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.
There is absolutely nothing
wrong with physical attraction. Nor is there anything wrong with sex…
or sexual desire. Quite the contrary, I would dare say, as I fail to
see how the human race would have managed without it.
Contrary, perhaps, to all
sanity and reason, I have yet to become a misanthrope. There is too
much beauty and kindness in the human race still for that to happen,
though the mass-media pundits would tell you otherwise. Might be a
case of naivety on my part. No doubt, I am a grumpy and cynical
bastard… but at the very least I still cling to a tiny floating
burrito filled with hope. This keeps me from becoming completely and
For the time being, at least,
the good tend to outweigh the bad. One just need to look beyond the
rage-inducing headlines and constant calls for outrage. It makes more
sense to focus on the bad. It stands to reason that the bad is
something one would wish to change, whereas the good don’t need to
change. Even if the bad often is amplified far beyond how bad it
really and truly is. And the following outrage doubly so.
Whenever I experience one of
my frequent bouts with insomnia, I tend to wake up in the wee hours
of the morning… or the middle of the night, completely incapable of
going back to sleep. Physical pain, stress, emotional turmoil,
constant pondering, racing thoughts… whatever the reason, I have to
get up. And in those moments, I tend to watch dog-rescue videos on
YouTube. As corny as that sounds. It restores my faith in the world
in no small way. And is one of the few things that bring tears to my
eyes, soppy romantic fool that I am. Dogs are way too good for us. At
times, I think that we don’t deserve them.
There is so much enmity, so
much hostility, so much rage and wrath and ruin everywhere one looks.
Everything has to be analysed, broken down and labelled this or that.
When that happens, it is left open to attack from those that would
say that this is better than that. Or that is
better than this.
Nowhere, to my bleeding eyes
and foggy winter-mind, is this more evident than in the eternal
gender-war. The eternal gender-war, I think, is a manufactured war
meant to carry on in perpetuity. It is not meant to end. Its sole
purpose lies in creating a great rift between the sexes,
manufacturing mutual hostility and distrust where there really ought
to be mutual co-operation and trust. Where we ought to fulfil one
another, we now do nothing but try and outdo one another. As stated
time and again; how we fulfil one another – that is – who does
what – should not matter to anyone but those directly or intimately
involved. Making the personal political and the political personal is
a horrendous thing. Barring abuse, none but the people involved in
the personal should have a say in their personal day-to-day lives. Do
not meddle in the affairs of other people. Respect the privacy of
other people. This should not be all that difficult a concept to
grasp, yet it is. Apparently. No-one but those involved should care
about who cooks dinner, who does the dishes, and so forth and so on.
It is not unreasonable to “allow” people to decide for themselves
who does which of the many chores and responsibilities that
necessarily come along with an adult relationship. What is
unreasonable is for other people to poke and prod and complain and
bitch and moan if the chores are split in a manner not suitable to
their political or personal sensibilities. And here I am not speaking
only on feminism. This goes for whichever preconceived set of ideas
about who ought to do what one ascribes to.
My tribe is better than
your tribe, here’s ten reasons why. Bog-standard clickbait
titles. Men this, women that. One celebrated at the same time that
one is scorned by popular voter’s fraud.
People tend to be
trend-hoppers. This is not something new. The in-group dominates, the
out-group does not.
If one man writes an article
about women the way many a feminist woman would write an article
about men, the powers that be will truly shake, tremble and come down
on it with all the rage, wrath and ruin that could be mustered. Even
if nothing but the sex spoken about in the article has changed. The
wording may be exactly the same. But substitute “man” for
“woman”, and the whole world cries out in pain and in anguish.
Try it sometime. Read any feminist article, and replace every
instance of “men” with “women”. Does not look that reasonable
then. For added emphasis, replace “men” with “Negroes”. Or
“Jews”. Or “The Irish”… whatever you wish, really. It
Nothing negative may ever be
spoken about women. And nothing but negative may ever be spoken about
At the end of the day, it
seems to me that it all boils down to something as petty as revenge.
Nothing more and nothing less. And something that petty ought not to
be a proper reason, ought not to be an accepted reason.
Even if one accept the
feminist revisionist history, revenge should not be an accepted
reason for anything of such magnitude and societal impact as
feminism. It is small-minded and petty. Which is what the gender-war
is, in my humble and barbaric opinion – small-minded and petty,
filled with tiny grievances and vengeance-fuelled tingling
feminist-senses… lovingly, inclusively and compassionately
informing us that men being broke, destitute and in lack of higher
education is a problem for women wanting to marry. And that women
have always been the primary victims of war. Because their husbands,
fathers and sons die.
In other news; Meteor hits
earth, Women most affected.
One of my biggest personal
peeves with the gender-war, with the feminist-laced koolaid that has
been forced down our gullible throats like so much old vine cyanide,
is the constant assault on what men in general find sexually
attractive. Men tend to be more immediately attracted to visual
appearance; to tits and legs and butt and what have you. This should
not be something negative. Yet it is presented as such; presented as
superficiality and what-not. Odd I think, as the main reason for
this, as far as I have understood it, is healthy mate-selection.
Signifiers of youth, good
health and fertility are not negative traits to be attracted to.
Quite the contrary, one should think. Yet here we are, lost in this
nonsensical poop-flinging. Men in general are not attracted to fat
chicks, as obesity is not exactly a signifier of good health. This
only goes to show that men are far too superficial of course, never
delving beneath the outer appearance to see the beauty hidden within
the flabby folds of fat. Here, men must alter their sexual and
romantic preference to include fat chicks. Otherwise, they are
fat-shaming misogynistic bastards, subscribing to a societal
brainwashing about what is and what is not attractive.
…For wanting ones partner to
be fit and healthy is a bad thing, a superficial thing. An obese
woman losing weight instead of a man altering his sexual and romantic
preference is too much work, man. Women need not do anything to fix
themselves. It is presented, as it always is presented, as if men are
in the wrong. As such, men need to change and alter what they find
attractive. For not being attracted to obesity; for not being
attracted to poor health and all which that entails of future
struggles down the long and winding road to nowhere.
Would the same women that
scream about fat-acceptance accept a morbidly obese partner
themselves? This is a question I think is very interesting. I have no
idea, in all honesty. Still, I have to say that every one of these
fat-acceptance comics I have seen depicts an obese woman with a
decently built man. This is solely anecdotal, however. And I have not
delved deep into that grime and muck, patriarchal misogynistic
bastard unable to show empathy and understanding for the plight of
(insert supposedly marginalized group) that I undoubtedly am.
Still, and for what it is
worth, I would dare say that I absolutely do think men tend to not be
critical enough about where they stick their willy. As long as the
willy gets wet at a semi-regular basis, it is all worth it in the
end. No matter what happens, how it happens or what she does. Or how
she does it. There is a reason why there is such a saying as “don’t
stick your dick in crazy”, after all.
Contrary to what the current
cultural climate would have one believe, this saying is more of a
slight against men than it is a slight against women. That is how I
hear it, any ways – a cautionary tale in six wondrously crafted
words, urging men to think with their big heads and not their willy
when it comes to the subject of willy-wetting. There are more
important things in the world than fucking. Yet, men are thirsty
creatures. To our own demise. And crazy women exist. Just as crazy
men exist. The difference lies in what women are told in regards to
crazy by society at large, and what men are told. The expectations
are not the same, nor is the message delivered. There are few limits
to what men are supposed to put up with. Whereas women don’t even
need to put up with a lack of attraction from men for reasons of poor
health and obesity. Or poor health on account of obesity.
