fault of men and of himself by extension.

A few quotes from the paper, which I think is of interest:

They offered to listen if I wanted to recount what had happened, but indicated that no support services were available”.

I was mostly just doing research after the occurrence to find out what I should do. I found mostly female help sites and was turned down by several so I gave up.

In regards to law involvement:

They determined she was the aggressor but said since I was a man it was silly to arrest her.”

Told me to get her help. Told me to spend the night in a hotel.”

They saw me as a large male and… took her side. I was at the hospital with bruising and burned eyes from hot coffee thrown in them. They didn’t believe that she did this… and refused to arrest her… The next incidence… the police… saw me bleeding they charged her with felony DV, but later dropped it to misdemeanour assault because we are not married and do not live together.”

Well, now, ain’t that interesting in light of the first paper linked? I would dare say that in the line of duty, neglect of the male is right there up front and centre for all the world to see, were they only willing to do so. Clearly, it is incredibly difficult to see after decades of feminist lobbying and implementations – or alterations – of law made to define Domestic Violence in a light spun neatly by the web of feminist dogma, such as the Duluth-model for dealing with domestic violence. But more on that later, as I keep saying whenever I bring it up. I think – quite simply – that it deserves a ramble all on its lonesome.

When all things are placed within the framework of an ideology that presumes women to be the oppressed and men to be the oppressors, violence can only ever go one way. And that way is down from the top – from man to woman. Women who are violent against their male partners are thus given leeway for her supposedly being oppressed for being female and nothing but. The domestic violence industry has handcrafted this fairytale on feminist insistence, where the big bad wolf is the man and everything done to fight the big bad wolf is of the good, even when that means a man being arrested for his horrible crime of being assaulted.

And so, the girl cried “Wolf”.

Because he must have done something to her that caused her to lash out at him. Because the story told and the image presented for decades has been one in which women are never the main perpetrators, nor the first instigators. It has been presented as being so simple, so lacking in nuance as to be black and white; that is the ever-popular Men Bad – Women Good. I know I repeat this often. This point needs to be hammered home with all the persistence and subtlety of a rampant AK-47 in the hands of a drugged-out-of-his-mind chimpanzee.

When faced with this – that male victims are arrested – the feminist hive-mind does, in my admittedly anecdotal experience one of two things. They defend the woman, stating that he must have done something. Or they claim – as they always do – that this is the fault of the patriarchy for viewing women as weak and helpless, forgetting for convenience the fact that all this is the fault of feminist lobbying. That this is the fault of feminism is made evident – clear and bright as the dawning of a new day – when looking at the first paper linked, or looking at the interview with foul and filthy Katherine Spillar in the documentary the Red Pill, wherein she states that “it is not girls beating up on boys, it is boys beating up on girls” and that “Domestic Violence” is nothing but a “clean-up word for wife-beating.” Imagine my bedazzled shock!

If this is not neglecting male victims and containing female perpetrators for the movement and the ideology and nothing but that, I have no idea what is.

This does not matter much, however, within a culture that is so decided upon viewing women as permanent victims of the tyranny of men that we willingly ignore all facts to the contrary of the cultural narrative. And that is a narrative that has been pushed and prodded and presented as absolute fact for decades, despite being at the best falsely presented statistics, and at the worst downright lies.

The worst part – to my eyes at least – is not the narrative being presented of only men being perpetrators and only women being victims. The worst part of it all is that this one-sided narrative, this bitterly unnuanced view of things, stand directly in the path, blocking what would be the best attempt at remedying the problem. And that is looking at the core reason for violence, which seems to be linked intimately with family of origin issues.

That is to say – the sins of the father will be visited upon the son. Adding, of course, that the sins of the mother and father both will be visited upon the son and the daughter both, in equal measure. Doomed to repetition is the generational cycle of abuse.

For are not our behaviours – our patterns of behaviour in adult life very much a reflection of that of our parents, be they our mothers or our fathers? Being able to see this pattern – this circle of abuse clearly, would mean being able to consider the instigators of violence, the perpetrators of violence within a family, be that reciprocal or not, in light of the abuse they suffered at the hands of their parents. Not as a manner of excuse for their behaviour, but as a way to teach them ways of working through the trauma from the abuse that is not them re-playing it time and again, regurgitating the same generational sins as their parents and their parents did, and so forth and so on.

