It is getting increasingly more difficult to not give a fuck.
The Circus is back in town again. The wide-eyed clowns are drooling again. The thrice-fisted theatre is back at it again. The shadow-gallery strokes its lack of cock, then rubs its paramilitary cunt rough and raw and ready-red, complaining about an impotent maladjusted male malcontent.
It is getting increasingly more difficult to not give a fuck.
The Circus is back on form again. The wide-eyed penitents are singing songs again. Thrice-lamented eerie tunes that lost their rhyme, that lost their rhythm and their reason, in raw and rough ready-read illiberal indoctrination, chronic cerebral constipation: so-called malicious masculine omnipotence.
It is getting increasingly more difficult to not give a fuck.
The temperature is rising again. The hot-headed heat-seekers seeking heat again. Thrice-cursed and shellshocked from safe-shelter-zones that sang in rhythm and in blues two-stepped grim-faced tango-hues; that spoke as messengers divine, smote down those who drew a line in the sand, who showed they had a spine.
It is getting increasingly more difficult to not give a fuck.
The bayonets are rustling in the leaves again, the circus-tent burning in the streets again, Thrice-hung, drawn and quartered in the sheets again. Tranquil telepathy spread from the podium; dyed danger-hair whose longing for odium saw neither here nor there an end to anything but society and ruptured sanity; to start fresh and new this age of vanity.
It is getting increasingly more difficult to not give a fuck.
The censors are back in tune again. The institute for higher morality shaking in their boots again, thrice-unfucked morality-policing busy beaver-bees again, that stepped out of time, then out of line. Fourth Reich rising dimwittedly from the heatwave; free speech in dire need of a close-knit shave: to celebrate diversity and one-pack liberty must we then throat-fuck free speech as a necessity.
It is getting increasingly more difficult to not give a fuck.
The eunuchs sing of love again. The old-gloom snake-oil-schools back to caning again, thrice-well-wished pedagogues knitting blindfolds again, to allow for free-hand fondling of tranquillised kids. Smarmy teachers propose unilateral castration, blind with penis-envy or brain-fucked into devastation. Boys with glitter-eyes whisper free-form castration-blues, damaged by institutionalized flag-pole emasculation.
It is getting increasingly more difficult to not give a fuck.
The inquisition is back at it again. The inquisitive minds seek incessant incestuous notes again, thrice-fondled tight-arsed censorship again, to sing and speak in babbled monochrome plague-verse. Dogwhistle whispers mark high-street hysteria; sussuration of surveillance run through academia, murmured watching of the populace in social media, drifting ever so slowly into intellectual euthanasia.
It is getting increasingly more difficult to not give a fuck.
The actors are back in town again, the acted-upon are in their webs again, thrice-bejewelled and forgotten in the night again, token band-aid for the broken boys and men whose long lingering grey-cloud despair left them hopeless, whose pre-approved time-stamp patterns left them homeless, whose hounded backs were caressed by globalist whips, whose suffering were then reduced to political quips.
It is getting increasingly more difficult to not give a fuck.
The Psy-War is back in town again, the opium-wars back in bloom again, Thrice-removed, remodelled, yet the same again. Thirsty multi-tentacled social justice rape-rage; feigned political correctness, virtue, inclusivity, morality is opium for the people by virtue of profane hypocrisy; morally bankrupt castrated Marxist hay-fever songs designed in nihilist postmodern utopia-bongs.
It is getting increasingly more difficult to not give a fuck.
The Opiate dreams back in form again, the opined heroines heroin-dance in smouldered ruin again, Thrice-overdosed and equal-opportunity-ravaged again. Ten young boys with child-like drag-queen dreams; society and civilization now reduced to edgy memes. A pock-marked trans-kid, vegan-cat, imbecilic present; a skull-fucked, brain-slapped, haemorrhaging slow descent into catatonia and the high heavens of prolonged dementia.
It is getting increasingly more difficult to give a fuck.
This wilful misunderstanding
of the social game as well as the sexual game tuned us onto a
frighteningly forceful application of new rules and guidelines that
don’t really work in accordance with how human beings interact.
Quite a lot of our interaction
and our communication is non-verbal, based on body-language… subtle
hints and movements and changes in tone and mannerisms.
Which is why, for example,
sarcasm is so difficult to read that Redditors tend to use that “/s”
to indicate smart-ass sarcasm. Otherwise, it is taken as serious. For
lack of body-language and tone of voice. Given that our communication
these days tend to be more written than it is spoken, more digital
than it is physical… I wonder if we have not removed ourselves too
quickly and too hastily from physicality, confusing ourselves to
believe that the rules of face-to-face communication need to mirror
that of written communication, instead of the other way around?
Or – more frightening –
that the lack of physicality, the lack of body-language has created a
generation incapable of reading, using and comprehending
body-language? To such an extent that a friendly touching of the arm
or the shoulder can be interpreted as some terrible affront,
something akin to assault – or sexual assault. As we have seen at
least one dude – young, shy, awkward teen – be sentenced to a
fine of 250 GBP and five fucking years on the sex offender registry
for touching a girl on the arm and the waist on two separate
occasions. What used to be normal human interaction is now considered
a terrible trespass on someone else’s bodily autonomy…
This should be terrifying. It
should be a sign that we – that is the western world – are
declining rapidly into our own undoing. When someone can be judged
and sentenced – by law – for something so minor, so petty, so
insignificant, we are not on the right track. Not as a society, not
as a civilization and not as a people. If we have become so frail
that we can not handle normal human interaction without breaking down
in hysterics, spending social resources… no, wasting social
resources and time, we are manufacturing our own doom and demise.
Now, of course, it is only women who are allowed to be so frail –
men still have to put up with just about anything this shambling mess
of a society can throw our way. Any complaints will bring shame and
ridicule our way, and loads of non-arguments, stupidity and personal
attacks from arrogant imbeciles floating in the steaming pile of
their own hubris. That hubris has the same aroma and texture as
grade-A Bullshit, by the way.
On Friday, the 25th
of October, I was out walking my dogs. I was approached by a cute
lil’ old lady. She seemed to be in her mid-to-late seventies,
though she might have been older. This lil’ old lady was all smiles
and laughter, complimented me on my beard – actually touched it,
then proceeded to touch my arm and told me that she enjoyed seeing
men having beards nowadays. On account of masculinity. We then
chit-chatted for a little while, before we parted ways with a
“good-bye” and a friendly waving of the hands. Body-language
This small chance encounter
made my day, if I am to be perfectly honest. It was one of those
slightly surreal every-day happenings that don’t mean all that
much, but can bring about quite a lot of joy. It is those small
things that make a difference. That is what ought to be cherished.