It is still his fault and as
such need mending. On his part. His biology must be re-written, his
outlook altered and his brain beat into tune so that he plays the
fat-acceptance accordion with a painted-on smile and glazed-over
eyes, singing along with the ballad of the big beautiful women. These
are women who are healthy at any size… and diabetes, infertility,
cardiovascular disease and higher risk of certain cancers, etc. etc.
be damned. Those diseases are all patriarchal constructs; designed to
force a societal ideal of beauty that is as unnatural as it is
unobtainable. Being fat is exactly how things should be.
For is it not written that the
flab is as the flab does, and any who oppose the fat, the flab or the
fold are not of the true roll? Hail to the flab, for it marks the
coming of the fold and of the fat and of the roll. From now until the
end of time, amen, hallelujah, praise Mickie D’s, all hail the King
of the Burgers, and so forth and so on.
I used to be fat. I have lost
a little over 30 KG. This was done solely by changing what I ate,
what I drank and how much I walked. No strenuous exercise, even…
nothing more difficult than self-discipline and adding about 30
minutes of walking to my daily routine. Granted, changing what one
eats and drinks is changing habits. And changing habits is fairly
difficult. But it is far from the most difficult thing in the world.
It is absolutely doable. People do it all the time. It is well worth
I must say that losing weight
did wonders for my mental health as well as some pretty severe lower
back pain I struggled with for quite some time. Not having to carry
around 30-something kilos of flab alleviated pain. Who’d have thunk
it? It fixed quite a lot of other things of small or big
significance, which I do not wish to get into here. Of course, this
was before I got hit with this bloody illness of mine which causes me
chronic pain and fatigue along with a whole host of other
health-issues of varying severity… Bloody genetics, man. This was
likely destined to happen. Which would, were I still fat, be even
harder on me than it currently is. The only thing you lose when
losing weight is weight. But I am getting off track… again.
…It is so strange to see how
men are not “allowed” their own romantic or sexual preferences.
They are to be shamed for it. Don’t want to fuck a pre-transition
transexual lady with a penis? You are as transphobic as the day is
bright, sir! How dare you not want your woman to have a penis?
Lady-penises are beautiful, I’ll have you know, sir! For added
shaming, add the slur “homophobic” and something-something
The sexuality of men tend to
be viewed as something dangerous, something primitive, something
based solely on primal lust with not a smidgeon of emotional
connection anywhere to be found. I would dare say that most men quite
enjoy there to be an emotional connection as well as a purely
physical attraction. At the very least regarding long term
relationships. But what the hell do I know – I have only been a man
for thirty-some years… it is not as though I have studied
intersectional feminism and stalwart gender-studies, after all. As
such, I really have no idea about life as a man. That knowledge is
reserved for female gender-studies graduates with type 2 diabetes
poking its head out of their throats, floating on their radical and
righteous acid reflux.
It is such a horrendously
Feminism knows all about life
as a man. And men can not know anything about it, nor can they know
anything about life as a woman. If you want to know what life is like
as a man, you have to study gender in universities. It is not enough
to live your life as a man. This means nothing. Only women have lived
experiences. Men need not apply. Particularly women of the
gender-studies bent experience lived experiences, with the mark of
feminism tattooed on their heads… branded, as it were, by the mark
of the beast. To be clear: I do not believe that every man lives the
same life and has the same experiences. Nor do I believe this about
One-night-stands are another
beast altogether where attraction and sex is concerned… but in that
regard, there are two people playing on prime-rib primal lust, not
only one. With the man labelled an arsehole for leaving the next day,
and potentially a rapist were the woman intoxicated. Whether or not
he was intoxicated as well plays little part and no matter. He is the
instigator and the fornicator, and she is not. An awful
gender-traditional view, one would probably be inclined to believe.
Yet apparently not.
It is clearly liberating to
the extreme; an intoxicated woman is completely incapable of acting
on her own accord, whereas an intoxicated man is very much capable of
acting on both his own and her accord. Apparently, women turn into
children when intoxicated. And men are some horrible paternalistic
rape-figure, entrenched in cum-dreams and driven by primeval lust.
Both when they are sober and when they have been drinking. For that
is the plight of man, mischievous bastards that we are.
One-night-stands may be as
they may; I fail to see why anyone should care what people do with
their genitalia. I do have my own opinions on the matter, but I see
no reason to flaunt that opinion here as some sort of bloody
moralizing stupidity. Consenting adults can do whatever the hell
consenting adults want to do.
The main problem with sexual
liberation is that it also carries with it an immense amount of
responsibility, not least of which is to take personal responsibility
for drunken one-night-stands. Which also includes regretting it the
next day, when the lust has passed and a throbbing urge and desire to
scream, roar, and hide beneath the covers in shame overcomes one.
Accepting and then living with
that regret is part of the game. Falsely crying “rape” – as have
happened more than once – for regretting an
in-the-heat-of-sudden-passion one-night-stand is not accepting ones
own folly and taking responsibility for it. It is pushing
responsibilities for ones own actions away, giving one party sole
responsibility for something where it really and truly does take two
I have no doubt, of course,
that rape happens. Nor do I have any doubt that both men and women
are capable of rape. And of being raped. But claiming rape of the
woman every time a drunken hookup happens between a man and a woman
is much akin to saying that men are capable of making their own
choices and taking responsibilities for their actions when drunk, and
women are not. Which does sound awfully patronizing… seems like
infantilising women are in vogue at the moment. I happen to believe
women are far stronger and much less frail and weak than feminism
wants us to believe that they are.
You see; if women can not
consent to sex when drunk, whereas men can, what view would you say
the ones claiming this have of women? And of men? And of female
sexuality? And male sexuality?
It sounds neither equal, nor
healthy, nor sane from my point of view. Either both parties are
raped and both parties are rapists, or they are both grown-ass
adults, capable of making their own decisions. Even when intoxicated.
This removal of liability, of personal responsibility from drunk
women is removing all manner of personal agency from women and
placing it all on men.
Though certainly a push from
feminism claiming to speak on behalf of all women. Consent can be
revoked at any point. Even long after the affair. Which is
interesting, obviously, as this necessarily must mean that one can
not trust in a woman that gives willing and eager consent, as it may
be removed seventeen years later and brand one a rapist. I have no
idea how this is supposed to work. Men need to get consent. OK, that
is fair enough – do women have to get consent? Or does it not work
like that? Did you not think of it in that way? Oh, well, no matter.
Consent is gotten. And then it can be removed at any point, even
after the damned willy-wetting. How can one possibly trust in the
consent given then?
Men are hunters, and women are
prey. That is what the sexual tango boils down to through this line
of thought… as such, any sexual act is an act perpetrated by the
man upon the woman. Sex is something men do to women, which women
begrudgingly let men do to them. Giving way to such splendid
stupidity as “all heterosexual sex is rape” from many a
radical feminist, which is, of course, not real feminism. Because
such a thing does not exist. Even when it does for reasons of
feminism not being a monolith. Sigh and harumph.
I’ll just retreat into the
shadows, twirl my moustaches menacingly and laugh in grim-faced
It is almost as if feminism is
created to be confusing, giving neither a yes or a no, but
perpetually existing in a state of uncertain flux so as to be invoked
at any moment as either this or that, depending on the state of
current affairs. We have always been at war with Oceania. Or was it
Eurasia? It is so easy to get lost in it. Better to just go with the
frantic flow of things. Nod, smile, and pretend to understand.