It would mean grabbing the serpent by its tail, understanding that it is a far more complex issue than the feminist hive-mind and their various sultry snake-cult priestesses would have it presented. This way of tackling the issue, however, would of course mean that the feminist movement as well as the domestic violence movement, which is, to be honest, more or less the same thing at this point, would loose not only the stranglehold they have on the discussion but also a wealth of funding and control.

Which I, of course, consider to be a godsend.

But which they clearly do not – hence the first paper linked, wherein they present arguments for acknowledging female perpetrators of domestic violence in order to further the agenda of the movement, not the help or protection of the individual victims of intimate partner violence, nor the families destroyed by it.

Which just goes to show that feminism cares neither for women nor for men, but their own agenda. Whatever that agenda may be at any given moment.

It is definitive proof that feminism as a movement cares for naught but their movement. Women that oppose their movement and the dogma of it all – Erin Pizzey, for instance, can burn in hell for all they are concerned. And men can go to hell as a collective no matter who they are or what they have done. Or what they haven’t done. Where there should be compassion shown to those who are abused no matter their sex, there is naught. All there is is a movement so entrenched in its own ideology and orthodoxy that they willingly – and admittedly – lie in order to further this orthodoxy. At the expense of victims, be they male or female, adult or child.

And that is that.

No individual matter.

Only the party matter.

All else is naught but sacrifices for the serpent-god.

 – Please like, share and subscribe

 – Moiret Allegiere, 10.08.2019

____________________________________________________________________________________________

Links:

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Gazing at the Harbingers of «Female Oppression»

Lonely trainstation blues lowres

Illustration: «Lonely Trainstation Blues», Moiret Allegiere, 2019

Some time back I was served a good old fashioned chewing out by a feminist acquaintance. My crime was one of the most horrible crimes a man could ever commit. Such a terrible display of toxic masculinity and male entitlement was this trespass of mine that I was sure that whatever was lurking in my future would be nothing but brimstone and hellfire. No choir eternal to lull me safely into the long and deep sleep of death and the beautiful grace of the afterlife. No halo to be placed upon my head and no graceful angel-wings upon my back. Pitchforks and damnation eternal awaited me beyond the veil and my long toil on the mortal coil.

So, what did I do to warrant such an exquisite and most justified chewing out?

Simple and easy.

I gave my wife a compliment on her appearance. This is not something I am supposed to do, as one would expect. This is not something any man is supposed to do in this crazy post-apocalyptic wasteland of ours, come to think of it. To the eyes and mind of this frail flower of feminine feminist virtue, this could not mean anything other than me valuing only the physical appearance of my wife and nothing but that.

Granted, my wife is bombshell-hot, wielding an alluring sex-appeal that would turn both heads of any man in any room and – apparently – turn any woman in any room into a boiling cauldron of unfiltered jealousy, making her manufacture any way possible for her to climb to the top of the feminine pecking order. By, for instance, chewing me out for giving my wife a compliment on her appearance. As a point of severe interest, I must add that the feminist in question was in her mid-forties at this point, and my wife in her early twenties. Chew on that for a little while. Might have something to do with it.

Now – the reason given for this chewing out is exactly what one would expect. In the embittered cage of jealousy, spectacle and wonder that was – and, I suppose, is – the mind of the feminist in question, me complimenting my wife on her appearance meant that I did not value any other qualities of my wife. As if her physical appearance was all that mattered to me, and any other quality be damned. A simple compliment must therefore – on feminist insistence – include all manner of other compliments relating to her intelligence, her spirit, her personality, her very soul, including but not limited to any and all prior incarnations of her undying soul as well as any other talents and abilities she must have underneath her bombshell appearance, vintage pin-up looks and alluring feminine grace.

And those other qualities of my wife – those that are not her stunning looks – are plentiful. Of this, there should be no doubt. I am not so stupid as to marry someone solely for their looks. Even if that is how feminism views male romantic interest. I think it would be safe to assume that the feminist in question could see no other qualities in my wife than her appearance. And her youth. Also, I feel quite certain in saying that my wife would probably be a bit peeved if I suddenly stopped complimenting her on her appearance.

