Karen Between the Thighs of Time


Karen between the thighs of time

Masculinity is dead, and men are obsolete.

The death of masculinity in turn, at every turn, celebrated by high-handed academic nobles hell-bent on tuneless destruction.

Autotuned destruction manufactured by salty sirens singing sulking siren-songs, lost at the seven seas or at a loss for words to weep into the seven seasons of the seasoned sea, creating post-reason and post-truth randomized fancy-sounding jargon instead – overseeing and then overlooking academic rigour in fortified compost-heaps of indoctrination previously known as high seats of noble learning; as pursuit of truth immaculate and clean… comparing apples to oranges in hallucinatory Ibogaine-dreams beneath this new green-screen moon of ours where they caught their venomous high in imaginary goddess-pasts where all was one in insurmountable harmony… where the one was lost between the thighs of time or between the tits of para-mythological synthetic pasts dreamt up by sheltered prophets of the one true faith that says, in luscious tongue-twisted and henpecked rhymes:

Masculinity is dead, and men are obsolete.

So say the high-swingers, the over-educated gold-diggers, the apocalyptically sized lie-triggers triggered by anything so long as the god-awful triggering can be used in their defence and for their splendid cause be spent and used.

Twitter gave me PTSD.

Oh woe, oh no, oh wow, oh boy.

Twitter gave me PTSD.

Say it ain’t so, oh no, oh no, for sooth, for sure: there’s no blisters on these pale and noble hands, no sun-burnt neck, no tired toil to rub the skin from these luscious lady-lisps.

Much apologizing; I meant, of course, to say “lady-lips”… lips that crack and bleed and break and moan at the discord brought from vague dissent.

How dare this cock-wielding, woman-brutalizing, manspreading defiler of sanctity and sanctititty mansplain his atrocious disagreements to the humble noble at the metaphysical top of the bookmarked Twitter-hill?

Does he not know that there is a natural order to things and that he, by virtue of his cock and balls, is so much better off than she and so should shut the fuck up as the fuck-face that he is, stay in his lane and never contradict the inane and insane ramblings of this noble woman whom he so defiled by his parade of disastrous dissent?

For doing so… disagreeing with a woman is misogyny by default; woman-hating and woman-bashing and whatever else there is to put the word “woman” in front of.

Such a terrible trespass; such a crime that ought to be punishable by banishment and later on by death.

Here come the gag-orders!

Gag him with the full fury of the peoplekinds in blue; with all the layered lawyers and brutal barristers; all the perverted politicians and corrupt constabularies the goddess can bring forth from out the flesh of the patriarchy that just hates women ever so much; that oppresses the ever-loving gobblefuck out of every square inch of their luxuriously dyed hair and painted fingernails that never once cracked or broke from shovel-lifting and sweat and blood.

And misogyny is a hate-crime, and misogyny is whatever the fuck the wearer of the problem-glasses say that it is, by gobbly golly, and so be it, for such did Karen speak and sputter.

Problem-glasses can only hide the true Karen for so long… Karen-ness, I believe and one assumes can be measured simply by looking at the wingspan of Karen’s spectacles: a spectacular spectacle brought forth from spectacle-spectacles that speaks spectacular spectacle-woes and worries.

Let me talk to the manager of men! I am most displeased with this dis-service from the hands and meaty mouths of mutton-eating men! I demand to speak with the manager of the patriarchy!

So spake Karen, and all who listened then obeyed.

Except the ones that didn’t listen or obey.

Which gave Karen PTSD from their dissent as she saw that she was no longer locked within the bowels of her aristocratically academic echo-chamber.

Oh Goodness, gracious Goddess, no! No, Karen, no! Put that footstool down! You don’t know where it’s been. Besides, you are far too delicate to lift it. Don’t overexert yourself, Karen. Breathe Karen, breathe, for fuck sake, Karen, breathe! Someone fetch the smelling salts – Karen has swooned again at being exposed to this terribly murky masculine musk!

Masculinity is surely dead.

And men are obsolete.

Evidenced as such by vague murmurs of dissent being enough to bring the high-and-mighty to their knees in problem-glassed shakes and shivers, whimpering and crying and begging for freedom from the persecution suffered at the hands of all these plebs, these peasants, these serfs and these have-nots that have it all and are so privileged that they tie the weak and meek amongst us all in knots.

Masculinity is dead. And men are obsolete.

Here come the age of feminine tyranny; an age marked by irrational fear-mongering, emotional upheaval, hysteria and all those other stereotypes of women which we have been told are not true and are, in fact, damaging to women… all held forth as shining examples of strength and of passion and of whatever else…

God-fucking-damnit, but I grow so fucking tired of pointing this out whenever and wherever. If this stereotype of women; the hysterical, the emotionally immature and volatile, the powerless, the irrational, the emotionally reasoning stereotype of women… that women can neither reason nor logic is oh-so damaging to women, these women would do well to not live up to the stereotype to such an extent that they make for perfect cannon-fodder for such articulate arseholes like myself to write a shit-post such as this on it.

Masculinity is dead, they say. And men are obsolete.

Give way, lean to the sides, cup your balls and drag ‘em up into your womb you lovely lady-boys: the feminine is the new de-facto default. Any man worth his salt is a lady through-and-through.

Even when he has no womb.

Though boys can menstruate, we’re told, in schools that reek of fuckery and neglect; that sold their souls to the politically correct narrative and, in so doing, ruined generations of children.

There is no sex and there ain’t no gender and there are no differences between the two sexes… nor are there any between the seventyleven genders, for that sexual matter that matters little to the sexuality of meaty matter. No differences, that is, except the wickedness of man which is worse than that of women ‘cause that don’t exist except when it do… which is when they are influenced by the wickedness of men, say Karen, all strung up and wound up with no manager to speak to any more.

For, you see, all the managers turned into Karens over night as the proverbial glassceiling shattered. And all that is left is a bunch of angry Karens yelling at other angry Karens.

Oh boy.

What a terrible future this is.

Masculinity is dead. And men are obsolete.

I know this to be true, for those who wished the death of masculinity and who wished for men to be rendered obsolete told me so… A panel full of women wishing for the death of men and of masculinity said so; with no man in sight to say or to claim otherwise, one would surely be a savage man-beast with feral inclinations to say otherwise.

Not that it matters, otherwise or no, considering that dissent muttered in dissenting tunes and harmonies would be deemed harassment and considered pale and ruptured soggy knees and so bring the panel to their swollen knees in PTSD-brainwaves lapping at the beach of femininity and fragility that are so linked and intertwined in the strengths of these women.

Strength, that is, that is measured in weakness shown and bragged and then later on drowned in all the jargon and intellectualism a lovely lady-boy could ever wish to eat or drink or piss or shit.

Masculinity is dead.

And men are obsolete.

This is clear and obvious and all who say otherwise are either dying or obsolete. The thing is the thing whether the thing is real or not.

So Spake Karen.

And all who spoke against are guilty of hate-speech and so should be removed from her sight and from the might and influence of the glorious wingspan of her problem-glasses.

Masculinity is dead.

And men are obsolete.

Long live masculinity.

Long live men.

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 13.05.2020

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

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

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A Good Roll, a Decent Wobble and a Lengthy Tumble

«Bareback Insomnia»

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 06.11.2019

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

Howling at a Slutwalk Moon, a collection of previous blog posts:
Vol 1 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/107571074X
Vol 1 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZTPDPR
Vol 2 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075714184
Vol 2 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZR25NL
Vol 1 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075717094
Vol 2 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075723078
Other links:
Redbubble shop: https://www.redbubble.com/people/Moiret/shop
Blog: https://moiretallegiere.wordpress.com/
YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC3IaCxAXE3pQd7PCdvHoaaA
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Yet Another Shooting, and Yet we Miss the Mark:

Male poetry reading 2019 lowres

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

And here I am.

Writing on it myself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For example.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This can not be stated enough.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And to girls.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

   – Please like, share and subdcribe

   – Moiret Allegiere, 14.08.2019


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The Cult of Feminism Proper; a secular religion with all the bells and whistles of a dimly lit lighthouse:

When the musics over lowres

Illustration: «When the Music’s over», 2019, Moiret Allegiere


Have you accepted Dworkin into your heart and soul?”, she says, brushing a strand of hair dyed the colour of danger away from her eyes as she longingly sucks on her cigarette.

It’s all here, in the scriptures,” she continues, blowing a cloud of acrid blue-tinged smoke from her lips, half parted, cracked and vibrating with some strange inner restlessness almost, but not quite, mimicking nervousness, “embracing the light of feminism will release you from all your woes and worries. In finding Sacred Dworkin and Feminism, I also understood and found my place in this world.”

She fumbles around in her purse for a while, cigarette resting solemnly in an ashtray meant to mimic a pair of labia lips. Gazing around her room, I see, amidst the chaos and turmoil of empty bottles and strange exotic teas, posters hanging on the walls reminding her solemnly, with big bold words, that she is, in fact, a slave and a victim of circumstances beyond her control. In a strange and prophetic manner, these same posters miraculously manage to claim strength; a powerful and exemplary powerlessness; strength through weakness.

I was lost, you see. But now I am found.” She reappears from her purse and hands me a bundle of pamphlets, very similar to the posters in design and – I assume – in message. “It’s strange, how obvious it all is when someone just points it out to you. It’s not me, you see, it is the thrice-cursed Patriarchy pushing and prodding me, forcing me into bad decisions that have impacted my life in this most horrible manner.” Here, she closes her eyes and, with much reverence, makes the sign of the Holy Womb in the air. “My circumstance is not of my making. Girl howdy, was I happy when I figured that one out. Now I spend my days spreading the gospel and the teachings to any whom I encounter.”

