Apocalyptic Recess

«Dissociative», Moiret Allegiere, 2019

Inspired by this: https://www.rollingstone.com/culture/culture-features/coomer-meme-no-nut-november-nofap-908676/

I came of age in an apocalyptic recess. A green-screen school-yard that scripted interactions with other kids where what was and was not allowed depended upon the screech-yammer of the blind and murky eye in the sky; the godhead of our illuminating teenaged madness that got us mad and gloomy, despairingly lost in the labyrinth, alternating between hunting or being hunted by the Minotaur.

Not to run too fast, not to wrestle on the ground, not to play-pretend battlefields mirroring open-canvas history… but to buckle down, to defend and to pretend miscellaneous cataclysmic horror-events never really happened as they did… that words spoken were not spoken or in fact ever thought, despite being spoken loudly and coherently through the smokescreen… an age of lies and of deceit where nothing ever meant what it really meant, where all was jumbled confusion.

Wild, rubbed raw, running scared, broken and feral… snow melting on eyelids exposed to the sun… later to be targetted for brown-nosed browbeating for our immediate and immaculate response to distant sing-song triggers that burnt the sky as well as the eye in the sky where we should neither sing nor dance but fold our hands and loose our selfish selves in a death-rattle trance. Scorched earth; minds and nimble fingers burnt and buried, bruised and battered.

Once we jumped to action in inaction… attempting to avoid the plague that killed the wild forest growing in our mind and in our minds eye… so that our childhood eyes that had their gaze thrown to the ground in shame and in regret and dutiful neglect should be clouded by the grim, deaths-grin of the eye in the sky that would burn a hole in our souls and in our lust and laughter to send us spiralling down.

Such a fall and such a tumble from the playing-fields that levelled all our spastic muscles, toned to peak efficiency in young-boy minds that screamed and dreamed and creamed in anguish… torn apart by clashing waves and tyrant-songs, whose vibrating vibrato-voices swooned and gasped in two-toned harmony at the mere whisper of the word “pussy” or – even worse – the word “cunt”; the shaking fists and trembling lips conspired to the rat-faced shaming of our budding sexuality.

For we were not to raise our arms in gratitude to the spring-rays of the sun, or the smiles of alluring teenaged beauty, nor to appreciate the forms and shapes that came to bloom in sudden summer-winds… we were left instead to celebrate the dim rays of the winter sun that cast such shades of doubt in the neurotic tragedy of our puberty-induced psychosis that shook the travesty, the cow-poked lunacy of long-lingering hatred and despotic fear of male sex and sexuality, of what was considered brute boyish fumblings in the dark… naught but inexperience and clumsy attempts at flirting in actuality… yet painted and presented as peak misogyny or sexual entitlement in the dawn of the present-day oppressive clown-world insanity where sexuality is wrong except when it is right… which is… well, whatever, never mind. Smells like teen dispirit… Here we are now… vivisect us.

We sat chained and locked in dim sleep beneath arching, cavernous roofs and watched the stars align to our demise to be taught the terrors and the horrors, the errors and the worries of our raging boner; our holocaust-inducing hard-on, the simplistic stupidity and egotistical nature of our fornication-desires, where a penis was doubtlessly nothing but an implement of rape and of oppression, a hymen-blasting shotgun spray-painted the colours of beastly lust and animal instinct.

As was also the case regarding our perceived lack of emotional maturity… a ghastly grim guffaw whipping us across the backs for our crude humour and ravenous rogue-like laughter… for us to cross the lines of good taste and decency was such a trespass that the sheltered shaded safe-zone minds that numbed themselves with safe and sheltered shaded safe-zone entertainment swooned and gasped and swindled their way into the limelight to point their wagging fingers at us and beat us down for insubordination in our intra-sexual communication, bullshit-talk and private jokes, shooting us for revolution, for de-volution, for having a sense of humour different from the scorned and ever-so-offended hordes that ruled the discourse then and would later come to rule the discourse even more in fumbling babbled crocodile-teared shock and horror at the state of the woe and of the worry of the world.

This ball-blasting mind-melting meddling in the private sphere where none but those who ultimately were intimately involved ought to have words to say and deeds do to is par for the course in the inter-twined and inter-mingled hive-mind perspiration that drips like blood from rotting gums that can not stand the shock of people acting on their own, being non-programmed by the engineers of this unavoidable Armageddon, the downfall and demise of our all and own and one and all.

The self-proclaimed-and-chosen institute for higher morality have unleashed the hounds of war, have sat hells gates open and let loose the hordes of hell to burn and bring to ruin all that once was and ever will be. To tear down and never rebuild. To bomb, burn, bruise and batter all who oppose the high-flying fancy of their ministry of morality, their department of kind and inclusive mob-rule and social death, their police of political duplicity and virtue hidden in their folded hands and dead-eyed grimaced grins that claim vacuous public decency… to be laid down upon the heads and shoulders of all but them, for they are above the law and above the rules… y’all gotta play by the rules as we present them, but we don’t have to.

One can not expect to find common decency in those who rage and roar about the lack of common decency – such arrogance is invisible to those in the throes and hysterical displays of smug self-righteous arrogance, virtue and morals and wise words more vacuous and wild than the gloomy depths of teenaged goth poetry written in the dark by candlelight-vigils for the soul they wish they had not sold for political correctness, where double-standards are the only standards they hold, a truth visible to all but themselves.

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 13.11.2019

Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07ZB6K2JX
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Why I am an Anti-feminist, part 6

«Projection»

There is absolutely nothing wrong with physical attraction. Nor is there anything wrong with sex… or sexual desire. Quite the contrary, I would dare say, as I fail to see how the human race would have managed without it.

Contrary, perhaps, to all sanity and reason, I have yet to become a misanthrope. There is too much beauty and kindness in the human race still for that to happen, though the mass-media pundits would tell you otherwise. Might be a case of naivety on my part. No doubt, I am a grumpy and cynical bastard… but at the very least I still cling to a tiny floating burrito filled with hope. This keeps me from becoming completely and utterly black-pilled.

For the time being, at least, the good tend to outweigh the bad. One just need to look beyond the rage-inducing headlines and constant calls for outrage. It makes more sense to focus on the bad. It stands to reason that the bad is something one would wish to change, whereas the good don’t need to change. Even if the bad often is amplified far beyond how bad it really and truly is. And the following outrage doubly so.

Whenever I experience one of my frequent bouts with insomnia, I tend to wake up in the wee hours of the morning… or the middle of the night, completely incapable of going back to sleep. Physical pain, stress, emotional turmoil, constant pondering, racing thoughts… whatever the reason, I have to get up. And in those moments, I tend to watch dog-rescue videos on YouTube. As corny as that sounds. It restores my faith in the world in no small way. And is one of the few things that bring tears to my eyes, soppy romantic fool that I am. Dogs are way too good for us. At times, I think that we don’t deserve them.

There is so much enmity, so much hostility, so much rage and wrath and ruin everywhere one looks. Everything has to be analysed, broken down and labelled this or that. When that happens, it is left open to attack from those that would say that this is better than that. Or that is better than this.

Nowhere, to my bleeding eyes and foggy winter-mind, is this more evident than in the eternal gender-war. The eternal gender-war, I think, is a manufactured war meant to carry on in perpetuity. It is not meant to end. Its sole purpose lies in creating a great rift between the sexes, manufacturing mutual hostility and distrust where there really ought to be mutual co-operation and trust. Where we ought to fulfil one another, we now do nothing but try and outdo one another. As stated time and again; how we fulfil one another – that is – who does what – should not matter to anyone but those directly or intimately involved. Making the personal political and the political personal is a horrendous thing. Barring abuse, none but the people involved in the personal should have a say in their personal day-to-day lives. Do not meddle in the affairs of other people. Respect the privacy of other people. This should not be all that difficult a concept to grasp, yet it is. Apparently. No-one but those involved should care about who cooks dinner, who does the dishes, and so forth and so on. It is not unreasonable to “allow” people to decide for themselves who does which of the many chores and responsibilities that necessarily come along with an adult relationship. What is unreasonable is for other people to poke and prod and complain and bitch and moan if the chores are split in a manner not suitable to their political or personal sensibilities. And here I am not speaking only on feminism. This goes for whichever preconceived set of ideas about who ought to do what one ascribes to.

My tribe is better than your tribe, here’s ten reasons why. Bog-standard clickbait titles. Men this, women that. One celebrated at the same time that one is scorned by popular voter’s fraud.

People tend to be trend-hoppers. This is not something new. The in-group dominates, the out-group does not.

If one man writes an article about women the way many a feminist woman would write an article about men, the powers that be will truly shake, tremble and come down on it with all the rage, wrath and ruin that could be mustered. Even if nothing but the sex spoken about in the article has changed. The wording may be exactly the same. But substitute “man” for “woman”, and the whole world cries out in pain and in anguish. Try it sometime. Read any feminist article, and replace every instance of “men” with “women”. Does not look that reasonable then. For added emphasis, replace “men” with “Negroes”. Or “Jews”. Or “The Irish”… whatever you wish, really. It works.

Nothing negative may ever be spoken about women. And nothing but negative may ever be spoken about men.

At the end of the day, it seems to me that it all boils down to something as petty as revenge. Nothing more and nothing less. And something that petty ought not to be a proper reason, ought not to be an accepted reason.

Even if one accept the feminist revisionist history, revenge should not be an accepted reason for anything of such magnitude and societal impact as feminism. It is small-minded and petty. Which is what the gender-war is, in my humble and barbaric opinion – small-minded and petty, filled with tiny grievances and vengeance-fuelled tingling feminist-senses… lovingly, inclusively and compassionately informing us that men being broke, destitute and in lack of higher education is a problem for women wanting to marry. And that women have always been the primary victims of war. Because their husbands, fathers and sons die.