Of course, what my wife thought of the matter was completely irrelevant to this single-minded simpleton so hell-bent on ruining this singular compliment. She felt offended at this horrible act of mine, and so she saw fit in her see-saw ways to defend the honour and the grace of my wife. As we all should damned well know by now, any woman not falling in line with the feminist orthodoxy must be a pawn of the patriarchy; an unwitting and un-awakened slave of societal constructs placed upon her against her wishes from which she must be emancipated lest she contribute to and willingly participate in her own oppression. Unknowingly, of course. A very whimsical and witty way for the feminist hordes of salivating salvation and holier-than-thou platitudes to parade their enlightened forms across town. Saying, in so many words, exactly this: “I don’t care what you believe – I know better than you what you feel deep down inside, and if you would only listen to what the sisterhood says it would all be clear to you. Meanwhile, I will just ignore everything you say. Because: as a simple and enslaved woman, you could not possibly understand any of this.”

Forgetting, for the moment, what is implied in the original offence taken – that is that a man can not possibly enjoy anything in his partner other than her physical appearance and what this says about the feminist view of men – I would like to take a look at one particularly terrible part of the feminist poltergeist philosophy. That is their insistence that the private must be political and the political must be private. For this, I believe, is the reason why the hive-mind feel as though they are entitled to intervene in a personal relationship and the compliments given by a husband to his wife.

It is preposterous.

Any personal relationship has to fall in line with the feminist philosophy and their whimsical ways and vices. This is to such an extent that they feel they have the obligation to be moral busy-bodies, poking their powdered and upturned noses into the private lives of everyone. Neighbourhood gossip-mongers given free reign to spy on and interfere with their neighbours. And you can be damned fucking sure that they will do this at the moment someone does not tow the party line. And what is it that does not tow the party line? Well, now, that depends on the feminist in question. If one but gazes beyond the veil nailed to our eyes by decades of feminist indoctrination and power-grabs, one will be able to see this busy-body poking and prodding everywhere. It is commonplace now.

Of course; given that our societies are beholden to a deliberate and – to my eyes – absolutely absurd celebration of celebrities, to such an extent that their private lives are something of a public spectacle, it is no small wonder that the peeking and peeping and attempted control of the private lives of ordinary people are not noticed as much. We seem to be far to busy with the virtue-signalling, moral grandstanding and constant displays of hypocrisy, nonsense, constant crisis and severe debauchery of celebrities to notice this peeping and prodding and poking into our own – by comparison – uneventful lives.

This does not mean that it is not there, however. If a married couple makes it known to the world, be that merely their friends and family, that they live a traditional life – that is wife at home, husband at work – I will bet you that one or more of the frazzled and bedazzled horde will poke their noses out of the cesspool that is social media to make it clear and to make it known that this is not the way one should chose to live. And people will buckle down and they will listen and they will apologize and mutter and stutter something along the lines of “yes, yes, I know, I know, it’s not entirely correct, but this is how we do it”. Thereby giving an admittance of guilt where no guilt exist.

…I am reminded of the “Big Bang Theory” starlet who made a horrible dent in the fabric of the space-time continuum when she said in an interview that she enjoyed cooking for her husband. Being a housewife was something she enjoyed. And this, it was made perfectly clear, was not something she was allowed to enjoy. This is not acceptable to the domineering sisterhood, and the high priestess was most displeased at this heresy. The social media harassment that followed was enough to prompt her to apologize for her wayward ways, throw down her sword at the feet of the feminist conquerors and swear fealty to their cause and their ways. For a woman – any woman – to enjoy something that is not of the feminist dogma is a terrible trespass upon women’s rights and must be fought by any means necessary. The woman in question does not matter. Her choice, her wishes and her enjoyment of anything does not matter. Only the collective matters – the sisterhood – the feminist collective of guilt and shame and attempted remodelling of the personal lives and doings of people whose lives they have no business interfering with.

