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.
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.
Cassie Jaye’s documentary
“The Red Pill”, is one which I highly recommend. It gives a very
good overview of the men’s human rights movement – showing the
main points on the agenda, as it were.
What I found the most
interesting with the documentary, was not the topic, nor the
interviews – despite this all being highly interesting stuff. Nope.
It was her personal journey, her video-diaries that she very wisely
included in the documentary. Probably not all that surprising, given
my own interest in the human journey, in the individual perspective.
Oh, look, you might
think – another pretentious douchenozzle with illusions
of artistic and literary talent being interested
in the individual and how the individual fares when faced with
society – how trite, how unoriginal, how woefully predictable.
And you would not be wrong.
…Well, I might protest a bit
in regards to the pretentious bit, having tried to shed that part of
art-school indoctrination through years of introspection, but
otherwise… well, there is nothing original with this in regards to
Humanity is interesting in
itself, and the journey of an individual overcoming obstacles –
which altering ones point of view undoubtedly is – is at the core
of most good characters and character development.
How one copes with it is very
interesting, and marks the difference between someone with personal
integrity and values, someone who is capable of being guided by truth
when faced with truth and someone who is not. The documentary shows
what a fantastic strength of character Cassie Jaye holds. Changing
ones mind is not easy. We tend to be very stubborn creatures.
This stubbornness should be
evident with the god-damned wage gap lie being debunked and disproven
time and time again, yet still being told and presented as fact by
those whom one would assume really ought to be pleased to learn –
without a doubt – that it is not real. Not in the way they present
One would assume the wage gap
being proven to not be true would be a sign of progress and victory
for the feminist hive-mind. But, nah, can’t have that, ya know –
that would lose them some oppression-points, some victim-currency,
some poor damsel-in-distress points. And that would rupture some of
the feminist fabric of female infantilisation, and we can not
god-damned have that. So keep telling the lies, despite being
disproven. And keep making out that women are weak-willed victims of
absolutely everything, up to and including their own choices. But, I
am getting ahead of myself.
…Even more interesting than
the documentary itself (and the incredible integrity of Cassie Jaye)
are the Red Pill Raw Files, which you can find on YouTube. These are
some fantastic, in-depth interviews that did not make it into the
final movie, for some reason or other. The interviews with the
feminists – the few that agreed to be interviewed for the movie –
are quite telling. Particularly the one with our much beloved
deliverer of Fuck-Faces and screeched Patriarchy; Chanty Binx, AKA
“Big Red”, force-feeding red pills to the hungry masses one
vicious screech at a time, despite this surely not being her intent.
I have never seen anyone within the span of twenty minutes contradict
themselves so much, nor so many times as she does in this interview.
It is the most self-contradictory stream of nonsense and gibberish I
have ever seen this side of a high-profile political debate. And it
is very telling about the state of feminism in itself, for feminism
as it is is self-contradictory. (And annoyingly self-congratulatory.)
At one hand, they claim that
feminism helps men too. At the other hand, they state, quite bluntly,
that feminism is about women and does not care about men.
Men can create their own
movement, according to the hive-mind. Which the same hive-mind will
then protest, label misogynist bullies and proceed to shut down –
by brute fucking force, harassment, violence, smears, lies, slander,
bomb-threats and other such kind and inclusive measures, any attempt
at a conference talking about the problems men face in society.
Because feminism helps men
too, so the only voices needed are those of feminism. Despite men
being told to make their own movement, not co-opt feminism. Because
feminism is only about women. Even when it supposedly helps men as
Personally, I would rather
choke to death on the proverbial red pill than I would allow feminism
to speak on behalf of men.
Also: feminism is not a
monolith, you have to understand. Even when the ones spewing all
manner of misandrist, man-hating, malebashing, kill-all-men,
men-are-trash rhetoric and up-fuckery are not real feminists.
