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.
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
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.
It would be safe to say, by
peeping but a little beneath the crows-silver that lines the surface
of feminism, that it does not exactly hold the greatest opinion of
women. It does hold feminist women in great regard, bordering on
deification. But that is not your average woman, that is feminist
women. And it does have some weird holier-than-thou hang-ups
regarding female nature, despite neither masculinity nor femininity
being natural according to them. It is a weird thing. And an
incredibly strange trip.
In my writings, I tend to
focus on men and the opinion feminism has in regards to men. The
reason for this should be easy to understand: society, as it is, does
neither talk nor care about the plight of men. Feminism insists the
opposite, despite it very clearly not being true. One needs look no
further than beyond the political indoctrination; the tangled web of
lies which feminism have placed over our eyes.
They point to the top one
percent in society, see mainly men and state that this means women
are oppressed and men are oppressors. Otherwise, why should there be
so many men at the top? This is known as the apex-fallacy. In looking
only to the top, they neglect looking at the bottom. And at the
bottom of society, in all the negative statistics, all the
destructive statistics, all the suicides, all the homelessness, all
the workplace fatalities, all the drug-addictions, all the
alcohol-addictions, all violent crimes – excepting rape, and this
may very well be for reasons of rape not being recorded as rape when
it is a man being forced to penetrate a woman – and so forth and so
on, we find an overwhelming amount of men.
Men die younger than women.
Men lose custody of their
children during divorce.
And despite new studies
showing that domestic violence is so close to being 50/50 in regards
to who is the victim and who is the perpetrator that the few
percentages difference does not matter all that much, shelters for
men seeking to escape domestic violence hardly exist, whereas
shelters for women exist a-plenty. Interesting to note is also that
there are higher incidents of domestic violence in lesbian
relationships than there are in both male homosexual relationships
and heterosexual relationships. It is also worth noting that in most
cases of domestic violence, the violence is reciprocal, with both
instigating and amplifying and playing on one another’s terrible
tendencies and broken psyche. In non-reciprocal domestic violence,
the woman is the perpetrator more often than not.
And yet, police – and
society overall – have a hard time believing men to be victims of
domestic violence. They have a hard time believing that women are
capable of being abusive. More often than not they end up arresting
him instead of her, thus adding severe insult to severe injury. And
feminism doth protest, with all their might, whenever someone
attempts to create a shelter for abused men. For that would be
sharing societal resources with men. And that will not stand. For all
of the resources of society must go to women. This includes empathy.
…This must be that equal
treatment they keep telling me about.
I find it interesting and
peculiar that feminism will claim that MRA’s don’t do anything
but bitch and moan about feminism, then protest when MRA’s attempt
to open shelters for abused men, or attempt to get the government to
do something about the plight of men, or have conferences attempting
to shine a light on the issues predominantly affecting men.
Feminism claims that MRA’s
don’t do anything to help men, then protest and complain when MRA’s
do something that would help men.
I am lucky to be cynical. This
nonsense surprises me less since I have learned to expect it. That is
what a lifetime of overt hostility will get you.
All these problems facing men…
all these issues that men face are neglected, shooed away and
forgotten. It saddens me and it angers me and – at the worst of
times – it depresses me. I have no problems with the issues
primarily affecting women being taken seriously. I have severe
problems with the claims that women – only women – suffer, or
that the suffering of women is so much worse and more important than
that of men. No matter what it is, it is a woman’s issue.
So you see articles popping up
stating that men are lonely, and this is a burden on women. And men
are earning less college or university degrees, and this is a burden
on women. And on. And on. And on. Never have I ever encountered such
incredible egotism, such rampant selfishness and disregard for other
human beings. The loneliness and social isolation of men are a
burden. On women!
I have severe issues with this
lopsided approach to equal treatment, where equal treatment of the
sexes has come to mean nothing but give this shit to women, for
they are women. And
this makes sense, of course, in a society in which we have learned
that only women matters at the same time we are told that men get
everything handed to them. Double-speak and psychological projection…
and a good serving of horsepiss and bullshit.