Such small things – such
tiny compliments – I believe, is particularly important to men who
seldom – if ever – receive compliments on their appearance. Or
compliments at all, for that matter. Which is a sad state of affairs
all on its own. It says a lot about our societies, though I can not
possibly comment on that without the inevitable “male tears” and
“fragile male ego” nonsense from the very empathetic feminist
squads hiding in the bushes and believing themselves to be above any
form of criticism.
Such small gestures of
kindness is just that – small gestures of kindness – unless you
are caught in the throes of hysterics, lured into the belief that
everyone is out to get you. Which is what feminism has managed to
lure women into believing – that all men are out to get them,
preferably for rape – with or without given consent (heh) – but
quite possibly and probably also for violence and murder.
This is nothing but
fear-mongering, akin to psychological terrorism, for all I care.
This fear-mongering is
perpetrated to such an extent that what used to be normal human
interaction – light touches, friendly gestures of intimacy, trust
and bonding – or a friendly invitation to intimacy, trust and
bonding – is now considered threatening, is now considered
violence, is now considered assault or sexual assault… if it is a
man doing it. And, no, intimacy does not equal sex.
To my eyes, this is nothing
more than an extension, the natural end-game and only possible
outcome of the old tattle-tale that men have only one thing on their
minds. And that one thing is sex, I have been led to believe by
scores of women who seem perfectly able to read minds, as well as
being perfectly unable to listen to what men have to say on the
matter. There can be no other reason for a man to touch a woman than
a wish for sex. This despite how or where he touches her – intent
be damned, context be damned, everything be damned but the subjective
feelings of the woman. It doesn’t matter much what men say in
regards to men, the male brain, the male body, male sexuality or
what-have-you. It matters what a woman says. Doubly so if it is a
feminist woman, and quadruply so if she is a professor of gender
studies, feminist basket-weaving and underwater gynocratic ballet.
Because this does make perfect sense, you see, in a society in which
everyone is entitled to their opinion as long as they are not male,
in which case they are not allowed opinions on this, that or the
other. Unless they align with feminist thought and fancy, in which
case they are almost entitled to their opinion on this, that or the
other. Except this thing, that topic and that other thing.
Oddly enough, I doubt the
police would be willing to take me seriously if I told them that I
felt violated and assaulted by this lil’ old lady touching me
without my explicit consent or invitation. On two occasions! Oh, the
horror, oh the humanity, and so forth and so on.
This is not to say that I
think people should just ignore their own personal boundaries or the
personal boundaries of other people. I believe nothing of the sort.
Still, there has got to be an understanding that human beings –
much like other animals – are physical beings first and foremost.
Our bodies, our stance, our
unspoken language, communicate far more than our words ever will. It
is easy to spot a liar based on their body-language, for example.
Words can say this and they can say that and they can say the other.
This does not matter if the language of your body says quite the
opposite. And language – such as we have it – is a fairly new
invention, all things considered. It is a great tool, to be sure and
to be certain – though, admittedly, it may also be a barrier.
Is it not incredible to think
that people who do not speak the same language, who do not even speak
languages similar to one another may still communicate quite
effectively, understand the other person and also make the other
person understand them simply through hand-gestures, body-language
and things of that nature? It might not make for the most intricate
of discussion, but it is still enough to understand the other on
I think it is absolutely
incredible. Though I am going off on a bit of a tangent here.
What I am trying to get at is
that I believe we have, in many ways, killed – or at the very least
effectively subdued – a very normal and human form of interaction
and communication through mass-hysteria – and possibly through an
over-use of written communication. We replaced body-language with
pictograms in the form of emoticons. Because we had to figure out
some way to communicate body-language, pose and facial expressions to
convey properly the tone and as such the intent of a message, of the
Communication is dead. Oddly
enough due to communication becoming more frequent, constant and
easy. What a strange world we live in. The smaller the world gets,
the more we are in touch with each other, the more we lose touch with
each other. Drifting away, as it were, into self-contained bubbles of
social media and other such maladies of the modern age where nothing
much matters but the image we can present of ourselves – an image
that is superficial… which may, at a single word, be shattered and
broken like the illusion it is. For we present and reflect only the
best of ourselves – or, rather, what we believe to be the best of
ourselves, how we would like to be perceived rather than who we are.
It is not so much deceiving other people as it is deceiving
ourselves, duping ourselves into believing that who we present
ourselves to be through social media is who we either are or who we
really want to be. Or who we ought to be, empty virtue-signalling and
hollow flashing of morals included. This can not possibly be
sustainable. The best way – in my honest opinion – to get to know
oneself is to seek solitude and meditation, to learn how to be alone,
how to enjoy being alone. Which we seem to never be in this age of
social media madness, constantly competing with our digital
neighbours over petty things… my lawn is greener than yours. And my
house is cleaner. And my virtue is greater. And my kids match my
sofa. And I was groped twice by a stranger, whereas you were only
groped once. I deserve more sympathy, more empathy and more of that
sweet victim-cred. Pound me too, you malicious bastard. (Why won’t
anyone pound me?)
This avoidance of physical
communication is worsened quite a bit through the ridiculous
weaponization of female fragility employed so effectively by the
frantic forces of feminism, demanding every touch – however small
and insignificant – be deemed verboten, considered a horrible
affront and assault… if it is a man touching a woman. The same goes
for a man merely looking at a woman in a manner she feels is
improper. Cue the swooning, the sniffing salts and the whole shebang.
I fail to see how this constant state of hysteria… of inner turmoil
and frailty is a reflection of strength. But that will have to be as
it is, I suppose. There is little personal strength in breaking down
over small and insignificant things. Though, as I suspect is the case
and the point, there is quite a lot of social power for women to
present themselves to be weak and in need of protection. Which is
where this weaponization of fragility always ends up; a call to
change this and change that so women shall feel safe. With an
emphasis on feel.
I am absolutely certain that
women are far more touchy-feely than men in general. Where men punch
each other on the shoulder in a gesture of trust and camaraderie,
women hug. As an example. Not to mention that women tend to complain
about men’s lack of intra-sexual intimacy… or intimacy at all…
or complain if there is too much of it, for that matter.
Of course, the feminist hordes
tend to explain this all away with this nonsensical screech of theirs
that men have nothing to fear from women, whereas women have much to
fear from men. For men are such terrible, vile and violent creatures
that any touch, however slight, is an act of violence and of rape.
