Apocalyptic Recess

«Dissociative», Moiret Allegiere, 2019

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 13.11.2019

Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07ZB6K2JX
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:
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Why I am an Anti-feminist, part 4:

«Examining Pain», 2019, Moiret Allegiere

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

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

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

Men die younger than women.

Men lose custody of their children during divorce.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That is putting it nicely.

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

Chew on that for a little while.

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

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

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

Feminist women.

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

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

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

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

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

It is the craziest thing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 19.10.2019

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

Other links:
Redbubble shop: https://www.redbubble.com/people/Moiret/shop
Blog: https://moiretallegiere.wordpress.com/
YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC3IaCxAXE3pQd7PCdvHoaaA
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Fear and Loathing in Secondary School, part 1

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I am not making this shit up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Women are not; they are liberated.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 18.09.2019

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

Feminism does not have rebuttals.

Nor does it have arguments.

Not as such.

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

Yes.

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

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

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

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

Welcome, my friends, to the machine.

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

Welcome, my friends, to the machine.

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

What a strange fucking world these people live in.

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

This goes for both men and women, of course.

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

The machine will keep going.

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

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

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

Cock-a-doodle-doo.

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

Welcome, my friend, to the machine.

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

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

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

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

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

Not as such.

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

We are not the same.

We are not equal.

We are of equal worth, without a doubt.

And we are of equal value. Without a doubt.

But we are not the same.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing more.

And nothing less.

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 11.09.2019

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

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

Pound me too, you grand machine of war! (On the #metoo backlash)

The great machine of perpetual gender-war is at it again. Thunder and lightning and flashes of brainstem-panic abound. Cogwheels are turning and churning beneath our streets in the sad and certain reality of this horrible year of our lord; the current year and all the current years that went before.

And madness and collapse and wide-eyed spastic dancing in the streets and in the petulant article-flurry of the internet will be observed by those who do not dance any more. That is: those whose feet will no longer carry them along dark obsidian-coated roads to reputational ruin, potentially crafted from wild hand-spun lies in the opium-dream folds of lackademic fairytale ineptitude.

For in the Blitzkrieg-bop that was, and is, the metoo-hysteria; in the bright-light flash of the bomb-and-missile strikes, as the permanent rhetorical machines of gender-war rolled in and set up shop, as the jackboot-stilettoed mistresses of impertinent femdom and do-as-I-say-not-as-I-do dominance entered and reared their ugly heads, demanding complete and utter control, the cogs and wheels that run this whole fucking sham-society of ours elected to walk away and close the doors. To keep safe and to be kept safe. To restore some semblance of order and balance in the daily drudgery of work, to restore a sense of occupational safety. That is to say: take responsibility for their own safety, such as we must all do from time to time; take care so that we do not put ourselves at needless risk.

That is the Mike-Pence-Rule, the never-be-alone-with-a-woman-whom-you-do-not-properly-know-rule. A damned shame, perhaps, that it would come to this. But it is the dance and the doing of the great machine of hysterical antics that done did it, kind mistress of voluptuous femdom and freedom under tyrannical rule. You have only yourself to thank for this.

Come to think of it, it is not a damned shame perhaps. It is a damned shame, for sure, that things should come to this. Yet it is exactly what one would expect as a likely outcome for this sort of social panic; this high-strung muscular inflammation that has infected the braincells of our mob-mentality. This is exactly what one would expect from the mycelium that has grown and grown and grown beneath our streets and in our secular societal curse where we have neither God nor Devil and so must manufacture the two, conjure them forth from the murky realms of global-scale acid freak-outs.

A tale to be told as such: the feminine is God, the masculine the Devil.

The mycelium has mushroomed. It has spawned the beast. A pre-manufactured prophetical prophesy of heresy that was just as self-fulfilling as it was meant to be – a power-play, a mechanical ploy to further rip-rend-tear and so widen the great divide between the sexes and bring even more poor, pitiful plebs and peasants to their knees to sing the high praises of the dominant ideology of our day and age. To force all the armies of the land to lay their swords at the feet of the great conquering empress and swear fealty to her cause of immediate and visceral equality that is to be doled out in spoonfuls to those who have earned a taste of her fantastical fantasy equality. One which she imagines in her rudimentary minds eye and shades of her personality that have managed to – somehow successfully – mimic human emotion, thought and reason mirrors equal treatment perfectly.

For what would you expect but this? When the rule and law of the land has been altered in such a way as to demand immediate belief on any accusation from a woman… when the governing tongue, the most primal language spoken now is nothing but seven-thousand shades of the phrase believe women… what would you expect to happen?

When one sex is believed, no matter what – the other sex is at a disadvantage. And so must up the ante in order to protect themselves from the possibility of a false accusation from a woman scorned for something-or-other.