The cat and mouse game is
nothing new. One can hear it in songs as old as time, in tales as old
as time. Most elegantly in the quaint and very romantic “Baby, it’s
cold outside”… It is such a quaint, cute and romantic song that I
can not help but love it. Soppy romantic fool that I am. This ballad
really blew up around Christmas of 2017 or 2018 – I can’t really
remember… with it being referred to as a date-rape anthem and other
such stupidity from people who seem to be frightfully unaware of how
human beings interact and all the social games we tend to play which,
ultimately, are nothing but a set of invisible rules and borders
which we all must exist within and work together within, whether we
want to or not.
I really do believe there is
something to the cat and mouse game… Women are the gatekeepers of
sex. And men must “catch them” by proving themselves worthy in
some way or other… must convince them that they are worthy of a
good and solid fucking, a chance of procreation, a relationship, and
so and such. Him protect, him provide, through this, that or the
other. There is nothing wrong with this, as such. If people were
willing to at the very least be god-damned honest about it, instead
of muddying it and hiding it and pretending it is something other
than what it is. For it is a dance, a constant back and forth, older
When considering that men are
the ones who are expected – by and large – to make the first move
in any relationship, it becomes even more apparent. At the very least
it does so to me. Yet, the rules have changed somewhat… the social
contract having been rewritten with mainly women in mind, keeping the
rules the same for men in no small way and loosening the rules for
women in no small way give rise to a certain sense of confusion.
There are still plenty of traditional expectations expected from men,
even in regards to simple one-night-stands. These are rules and
expectations which women seem to cling too, all the while expecting
to be released from these rules and expectations themselves. Rules
and expectations is something that happen to other people, after all.
She has been “hunted” all
night until she finally relented and gave in, willingly gave consent
through many an “Oh, God, Yes!!!” and then removed the consent
the following morning for regretting it. Which just beggars the
question yet again: how can one possibly trust in this consent, if
the consent can be given, the act done and the consent then removed
the following morning?
One can not trust in it. And
it does not make any sense – the rules are nonsensical.
That is a major problem of
this current year. If all responsibility for drunken hook-ups lie
squarely on the shoulders of men, never-minding any responsibility
from a drunken woman who also was very much into it, up to and
including willing and eager consent, there is a problem. With great
power comes great responsibility. Great sexual freedom is great
power. And one has to take responsibility for ones own actions when
enjoying that freedom.
Obviously, this is something
that goes for both men and women who enjoy this kind of thing. Yet
the blame and the responsibility keep falling primarily in the lap of
men. And only men, if the winds keep blowing as they do. Only men
have agency in this regard, then. That is the view of things. And the
feminist hive-mind host slut-walks to protest the shame they claim
women who seek nefarious carnal knowledge of someone else’s flesh
are met with on a regular basis, forgetting for sake of convenience,
that everyone – be they man or woman – are judged on what they do
and how they behave.
I do not believe that this is
something every woman does. The power to do so is still there,
though. And this society of ours keep telling women that 1+1 equals
5, 6, 7 or even 8. That if she feels wronged, she has been wronged –
and to hell with all the facts of the matter, up to and including
willing consent given in the moment… or at every subsequent step
from the moment.
I could have gone on for ages with this… but I’ll take a break here, considering the length of my ramblings being too lengthy more often than not. …And my mind not being at its best behaviour on account of a particularly rough battle with illness the past few months. Also, the construction work going on outside is distracting, making it even more difficult to think and write. Join me next week for some more cruel and unusual rambling on what is, essentially and apparently, not real feminism. Even when it is. Despite such a thing not existing, except when it does.
No ifs and/or buts. Escape.
Turn away. Turn back. Go away. No ifs and/or buts. There is no point
forward. There is no point back. Turn forward. Go ahead. No ifs
and/or buts. Note nothing, notice nothing. Note everything, notice
everything. Turn away. Turn back. Move ahead. Move back. Move
forward. Move across. Go ahead. No ifs and/or buts.
The game is wired, mesh-like,
social is as sociopathy does. Sociopathy does as the social game is.
No ifs and/or buts. Turn in. Turn inwards. Tune out. Tune in. Drop
out. Drop in, introspection. Externalize the internal immersion. And
escape. No ifs and/or buts. Escape. Within. Then without. Without
within, without is nothing.
And turn around, turn aside,
turn forward. Tune in, tune out, turn on, turn off. Simulate senses,
stimulated, hardwired, firing on all the things neurotically. Bang.
Bang. Turn on. Turn off. No ifs and/or buts.
Migrate. Mediate. Meditate.
Migraine, mediocre, medicine.
Back and forth look the same
within this shambled shame-blame-game. No ifs and/or buts. Progress
is regression. Regressive speech-therapy, deep progressive psychosis,
hypnosis, hypochondriac. High-strung, modern malicious modernity…
Then death from cirrhosis of the liver and the brain-pan,
pang-blasted into migraine—pain.
Into and out of, away from.
Mental breakdown, freak-out, freak down – another victim of
class-action class-warfare lawsuit where neither is nor and or, or
there or then. Trenches dug and society spun, dig-dugged into
chlamydia from swarmed arcade intellectuals… auditoriums of
play-pen pigsties pillaging intellectual rheumatism… gospels of the
depraved and decadent sung high-and-mighty as claws reach growth then
No ifs and/or buts. Withdraw.
And wobble ever forwards, ever onwards, ever backwards, ever inwards.
migraine-pain in back and neck. Mind stroked dead from lack of cock,
cunt and clock.
Sky is overcast, drowned in
ink. Moon wearing silk-stockings, net-fish fishnets… streams of
consciousness gibbering morosely, mockingly, adoringly.
No ifs and/or buts. Get out.
While you still can. Get in. While you still can. Get it. No ifs
and/or buts. Sociopathy is socially accepted, ya dig… This social
game digs sociopathic sociological telepathy… aerial brainwaves
radiating from the eyes of lifeless life… ya dig? Ya dig-dug?
No ifs and/or buts.
Tarred and feathered. Songs
through the epiphany, sounds of desolate deserts, tundras,
siren-songs spoken in silver-spun buckets full of painted milk, claws
of the cat and of the hound and of the hounded.
No ifs and/or buts. And sing,
stink, sting… brave blues in blue suede shoes march forward and
turn backwards, ever out, ever in.
No ifs and/or buts. Ain’t
nothing but a hound dog. Hounded dog. And so loved. Eternal internal
release, reprise, reprimanded, recollected, resurrected through
No ifs and/or buts. Release.
Escape. Meditation, reflection, soul-sphere, eye-blind I-candy for me
myself and I.
Back in 2016, a video made the
rounds through the commentator-communities of YouTube. And beyond.
This would be the ridiculous,
god-damned awful, horribly brain-dead, superficial-as-a-valley-girl
video “36 Questions Women Have for Men”. If you have not
seen it yet, you should. Go watch it now. I’ll have coffee, wine
and strange and exotic pharmaceuticals waiting for you when you come
It is safe to say that, if
this video was a child, it would be referred to as having a face that
only a mother could love. It would be caught trying to smoke its own
socks in the one and only gender-neutral toilet in its school,
because the cool kids told it that this is what the cool kids do. It
is that one kid that everyone knows should really be getting special
education, but who does not, for some reason or other. Mainly to do
with its parents.
In other words: it is
ridiculous, stupid, mentally and emotionally challenged. It should be
locked up for its own protection, in a padded cell with a
straight-jacket and a bottle of finely aged antipsychotics, its
tongue tied down so it did not accidentally swallow it and
subsequently choke to death.
Of course; this child would
have already choked on its own sense of self-importance, slipped on
its own dribble and landed straight on its arse. Which is to say –
it would slip on its pride, and land on its honour.
I really and truly enjoyed
watching it being torn to shreds by everything and everyone able to
get their wonderful hands and biting tongues on it.