Not that long ago, I wrote a
response piece to an article.
The name of my piece is:
“Crucified in Toilet Cubicles – A Tale of Women Pooping”. This
was a rare spur of the moment thing, written and then recorded for
the tubes within the span of two hours. Not my finest work, in all
honesty. I usually don’t do responses like that. The simple reason
for this is that I tend to think very slowly, I consider and I ponder
and I doubt myself and my abilities to such an extent that it surely
has got to be a sign of some neurological defect. When I finally get
around to responding, the original piece is long forgotten, tossed to
the annals of internet history. As we all know, in internet time one
day is damned close to seventeen real-life years.
Originally, I was planning on
posting something other than the poop-piece. But this had to come
first. It was, quite literally, a much needed shit-post. And the
reason I reacted so viscerally, so quickly, so roughly and so
brutally to that one article is very simple. The article I responded
to, if you have not read it, was published in the New York Times and
was a tale of woe and worry about women pooping at work, and how hard
this was for them.
Due to the patriarchy and due
to men and so and such and blah blah blah. I reacted so viscerally to
this article due to this – this petty god-damned fucking non-issue
about women having their own small neurosis, their own petty personal
hang-ups about pooping – this is given attention.
This needs to be taken
seriously. This is being published. This is being pushed as an
important issue affecting women. While at the same time, at the same
god-damned time, men are not afforded shelters, men commit suicide at
frightening rates, men lose access to their children, men lose in
education, they lose in the workplace, they drop out of society. And
no-one cares about this, no-one touches this, no-one views this as a
problem but a few who are labelled god-damned misogynists by the
feminist hive-mind that consider women being scared to poop far more
important than men killing themselves. It is safe to say that it
really struck a nerve with me. And with good fucking reason.
We live within a cultural
narrative, within a maddening societal zeitgeist that have decided
that all the small and petty issues, all the personal hang-ups and
personal grievances of women are more important than anything men go
through. Men don’t suffer any hardship, don’t ya know.
Ms. Poopypants and her
neglected toilet-trip is a worse story of far more importance to
society than Mr. Suicide and the ex-wife that won’t let him see his
god-damned children. And all the while – all the god-damned,
motherfucking, cocksucking, unlubricated anal-fisting, horse-sodomite
while – the feminist hive-mind snarls and gnarls and gnaw their
bones, claiming that men have it ever so good and women have it ever
so bad. And people listen to them. All the time. People listen to
them. And they claim – they dare to make the claim – that they
help men as well. It turns my stomach to rot. As it turns the
entirety of society to rot and ruin.
The feminist way to help men
is to have a panel of only feminist women gibbering and cackling and
clucking about how men are obsolete and what men need to do to fix
themselves. Men need not apply. Only women are allowed to tell men
what to do, what they need to do and how to live their lives. Men are
not allowed to speak on behalf of men. That would be misogyny. Men
are not allowed to speak on behalf of women either. That too would be
misogyny. Men are not allowed to speak at all. For that is misogyny.
See the tactic?
Here, within my shattered
basement-cavern throne room, you’ll get it mansplained to you by
yours truly; the grand majestic manspreading patriarch supreme, whose
testicles are just as much a tool of oppression as is his swinging
cock, from now until the end of time to be referred to as a savage,
unmutilated rape-implement of doom and wanton destruction.
No wonder that people struggle
to comprehend the fact that men have problems in society. Feminism
have told their fairy-tales for so many decades that people would
rather believe that sooner than they would believe objective reality,
sooner than they would believe measurable reality. This horrible
insistence from feminism that all the problems of men are due solely
to men as are all the problems of women do nothing but taint
everything in shades of deep period-blood crimson. It is
rage-inducing. And so simplistic, though wrapped in enough magic
wordsalad gibberish to sound profound.