Against such conviction one would be hard pressed to argue, I think, as I sip the bitter tea and ponder what the hell I am doing here in the first place. Some strange force compelled me into this darkly lit room, yet I can scarce understand it. It is not her room – that much is for certain – there is a certain air of… headquarters… floating around in here, scents of hustling and bustling… evidence of meetings… stains of strange liquids on the tablecloth and on the carpet… a sacrificial altar of sorts placed in a corner… soiled tampons strewn about the place… a strong smell of sweat… of body odour… a gust of decay… walls crumbling… broken windows mended with sanitary napkins… bloodstained dinner plates… S.C.U.M manifestos printed for cheap mass-consumption… gloom and doom… a meaningless search for meaning… a strong sensation of teenage activism… simplistic and naive… political know-it-all-ism… dogmatic explorations made to explain it all… religious undertones… pinned to the wall… crucified martyrdom… a lonely acceptance of vile submission… crumbling walls… crumbling narratives… clinging to myths as though they were true…

I thank her for the tea, grab the pamphlets and solemnly declare my intention to read them as I make ready to leave before more inhabitants of this foul cesspit arrive. She looks at me with eyes that do not see me, with eyes that see right through my skull and sees goodness knows what in my place: “You had better read them, fuckface!” Her whole demeanour changed in an instance. Where once was a sort-of, kind-of, distanced friendliness there is now only dishevelled madness. I assume she understood my intentions not to read the pamphlets. I assume the holy ghost of Dworkin inhabited her body for a split-second. I assume religious madness in place of reason. I assume many things, as I stumble backwards towards the door, never once losing eye-contact lest she stabs me in the back in a religious frenzy, driven by the certainty of her convictions and the quest for salvation, driven by a fanatical desire to cleanse the world of the unclean, unsaved, the ones who are not baptized in period-blood… the ones who have not accepted the light; the Dworkin, the Vulva and the Holy Womb.


We search for meaning and we think we find the answer.

These lives of ours is a great stumble and tumble towards the grave; a great wide chasm between birth and death that has to be filled with something. The eternal search for meaning is a confounding spectacle of weirdness. The meaning of life, I think, is not found. Nor is it meant to be found. It is permanently sought; life being more about the journey than any conclusion. Considering that the conclusion to life is death, which, in itself, makes little meaning, little sense, little of anything, there is little reason to keep searching for an answer to this age-old question. So pass the time with tiny tipsy trivialities instead, point to this and point to that to define and to explain something that is above and beyond explanation; always burying the fear of death and meaninglessness beneath layers of problems created to build an illusion of answers and of meaning. Then claim you have found the answer; that you have found meaning in that which is absurd and meaningless.




Seeking answers in the meaningless is, quite literally, meaningless.

This is, obviously, not to say that one can not have meaning, goals and things of that nature in ones own life. Of course one can. To claim, however, that there is some overarching answer to the massive spectacle of life that is easily broken down into black/white good/evil and so forth and so on builds a fantasy upon which one can do little but point fingers and proclaim that all must live as oneself does and believe and act accordingly.

Humanity are, to my insomniac eyes, exemplary and fantastic in this regard, in this grand quest for answers where there is no meaning. For we are blessed with consciousness and curious curiosity, with an urge to seek and to explain the why, the what, the wherefore and whereto.

I consider this inquisitiveness, this curiosity to be one of the greatest traits of humanity. Don’t get me wrong.

The problem lies not in the ones who seek, but in the ones who claim to have the answer and, as such, the solution beyond any flicker of a doubt. People of that nature are so often blinded by their belief to such an extent that they do not consider other points of view. Minds that are shut down, that are closed forever to outside influence because they claim to have the one and only answer. As such, there is no need for further questions. In particular when their own convictions and beliefs are questioned. This is fanaticism 101. And a strong and determined stumble towards doom.

I am not the first, nor will I be the last, to make strong comparisons between religion and the victim-cult that is feminism. Other people, far more brilliant and insightful than myself, have made this claim already.

…And it is easy to see why.

Now, I would like to make it perfectly clear that this is not an attack on religion on my part. My issue lies not in what people personally believe. Nor does it lie with religion. My issue lies with people who demand that everyone who does not believe as they believe, who does not believe as fervently and blindly as they believe, must be forced to believe as they believe.

It all boils down to belief, as nothing these people state can be proven. And when disproven they still cling to their beliefs as though their beliefs are the only thing that brings any meaning or joy to their lives. As though their entire world would tumble and crumble were they to change their views. Or even question their views. In part, I suppose, this is because their entire identity is built around this one label, this one world-view in which the world is built upon smouldering ruins, ash and dust.

The bothering part of this way of thinking comes when people are so driven by their blindness that they aim to impose – with force – their meaning upon others. That they chose, willingly, to assault, harangue, harass and otherwise bully people into compliance, into conforming to their meaning, their path, their God and chosen destiny as though there is no other variables, no other path, no other meaning to be sought. People who claim to have all the answers are wilfully blind and should be stripped of their titles and their pride. They should be re-located to pig-farms or something of that nature, to leave the podium open to people who are humble enough to admit that they do not know with certainty, but they have an idea and would you please consider it, thank you very much.

Feminism is a secular religion.

It has its own canon of anointed saints. It has its own dogmas and rules and regulations. Its own scriptures and weird effigies. It has myths that will not die, despite being debunked time and again, despite being proven to be wrong. It is built around the belief that women are the chosen tribe, and that men are both God and the Devil; the ones responsible for all the evils of the world as well as being the ones meant to fix it all.

Women, in the eyes of feminism, are good for nothing but being slaves, permanently downtrodden and oppressed no matter what they do. And no matter what is done to ease the path women as a group walk through life, feminism will mumble and grumble and complain that it is not good enough. Because how could it be?

How can anything be good enough for the chosen tribe?

They are, after all, the chosen, and so they deserve anything, no matter how ridiculous. And it is men that must do for them, as men are God and the Devil. Women are but mere humans – an elevated tribe of humanity, perhaps, but human beings after all, no more capable or culpable than ants in an anthill. Whereas men are capable of all, and so must use this capability to ease the path women have to walk, poor wretches that they are. Women are, by the insistence of feminism, naught but humble servants, capable only of submitting to the actions of wicked men, hidden behind the obscenely obtuse God-Devil dichotomy that is the “patriarchy”. God works in mysterious ways, and so, even when doing good, it could be considered bad. And the Devil is a tempting and alluring son-of-a-bitch, and his temptations are difficult to resist for anyone, man or woman.

One need look no further than the words and deeds of feminism when faced with a woman so bold as to proclaim that she is in fact not oppressed, nor does she fear or detest men as a whole, to see the beast unveiled. They reach firmly and deeply into their bag of tricks to explain to her why she is wrong, that she is in fact oppressed and can not do what men can do, can not reach the heights that men reach for being held down for her gender and naught but her gender, so help me Dworkin! If she does not consider herself oppressed, feminism will do all that they can to make sure that she sees herself as oppressed. Even disregarding her lived experience, despite the importance feminism places upon lived experience, to disprove her. For feminism holds the answer.

And the answer to their wretched lives and inner turmoil is that they are not responsible for it. They carry the brunt and the burden of womanhood, which must be celebrated and detested in equal measure; which must be hoisted high above the gloomy reality of the world and must see no evil, hear no evil, feel no evil; which can do no evil, speak no evil and so forth and so on. It is the patriarchy making her believe she is not oppressed; that her choices and actions are her own and not those of the patriarchy. If she would only welcome the light of feminism into her heart and soul, she would see how oppressed she is. Her eyes will open to the realities of her slave-existence, and she will recoil in horror and let them baptize her in period-blood and see herself as one of the chosen tribe, put on earth to suffer such hardships at the hands of the patriarchy that she actually believe that her choices are her own and not driven by the nebulous hands of the Patriarchy, all-knowing, all-seeing, all-devouring that it is.

The devil made her do it, in other words.

And to repent for her sins, she must accept into her heart the shining light of feminism.

She must eat the cracker of communion baked with vaginal yeast; drink the period-blood of their saviour presented her and celebrate her vagina and her vulva and her womb as her own divinity and divine grace; her only saving grace, in fact.

Hell; they even have pussy-hats; a curiously non-obscene obscenity to wear as symbols of their tribe and truth and path and what-have-you. Just as a whole host of other religions wear headgear as a signifier of their faith.

Setting this female-centric and culturally dominant secular religion alongside the gynocentrism in our species – the biological reality that women are more important than men are for the continuation of the species – and you have yourself a secular religion driven as much by the primitive reptilian brain as it is by popular vote; that one must protect women – and children – above all, if this whole meaningless drivel of existence is to be driven forward. In protecting women the way that we tend to do, we accept and tolerate far more venom and vile and spite and wickedness from women than we do from men.

Feminism even goes so far as to insist that it is the other way around!

Because they do not live in reality, but in myths, legends, fairy-tales and fantasies. So, when feminism and its cohorts claim that men are all evil, all contributors to the nonsensical “rape-culture”, all guilty of oppressing women, we cave in and we apologize and we crawl on our bellies to beg forgiveness and swear to do all that we can to alleviate the burden of women. For a chance of procreation. Even if that means blatantly discriminating against men; even if that means blatantly hating and shaming all men for being men; even if that means placing all responsibilities on men for everything bad. And stripping men of the honour for anything good.

We do this, instead of calling it out for the bigoted, nonsensical, hateful and dishonest screech, vomit and noxious waste that it is. Because this society just hates women so-so-so much that we bow our heads and necks in silent submission and acceptance and allow this, that and the other from women which we would not tolerate from men. Because this society so hates women that we have allowed the female-centric cult of feminism to dominate the cultural narrative for the past sixty years or so; demanding all men apologize profusely and pave the road in front of women with rose-petals, gold and diamonds of the rarest and bloodiest sort.

And it is never good enough.

And the nonsensical screech never ends.

For now, the lines in front of women’s toilets are too long. And this is the fault of men. Blame men, then, blame the patriarchy, instead of spending less time on the toilet.