In other news; Meteor hits earth, Women most affected.

One of my biggest personal peeves with the gender-war, with the feminist-laced koolaid that has been forced down our gullible throats like so much old vine cyanide, is the constant assault on what men in general find sexually attractive. Men tend to be more immediately attracted to visual appearance; to tits and legs and butt and what have you. This should not be something negative. Yet it is presented as such; presented as superficiality and what-not. Odd I think, as the main reason for this, as far as I have understood it, is healthy mate-selection.

Signifiers of youth, good health and fertility are not negative traits to be attracted to. Quite the contrary, one should think. Yet here we are, lost in this nonsensical poop-flinging. Men in general are not attracted to fat chicks, as obesity is not exactly a signifier of good health. This only goes to show that men are far too superficial of course, never delving beneath the outer appearance to see the beauty hidden within the flabby folds of fat. Here, men must alter their sexual and romantic preference to include fat chicks. Otherwise, they are fat-shaming misogynistic bastards, subscribing to a societal brainwashing about what is and what is not attractive.

…For wanting ones partner to be fit and healthy is a bad thing, a superficial thing. An obese woman losing weight instead of a man altering his sexual and romantic preference is too much work, man. Women need not do anything to fix themselves. It is presented, as it always is presented, as if men are in the wrong. As such, men need to change and alter what they find attractive. For not being attracted to obesity; for not being attracted to poor health and all which that entails of future struggles down the long and winding road to nowhere.

Would the same women that scream about fat-acceptance accept a morbidly obese partner themselves? This is a question I think is very interesting. I have no idea, in all honesty. Still, I have to say that every one of these fat-acceptance comics I have seen depicts an obese woman with a decently built man. This is solely anecdotal, however. And I have not delved deep into that grime and muck, patriarchal misogynistic bastard unable to show empathy and understanding for the plight of (insert supposedly marginalized group) that I undoubtedly am.

Still, and for what it is worth, I would dare say that I absolutely do think men tend to not be critical enough about where they stick their willy. As long as the willy gets wet at a semi-regular basis, it is all worth it in the end. No matter what happens, how it happens or what she does. Or how she does it. There is a reason why there is such a saying as “don’t stick your dick in crazy”, after all.

Contrary to what the current cultural climate would have one believe, this saying is more of a slight against men than it is a slight against women. That is how I hear it, any ways – a cautionary tale in six wondrously crafted words, urging men to think with their big heads and not their willy when it comes to the subject of willy-wetting. There are more important things in the world than fucking. Yet, men are thirsty creatures. To our own demise. And crazy women exist. Just as crazy men exist. The difference lies in what women are told in regards to crazy by society at large, and what men are told. The expectations are not the same, nor is the message delivered. There are few limits to what men are supposed to put up with. Whereas women don’t even need to put up with a lack of attraction from men for reasons of poor health and obesity. Or poor health on account of obesity.

It is still his fault and as such need mending. On his part. His biology must be re-written, his outlook altered and his brain beat into tune so that he plays the fat-acceptance accordion with a painted-on smile and glazed-over eyes, singing along with the ballad of the big beautiful women. These are women who are healthy at any size… and diabetes, infertility, cardiovascular disease and higher risk of certain cancers, etc. etc. be damned. Those diseases are all patriarchal constructs; designed to force a societal ideal of beauty that is as unnatural as it is unobtainable. Being fat is exactly how things should be.

For is it not written that the flab is as the flab does, and any who oppose the fat, the flab or the fold are not of the true roll? Hail to the flab, for it marks the coming of the fold and of the fat and of the roll. From now until the end of time, amen, hallelujah, praise Mickie D’s, all hail the King of the Burgers, and so forth and so on.

I used to be fat. I have lost a little over 30 KG. This was done solely by changing what I ate, what I drank and how much I walked. No strenuous exercise, even… nothing more difficult than self-discipline and adding about 30 minutes of walking to my daily routine. Granted, changing what one eats and drinks is changing habits. And changing habits is fairly difficult. But it is far from the most difficult thing in the world. It is absolutely doable. People do it all the time. It is well worth it.

I must say that losing weight did wonders for my mental health as well as some pretty severe lower back pain I struggled with for quite some time. Not having to carry around 30-something kilos of flab alleviated pain. Who’d have thunk it? It fixed quite a lot of other things of small or big significance, which I do not wish to get into here. Of course, this was before I got hit with this bloody illness of mine which causes me chronic pain and fatigue along with a whole host of other health-issues of varying severity… Bloody genetics, man. This was likely destined to happen. Which would, were I still fat, be even harder on me than it currently is. The only thing you lose when losing weight is weight. But I am getting off track… again.

…It is so strange to see how men are not “allowed” their own romantic or sexual preferences. They are to be shamed for it. Don’t want to fuck a pre-transition transexual lady with a penis? You are as transphobic as the day is bright, sir! How dare you not want your woman to have a penis? Lady-penises are beautiful, I’ll have you know, sir! For added shaming, add the slur “homophobic” and something-something “heteronormative”…

The sexuality of men tend to be viewed as something dangerous, something primitive, something based solely on primal lust with not a smidgeon of emotional connection anywhere to be found. I would dare say that most men quite enjoy there to be an emotional connection as well as a purely physical attraction. At the very least regarding long term relationships. But what the hell do I know – I have only been a man for thirty-some years… it is not as though I have studied intersectional feminism and stalwart gender-studies, after all. As such, I really have no idea about life as a man. That knowledge is reserved for female gender-studies graduates with type 2 diabetes poking its head out of their throats, floating on their radical and righteous acid reflux.

It is such a horrendously arrogant thing.

Feminism knows all about life as a man. And men can not know anything about it, nor can they know anything about life as a woman. If you want to know what life is like as a man, you have to study gender in universities. It is not enough to live your life as a man. This means nothing. Only women have lived experiences. Men need not apply. Particularly women of the gender-studies bent experience lived experiences, with the mark of feminism tattooed on their heads… branded, as it were, by the mark of the beast. To be clear: I do not believe that every man lives the same life and has the same experiences. Nor do I believe this about women.

One-night-stands are another beast altogether where attraction and sex is concerned… but in that regard, there are two people playing on prime-rib primal lust, not only one. With the man labelled an arsehole for leaving the next day, and potentially a rapist were the woman intoxicated. Whether or not he was intoxicated as well plays little part and no matter. He is the instigator and the fornicator, and she is not. An awful gender-traditional view, one would probably be inclined to believe. Yet apparently not.

It is clearly liberating to the extreme; an intoxicated woman is completely incapable of acting on her own accord, whereas an intoxicated man is very much capable of acting on both his own and her accord. Apparently, women turn into children when intoxicated. And men are some horrible paternalistic rape-figure, entrenched in cum-dreams and driven by primeval lust. Both when they are sober and when they have been drinking. For that is the plight of man, mischievous bastards that we are.

One-night-stands may be as they may; I fail to see why anyone should care what people do with their genitalia. I do have my own opinions on the matter, but I see no reason to flaunt that opinion here as some sort of bloody moralizing stupidity. Consenting adults can do whatever the hell consenting adults want to do.

The main problem with sexual liberation is that it also carries with it an immense amount of responsibility, not least of which is to take personal responsibility for drunken one-night-stands. Which also includes regretting it the next day, when the lust has passed and a throbbing urge and desire to scream, roar, and hide beneath the covers in shame overcomes one.

Accepting and then living with that regret is part of the game. Falsely crying “rape” – as have happened more than once – for regretting an in-the-heat-of-sudden-passion one-night-stand is not accepting ones own folly and taking responsibility for it. It is pushing responsibilities for ones own actions away, giving one party sole responsibility for something where it really and truly does take two to tango.

I have no doubt, of course, that rape happens. Nor do I have any doubt that both men and women are capable of rape. And of being raped. But claiming rape of the woman every time a drunken hookup happens between a man and a woman is much akin to saying that men are capable of making their own choices and taking responsibilities for their actions when drunk, and women are not. Which does sound awfully patronizing… seems like infantilising women are in vogue at the moment. I happen to believe women are far stronger and much less frail and weak than feminism wants us to believe that they are.

You see; if women can not consent to sex when drunk, whereas men can, what view would you say the ones claiming this have of women? And of men? And of female sexuality? And male sexuality?

It sounds neither equal, nor healthy, nor sane from my point of view. Either both parties are raped and both parties are rapists, or they are both grown-ass adults, capable of making their own decisions. Even when intoxicated. This removal of liability, of personal responsibility from drunk women is removing all manner of personal agency from women and placing it all on men.

#notallwomen.

Though certainly a push from feminism claiming to speak on behalf of all women. Consent can be revoked at any point. Even long after the affair. Which is interesting, obviously, as this necessarily must mean that one can not trust in a woman that gives willing and eager consent, as it may be removed seventeen years later and brand one a rapist. I have no idea how this is supposed to work. Men need to get consent. OK, that is fair enough – do women have to get consent? Or does it not work like that? Did you not think of it in that way? Oh, well, no matter. Consent is gotten. And then it can be removed at any point, even after the damned willy-wetting. How can one possibly trust in the consent given then?

Men are hunters, and women are prey. That is what the sexual tango boils down to through this line of thought… as such, any sexual act is an act perpetrated by the man upon the woman. Sex is something men do to women, which women begrudgingly let men do to them. Giving way to such splendid stupidity as “all heterosexual sex is rape” from many a radical feminist, which is, of course, not real feminism. Because such a thing does not exist. Even when it does for reasons of feminism not being a monolith. Sigh and harumph.

I’ll just retreat into the shadows, twirl my moustaches menacingly and laugh in grim-faced patriarchy.

It is almost as if feminism is created to be confusing, giving neither a yes or a no, but perpetually existing in a state of uncertain flux so as to be invoked at any moment as either this or that, depending on the state of current affairs. We have always been at war with Oceania. Or was it Eurasia? It is so easy to get lost in it. Better to just go with the frantic flow of things. Nod, smile, and pretend to understand.