For men to be saved, they must
first cleanse themselves of masculinity. For masculinity is the
problem and femininity the solution, despite both being social
constructs. As of course feminism is as well, but that is a social
construct we shall trust as opposed to the social construct of
gender, despite gender being biological when it suits feminism.
Men and masculinity are the
cause of all the problems of society as well as being the solution to
all the problems in society. According to feminism, which tend to
view women as objects – mere automatons with no agency of their
own, no ability to do anything about anything but be acted upon.
That is unless they bend the
knee to feminism, thus becoming part of the feminist machine and move
with the click and crack and dubious twirling of the cogs and wheels
and pins and buttons and clockwork within. Women are nothing without
feminism; can do nothing without moving with the machinery of
…And they claim that men
have a poor opinion of women.
Feminism does not consider
women to have any manner of agency or self-determination. Were I a
woman, I would very much be insulted by feminism pretending to speak
on my behalf, painting me as an emotionally frail and fragile wreck
so prone to being ruled and governed by the terrible forces of men
that I am completely unable to make my own choices and have my own
thoughts. On anything. Thus needing feminism to think for me, act for
me, speak for me and do everything but take a piss for me.
Whatever I may mean about
this does not matter, though. It will be dismissed as mansplaining,
horrible misogyny and harassment of women. For feminist women are so
strong and independent that they can not stand people disagreeing
with them. This is mansplaining; in actual fact meaning nothing but a
man saying something a feminist dislikes. And so goes the herping of
It would probably come as no
surprise to learn that I am pissed off at feminism. As well as being
pissed off with… …no – not pissed off. I’m not angry with
society. I am just disappointed. Severely disappointed at a society
so dumb and unthinking as to fall for the lies, slander, bullshit and
poop-flinging antics of feminism. Yet, my rants, ravings and
ramblings are nothing – absolutely nothing. You should hear my wife
going off on them. It… it ain’t pretty.
M’lady is most displeased
with the current state of affairs.
That is putting it nicely.
But what would you expect?
Individual feminist’s have spoken to her previously in so
condescending tones that you should think they believed they were
talking to a child, not an intelligent adult woman with agency and
self-determination. Because she thinks for herself. And in so doing,
does not allow feminism to think for her. And in so doing, to the
eyes of the feminist hive-mind, she has allowed some horribly
misogynistic patriarch in the guise of her husband to think for her.
She has internalized her soggy knees. This is how feminism see women
that do not agree with feminism. As petulant, wayward children,
worthy of condescension at best and scorn at worst.
Chew on that for a little
Feminism view women as so
incapable of thinking for themselves that, if they do not subscribe
to the feminist narrative, they must be under the spell and curse of
the patriarchy, allowing the patriarchy to think for them. It is
either feminism or internalized misogyny, not neither and certainly
not a woman picking and choosing her own path and her own god-damned
role in life. That is verboten. Strictly. Punitive measures will be
taken. This is black and white thinking. That alone should be a red
flag. The out-group is bad. The in-group is not. No matter what they
do. This is cult-like thinking. And people would do well to be
And women such as my wife, to
the feminist hive-mind, are free game and may be hunted at will. They
have lost their woman-card; they have become strange outliers that
are neither feminist nor man, but some horrifying mutant creature.
They should have their vaginas taken away, according to Linda
Sarsour. They are effectively outlawed, not to be protected by
feminism who would – were it a feminist woman suffering the
treatment non-feminist women suffer at the hands and blubbering
mouths of feminism – state quite bluntly that one can not treat
women like that; it is harassment and violence and misogyny and other
such buzzwords that don’t mean anything any more on account of
This proves once again that
feminism does not care for women nor for men nor for any sex. They
care for feminism and they care for women who subscribe to the
Whose strength and
independence is such that they can not stand a man explaining
something, can not stand a woman thinking for herself. Were their
tall tales to be scrutinized and exposed to the unwashed masses,
feminism would lose its power and its funding. And that would be
their downfall. Everyone who oppose must therefore and by necessity
be ganged up on, curb-stomped and left for dead for fear that they
would otherwise prove without a doubt that the empress has no
clothes. Or skin, for that matter.