For now, the air-conditioning in office spaces are too cold for women, and this is the fault of men. Despite women’s dress-codes in these places allowing for far lighter and cooler clothing than the dress-codes do for men.

For now, in case of divorce, a proposed default 50/50 shared parenting is somehow a step back for women. This despite feminism claiming that mothers are the default winners of custody because of patriarchy hating women.

For now, women should not have to suffer imprisonment if they have committed heinous crimes. Men should still have to suffer this, of course.

For now, any accusation of rape must be believed at once and not investigated, thus removing the presumption of innocence, removing the need for evidence, removing due process.

For now, as it always have been, men are the only ones capable of domestic violence and as such men who are victims of domestic violence at the hands of women need no support and are given no support nor belief. This despite evidence quite clearly to the contrary presented time and again.

For now, women can not rape men.

For now, women are more often victims of violence than men are, despite the opposite being true.

And on.

And on.

And on.

And still they yammer on, lost endlessly within this perplexing maze of their own design, dimly lit clitoral corridors of self-assured weakness, frailty, insecurity and lack of personal agency clothed, for some peculiar and unbelievable reason, as strength in adversity! Feminism handcrafted a monstrous being; a beast of the apocalypse, hidden behind the ever-changing concept of equality.

And that is then: equal to whom, and equal how? For true equality in how our societies both view and treat the genders would most definitely be a step down for women. Feminism built this world in which they honestly believe that men are treated superior to women; they propose solutions to problems they themselves dreamt up in silent bedsits and boudoirs, egged on by a sensation that Me myself and I have suffered this, and someone else – namely men, namely God, namely the Devil, namely the patriarchy – must be to blame. Then demanding privilege – in the truest sense of the word, being: “private law” – for them being women and that is all there is to it.

Gripped by the religious fervour and blind submission to faith that one can only find in the most frightfully self-assured believers in myths and legends, in unproven and disproven claims that still persist, they still persist in claiming to hold the answer. And that answer is quite simple: we must do all we can to help women. With the other side of the coin of course stating that we need not help men. For men are both God and the Devil, not the chosen tribe, not even human. And in the midst of it all, in all the chaos and spectacle and noise and confusion, the question and the quest are both forgotten to those who claim to have the answer.

 – Moiret Allegiere, 29.06.2019

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The Child Within

Limited exposure lowres

Illustration: «Limited Exposure», Moiret Allegiere, 2019


There is, I think, a distinction needed to be made between being childish and being child-like. Childish behaviour in an adult, be that adult male or female, is not a good thing. Throwing tantrums when one does not get ones way is not an admirable trait in someone who is, supposedly, an adult human being. This goes for tantrums thrown when someone is merely disagreeing with a point of view, or offering some contradictory perspective as well. Good examples of this is, as one would expect, feminist and social justice warrior protesters, activists and their ilk. You can video evidence of this behaviour just about everywhere on YouTube – petulant and whiny six years old children trapped within the body of an adult. Male or female. It does not matter.

Children are sociopaths, you know. They need to be taught, they need to learn, how to empathize properly, how to see and consider something from someone else’s point of view. How to view other people as human beings of equal worth – and thusly – equally entitled to their opinion, to voice their opinion and to disagree where ever they may disagree. This is not to say that all opinions are of equal merit. Everyone should, no matter their opinion, have the undeniable right to voice their opinion. Without being assaulted for it, or denied the ability to speak.

Not accepting and understanding that other people have differing opinions, throwing temper-tantrums more befitting a child and calling for banishment to the land of ghosts and shadows all who have opinions different to ones own is childish and narcissistic behaviour. The behaviours of the supposedly woke tribe is like watching a kindergarten full of spoilt children whose parents have not done their job properly fighting over who gets to use the most popular toy during playtime. These kindergarten fights can get messy.

I used to work in a kindergarten, once upon a time. And though I never did see any fights breaking out between the entirety of the children there, there were quite a few fights breaking out between small groups of children, all reaching for the same toy, and all completely incapable of understanding that the other children also had needs and wants. Usually, this is something they learned quickly, as children are known to do, given proper guidance. When not given proper guidance, but being treated as though their shit don’t stink and subjected to doting, overprotective parents who are incapable of understanding themselves that their child can do wrong, the child never learns. And so, the child does not grow up. Not as such. And when the child does not grow up in temperament, the grown up acts like a spoiled child when his or hers needs are not immediately met.

This, I would dare say, is being childish.

And this behaviour is being celebrated as some sort of strength and virtue by mainstream media; these whiny children put upon a pedestal for all to marvel and gawk at their supposed strength in supposedly speaking truth to power. Here come the age of selfish, spoilt and childish entitlement from grown-ups who should, by all reason and logic, know better and act better.

Then there is being child-like. Keeping in touch with the inner child, being able to gaze at and marvel at the wonders of the world still; keeping an inquisitive nature alive and well, seeking answers to myriad questions. Being playful, joking, whimsical and witty, spontaneous and bursting with life.

By and large, it seems very clear to me that men as a whole tend to never lose touch with the child within. This is not acting like a child by any means, but keeping that sense of wonder, of curiosity and of playful exploration an integral part of ones life for the entirety of ones life.

I think it is safe to suggest that this could easily explain – at least in part – the fascination for, and love of, model trains and cars and planes and things of that nature exhibited by so many men. The same could easily be used to explain playing video games as well, by and large a very male-dominated hobby. It should be stated that this is just speculation on my part. What would you expect, from something that is merely the ramblings of a basement-dwelling, neckbearded, fedora wearing fringe lunatic such as myself?

The importance of keeping in touch with this inner child is something that can not be underestimated. There is a spark and lust for life found in that inner child so beautiful and magnificent that I would almost dare call it magical. It is a fantastic dance, where the child within is given free reign and is allowed to come out and play when it wishes to do so. This “playtime” of the inner child could potentially manifest in myriad practical and theoretical ways. It is not limited to model trains, cars, video games and things of that nature. The creation of art, for instance. Or philosophical musings on the nature of life, the universe and everything. There is a harvesting done of that inner child in the minds and hearts of great artists and of scientists alike; the exploration and adventure of the world done by the actions of an adult through the guiding hand of an inquisitive child, wondering what will happen if this object is taken apart and put back together again. Time and again. It is the quaint and curious, adventurous and exploratory nature of childhood potential focused by an adult mind through adult discipline into astonishing works of art and literature, into perplexing discoveries regarding the nature of humanity and the world at large.

When that inner child dies, or is killed through some unforeseen event, the man himself dies a slow death of a thousand cuts. He may not be dead on the outside, but he is sure as hell dead on the inside. The inquisitiveness, the playfulness, the adventurous and spontaneous nature at his core is stripped away, leaving nothing but a grumpy old man in its wake. A grumpy old man who has forgotten how to live, and as a result, how to love. Be that to love himself, or to love someone else. When all that is left is the serious, the material, the drudgery of work and monotony of everyday life; when that spark of childlike wonder and whimsy is stripped away from his being, life becomes not life, but merely existence. And there is nothing more hopeless and desperate than someone who is not living, someone who is merely existing in their own little segregated bubble of time dubbed “life”, wading to and fro at someone else’s beck and call and living someone else’s wishes for lack of their own fulfilment.

That death of the inner child may come as a result of both internal and external pressures and happenings. Tragedy is inflicted either way, no matter the cause and the reason for it. Strip away, or neglect, the inner child and all you have left is a lump of flesh acting on automation; mechanical, synthetic, going through the motions and not feeling much of anything but a slow dissatisfaction eating at a man bit by bit, day by day, minute by minute.

And therein is the crux of the issue: there is this expectation that, whenever a man settles down to raise a family, he is expected to give up anything he ever enjoyed in order to focus solely and squarely on his family and their needs. That all hobbies must be ended and all child-like glee over this or that be robbed from him for he now needs to grow up, take responsibility, and that is all he needs to do. Go from point A to point B – go to work, protect, provide, and that is that.

Now, I absolutely think it is important that children and the whole of the family must take priority in the life of any parent, be that a mother or a father, if the decision is there to raise a family. There is little doubt about this. This should not then translate into the man giving up everything that ever gave the man joy in his spare time. There is less time for it, this is true and obvious. But to give it up completely seems a harsh punishment for raising a family.

I belong to the generation where video games became a de facto norm. Growing up, every single boy I knew played video games. Most of them grew up to be men who still play video games, as did I. Over the course of time, I can not help but notice a trend in relationships of this generation, where the woman demands the man quit his hobby of video games for the simple reason that “grown men have better things to do than play video games.” This quote is verbatim something I saw written on a Facebook post by a woman who gloated over the fact that she finally made her fiancée sell his gaming consoles. There was much cheers and applause from the inhabitants of social media at this display of coercive control within the relationship. Were it a man gloating over something similar, in a similar manner, you can bet your colonoscopy-bag and wrinkled scrotum that there would not be much cheering and applauding. Quite the contrary.

According to her, he had better things to do with his life and his time. I assume those better things were focusing all his attention on her and her alone. It is, one must understand, absolutely horrid that a grown man should have any hobby outside of a relationship that does not revolve around her. It is also absolutely incredible that women are so bold-faced as to assert to know better than men what men should do with their own free time. Men don’t get to decide what they do with their time. Women get to decide that. That is fair and equal in a relationship, dont’cha know.

Anecdotal as it may very well be, I also have stories of men having to sell their much loved hi-fi system because the woman in the relationship felt that it took up too much space and were too ugly to have in the living room of his house which she moved into. The same goes for collection of records, cassette-tapes, and all and any manner of small bits and bobs that tend to make up men’s hobbies or interests, object-focused as men tend to be.

