Why I am an Anti-feminist, part 7

«Selfportrait as a jester, a rogue and a bit of a bastard»

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 again.

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. And remembered.

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 small things.

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 written word.

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.

As 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 gender-neutrality. Interesting, 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”.

Besides; “Man-ipulation”? “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, whamyns…

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.

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 09.11.2019

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On Violent Censorship and Quaint Duets: A postmodern tragedy in four parts:

howl lowres

Illustration: «Howl», 2019, Moiret Allegiere

 

To be frank and perfectly honest: I really can’t stay. The censorious bull-dickery has been nibbling at the base of my skull far too much lately.

It’s been far too much for quite some time. But who cares about that, right? There is quite a lot of wonderment and very little worry in someone having their opinions and speech censored. It is a price I am willing to pay, as long as the filthy fascists get their comeuppance. Preferably with a bike-lock through the skull whilst being subjected to the discipline of the acidic milkshake shower. Just as long as you don’t deem my speech and conduct to be hateful, it’s all quite alright you marvellous miracle-worker of do-goody nonsense, you; you fantastic YouTube and mass-engulfing-media you!

All these calls for censorship… so astonishingly weird and confusing. It wouldn’t be that bad were it just calls for censorship. We’ve had to deal with arseholes of that nature for as long as we have held different opinions and have had culture that have pushed some boundary or other.

Eek! Won’t somebody please think of the children!”

…And so forth and so on…

For something to offend someone’s delicate sensibilities to be censored and stowed away is far more important than the freedom of other people to enjoy something that offends some hysterical screeching cat-lady with all the sense and magical reasoning of a bat-shit insane speck of dust.

I don’t think the calls for censorship is the issue. The implementation of censorship, on the other hand, most definitely is. That someone wielding some kind of power is stupid enough or brainwashed enough or pussy-whipped enough or frightened of the mob enough to stoop to censoring opinions, speech or culture because someone is offended is frightening. Or – as is more likely – because someone pretends to be offended just to get their fix of dopamine, righteous indignation and egotistical power-trip of the day.

It is even more frightening that it is opinions going against the grain and holy dogma of society as it stands today that is getting censored and deemed verboten. Freedom of expression and speech is there to protect the rights of those who do not conform to whatever social standards we are handed, given or forced into to express their opinions, however contrarian they may be. When given the illusion that everyone holds the same opinion within a society, the immediate thought is of course that people are forced to hold the same opinion for fear of punishment if they do not.

Sterile, whitewashed walls… padded cells… no room for worry here… we are all the same… of one mind… one body… engulfed by the fever and sermon… the cult of the great leader… All because someone is offended… And then it depends on who is offended. Because offence is A-OK. As long as the offence given is trudging along with the dominance of the party-line.

This censorship of speech and opinion is tyranny disguised as protection; the powers-that-be deciding that the poor huddled masses are just to frail and stupid to handle dissenting opinions and edgy teen-humour from mouldy basements; that they are too weak of mind and of will to comprehend that someone can enjoy art and culture which they themselves do not enjoy.

Oh, baby, it’s cold outside!

It is getting very cold inside as well.

Now it’s all just days spent waiting for the cops or the Stasi or the Gestapo or the KGB or whatever to knock my door down for daring to not only consume the wrong kind of media, humour, art, culture, opinion and entertainment but also for producing it.

Once, I laughed at a joke about Islam, and am now terrified for my life. I did the same about Catholicism Once or twice or thrice, but that doesn’t worry me as much for some strange reason. Imagine that.

I’ve got to get away! But getting away is easier said than done. I’m absolutely certain they are hiding in the bushes and in the poppies outside, waiting for the moment I escape from this fortified compound I call my apartment to shoot me down like a dog. No offence meant to dog-lovers. I am one. A dog-lover, that is. Not a dog. Though I wish I were. But that is besides the point.

…All this frenzied censorship and culling of the non-politically correct, of anyone labelled extremely right-wing for being slightly to the right of an amalgamation of Mao, Lenin, Marx, Pol Pot and sacred Dworkin no matter what they themselves have to say on the matter has got me reduced to a babbling mass of paranoid nerves and tendons swishing the air and screaming incoherently about the technocratic elite being out to get me! And the feminists, of course.

Oh, baby, it’s cold outside!

We are witnessing the ruination of liberal values which our societies have held dear and fought for and paid for even more dearly over the course of centuries. And it is bothering me something awful. As well it fucking should. Anyone not bothered, to some extent or other, by this must have their head up their arse and their eyes firmly fixed on their navel. From within their digestive system. This evening has been… its been dreadful.