When merely a whispered word spread – just as the mycelium spreads – through social media is enough for the un-personing, the de-platforming, the destruction of his reputation and his personhood, his individuality, his work, his every-single-goddamned-thing… what the blooming hell would you expect but the necessary precautions taken to minimize the risks of this happening?

For, apparently unbeknownst to feminism and its followers of slave-like virtue and morality, women are nothing but human beings. Nothing more and nothing less. And, in being human beings, women are just as capable of lies and slander and petty grievance-fuelled seeking of revenge as any man may be. For it is a human thing, you see, this petty nonsense, this ability to lie, this completely callous attitude towards the suffering of other people for selfish goals and reasons. Obvious, I think, to anyone who consider the sexes to be of equal worth and value – who treat the sexes equally and, as such, tend to view them in an equal light: the possibility for good is there in both, just as the possibility for evil.

The weapons and the tactics may differ based on sex – evidently so – but the result and the pettiness remain the same; destruction of the other part, the one who is perceived to have wronged you in one way or the other.

A woman’s deadly weapon of choice have traditionally been poison. And, apparently, it still is. Only now it is a poison of society, a poison of social media, of wide-spread fear and panic through rumours and unfounded accusation of some trespass or other upon her personhood and the sanctity of her female virtue by virtue of being female. Where the only antidote for a man is to limit his time spent alone with women.

And it is a damned fucking shame.

Yet, there you have it.

And yet, the grievance-mongers, the peddlers of bulk-morality and by-the-pound virtue, have found it within their echo-chambered hearts to bitch and moan and complain and whisper to the fluff-lined streets of the internet and of society at large that this is the patriarchy punishing women for #metoo and various other witch-hunts that may or may not have coincided with the rise of the Divine Feminine, whose feet we are barely worthy to kiss.

Odd, this, when the very same voices – the very same gaggle and cackle and babble of the feminist ideology – have stated for decades that women are afraid to be alone with men, any man, and that this fear is totally justified you guys and there is nothing wrong with it, either, you guys. And here, men have to alter their behaviour so that women should not have to be afraid to be alone with men.

Sounds like unjustified hatred based on sex, does it not? Sounds an awful lot like gendered stereotyping which these types are supposedly so opposed to. Sounds like sexism. Still – there ain’t nothing wrong with that. When women do it. It is justified and it is understood, because women, you guys, have so much to fear from men, you guys, and men, you guys, have nothing to fear from women. For reasons of – shuffles deck of card – power structures, something-something-institutional something-or-other, blah blah fucking blah.

When men feel the – evidently very justified – fear of being falsely accused, of feeling the sharpened edge of the sword of #metoo should he not propose her promotion, should he not hire her for work, should he tell her that she ought to have done a better job, or various other petty motives on her part, and so take precautions in order that this don’t happen, this is discrimination based on sex and pure hatred of women. Something-something, institutional, something, something, social power.

Of course; it is discrimination based on sex. It is treating the sexes differently. It is not, however, hatred of women. It is pre-emptive defence, a precautionary measure to minimize risk. Because he knows that she has the institutions on her side. Because he knows that she has the whole of society on her side. Because he knows that the frantic forces of feminist fragility will descend upon him like birds of prey upon their prey should she but raise a trembling index-finger in his general direction.

Because he has seen what happens when a woman only need whisper “#metoo”, when the word of a woman is believed without question. He has seen what happens when this amount of power is granted one sex. And it is power, it is might. There is no denying this. It is social and institutional power that is not checked, that is not watched by those who are supposed to watch the watchmen.

This will invariably and without doubt hurt the vast majority of women who would not do anything of this nature. This is a damned shame. This is not something that should have happened.

It is, however, feminism and the women within, and the women who blindly followed and yet did nothing, that threw the first punch, that fired the first shot, that began the whole rotten thing. It is this society we live in in which we are so reluctant to believe that women can do anything wrong, anything unethical, anything but the wonderful and fantastic that have allowed things to reach this level of fear, loathing and insanity. The reason for this happening lies at the feet of feminism and the responsibility rests solely on their shoulders. Upheld and helped and aided and structured by gynocentrism and the women-are-wonderful effect. It is traditionalist views and expectations of gender perfectly repeated, labelled “new” and presented on a silver-platter in a different light. Same shit, different wrapping.

And so came the great machine to a crawling halt. The me-too pound-sign wielders who wanted so much to be part of the new, of the latest misled mass-media fuelled mob-drawing mass-hysteria trend; a movement supposedly there to showcase sexual harassment whomsoever was a supposed victim and whomsoever was a supposed victimizer, but who decided that it was only for women and that men don’t matter. As per usual. For, if men tried to tell their stories with the #metoo banner flying high, they were promptly shot out of the sky with the anti-aircraft missiles of the cerebral coprophiliacs, the femdom-infatuated feminist hordes and their blue-balled, blue-pilled white knights in shining and shimmering armour. This, we were told then, is a movement for women and women only. Showing yet again the only thing that matters in the minds of the forces working for do-diddley, do-nothing equality between the genders: the one, and not the other.