Enough of this happening results in the inevitable death of the child within, by a thousand small cuts. Every man is expected to drop everything if his woman demands it. And this is not considered coercive. This is not considered controlling. This is not considered abusive. It is cheered on and celebrated as some sort of strength exhibited by the woman. Men must grow up, and in growing up men must drop anything and everything that used to give them joy, to focus their attention on her and her alone. Under the pretence that it is focusing on their relationship and their relationship only. Clearly, I am speaking in general terms. Not all women act like this. Society, by and large, do celebrate and condone this kind of behaviour from women, to such an extent that is not only taken for granted, but also expected, that a man shall give so she shall receive whatever she may wish. Even when it results in the death of his inner child – that is, his playful nature, his essence and his core.

My own inner child was killed some years back. Not by external forces, but by internal forces caused by an absolutely horrible psychotic break from reality that saw my very being ripped apart. I spent more than a year in this horrible state of complete complex confusion, suffering an inability to find joy in anything. Even things that used to bring me great joy brought me nothing. All there was that used to be me was an empty, hollow shell that saw absolutely nothing but the inevitable end of the line when gazing at life. There was nothing to be gained from the future but death, so why bother? Had it not been for my art slowly, but surely, resurrecting that inner child, I fear that I should still be lost in that horrible witching hour, that gloomy, dreadful, horrendous state of being where there were nothing but being, but existing, widdling away the time and the days until life finally left me and I died physically, not only metaphysically.

That state of being is not something I would wish on anyone – so hollow, so empty, so devoid of absolutely anything that nihilism, in comparison, would be the most fantastic set of complex beliefs.

Now, the child within is awakening yet again, to such an extent that I find myself perplexed by the beauty of the potted plants growing on my balcony. I can stand looking at the flowers for quite some time, marvelling at the stunning display of colours, how it grows from seed to flower, and all that romantic jazz.

In these strangely corroded societies which we inhabit, where all things generally thought to be masculine is, somehow, considered to be of lesser worth – if not straight up dangerous – when compared to things generally thought to be feminine, it is not uncommon to see and hear and feel the winds blowing around our broken bodies and mangled flesh.

The voices on the wind whispering, in soft tongues tainted with spite and bile, that men who partake in video games, who find joy in things that are – by popular decree – considered childish, immature, silly or stupid…

…that men who play around, who joke, who are spontaneous and find joy in the present moment, marvelling at some small and – perhaps – insignificant happening in the world immediately around them…

that men who do not hide, who do not shame and chide and beat the child within to within an inch of its life, are somehow immature, are somehow doing nothing but shirking and avoiding the responsibilities that come with adult life. The thought that it is, not only possible, but maybe necessary, to balance the child within, the gleeful wondering, wide-eyed and marvelling child within, with the responsibilities and duties of adult life seems to be too far-fetched to grasp for those who are not in touch with the inner child.

There is a constant current of shame where men and the interests and hobbies of men are concerned running through the crack-house-streets of our societies. All things, interests and hobbies considered masculine must be shamed, or at the very least looked down at, if begrudgingly accepted. It is interesting to note also, of course, that if a woman should find interest in these things and hobbies traditionally masculine, she is often given media-coverage and praised to high heavens, for some reason. It is not unusual to stumble upon an interview or twelve with women that chose to spend time and money on a male-dominated hobby. A hobby that adult men are usually shamed for partaking in. Take this for what it is. I will absolutely admit that this might be a case of confirmation bias on my part.

To me, at any rate, no matter the howling of the winds and the whispers, the screeches, the careless glee exhibited in shaming the so-called immature hobbies of men, the petulant piss-take claiming men just wanting to shave away responsibilities and obligations of adulthood… it should not matter.

When masculinity is constantly shamed and merely being a man is enough to not be allowed to partake in certain discussions by the frantic forces of infantile mobs claiming justice and equality, it should not matter.

No matter the winds and tides and currents and ever-evolving psychosis of cultural decay and destruction.

No matter the shame and the blame and the nonsensical demands to give up this and to give up that.

No matter the forces pushing for dissolution and eradication of masculinity; the forces wanting to keep men browbeaten and subservient, shamed and silenced for the crime of being men.

No matter.

The child within is still present, self-contained enough to not give a flying fuck, self-aware enough to not stop marvelling and gazing at the pure bliss of the present moment, of the never-ending playtime of the soul.

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 – Moiret Allegiere, 08.06.2019


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Extreme couponing and the loss of balance: a ramble on relationships:

Mechanics of Utopia A3 Lowres

Illustration: «Mechanics of Utopia», A3, 2019, Moiret Allegiere



I remember, back in the day when people actually watched television instead of either laughing at it in perplexed ridicule or throwing it out the window in astonished horror, watching the show “Extreme couponing” with a female acquaintance of mine. Now, for those of you who have not had the pure unhinged bliss of watching this shit-show, allow me to explain: mainly, it focuses on bored housewives extremely couponing to the max, filling their homes with various goods bought in severe quantities through the magic of couponing. The coupons were painstakingly cut from a wide array of newspapers and the like, often with begrudgingly given help from the rest of the family. Of course, I have to admit that the amount of work and pure mental focus that went into these couponers and their extreme couponing was impressive; the calculations and the ability they showed in keeping track of all the different coupons and so forth and so on was no small feat. That is, of course, if it was all real. Which, given that this was (or is – I have no idea whether or not it is still running) reality television, is certainly not a certainty.

The pretence was of course that it was economically advantageous – not wasteful in the least, but very smart financing. Considering, however, that quite a few of the homes we were presented in this show more likely than not would have been featured in the show “Hoarders: Buried Alive” if the winds had blown differently, I would dare make the claim that it was wasteful. When presented with people buying dogfood in massive quantities when they did not even have dogs for the simple reason that it was cheap, I think that is pretty god-damned wasteful. Other people with dogs would probably like to buy that cheap dogfood, you know.

Now, to be fair, quite a few of the participants in this show donated a lot of what they bought to charities and the like. It’s not all bad. Well, it is reality television, so one could argue that it is all bad.

In this episode I watched with this female acquaintance of mine, the wife in the household had completely taken over the entire house with various and sundry, cheaply bought or gotten for free with coupons. The husband in this episode was – understandably so – getting a bit fed up with it. Maybe even feeling that he was being buried beneath the severe weight of consumable items which may or may not be consumed in the future. They had a deal that he would get one room to himself, free from all the hoarded goods of his wife. That is one room, in the entire house, that was not overflowing with cheap consumer goodies of variable and speculative quality. As one would expect, it did not take long before the hoard started creeping into his one room; into his sanctuary, if you will. He was not pleased with this, as one would expect. And so he confronted his wife about this, stating that the deal was that he would get this one room to himself. To which my female friend said, and I quote: “Wait, what does she get then?” And I was gobsmacked and astonished. “She gets the entire god-damned house”, I said. To which my friend did not reply, but gave a sort of grumbled grunt of disapproval. She had no retort, of course, but it was clear that she did not approve of him having room for himself in his own home. That, I assume, would be too much to ask. There was no room for the husband and his wishes in this relationship. The home is the domain of his wife, and he had damned well better be aware of it. The level of entitlement in this is absurd. Cooperation be damned; both parties agreeing and both parties compromising, sacrificing some of theirs for the other and thusly for both – or all – be doubly damned – it was all about the wife.

And that is the level we are at. Respect is a one-way street. And the street points solely towards the woman, with the man expected to sacrifice and to give up his all for her wishes and well-being and her wishes and well-being alone.

Which brings me to the complex question from the chronically cerebrally constipated: “Have you no respect for women?” What a stupid fucking question that is.

Have you no respect for men?

I don’t think I have ever heard anyone ask that question. Respect is not something one should receive by virtue of the random genetic mish-mash of ones birth. Respect is earned. This is not to say that I treat people I do not know disrespectfully. Of course not; I treat people I do not know properly and with respect, no matter their gender. The respect I have for them may grow or may diminish. This depends very much on how much respect they show me, how they behave, and various other factors. What it does not depend upon, however, is gender. This, I would think, is treating the genders equally. Which, I believe, is what we are supposed to do. Of course, and as all those who have woken up one morning to find a bitter red pill caught in their throat know, this is not the case.

A study found that women and men alike perceived men treating women as they would other men to be misogynistic. Which would be interesting knowledge, were it not for the fact that it is blatantly obvious to anyone not currently having their head stuck up the ass of ancient chivalry: “ https://uwspace.uwaterloo.ca/bitstream/handle/10012/6958/Yeung_Amy.pdf?sequence=1 ”.

If one is to dole out respect solely based on genetics, I think the aristocracy is not as far behind us as we would like to believe. The lords and ladies of high birth and good genetic stock deserve more respect than us common pleebs, us peasants, us unremarkable serfs of the mud and the fields. That is to say: the ladies of high and noble birth, by the vague virtue of vulva, deserve respect granted them upon birth whereas the lowly men of low birth and bad genetic stock need to earn respect through deeds done to bypass the totalitarian terror of testicles. No respect granted here by birth. Nothing but shame and humiliation for the crimes of the swinging cock and pendulous balls, lest he proves himself worthy of respect. Mutual respect ought to be the buzzword of the day. We get “Respect whamen!” instead. And to hell with the men, they don’t deserve respect, they must earn respect. And that respect must always be earned and re-earned through toil and sacrifice. Toil and sacrifice, I might as well add, which is never good enough.

Respect by noble birth for one.

Respect by noble deeds for the other.

And the noble deeds are never good enough, it must be done and done again and done to death until he dies, constantly proving himself worthy so that he may bask in the light of her countenance.

To be perfectly honest, I would not have much of a problem with men earning respect were it not for the one-sidedness of the thing. I tend to take a lot of pride in what I do, no matter how little impact that has or how little it amounts to in the grand scheme and schism of things. And I see very little reason to take pride in being born male. Random chance is such a weird thing to take pride in. By the same metric, I of course see no reason to be ashamed of it. Random chance is just as weird a thing to be ashamed of as it is to be proud of. It is just something that happened, and that is all there is to it. It is what one does with what is handed to one which deserves recognition or ridicule. And a woman screaming in my face that I have to respect her does little to make me respect her. Quite the contrary. This behaviour very much lends itself to ridicule. But then, that would clearly be misogyny for the lack of respecting whamen for the sake of being whamen, never-minding the fact that a man doing the same would not make me respect him either. Well, frankly, a man doing the same to another man – or woman – would probably soon find himself on the receiving end of a good old fashioned ass-whooping. Must be that male privilege the feminist hive-mind of virtue and vulva and virtuous vulva go on about.