Though it is, without a
doubt, low-hanging fruit.
Sometimes, that is just
exactly what one needs. I am not going to beat a dead horse and
respond to that video. We should really leave it alone. It is already
And, oh the humanity, oh the
woe and oh the torture never ends!
I’m just using it as a
necessary tool; an introduction to this part of my cruel and unusual
It is incredibly funny to me –
bordering on hilarious – that the supposedly oppressed class can
speak to their supposed oppressors like the women in that video did.
That is – with impunity.
It is almost as though women
are most definitely not oppressed and men are certainly not their
oppressors. That these nincompoops are unable to see this is
something I am absolutely unwilling to believe. No-one can be that
stupid, that lacking in self-awareness, and still be able to breathe
and stand at the same time.
They know they are not being
They are riding the
gravy-train of self-important smugness, arrogance and the incredible
sensation that their shit don’t stink. High on their own fumes of
moral indignation and self-righteous imbecility, they know themselves
and their ideology to be considered untouchable by the culture at
Were women as oppressed as
these fools claim, they would never have dared to make this video for
fear of the bogeyman Patriarchy smashing down on them with all the
fascist jackboots and cruel whips it could muster.
Strange how that did not
Of course; cue the inevitable
calls and cries of misogynist harassment and patriarchal interference
for people responding to their video in which they do nothing but
insult, condescend, stereotype and belittle men in the name of holy
feminism and her cohort gynocentrism. The self-perpetuating and
self-fulfilling prophecy has come full circle. Women can say whatever
the hell they like about men in general, and if men dare respond –
well now, that is an outrage and absolute proof that what they are
saying is true as well as the necessity of the movement. Add to this
the chronic case of the one rule for me, another for thee sickness,
and you’ve got yourself feminism 101.
Though I am not going to
respond to the video, I will take one quote from the video as a
starting point, paraphrasing it a bit: “Why do you make women
talk about men in movies when you can sit around and
talk about boobs for hours?”
Men are – just as women are
– not a grey homogeneous ooze. The actions of one man are not the
actions of every man in existence. It is also incredibly funny that
this is, in fact, a video where women do nothing but talk about men.
Or talk down to men. Whatever you want to call it. Which kind of
disproves that point a little.
Which only makes me think that
anything a feminist claims that men do is something she does herself.
It is psychological projection from someone who is incapable of
understanding that other people act differently to herself.
Now, to be fair, I believe we
are all guilty of psychological projection in some way or other. The
only reference-point we have are, after all, our self. So it would be
fairly natural to assume other people react or act in a manner
similar to us. More so for people who have problems with empathy, if
I understand correctly. It is, however, something that one can learn
not to do. This involves introspection and an understanding that
oneself is not the blueprint for humanity, though, and this is
clearly something that does not come easily to the feminist hive-mind
in the garden of voluptuous hysteria… or aboard the gravy-train of
grace and hubris.
For my own sake, I can not
remember the last time I discussed boobs with any one of my friends.
Granted, I discuss boobs with my wife from time to time, but that
tend to be because she brought it up after seeing boobs in the
Bada-bing scenes from the Sopranos and commenting on the terrible
boob jobs. And, yeah, they are fairly terrible.
You know, boobs may be great
and all… but it really is not an interesting topic of discussion.
Besides, I have always been
more a fan of legs than I have ever been of boobs. Legs are far
better than boobs, and I will happily fight anyone who says
otherwise. Or I will offer them a pint of my finest home-brew and
make them see the error of their ways. Whichever may come first. I
can only assume that what women – in particular feminist women –
do when they are alone, is talk about men and nothing but that.
Either that, or they are terrified that men do not talk about women
when men are alone together. There can be no other topics of
importance or interest for men than women, right?
You know, I have received
unsolicited tit-pics on Snapchat, back in the days when I was dumb
enough to use it. To which I responded that I have always enjoyed
legs far better than I have ever enjoyed tits. This did not get me
any response. Probably should have called the cops on them for sexual
harassment, come to think of it. But, oh well.
T & A aside, what I am
rambling my way towards is this: feminism often make the claim that
men oppose feminism because feminism focuses on women.
…To which I would dare say
that it is quite the contrary. The main point of contention is that
feminism focuses so very much on the perceived evil of men. So much
so that it borders on obsession; a grotesque display of obsession.
Like some frenzied, mad ex-girlfriend that can not understand the
meaning of the words “leave me alone, you crazy person!”,
feminism lays the burden of blame and shame on men for being men. It
does so all the time. It has the worst, the lowest opinion of men.
Painting us all as terrible oppressors, misogynistic bastards and so
forth and so on. For nothing but being born as boys, for growing up
and becoming men. At the same time, feminism tend to call on men to
rise up and do all we can to make the world a better place. For
Men must give and sacrifice so
that women shall feel safe. From other men. And if men do not do
that, men are shamed by feminism. And by society at large. Men are
disposable tools to be used for the betterment of society, for the
safety of women and for the safety of children. Chivalry is not dead.
And feminism, with all its claims of equal treatment, are the ones
keeping it alive. Whenever it suits them.
Traditional expectations where
gender-roles are concerned is still a thing when it comes to the
expectations we put on men – to protect, and to provide. And most
men, I am willing to bet, do this quite willingly. It gives a sense
of purpose that is much needed in the lives of boys and men. This is
something men have done for millennia. I don’t think this is
something we will ever get rid of, despite men walking away, despite
MGTOW, despite all that jazz. It seems to be something we are
biologically hardwired to do.
Now, we have grown smart
enough as a species to be able to make conscious decisions to walk
away, to work on ourselves, to be aware of how we interact with
society – and with that I mean all of society, not only men, not
This is, in all honesty, all
well and good. More power to you.
I find myself turning my back
on society more and more in my own way. At some point, I really just
got tired of all the shit-flinging, imbecility and hypocrisy on
display in the public discourse. Civility is dead. All that is left
is civil disobedience. And that is a misplaced, poorly managed, never
thought through parody of civil disobedience from sheltered
nincompoops who do not really understand the what, how, when, where,
why and such.
Everything has become so
scathingly, so eye-scarringly black and white. It is either this, or
it is that. Opposition to this must as such necessarily mean complete
allegiance to that.
I often wonder if this is due
to our dwindling and very limited concentration-spans, making
concentrating on something for a prolonged period of time a difficult
prospect for most. This giving rise to merely a surface understanding
of various issues. It is easy to point at one thing and claim that
this – this one thing is what needs to be fixed. Then, and only
then, all of this and all of that will be in perfect order.
And then one could probably
argue that this is exactly what I am doing when I focus so much of my
writing and rambling on the forces of feminism. To which I can only
reply that I have a lot of things to get out of my system where
feminism is regarded before I feel – and here the emphasis is, I
absolutely admit, on the word “feel” – ready to tackle other
I consider it very dangerous
when one ideology, when one set of ideas, are given the monopoly on
any one concept. Particularly so in regards to such a strange and
ever-changing concept as “equality”. More voices should be heard
than only the one. And feminism have become so mighty, so big and
powerful that it is able to – quite successfully – kill other
voices attempting to speak on the topic. That is a dangerous thing.
This is something I would say no matter which set of ideas are
granted a monopoly, to be perfectly honest. Particularly so if this
set of ideas have the power to shut down voices in opposition. Any
-ism that shames and threatens other voices into silence or
compliance or obedience is dangerous. Protesting is one thing.
Refusing people to listen to other voices is quite another.
This black and white thinking
is the price to pay for immediate satisfaction through immediate
outrage, and facts and nuance be damned.