Therefore, women may touch men and men may not touch women. Mental
gymnastics to properly explain away why this call of theirs for
equality is ever so lacking
in equality. Odd that they
fail to mention the scores of white knights that jump into battle to
save m’lady from the horrible trespasses of the man, with a good
ol’ fashioned arse-whooping of the beastly man the result more
often than not. Oh well,
never mind, no matter.
proven, however, through the witch-hunt that is #metoo and other such
trite and treacherous social movements, men have much to fear from
women utilizing the government, social media and the press as their
weapon of choice… in so doing, if there is no punishment by the
justice system, there is sure to be social ramifications, rendering
the man effectively dead and imprisoned, a social outcast from now
until the end of time. It
does not matter whether the courts find him innocent or not. The
court of social opinion will still remember, will still pass
judgement and will still punish. Add
to this that the #metoo movement excluded men completely, thus
creating the illusion that only women experienced things of this
nature – as is, of course, most befitting of a feminist movement
hell-bent on portraying men as terribly as possible and women as
saintly as possible – and you’ve got yourself a decent firmament
to build upon where the re-writing of the social contract is
concerned, once again with women up front and centre. Women
are victims, men are perpetrators. And so, women must be protected
from men through implementations of laws that are anything but
gender-neutral, even when feminism claims to wish for complete
is it not? Take a look at the
recent alterations of the penal system in the UK,
and you will see what I mean.
Equality under the law has come to mean that the law favours women…
by the letter of the law, not only the bias of any judge or jury in
the courtroom. It is
frightening. And it is spreading like a cancer.
…For that is
sure-as-the-living-breath equal treatment of the sexes; one set of
rules for one sex to follow, and a whole other set of rules for the
other, be those rules societal or governmental, be those laws
unspoken social contracts or written laws. Anything goes. And
anything contrary to equal treatment of the sexes is for sure equal
treatment of the sexes when seen through the frantic eggshell-frail
enlightenment of the feminist hive-mind AD. the current year.
Equality means whatever the hell the feminist forces of frail and
fragile weaponized femininity say that it means at any given moment.
And to hell with objections, logic, reason and other such trite trash
from the patriarchal cis-white-heteronormative rape-brigades and
their white supremacy, whether those that object be men or women,
black or white. One is, after all, either a feminist or a sexist. And
this is not totalitarian, nor is it tyrannical. For feminism told me
so. It says so in the dictionary, remember.
You can find the definition of
feminism directly underneath the word “manipulation” or the
phrase “manipulation of language” in the dictionary.
I suggest a popularization of
the term “Femipulation”. Because why the hell not? The feminist
hive-mind gender terms for the sole purpose of insulting and
belittling men and masculinity, so why should they not have a taste
of their own medicine?
I am also very fond of
“Ovary-acting”, “Cunt-fusing” and “Fem-steria”.
“Man”? As in “Men do this”? Bah, humbug – this will not
stand. Men don’t femipulate. Only feminism femipulates with all the
femcels they can muster.
Obviously, I jest. As much as
I enjoy using such words in jest – to shine a light on the
stupidity of words such as “mansplaining” and “manspreading”,
I am not serious in my usage of them. Nor would I ever use them in
any proper discussion or argument… should I ever poke my head out
of this hermit-cave of mine to partake in a discussion, which I
highly doubt… But see – see how easy it is – to feign outrage…
to wilfully perceive something as something other than what it is.
History, herstory, humankind, peoplekind, woman, womxn, womyn,
We should never have graduated
from being apes. We are barely domesticated primates, I think.
Particularly so when watching the bars close and people file out
drunkenly at night, all screeches, gibbering, roars and
shit-flinging; body-language, touching, hugging, intimacy and all
that jazz… which we seek to outlaw, eliminate and annihilate until
we all live inside bubbles of bloated self-importance or tragic
self-segregation, later to blow up from lack of oxygen or from
overdosing on sniffing our own farts… until the whole thing goes
down the drain in a cosmic gang-bang where only our lack of sense and
empathy gets a taste of the good old fashioned willy-wetting and the
humpbacked beast of a thousand backs… where mutual respect and
co-operation is given a forced double penetration by the terrible
beast of the apocalypse, this time wearing the wart-speckled face of
political correctness and wielding the double-edged dildo; one dildo
named “shame” and the other “ridicule”… And I looked…
and beheld an angle…
All the while, the world grows
ever more chaotic, society grows ever more confined and controlled
and regulated… down to the minutest detail of our day-to-day lives
being governed and censored. For the political must be personal and
the personal must be political, to such an extent that people prod
their noses where they have no justifiable reason to prod their
noses, mingling in the affairs of other people and asking “why does
she cook dinner, what do you do then?”… ignoring any and all
which the man do in a relationship in order to shame him for having a
partner that does anything in a relationship.
We are not on the correct
path. We are breaking down. Bit by bit, we are eroding and slipping
into the sea. Caught in self-aggrandizement, hollow
virtue-signalling, petty squabbles and this constant state of
confrontation, resentment, anger and self-importance to the point of
absolute absurdity. Everything has become vague and wishy-washy,
washed out with bleach until nothing means anything and anything can
mean everything. Because nothing matters any more. We have had a good
run of relative stability. And now it all comes crashing down. With a
whimper and a shiver, not a giant explosion, not a gigantic bang.
Here ends part seven. Join me next week for more of this cruel and unusual ramble, lest I fall into the singularity and get swallowed by cocaine-covered clowns. Makes about as much sense as anything, I suppose. Honk. Honk.
Myths and superstitious
legends take their toll. We had a good run… and a greater roll…
and the lengthiest tumble… past glories are duplicated in a faulty
paper-copier… to come out broken, ripped and torn in a weird
copycat display… a shattered mirror reflecting freedom and liberty…
where freedom is drawn hastily, outlined in strange dystopian prose,
painted with the ink and trembling ire of surveillance through social
and governmental power… Of course you are free and have your
freedom, sir and saintly madam, as long as you don’t act free and
act out your freedom.
The hard and the soft power
combined, standing in harms way to harm the way and shatter sheltered
minds a-plenty… To then permanently save them from shattering
through rules and regulations designed so that no-one of the
sheltered and the sacred shall ever have to hear anything they
dislike… which, according to the whim of the double-speak fairy
Godmother of supreme morality, may or may not include someone merely
disagreeing. It all depends on the pre-designed political correctness
of stated opinion or fact or truth. It is, after all, far more
important to be morally and emotionally correct than it is to be
factually correct. So spake the fleeting fairy of flimsy morality and
flimsier virtue. Of course you are free to speak and express yourself
through freedom of speech and expression… as long as you accept all
these limitations on your freedom to speak and to express yourself…
as well as the governmental penalties should you transgress and act
out that freedom…
Hate-speech laws ain’t
nothing but a slow, dark cloud of tyranny… it is a storm beating
down on us from afar… an inevitable decline into compelled speech…
of forced conformity of thought and of opinion. Making it illegal to
say something must simultaneously mean it is illegal to hold that
opinion. If you can not speak your mind, how can you possibly have a
free mind? Of course I believe in freedom of speech, but freedom
of speech should not extend to ideas which I object too….