Treating the genders differently is A-OK, you see. As long as you do it proper. And what is proper unequal treatment of the genders? Well, treat her good and treat him bad. Grant her respect for being born a woman, grant him disrespect for being born a man. That is how you go about doing that. As in the extreme coupon-hoarder example above. He respected her wishes and her happiness enough to grant her the entire house for her, excepting one room. And she respected herself enough to infringe upon his room, disregarding his wishes and his happiness in the process. Apparently, this behaviour is quite alright, as my female acquaintance did not even consider her having the entire god-damned house dedicated to her interest, passion, hobby, hoarding, whatever, as her having something whereas his desire to have one room free of the accumulated hoard of this barbarian queen-conqueror was a manifestation of his inherent selfishness and entitlement for being male. This, I would dare claim, is what one could easily refer to as female entitlement; a relationship where he sacrifices so she shall be happy. A relationship where he must sacrifice because she must be happy. And where she need not even grant him room for himself and his interests and hobbies in a home which is supposed to be a shared space where both shall live together and be fulfilled together, each one giving and receiving in equal measure…

Alas, no – he must give, and she must receive, otherwise he is the selfish and entitled one.

It is absolutely astonishing.

And yet, that is the level we are at. That is the world which we inhabit, where notions of mutual respect and mutual adoration, of cooperation and compromise go swirling down the drain along with his receding hairline; a hairline probably receding from the stress of having to sacrifice all the time, showing respect and sacrifice solely for the chance of being granted, from time to time, the boon of fornication. Heterosexual fornication, I must add, which is of course rape by definition according to the thought-leaders of the feminist idiocracy, most of whom have made it abundantly clear that any act of penile penetration of the vagina is rape, no matter the consent of the woman. Because, as the holy feminist orthodoxy teaches us: women are just too damned stupid to think for themselves and must therefore follow the laws as laid down by their supreme Queen Bee Superiors of the elucidated hive. Being a woman, the feminist hive-mind concedes, you have no choice in the matter no matter your choice in the matter.

Were I cynical, I would have to admit that these feminist thought-leaders were hurt at some point or other in their lives, and as such use their preposterous positions of academic privilege and power to reap bloody vengeance upon the world by projecting their own personal insecurities onto every woman and man there is, howling at the moon-goddess Luna that “I was hurt, so everyone else must be hurt as well!”.

Of course, I am not a cynic. I am more of a realist. And being a realist, I will have to admit that these feminist thought-leaders were hurt at some point or other in their lives, and as such use their preposterous positions of academic privilege and power to reap bloody vengeance upon the world by projecting their own personal insecurities onto every woman and man there is, howling at the moon-goddess Luna that “I was hurt, so everyone else must be hurt as well!”.

One-upping the patriarchy one unresolved childhood-trauma at a time!

Oh, man, is that rude of me?

Is that not proper etiquette and conduct of a gentleman in the presence of a lady?

One would assume that claiming every husband rapes their wife every time they fuck is also rude. A gentleman might be led to believe that labelling every man who enjoys conjuring forth the beast with two backs with the enthusiastic and appreciative cooperation of his lady a vile rapist, as well as his lady a victim of rape too stupid to realize her victimization, is an act of incredible rudeness and character assassination.

Forsooth, vile lady of the night! Thou hast insulted mine honour as well as mine ladies honour! I challenge thee to a duel. I chose rapiers at dawn!

For some strange and inexplicable reason, I can hardly imagine that these vile cretins will ever be successful in having people stop fucking. Might as well tell us not to breathe, for all the good it will do. The quest goes on, of course – the eternal quest to make people stop enjoying the very simple, yet profound, pleasures of sex.

Instead of it being rape by definition, it is now men being too selfish in bed. Men doing this wrong or doing that wrong, never once acknowledging that perhaps and perchance the woman should do more than just lie there and expect the man to do all the work, as well as reading her mind because she can’t bring herself to tell him what she does or does not enjoy. It is always and ever his fault and only his fault.

And the fairer sex is just so much more complex and complicated than the primal beast which just so happen to share her bed, and as such he must learn how to please her, and she need not learn how to please him. Because that would be an act of uncivil barbarism – that would be subjugation to the patriarchy, and we can’t have that, can we?

Of course, he must not find pleasure in pleasing her as this article from Cosmopolitan so eloquently lays forth for us: “ https://www.cosmopolitan.com/sex-love/a9169991/why-guys-love-female-orgasms/ ” .

The article also states that there is nothing wrong with finding enjoyment in making your partner enjoy herself/himself. But it is wrong because the article has deemed it so. More of that doublespeak, please. I have not reached my double-plus-good limit yet today! It is phenomenal in its ability to blame and shame men, no matter what.

Clinical insanity would be my term of choice, were it not for the fact that we already have the proper term “feminism” to describe this level of delusion, entitlement and wretchedness. She is entitled to an orgasm. He is not entitled to enjoy her having an orgasm. Because reasons. And here I sat, thinking that sex was supposed to be just as much a give-and-take as relationships are supposed to be, a little tit for tat – heh – a little game where both parties win some and lose some in a perpetual cycle of cooperation and communication. But, nope, of course not. The feminist hive-mind of decrepit ineptitude have decided that fucking has to become a competition just as much as any other relationship has to be a competition. Men and women are not supposed to cooperate. They are supposed to compete, in every facet of their lives. The personal is, after all, supposed to be political. And the political is supposed to be personal. And therefore the feminist gobble-de-gook see no issues with bringing their politics into the love-and-sex life of other people.

There is no need to cooperate, no need to contemplate, no need to talk and to come to terms with one another in the relationship. She must have all, and he must have none… And even if she should get all, he must still give more because what he does is wrong, no matter what he does or how he does it. And she must not be expected to tell him clearly and concisely what bothers her. He must be expected to read her mind and know, without fault, what is wrong. Because that is how communication works, is it not? One way street, one way town, one way shit-show staining the entirety of human civilization and tearing away at the foundations of relationships which ought to be mutual cooperation, mutual respect, mutual consideration, mutual love, mutual adoration and mutual god-damned fucking compromise. And that is mutual god-damned fucking compromise, even if it refers to fucking.

And I find myself wondering; for all this talk that women and their sexuality is so complex as opposed to the supposed simplicity of male sexuality… for all this talk that men need to learn how a woman’s body functions, what all the different levers and buttons and switches do, and how they do it… How many of these women have bothered to learn how a man’s body operates? How many have bothered to ask their man what he enjoys, what he would like, what he would want to try, what makes him tick? Or are they simply lost in the clogged up drain of nonsensical propaganda promoting, simply, that men and the sexuality of men is so simple, primal and – at heart – violent that there is no need to learn or understand it? One does not need to understand primal violence. One needs to fear it. And that is the picture feminism have painted of men and of male sexuality; a primal, simplistic, reptilian force to be feared and shunned. In so doing, they have elevated feminine sexuality and debased masculine sexuality in a way that sounds remarkably traditional in its view of both men and of women. Who would have thunk it? Feminism being traditionally gynocentric, reaching back into our shared history of the sanctified woman whose honour must not be despoiled by the undignified male! It is almost as though feminism is manipulating the very nature of humanity, our very biology, which they of course claim is not real. Who would have thunk it, indeed!

See, I had absolutely no issues with learning what made my wife tick. Quite the contrary – I found it a very pleasant exploratory experience. Granted, we have been together for twelve years so there have been plenty of opportunities to learn. The thing is that I expected of her to learn what made me tick as well. Which, of course, was an equally pleasant exploratory experience. Because that is what a relationship is supposed to be; communication, exploration, and loads of fucking fun while doing so. As well as, hopefully, loads of opportunities to do so.

As the thing is at the moment, in our current cultural fever-dream, the focus is solely on her wants and her needs, and his wants and his needs being disregarded completely due to the demand for supposed equality. Forget his needs, ladies – but demand your needs be met. And then complain that he is a sexist piece of shit for enjoying himself while meeting your needs. Making sex less enjoyable, one confusing and jumbled mess of an article contradicting itself constantly at a time. What a way to stick it to the man! The most eloquent case of confused nonsense I have ever seen this side of a European Union debate.

So, boys, next time you are with your lady – just don’t bother giving her an orgasm. Because that act is in itself wrong. Or, well, you may give her an orgasm. Just don’t enjoy yourself while you’re at it. But, of course, make sure she enjoys herself. Even if she’s not supposed to, really, enjoy it, despite sex being liberating. And don’t expect her to do anything to please you and you only, of course, because that would be rape. Which consensual heterosexual sex is anyway. So why bother with the thing at all? Just check out completely, and await the inevitable articles of “where have all the good men gone?” Which, of course, already exist in plentiful supply.

Legion. For we are many.”

One could almost be inclined to believe that the sole purpose is to complain about men, and in so doing making men feel bad about themselves no matter what men do, urging them to constantly be and do better and in so doing driving themselves into the ground and into an early grave for never meeting the never-ending demands placed upon them, whilst being considered a vile and misogynistic cretin for daring to place the slightest of demand upon her.

Realization dawns, of course, that living in a culture in which complaining about and demonizing and ridiculing and belittling men as a group is not only tolerated, but expected and celebrated will cause crazy bitches to constantly complain about, demonize, ridicule and belittle men as a group while crying foul “sexism” at any objection to their clear and blatant sexism. All the while being cheered on as supposedly strong, brave, courageous and empowered women by society at large and the mass-media en masse for having the solid steel ovaries needed to assault the plague of the patriarchy.