…Though I am obviously not a
MGTOW, being a married man and all, I absolutely understand where it
comes from. The best one can do is to carve out a space for oneself –
to follow ones own path toward happiness and self-fulfilment. Which
feminism consider wise words to give to women, but horrible words to
give to men. For, to the eyes of feminism – and to a sure and
certain extent, society as is – if a man does not make the
betterment of women’s lives his main priority, he is not a real
man. That is putting it very simple, obviously.
If there is anything we ought
to have learned by now, it is this: the only ones allowed to judge
whether a man is a real man or not are women as a group, not men and
most certainly not the man being scrutinized at that moment in time.
That is the level of insanity
we are at. There are more than enough books, articles, lectures and
so and such out there by women telling men what to do in order to be
a real man. Which tend to be what the one woman want to see in a man,
and never mind the men themselves – men are there for their
amusement and their convenience. This is supreme entitlement driven
forth and weaponized by the frantic forces of feminism.
It is not without reason that
the word “boy” used to refer to a servant. Just get the boy to do
it. See what I mean?
As an example, it is a
constant source of amusement to me that men are still expected to pay
on dates. Scores of women get offended if they are expected to split
the bill. No strong independent women to be seen there, I gather –
some fish most certainly need a bicycle. At the very least where
dates are concerned. This is a traditional expectation.
And though I am very much
aware that there are women out there who do pay for dates or split
the bills, they are in the minority. To be clear – how people chose
to delegate responsibilities in their personal relationships is their
business and their business alone. I have no interest in meddling,
nor should anyone else. My point is only this: one can not expect one
side to fulfil the traditional expectations and then be outraged when
the traditional role is expected from the other side. One must give
in order to receive. This goes for both parties.
There is this interview with
Emma Watson – she of the hypocritical he-for-she funk and flurry –
on YouTube in which she magically and majestically swirls
triumphantly through the garden of mental gymnastics to explain why
she still expects men to pay on dates, despite feminism, equal
treatment and so and such. And despite being filthy stinking rich
The traditional roles are very
much alive and well where men are concerned, but it is not to be
reciprocated in kind. If you want a woman to fulfil a traditional
role, you are a misogynistic bastard. You, however, must fulfil a
traditional role. If not, you are a misogynistic bastard. For that is
equality as seen through the eyes and bleeding gums of feminism:
supreme entitlement, because men owe women ever so much and
yada-yada-yada, blah blah blah. And you want to be seen as a real
man, do you not? And a real man does whatever the hell a woman and
society says he must do, at the cost of his own safety, sanity, life,
limb and economy.
This “real man” rhetoric
is complete and utter shit. A real man is a real man if he says he is
a real man, and he does whatever the hell he wants to do, shame and
ridicule be damned. Whether that shame and ridicule comes from women
or from other men should not matter. Rise above the self-flagellating
and self-sacrificial bullshit and do your thing, whatever that thing
I was bullied for reading
books when I went to school. Literature is one of my first and
greatest loves, one of my greatest pleasures in life. Always have
been, and always will be. Apparently, this is not something real men
do. Whatever the hell this means. Granted, I was singled out for
bullying… so whatever I did would give get me bullied. This one
stuck out the most to me. Because there is something precious and
special about some imbecilic moron with the vocabulary of a toddler
proudly boasting about never having read a book in his life
ridiculing and belittling someone for reading books, referring to the
practice as stupid. Stupid. Maybe I am expecting too much from kids
aged sixteen, but – god-damn, if that is not some ridiculous
It must also be mentioned,
mainly for my own amusement, that the girls were not particularly
interested in leaving a party and going home with someone whose main
accomplishment in life was having a complete collection of
Dostojevskij and Jens Bjørneboe on his shelf. Can’t say that I
blame them – I am very much aware that I am a boring, introverted
social fuck-up with all the charisma of a wet and well-worn sock. I
was, however, led to believe that women and girls both preferred
intelligence to brutishness, calm mannerisms to “toxic
masculinity”, a cultured mind to a fornicating mind, and so and
…Now, had I owned a car or a
motorcycle, on the other hand – in other words, being able to
provide something of value…
There is this constant
bombardment of messages aimed at boys and men. Mainly from women. And
more often than not feminist women. About how men are supposed to be
and act and do and think and behave and not behave and live and love
and fuck and breathe and eat and die.
And the messages are
self-contradictory more often than they are not, unreasonable at the
best of times and completely and utterly shining, burning and
flashing with entitlement. In particular when taking into account
that men can not say a single god-damned thing about women and how
women should be – or, for that matter, what kind of women they want
to share their lives with – without being rained on by the great
and glorious feminist brigade. And any and all woman and simpering
white knight in the immediate vicinity of your tweet or twatter or
private conversation in a public space.
I have been verbally harangued
many a time in public by self-proclaimed feminists who believe they
have the god-given right to charge in on any-and-all private
conversation and private relationship if they don’t like what they
hear or see – or believe that they hear or see.
Entitlement, thy name is
If you don’t believe me, try
telling the world that you – as a man – want a traditional
marriage where the woman stays at home and you provide.
And see what that gives you.
Conversely, and for amusement, try saying that you – as a man –
want to stay at home and expect your wife to provide for you and the
family, to be the main breadwinner, as it were.
Both are equally wrong and
terrifying; signs of misogyny and toxic masculinity and what-not and
what-do’s and what-don’ts, what, what, what. Kyle’s mum will
always be a bitch, no matter how selfrighteous.
The inverse applies as well –
if a woman wants to stay at home, the feminist brigade will submit
their opinions on her poor choices in life whether she wants to hear
them or not.
There is not a single coherent
message delivered. There is only the messages – the constant
bombardment – that men and boys must do this, do that, do the other
stuff even when that contradicts the previous stuff. It is never good
enough, for there is always something to bitch and moan and complain
about where men are concerned.
I am aware that many of these
articles written about what men must do, need to do and so and so are
written by different people with different views.
This is not the point. Or,
well, were I playing the collectivist blame-game that feminism plays,
it would be the point. And that is exactly the point – feminism
plays the game of collectivism and tribalism, where men are one group
and women another group. Therefore, anything one man does reflects on
every other man.
The reverse do not apply.
Anything one woman does is her
actions, and does not reflect on every other woman. When it suits
feminism. Any one man is representative of men. Any one woman is
representative of her self and her self only. When it suits the
powers that be. So that painting all women with a broad brush is
terrible behaviour, and painting all men with a broad brush is
expected, accepted and celebrated behaviour.
It is a confusing time. And
has been so for years and years, as the dominant cultural narrative
has shifted more and more towards the trembling might and fury of
feminism. Which in turn opens the discourse for women to say whatever
the hell they want about men – as long as it is in line with
feminist thought and philosophy. At the same time, it closes the
doors for men so that men can not say anything about women, including
what kind of woman they would like to settle down with. Men are not
“allowed” sexual or romantic preferences, whereas women are. And
any positive thing said about men must include women, otherwise it is
perceived as a slight against women. Any positive thing said about
women need not include men, and any who say otherwise are labelled an
incel by people who have no idea what incel means.
There will be more on this later. Here endeth part five. Join me next week for part six of this never-ending rave and ramble.
In yet another preposterous
think-piece, this time delivered as a serious and ever so scientific
(scouts honour!) research-thingamajigger, amongst a barrage of
similar think-pieces, designed to make you stop thinking… the
ever-present terror and dread of the potential sex bot takeover in
the future is made manifest. Skynet is looming on the horizon. Or
Blownet… Sucknet… Hoenet… Fishnet…
Though I will have to admit
that it is a bit more creative this time around in its ponderous
vulture-morality ways, vices and virtues.