I have been called this and
labelled that and referred to as the other since I started writing on
all this stuff. I have been told that my opposition to feminism could
not possibly mean anything but me wanting to go back to a time that
would allow me to chain my wife to the kitchen to cook dinner and
birth children and do nothing but that. I keep referring to this
incidence. And I will explain why it keeps popping up. It is not
because the words are hurtful, nor that they hurt my trademarked
fragile masculinity. It is the absurdity of the thing, the
assuredness of the statement delivered for reasons of me opposing
feminism being the dominant -ism in our crackhouse societies.
It is complete and utter
absurdity; penny dreadful tales sold in bulk by feminist ideologues
with cancer of the reason which, unfortunately, has spread to the
sense. It is fear mongering and vapid attempts at shame that does
nothing but piss me off and strengthen both my resolve and my
opposition. And my throbbing rage-boner.
How anyone can believe that
stating something like that as truth would change my perspective of
feminism is beyond me. Telling me what I think and believe when I
know that I think and believe quite the opposite is stupid. And it is
incredibly lazy. Intellectual dishonesty at its very best.
It is the most absurd tactic;
claiming that I would do something that I know I would not do, that I
am saying something that I do not say nor ever have said or would
say, that I hold opinions which I do not hold in order to shame me
into compliance when I know full well that I do not hold these
opinions which the feminist hive-mind lay in my mouth is brain-dead,
egotistical ramblings from someone who obviously is so used to
getting everything just the way they want that anything opposing
their world-view can not possibly exist and thusly must exist either
as lies or as pure, raw, savage and unfiltered hatred of women on my
part, including hatred of my wife. One would believe that, were the
feminist to really and truly believe that I hate all women –
including my wife – the feminist would not believe that shaming me
for hating women would work…
It is the craziest thing.
It is saying, in so many
words, that “I don’t care what you really say, I have decided
in my ruptured mind, that this is what you say. And I feel no
reservations in telling you what you say, because you obviously do
not know what you say or think or mean. I am the one who knows what
you say or think or mean, not you.”
You must forgive me this rant.
It just boggles my mind something awful that anyone can look to the
writings of someone else and tell that someone that they have written
something which they have not written, and expect this to be taken
seriously as an argument by the one who wrote the bloody thing to
begin with. That is the tactics of feminism; illogical attempts at
smearing and shaming, putting words in the mouths of other people and
trying to convince them that this is what they said and what they
meant, not what they actually said and actually meant.
It is so ridiculous that I am
wasting energy and precious calories getting so worked up about it.
Granted, given my wife and her incredible cooking skills, I could do
with losing some calories. Particularly around the gut-area. But that
is not the point. The point is that I need to loosen the chains on my
wife. She has expressed interest in leaving the kitchen to use the
bathroom. I’ll be right back…
For all the insistence that I
am a horribly misogynistic bastard, for all the claims that I am only
looking for something to complain about, for all the emotional
reasoning behind the complaints in regards to my writings and the
narcissism barely hidden behind the feminist moaning about it, for
all the attempts at reading my mind and telling me what I really
think as opposed to what I actually think, I would dare say that I
hold women in much higher regard than feminism does. Because I
believe women to be adult human beings.
I would dare make the claim –
and truthfully so – that I not only believe that the sexes should
be treated equally, but that I live it. That is equal rights, equal
responsibilities, equal consequences. Equal rights and equal lefts,
in other words.
No hand-up, no hand-outs, no
deification of either sex. No fucking chivalry. Respect is earned,
not given, no matter which sex. And it is earned by how one behaves.
If a woman acts like an insufferable cunt, she is worthy of just as
much of my scorn as a man that acts like an insufferable knob-head.