The cat and mouse game is nothing new. One can hear it in songs as old as time, in tales as old as time. Most elegantly in the quaint and very romantic “Baby, it’s cold outside”… It is such a quaint, cute and romantic song that I can not help but love it. Soppy romantic fool that I am. This ballad really blew up around Christmas of 2017 or 2018 – I can’t really remember… with it being referred to as a date-rape anthem and other such stupidity from people who seem to be frightfully unaware of how human beings interact and all the social games we tend to play which, ultimately, are nothing but a set of invisible rules and borders which we all must exist within and work together within, whether we want to or not.

I really do believe there is something to the cat and mouse game… Women are the gatekeepers of sex. And men must “catch them” by proving themselves worthy in some way or other… must convince them that they are worthy of a good and solid fucking, a chance of procreation, a relationship, and so and such. Him protect, him provide, through this, that or the other. There is nothing wrong with this, as such. If people were willing to at the very least be god-damned honest about it, instead of muddying it and hiding it and pretending it is something other than what it is. For it is a dance, a constant back and forth, older than sin.

When considering that men are the ones who are expected – by and large – to make the first move in any relationship, it becomes even more apparent. At the very least it does so to me. Yet, the rules have changed somewhat… the social contract having been rewritten with mainly women in mind, keeping the rules the same for men in no small way and loosening the rules for women in no small way give rise to a certain sense of confusion. There are still plenty of traditional expectations expected from men, even in regards to simple one-night-stands. These are rules and expectations which women seem to cling too, all the while expecting to be released from these rules and expectations themselves. Rules and expectations is something that happen to other people, after all.

She has been “hunted” all night until she finally relented and gave in, willingly gave consent through many an “Oh, God, Yes!!!” and then removed the consent the following morning for regretting it. Which just beggars the question yet again: how can one possibly trust in this consent, if the consent can be given, the act done and the consent then removed the following morning?

One can not trust in it. And it does not make any sense – the rules are nonsensical.

That is a major problem of this current year. If all responsibility for drunken hook-ups lie squarely on the shoulders of men, never-minding any responsibility from a drunken woman who also was very much into it, up to and including willing and eager consent, there is a problem. With great power comes great responsibility. Great sexual freedom is great power. And one has to take responsibility for ones own actions when enjoying that freedom.

Obviously, this is something that goes for both men and women who enjoy this kind of thing. Yet the blame and the responsibility keep falling primarily in the lap of men. And only men, if the winds keep blowing as they do. Only men have agency in this regard, then. That is the view of things. And the feminist hive-mind host slut-walks to protest the shame they claim women who seek nefarious carnal knowledge of someone else’s flesh are met with on a regular basis, forgetting for sake of convenience, that everyone – be they man or woman – are judged on what they do and how they behave.

I do not believe that this is something every woman does. The power to do so is still there, though. And this society of ours keep telling women that 1+1 equals 5, 6, 7 or even 8. That if she feels wronged, she has been wronged – and to hell with all the facts of the matter, up to and including willing consent given in the moment… or at every subsequent step from the moment.

I could have gone on for ages with this… but I’ll take a break here, considering the length of my ramblings being too lengthy more often than not. …And my mind not being at its best behaviour on account of a particularly rough battle with illness the past few months. Also, the construction work going on outside is distracting, making it even more difficult to think and write. Join me next week for some more cruel and unusual rambling on what is, essentially and apparently, not real feminism. Even when it is. Despite such a thing not existing, except when it does.

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 02.11.2019

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
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Why I am an Anti-feminist, part 5

«2019, Eggshell-frail Enlightenment»

Back in 2016, a video made the rounds through the commentator-communities of YouTube. And beyond.

This would be the ridiculous, god-damned awful, horribly brain-dead, superficial-as-a-valley-girl video “36 Questions Women Have for Men”. If you have not seen it yet, you should. Go watch it now. I’ll have coffee, wine and strange and exotic pharmaceuticals waiting for you when you come back.

It is safe to say that, if this video was a child, it would be referred to as having a face that only a mother could love. It would be caught trying to smoke its own socks in the one and only gender-neutral toilet in its school, because the cool kids told it that this is what the cool kids do. It is that one kid that everyone knows should really be getting special education, but who does not, for some reason or other. Mainly to do with its parents.

In other words: it is ridiculous, stupid, mentally and emotionally challenged. It should be locked up for its own protection, in a padded cell with a straight-jacket and a bottle of finely aged antipsychotics, its tongue tied down so it did not accidentally swallow it and subsequently choke to death.

Of course; this child would have already choked on its own sense of self-importance, slipped on its own dribble and landed straight on its arse. Which is to say – it would slip on its pride, and land on its honour.

I really and truly enjoyed watching it being torn to shreds by everything and everyone able to get their wonderful hands and biting tongues on it.

Though it is, without a doubt, low-hanging fruit.

Sometimes, that is just exactly what one needs. I am not going to beat a dead horse and respond to that video. We should really leave it alone. It is already dead.

And, oh the humanity, oh the woe and oh the torture never ends!

I’m just using it as a necessary tool; an introduction to this part of my cruel and unusual rambling.

It is incredibly funny to me – bordering on hilarious – that the supposedly oppressed class can speak to their supposed oppressors like the women in that video did. That is – with impunity.

It is almost as though women are most definitely not oppressed and men are certainly not their oppressors. That these nincompoops are unable to see this is something I am absolutely unwilling to believe. No-one can be that stupid, that lacking in self-awareness, and still be able to breathe and stand at the same time.

They know they are not being oppressed.

They are riding the gravy-train of self-important smugness, arrogance and the incredible sensation that their shit don’t stink. High on their own fumes of moral indignation and self-righteous imbecility, they know themselves and their ideology to be considered untouchable by the culture at large.

Were women as oppressed as these fools claim, they would never have dared to make this video for fear of the bogeyman Patriarchy smashing down on them with all the fascist jackboots and cruel whips it could muster.

Strange how that did not happen.

Of course; cue the inevitable calls and cries of misogynist harassment and patriarchal interference for people responding to their video in which they do nothing but insult, condescend, stereotype and belittle men in the name of holy feminism and her cohort gynocentrism. The self-perpetuating and self-fulfilling prophecy has come full circle. Women can say whatever the hell they like about men in general, and if men dare respond – well now, that is an outrage and absolute proof that what they are saying is true as well as the necessity of the movement. Add to this the chronic case of the one rule for me, another for thee sickness, and you’ve got yourself feminism 101.

Though I am not going to respond to the video, I will take one quote from the video as a starting point, paraphrasing it a bit: “Why do you make women talk about men in movies when you can sit around and talk about boobs for hours?”

Men are – just as women are – not a grey homogeneous ooze. The actions of one man are not the actions of every man in existence. It is also incredibly funny that this is, in fact, a video where women do nothing but talk about men. Or talk down to men. Whatever you want to call it. Which kind of disproves that point a little.

Which only makes me think that anything a feminist claims that men do is something she does herself. It is psychological projection from someone who is incapable of understanding that other people act differently to herself.

Now, to be fair, I believe we are all guilty of psychological projection in some way or other. The only reference-point we have are, after all, our self. So it would be fairly natural to assume other people react or act in a manner similar to us. More so for people who have problems with empathy, if I understand correctly. It is, however, something that one can learn not to do. This involves introspection and an understanding that oneself is not the blueprint for humanity, though, and this is clearly something that does not come easily to the feminist hive-mind in the garden of voluptuous hysteria… or aboard the gravy-train of grace and hubris.

For my own sake, I can not remember the last time I discussed boobs with any one of my friends. Granted, I discuss boobs with my wife from time to time, but that tend to be because she brought it up after seeing boobs in the Bada-bing scenes from the Sopranos and commenting on the terrible boob jobs. And, yeah, they are fairly terrible.

You know, boobs may be great and all… but it really is not an interesting topic of discussion.

Sorry ladies.

Besides, I have always been more a fan of legs than I have ever been of boobs. Legs are far better than boobs, and I will happily fight anyone who says otherwise. Or I will offer them a pint of my finest home-brew and make them see the error of their ways. Whichever may come first. I can only assume that what women – in particular feminist women – do when they are alone, is talk about men and nothing but that. Either that, or they are terrified that men do not talk about women when men are alone together. There can be no other topics of importance or interest for men than women, right?

Cockadoodledo.

You know, I have received unsolicited tit-pics on Snapchat, back in the days when I was dumb enough to use it. To which I responded that I have always enjoyed legs far better than I have ever enjoyed tits. This did not get me any response. Probably should have called the cops on them for sexual harassment, come to think of it. But, oh well.

T & A aside, what I am rambling my way towards is this: feminism often make the claim that men oppose feminism because feminism focuses on women.

…To which I would dare say that it is quite the contrary. The main point of contention is that feminism focuses so very much on the perceived evil of men. So much so that it borders on obsession; a grotesque display of obsession. Like some frenzied, mad ex-girlfriend that can not understand the meaning of the words “leave me alone, you crazy person!”, feminism lays the burden of blame and shame on men for being men. It does so all the time. It has the worst, the lowest opinion of men. Painting us all as terrible oppressors, misogynistic bastards and so forth and so on. For nothing but being born as boys, for growing up and becoming men. At the same time, feminism tend to call on men to rise up and do all we can to make the world a better place. For women.

Men must give and sacrifice so that women shall feel safe. From other men. And if men do not do that, men are shamed by feminism. And by society at large. Men are disposable tools to be used for the betterment of society, for the safety of women and for the safety of children. Chivalry is not dead. And feminism, with all its claims of equal treatment, are the ones keeping it alive. Whenever it suits them.