…Which does not make sense
in the least if feminism is not a monolith. It stands to reason that
if a movement is not a monolith, such a thing as a “not real
feminist” would not exist. Nor would there exist such a thing as a
“real feminist”. If those feminists that are not real feminists
are in fact not real feminists, feminism must be a monolith. If
feminism is not a monolith, those that are supposedly not real
feminists has got to also be real feminists.
It makes no sense.
Madam, once again you are
cunt-fusing the issue.
It seems to me that feminism,
when faced with any manner of criticism, goes the opportunist path of
responding to criticism with whatever is best suited at the moment to
be a supposed shut-down and put-down of any argument. Internal
consistency is not necessary. Which is a frightening thing, as this
must necessarily mean that there are no true values within the
ideology upon which the -ism stand. Which goes a long way in
explaining what the movement is all about. Which is the movement, and
nothing but the movement. The -ism goes above all, no matter what.
Principles are not necessary. In fact, they are more of a nuisance.
Merely the narrative that men
are oppressors, women are oppressed and to hell with all else, in
other words. Internal consistency gets in the way. As long as the
narrative can be kept, driven forward and upheld, all is allowed.
Lies are then quite alright and not an issue in itself, as lies are
necessary tools to bring the movement ever forward. There are no bad
tactics, no amoral tools. Only bad targets. And we can play “spot
the bullshit” all day long, it won’t work when faced with the
hive-mind when the hive-mind allows for so much self-contradiction,
so many lies and such ridiculous amounts of bad tactics merely for
the goal of the movement and nothing but. And I have little patience
for opportunism. As anyone should. Excepting the opportunists, I
suppose. Now, let me tell you about this bridge I am putting up for
The way I see it, this
constant self-contradiction of feminism is purposeful, in that it
serves a purpose for the movement. If feminism can be moved forward
by pointing to women being better than men based on biological
factors, then feminism will forget that it has told us for decades
that there are no biological differences between the sexes. If
feminism can be moved forward by telling us that there are no
biological differences between the sexes, it will forget the previous
admittance of biological differences. And both are supposedly true
and false in equal measures, carried on the wings of absurdity into
the hungry beaks of society.
If men can be shamed and
ridiculed by feminism for not making enough money to be suitable
marriage-prospects for women, feminism will forget the wage-gap myth
– as seen through quite a few articles on the issue during the last
The two do not match, you see.
If the wage-gap is real, it
does not make any sense that women struggle to find men that make as
much or more than they do. If the wage-gap is real, then women should
not be making more money than men and should as such not have any
problems with finding men that make more than, or as much as, they
do. It is almost as though one would be inclined to believe that the
wage-gap is a boldfaced fucking lie. Besides, one would not be amiss
in assuming women to be gold-diggers, based solely on these articles.
A man must make as much, or more, than a woman in order to be husband
material. For the notion of a wife supporting her husband and family
is horrifying, despite equal treatment and despite that none of this
should matter, were the sexes to be treated completely and utterly
As an aside; I really don’t
care which of the sexes do which of the duties in a relationship. The
important thing to understand is that there are duties and
obligations, responsibilities and work that needs to be done, that
both must chip in for a relationship to work and a family to function
properly. As long as things get done, it should not matter who does
One would not be wrong in
believing that boys and men are being pushed out of education and out
of lucrative careers by a certain sect that allows for “positive
discrimination” so that women shall be hoisted up and pushed
forward for being women and nothing but that. For the sake of saintly
vulva and vagina; for the holy uterus and ovaries, she shall be
granted access. And he shall not.
…Not to mention the fact
that men being poor, struggling financial hardships and so and such
is made out to be an issue predominantly affecting women. For men
must provide for women where relationships are concerned, despite
women being strong and independent fish that don’t need no bicycle.
His money is their money, her money is her money. Equal treatment?
Sure as hell are not equal expectations, responsibilities and
Women are oppressed by men’s
poor financial state. Men are merely tools for the benefit of women,
to the tyrannical eyes and minds of feminism. And this is accepted,
for reasons of… muh oppression, I suppose. Or feminism supposes,
proposes with all their lies and gibberish.