If a woman acts properly and
treats other people with respect, she is worthy of just as much
respect as a man that acts properly and treats other people with
This should not be that
difficult to understand. It is treating the sexes equally. Nothing
more, and nothing less. This is men and women being held to the same
This bullshit about respecting
women is the most concentrated bullshit I have ever encountered. It
is quadruply distilled bullshit of the highest potency. And I am a
connoisseur of fine vintage bullshit, having amassed quite a
collection over the course of my life.
This “respect women”
bullshit elevates women to something other than humanity, something
that must be respected solely for the genitalia between her legs.
Where men have to earn
respect, women must be given respect no matter how they act or behave
merely for being women.
I don’t have any time for
that dribble. No-one should have any time for that piss-pottery.
Men and women are of equal
worth and equal value as human beings. This is my firmly held
conviction. Absolutely equal worth and absolutely equal value. This
means that I respect women just as much as I respect men. And I
respect men just as much as I respect women. Conversely; I have just
as little respect for women as I have for men. It depends not on ones
sex, but on ones behaviour, on the content of ones character.
I am a firm believer that what
goes around comes around. Act like an arsehole, you are going to be
treated like an arsehole.
This is something the feminist
hive-mind have forgotten or – more likely – simply neglected in
their quest for respect of whamen. It is another fanciful and
terrifying way for them to shut down any opposition by the oldest
tactic in the book; the shaming of the male.
When opposition to their
drivel is met with “you have no respect for women!” most
blue-pilled and blue-balled men tremble and fall to their knees and
do everything in their power to prove that they do, in fact, have
respect for women. And then the conversation moves from whatever he
originally opposed to whether he respects women or not. It moves from
a topical discussion to a discussion about his character. Wherein he
must defend himself against all manner of accusation. And, in
defending himself he has admitted to being at fault. In admitting to
being at fault, there is no stopping the feminist hive-mind. For they
have spotted weakness, smelled blood in the water and so they close
in for the kill.
One must never apologize to
these people and their smear-merchant tactics.
This happens without a fault.
It is the oldest tactic in the book. A man can not stand to be shamed
by a woman. Must be because all men hate women and have no respect
for them. Heh. Fucking. Heh.
Well, then, dear feminist:
have you no respect for men?
Here endeth part 4. And there is more yet to come. You know; I might just clean all this up later when I am done with it and publish it as a book. It reached a point where my literary cup literally runneth over with words and hasty typing. And I need money for hookers and cocaine. Or at the very least for caffeine and dogfood. Join me next week for part 5.
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
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.
…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
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
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
Men are terribly
irresponsible when having no-strings-attached sex.
Women are not; they are
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
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
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.
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
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
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
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
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
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.
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
Welcome, my friend, to the
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
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
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
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
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
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:
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.
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
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
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.
tale to be told as such: the
feminine is God, the masculine the Devil.
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
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.
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
would you expect to
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.
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?
apparently unbeknownst to feminism
followers of slave-like virtue and morality, women
are nothing but
human beings. Nothing more and nothing less. And, in being human
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.
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
time spent alone with women.
And it is a damned fucking
Yet, there you have it.
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.
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.
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 –
something-or-other, blah blah fucking blah.
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
and so take precautions in
order that this don’t happen, this
is discrimination based on sex and pure hatred of women.
institutional, something, something, social power.
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
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
power that is not checked,
that is not watched by those who are supposed to watch the watchmen.
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.
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
views and expectations
of gender perfectly repeated, labelled “new” and presented on a
silver-platter in a different light. Same shit, different wrapping.
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
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,
equality between the genders:
the one, and not the other.
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.
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
has tricked us and doomed us for decades will be
blown to the wind.
the very least, a man
can hope, a boy can dream.
wouldn’t count on it to happen all
that soon, though. The powers
of gynocentrism are immense. The desire to protect women (and
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
– as is evident to those
who have peaked but a little below the surface-shine of supposed
equality – nothing will
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
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.
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
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
For full disclosure – I am
receiving disability from the government for my severe chronic
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
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
And here I speak from
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
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
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.
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
The more we see, the more we
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
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.