On a superficial level, we
stand free as free could be… to express whatever and whichever…
to walk the path less trodden by feet less swollen… complete
expression of self is absolutely allowed… though you can not
express disagreement with someone else’s complete expression of
self, should your values in some way align with the dark side of the
force… And what is Light and what is Dark is decided in the dark by
drunk hens henpecking social interaction to drunk, drugged and
despairing death. Should your values not align, you are free game for
the feral forces of the mob and of the pack. And the government, for
that maddening matter. Slow death by a thousand pecks.
un-personed and disappeared loudly, with horns blaring, through the
frenzy of the pack; the soft power of sublime social pressure… wild
hens hunting the heretic by any means necessary… threats of
violence and use of violence is all part of the game; no need to
argue or discuss. Attack the person, not the argument. Superficial ad
hominem… Reductio Ad Hitlerium, ya dig? All who do not fall into
this is fucking Nazi-scum, alt-right pack-rats, fascist collaborators
After all, the person is not a
person any longer. The person is an object, an enemy, a scapegoat
upon whose frame all scorn and hatred and ridicule may be placed and
laid to rest upon the browbeaten skeletal frame of his simian
…Insert Sure, Jan meme,
for maximum efficiency in dismissal and put-down… rid
yourself of toxic fuckaroos…
External appearance is now
marvellously and magically, through smoke and mirrors, through wild
and lengthy yarns spun in campfire-tales told frantically by mad-eyed
unblinking hens, far more important than internal whatever… content
of character matters little when faced with the overwhelming argument
of skin-colour, sexuality, sex and gender. Ho-ho-ho, bloody well fuck
If you look like this, you’ve
got to think like that… it goes without saying… tribal belonging
through external appearance first and foremost… a subversive, a
remarkably childish superficial take-over manufactured in myriad
mind-melt manipulations… to think like this, you ought to look like
that. Don that uniform and wear the insignia of the tribe, burnt and
branded on your buttocks by your handlers… you’ll wind up without
anything resembling true within… without within, within stands
without. Shattered and shamed, tattered and torn, broken between a
rock and a hard place… or between a cock and a hard face… You are
not allowed that hair, buddy-boy, lest you swear allegiance to this
tribe… nor that colour of pants… might as well tattoo a swastika
on your inner thigh, you lowly, low class something-or-other.
Superficial values is
identity-politics wish-wash. It is smoked reams of light masquerading
as epiphanies to break the boredom of modernity. Grand words, the
grand wazoo and much ado about abso-fucking-lutely nothing…
First world problems presented
as profound difficulties… whimsical realms of absolute and acute
madness; inflammation of the right and the left brain hemisphere…
epileptic fits of tongue-twisting tattle-tales… the new academic
lingo is speaking in tongues in histrionic fits of crazy ecstasy… a
religious trance to last a hundred years… or two seconds flat,
replaced seconds later with some new petty grievance-fuelled
annoyance, presented in the same histrionic ecstasy… All hail the
high Goddess Annoying Intellectual Ramble and her clouded descent
into the babbled afterlife.
Ramble on, my wayward world…
there’ll be cheese when you are done. Cheese and whine for maximum
At times, I think we need a
good old fashioned war. At the very least, please give us a small
crisis… something substantial in this dawn of the insubstantial, in
this doom where anything means nothing and nothing means anything, in
this age of the great gobble-de-gook, the fantastic swoon, the
hallowed swan, the wondrous woo, the gargantuan woozy whimsy of
wilful vanity wandering wonderingly within the borders of our
manufactured frailty… our remarkable parody of reality.
All who dwell within our
borders are set to collapse at a moment’s notice, mind and sanity
and inner strength bastardized and sodomized in equal measure… the
fall, the oh so timely fall into superficiality and moral
beastiality… excuse me, moral inner-species erotica… with not a
smidgeon nor a shade of shame and self-reflection to be found or to
We have grown depraved and
decadent, bereaved of manual labour and drowning in automation… we
have nothing to seek or reach… so few hurdles to overcome that we
need to manufacture them for those whom we have considered worthy of
having hurdles… and we need to neglect them for those we have
considered unworthy of having hurdles… You can tell who is whom by
their superficial characteristics, dont’cha know
Big Brother is watching… as
is Big Sister; the hard and the soft moral bludgeon… one with a
monopoly on violence, the other with a monopoly on social death and
shame and decay… stray but a little from the trodden path, the
accepted discourse and opinion, and the forces of the weak and of the
frail – as they chose to refer to themselves – will beat down on
you with all the frail force that can be gathered at the tumbling
Touretted tick of an NPC, render you all but dead and imprisoned
within the cage of what-is-ok-to-speak-and-to-say…
The age of conformity sprung
forth from the grimy loins of political correctness, where facts
don’t matter and matter is insubstantial… and something that
sorely needs to be said and be spoken may not be said, spoken or
discussed despite the importance of the thing… for it would be
politically incorrect and so deemed verboten by the frail forces that
dominate the discourse… do not say that; it could potentially hurt
someone’s feelings, buddy-boy. Even if your brothers are dying, do
not say that. For it will hurt the feelings of the frail forces that
rule with an iron glove; the soft tyranny of manufactured pettiness
and frailty… the sham that is the social game and social rulebook
intertwined and conspired to smack you between the eyes, and then to
lay eggs within your central nervous system. Spreading, inflaming
your tissue and killing you slowly.
We’ve got the hive-mind
hierarchy of frailty, also known as the progressive stack… You can
be attacked in any manner if you are at the bottom of the progressive
stack… or was that the top? It’s all so topsy-turvy, upside down
and uncomprehendingly cunt-fusing.
A for effort, fail for
execution… dragged outside for a proper execution for failing to
follow the flow of the fault-line of the frail and frantic few… the
choir offended, my gooey goodness, how loudly they sing and shriek
and whine and mutter most incoherently in the grimy greed and
darkness of their silent superficiality… their vast calls for
In the bubble, safe and
sheltered, shameless and superficial, pointing to this and only this
to state with absolute certainty that you are that and only that; a
terrible straight white male – the worst of the bunch, a natural
force of pure evil… Antichrist sprung from the loins of a fertile
ball-blasted Basilisk Cock-goblin to wreak bloody havoc on the world
and all that dwell within.