The great machine now ground into a decline in movement as the other side put up their defences along the front lines of the vividly manufactured war between the sexes. This was not expected. The other side was not supposed to defend itself, to stand their ground in the trenches and hold their line such as it is. The other side was supposed to lay down passively in front of the great machine. They were supposed to allow the great machine to devour them and make it part of themselves, to grease the wheels and mechanisms of various form and function and bring it ever further into the land and the society left still untouched, unmoved, unbroken by the dread machine of war.

Men are waking up to the terrible phantasm of feminism. Women are waking up as well. The writing on the wall is there, the defences are in place. Soon, I hope and pray, the defensive tactics from those opposed to feminism will turn offensive. And in one giant swoop, the dominant ideology will fall, its castles crumble and the overarching cultural narrative that has tricked us and doomed us for decades will be blown to the wind.

At the very least, a man can hope, a boy can dream.

I wouldn’t count on it to happen all that soon, though. The powers of gynocentrism are immense. The desire to protect women (and children) too strong. Until we really and truly see hard times, nothing will change. Until this flawed and faulty ideology of feminism and its machines of war is shown without doubt to hurt women en mass – as is evident to those who have peaked but a little below the surface-shine of supposed equality – nothing will happen.

The dread spectre, the contagion, the hysteria, the tyranny will spread and continue to spread. Until it proves that women are hurt by this just as much as men are. And that is a damned shame as well, as it further proves that this supposedly women-hating, male-centred society of ours cares nothing what-so-ever about the suffering of men, cares nothing about the plight of men, cares nothing for men but their ability to sacrifice and sacrifice again for the protection of women.

Such as it is, was, always have been to those who are able to see beyond the veil and mist and the laced panties of ideological indoctrination.

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 04.09.2019

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

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

DIY or die! A ramble on doing things yourself (and various other semi-related topics):

There is nothing better, in the humble opinion of this sleepless cripple, than the satisfaction of finishing some project or other. This goes for most everyone, I would assume. And it applies to any project one could imagine, from the artistic to the mundane, from the impractical to the practical.

I will focus on the mundane and the practical in this ramble, I think, following on a bit from my piece on hobbies. That is to say, I will try to the best of my abilities, seeing as my current struggle with insomnia leaves me a bit unfocused and weirdly scatterbrained.

I was fairly pleased with the piece I did on hobbies. That I was pleased with it tend to mean that very few enjoyed it. One of those strange quirks of the realm of artistic illusion, I suppose. In this realm, the pleasure of the artist does not necessarily translate to the pleasure of the beholder. The opposite also hold true; when I find myself severely displeased with some artistic project, people tend to enjoy it. It is really strange. Not that it matters all that much.

In some way or other, it evens out. I think it is a fairly funny observation, though.

In the dark days, in the long-ago time, when I still inhabited Facebook I posted a picture of some wooden planters I had built from the leftovers of another project I had been building. My caption for these photos were something like: “I built this using primarily my beard.”

I very much enjoy working with plants, tending to them, watching them grow from seed to fruit and everything involved in this process. I also very much enjoy working with wood, and would do so much more than I currently am doing had I only the room. The picture of these wooden planters were very well received. Particularly by women on my friend-list. This is something I found to be very interesting. Especially so since a few of these women, one who commented in particular, presented themselves as ardent feminists. The feminist in question who happened to comment, commented something along the lines of “Your wife must love your handyman projects!” There is absolutely nothing wrong with this comment, of course.

Quite the contrary.

I found it incredibly interesting, however, that it came from the hands of a feminist, seeing as it is very much gendered stereotyping, is it not? Wife enjoys her husband fixing and building things around the home, while the husband enjoys the wife doing whatever it is a wife traditionally does.

I am given to believe that a lot of the differences in the choices men and women make, as well as the interests of men and women, are driven in no small way by us being differently wired biologically.

There is nothing wrong with this either, of course. Were we only able to accept this tender little factoid instead of assuming some manner of discrimination every single time these different choices and priorities, strengths and weaknesses present themselves as differences of outcome. That is to say: were we only to accept, cherish and nurture these differences for what they are instead of fighting against them at every turn.

This is not to say that one should accept every difference as a rule, nor is it to say that you either have to do this or you have to do that, are you a man or a woman. I am not a fan of rigidly enforced social rules, norms and regulations as a general rule. With exceptions, of course.