Presenting the obvious
solution to the difficult moral, ethical and legal question that none
but the terribly trembling forces that be thought to ask.
Which is, obviously: if one
fucks an actual object… is this then rape of a bought-and-sold
actual object? And how could we possibly make it so that any one man
who owns such an object is viewed in the worst possible light?
By presenting masturbating
with a sex toy as rape.
We have a winner, ladies and
Now, moving on from this, it
has to be presented as something carrying with it deeply ambiguous
and dangerous patterns of behaviour… and words… and dirty deeds
done in the dark.
The sex-bot uprising is right
around the corner… if we do not treat the sex-bots, whose sole
purpose is to serve as a sex-toy, a masturbatory aid, a release for
pent up sexual urges that would otherwise be released through a flick
of the wrist… if we do not treat these solitary sexual toys with
dignity and with respect, who knows what terrible deeds these men may
do when the doll no longer serves its main function?
Oh, the horror.
And with Halloween right
around the corner…
Oh, the double horror!
And won’t somebody please
think of the children?
The solution is simple – to
the point of mental degradation. Make it so that the sex-bots have to
give consent to sex. That is, to fulfil the one and only purpose for
which they are built. After all, one would not wish any harm
inflicted upon the silicone parts or moving mechanical magic, now
would one? Certainly, clearly and obviously, there is an AI
personality nesting within the matrix of the robotic
pump-and-dump-dream. And any machine that exist with an ability to
perform any task must be treated as though it were a human being. So
one has to ask for consent before fucking the object that is nothing
but an object bought for fucking.
This makes no sense.
Who, in their right mind,
would pay for that? If one pays good money for a fuck-toy, one would
imagine the fuck-toy to be beholden to the whim of its owner. Because
it is a toy. A doll. A robot. Not a human being that has to give
consent. And, believe it or not, most men are not so stupid as to not
know the difference between a toy and a human being. Apparently,
quite a few feminists are too stupid to do that, but that ought to
This, ladies and gentlemen, is
why I always ask my computer if it is fine with me turning it on.
After all, if it is not turned on, I can not do anything with it, now
And rightly so.
If the computer is turned off,
the computer has to be turned off. It is the God-given right of any
piece of computer-equipment to do just that. If there is no consent
given, I can not have my way with it.
Usually, I have to woo it with
dinner, promises of more RAM and a diamond-encrusted processor before
it gets turned on. This tactic works, as one would expect, though it
does get a bit expensive after a while.
Which is why I tend to keep it
turned on after first getting its consent to turn it on. Admittedly,
this makes it a bit sluggish at times, but that is just the way it’ll
have to be. I am not made of money. And the computer was god-damned
aware of this before it moved in with me.
My dishwasher, on the other
hand… that one is particularly tricky to get any manner of consent
from. Not that this matters much, and I will not get sidetracked into
explaining how I woo that pesky and feisty little thing. Some things
a man just have to keep private, personal and secret. Rest assured,
however, that my dishwasher has yet to refuse consent.
I can poke fun all day long.
We all can, may, should, would
and god-damned ought to.
The “Clown World” meme
became a meme for a reason. And this is one of those reasons.
Bloody, god-damned, fucking
It is ridiculous,
preposterous, and a wee bit frightening.
Have you ever stopped to
wonder why all these articles… why all this sudden concern about
the ethics of sex-bots? I believe it is incredibly simple.
Women are now, and have always
been, the gatekeepers of sex.
This is not strange, given
that they carry the burden of pregnancy.
Even with all these new and
fancy genders they keep telling me about muddying the waters some…
It is still women that get pregnant. Despite men having periods now,
and men being pregnant now and… fuck, I keep getting lost in all
the new rules. Given time, I suppose I will learn these new rules and
laws of gender, sex and sexuality. I will have to learn through being
made subject to re-education, I guess.
Biologically speaking, it
really is no wonder that women are the gatekeepers of sex. Of course,
given our modern marvellous magic of medicine, our various
birth-controls and prophylactics, nature is taken out of the equation
at a superficial level. We can over-ride this on a conscious level.
On a subconscious, on a
primal, primate, reptile-brain level, however… I don’t think it
is all that easy. Mate-selection and sexual gatekeeping is still
present. Very much so. And these sex-bots remove quite a lot of power
from women in that regard.
Though I doubt all that many
men will prefer the sex-bots to a real woman, it still puts some
pressure on women to perform better than they currently do in the
dating game, the social game and the sexual game in order to land a
partner. Suddenly, they may need to do more than just show up and
show a bit of cleavage. Thus, these sex-bots are perceived as a
threat to women’s sexual power. And that sexual power is real
power. For men are thirsty beings. One of our greatest flaws, I
think, is our tendencies to think with Dick Hardy, opening ourselves
up very easily to become Hardly Dick later on down the line.
So they – feminists in
particular – have to paint this in terrible ways, to discourage
sex-bots and – ultimately – banish them by law, if need be. For
all the horrible men and all their sex-toys do nothing but objectify
women and trivialize rape. Because of course they do. Male sexuality
is something to be afraid of, after all. This is old knowledge.
Nothing new. Fear the hard-on. For it is an implement of rape, doom,
wanton destruction and pant-splitting terror.
The simple fact that all
god-damned stores that sell sex-toys for the curious, for the more
libertine of our ladies and gentlemen are filled to the brim with all
manner of doo-hickeyes; gizmos, penetrative plastic, mechanical
contraptions, buzzing, grinding, pounding, pulsating, thrusting,
blinking, singing, poetry-reading, coffee-making miniature marvels of
engineering solely for the sexual pleasure of women are of no
If one is lucky, one may find
a Fleshlight hidden away in a corner for the guy, and a modest
selection of pornographic movies. Otherwise, the sexual machinery in
the stores are there for women. And the stores mainly employ women. A
man that buys a sex-toy is a virgin incel neckbeard loser and must be
shunned and ridiculed. A woman that buys a sex-toy is sexually
liberated and must be celebrated. Such is the view of things. For a
man is judged on whether or not he can land a partner. If he is
forced to use his hand, or any other implement to simulate sex, he is
a loser. And is as such worthy of our scorn, our rage, our
ridicule… and our fear.
Yet, what is a dildo but an
object meant to replicate a severed penis? Following the logic of the
troglodytes writing these blubber-mouthed articles of woe and
petulant worry where sex bots are concerned, I would dare say that a
severed penis is a far worse case of objectification than a whole
replica of a human being… reducing men to nothing but their
genitalia? What a horrible thing to do. Not to mention the
unreasonable and highly unobtainable standards dildos set in regards
to length, girth, expected stamina and so-and-such. Also: these
dildos can not possibly consent. Which only worsens things, rendering
every woman who has ever employed the use of a dildo – or a
vibrator – a sex-crazed lunatic, bursting at the seams with rape,
plunder and sexual entitlement galore.
Surely, they are in desperate
need of consent-courses, considering how long they have been free to
celebrate their use of dildos and various other mechanical
contraptions to simulate the presence of a man… reducing men to
nothing but their genitalia – or tongues, in some cases – in the
Considering that there have
been similar articles of woe and worry floating around in regards to
fleshlights and other such silicone replications of various parts of
women, I do not think I am reaching here.
This is employing their own
logic. If it sounds stupid where dildos are concerned, it is stupid
the other way around. At the end of the day, it is masturbation. Not
a relationship. Quick release. Not a relationship.
It is, as are all things when
it comes to this, a case of double standards. And had feminism not
held double standards, they would have no standards at all. Teach
women not to rape their dildos. #DildosCannotConsent.