Traditional expectations where gender-roles are concerned is still a thing when it comes to the expectations we put on men – to protect, and to provide. And most men, I am willing to bet, do this quite willingly. It gives a sense of purpose that is much needed in the lives of boys and men. This is something men have done for millennia. I don’t think this is something we will ever get rid of, despite men walking away, despite MGTOW, despite all that jazz. It seems to be something we are biologically hardwired to do.

Now, we have grown smart enough as a species to be able to make conscious decisions to walk away, to work on ourselves, to be aware of how we interact with society – and with that I mean all of society, not only men, not only women.

This is, in all honesty, all well and good. More power to you.

I find myself turning my back on society more and more in my own way. At some point, I really just got tired of all the shit-flinging, imbecility and hypocrisy on display in the public discourse. Civility is dead. All that is left is civil disobedience. And that is a misplaced, poorly managed, never thought through parody of civil disobedience from sheltered nincompoops who do not really understand the what, how, when, where, why and such.

Everything has become so scathingly, so eye-scarringly black and white. It is either this, or it is that. Opposition to this must as such necessarily mean complete allegiance to that.

I often wonder if this is due to our dwindling and very limited concentration-spans, making concentrating on something for a prolonged period of time a difficult prospect for most. This giving rise to merely a surface understanding of various issues. It is easy to point at one thing and claim that this – this one thing is what needs to be fixed. Then, and only then, all of this and all of that will be in perfect order.

And then one could probably argue that this is exactly what I am doing when I focus so much of my writing and rambling on the forces of feminism. To which I can only reply that I have a lot of things to get out of my system where feminism is regarded before I feel – and here the emphasis is, I absolutely admit, on the word “feel” – ready to tackle other issues.

I consider it very dangerous when one ideology, when one set of ideas, are given the monopoly on any one concept. Particularly so in regards to such a strange and ever-changing concept as “equality”. More voices should be heard than only the one. And feminism have become so mighty, so big and powerful that it is able to – quite successfully – kill other voices attempting to speak on the topic. That is a dangerous thing. This is something I would say no matter which set of ideas are granted a monopoly, to be perfectly honest. Particularly so if this set of ideas have the power to shut down voices in opposition. Any -ism that shames and threatens other voices into silence or compliance or obedience is dangerous. Protesting is one thing. Refusing people to listen to other voices is quite another.

This black and white thinking is the price to pay for immediate satisfaction through immediate outrage, and facts and nuance be damned.

…Though I am obviously not a MGTOW, being a married man and all, I absolutely understand where it comes from. The best one can do is to carve out a space for oneself – to follow ones own path toward happiness and self-fulfilment. Which feminism consider wise words to give to women, but horrible words to give to men. For, to the eyes of feminism – and to a sure and certain extent, society as is – if a man does not make the betterment of women’s lives his main priority, he is not a real man. That is putting it very simple, obviously.

If there is anything we ought to have learned by now, it is this: the only ones allowed to judge whether a man is a real man or not are women as a group, not men and most certainly not the man being scrutinized at that moment in time.

That is the level of insanity we are at. There are more than enough books, articles, lectures and so and such out there by women telling men what to do in order to be a real man. Which tend to be what the one woman want to see in a man, and never mind the men themselves – men are there for their amusement and their convenience. This is supreme entitlement driven forth and weaponized by the frantic forces of feminism.

It is not without reason that the word “boy” used to refer to a servant. Just get the boy to do it. See what I mean?

As an example, it is a constant source of amusement to me that men are still expected to pay on dates. Scores of women get offended if they are expected to split the bill. No strong independent women to be seen there, I gather – some fish most certainly need a bicycle. At the very least where dates are concerned. This is a traditional expectation.

And though I am very much aware that there are women out there who do pay for dates or split the bills, they are in the minority. To be clear – how people chose to delegate responsibilities in their personal relationships is their business and their business alone. I have no interest in meddling, nor should anyone else. My point is only this: one can not expect one side to fulfil the traditional expectations and then be outraged when the traditional role is expected from the other side. One must give in order to receive. This goes for both parties.

There is this interview with Emma Watson – she of the hypocritical he-for-she funk and flurry – on YouTube in which she magically and majestically swirls triumphantly through the garden of mental gymnastics to explain why she still expects men to pay on dates, despite feminism, equal treatment and so and such. And despite being filthy stinking rich herself.

The traditional roles are very much alive and well where men are concerned, but it is not to be reciprocated in kind. If you want a woman to fulfil a traditional role, you are a misogynistic bastard. You, however, must fulfil a traditional role. If not, you are a misogynistic bastard. For that is equality as seen through the eyes and bleeding gums of feminism: supreme entitlement, because men owe women ever so much and yada-yada-yada, blah blah blah. And you want to be seen as a real man, do you not? And a real man does whatever the hell a woman and society says he must do, at the cost of his own safety, sanity, life, limb and economy.

This “real man” rhetoric is complete and utter shit. A real man is a real man if he says he is a real man, and he does whatever the hell he wants to do, shame and ridicule be damned. Whether that shame and ridicule comes from women or from other men should not matter. Rise above the self-flagellating and self-sacrificial bullshit and do your thing, whatever that thing is.

I was bullied for reading books when I went to school. Literature is one of my first and greatest loves, one of my greatest pleasures in life. Always have been, and always will be. Apparently, this is not something real men do. Whatever the hell this means. Granted, I was singled out for bullying… so whatever I did would give get me bullied. This one stuck out the most to me. Because there is something precious and special about some imbecilic moron with the vocabulary of a toddler proudly boasting about never having read a book in his life ridiculing and belittling someone for reading books, referring to the practice as stupid. Stupid. Maybe I am expecting too much from kids aged sixteen, but – god-damn, if that is not some ridiculous piss-pottery.

It must also be mentioned, mainly for my own amusement, that the girls were not particularly interested in leaving a party and going home with someone whose main accomplishment in life was having a complete collection of Dostojevskij and Jens Bjørneboe on his shelf. Can’t say that I blame them – I am very much aware that I am a boring, introverted social fuck-up with all the charisma of a wet and well-worn sock. I was, however, led to believe that women and girls both preferred intelligence to brutishness, calm mannerisms to “toxic masculinity”, a cultured mind to a fornicating mind, and so and such.

…Now, had I owned a car or a motorcycle, on the other hand – in other words, being able to provide something of value…

There is this constant bombardment of messages aimed at boys and men. Mainly from women. And more often than not feminist women. About how men are supposed to be and act and do and think and behave and not behave and live and love and fuck and breathe and eat and die.

And the messages are self-contradictory more often than they are not, unreasonable at the best of times and completely and utterly shining, burning and flashing with entitlement. In particular when taking into account that men can not say a single god-damned thing about women and how women should be – or, for that matter, what kind of women they want to share their lives with – without being rained on by the great and glorious feminist brigade. And any and all woman and simpering white knight in the immediate vicinity of your tweet or twatter or private conversation in a public space.

I have been verbally harangued many a time in public by self-proclaimed feminists who believe they have the god-given right to charge in on any-and-all private conversation and private relationship if they don’t like what they hear or see – or believe that they hear or see.

Entitlement, thy name is feminism.

If you don’t believe me, try telling the world that you – as a man – want a traditional marriage where the woman stays at home and you provide.

And see what that gives you. Conversely, and for amusement, try saying that you – as a man – want to stay at home and expect your wife to provide for you and the family, to be the main breadwinner, as it were.

Both are equally wrong and terrifying; signs of misogyny and toxic masculinity and what-not and what-do’s and what-don’ts, what, what, what. Kyle’s mum will always be a bitch, no matter how selfrighteous.

The inverse applies as well – if a woman wants to stay at home, the feminist brigade will submit their opinions on her poor choices in life whether she wants to hear them or not.

There is not a single coherent message delivered. There is only the messages – the constant bombardment – that men and boys must do this, do that, do the other stuff even when that contradicts the previous stuff. It is never good enough, for there is always something to bitch and moan and complain about where men are concerned.

I am aware that many of these articles written about what men must do, need to do and so and so are written by different people with different views.

This is not the point. Or, well, were I playing the collectivist blame-game that feminism plays, it would be the point. And that is exactly the point – feminism plays the game of collectivism and tribalism, where men are one group and women another group. Therefore, anything one man does reflects on every other man.

The reverse do not apply.

Anything one woman does is her actions, and does not reflect on every other woman. When it suits feminism. Any one man is representative of men. Any one woman is representative of her self and her self only. When it suits the powers that be. So that painting all women with a broad brush is terrible behaviour, and painting all men with a broad brush is expected, accepted and celebrated behaviour.

It is a confusing time. And has been so for years and years, as the dominant cultural narrative has shifted more and more towards the trembling might and fury of feminism. Which in turn opens the discourse for women to say whatever the hell they want about men – as long as it is in line with feminist thought and philosophy. At the same time, it closes the doors for men so that men can not say anything about women, including what kind of woman they would like to settle down with. Men are not “allowed” sexual or romantic preferences, whereas women are. And any positive thing said about men must include women, otherwise it is perceived as a slight against women. Any positive thing said about women need not include men, and any who say otherwise are labelled an incel by people who have no idea what incel means.

There will be more on this later. Here endeth part five. Join me next week for part six of this never-ending rave and ramble.

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Why I am an Anti-feminist, part 4:

«Examining Pain», 2019, Moiret Allegiere

It would be safe to say, by peeping but a little beneath the crows-silver that lines the surface of feminism, that it does not exactly hold the greatest opinion of women. It does hold feminist women in great regard, bordering on deification. But that is not your average woman, that is feminist women. And it does have some weird holier-than-thou hang-ups regarding female nature, despite neither masculinity nor femininity being natural according to them. It is a weird thing. And an incredibly strange trip.