What I mean to say is that people should be free to do with their lives as they wish to do with their lives, be they male or female. That, whether people chose a traditional path or not, it should be accepted as the choice of that person and that person alone. Of course, in regards to relationships, it should be accepted as the choice of that couple or that family. It is not the place of anyone else to force someone to do something they do not wish to do. And it does not reflect well on any movement when a movement attempts to tell someone that their choices are the wrong choices. As feminism is known to do, should a woman chose something particularly traditional – or something that she wishes to do that falls outside the very narrow realm of accepted professions for a woman as feminism sees it.

Which brings me to my point in regards to the comment left by the feminist – whom I know to be a feminist, because she stated as much quite a few times. As feminists are also known to do. That point being: at the moment I showed some manner of practical ability, some manner of doing and making, the distaste feminism usually shows in regards to the traditionally masculine and the traditionally feminine – man provides and protects, woman receives and is protected (in excruciatingly simple terms – I am aware that this dynamic is far more complex than this) – evaporated and gave room for what I would dare say is some manner of admiration. And that is admiration for traditionally masculine traits, in essence: protect and provide. There is nothing wrong with this admiration. Nor is there anything wrong that men lean towards this, or take pride and enjoyment in the admiration gained from doing things of this nature. Or take pride in these kinds of projects as they are, for that matter.

This sort of behaviour from the feminist, this small and – on the surface – insignificant thing did actually significantly alter my way of thinking where gender and feminism is concerned. It fixed, cemented and set in stone my conviction that people refer to themselves as feminists by default because they have been spoon-fed this hideous lie that it is the only force working towards equality between the sexes, and that is all that it is. So why not label oneself a feminist? It’s only muh equality, ya know.

But, yeah, my scatterbrain scattered its seeds and took me in a different direction yet again. I’ll do my best to get back on track. It was the pleasures of doing things yourself I wanted to ramble about a bit, and that strange sensation of fulfilment and pride that comes from being able to take care of oneself and whatever family one may have through doing so. From small projects to big projects, it does not really matter – the satisfaction remains the same. It does, in no small way, make one feel a bit manly, a bit masculine. And this is a good thing. That feel-good testosterone fuelling that toxic and fragile masculinity; that horrible urge to protect and to provide and to be able to do things on ones own. Terrible. Just terrible.

I am of the humble opinion that doing things yourself is the best course of action to take for most things – provided one has the know-how to do so. Or the ability to learn how to do so. And most things, I believe, one can learn for oneself.

Granted, this DIY-ethos of mine may very well have trickled down from the first time punk-rock filled my soul and body with all its wondrous tricks and trance-inducing rage and riot against the establishment.

What better way to tell the establishment to fuck off than participate as little as possible in the well-trodden paths; that is to say: do as much as possible yourself and be self-reliant, self-sufficient and self-fulfilled, needing little help from the established powers-that-be and any authority left therein? Which, in the end, may very well be a naturally well-established path for men to take. Interesting, is it not?

For full disclosure – I am receiving disability from the government for my severe chronic illness.

So I am not self-reliant in any financial way.

Which is a bother and a burden to me and to my toxic and fragile masculine pride (trademarked). My main wish, or hope, or goal, if you will, is to somehow manage to make enough money on my art and writings to be able to make a living off it. I am absolutely certain that it will never be enough to live some high-and-mighty life of overabundance. But a modest living is within the realms of possibility. Through hard work and sacrifice. And, rest assured, this art and writing I do requires a lot of hard work and even more sacrifice. I have lost friends and family due to the topics I have chosen to write about, and this is no fun.

No fun at all.

No matter how much it hurts, it will be worth it in the long run, as the topics I chose to write about are incredibly important to write about, talk about and learn about. And speaking honestly is good for the self. My choices were to write honestly on these topics, or succumb to clinical insanity from bottling all these thoughts, speculations and knowledge within.

No good fight is fought or won without sacrifice. And the sacrifice is most often severe and most definitely personal.

And were I not entangled and entwined in all this god-damned gender-stuff, all this strange and peculiar culture-war-stuff, I would be writing far more on various DIY-projects. With home-brewing and plants being my main focus, as those two are what gives me the most pleasure and consumes most of my time where DIY-stuff is concerned. With woodworking and carpentry most likely being a close second, the moment I get enough space to really start going to town on projects of that nature. In a couple of years, we will be buying a small farmstead. There will be room enough then. Room to breathe, to move around. Not infected by the inevitable stress and insufferable horror of city-living.

Raising a plant from seed to fruit and then using this fruit in various home-brewed concoctions that will be stored and matured for a year, in order that it is ready to be enjoyed when next years batch is being made is one of the greatest of small pleasures in my life. Of course; foraging plays a part in this, and picking plants in the wild for use in home-brewing or in teas or for food or whatever is a fantastic endeavour to embark upon. There is so much growing out there in the wild ready to pick and use in whichever way one would like that it boggles the mind that so few actually do things of that nature. In nature. And it is done by oneself. By hand. Bit by bit and piece by piece; projects that require patience and knowledge.