A real feminist does all that
feminism says that a true feminist must do. Even the stuff that
contradicts the other stuff. Otherwise, a true feminist is not a true
feminist in the non-monolithical monolith that is feminism. I have it
from reliable sources that they do not enjoy sugar on their porridge
either. No wonder, of course, as fish that don’t need bicycles
certainly do not eat sugar. Or porridge, for that matter.
I swear; everywhere I look I
see hypocrisy and double standards. The doctors can’t find anything
wrong with me, and yet I keep seeing it everywhere. I am at my wits
end I tell you! And the painkillers can’t take away this pain; no
sweet opiate-haze for me to hide this incredible burden within. I
tried antipsychotics once, but they only made it worse. Short of
divine intervention, there seems to be no cure for my particular
Boys are struggling in
education. There is no doubt about this. This is not something new.
And it is getting worse with every passing swoon and whimpered gasp.
No wonder, to anyone with some manner of empathy for the male sex.
Not with all the anti-male, pro-woman nonsense that are spewed, spat
and spouted at schools from teachers who honestly function more like
feminist indoctrination-squads than true and proper teachers. This
has, finally, led to some concern over here in the frozen wastes of
Norway. Peculiar, of course, as this is an incredibly feminist
It only took them about thirty
years to recognize the issue.
Only one generation of broken
boys and broken bones and broken futures necessary before the issue
was seen. Well, one and a half generation.
So now that the issue has been
raised… now that it has been decided that we need to help the boys
so they don’t drop out, burn out and wash out…
(Otherwise, who will do all
the menial tasks, all the hard manual labour, all the dirty and
dangerous work? Women? You must be joking! You will forgive me a bit
of cynicism. The way things have been going the past several years, I
find it very hard to believe that any real effort to help boys and
men will ever be implemented. That is to say – any effort that does
not rely heavily on the feminist lens and dubious pink-eye.)
…now that this has been
decided, as the news broke that boys must be helped in education, the
feminist hive-mind were quick to rush in and respond that we have to
help everyone, not just the one sex. Because it is not a gendered
issue, you see, when it is boys that struggle. It is god-damned
infuriating. We don’t need to help only the boys. We can help only
the girls, and this is not a problem. If girls struggle, it is a
gendered issue and must be treated as such. If boys struggle, it is
not a gendered issue and must be treated as such.
No need to help both then, if
the girls can be made out to suffer something-or-other, never mind if
it is a true something or a false other. True and false are just
patriarchal constructs. The same goes for objective reality. Logic
is, as the gender studies horde will tell us, yet another patriarchal
invention for the oppression of women. If girls struggle, we need to
help girls. If boys struggle, we need to focus on helping both.
Because it is damn close to heresy to lend a hand to the boys. In
particular if that helping hand is not shot directly from the cannon
of feminist thought and fancy. A boy needs feminism like a fish needs
a hook in the jaw.
And yet, they dare to make the
claim that boys and men do not experience less empathy within these
fracturing societies of ours. They claim that girls and women
experience less empathy, in fact. One of the arguments I have been
told in regards to women experiencing less empathy is that they have
periods and pregnancies and are expected to function in their
day-to-day life with these. Somehow, this is an example of women not
being shown empathy. Must be the reason for women being able to act
like complete and utter cunts with the excuse of being on their
All is forgiven, dear,
here, have some chocolate, poor thing, don’t know what you are
doing, it’s all those damned hormones. It’s just a couple
of stitches they had to put in my skull. Just a small hairline
fracture. No biggie.
Absolutely astonishing. Have
they no eyes with which to see, no ears with which to hear? Or –
more likely – have they no compassion to dole out to anyone who is
not of their own sex? Given women’s greater in-group preference,
the latter would not be a surprise. Given men’s greater out-group
preference, it is even less of a surprise. It is evident to anyone
that are willing and able to see the world through rational eyes not
clouded with ideology, indoctrination and the good ol’ fashioned
One of the greatest issues,
one of the core obstacles to men’s rights, is that feminism is
taught in schools as fact with no doubt. It is political
indoctrination, ideological brainwashing, delivered straight from
teachers frantic hand-waving and glaring eyes into the minds and
thoughts and subconsciousness of young children, to be left there to
fester and to spread and to become a part of their understanding of
the world. The future is gender neutral – as long as the neutral
gender is feminine. Purple penguins for the win.