In my writings, I tend to focus on men and the opinion feminism has in regards to men. The reason for this should be easy to understand: society, as it is, does neither talk nor care about the plight of men. Feminism insists the opposite, despite it very clearly not being true. One needs look no further than beyond the political indoctrination; the tangled web of lies which feminism have placed over our eyes.

They point to the top one percent in society, see mainly men and state that this means women are oppressed and men are oppressors. Otherwise, why should there be so many men at the top? This is known as the apex-fallacy. In looking only to the top, they neglect looking at the bottom. And at the bottom of society, in all the negative statistics, all the destructive statistics, all the suicides, all the homelessness, all the workplace fatalities, all the drug-addictions, all the alcohol-addictions, all violent crimes – excepting rape, and this may very well be for reasons of rape not being recorded as rape when it is a man being forced to penetrate a woman – and so forth and so on, we find an overwhelming amount of men.

Men die younger than women.

Men lose custody of their children during divorce.

And despite new studies showing that domestic violence is so close to being 50/50 in regards to who is the victim and who is the perpetrator that the few percentages difference does not matter all that much, shelters for men seeking to escape domestic violence hardly exist, whereas shelters for women exist a-plenty. Interesting to note is also that there are higher incidents of domestic violence in lesbian relationships than there are in both male homosexual relationships and heterosexual relationships. It is also worth noting that in most cases of domestic violence, the violence is reciprocal, with both instigating and amplifying and playing on one another’s terrible tendencies and broken psyche. In non-reciprocal domestic violence, the woman is the perpetrator more often than not.

And yet, police – and society overall – have a hard time believing men to be victims of domestic violence. They have a hard time believing that women are capable of being abusive. More often than not they end up arresting him instead of her, thus adding severe insult to severe injury. And feminism doth protest, with all their might, whenever someone attempts to create a shelter for abused men. For that would be sharing societal resources with men. And that will not stand. For all of the resources of society must go to women. This includes empathy.

…This must be that equal treatment they keep telling me about.

I find it interesting and peculiar that feminism will claim that MRA’s don’t do anything but bitch and moan about feminism, then protest when MRA’s attempt to open shelters for abused men, or attempt to get the government to do something about the plight of men, or have conferences attempting to shine a light on the issues predominantly affecting men.

Feminism claims that MRA’s don’t do anything to help men, then protest and complain when MRA’s do something that would help men.

I am lucky to be cynical. This nonsense surprises me less since I have learned to expect it. That is what a lifetime of overt hostility will get you.

All these problems facing men… all these issues that men face are neglected, shooed away and forgotten. It saddens me and it angers me and – at the worst of times – it depresses me. I have no problems with the issues primarily affecting women being taken seriously. I have severe problems with the claims that women – only women – suffer, or that the suffering of women is so much worse and more important than that of men. No matter what it is, it is a woman’s issue.

So you see articles popping up stating that men are lonely, and this is a burden on women. And men are earning less college or university degrees, and this is a burden on women. And on. And on. And on. Never have I ever encountered such incredible egotism, such rampant selfishness and disregard for other human beings. The loneliness and social isolation of men are a burden. On women!

I have severe issues with this lopsided approach to equal treatment, where equal treatment of the sexes has come to mean nothing but give this shit to women, for they are women. And this makes sense, of course, in a society in which we have learned that only women matters at the same time we are told that men get everything handed to them. Double-speak and psychological projection… and a good serving of horsepiss and bullshit.

Not that long ago, I wrote a response piece to an article.

The name of my piece is: “Crucified in Toilet Cubicles – A Tale of Women Pooping”. This was a rare spur of the moment thing, written and then recorded for the tubes within the span of two hours. Not my finest work, in all honesty. I usually don’t do responses like that. The simple reason for this is that I tend to think very slowly, I consider and I ponder and I doubt myself and my abilities to such an extent that it surely has got to be a sign of some neurological defect. When I finally get around to responding, the original piece is long forgotten, tossed to the annals of internet history. As we all know, in internet time one day is damned close to seventeen real-life years.

Originally, I was planning on posting something other than the poop-piece. But this had to come first. It was, quite literally, a much needed shit-post. And the reason I reacted so viscerally, so quickly, so roughly and so brutally to that one article is very simple. The article I responded to, if you have not read it, was published in the New York Times and was a tale of woe and worry about women pooping at work, and how hard this was for them.

Due to the patriarchy and due to men and so and such and blah blah blah. I reacted so viscerally to this article due to this – this petty god-damned fucking non-issue about women having their own small neurosis, their own petty personal hang-ups about pooping – this is given attention.

This needs to be taken seriously. This is being published. This is being pushed as an important issue affecting women. While at the same time, at the same god-damned time, men are not afforded shelters, men commit suicide at frightening rates, men lose access to their children, men lose in education, they lose in the workplace, they drop out of society. And no-one cares about this, no-one touches this, no-one views this as a problem but a few who are labelled god-damned misogynists by the feminist hive-mind that consider women being scared to poop far more important than men killing themselves. It is safe to say that it really struck a nerve with me. And with good fucking reason.

We live within a cultural narrative, within a maddening societal zeitgeist that have decided that all the small and petty issues, all the personal hang-ups and personal grievances of women are more important than anything men go through. Men don’t suffer any hardship, don’t ya know.

Ms. Poopypants and her neglected toilet-trip is a worse story of far more importance to society than Mr. Suicide and the ex-wife that won’t let him see his god-damned children. And all the while – all the god-damned, motherfucking, cocksucking, unlubricated anal-fisting, horse-sodomite while – the feminist hive-mind snarls and gnarls and gnaw their bones, claiming that men have it ever so good and women have it ever so bad. And people listen to them. All the time. People listen to them. And they claim – they dare to make the claim – that they help men as well. It turns my stomach to rot. As it turns the entirety of society to rot and ruin.

The feminist way to help men is to have a panel of only feminist women gibbering and cackling and clucking about how men are obsolete and what men need to do to fix themselves. Men need not apply. Only women are allowed to tell men what to do, what they need to do and how to live their lives. Men are not allowed to speak on behalf of men. That would be misogyny. Men are not allowed to speak on behalf of women either. That too would be misogyny. Men are not allowed to speak at all. For that is misogyny. See the tactic?

Here, within my shattered basement-cavern throne room, you’ll get it mansplained to you by yours truly; the grand majestic manspreading patriarch supreme, whose testicles are just as much a tool of oppression as is his swinging cock, from now until the end of time to be referred to as a savage, unmutilated rape-implement of doom and wanton destruction.

No wonder that people struggle to comprehend the fact that men have problems in society. Feminism have told their fairy-tales for so many decades that people would rather believe that sooner than they would believe objective reality, sooner than they would believe measurable reality. This horrible insistence from feminism that all the problems of men are due solely to men as are all the problems of women do nothing but taint everything in shades of deep period-blood crimson. It is rage-inducing. And so simplistic, though wrapped in enough magic wordsalad gibberish to sound profound.

For men to be saved, they must first cleanse themselves of masculinity. For masculinity is the problem and femininity the solution, despite both being social constructs. As of course feminism is as well, but that is a social construct we shall trust as opposed to the social construct of gender, despite gender being biological when it suits feminism.

Men and masculinity are the cause of all the problems of society as well as being the solution to all the problems in society. According to feminism, which tend to view women as objects – mere automatons with no agency of their own, no ability to do anything about anything but be acted upon.

That is unless they bend the knee to feminism, thus becoming part of the feminist machine and move with the click and crack and dubious twirling of the cogs and wheels and pins and buttons and clockwork within. Women are nothing without feminism; can do nothing without moving with the machinery of feminism.

…And they claim that men have a poor opinion of women.

Feminism does not consider women to have any manner of agency or self-determination. Were I a woman, I would very much be insulted by feminism pretending to speak on my behalf, painting me as an emotionally frail and fragile wreck so prone to being ruled and governed by the terrible forces of men that I am completely unable to make my own choices and have my own thoughts. On anything. Thus needing feminism to think for me, act for me, speak for me and do everything but take a piss for me.

Whatever I may mean about this does not matter, though. It will be dismissed as mansplaining, horrible misogyny and harassment of women. For feminist women are so strong and independent that they can not stand people disagreeing with them. This is mansplaining; in actual fact meaning nothing but a man saying something a feminist dislikes. And so goes the herping of the derp.

It would probably come as no surprise to learn that I am pissed off at feminism. As well as being pissed off with… …no – not pissed off. I’m not angry with society. I am just disappointed. Severely disappointed at a society so dumb and unthinking as to fall for the lies, slander, bullshit and poop-flinging antics of feminism. Yet, my rants, ravings and ramblings are nothing – absolutely nothing. You should hear my wife going off on them. It… it ain’t pretty.

M’lady is most displeased with the current state of affairs.

That is putting it nicely.

But what would you expect? Individual feminist’s have spoken to her previously in so condescending tones that you should think they believed they were talking to a child, not an intelligent adult woman with agency and self-determination. Because she thinks for herself. And in so doing, does not allow feminism to think for her. And in so doing, to the eyes of the feminist hive-mind, she has allowed some horribly misogynistic patriarch in the guise of her husband to think for her. She has internalized her soggy knees. This is how feminism see women that do not agree with feminism. As petulant, wayward children, worthy of condescension at best and scorn at worst.

Chew on that for a little while.

Feminism view women as so incapable of thinking for themselves that, if they do not subscribe to the feminist narrative, they must be under the spell and curse of the patriarchy, allowing the patriarchy to think for them. It is either feminism or internalized misogyny, not neither and certainly not a woman picking and choosing her own path and her own god-damned role in life. That is verboten. Strictly. Punitive measures will be taken. This is black and white thinking. That alone should be a red flag. The out-group is bad. The in-group is not. No matter what they do. This is cult-like thinking. And people would do well to be concerned.