Patience being one of those things that seem to be dwindling alongside our attention-spans as our civilization descends ever more into the void of immediate gratification, into the nether realms of instantaneous satisfaction in place of delayed gratification. Fuelled, of course, in no small way by the dopamine-addictions shot into the central nervous system by social media, the tyranny of the stopwatch and various similar maladies of the modern era.

Long-term projects, projects that are determined by, and reliant on, the seasons is a great way to train patience, to cultivate patience as a virtue, to teach oneself to delay gratification and push away the press and desire for immediate satisfaction. Which of course, in itself, is a long term project. For if one has first fallen into the trap and succumbed to the allure of social media likes, clicks, shares and various harbingers of immediate joy and happiness-boosts, the path away from it is long and easy to stray from.

Patience is absolutely one of those virtues which I find to be the most important and the most lacking in society as it stands today, both on an individual level and on a societal level with the immediate and the instantaneous taking precedence, becoming more important than long-term plans and goals.

And here I speak from experience.

For some years back, in the throes of medicinally induced psychosis, I fell into the claptrap of social media addiction myself – completely and utterly sleepless and with faulty wiring in my brain making me erratic, I sough solace in the immediate and ultimately hollow boost of happiness and comfort earned from virtual clicks and likes gathered from social media nonsense. It brought nothing but further despair, making me dig the grave for my shattered glass-sanity ever deeper and, more like than not, prolonged the psychosis and made the path toward stability and sanity, healing and functionality a longer and more winding path. There is neither rest nor solace to be found in social media. The technology itself is neither good nor bad, of course. It is as technology is – completely neutral and dependent upon those that wield the tools and how they act and behave. It is a damned shame, then, that people tend to not know how to use their tools. Or their brains. Because the brain is most definitely a tool that can be sharpened and put to good use, were people only able to let go of the external world and the perceived happiness it brings for a little while to seek solace and happiness within, through meditation and deep introspection. And solitude. People, by and large, tend to gather their happiness from the input of other people. And only that, social pack-animals that we are. We are scared of solitude. This neglects the other, far more permanent and important happiness, which is finding solace and comfort in oneself, being safe and secure in who one is and – hacky as it well may sound – knowing oneself completely.

This also includes knowing ones abilities and what one is able to do. Or not able to do. Which of course translates into various DIY-projects. Having the strength, the belief in oneself that one will be able to complete the task at hand is not necessarily something that comes easily and fluently. In particular in these days, where mockery is thrown about at all things traditionally considered masculine.

I don’t think it is too much of a stretch of the imagination to imagine that traditionally masculine tasks, tools, abilities and so forth and so on is not something young men subjected to the ridicule of all things masculine on a daily basis cultivate all that easily. It is far easier to throw the traditionally masculine aside, to neglect and forget it as some shameful relic of the past than it is to cultivate it. That is to say – far easier to do on a superficial level. On a deeper level of consciousness, however, I fear that it is not all that easy. For the urges, the drive, the longing for the – for lack of a more fitting word – divine will still be there, festering in the subconscious, gnawing and biting and burning for wanting to come out and play, to be unfolded as the natural part of himself that it truly is. And all this and all that and all of the other which he has been told and taught as the gospel according to the feminist hive-mind is wrong and is bad and is poor within him lies neglected and dying for lack of nurture and sustenance, for shame and ridicule and all the clucking of the hive-mind, the buzz and the drone.

This becomes, of course, particularly confusing when he is told one thing and then shown the other. That is: the traditional expectations is still very much alive and well where men are concerned, enforced and rigidly expected by women he may wish to date and the society which surround him. Chivalry is expected. He shall still provide and he shall still protect, even as he is shamed for doing just that. He shall not, however, expect anything in return where the traditional gender-roles are concerned. He shall be enslaved to the role which he is shamed for wanting to fulfil. And she shall be free to do whatever, lest he be labelled a foul misogynist and abuser of his partner or prospective mate.

Should you be interested in some elaboration on these ideas, I delve into it in some rambling depth in my piece: ”What makes a man suicide? Rambling on traditional expectations and Suicide.”, which you can find on my blog or on YouTube or – preferably—BitChute.

I am aware that it may seem like a bit of a stretch, going from DIY to traditional expectations and shaming of all things masculine. The way I see it, it is interconnected and intertwined, which I think the comment on Facebook which I mentioned above points to directly. For feminism claims the eradication of traditional gender-what-cha-ma-call-its whilst expecting, and in no small way celebrating, the traditionally masculine… when it benefits women, and only then. Which, of course, protect and provide does. Now, obviously, a small planter built and small plants grown is not the biggest example of protect and provide. It still is an example, though, as I showcased my ability to build something that would hold something that would provide my family with food, even if it was not much food. And even if it was used for home-brewing. Home-brewing is, at the heart of it, only a week or two of fermentation removed from a reliable source of food.