This is terrifying.
For feminism is not nuanced,
it is not balanced, it is not a force for equality, but a force for
forced subjugation beneath their iron-grip and demented world-view; a
world-view that falls apart the moment one tries to challenge it.
Which, I suppose, is one of many reasons why feminism see no qualms
in censoring and stifling speech in opposition. For feminism, in
order to thrive, needs to stand unchallenged. Because it tumbles so
terribly when challenged. And so it has allowed itself to become a
censorious force, considering any opposition as hate-speech that
huwts theiw widdle feewings. This can not stand; a feminist
having her feelings hurt? That makes you literally worse than Hitler.
No hyperbole, no weaponised female fragility, no damselling to be
No, of course not.
There is no emotional
manipulation going on here, old boy.
Merely their word as absolute
truth. There is no doubt about feminism being true. Because feminism
told me that it is true. And so, any who oppose the shattered and
encaged forces of feminism must be at best a misogynist and at worst
the latest incarnation of Adolf Hitler, Mussolini, the entire Ku Klux
Klan, a severed and eternally erect rape-penis, the devil, his
grandmother, her tiny poodle named “Schlepp”, and the ghost of
sexual assaults past, present and future.
They demand, and they are
delivered, the entire conversation and the right – for some strange
reason – to chose which way the discourse go. They see fit to choke
and trample underfoot all that dare defy, giving no credence to man,
woman or child that defy their deified secular religion. And still
they claim that they are oppressed. For it is all about power in the
feminist hive-mind. And that is visible power, political power, not
social power. Well, power and collectivization. Men as a single,
homogeneous group, women as a single homogeneous group. No
individuals to be found within. Collectivized guilt, collectivized
victimhood. And all power to the collective that has been
collectively chosen to be the victims.
The dance between the sexes is
not one of oppression; not one of power or lack of power, of control
or lack of control. Nor has it ever been.
It is a dance of cooperation,
of giving, and receiving, of sacrificing a little of this so that the
other shall receive a little of that – on both parts.
It is both giving what they
may best give, receiving what the other may best give.
It is both playing on their
strengths and their weaknesses, doing what they themselves are best
suited to do.
For the sexes are different.
And difference is not something negative. It is a strength. It is
both bringing something of theirs to the table so that both may be
able to best survive in a world that is, despite all our
technological advances and advantages, a brutal and uncaring place.
In painting being different to
one another, in making the notion of “differences” into something
vile and horrible, something that necessarily must mean that one is
better than the other, they have ruined mutual respect, understanding
and compassion. They have ruined genuine cooperation and replaced it
with competition. Differences have become a tainted term, meant to
show one as better than the other despite it really meaning nothing
but one being better at this and the other being better at that.
Opposites attract, and then
they merge and then they complete one another. Men and women are not
on different teams. Quite the contrary; we are on the same team. This
gender-war is manufactured and created by elitist snobs, sprung from
the murky depths of history, written and shot into existence by
upper-class ladies with smelling salts always at the ready in case
they swoon from the brutish behaviours of the lower classes; the
unwashed masses of both men and women that are not worthy to lick her
fainting couch clean of dust, cocaine and laudanum.
Here endeth part three. Join me next week, hopefully, for part four. I have no idea how many parts there will be. When I get into the flow, it really flows. At the time of writing this, I have written enough for the next two weeks. And there will be more. God help me.
Vision blurred by manic
frights and lights. Foresight sold second-hand, used and spent, bent
and broken by years of miscalculated abuse. It is the hands of the
wonky and the wobbly that steers the ship.
A ship of fools docked in a
land governed by clowns. Social media reached peak efficiency;
everything is blindly believed if pushed hard enough.