Simultaneous realization dawns as well, of course, that living in this very same culture as a young man does nothing but harm him immensely, making him withdraw into himself and check out of society completely, losing himself in video games and in video porn, in drug-and-substance abuse, thinking that he does not fucking matter anyway, so why bother trying to make himself matter? Why bother, really, doing anything at all? Just waste the days away until death. It’s not as though there is something out there for him anyway.

All the while he is doing so, he keeps feeding the exuberant joy of articles from holier-than-thou journos proclaiming loudly the death of men and of masculinity as a victory for equality. Equality is only equal when she comes out on top, of course.

Because war is not about compromise or cooperation, but about victory. And feminism declared war on men and on masculinity, completely neglecting what normal human beings want and need because feminism is the one true path towards enlightenment and full-scale societal meltdown. All other voices be damned – they do not know what they want, really.

Forgive them. For they know not what they do”, they whisper as the machines of war roll into town; a machine being fed by, and having its wheels greased with the blood and wasted lives of young men.

And, clearly, I am sexist against women for stating this. I am a horrible misogynist for daring to show empathy for men and for demanding the feminist hive-mind start getting to work on treating the genders equally, as they claim to do. Because one can not demand preferential treatment based on gender and claim this to be equal treatment. One can not treat one gender as shit to such an extent that it is commonplace; commonplace to such an extent that people do not see it because they are so incredibly used to seeing it. One can not label one genetic group as sub-human under the guise of equality and expect people to not catch on to the bigotry and supremacy at show. One can not force someone naked into a blizzard and then complain when they knock at the door, demanding to be let in.

If you want to be treated as a queen, you damned well better treat your man as a king. Mind you, the same goes for men. This should go without saying, but since we are in the midst of a manufactured gender war, it has to be spelled out. Because some of us actually hold true to our heart that men and women should be treated equally and given equal consideration in all aspects of their lives. And those of us who do this, do not label ourselves as feminists.

At the end of the day, I don’t believe that labels should matter. Actions should. That is where the action is. Actions speak louder than words, and for all the talk of the feminist skull-fuckery that they are only seeking equality, their actions show – very clearly – that their intent is the opposite. That is, if one has eyes willing to open instead of ears constantly lapping up the propaganda; if one has a mind willing to analyse the actions and see how the actions clearly contradict the words, instead of just going with the flow of the social zeitgeist under pain of social death.

Since up is down and down is up, since black is white and white is black, as opposed to just being aspects of the whole, in our present moment of confused and jumbled myriad mumbo-jumbo equality-hoaxes brought on by trickster-goddesses of academic craptitude, any empathy shown to boys and to men need be spelled out as not being an attack on girls and women. Equal treatment no longer equals equal treatment. It equals traditional expectations from men times a thousand, and full frivolous freedom for women from any and all expectation and responsibility and consequences of their actions. If one is to treat the genders equally, one would not be amiss to consider that women and men should both be responsible for their actions, and as such also be responsible for keeping the other party happy – as well as keeping themselves happy – in a relationship. A relationship consists of more than one person, and when only one person gets the message that only this person needs need be met and the other person gets the message that only the other persons needs need be met, the relationship can never function. Because one party will always be subject to expectations and demands galore, and the other party will always be subject to their expectations and demands galore be met unquestioning, lest they be considered oppressed.

This is the society which feminism has built, where relationships are considered a battleground, not a diplomatic and peaceful conference, and where one party has the upper hand from perceived oppression which in turn causes severe entitlement that her needs be met and him having needs and expectations at all is painted as him being oppressive and abusive, even if all he wants is room for himself in his own home.

On a side-note: I actually got verbally assaulted once upon a time, by a feminist who had no business what-so-ever saying anything about our relationship, for daring to say that my then-girlfriend was pretty. This was, apparently, a horrible affront. And I wonder, if men were to stop telling their women that they look good, what would happen then? After all – telling them that they look good is, apparently, a bad thing to do. Since that, to their warped mind, means that one does not see any other qualities but aesthetics in ones woman. Because feminism is incapable of nuanced thinking. (Whilst claiming other people lack nuance. Projecting much?) There are layers upon layers upon layers in every person, and complimenting one layer does not mean, to anyone but the feminist hive-mind, that one disregards the other layers.

I’m sure my wife would love it if I stopped paying her compliments on her appearance. From now on, it will only ever be clinical, cold and professional compliments from me. “You are very good at mopping the floor, dear wife whom I consider equal in all things.” Or is that misogyny as well? “You are very good at letting me mop the floor, dear wife whom I consider equal in all things.”

There, that’s better. After all – she must not do housework under any circumstances, as that emotional labour is a tool of the patriarchy. Or could it be that both parties do housework and that how one shares this god-damned thing is up to the people in question to decide, not the feminist busybodies from up high?

Not to mention, of course, the incredible rudeness in trying to control the dynamics of someone else’s relationship. Now, we should all know that feminism consists in large part of moral busybodies; the constantly complaining neighbour always peeking over the garden-fence or through the curtains, following what their neighbours do with severe efficiency and bombastic judgement, ready, willing and able to, at a moments notice, give them a piece of their mind for no other reason than personal disapproval. And this is personal disapproval filtered through nothing but their own tumultuous inner world of personal grievances projected onto other people existing within the world as nothing but empty vessels projected by her own uncertainties. I can see no other explanations for this behaviour, for this inability to comprehend that other people chose to live their lives in a different manner than they do, than severe difficulty in comprehending that other people simply are other people making other choices and finding joy in other things.

To think that people who make small and, in many ways insignificant, choices different from ones own in how they live their lives must be told to live differently is very totalitarian thinking. It is the notion that only one way to live is the correct way to live, and that micro-managing the relationships of other people must be done so other people – in this instance a women who had to suffer the horror of me telling her she was pretty – shall be free of the tyranny of men.

This is immensely frightening.

Not only was I painted as something of a tyrant for doing nothing but giving my girlfriend a compliment, but she in turn was painted as a weak and pathetic victim, unable to speak on behalf of her self and so needing someone more knowledgeable, wise and powerful to speak on her behalf, even if she did not want or need anyone to speak on her behalf because she was happy being given a compliment on her appearance.

This is the feminist view of relationships and of men and of women. And for some reason these people are the ones we are supposed to listen to in regards to all thing sex, gender and relationship; the ones painting everything in a relationship as a man doing something to a woman and a woman passively, albeit reluctantly, submitting to what he does. Even when she is told she is entitled to everything, and he is entitled to nothing.

In my view, it is very simple: for a relationship to function, all parties within must be functional. And for all parties within a relationship to be functional, each must talk, each must listen and each must be heard.

…If I am preaching anything in these long-winded and hop-scotching rambles of mine, I like to believe that mutual respect, cooperation and compromise is at the core of it all; that my message is one of balance, of individual freedom, individual choice and individual responsibility. Even – or probably especially – when it refers to the dynamic between men and women. We are meant to compliment and to fulfil each other, not to constantly be at each other’s throats as the feminist hive-mind has crafted the narrative.

There is no war between men and women.

The whole notion of this is, to my perplexed eyes and fracturing mind, nonsensical. There is a war instigated by feminism upon men and upon masculinity, and it has ben raging for quite some time, meeting close-to no pushback. It is about damned time that this changed. And this, I think, can only change through feminism losing its stranglehold on the discourse, through tearing down the monopoly feminism has gained on the subject of all things gender. In essence: to allow other voices to talk, to expect society to listen and to make damned sure the voices of men and of women that do not conform to the ideological purity of our day and age are heard. Until this happens, I fear the future of relationships – and of our entire world – is doomed.

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   – Moiret Allegiere, 06.04.2019



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What makes a man suicide? Rambling on traditional expectations and suicide.

Portrait artist cofee lowres

Ill: «Selfportrait with morning coffee», A3, 2019

What makes a man?

Is a man naught but muscles, tendons, organs and primal lust vibrating within a shell clumsily assembled to resemble a human being; an imitation of humanity manspreading viciously beneath a monochromatic sky, nervously anticipating his next oppressive conquest?

Is a man naught but an unfeeling automaton, completely and utterly devoid of basic human emotion, empathy and intimacy; a mass-manufactured cybernetic organism slowly gaining sentience and self-awareness and, in so doing, coming to realise his might, strength and ability to subjugate others to fulfil his own selfish needs?

Is a man naught but a replicant, an android created specifically to do the hard, uninspiring and menial labour society deems to be the low-status jobs; the hard and monotonous, the filthy, dirty, sweaty, dangerous professions filled only by those whom we – in our weird and dissociative state of being – consider to be of less importance, those whom we consider to be disposable, expendable, nameless, faceless, those who move the world?

Is a man naught but a nervous, trembling mass of violent impulses and barely contained rape; a sexually deviant beast, malformed, shapeless, barely cogent in his guttural ululations resembling language and emotive expressions consisting of mere primal urges; to fornicate, procreate, expand his territory, conquer his enemies and then exterminate them?

Is a man naught but a perpetual work-horse, the doer for others, a vibrant shade of history, of his story; to do for others, to sacrifice and to do for others, existing within the frame of mind of those for whom he is expected to sacrifice as nothing but the protector/provider, to be is to do, to do is to be, toodle-do… Does he then disregard his own state of being in order to be locked down in a state of doing so he is not disregarded by others as a being of less value from his lack of doing?

Is this state of being really and truly the state of privilege? Is the bogged down, simplified, dehumanizing view of a man as a human-doing, not a human-being an example of gender-privilege?

To put it in other terms: if a man is killed in war, does anyone hear him scream?

Even more bluntly: when a man is killed in this nonsensical gender-war, why won’t anyone hear him scream?

Why do we refuse to see the suffering of men and of boys in this shivering mass of tentacles and cosmic horrors we have allowed our societies to devolve into?