And women such as my wife, to the feminist hive-mind, are free game and may be hunted at will. They have lost their woman-card; they have become strange outliers that are neither feminist nor man, but some horrifying mutant creature. They should have their vaginas taken away, according to Linda Sarsour. They are effectively outlawed, not to be protected by feminism who would – were it a feminist woman suffering the treatment non-feminist women suffer at the hands and blubbering mouths of feminism – state quite bluntly that one can not treat women like that; it is harassment and violence and misogyny and other such buzzwords that don’t mean anything any more on account of their over-use.

This proves once again that feminism does not care for women nor for men nor for any sex. They care for feminism and they care for women who subscribe to the feminist victim-cult.

Feminist women.

Whose strength and independence is such that they can not stand a man explaining something, can not stand a woman thinking for herself. Were their tall tales to be scrutinized and exposed to the unwashed masses, feminism would lose its power and its funding. And that would be their downfall. Everyone who oppose must therefore and by necessity be ganged up on, curb-stomped and left for dead for fear that they would otherwise prove without a doubt that the empress has no clothes. Or skin, for that matter.

I have been called this and labelled that and referred to as the other since I started writing on all this stuff. I have been told that my opposition to feminism could not possibly mean anything but me wanting to go back to a time that would allow me to chain my wife to the kitchen to cook dinner and birth children and do nothing but that. I keep referring to this incidence. And I will explain why it keeps popping up. It is not because the words are hurtful, nor that they hurt my trademarked fragile masculinity. It is the absurdity of the thing, the assuredness of the statement delivered for reasons of me opposing feminism being the dominant -ism in our crackhouse societies.

It is complete and utter absurdity; penny dreadful tales sold in bulk by feminist ideologues with cancer of the reason which, unfortunately, has spread to the sense. It is fear mongering and vapid attempts at shame that does nothing but piss me off and strengthen both my resolve and my opposition. And my throbbing rage-boner.

How anyone can believe that stating something like that as truth would change my perspective of feminism is beyond me. Telling me what I think and believe when I know that I think and believe quite the opposite is stupid. And it is incredibly lazy. Intellectual dishonesty at its very best.

It is the most absurd tactic; claiming that I would do something that I know I would not do, that I am saying something that I do not say nor ever have said or would say, that I hold opinions which I do not hold in order to shame me into compliance when I know full well that I do not hold these opinions which the feminist hive-mind lay in my mouth is brain-dead, egotistical ramblings from someone who obviously is so used to getting everything just the way they want that anything opposing their world-view can not possibly exist and thusly must exist either as lies or as pure, raw, savage and unfiltered hatred of women on my part, including hatred of my wife. One would believe that, were the feminist to really and truly believe that I hate all women – including my wife – the feminist would not believe that shaming me for hating women would work…

It is the craziest thing.

It is saying, in so many words, that “I don’t care what you really say, I have decided in my ruptured mind, that this is what you say. And I feel no reservations in telling you what you say, because you obviously do not know what you say or think or mean. I am the one who knows what you say or think or mean, not you.”

You must forgive me this rant. It just boggles my mind something awful that anyone can look to the writings of someone else and tell that someone that they have written something which they have not written, and expect this to be taken seriously as an argument by the one who wrote the bloody thing to begin with. That is the tactics of feminism; illogical attempts at smearing and shaming, putting words in the mouths of other people and trying to convince them that this is what they said and what they meant, not what they actually said and actually meant.

It is so ridiculous that I am wasting energy and precious calories getting so worked up about it. Granted, given my wife and her incredible cooking skills, I could do with losing some calories. Particularly around the gut-area. But that is not the point. The point is that I need to loosen the chains on my wife. She has expressed interest in leaving the kitchen to use the bathroom. I’ll be right back…

For all the insistence that I am a horribly misogynistic bastard, for all the claims that I am only looking for something to complain about, for all the emotional reasoning behind the complaints in regards to my writings and the narcissism barely hidden behind the feminist moaning about it, for all the attempts at reading my mind and telling me what I really think as opposed to what I actually think, I would dare say that I hold women in much higher regard than feminism does. Because I believe women to be adult human beings.

I would dare make the claim – and truthfully so – that I not only believe that the sexes should be treated equally, but that I live it. That is equal rights, equal responsibilities, equal consequences. Equal rights and equal lefts, in other words.

No hand-up, no hand-outs, no deification of either sex. No fucking chivalry. Respect is earned, not given, no matter which sex. And it is earned by how one behaves. If a woman acts like an insufferable cunt, she is worthy of just as much of my scorn as a man that acts like an insufferable knob-head.

If a woman acts properly and treats other people with respect, she is worthy of just as much respect as a man that acts properly and treats other people with respect.

This should not be that difficult to understand. It is treating the sexes equally. Nothing more, and nothing less. This is men and women being held to the same standards.

This bullshit about respecting women is the most concentrated bullshit I have ever encountered. It is quadruply distilled bullshit of the highest potency. And I am a connoisseur of fine vintage bullshit, having amassed quite a collection over the course of my life.

This “respect women” bullshit elevates women to something other than humanity, something that must be respected solely for the genitalia between her legs.

Where men have to earn respect, women must be given respect no matter how they act or behave merely for being women.

I don’t have any time for that dribble. No-one should have any time for that piss-pottery.

Men and women are of equal worth and equal value as human beings. This is my firmly held conviction. Absolutely equal worth and absolutely equal value. This means that I respect women just as much as I respect men. And I respect men just as much as I respect women. Conversely; I have just as little respect for women as I have for men. It depends not on ones sex, but on ones behaviour, on the content of ones character.

I am a firm believer that what goes around comes around. Act like an arsehole, you are going to be treated like an arsehole.

This is something the feminist hive-mind have forgotten or – more likely – simply neglected in their quest for respect of whamen. It is another fanciful and terrifying way for them to shut down any opposition by the oldest tactic in the book; the shaming of the male.

When opposition to their drivel is met with “you have no respect for women!” most blue-pilled and blue-balled men tremble and fall to their knees and do everything in their power to prove that they do, in fact, have respect for women. And then the conversation moves from whatever he originally opposed to whether he respects women or not. It moves from a topical discussion to a discussion about his character. Wherein he must defend himself against all manner of accusation. And, in defending himself he has admitted to being at fault. In admitting to being at fault, there is no stopping the feminist hive-mind. For they have spotted weakness, smelled blood in the water and so they close in for the kill.

One must never apologize to these people and their smear-merchant tactics.

This happens without a fault. It is the oldest tactic in the book. A man can not stand to be shamed by a woman. Must be because all men hate women and have no respect for them. Heh. Fucking. Heh.

Well, then, dear feminist: have you no respect for men?

Here endeth part 4. And there is more yet to come. You know; I might just clean all this up later when I am done with it and publish it as a book. It reached a point where my literary cup literally runneth over with words and hasty typing. And I need money for hookers and cocaine. Or at the very least for caffeine and dogfood. Join me next week for part 5.

  • Please like, share and subscribe
  • Moiret Allegiere, 19.10.2019

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

Other links:
Redbubble shop: https://www.redbubble.com/people/Moiret/shop
Blog: https://moiretallegiere.wordpress.com/
YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC3IaCxAXE3pQd7PCdvHoaaA
Bitchute: https://www.bitchute.com/channel/EvbGZyTZSraY/
twatter: https://twitter.com/MAllegiere
Gab: https://gab.com/Moiret_Allegiere
Minds: https://www.minds.com/Moiret
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Why I am an anti-feminist, part 3:

Illustration: «Petulant Sunrise»

Cassie Jaye’s documentary “The Red Pill”, is one which I highly recommend. It gives a very good overview of the men’s human rights movement – showing the main points on the agenda, as it were.

What I found the most interesting with the documentary, was not the topic, nor the interviews – despite this all being highly interesting stuff. Nope. It was her personal journey, her video-diaries that she very wisely included in the documentary. Probably not all that surprising, given my own interest in the human journey, in the individual perspective.

Oh, look, you might think – another pretentious douchenozzle with illusions of artistic and literary talent being interested in the individual and how the individual fares when faced with society – how trite, how unoriginal, how woefully predictable. And you would not be wrong.

…Well, I might protest a bit in regards to the pretentious bit, having tried to shed that part of art-school indoctrination through years of introspection, but otherwise… well, there is nothing original with this in regards to writing.

Humanity is interesting in itself, and the journey of an individual overcoming obstacles – which altering ones point of view undoubtedly is – is at the core of most good characters and character development.

How one copes with it is very interesting, and marks the difference between someone with personal integrity and values, someone who is capable of being guided by truth when faced with truth and someone who is not. The documentary shows what a fantastic strength of character Cassie Jaye holds. Changing ones mind is not easy. We tend to be very stubborn creatures.

This stubbornness should be evident with the god-damned wage gap lie being debunked and disproven time and time again, yet still being told and presented as fact by those whom one would assume really ought to be pleased to learn – without a doubt – that it is not real. Not in the way they present it.

One would assume the wage gap being proven to not be true would be a sign of progress and victory for the feminist hive-mind. But, nah, can’t have that, ya know – that would lose them some oppression-points, some victim-currency, some poor damsel-in-distress points. And that would rupture some of the feminist fabric of female infantilisation, and we can not god-damned have that. So keep telling the lies, despite being disproven. And keep making out that women are weak-willed victims of absolutely everything, up to and including their own choices. But, I am getting ahead of myself.

…Even more interesting than the documentary itself (and the incredible integrity of Cassie Jaye) are the Red Pill Raw Files, which you can find on YouTube. These are some fantastic, in-depth interviews that did not make it into the final movie, for some reason or other. The interviews with the feminists – the few that agreed to be interviewed for the movie – are quite telling. Particularly the one with our much beloved deliverer of Fuck-Faces and screeched Patriarchy; Chanty Binx, AKA “Big Red”, force-feeding red pills to the hungry masses one vicious screech at a time, despite this surely not being her intent. I have never seen anyone within the span of twenty minutes contradict themselves so much, nor so many times as she does in this interview. It is the most self-contradictory stream of nonsense and gibberish I have ever seen this side of a high-profile political debate. And it is very telling about the state of feminism in itself, for feminism as it is is self-contradictory. (And annoyingly self-congratulatory.)