And there is the thing of it, in my mind – men are drawn to these kinds of practical projects, in no small way due to their biological drive and innate desire to protect and to provide. This is not to say that men don’t do these things solely for themselves or merely for the pure enjoyment of it. That is not at all what I am speculating.

What I am speculating is that this drive to do things for oneself is a desire firmly rooted and embedded in the biology of men, a way to show and to prove that they are prime examples of their species, much like the Bowerbird and the nests he builds to impress and attract a mate. (Which is something of the most astonishing beauty; more amazing than I believe I have ever seen before.) We are really not as far separated from animals and from nature as we believe ourselves to be. Evidently so, if one but opens ones eyes and watches the behaviour of most animals and compare that with the behaviour of humanity at large. Particularly when attracting a mate. This goes for both men and women. We showcase our strengths based on what we know, deep down on a biological, reptilian-brain level, that any potential mate would desire. And we hide our flaws and weaknesses based on the same. We accentuate strength, beauty, youth, fertility, self-reliance, etc. etc. etc. in the most primitive, the most primal manner. Whilst subduing and hiding weaknesses, various faults and flaws, etc. etc. etc.

Simply put; some of the few things that separate us from the rest of the animal-kingdom is our intellect – which, more often than not, creates three new problems for every solution – and our nebulous, vapourwave-like civilizations and societies that are, as these things go, here in a flash and gone in an instant. It is built and it falls to ruin. And we believe that we have learned something the next time we rebuild. Then the process repeats.

All the while we believe ourselves separated from and, ultimately, superior to animals and to nature, never realizing that we are of the same thing.

All the while, we take things so incredibly serious, so absurdly seriously in fact that we feel some strange and peculiar need to categorize everything, to fit everything within neatly labelled boxes of this or of that. And we have the gall, the absurd arrogance to believe that smaller and smaller subcategories will fix all our problems when it, in reality, only creates more problems. For every category, every simple label and neat little box need its own sub-categories, need its own neat little labels that need their own and need their own, and so forth and so on. And every label, every category, every nefarious little box artificially creates and inflates a problem that must be solved through more labels and subcategories within subcategories.

So men doing what men tend to do, and women doing what women tend to do in general need their own labels, their own categories. And these need their own, and those need their own. On and on and on. And that must be fixed and mended in some way, because we are just as opposed to labels and categories for the simplicity that they bring as we are drawn towards them for the simplicity that they bring.

And all this instead of accepting and cherishing things the way that they are; instead of going with the flow of nature, the stream of time, the way of things as things are. Instead of accepting and celebrating, we slice, split and divide to infinity and beyond. We overcomplicate where we should just accept. Then we fight what we have made overly complicated, then we complain that things are so complicated, failing to realize that the only reason things are so complicated is because we made them so complicated in the first place.

And the solution is simple. Let people do as people do. Let people live as people wish to live. Go with what is natural. Don’t shame masculine behaviour in men. Don’t shame feminine behaviour in women. For that is the natural flow-and-glow of things; that is the river, the wind, the Tao, if you wish. Conversely – do not shame feminine behaviour in men or masculine behaviour in women. A real man does exactly what the fuck he wants. And so does a real woman. If that is traditional or not, who the fuck has any right to meddle? Or to care? Life is far too short for these small petty grievances, far too short to let it be bogged down by fighting things that come natural, by splitting, dividing, sub-dividing and so forth and so on. For, in the end, it does nothing but create more complication, more conflict, more ridiculously unnecessary time wasted that could be spent more wisely on something more constructive than fighting what is, in essence, biology and nature.

We tend to do as we tend to do, which is to say that we tend to do what we are wired to do. The differences between the sexes are evident in all animals. And humanity is no exception. We have just grown so smart that we have allowed ourselves to become arrogant in our proclaimed cleverness to the point of complete and utter stupidity.

This is not to say that one should accept everything from everyone based solely on the argument that “it is my nature that drives me to this destructive behaviour”. Of course not. That would be absolutely ridiculous. We are responsible for our own behaviours, in the end. And that includes how we treat others – man, woman and animal alike. We have grown clever enough to not run on pure instinct. This does not, however, mean that the instincts are not there. Ultimately, the main purpose of any biological organism is to reproduce before they die. Which means that, on a deeply subconscious level, most of what we do is done to attract a mate of the opposite sex.

And needlessly complicating matters does nothing but complicate matters needlessly. If there is one thing that you can count on humanity to do, it is to complicate matters to the point of absolute ridiculousness.