Mad passed gas lingers in the
air presented as new-street blues-news. Sniffed and then snorted,
blown up our noses like cocaine through the pellets of time and
murdered history. Boy, oh boy, oh gender-neutral dogball-kin, that
outrage sure as hell fills the bowels and body with weird vibrant
energy, boom-banged like shots of amphetamines through bloodstreams
pumped from dried, dead, decadent, diseased hearts.
…No point now in
regurgitating truth as truthful as truth; better yet to lie and then
to hide behind the lie when caught up in the lie, tangled in the web
and wonky wobbles of truth-as-truth-presented, as they saw fit to see
it, dialysed into existence from machines that pump and clean and
puncture and then rape and burn and pillage.
Not necessarily stoned, but
stoned enough. Majestically trapped in the back-seat or the peak and
pinnacle of western civilization, twisted and burnt; sacrificial
offerings to Earnest, God of Woke, a coincidental conga-line lined
and slowly danced by drunk miniature minstrels mimicking morality
It is a weird pinnacle of
virtue and morbid hysteria, Machiavellian rules and laws to govern
morality and make victims of us all through the brute force of
tone-and-thought-policing through tough-as-nails policies ponderously
written and delivered by the clowns that rule the land, the circus
that is the ship of fools.
And all hands are on deck and
all decks are in hand as the penultimate tyrant rise from the sea and
tear the skies to shreds with fingers smooth as butter and a serpent
tongue as smooth as silk. Fangs that dribble new-speak gold-truths
doubly-plus-good ad infinitum, you dig? Well done; fantastic dance,
you great and glorious non-gender-conforming comrade, you. Now pound
The fumes of morality escaping
from pile-driver puritan porn; a noxious gas-cloud passing through
the cells of body and prison alike, spreading the duality of wokeness
through our eyes and minds that once spat wild insults; that once
snarled and growled at those who would decide what words we used.
It is an infection; a viral
infection of brain tissue and thoughts that ran to meet the winter at
the winters edge as spring and summer both went down the drain,
leaving us destitute at the death of God in us and us alone.
Flames rise high from
cancelled and censored literature. Stalwart book-burnings in all but
the flames, rising street-high and frightful, smoke blackened and
bruised seen flowing from the eyes of trigger-happy triggeratos in
joy and in celebration as the clowns and fools get to decide which
words we read in our CCTV bedchambers… hollowed out from within and
from without, spent borderline-bastard-blues… they fined a guy and
sentenced him to prison for reading fiction erotica… we are dying,
choked to death by the hands of neo-puritans, prepubescent in their
SSRI-limelight, drugged to death by anti-anxiety medications that
obviously don’t work. Pound me too, you vicious, censorious
Teen spirit smells like shit
now, like spit spat from tongues dulled by life. Your mouth is
moving. It must be. For I hear the sound of fevered fanatical
flatulence in the sacred halls of this church of Woke.
In our hubris fought we God and fought we Devil, seeing never the one in the other or the other in the one as, speared and mutilated by the rushing of the wolves and of the ship of fools, we lay down our swords awaiting sweet death in fawning admiration of this dreaded God of Woke whose heroin-voice and whisky-hair showed us truly our sin and shame and made us cover up the shame with greater shame.
The New York Times (hallowed
be their name!) have seen fit to inform us that women poop and that
women are ashamed to poop at work. This is astonishing information. I
was previously unaware of this. I just assumed that women did nothing
but fix their make-up and/or gossip intimately with close friends
whenever they went on one of their week-long trips to the bathroom.
Now, I have only ever once set foot within the confines of a public
restroom for women. And that was only because I had five minutes
until my bus left and the men’s restroom was occupied. I was
stunned to find that there were no campfires, no tents and no
sleeping bags to be found anywhere on the premises. Considering the
often obscene amount of time women spend in public restrooms, I
assumed there would be. I also pictured divans, couches, lounges, a
fully stocked bar and a servile non-gender specific manservant or
butler to cater to their whims. There had to be, there has to be, I
remember thinking. For there can be no other reason than that for
them spending all that time in their sanctuary.