At one hand, they claim that feminism helps men too. At the other hand, they state, quite bluntly, that feminism is about women and does not care about men.

Men can create their own movement, according to the hive-mind. Which the same hive-mind will then protest, label misogynist bullies and proceed to shut down – by brute fucking force, harassment, violence, smears, lies, slander, bomb-threats and other such kind and inclusive measures, any attempt at a conference talking about the problems men face in society.

Because feminism helps men too, so the only voices needed are those of feminism. Despite men being told to make their own movement, not co-opt feminism. Because feminism is only about women. Even when it supposedly helps men as well.

Personally, I would rather choke to death on the proverbial red pill than I would allow feminism to speak on behalf of men.

Also: feminism is not a monolith, you have to understand. Even when the ones spewing all manner of misandrist, man-hating, malebashing, kill-all-men, men-are-trash rhetoric and up-fuckery are not real feminists.

…Which does not make sense in the least if feminism is not a monolith. It stands to reason that if a movement is not a monolith, such a thing as a “not real feminist” would not exist. Nor would there exist such a thing as a “real feminist”. If those feminists that are not real feminists are in fact not real feminists, feminism must be a monolith. If feminism is not a monolith, those that are supposedly not real feminists has got to also be real feminists.

It makes no sense.

Madam, once again you are cunt-fusing the issue.

It seems to me that feminism, when faced with any manner of criticism, goes the opportunist path of responding to criticism with whatever is best suited at the moment to be a supposed shut-down and put-down of any argument. Internal consistency is not necessary. Which is a frightening thing, as this must necessarily mean that there are no true values within the ideology upon which the -ism stand. Which goes a long way in explaining what the movement is all about. Which is the movement, and nothing but the movement. The -ism goes above all, no matter what. Principles are not necessary. In fact, they are more of a nuisance.

Merely the narrative that men are oppressors, women are oppressed and to hell with all else, in other words. Internal consistency gets in the way. As long as the narrative can be kept, driven forward and upheld, all is allowed. Lies are then quite alright and not an issue in itself, as lies are necessary tools to bring the movement ever forward. There are no bad tactics, no amoral tools. Only bad targets. And we can play “spot the bullshit” all day long, it won’t work when faced with the hive-mind when the hive-mind allows for so much self-contradiction, so many lies and such ridiculous amounts of bad tactics merely for the goal of the movement and nothing but. And I have little patience for opportunism. As anyone should. Excepting the opportunists, I suppose. Now, let me tell you about this bridge I am putting up for sale…

The way I see it, this constant self-contradiction of feminism is purposeful, in that it serves a purpose for the movement. If feminism can be moved forward by pointing to women being better than men based on biological factors, then feminism will forget that it has told us for decades that there are no biological differences between the sexes. If feminism can be moved forward by telling us that there are no biological differences between the sexes, it will forget the previous admittance of biological differences. And both are supposedly true and false in equal measures, carried on the wings of absurdity into the hungry beaks of society.

If men can be shamed and ridiculed by feminism for not making enough money to be suitable marriage-prospects for women, feminism will forget the wage-gap myth – as seen through quite a few articles on the issue during the last few weeks.

The two do not match, you see.

If the wage-gap is real, it does not make any sense that women struggle to find men that make as much or more than they do. If the wage-gap is real, then women should not be making more money than men and should as such not have any problems with finding men that make more than, or as much as, they do. It is almost as though one would be inclined to believe that the wage-gap is a boldfaced fucking lie. Besides, one would not be amiss in assuming women to be gold-diggers, based solely on these articles. A man must make as much, or more, than a woman in order to be husband material. For the notion of a wife supporting her husband and family is horrifying, despite equal treatment and despite that none of this should matter, were the sexes to be treated completely and utterly equally.

As an aside; I really don’t care which of the sexes do which of the duties in a relationship. The important thing to understand is that there are duties and obligations, responsibilities and work that needs to be done, that both must chip in for a relationship to work and a family to function properly. As long as things get done, it should not matter who does it.

One would not be wrong in believing that boys and men are being pushed out of education and out of lucrative careers by a certain sect that allows for “positive discrimination” so that women shall be hoisted up and pushed forward for being women and nothing but that. For the sake of saintly vulva and vagina; for the holy uterus and ovaries, she shall be granted access. And he shall not.

…Not to mention the fact that men being poor, struggling financial hardships and so and such is made out to be an issue predominantly affecting women. For men must provide for women where relationships are concerned, despite women being strong and independent fish that don’t need no bicycle. His money is their money, her money is her money. Equal treatment? Sure as hell are not equal expectations, responsibilities and obligations.

Women are oppressed by men’s poor financial state. Men are merely tools for the benefit of women, to the tyrannical eyes and minds of feminism. And this is accepted, for reasons of… muh oppression, I suppose. Or feminism supposes, proposes with all their lies and gibberish.

A real feminist does all that feminism says that a true feminist must do. Even the stuff that contradicts the other stuff. Otherwise, a true feminist is not a true feminist in the non-monolithical monolith that is feminism. I have it from reliable sources that they do not enjoy sugar on their porridge either. No wonder, of course, as fish that don’t need bicycles certainly do not eat sugar. Or porridge, for that matter.

I swear; everywhere I look I see hypocrisy and double standards. The doctors can’t find anything wrong with me, and yet I keep seeing it everywhere. I am at my wits end I tell you! And the painkillers can’t take away this pain; no sweet opiate-haze for me to hide this incredible burden within. I tried antipsychotics once, but they only made it worse. Short of divine intervention, there seems to be no cure for my particular predicament.

Boys are struggling in education. There is no doubt about this. This is not something new. And it is getting worse with every passing swoon and whimpered gasp. No wonder, to anyone with some manner of empathy for the male sex. Not with all the anti-male, pro-woman nonsense that are spewed, spat and spouted at schools from teachers who honestly function more like feminist indoctrination-squads than true and proper teachers. This has, finally, led to some concern over here in the frozen wastes of Norway. Peculiar, of course, as this is an incredibly feminist nation.

It only took them about thirty years to recognize the issue.

Only one generation of broken boys and broken bones and broken futures necessary before the issue was seen. Well, one and a half generation.

So now that the issue has been raised… now that it has been decided that we need to help the boys so they don’t drop out, burn out and wash out…

(Otherwise, who will do all the menial tasks, all the hard manual labour, all the dirty and dangerous work? Women? You must be joking! You will forgive me a bit of cynicism. The way things have been going the past several years, I find it very hard to believe that any real effort to help boys and men will ever be implemented. That is to say – any effort that does not rely heavily on the feminist lens and dubious pink-eye.)

…now that this has been decided, as the news broke that boys must be helped in education, the feminist hive-mind were quick to rush in and respond that we have to help everyone, not just the one sex. Because it is not a gendered issue, you see, when it is boys that struggle. It is god-damned infuriating. We don’t need to help only the boys. We can help only the girls, and this is not a problem. If girls struggle, it is a gendered issue and must be treated as such. If boys struggle, it is not a gendered issue and must be treated as such.

No need to help both then, if the girls can be made out to suffer something-or-other, never mind if it is a true something or a false other. True and false are just patriarchal constructs. The same goes for objective reality. Logic is, as the gender studies horde will tell us, yet another patriarchal invention for the oppression of women. If girls struggle, we need to help girls. If boys struggle, we need to focus on helping both. Because it is damn close to heresy to lend a hand to the boys. In particular if that helping hand is not shot directly from the cannon of feminist thought and fancy. A boy needs feminism like a fish needs a hook in the jaw.

And yet, they dare to make the claim that boys and men do not experience less empathy within these fracturing societies of ours. They claim that girls and women experience less empathy, in fact. One of the arguments I have been told in regards to women experiencing less empathy is that they have periods and pregnancies and are expected to function in their day-to-day life with these. Somehow, this is an example of women not being shown empathy. Must be the reason for women being able to act like complete and utter cunts with the excuse of being on their period.

All is forgiven, dear, here, have some chocolate, poor thing, don’t know what you are doing, it’s all those damned hormones. It’s just a couple of stitches they had to put in my skull. Just a small hairline fracture. No biggie.

Absolutely astonishing. Have they no eyes with which to see, no ears with which to hear? Or – more likely – have they no compassion to dole out to anyone who is not of their own sex? Given women’s greater in-group preference, the latter would not be a surprise. Given men’s greater out-group preference, it is even less of a surprise. It is evident to anyone that are willing and able to see the world through rational eyes not clouded with ideology, indoctrination and the good ol’ fashioned women-are-wonderful effect.

One of the greatest issues, one of the core obstacles to men’s rights, is that feminism is taught in schools as fact with no doubt. It is political indoctrination, ideological brainwashing, delivered straight from teachers frantic hand-waving and glaring eyes into the minds and thoughts and subconsciousness of young children, to be left there to fester and to spread and to become a part of their understanding of the world. The future is gender neutral – as long as the neutral gender is feminine. Purple penguins for the win.

This is terrifying.

For feminism is not nuanced, it is not balanced, it is not a force for equality, but a force for forced subjugation beneath their iron-grip and demented world-view; a world-view that falls apart the moment one tries to challenge it. Which, I suppose, is one of many reasons why feminism see no qualms in censoring and stifling speech in opposition. For feminism, in order to thrive, needs to stand unchallenged. Because it tumbles so terribly when challenged. And so it has allowed itself to become a censorious force, considering any opposition as hate-speech that huwts theiw widdle feewings. This can not stand; a feminist having her feelings hurt? That makes you literally worse than Hitler. No hyperbole, no weaponised female fragility, no damselling to be had.