Just as I have done in this ramble.

God damn it.

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 31.08.2019

Links:

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

Other links:
Redbubble shop: https://www.redbubble.com/people/Moiret/shop
Blog: https://moiretallegiere.wordpress.com/
YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC3IaCxAXE3pQd7PCdvHoaaA
Bitchute: https://www.bitchute.com/channel/EvbGZyTZSraY/
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Pray the Masculine Away!

AN: As an introduction, I would very much like to thank those of you whom have bought my books, «Howling at a Slutwalk moon vol 1 & 2». It is very much appreciated. It does help keep this blog/youtube/bitchute-thing going in no small way. Thank you. Very much. Now; onwards to the rambling prose of today:

We walk through remnants of a dream, tip-toe upon these peculiar paths that led us here and then led us up the stairs to nowhere. Up the stepping stones, up the down-stairs, up, up, up, until we gaze upon the magnificently altered beast of social consciousness born from re-imagined past grievance that give the saintly sheltered few a past-time activity in the monotonous monochrome stethoscope through which they view and violate the world according to their ferociously feral feminist fault-line.

Did you know, young man, young boy, young son, that you can unlearn your horrible, maddening masculine ways? There are certain programs for that locked within the bowels of the movement, designed by programmed particulars to program particularly you out of yourself and into the new and finely moulded self gifted you by those who have decided that you are the problem in-and-off yourself.

Shame about your testosterone, young man, can’t do nothing about that. But you can unlearn the learned behaviour associated with biological impulse and hormonal drive.

We shall and will through ham-fisted hammering of the point in classrooms bubbling with egotistical masters of rhetorical nonsense posing as teachers, masters and professors in the triumvirate that reign in this particular section of sociological hell learn away your wayward masculine ways, that triumvirate being Intersectionalism, Feminism and Blank Slate Theory.

Such a finely gargled piece of mythological conditioning into the affirmed and re-affirmed affirmative action that is revised history, viewed through a black-hole Easter Sunday deep within the chasm of ideologically infected minds.

Everything is learned behaviour. Nothing is biological. Everything is a social construct and must not be taken seriously.

Excepting those ideas that in themselves are a social construct that say that all things are social constructs and that social constructs are not to be taken seriously.

It seems, then, perhaps, that quite a few social constructs are more believable social constructs than other social constructs to the social constructionist hive-mind, and must therefore be taken seriously by one and all under the eternal and wonderful sun of feminism and its guiding hands that guide your hands onto their face and rubbed-raw flesh to worship at their altar.

The social construct that is feminism and the entire theory of social constructivism is a social construct to be taken seriously. Even when social constructs are not to be taken seriously. Or to be believed.

If everything is a social construct and may be learned and unlearned at will and wonder and at whimsy – why, then, is the one better than the other? And who is to say – who has the audacity, the arrogance and the self-absorption – to say that their social construct is the one social construct that all must be pushed into; the one grove that shall fit all? This one size fits all – except the land-whales – and all must fit within this one size or be considered a faulty individual, a piece of the puzzle and the engineering and the grand machine that does not fit within the socially conditioned reflexive and reactive ideology supreme. Those that do not fit are un-personed and must be cancelled, must be disappeared beneath the blackened crust of the interesting spectacle-sky above.

And I can not help but think – when faced with feminist programs that seek to unlearn masculine behaviour – about another branch of spectacularly ill-conceived paths that spread from insufferable ideas in the past.

That horrid idea being “pray the gay away”. Or aversion therapy, for that matter. Used perfectly against those whom the powers-that-be decided at the time were undesirable, an effort to mould them into beautiful people, that were beautifully aligned with the ways things should be as viewed from those who held the banner of morality at that point in time.

Our species never learn. It does not adapt. It grows. And festers. And then steps back in time. And grabs old ideas. Then implements them into something labelled “new”. Then claim these ideas to be new and this old path to be the new path that leads to a better world and society for all involved – particularly those subjected to the treatment, those whom the shakers and movers decided are the scapegoats at that point in history.

And all the time, every single fucking time, we do not stop and we do not look and we do not listen. We do not stand still, we do not see, we do not hear.

So we repeat and we repeat and we repeat.

Again and again.

Time and time again.

The same pattern, the same behaviour, the same absurd nonsense. Thinking that we’ve got it right this time around, we’ve got it down, we’re hip, hap and hopping to what’s happening. And it is all the same all the time.

And we can pray the gay away and we can pray the masculine away. Failing that, we go for aversion therapy. Failing that, we go to the law to punish those who transgress upon what we have decided is good form and fashion in the here-and-now. Failing that, we might seek other extremes to rid us of undesirable elements in our shackled-and-chained societies.