Boiled, and boiled and then
reduced to the bare essentials of appearance; straight, white, male…
or pale, male and stale, as the saying goes.
That is all you shall be judged upon, and to hell with anything going on within… within is out, ya know, ya see, ya dig; without is in – the hip, woke hipster squad deemed it so incredibly appropriate to appropriate stupidity in the guise of woke intellectualism, see. Now take your toxic whiteness, your toxic maleness and your toxic social construct heteronormative heterosexuality and kindly bugger off and die.
…Those who rush in with
clown-like drive-by so-called take-downs, snivelling penitent
cluck-clucks as the golden rays of the sun bounce of their shrivelled
husk, polished and whitewashed to reflect saintlike self-reflection.
…A certain kind of
self-reflection forced upon them by hollow religious sermons meant to
make them unburden their beastly masculine shape and form of anything
resembling masculinity. That is to say: masculinity as viewed through
the mute liturgy of cross-cultural feminist zealotry; masculinity as
the brutal cross that only men have to bear, upon which they are to
later be crucified atop the hallowed peaks of self-flagellated
…A cross and burden which
they must carry with them underneath the vice-like grip and
ever-judging eyes of this awesome Goddess of immediate pussy-willow
whips and thongs, of self-congratulatory neoteny and fruitful hips,
through whose eyes and wretched form all men are sinners singing
songs of sinner’s vice and virtue none.
…Within whose judging
god-hand grasp and heaving bosom none shall ever be wholly and fully
redeemed, yet still see and then consider their murmured
self-inflicted martyrdom for the curse and for the cause as a source
of grand amusement, picked then doubly-pecked at time and time again
with angry knitting needles through their tortured manly eyes, their
horrid, horribly horrifying perverse male gaze, or through their
dubious liar-tongues that wriggle so amusingly as they choke to death
on their own self-sought and self-bought self-immolation.
Never to be fully acknowledged
within the church and its angelic walls, its trumpeter halls, its
holy smear of period-blood, but to be referred to endearingly or
mockingly as “allies” for the noble cause, caused by sex and sex
alone, forever doomed to stand without the whining wall and holler at
those who did not wish to enter that they are crackpot sinners,
brutish bores, never to be absolved of sin.
…as he is surely soon to be…
…for all the pilgrim steps
he shall endure upon the path to absolute redemption…
As all truly penitent sinners
cursed with cock and balls are want to do, must he now and ever and
anon carry the wormwood cross, the snivelled cluck-cluck, into the
unwashed masses and their meaty mouths to meet and greet and then
dole out calls for redemption as redemption is; acknowledge first the
grandest of all earthly sins – the never-seen nor never-heard
before privilege of being male (add a sin or more for also being
white) – and then work through and then come out the other side,
crawling on your knees to beg forgiveness for the sins of you and of
your father and your fathers father and so forth, back through time
and through the ages until you meet the protoplasmic ooze, until you
greet the primordial chaos-soup from whence all men were ripped and
torn, born from rape and ravaged ruin, born from perplexing shame and
into shame reborn and born again, the original sin once spurted in
the face of sinners straight from sinners cocks; a semen-speckled
bukkake from the majestic godhead and his cohort, the grand dragon
Though redemption is dearly
sought and even more dearly bought, it is one to never be delivered.
For the sins and trespasses one wishes to be absolved off are so
grandiose in nature, so undeniably vicious and evil and cold-hearted
and mean that none can say or see or think or mean that any true
redemption can be had, nor absolution passed upon the shrivelled
cluck-cluck husk or the beacon of his armour, rusted and then
polished ‘till it turns to glass and passes then as passing gas
into the stratosphere, shattered and then chewed and then passed up
and passed on and spat out unto the dirt and earth where dead men
walk who passed this way before, who self-flagellated ‘till their
backs were sore and whipped of all but blood and bone.
For the truest of all that is true, and the realest of all that is real is the knowledge, festering at the bosom’s core of the Goddess’ high embrace – that all men are vicious and are born that way from the loins and in the groin then tangled and entwined.
We live in times of universal
deceit. We can not tell the truth. Bit by bit, truth is being eroded
beneath our feet, as is our ability to speak it. Speaking the truth
is an act of insubordination, an act of revolution. The truth is
becoming a fragment of the past, a remnant of times that were, that
came and went and blew away.
The doors are shut for facts
and for balanced discussion of said facts. Truth means nothing lest
it comes from the gut-instinct, lest it stems from the high-strung
emotional turmoil that shriek and punch the air with tremors that
state “I feel like this, and so it must be truth”.
And don’t you dare
question my truth, my lived experience as anything but complete and
utter fact that everyone of my tribe experience and have experienced
and will keep experiencing seven thousand times or more.
And don’t you dare share
your truth, your lived experience as fact if it contradicts my lived
experience and my truth felt in the cornucopia of emotion in my
safe-space sheltered heart.
And don’t you dare
provide evidence, the concrete fact, the truth-and-beauty of absolute
beauty in truth that speaks truth to power and tumbles the tyrants
down from their thrones.
For tyranny flows from the top
to the bottom, it flows from the tremors and the trembles and the
fake-and-fancy inner turmoil shared by those who have had it far too
good for far too long, whose tongue-twisting nursery rhymes are still
sung and whispered at their bedside by overbearing parents who have
told them all their lives that they can never do anything but good,
that they can never do anything wrong. That, no matter what they do,
they are in the right and the entire rest of the world is wrong and
must burn if it disagrees. If lacking parents, substitute hired
This frantic world of ours
allowed the throne to be usurped by warmongers that peddle
propaganda; whose tongues and teeth are brown and stained with
coagulated blood drained from the throats of subdivided willing
victims of a war that stem from trying to please everyone. That is;
pleasing everyone who is considered by those who wield the power of
deceit to be underprivileged and oppressed in true Marxist fashion.
Carried on and carried forward by champagne socialists who do not
know the difference between a shovel and a pickaxe, who never saw
their cheap-rent apartments disappear and turn to dust from new
governmental regulations that deemed them unfit to live in, yet whose
silver-tongues that claimed to do good for those that could not be
choosers never did think that this would limit the availability of
apartments and never did anything to alleviate this, rendering the
market ever worse for those that have always been forced to settle.