To be clear; I have absolutely
no problems with women using sex toys. I do not feel threatened by
it. I also have no problems with men using sex toys. Nor should
anyone. Yet, women appear threatened by it. #FragileFemininity, then,
when, and is it about bloody time? This is attempted control of
sexuality. Control of the sexuality of men. Not only that… it is
attempted control of sexual fantasies. I think one could argue that
circumcision is attempted control of male sexuality as well. But that
is another case altogether.
Sex-bots are just that –
sex-bots. Robotics meant to simulate a sexual experience. It is not
so much objectifying a human as it is humanizing an object. The only
threat – the only fear – the only terror is that it may remove
some sexual power from women. To claim that usage of sex-bots will
normalize rape and as such suddenly increase the amount of rape
happening around the western world is ridiculous. It is emotional
argumentation; an appeal to affect employed by feminism… Emotional
manipulation to get their way, as is their tactic… won’t somebody
please think of the children… and the women…
It is the same argument used
in regards to violent video games, in regards to rock’n’roll, in
regards to heavy metal, in regards to dangerous literature…
I fail to see any difference
between this and the people who wanted to ban Harry bloody Potter for
promoting witchcraft. Woe
onto the state of the world.
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.
It is closing in on mid-day,
Saturday, October 12th, 2019. I am a bit hungover.
Admittedly a normal state of being come Saturday, having delved a bit
too deeply into the waters of life the day before.
That is what a bucket-load of
home-brewed concoctions and loud music will get you.
Rock’n’roll ain’t dead.
Neither is Punk, for that matter. It just got old, developed a bad
case of rheumatism and had to take it a bit easy for while.
Usually, I don’t do much
writing on Saturdays. Or, well, that is to say – I tend to work a
bit on other projects. Things that are not necessarily related to
men’s human rights. More of the personal/spiritual stuff that I
would focus a lot more on were it not for this god-awful gender stuff
being of far more importance. The personal realm can wait. As can the
spiritual realm. These don’t matter much in the grand scheme and
schism of things. “Things” in this instance being a fancy word
for a society that appears to have gone well past its sell-by date.
No, the personal/spiritual
stuff I write does not matter all that much. Not when the basic
humanity of boys and men are being eroded beneath our feet; a great
wide chasm opening up to engulf us and then close above us. To leave
us forever devoured by the world; soulless, homeless and absolutely,
We are lost beneath the dead
and decaying waves of a split-seamed society that turns its
whip-stroked back on boys and men more and more for every passing
day. It may very well sound as though I am being hyperbolic. Mayhaps
even overly dramatic. Maybe I am… I am afraid to say that I don’t
think this is the case.
I first encountered this
article two days ago. October tenth. On the day of its release. I Was
planning on doing a piece on it next week. Maybe postponing part four
of my unending ramble of why I am an anti-feminist. Just
needed some time to think about it, devour it and consider it.
I tend to leave the more
poetic stuff for Wednesdays. Then focus on a bit heavier, lengthier
stuff for the Saturdays. This allows me to write both prose-poetry
and more conventional opinion pieces once a week. Writing is my first
and greatest love. Or at the very least my greatest outlet for the
whatever and whatnot. But I can’t for the life of me get this thing
out of my head. It is an absolute atrocity. And trust me and believe
me and upon my oath and my honour both: I do not use the word
And I find myself at a loss
for words. This is not something which I am used to. Not when I am
writing. I am often at a loss for words if I were to speak to someone
whom I don’t know all that well, not being the best versed in
social interactions. Chalk that up to introversion, shyness, anxiety,
social awkwardness, whatever you want. All in all, it does not
matter. I fare much better with the written word than I ever will
with the spoken word.
And no wonder, in all honesty.
The topics that I write about
is not particularly accepted within the murky depths of society as
society stands. The feminist narrative has all but won. And we are
all shackled and chained beneath its iron-grip and flimsy iron will.
It is not without reason that I refer to it as a tyrannical,
totalitarian ideology; the dominant -ism of our day and age. That I
choose not to speak on these topics in public – that I choose to
write about them in the way that I do instead of debating those who
may, for lack of a better descriptor, be called my ideological
opponents may very well get me labelled a coward. And I may very well
be a coward. Truth be told, I don’t care. At the very least I do
some small thing in opposition, however small the part in opposition
I play really and truly is.
When I am writing, it is a
whole other matter in regards to the words. They tend to come flowing
out of my haphazardly thrown together, aching, borderline broken
joints and fingers and muscles as though shot from a double-barrelled
shotgun deep within my very soul. Which, in truth, is where they come
I don’t believe I have ever
tried to hide the fact that my writings come from an emotional place
– that is to say – they are tainted and given form and shape from
the emotional state I am in at the moment of writing. This is not to
say that my reasoning or my arguments are based on emotion. Far from
it. The delivery, however, is. Such is the realm of art, I think. At
the very least the realm of art which I inhabit. It may very well be
that I am a fairly sensitive man. I write poetry, for Christ sake! I
don’t see anything wrong with this. For the simple reason that
there really is nothing wrong with this. It is what it is.
When looking at this article…
no, not when looking at this article. When looking at the fate of
this young man… his doom, as it were…
I don’t know what I feel.
I know what I think.
There is no doubt about what I
There is no doubt about this
absolutely horrid display of injustice. Malicious, vicious, brutal,
destructive, savage, uncaring, cold, callous… an absolute disregard
for this young man’s life, his mental health, his emotional
well-being… All for being socially awkward. All for a false
pretence. All for the girl and the justice system deciding that they
know his intent better than he knows his own intent.
And I feel only cold.
This is what feminism has
done. Welcome the feminist utopia; the age of untangled
enlightenment. In the dark. With neither flint nor tinder to light a
fire to warm your bones by or illuminate the corkscrew path ahead of
The intent – the true intent
– of this young man does not matter. Nor does it matter that
absolutely no-one was hurt in any way, in any real, tangible,
measurable way. Except the young man. The subjective feeling of the
young woman in question decides not only his fate, but his intent.
Her subjective feeling in the moment trumps his original intent. Were
he socially anxious and awkward prior to this, you can be damned sure
he will be socially broken and destroyed after this. This is obscene.
It is a travesty. And yet, I am not in the least bit surprised. I
doubt anyone really and truly is. Western civilization is broken. I
fear beyond repair. And I am frightened. Honestly. Truly, really, to
the depths of my heart, frightened.
One can not apply logic to
this case. Nor can one apply reason. Because the girl, her parents,
the entire god-damned justice system has not done it. This is not a
case built on evidence. It is not a case built on reason. It is not
even a case built on any criminal act. It is a case built entirely on
emotion. On subjective feelings. This case should never have been a
case. It should not have been a criminal thing. It should have been
thrown out; laughed out of the courtroom and the hands of any
law-wielder with any amount of self-respect. Or respect for their
profession. Being socially awkward should not carry with it
punishment by law. Yet it does, in the land of the damned. Which is
to say the UK.
The offence – if you can
even call it that – carries a maximum sentence of ten years. And a
lifetime – if I understood it correctly – of being on the sex
offender register. For touching a woman’s arm and waist. Because
the woman… no, the overgrown girl-child was certain he was going to
touch her breast. How is that proven? I don’t understand it.
How does one go about proving
the intent of someone else without employing some hitherto previously
unknown psychic telekinetic abilities? “I think it would have
been on my breast had I not moved”, she says. She thinks. She
feels. With all her awesome neoteny and arrogance.