Of course, there is a
likelihood that some manner of chromosome scanner or other hidden in
the arching doorway of the restroom scanned me and found me to be a
foul male and so hid all that stuff in order to keep it a secret
known only to women and some token gay friends. I will never know,
and I have accepted this fact. Even if it is a hard fact to accept.
Some things, I suppose, men are not meant to know. Such arcane wisdom
and occult secrets of the arcaniest, occultiest kind are best kept
from the ragged hearts of men.
Esoteric knowledge aside, the
fact remains that I stand flabbergasted, my world-view and entire
life altered and damaged beyond repair by this sudden information. Do
women poop? I mean – for real? It’s not just something they say
for gender equality? Well, now, ain’t that something. Astonishing.
Incredible. Damn near unbelievable. But there you have it.
Of course; women not feeling
all that comfortable with taking a shit at work is the fault of the
patriarchy. As we all know, the patriarchy does have some of their
goons and lower-tier employees, which of course mean “women”,
checking in on the bathroom stalls with some regularity to make sure
and make certain that nothing untoward should happen in there. This
includes pooping. Given, of course, that we of the patriarchy were
previously unaware of the pooping of the female, we were led to
believe that any odour lingering were the result of some male
infiltrator. Which would, of course, be absolutely horrifying. We of
the patriarchy are very pleased to learn that this is not the case,
despite this putting us at odds with our previously assumed state of
omnipotence. We will take this up with Dave from marketing.
The sordid affair does not end
there. Oh no, not by a long shot. Would you believe it, but it turns
out that women spend more time in their restrooms than men do in
theirs, and that the lines to women’s restrooms are longer than
those for the men’s restrooms. This is a terrible state of affairs,
according to our much beloved yet, unfortunately, high-strung and
neurotic whamens. Far be it from me, a small piece of the
patriarchy-pudding, to pass judgement on such an item on the agenda.
It seems to me that the reason for the long lines to the women’s
restroom are a simple one – merely that women spend a long time in
the restrooms. Now, as admitted previously, I assumed that these
rooms were some luxurious resort, some hang-out where women could
withdraw, have a quick drink and a chat with some friends. I assumed
this to be a space for women to relax without these horrible men
manspreading and mansplaining in their vicinity. As recent
information have told us, however, it becomes quite clear that much
of the time spent in women’s restrooms are spent pooping and
covering up the tracks of said pooping. We would have furnished the
restrooms with proper air-conditioning and fans to remove any proof
of pooping, I suppose, were it not for the fact that these terrible
tools of the patriarchy have been deemed sexist and as such are an
affront to the much beloved and, yet, hated women of the patriarchy.
The question then remains: what can men do in order to make women
spend less time in the restrooms or in line for the restrooms? For it
is obvious, women having no agency of their own, that this is
something that must be mended and remedied by the governing
You know… I am supposed to
be a writer. And a visual artist. At this point in my life, I was
supposed to have published several novels. And collections of poetry.
I should have made some manner
of name for myself within the chaotic realm of art. And writing.
Those were my plans.
I am 33 years old, god-damnit.
Not exactly old, not exactly young. Just closing in on middle age.
And I have to sit here and tell grown-ass god-damned fucking adult
women that no-one but them cares that they poop.
I have to write this strange
and twisted tale of woe and worry, telling adult women that the
reason for them spending time in line for the fucking toilets are
women spending more time on the fucking can than men do. That this is
not the fault of men, but of women. I can’t understand it. I really
You want to know what a
feminist looks like? You take an adult woman. Then you strip away all
manner of agency, all manner of self-determination, any semblance of
a personality, anything that resembles self-awareness, add a dash of
daddy-issues, a smidgeon of thinly veiled misanthropy, a solid chunk
of narcissism and all the hysteria in the known universe. Then you
are getting close.