There is no mistaking it. This
is a war. A war that is the result of a cuntural cultural revolution
that has been going on beneath our feet for fifty years or more; that
has been fought in classrooms with cheap hits dealt from subversive
pedagogues whose dimwitted godly light and siren-song shone and sung
its way into the minds and developing personality of impressionable
children who caught the words and let them fester and spread within
their own nuclear brain cavity. More pawns, more peons and peasants
handcrafted in indoctrination-chambers to hunt the Kulaks.
To manufacture dissent.
Manufacture chaos. To spread disillusion and disharmony to the hungry
masses, presenting feels as reals and wiping away any remnant of
objective reality to bring forth the new-found reality, the
subjective reality where every instance of emotional turmoil on
behalf of one and not the other is an issue that has to be dealt
with, that has to be overcome by governmental over-reach to limit
what we should say and can say and how to say it, to bring forth the
hate-speech laws and make them so convoluted, so confusing that
everything and nothing at all may be considered hate-speech on the
whim and will of whomsoever feel offended by the voice and uttered
utterance of those who are considered privileged by the privileged
powers-that-be that dominate the discourse, never allowing dissenting
voices to be heard. And that is dissenting voices not being allowed
under pain of governmental punishment, under the majestic banner of
the stately ban-hammer fantastic; the tyranny of governed speech
deciding what speech is the correct speech, what opinions are the
correct opinions, which -ism is the only -ism one should be allowed
to follow in the gloomy grim funeral rite of our liberty.
We are being ruled, governed
and drugged by television and media-conglomerates that spin their
so-called truths in new-speak news that starve our brains of oxygen
until we are close to passing out; that blast us with new information
every five seconds so that we can not process the information
properly, or never read beyond the click-bait headlines calling for
our permanent offence and anger at the unjust nature of the beastly
world we live in. That just so happen to only be unjust for the one
and not the other, in the eyes of new-speak news and their cohorts
that manufacture the perpetual war. Because war is peace. Freedom is
slavery. And so forth. And so on.
It will keep us distracted,
wilfully sheltered from what is going on behind the canvas and the
cloth of looming tyranny that aims at uniformity of speech, of voice
and of opinion. We are being ruled by fear and governed by terror to
make us accept limitations imposed on our speech and our expression.
To label it hate-speech laws is blatantly obvious manipulation of
language, telling all that do not think beyond the headlines that any
who oppose this set of rules is guilty of hating something or other,
and are as such not a decent person, not a good person, not a proper
person but someone improper, someone to be shunned and punished for
daring to defy the whatever and what-not. Anyone who hates anything
is not a good person. Excepting those who hate the ones who
supposedly are the haters. They are good people. When they hate what
the sheltered stately state have decided is OK to hate.
For a governmental body to
decide what is or is not accepted speech is tyranny clothed as
compassion. It is a government telling us, in so many words, that
this and only this is accepted opinion. And any-and-all that disagree
hate the oppressed and are, as such, an oppressor, a bigot, a beastly
bastard for whom violence is but a censored Tweet away. And so, they
deserve anything that may come their way and the government will not
only look the other way, but take part in the punishment. The Kulaks
must be dealt with.
There is anger. Red hot and
searing. Boiling and bubbling beneath the surface, in the blackened
brain-contractions, in the dying and divided heart-palpitations, in
the subterranean lungs nailed to the ribcage of those who have
swallowed and choked on the proverbial red pill.
It lies directly underneath
the skin at times, dragged up from the depths – wide-arching
monorail pathways of the mind-that-learned and thusly changed
and altered its perceptions of the space and time and views and lore
of the world as the world has been presented in greyscale fragments
born from schools with razor-blade fences used to lure the goons into
the nest and entrap them in the hive.
At the first inkling that
something is wrong, was wrong, always has been wrong in how the world
has been presented, how history has been told, how the myths and
legends of our time is sung; biased, full of half-truths and
deliberately presented new-facts shown in the light of dim-cloud
stars and suns that shone and shine in brutal burlesque-like blues
from teachers and pedagogues presented as demigods who hold the truth
and key and path towards free-flowing salvation for one and all,
there is rage and wrath and ruin.
At the moment that the veil
across the eyes is ripped and torn, as the first seam split and the
light appears to be less clouded, fuller, brighter – at the first
glimpse of a full spectrum light, bright and brilliant as the day or
horrifying, terrifying, grim and serious as a fully haunted witching
hour night, there is rage and wrath and ruin.
And in the slow-choking,
breathtaking, stunning death of all that once was known as truth and
fact, at the point where the bitter red pill is caught and held in
place at oesophagus-height to be marvelled at, to be slowly released
into the system, to be slowly devoured, slowly dissolved, slowly part
of the self, there is no breath, there is no air, there is nothing
but rage and wrath and ruin.
For to see the wilful
blindness of the world and weary worm-filled void in place where
truth and beauty once was said to hold court is dementedly
infuriating, inconsiderately anger-inducing perfect fixtures of
rage-fuel for those whom, once they strayed from the trodden and
accepted path, saw the shape of true enslavement manifest as me,
myself and I willingly chaining I, myself and me to the plantation to
be presented as permanently penitent for the grim and ghastly crime
There is rage and wrath and
ruin at every ill-conceived flash-flood of fast-food-news presenting
limelight-studies from the chosen-and-presented-as-our-one-and-all
babblelogue hordes that babble needlessly and grunt noisily about the
latest branch of outlaw-statistics made to present their side, chosen
for their deliberately worded wordplay, their yellow-bellied gelatine
juggling of the numbers and the truth to present the statistical
anomaly of those who are beaten and brutalized and ravaged and raped
as far worse than is, as affecting the one and only the one,
perpetrated by the other and only the other, never affecting the
other and never a deaths hand dealt from the one, who, so innocently
and gifted with all the worlds wordly charm, blame the other for the
trials of the one and only one, whose pointed fingers subtly or
overtly finger only the other who just so happen to be me, myself and
Where the true truth is seen
as the surface is scratched and the world reveals its phantasm mask
and spectral shape of filtered lies and hand-spun songs to sing,
there is a revelation and a personal transformation, a logos rising
from within and the Godhead taking form and shape in the chest and in
the beating hearts of death-defying murmurs in the wishy-washy void
as the programming and the programs both drip out the ear or drip as
drool from parched, cracked and dried lips, revealing the self, the
ego, the me, myself and I in the eye of the beholder that is I –
and I, you come to comprehend – is pissed right the fuck off.