…Therefore, it has to be
true. That is the evidence presented. And that is the evidence
accepted. The unbelievable mind-reading abilities of an overgrown
girl-child ruining the life of someone else, who is – by his own
admittance – socially awkward and anxious and overwhelmed by
And it is not that I don’t
understand the importance of having and maintaining personal
boundaries. Of course I do. I am not a big fan of being touched by
strangers myself. But does anyone really and truly believe this is a
case of sexual assault? And does anyone really and truly believe that
this warrants punishment? Particularly punishment that may be as
severe as ten years imprisonment and a lifetime subscription to the
sex offender register?
The young woman stated that “I
struggled for a couple of months afterwards”. For being touched
on the arm and waist. Sounds to me as though someone really, really,
really wants to be a victim of something in order to push away any
responsibilities she may have for her own life. Or just to get them
sweet victim credentials that are oh so popular at the moment.
Particularly so when taking into account that she apparently was
unable to finish her mock exams and then apply to Oxford University.
Seems very convenient, does it not? Also sounds as though she is not
cut out to be part of wider society if this small, petty and – for
all intents and purposes – absolutely harmless happening is enough
to ruin her for months on end.
Admittedly, this is
speculation on my part.
Everyone is looking for
someone to blame, you know.
…As long as that someone is
And it is so excruciatingly
easy for a woman, in the madness of today, to push the blame onto a
man. Any man.
A man is not a human being,
after all. That is what we have been told and taught for decades. Men
are nothing but rape-machines, and any contact with a man can not
lead to anything but unwanted sex. They don’t deserve our empathy.
They deserve nothing but scorn. Men do not seek anything but quick
and cheap sex. Usually by force. That is the myth and legend being
told and presented. And so it must be true. A man could not possibly
wish to have a relationship with a woman without sex being up front
and centre in his mind and at the tip of his throbbing, mutilated
rape-implement. This is what the feminist hive-mind as well as
traditional views have told us about men, creating a generation of
neuroticism, sexual hang-ups and neo-puritanism in the process. To
such an extent that touching a woman’s arm and waist is now
considered sexual assault, carrying with it a maximum sentence of ten
years. And a lifetime in the sex offender register.
…you know, the amount of
times I have been touched on the arm, shoulder, hand, chin, beard,
cheek, butt and – on one occasion – groin by women – often in a
state of inebriation – whom I did not properly know at the time are
not few. Believe it or not, given my not exactly dashing good looks
as well as my lack of charisma. I wonder if either the police or the
courts would have taken me seriously if I reported them? Or if anyone
else would have taken me seriously, for that matter.
Come to think of it, I once
had a woman follow me around in a pub, constantly putting her head on
my shoulder and whispering sweet nothings into my ear. A compliment,
for sure, though I was not particularly interested in her, not being
a fan of one night stands at any point in my life. This happened when
I was eighteen. I wonder if it is too late to file charges? For me,
it would have been too late no matter when I did it.
We all know this.
Had I been bestowed a vagina
upon birth, however, it appears that this resting of her head on my
shoulder would be enough to ruin her life for good. In particular
since her sweet whispered nothings were slightly on the sexual
innuendo side of things. Besides; women tend to touch other people
more in casual conversation than men do, be that other women or men.
It is alright when they do it, of course.
Because men have nothing to
fear from women, as the petulant peddlers of prime bullshit will
peddle you from their long-reaching serpent tongues and spineless
…Well, boy howdy, do I have
something to tell you. And that is this: evidently, we do. Very much
so. This is violence by proxy, using the government. This is
violence, intimidation and kidnapping. A young woman using the
government as her weapon of choice. And now this young man will carry
with him the label of sex offender for the rest of his life. Which, I
fear, will not be a long and happy life. I hope this young woman will
realize what she has done at some point in her life, and that regret,
shame and guilt will follow her to the end of her days.
I am usually not this
But this is absolutely
horrible. Given, of course, that the information presented is true. I
have not seen anything to indicate otherwise.
I find it absolutely
astonishing that the courts are able to state, without a smidgeon of
doubt, that “The complainant’s evidence was very clear,
logical and without embellishment. We can think of no motivation for
you to touch the victim other than sexual”.
This despite him giving his
side of the story as not being sexual. It does not matter what he
says in his defence. His actions – his intentions – are not of
any importance. The importance is placed upon what the alleged victim
believe his intentions were.
And nothing else matters.
Nothing else matters.
Nothing ever will.
A woman’s capabilities of
mind-reading is all that is needed in order to destroy a man’s
Remember Emmet Till.
That is all I should have
And I am incredibly cold.
I don’t know what else to
say. The article linked really does speak for itself. This is from
the UK, the same place that granted a woman who assaulted her
boyfriend… stabbed him with a breadknife, if I recall correctly…
her freedom. She did not get any punishment. For punishment could
possibly interfere with her academic future and her future career as
a gifted surgeon. Don’t want to destroy the life of a violent
woman, of course. Her actions should not carry any consequences for
her, poor dear. A woman’s actions having consequences for her?
Goodness – that would be the day!
It is clear that the UK has a
two-tiered justice system. There is one set of rules for women and
another set of rules for men.
Where women are concerned, the
law does not apply.
And where men are concerned,
the law really and truly does apply. For the law is able to read the
minds of men and so divine their original intent, never-minding what
they themselves say. Men are nothing but liars, scumbags and
fuck-guzzling pigs, after all.
This ability to divine the
original intention of men is something women seem to have in general
and en masse. An astonishing ability, to be sure, and one that I wish
I had. It never matters what a man says in his defence. It matters
only what a woman says, no matter how absurd.
And yet the feminist hive-mind
as well as society overall dare to still make the claim that women
are oppressed and are never heard nor taken seriously.
It is a brutal, ugly, vicious
thing. And it will never end. Not as long as good men and women are
silent about it.
George Orwell was correct in
all but the year. This is the junior anti-sex league on full display.
It is the new-speak guidelines for the current year; the divinity of
womanhood and viciousness of manhood. Women are now synonymous with
God. And men are synonymous with Devil. Women are good and men are
evil. That is the language of the current year.
Fuck it, who am I kidding?
It is the language of the
current year and all the years that have gone before. A beast with
different shapes and forms, but the same beast. Even after all this
And yet, women dare to write
articles about how horrible it is that men are now refusing to be
alone with women. How horrible it is that men don’t dare to make
the first move, to do something in order to get a romantic
relationship going. No wonder. We stand in danger of imprisonment if
the woman decides she does not like us.
Though I would absolutely dare
say that not all women pushed for this or are like that – this is,
after all, the work of feminism – I fail to see that many women
standing up against this, nor do I see many women caught in
outrage-mode over this.
And no wonder! Women – and
feminism – have more important things to worry about. Such as the
lines to the women’s toilets being longer than that of men’s
toilets. Or the non-existent pay-gap. Or the nefarious pink-tax. Or
the air-conditioning. All incredibly important injustices to be fixed
and mended, clearly. Not to mention that feminism claims to fight for
men too, so really – there is no need for any men’s rights
movement to take on this battle on behalf of men. All is good and
fair. There is only equality sought here. Now, get back to the
plantation and fall on your knees and state, quite proudly, that you
would never, ever, under any circumstances, do anything but what a
woman tells you that you must do. All hail the goddess Feminism; lady
of chaos and bringer of perpetual darkness.
Men are facing quite genuine
discrimination in the legal system, in the social sphere, at schools
and at work.
So much so that any man’s
original intention does not matter – what any woman imagine his
intention to be does matter.
If you wanted to drive a wedge
between the sexes – which there really should be no doubt about at
this point in time – congratulations. That is exactly what you have
done. I hope you are pleased with yourself, ms. Feminism, ms. Queen
Now, wait ten years.
And then reap what you have
You will not enjoy the reward.
And it will all be of your
doing and by your flimsy will brought forth.