It is absurd and it is
ridiculous. Anything. Any-fucking-thing, no matter how trite, how
childish, how small and petty, how insignificant, has to be blown up
and shown to the world as some horrible affront to womanhood, no
matter if it is not a gendered issue. If women in any way, shape or
form can be made to look as though they are suffering some hardship,
it is held forth as supreme proof of some grand patriarchal
conspiracy meant to shame them for… something they themselves
individually feel ashamed for. And it is not them that are the
problem. No, no, no! They don’t need to work on themselves –
heavens forbid – this is men’s doing, and something men need to
fix. Because women must never fix anything within themselves. Men
must fix it, and men must look within themselves and see how they can
make women feel less insecure about taking a shit in a restroom for
women where no-one but god-damned women would be to shame them for
pooping. And yet, a woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle. In
the holy name of Eris and various other assorted deities of chaos,
corruption and madness – you want to be viewed as strong and
independent? You want to be taken seriously as an adult human being
with agency, self-determination, independence and so-and-such? Then
stop acting like a spoiled fucking child throwing a temper tantrum
because something in your morbidly hysterical world did not go
exactly as you wanted it to go. Take some fucking responsibility for
your own life and stop complaining to men that women spend more time
on the fucking toilet than men do. Just stop spending a bloody
eternity on the toilet, and everything shall be as you wish it to be.
This is what we are reduced
to, gentlemen. This is what we have become. A terrible joke of a
civilization, society beyond satire, satire beyond satire, even. And
I would never, in my worst
anxious and neurotic, twisted and insomniac nigh-terror fever-dreams
believe that I would sit here now, a grown man, writing a response to
– supposedly – adult women complaining about pooping. Still, it
is a fitting image of our day, I suppose, that our once functional
and grand societies have devolved into nothing but a hedonistic,
narcissistic poop-and-fart-joke, filled with petty squabbles and
personal tales of neuroticism and shame from women that are somehow
the fault of men.
I was going to write great
works of art. My inspirations were Dostojevskij, Frank Herbert,
Tolkien, George Orwell, John Steinbeck, Dante Alighieri, John Milton,
Edgar Allan Poe, Hunter Thompson, Charles Bukowski and various other
greats. A wide variety of influence and styles that would somehow be
blended and melded and moulded in my mind into something of my own
creative output. And I was going to illustrate these great, sweeping
epics of mine – or these short, angry young man novels of mine
myself. Using my own art, such as I knew to make it. With the
ever.-changing, yet constantly static raw rebellion of rock ‘n’
roll and punk as it once was running through my art, the one red
tread of dyed yarn that would tie it all together in a conscious and
coherent literary/artistic world.
But now – now – I am
slowly drifting away from the angry young man. I am becoming a grumpy
old man, pushed away from the joy of creating and the joy of fiction
for bearing the knowledge deep within that the world – the real
world – is stranger, more absurd and more surreal than any work of
art, than any work of fiction could ever become. Dystopian novels are
a thing of the past. Dystopian fiction is dead. Because we are living
it. We are writing dystopian history, falling deeper and deeper into
the trappings of decadence and fall and collapse and tyranny.
Not with a sudden fall, but
with a thousand small cuts does society collapse. I could have
written such beauty, such fantastic fantasies. I could have moved an
entire generation to tears with but a stroke of my pen, with a word
chosen with the same amount of care and dedication, passion and love
as a father placing a kiss upon the brow of his first-born.
But I have to sit here, and
write about women pooping. I have to sit here – I am compelled to
sit here – and tell adult women that no-one but themselves can fix
the time they spend waiting in line for the toilet. And I am
compelled. Because ignoring these petty squabbles; allowing these
miniscule problems to go unchallenged renders them untouchable. And
that would be incredibly dangerous. Because, were they not
challenged, it would be swallowed hook, line and stinker as
truth-without-a-doubt. The petty tin-pot tyrants would be the ones
that wrote history; would be the victors to whom goes the spoils.
Even if I fear that this will happen regardless, at the very least I
will go to my grave or to the gulags knowing that I did what little I
could to challenge this.
Even if that reduced a planned artistic career to writing articles about women pooping.