We might seek extermination; like Sally Miller Gearhart fantasizing about, then stating that we must reduce all men to about 10% of the population. And this ideologically infected cunt-waffle founded Gender Studies, still taught in universities today.

Of course, the insufferable head-bobbers, the nodders and yes-men-and-women who do not dare defy the social norms and regulations will tell us doubtlessly and with shit-eating grins and brown noses from being slaves to the cerebral coprophilia of feminist thought-and-action, that this woman is not a true feminist. No real feminist would found feminist studies to teach feminist thought, ya know. Only a fake feminist would do that. No real feminist would teach feminist thought to other people and turn them into raging and raving mad feminist goons; no real feminist would write books on feminism and expand on its ideas and lay down the framework for the ideology and the secular religion. That is something the fake feminist would do. The real feminist does not contribute to the thoughts and teachings in any way, but sits at home proudly labelling themselves as feminist and shame and ridicule any who do not comply with the terms and conditions within the feminist framework that is laid down by those who are not real feminists but who have dedicated their entire lives and careers to feminism and its abhorrent ideas. Despite not being real feminists.

What should be unlearned is the feminist ideology. It should not be taught in schools or universities as truth. No -ism should. It should not be allowed to infect the population, should not be allowed to be considered the only voice to speak on sex and gender. And it most definitely should not be the ideology, the movement or the secular religion that has a monopoly on the concept of equality. Because teaching an -ism in schools as a fact is nothing short of indoctrination. It is political brainwashing and social engineering. And, I think, it is nearing its peak. Or has gone over its peak.

And round and round the bowl of shit goes. All must take a sip and a taste. All must take part in the holy feminist sacrament – the bread and butter, the cross and nails of feminist shit-flinging. In this way, through the communal shit-bowl – the sharing of the bowl, the sharing of the shit, the sharing of the innermost thoughts of feminist fuckery – all are aligned with the feminist mystical forces and trajectories. All take part. And the front presented is “muh equality between the sexes”. Dig deeper and you uncover the shit fairly quick. That won’t matter, though. Because the deed is done and the west have fallen into the clammy hands and saggy bosom of dread feminist ideology, caught and entwined yet again within the call for ideological purity. You must be pure. You must be clean. You must fall to your knees and say you are a feminist, must show it in heart and soul and mind. Or else, you are an enemy of the state and of society, and are then considered an outlaw.

Not protected by any law, not protected from the shit-flingers who fling shit and assault and attack. And friends and families will turn their back and leave, or they will join in the assault. A few may maybe whisper in your ear that the aversion-therapy ain’t all that bad, that maybe you should try their programs, join their camps, that they may very well be able to pray the gay away. Excuse me; I meant “pray the masculine away”. Because that is how we do it in these days, and in the days that went before and in the days yet to come. Same shit, different wrapping.

For you must fall in line and you must take part in wider society. You must be included and taken into the fold. You must be protected from outside harm and you must protect others from outside harm. And outside harm does always and ever come from outside. And who is on the outside but the outsider? And the outsider is a dread phantom; a philosophical conundrum concocted in metaphysical gender-studies programs that decided that all who do not conform, all that fall out of alignment, hate and hate and hate and do nothing but hate.

And that is hate thrown in the wrong direction – in their direction. And how can one, how could one, how is it possible to hate the wider society, which does wish for nothing but equal treatment, as it presents itself front and centre, hiding the dogmatic building-blocks of their castration attempts behind the smoke and sulphur rising from their re-education camps?

So pray the masculine away. Unlearn your testosterone-fuelled behaviour; unlearn your very nature. Or else be cast out. Under pain of death. A movement that has engineered society for decades to view things in their light, that has told society that it must tread their path, is in complete control. It has become our aristocratic elite. And the river of history is true and clear and decadent and depraved. And it flows and goes and it shines and then – it declines.

The aristocracy will fall.

The peasants are restless.

They have run out of bread.

They have run out of cake.

The aristocracy, on the other hand, have become fearless. They truly believe themselves to be above the plebs and peasants, to be above the law.

Too far gone in their hubris, they made their finishing move too quickly. And they did not stop and they did not think and they did not consider.

Lies will only work when the lies are not too far detached from objective and observable reality. Which they are, at the present moment. The tyranny is evident.

There are not many men who will agree to conversion therapy or aversion therapy. Which, when all is said and done, is exactly what programs to unlearn masculine behaviour is.

The more we see, the more we learn.

The more the mask of the aristocracy falls, the more the splendour and the grandeur rots, the syphilis wounds and scars reveal themselves, glaring out from underneath the powder and the pompous wigs. The madness infesting them and eating them is shown, bright as the surface of the fucking sun.

And as the mask falls, as the depravation and decadence is made evident, as the sickness is shown for what it is, the peasants will revolt.

And it will be glorious.

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 28.08.2019

Links:

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

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