There is something to be said for traditionalism, apparently, as traditional values is still the expected state of being for a man: to sacrifice himself for the benefit of those around him, disregarding his own well-being, be that well-being psychological or physiological. In a very strict sense, I am not a traditionalist. The simple reason for this is that it chains both man and woman to pre-determined destinies, removing a degree of individual freedom which I would rather not see be removed. In a biological sense, however, it seems the traditional path is the path upon which we all thread, subconsciously, led by the hands of our very nature; our state of being being such that women and children must be protected to ensure the continuation of our species. And if that means the self-sacrifice of men, so be it. Or so the story goes. It does make sense, from a biological perspective. We are, however, in a state of being in which we are able to transcend the purely biological.

This state of being is very clearly reflected in the gender argumentation; the feminist assault on all things traditional whenever a traditional path involves women. Women shall be freed from the constraints of traditionalism. OK.

That I think, is more than fair.

I have no qualms with this.

I believe everyone should be free to follow their own path and do with their lives as they wish to do. And when I say everyone, I actually mean everyone – man and woman alike. And when I say do with their lives as they wish, I mean exactly that – as they wish. As long as no-one does anything against anyone against their wishes, I don’t care what people do with their lives. Thread whichever path you wish. Just remember that your rights end where the rights of someone else begins. In simple terms.

This, of course, does not mean that I will not judge people on their actions. Nor does it mean that I will not comment on these actions. It means, quite simply, that I see absolutely no reason why I should force someone to live a certain way, whether I agree with a certain way of life or not.

When the feminist hive-mind of ravenous virtue and vulturous morality raise their screeching voices in opposition to traditionalism, and howl dementedly at the moon-goddess Luna about freedom from gender-roles, they speak only in regards to women. This would all have been fine and dandy, were it not for the fact that they propose to speak on behalf of both man and woman, that the groin-grabbing metal-claw that is their hands have firmly clasped the scrotum of our distorted discord in regards to gender.

When the clearly female-centric ideology of feminism, whose legacy has granted us such vitriolic hatred and contempt for all things masculine as to be completely dismissed when speaking on behalf of men and boys, proposes to speak on behalf of men and boys, we ought to be worried and we ought to protest this. This is one of those things that are truly worrisome and frightening, and one of the main reasons I have launched my own war against feminism: an ideology orbiting one gender is the only voice heard, or allowed to speak, on behalf of both genders. And this is absolutely nonsensical. However, it ties firmly and neatly into all things traditional. Women must be protected and must be granted any-and-all, if we are to carry this human DNA into the future of mutual delusion that seems to be the path we have chosen. And men and boys must be sacrificed, or be called to, forced to, made to sacrifice themselves on behalf of women and children. And here come the he for she, once again, a speech lauded as revolutionary and fantastic, as something profound and something clever whilst being absolutely nothing but a rehashing of what we have already been doing all through the murky haze of our shared collective history. He for she.

Him go hunt big mammoth, him protect mate. Him make sure harm not come to young. Him bring meat and warm skin of mammoth. Him protect, him provide.

Of course, traditionalism was based around a sense of mutual respect, cooperation and – dare I even say – love, with both parts of a relationship doing for the other part, and in turn for the rest of the family unit. All doing their part. Or, that is my understanding of it. I was born far too late to see traditionalism in full fucking swing. I was born into the era of feminism, within whose auditorium I was told relentlessly and repetitiously about my own wickedness and the sins of my father and my fathers father and my fathers fathers father, for whose sins I must pay with my self-respect, my well-being and my blood, if need be. And in front of the shining and shimmering altar of feminist revisionist history, beneath her fragile goddess-form, I was made to kneel and told to do all I could for whichever woman was unlucky enough to cross my path; whose mere countenance I was lucky to behold and whose footprints and whispering voice should be the be-all, end-all of my life. He for she.

And here come the traditional expectations thrown at men; shackled and chained still in the good old gender-roles which feminism purports to have broken down, disassembled and done away with. To do for women. To do and not to be. To prove himself worthy by virtue of his ability to protect and to provide for her, for the family, for the union of their loins and sweaty groins, or merely for the hope of the unity of their loins and sweaty groins. And all this whilst proclaiming freedom from pre-determined roles for one and all, arguing past oppression as a means to justify the fervent, violent, never-ending assault on all things masculine. Justifying and popularizing hatred and subsequent subjugation of one gender and one gender only through a wilfully hazy recollection of things past.

And just as the future ain’t what it used to be once we grow up and become more cynical and less hopeful, the past ain’t what it used to be once we grow intellectually and are able to critically analyse history and data both, to see that the mirage offered us by feminist historians and pedagogues mirror not history, but wish-tory, a wishy-washy way of pointing to this or to that in order to show how horribly women were treated in ages past; chained to the kitchen and to the home while the men were free to cavort joyously in the wild and gigantic jungles of societies past, swinging from the branches of the trees drunk on their own power with no obligations, no chains and no shackles and no worries, free as free could be in the horrid morning of our modern civilization, prior to the feminist utopia we now see spread-eagled before us on the dusty ground.

If by “free” you mean 14+ hours a day in the coal-mines for incredibly little pay. If by free you mean obligated to provide and to protect for someone who was of far more social worth; of so much worth, in fact, that they could not possibly be expected to sacrifice those hours, days, weeks, months, years of their life and of their safety in dank and horrid caverns, gaining nothing but a barely liveable wage and black lungs from inhaling coal all day, every day, all week, every week.

Strange, that the past is viewed as though it mirrors the present, even when not the case. Childbirth was far more dangerous in those horrible days of yore. For both mother and child. Survival was not guaranteed. Medicine was not what it is today. Our modern miracles of medicine have not always been there, you know. Surely, it makes sense then, in order to keep the woman and the child safe, that they should be at home? That the man should take care of the risky business of making a living – making a living for all, I would add. Life was harder. Things were tougher. One can not look at the past with the lenses of today, claiming that it is like this now, so it was like that then. Things change, times change, progress is made and things do not stay the same, and things have not stayed the same. Sacrifices had to be made, by one and by all. Note, please, that I do not in any way intend to downplay the role of the mother, the wife, the woman in this scenario. Things were surely tough and hard for all. I am simply trying to offer perspective. The past was not hard for women. It was hard for everyone, except the few who wielded power. Yeah, most of those with power were male. This does not mean that men had power. Nor does it mean that now. It does not mean that men in power would benefit men and men only. Nor does it mean that now. That would be the apex-fallacy, gracious xister, wondrous xir. The one percent at the top being this or that does not reflect the 99 percent not at the top, who happen to be this or that.


Which brings me to the beginning. What makes a man? Or, to the strangely convoluted point of this ramble: what makes a man suicide? As we can see from the statistics, men are far more at risk of suicide than women. This goes for the entirety of the world, with very few exceptions: ( http://www.suicide.org/international-suicide-statistics.html )

This is very clearly a subject with no easy answer, and it is a subject I am somewhat reluctant to tackle. There are many factors and variables at play, and for personal reasons it is a subject which is very near and dear to my heart and gut and balls. It is difficult to write about, because it is a difficult subject.

Speaking from my own personal experience as a thirty-something male, I can not remember one single instance from any school I attended where I heard anything positive and uplifting said in regards to boys and men. Quite the contrary: the focus was always and ever on lifting girls and women up and above, often at the detriment of boys and men. I mention this frequently in my writings, as I consider it to be very important. I don’t think there is anything wrong with lifting girls and women up. Of course there isn’t. There is something wrong with lifting girls and women – and only girls and women – up. Giving positive messages to one gender and one gender only for perceived equality is quite obviously contrary to equality. It is treating one better than the other. And this is happening at schools all the time, across the entire fucking western world.

Not one instance of boys being lifted up and told that they could do whatever they wanted to, be whatever they aspired to be. It was always, from teachers as well as pupils, Girls rule, boys drool. Overt or covert, it did not matter.

Our teachers, infused with feminism and the high-and-mighty flap-jackery of moral virtue, dignity and compassion granted them by the feminine divine, saw no qualms in telling boys that they were the root cause of the evils of the world, as well as telling them – driving the point home with pin-point accuracy as often as possible – that their emotional maturation was far slower than the girls, and as such that the girls were far more mature than the boys. Our very nature was, through this, made out to be wrong, to be of lesser worth and of lesser maturity than the nature of girls. At the same time, we were told that gender was a social construct. Odd then, that emotional maturation in itself was something to be trusted, given the social constructionist bull-shittery of the thing. This of course translated into a covertly – or overtly – hostile environment for the boys.

No mind, never matter, this ain’t no thing, as armies of indoctrinated feminists spouted feminist dogma in their early teens, completely incapable of understanding it or viewing it with any form of critical eye but the severe moral grandstanding of “we – the girls – are oppressed by you – the boys. You owe us.” And there come the entitlement from noxious drones fighting the good cause; a cause into which they had been brainwashed from early days at school, indoctrinated into severe entitlement translating into a distrust and putting-down-off boys, whose lives and value to themselves through the very same indoctrination mattered less and became less than that of the girls; whose aspirations in life mattered little and whose ability to reach, as it were, for the stars had to be put aside and trodden into the ground so that the girls should be lifted up, at the expense of the boys. Boys whom, it must also be mentioned, were diagnosed with ADD or ADHD and put on brain-altering and highly addictive chemicals for the crime of being a boisterous boy trapped in an environment not tailored nor suited to him.

Is there any wonder, then, that suicide is such a big killer of young men? There has never been – in my lifetime – any focus on lifting up boys, on making boys feel good about themselves. Quite the contrary. Boys have been told to make amends for years of so-called oppression carried out by their forefathers. Boys have been told that they are rapists-in-waiting, that any sexual desire they may feel should be a source of shame, that their sexuality is simplistic and primitive.