Doubtless, righteous and
justified anger at the past-present-future dance which we have danced
to faulty tunes and ill-informed tempo-changes the likes of which not
one can follow without fault, yet which will still ensnare its
dancers with its primal beat that sways the fertile hips of those who
danced the dance before, who sung the song and rhymed and timed the
rhythm to beat in tune with pre-conceived ideas and ideals of what
they once were told to believe and so believe eternally despite
concrete, objective, observable and obvious evidence to the contrary
presented ad infinitum from those who transcended the trials of rage,
wrath and ruin and came out the other side more whole than ever they
For anger is an energy, a pure
and primal force of creativity if channelled properly, if focused and
delivered with split-seamed righteous poignancy – if dealt in
deadly doomsday blows to the ear-splitting siren-skulls of simian
society, the domesticated primates going with the ghostly flow of the
tribe as the tribe is, who have not yet dealt with the suffering and
the rage, wrath, ruin that rises from the notion that – hey, now,
wait a minute, something isn’t right here.
That is to say: anger is an
energy, a focused beam of clarity and vision and clarity of vision
when once anger is transcended and the first immediate roar and grunt
of dissatisfaction has passed and gone and been let loose within the
chained and shackled sleeping self.
Anger is an energy when once
curtailed, when once subdued and controlled and transcended; when
once turned flat on its side or on its head so that the destructive
becomes the constructive, fired from all barrels of a fully loaded
cerebral gun at the core and beating, festering cancer-sore of the
brave blue world, or when let loose of all its chains and made to
seek its source to take comfort in the fact that once it was
misguided, unfocused rage, wrath, ruin, yet now it is not.
Quite the opposite, in fact. When channelled neatly, focused extraordinarily, it may become the driving force behind the change that transforms beast to man and man to Self. Then anger dissipates, dissolves, disintegrates and makes room for the calm, the tranquil, the self-assured and satisfied.
When I was twelve years old, I
received my first ever punk-rock record as a gift from my father. The
record in question was “Nevermind the Bollocks – Here’s the Sex
Pistols”; a record that is now legendary in both reverence and
ridicule, loved and honoured by punk puritan snobs and self-important
music historians of the same snobbishness just about as much as it is
loathed and lambasted by punk puritan snobs and self-important music
historians of the same snobbishness.
I think it would be safe to
say, with no exaggerations, that this record completely changed my
life. It was that raw energy and anger, the blaring guitars and pure
piss and vinegar speaking directly to my dormant, yet slowly
awakening teenage rebellion from thirty-something years before my
time. It was an absolutely amazing epiphany for me at the time; pure
rebellion roaring, screaming and snarling at me, forced out of my
very poor and tinny speakers that did nothing but add one more layer
of anti-musician musicianship to the severe lack of musical talent on
display within their Rotten ranks and Vicious vulgarity. It was pure
bliss. I had never heard anything like that before.
To this day, I still own that
CD. And a first pressing on LP. And on Cassette. Would have gotten
the eight-track as well, were it not ridiculously expensive last time
I checked. Probably sounds odd that I had never heard anything like
that before, considering that I was born in the eighties and grew up
in the nineties; the decade of heroin, cynicism and grunge, that saw
punk-rock become a mainstream pop-phenomenon, with all the
corporate-sponsored pseudo-rebellion a boy could eat, telling kids
that it is quite alright to rebel, as long as you do it within the
hours of five pm and ten pm and then only in a manner acceptable to
your parents and your corporate overlords.
And only if you wear the
clothes associated with this particular brand of rebellion; bought
from these selected stores (trademarked) that are the only accepted
purveyors of edgy teen angst and melodramatic middle-finger t-shirts
aimed squarely at the establishment. That is – the very same
establishment whose clothes of overpriced wholesale edginess
generates a vast amount of money for them. And only them.
Now, there is a very simple
reason for me not hearing anything like it prior to this record
falling into my pimpled pubescent lap and waxy, sweaty ears. No
satellite TV, no cable TV, no MTV and no internet. And a distaste
bordering on the manic for radio-transmission. For some strange
As a matter of fact, I did not
get a stable internet connection until I was about 25 years of age,
for reasons of me moving from one cheap and shitty bedsit or
apartment to the next in my wandering and rambling student-years
where I did my best to get myself an edu-ma-cation, only to drop out
and become the splendidly bearded pseudo-hermit you now hear or read
before you, muttering something into your ears or eyes about these
god-damned kids of today and their fancy new genders, music and
interwebs, whilst I’m still clinging to all the artistic ambition
and illusions of literary talent I had back when I got that record in
the first place.
Ah, memories, nostalgia and
The DIY aspect of punk-rock
was promptly forgotten in this era of heroin-infused cynicism or
bubblegum-pop naivety, leading us down the path upon which we now
tread I suspect, where the concept of rebellion is bottled and sold
wholesale and in bulk to young men and women with more disposable
money than sense, and more wretched solipsist self-aggrandizement
than the ability for introspection and self-awareness. Or doing
anything themselves, for that matter.
Selling, buying and shouting
slogans is all well and good, I suppose. If one have no arguments
beyond the slogans shouted as supposed shut-downs of severe and
sanctimonious magnitude. It looks good on camera and on social media
to oppose this and oppose that, to oppose the high-and-mighty
establishment from deep within the claws and clammy hands of the
establishment; saying in a voice that is echoed by one and all –
including the political and corporate establishment, which is more or
less the same thing in this honky-tonk timeline of ours – that I
oppose the establishment, brave rebel without a cause that I am.
The establishment of course
being the patriarchy, the kyriarchy, that foul and terrible nest of
pale, male and stale cigar-chomping, manspreading and mansplaining
oppressors these bought-and-sold-by-the-pound rebels against other
peoples god-given right to have opinions imagine in their minds eye.
These foul oppressors that have made the western world so wretched to
live in that they not only have the freedom to protest an invisible
and made-up enemy, but also have the disposable income to buy all
manner of edgy clothes and hair-dyes to really showcase their
rebellious nature, and of course being able to pay for the internet
as well as the overpriced Apple-products they use to bitch and
complain in their witch-hunt-ways on well established social media
like the pawns of the establishment that they are, bought in bulk
from corporations and celebrated by established flingers of shit-laws
and piss-pot-hate-speech-introductions, feeding the beast that sees
fit to limit our ability to express ourselves and thusly our ability
Now, ain’t that something to
These newly fanged and founded
rebels of our day and age are rebelling against freedom and liberty.