No, of course not.

There is no emotional manipulation going on here, old boy.

Merely their word as absolute truth. There is no doubt about feminism being true. Because feminism told me that it is true. And so, any who oppose the shattered and encaged forces of feminism must be at best a misogynist and at worst the latest incarnation of Adolf Hitler, Mussolini, the entire Ku Klux Klan, a severed and eternally erect rape-penis, the devil, his grandmother, her tiny poodle named “Schlepp”, and the ghost of sexual assaults past, present and future.

They demand, and they are delivered, the entire conversation and the right – for some strange reason – to chose which way the discourse go. They see fit to choke and trample underfoot all that dare defy, giving no credence to man, woman or child that defy their deified secular religion. And still they claim that they are oppressed. For it is all about power in the feminist hive-mind. And that is visible power, political power, not social power. Well, power and collectivization. Men as a single, homogeneous group, women as a single homogeneous group. No individuals to be found within. Collectivized guilt, collectivized victimhood. And all power to the collective that has been collectively chosen to be the victims.

The dance between the sexes is not one of oppression; not one of power or lack of power, of control or lack of control. Nor has it ever been.

It is a dance of cooperation, of giving, and receiving, of sacrificing a little of this so that the other shall receive a little of that – on both parts.

It is both giving what they may best give, receiving what the other may best give.

It is both playing on their strengths and their weaknesses, doing what they themselves are best suited to do.

For the sexes are different. And difference is not something negative. It is a strength. It is both bringing something of theirs to the table so that both may be able to best survive in a world that is, despite all our technological advances and advantages, a brutal and uncaring place.

In painting being different to one another, in making the notion of “differences” into something vile and horrible, something that necessarily must mean that one is better than the other, they have ruined mutual respect, understanding and compassion. They have ruined genuine cooperation and replaced it with competition. Differences have become a tainted term, meant to show one as better than the other despite it really meaning nothing but one being better at this and the other being better at that.

Opposites attract, and then they merge and then they complete one another. Men and women are not on different teams. Quite the contrary; we are on the same team. This gender-war is manufactured and created by elitist snobs, sprung from the murky depths of history, written and shot into existence by upper-class ladies with smelling salts always at the ready in case they swoon from the brutish behaviours of the lower classes; the unwashed masses of both men and women that are not worthy to lick her fainting couch clean of dust, cocaine and laudanum.

Here endeth part three. Join me next week, hopefully, for part four. I have no idea how many parts there will be. When I get into the flow, it really flows. At the time of writing this, I have written enough for the next two weeks. And there will be more. God help me.

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 12.10.2019

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

Other links:
Redbubble shop: https://www.redbubble.com/people/Moiret/shop
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YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC3IaCxAXE3pQd7PCdvHoaaA
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The Wonky Wobble of Truth

«Warmachine», 2019, Moiret Allegiere

Vision blurred by manic frights and lights. Foresight sold second-hand, used and spent, bent and broken by years of miscalculated abuse. It is the hands of the wonky and the wobbly that steers the ship.

A ship of fools docked in a land governed by clowns. Social media reached peak efficiency; everything is blindly believed if pushed hard enough.

Mad passed gas lingers in the air presented as new-street blues-news. Sniffed and then snorted, blown up our noses like cocaine through the pellets of time and murdered history. Boy, oh boy, oh gender-neutral dogball-kin, that outrage sure as hell fills the bowels and body with weird vibrant energy, boom-banged like shots of amphetamines through bloodstreams pumped from dried, dead, decadent, diseased hearts.

…No point now in regurgitating truth as truthful as truth; better yet to lie and then to hide behind the lie when caught up in the lie, tangled in the web and wonky wobbles of truth-as-truth-presented, as they saw fit to see it, dialysed into existence from machines that pump and clean and puncture and then rape and burn and pillage.

Not necessarily stoned, but stoned enough. Majestically trapped in the back-seat or the peak and pinnacle of western civilization, twisted and burnt; sacrificial offerings to Earnest, God of Woke, a coincidental conga-line lined and slowly danced by drunk miniature minstrels mimicking morality mockingly.

It is a weird pinnacle of virtue and morbid hysteria, Machiavellian rules and laws to govern morality and make victims of us all through the brute force of tone-and-thought-policing through tough-as-nails policies ponderously written and delivered by the clowns that rule the land, the circus that is the ship of fools.

And all hands are on deck and all decks are in hand as the penultimate tyrant rise from the sea and tear the skies to shreds with fingers smooth as butter and a serpent tongue as smooth as silk. Fangs that dribble new-speak gold-truths doubly-plus-good ad infinitum, you dig? Well done; fantastic dance, you great and glorious non-gender-conforming comrade, you. Now pound me too!

The fumes of morality escaping from pile-driver puritan porn; a noxious gas-cloud passing through the cells of body and prison alike, spreading the duality of wokeness through our eyes and minds that once spat wild insults; that once snarled and growled at those who would decide what words we used.

It is an infection; a viral infection of brain tissue and thoughts that ran to meet the winter at the winters edge as spring and summer both went down the drain, leaving us destitute at the death of God in us and us alone.

Flames rise high from cancelled and censored literature. Stalwart book-burnings in all but the flames, rising street-high and frightful, smoke blackened and bruised seen flowing from the eyes of trigger-happy triggeratos in joy and in celebration as the clowns and fools get to decide which words we read in our CCTV bedchambers… hollowed out from within and from without, spent borderline-bastard-blues… they fined a guy and sentenced him to prison for reading fiction erotica… we are dying, choked to death by the hands of neo-puritans, prepubescent in their SSRI-limelight, drugged to death by anti-anxiety medications that obviously don’t work. Pound me too, you vicious, censorious bastard!

Teen spirit smells like shit now, like spit spat from tongues dulled by life. Your mouth is moving. It must be. For I hear the sound of fevered fanatical flatulence in the sacred halls of this church of Woke.

In our hubris fought we God and fought we Devil, seeing never the one in the other or the other in the one as, speared and mutilated by the rushing of the wolves and of the ship of fools, we lay down our swords awaiting sweet death in fawning admiration of this dreaded God of Woke whose heroin-voice and whisky-hair showed us truly our sin and shame and made us cover up the shame with greater shame.

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 09.10.2019

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

Other links:
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Redemption Song:

There are those who believe in redemption.

…Those who rush in with clown-like drive-by so-called take-downs, snivelling penitent cluck-clucks as the golden rays of the sun bounce of their shrivelled husk, polished and whitewashed to reflect saintlike self-reflection.

…A certain kind of self-reflection forced upon them by hollow religious sermons meant to make them unburden their beastly masculine shape and form of anything resembling masculinity. That is to say: masculinity as viewed through the mute liturgy of cross-cultural feminist zealotry; masculinity as the brutal cross that only men have to bear, upon which they are to later be crucified atop the hallowed peaks of self-flagellated Golgotha.

…A cross and burden which they must carry with them underneath the vice-like grip and ever-judging eyes of this awesome Goddess of immediate pussy-willow whips and thongs, of self-congratulatory neoteny and fruitful hips, through whose eyes and wretched form all men are sinners singing songs of sinner’s vice and virtue none.

…Within whose judging god-hand grasp and heaving bosom none shall ever be wholly and fully redeemed, yet still see and then consider their murmured self-inflicted martyrdom for the curse and for the cause as a source of grand amusement, picked then doubly-pecked at time and time again with angry knitting needles through their tortured manly eyes, their horrid, horribly horrifying perverse male gaze, or through their dubious liar-tongues that wriggle so amusingly as they choke to death on their own self-sought and self-bought self-immolation.

Never to be fully acknowledged within the church and its angelic walls, its trumpeter halls, its holy smear of period-blood, but to be referred to endearingly or mockingly as “allies” for the noble cause, caused by sex and sex alone, forever doomed to stand without the whining wall and holler at those who did not wish to enter that they are crackpot sinners, brutish bores, never to be absolved of sin.

…as he is surely soon to be…

…for all the pilgrim steps he shall endure upon the path to absolute redemption…

As all truly penitent sinners cursed with cock and balls are want to do, must he now and ever and anon carry the wormwood cross, the snivelled cluck-cluck, into the unwashed masses and their meaty mouths to meet and greet and then dole out calls for redemption as redemption is; acknowledge first the grandest of all earthly sins – the never-seen nor never-heard before privilege of being male (add a sin or more for also being white) – and then work through and then come out the other side, crawling on your knees to beg forgiveness for the sins of you and of your father and your fathers father and so forth, back through time and through the ages until you meet the protoplasmic ooze, until you greet the primordial chaos-soup from whence all men were ripped and torn, born from rape and ravaged ruin, born from perplexing shame and into shame reborn and born again, the original sin once spurted in the face of sinners straight from sinners cocks; a semen-speckled bukkake from the majestic godhead and his cohort, the grand dragon patriarch himself.

Though redemption is dearly sought and even more dearly bought, it is one to never be delivered. For the sins and trespasses one wishes to be absolved off are so grandiose in nature, so undeniably vicious and evil and cold-hearted and mean that none can say or see or think or mean that any true redemption can be had, nor absolution passed upon the shrivelled cluck-cluck husk or the beacon of his armour, rusted and then polished ‘till it turns to glass and passes then as passing gas into the stratosphere, shattered and then chewed and then passed up and passed on and spat out unto the dirt and earth where dead men walk who passed this way before, who self-flagellated ‘till their backs were sore and whipped of all but blood and bone.

For the truest of all that is true, and the realest of all that is real is the knowledge, festering at the bosom’s core of the Goddess’ high embrace – that all men are vicious and are born that way from the loins and in the groin then tangled and entwined.

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 02.10.2019

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

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