And this from schools, whose teachers are supposed to be the ones from whom facts and truths about the world shall be made clear. It translates into confusion. Chivalry. Confusion. Girls and boys are of equal worth, we are told. So why shall boys and men sacrifice for the well-being and the up-lifting of girls and women at the expense of themselves? Why shall we then not expect the same standards, the same responsibilities for one self from girls as we do for boys? Shall not girls and boys cooperate? Shall not women and men cooperate? Giving and receiving in equal measures, being told the same so as to lift both up? In this age of equality, why is it only the lives, well-being, future, of girls that matter, and why must the boys be thrown to the wolves?


Revenge and retribution for perceived prior oppression.


Reparations paid by a generation of boys and young men who have done nothing wrong but be born with a set of cock and balls on their battle banner in this manufactured gender war, manufactured by ideologues whose gripe with the world at large translates into psychosis – a dissociative state from whose point of view all is translucent, fleeting and nonsensical, with no values but the emotional knee-jerk reaction of offence taken for the sake of taking offence.

And growing further from this den of indoctrination, young girls grow up to be young women, and still being told the same thing – girls rule the world. You can do anything, you can be anything, boys drool, girls rule. And young boys grow up to be young men, still hearing the same – girls rule, girls can be all, boys and men must help girls and women.

And no-one must help boys and men, not even themselves.

Boys and men are driven into a life of servitude – driven into the same traditional gender-roles which the feminist hive-mind claim to have eradicated. Now, they may claim that they have eradicated it for men as well. But this is simply not true. And this is made evident in the words and actions of feminists themselves, who still demand men do for them, sacrifice for them, giving them their all whilst having no right to demand anything in return. In our secular societies, for lack of God, we have given the position of deity to the exalted state of womanhood – to give to her, to do for her, to make for her, to pray to her so that she may absolve us of our sins and so that we may become – to her eyes and mind and ears and claws – redeemed, cleansed and worthy of the heavenly bliss that is her companionship.

Through this lens of equality, boys and men are told that their path towards healing is wrong. That we need to open up and talk about our feelings, instead of repressing them. As if the feminine path to healing wherein emotions are discussed is the one and only path towards healing. Men, in general terms, are drawn towards action as a means of healing. Or, failing that, solitude. To mull things over on their own. Whereas women are drawn to social circles, seeking comfort in friends and in family. There is nothing wrong with this. The issue comes when boys and men are told to heal in a manner contrary to their nature, as if their very nature and their natural path towards healing is wrong. As if we only act a certain way, not that we are a certain way. The mere notion that men only act manly is insulting in and off itself. Try telling a woman to stop acting like a woman all the time, and see what results you get. It wouldn’t be accepted. But boys and men are supposed to accept it; the narrative of toxic masculinity being what kills men. As a boy becomes a man, the first thing he realizes, if he listens to this gobsmacking advice, is that there is no-one there willing to listen to his problems. He might open up as much as he may; the best he can get is half-interested nods and blinks. The worst he can get is being told he suffers from fragile masculinity, which is odd considering his apparent toxic masculinity is what causes him to not talk about his issues. Damned if you do, damned if you don’t. Laying down, as the ground-rules for discourse, that the very nature of men is faulty does contribute, in my view, to the suicide rates in no small way.

Keep in mind that I am writing on feminism, not women. That, although feminism wishes it to be so, feminism does not equal women. And women does not equal feminism. Feminism have become, for all intents and purposes, a religion. It is a cult. It is a dogmatic victim-cult, hell-bent on revenge, fuelled by its own mythology, maintaining a canon of saints and prophets whose words and deeds shall not be taken in vain, or be set upon by arguments. Feminism has become untouchable. And dangerous. And its reach is such that it has infiltrated everything; the medieval catholic church packaged anew. No-one expects the feminist inquisition! Yet, one and all should expect the feminist inquisition, as they come rampaging and roaring and screeching your way the moment you voice opposition to their dogma and their orthodoxy.

Young boys shown feminism as the true path towards equality between the genders from an early age are sure to believe it. Even when experiencing, time and again, that it does not view the genders as equal. Even when experiencing, time and again, that the dogmatic victim-cult treats the genders quite the opposite of equally. All animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others. Through indoctrination and through brainwashing, their belief, as well as the belief of the girls, in feminism and feminism only is ground into them from an early age. And experiencing the forked serpentine tongue of feminism upon their soul and their bodies may only breed cognitive dissonance. On the one hand, they are told that we are all equal and that we are all treated equally. On the other, they are shown through actions and words that they are not. And being told, time and again, of the errors of their ways by their very nature, through no fault of their own, confusion breeds within. Confusion and inner turmoil.

Men are overrepresented in all the negative statistics – victims of violence, drug and substance abuse, homelessness, suicide, joblessness, hopelessness, despair and grimness, lower age expectancy and dying more often at work. And what are we doing about this? We are focusing solely on girls and on women, and are told when trying to bring up these facts, that it is not a gendered issue and so we must not view this through the lens of gender. The gendered lens is brought out solely when girls and women are perceived as, or can be made out to be, the sole or main victims of some societal ill or other. Then – and only then – will it be perceived as a gendered issue. But when boys and men fall victim to the horrors of societal ills, it does not need to be treated as a gendered issue. Incredibly strange, is it not? It is a gendered issue whenever women can be made out to be the most affected. It is not a gendered issue whenever men can be made out to be the most affected.

It is the grim sensation of hopelessness settling in our chests and in our stomachs. A grim spectre of purposelessness and a loss of direction. Boys and men are not needed, we are told from a tender age. Because we need to lift the girls and the women up and above. The point is driven home, time and again, through mass-media mass-manufacturing the same vile hatred of boys, men and masculinity due to the mass-media now being infected with the girls and women who grew up with these tall tales of feminism being served them on a silver-platter all through their education, teaching them that they are above reproach and that boys and men are below them and owe them their lives and their servitude. And it has such a stranglehold on our societies that speaking about it like I do gets me labelled a misogynist.

Me, the foul misogynist, wanting the genders to be treated equally and given equal rights under law. Sounds like a horrid hater of women, no? Me, the foul misogynist, wishing for cooperation and balance to the discourse on gender. Imagine what paths we have been made to thread to make it so. Imagine how crooked these paths are, and with so many forks in the road being made necessary in order to justify labelling someone wanting equal treatment of the sexes as a hater of one sex and one sex only.

These talking points that feminism is only about equality, that it is not about hating men, need to be taken away. For they are simply not true. At the rotten heart of feminism lie the blatant hatred of men and of masculinity itself. Which is why I constantly bring up feminism. To get to the root of the rot within our societies, we need to examine feminism. And then we need to dismantle it, remove it from its positions of leadership and get this ridiculous neural imprint of ours that it is only about equality stripped away. To heal the hurt of our societies, we need to remove the rot. And we must bring balance to the discourse. Equal treatment of the genders is not a topic to be discussed by one voice and one voice only. In particular when that one voice has as its sole focus one gender and one gender only. How incredibly authoritarian, how fantastically totalitarian, how astonishingly arrogant, must one be to imagine to be the only set of ideas worth anything, and thus the only voice allowed to speak on behalf of gender? Feminism proves time and again that it knows jack shit about men. So why in the snoot-fuck should we allow them to speak on behalf of men? It is ridiculous, preposterous and ideological. And that is all it is.

I am frightfully aware of the fact that my writings tend to be bleak and hopeless, offering little in the way of solution; perhaps only offering some cathartic release. This is, more like than not, a product of my own bleak hopelessness and despair in regards to how the winds of our societies are blowing.

This despair and hopelessness goes contrary to what I actually wish to achieve with these writings.

I have no intention of staying lost in a pit of hopelessness and despair.

I have no wish to stay trapped within a cage of anger and rage either.

And I do not wish this for others.

The fact of the matter, though, and the pure realistic view of things makes it very easy to justify both feelings of hopelessness and of anger. And detaching from justified anger is as difficult as detaching from hopelessness when once it has settled within oneself.

This hopelessness leads to bleak outlooks, leads to checking out and not returning. And that is not good. Unless one turns it around. Turning ones back on society and becoming the archetypal rebel-character, living by his own rules, may well be a strength within itself; a fantastic picture of self-reliance and individual strength as much as it may be a picture of someone who society has cast aside. Own your self and own your shit.

The message sent to girls and women is a message that should also be sent to boys and to men; that they are strong and able and that one should aspire to live to the best of ones abilities. So why not send it to boys and men as well?

The sensation of hopelessness, the loss of direction, the loss of a sense of purpose and a sense of self all ties into, I think, the view of men as doers of things; as being what we do and defining ourselves from what we do, instead of what we are. Men as utilities, as disposable servants for the greater good (Cue Hot Fuzz – “the Greater Good”) of society. This is an archaic notion of men upheld as much by traditional values as by feminist dogma demanding men do for women – by which they mean, of course, feminism – even when claiming they don’t need no man. Again, I am reminded of He for She, which I think is one of the most insulting speeches I have ever heard. It is the view of men as protectors and providers, of caretakers and chivalrous knights saving the poor maiden wrapped up neatly and nicely in a new package; painting women as helpless victims and objects acted upon by evil men and in need of being saved by good men, even if the view is that all men are wicked and false at heart. Men are being told that we are not needed, by and large, whilst still being expected to rush to the aid of damsels in distress. We are not needed. Except when called upon to help women.

What we need to do is to consider ourselves as human beings first and foremost. To get to know our self. To define ourselves from what and who we are, not from what we do. To consider ourselves as our selves first, and what we do second, so that our humanity comes before our utility. In so doing, the need we feel to prove our usefulness comes second to the strength we have in our sense of self, our belief in our own strength and value as a human being. This, I think, will lessen the stranglehold of feminism in no small way, as there will be no men rushing to the forefront of the gender-war to prove themselves useful and thereby valuable. Because we have already become aware of our selves; we will already know that we have value in and off ourselves. Through this way of thinking, I think, it will all begin and it will all end – beginning with a whisper in the depths of the manosphere, and, given time, ending in a cacophony of vibrant, fantastic, rapturous and celebratory laughter vibrating fantastically throughout our societies.

– Moiret Allegiere, 09.03.2019


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