The most frightening – and I think sobering – part of this privately political and politically private nonsense is of course the loss of personal freedom, liberty and responsibility. Allowing for a political movement to poke their noses in wherever they want in order to interfere and remodel the personal lives of other people – often strangers – is thinly veiled tyranny. It is an obvious attempt to govern what ordinary people do within the confines of their own homes, reaching into their lives and into their minds by telling them that if they do this, it is wrong. Teaching them, through the pain of shame, that they have to sort out their personal affairs, their family dynamic, to put their house in order in a way that pleases not them, but the movement, the ideology, and – in the end – the state. Barring violence and abuse, there should be absolutely no reason nor allowance given for anyone but the people involved to figure out how they want their interpersonal relationships to function. What works for them should work for them. What works for their neighbours should work for their neighbours.

This should be obvious.

But in the era of the collective, in the tribalizing societies we inhabit, this individual liberty and individual responsibility is forgotten – by will and by power – to be replaced with an ideology so determined at tearing down anything slightly resembling their chosen enemy that nothing matters but the tribe and the collective. And that is tribe and collective assigned by value of sex and gender, by random chance of birth. If a woman does something that is not considered suitable by the elders of the tribe and the collective, she must be shamed until she complies. And the same goes for men – doubly so, of course, or more, since he is the de-facto patriarch of his home and the one who has forced his partner into a subservient state of being in which she is valued only for her looks and her cookery. According to the elders of the tribe and the collective, as well as the high priestesses of immediate and visceral femdom.

…and in turning the political private, any personal grievance – however petty – experienced by a woman must be heard and given time and given due consideration as though it is the experience of every woman everywhere, even if she is the only one experiencing it. That is, of course, if the women just so happen to be a feminist, if she stands bold-faced and wearing warpaint within the ranks of the conquering army. Otherwise, she will be ignored and forgotten unless she allows herself to be engulfed, swallowed and subsequently digested by the tribe and the collective.

People in general want to be good, they want to do good and they want to be seen as good. People, by and large, wish for nothing but the acceptance of the world around them and the society which they inhabit. People, in general, don’t have the time, the resources or any particular interest in looking into things in great depth and detail. And so, when they have been told that feminism is a force for good and for equality and only that, they swallow it hook, line and stinker. And they do their best to fall in line. When being shamed by feminism – whose prime focus is naught but equality, you know – they consider their point of view from the point of view that feminism equals equality, and equality is of the good and so they must have done something wrong if the feminist horde are angered. So they whimper and let loose an apology for doing nothing wrong but arrange their lives in such a way as they see fit, but as feminism does not see fit to accept. There is no more powerful force in the world to bring an ordinary man to his knees than being shamed at the hands and lips of a woman scorned and offended.

What people ought to do is to let loose a barrage of anger and hostility towards those who are so rude as to suppose that they know better than the people in question how they should live their lives. To shame them into the shadows for being so solipsist in their view of the world that only their way of life works, that nothing exist beyond the barricades of their minds and the ideology infesting it. These people – these petulant peddlers of personal grievance and mangled word-treachery – should be shown, time and again, how rude, how inconsiderate of other people, how egotistical, selfish, narrow-minded and foolish they are. They should be told to leave other people alone. To not stick their shit-stained noses where they don’t belong. Or they should be ignored completely. Simple as that. They should not be given anything but a cold shoulder and a dunce-cap, to be sat in the corner of the grand classroom of the world to weep at their perceived wickedness of the world. Then they should be told to grow some balls and respect the privacy of other people, since this seems to be something they are absolutely and completely incapable of doing. Little by little, or with a full frontal shotgun blast of reasonable truth and individual liberty, they should be told – simple as it is – that the lives and affairs of other people are not their business, and that they should keep themselves to themselves and allow other people to do the same. Otherwise, fuck them.

   – Please like, share and subscribe

   – Moiret Allegiere, 07.08.2019

   links:

My book – Howling at a Slutwalk Moon:

Vol 1 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/107571074X
Vol 1 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZTPDPR
Vol 2 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075714184
Vol 2 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZR25NL
Vol 1 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075717094
Vol 2 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075723078

Other links:
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