Against the right of other people to speak their mind and state their
Whichever hate these
rebellious rodents of corporate glee and establishment splendour wish
to spew, they should be free to do so. Hatespeech is only ever
something that comes from other people, and social justice is
something that only happen to other people. There is no hatespeech in
their throats and periodontitis mouths. For some groups must be
protected above other groups, for equality and equity, dont’cha
know? And the groups that are not protected from speech which they
may find offensive are the privileged groups, by popular decree and
governmentally sanctioned fear and loathing. Whereas those groups
that have special laws in place to protect them from speech which
they may not like are not privileged, despite having private laws
being more or less the definition of privilege.
But lets not get into that,
shall we? This is the current year, and my sources tell me that
reason and objectivity has no place here. Nor, it would seem, is
there place in this current timeline for people being treated equally
under the law. That would be oppressive, ya know, ya see, ya ought
well to have learned by now. Now check your privilege and fuck off.
Social justice and the
oppression-olympics have come to mean that a feminist stating that
all men are rapist scum that should be killed as a preventative
measure, reduced to and maintained at about ten percent of the
population is not hatespeech. Should one, however, add the word
“black” in front of “men” in the sentence above, one has a
problem on ones hands. For that, dear misogynist mansplaining
friends, is hatespeech.
Or a social justice warrior
urchin of pompous arrogance and aristocratic allegiance may state,
quite blatantly, that white men is the greatest problem this world
has ever seen; the cause of all the terror and the trembles and the
nausea he or she or xe or xim may feel whenever their bigoted eyes
fall upon the lack of pigmentation on his foul rapist-face, labelling
them all bigots and racists and sexist scum, seeing no hypocrisy in
xers xrandiose xatement. And this is not considered hatespeech by
this den of thieves and liars.
Worrying about Islamic
terrorism, however, is deemed hatespeech by the terrible forces that
be trembling at their knees at anything opposing their chosen
narrative and chosen hero of the hour; that hero being whomsoever
these establishment-financed-and-sanctioned rebels against the state
and the establishment and the state of the establishment have decided
is the most major of minorities currently crawling through the sludge
of our sewer-system societies.
The oppression-olympics is in
full fucking swing. There is currency in perceived oppression, and
those who dabble in the black-magic-arts of the oppression-olympics
are fully aware of this, using this currency for all they can in
order to gain power over both society and those whom they consider
their enemies, winning the war and gaining ground by shame and
ridicule instead of reasoned arguments. For opposing hatespeech-laws
and the infantile reasoning behind it on grounds of liberty and
freedom and justice for all must necessarily mean hating those who
currently reside at the top of the oppression-totempole. Otherwise,
one would not object to rules and laws and regulations regulating
what people may say and – by extension – what opinions people are
allowed to hold.
Any society under whose rule
one is not allowed to utter certain opinions… any society under
whose rule speech is dictated by governmental rule is not a free and
open society. Opposing governmental limitations on speech on general
principles of freedom and liberty for all does not mean anything but
wanting people to be free to speak their mind, whomsoever these
people may be and whatsoever they may hold as their opinion. And this
wish for absolute freedom of speech is one I hold as one of my core
values; that each and everyone should be free to say and to speak and
express whatever they so wish and desire. No matter if I myself agree
completely or disagree vehemently with what is said and expressed.
For that, my dear children of the post-2012 apocalypse, would be
treating everyone equally.
Extending everyone the right
to speak, the possibility to have their speech challenged and to hold
whatever fucking opinion they hold regardless of skin-colour,
political belief, religious belief or lack thereof, regardless of sex
and gender and other arbitrary factors that have become the go-to
defining aspect of ones life in this preposterous auto-cannibalistic
holographic image of reality we inhabit, is treating people equally.
Generating laws and
regulations designed to protect certain groups of people does nothing
but elevate these certain groups of people above the plebs and
peasants; to treat them as some manner of unerring aristocracy which
one must never contradict or ridicule, whose statements, however
faulty, may never be challenged for fear of punishment by the state.
This can not, under any circumstance, be regarded as people being
treated equally under the law. For people to be treated equally under
the law would mean no special protection under the law for those
groups of people whom we have decided in our imagined
kindness-and-inclusivity are deserving of some manner of privilege
and pampered protection under the grand and majestically swaying
tits, inflamed ovaries, neutered balls and flaccid cocks of the
governmental ban-hammer fantastic.
“equality” have come to mean treating some groups with special
privilege and others without. For we have been lulled into sleep and
hypnotized by ideologues who tricked us into believing that certain
groups have always been privileged and so, to balance the scales,
other groups must receive the same amount of privilege they imagine
these other groups have. And this must be written into law. If no law
exist to protect your group, you are by definition privileged. As
opposed to those who are privileged enough to have private laws
guaranteeing their special protection for being a precious and more
worthy segment of the human population than you and your group is.
These are strange and
mysterious times, dangerous and damaging. If our societies carry on
with this downward spiral into censorship of speech and thusly of
opinion, what once was beautiful will be completely lost. More so
than we are at this point in time. When we are stuck with an entire
generation that see no problems arising from limiting the rights of
people to speak their mind; an entire generation that have been
spoon-fed a certain kind of pseudo-rebellion that aims to imprison
the mind instead of liberating it – for make no mistake, limiting
what people are allowed to speak will also impact what and how people
think – we will end up with a mono-culture. That is: a culture in
which all thought, behaviour and speech is uniform, synthetic and
mechanical. Where each and every response to anything is
pre-manufactured and doctored to be the correct response, lest one
should fall foul of some nefarious wrong-think and be cast out and
imprisoned. One would, if one was so inclined, not be completely
amiss in thinking that the political establishment have no second
thoughts in governing peoples individual lives in minute detail. For
they have willingly sought power, have they not? And anyone who
willingly seeks power is, in the opinion of this majestically
handsome juggler of words, one to be looked at with some severe
Where once rebellion sought
freedom of expression, sought the liberation of the individual, to
cast off the restraints of society such as they were… rebellion now
seek to curtail expression, imprison the individual and force new and
fresh restraints in place to chain the individual to the collective
so that the individual is indistinguishable from the collective…
taking part in a certain subsection of society – that is, a
community of like-minded people with the same interests aiming for a
common goal – will be forgotten in place of identity-politics that
force one to take part in a collective based upon superficial traits
instead of similarities of interests or of thoughts or of opinions.
The cerebral have been replaced with the visceral; the psychological
replaced with the physical. The freedom of the individual being
forgotten and neglected for the safety of the collective. And that is
safety only for some collectives, leaving only enmity and rage left
for other collectives.
Against this, one should and
one must rebel. As long as one is able.
…Don’t be told what you want, you want/and don’t be told what you need/there’s no future, no future/no future for you/God save the Queen…