See, I can write about it in an over-the-top, obnoxious and paranoid manner, channelling all the Hunter Thompson the world could ever want or need. At the end of the day however, it is the grim and realistic spectre of George Orwell that is floating in front of my vision; a peculiar ghost; visions and warnings of tyrannies past, present and future with an elegant moustache, whispering in a kind-of half-mocking, half-disappointed voice: “I warned you, didn’t I? I warned you several times, yet you did not listen.”

And it is grim and it is serious, and we make a toast with Italian red wine, before I tell him:

I’ve been hoping that you’d drop in”.

So very nice.

I’ve been looking for someone to talk to for a long time about this, but no-one is willing to listen to me, George. They call me mad, George, Mad! Then they insist that if I have nothing to hide, I have nothing to fear. Or to lose. And I’m just sitting here, wondering who in all the glory of Stalin’s moustache decides what is needed to be hidden and what is not? And are they really that vain and selfish and egotistical that they don’t realize that they are not safe from the tyranny of censorship which they wish to impose upon others?

…And the ghost of George Orwell will laugh sardonically and repeat what he said, albeit slightly more soothing. Then he will say that he is very happy to be dead, thank you very much. And we mucked it up ourselves despite his warnings so we’ll damned well have to fix it for ourselves! And then he tells me:

I’ll hold your hands, they’re just like ice.” before telling me to stay out of Burma, invest in gold, don’t take any gruff from these swine and so forth and so on before fading into dust, leaving me stranded in my living-room, feeling maybe slightly more uppity and a hell of a lot more paranoid than before his ghost graced me with its presence.

***

You know; I recall, years ago in my early teens, when I first started getting into extreme metal – a poorly defined sub-genre of music I still very much enjoy – buying all kinds of early Scandinavian black metal records as well as a mixed bag of aggressive death and gloomy doom metal; all manners of filth and fury, thinking that soon, my mother will start to worry. As is the natural order of things; a sort-of, kind-of rebellion against the values of the parental generation through shock and horror that was lacking in anything even resembling subtlety. This was back in the hey-days of Marilyn Manson and at the tail-end of the satanic panic.

Man-oh-man: remember when Marilyn Manson was threatening? What a time to be alive! Now it’s all ballads and cute and quaint duets from way back in the early 20th century we are supposed to find threatening and consider worthy of censorship, in a weird backwards role-reversal of parent-child relationship. With all the snivelling teachers pets and tattle-tales we all despised in our forgotten classrooms filling the role of concerned mother for the generation of their parents and their grandparents, as well as civilization at large! People in their late twenties or early-to-mid thirties deciding that all is offence and nothing is anything but what they decide that it is. God forbid someone actually enjoy something without analysing it to death and beyond and promptly denouncing it!

As most people probably are aware of: subtlety is not the first thing on ones mind when one is in the hormonally induced drunken rampage of horrid puberty. Quite the contrary. Just about everything is up front and centre, and the more overt the rebellion, the better. As it very well should be.

Then it blows over and it settles and one is rounded, more secure in oneself and gaining traction on the path towards adulthood, having blown off quite a bit of steam in the process.

If one allows oneself to grow up and become an adult human being, capable of accepting that someone else has the right to voice their opinion, however much it differs from ones own, or even offends, that is.

As this happens, and one starts talking to oneself and thinking for oneself, acting for oneself and being oneself, there is a striking realization that it is all so beautiful, so beautiful. So what’s your hurry? What’s your hurry, indeed? Why hurry towards some ever-changing goalpost, some newfangled outrage that is always eluding your limited grasp? It is simply not worth the fucking bother unless it very directly – through laws, regulations and infringements impacts oneself. Such as state-sanctioned, mass-media frenzied infringements upon freedom of speech, freedom of expression and freedom of association. Which is slowly, yet surely, happening throughout the western world. Call me paranoid as much as you wish: it is happening. And no labels of paranoid schizophrenia and assorted clinical insanity will change that.

There’s no need to worry too much about what other people think or do or find funny or enjoy. It is just annoying to everyone. Including you yourself. Why should this bother you? How does someone laughing at a joke you find offensive in any way, shape or form hurt you? You are not the parent or guardian of the entirety of western civilization. As such, western civilization does not need to bow down and succumb to your will for censorship of anything you consider unfit for human consumption, be those differing opinions or culture or art or music or whatever. As this might have eluded your finite cognitive functions, allow me to dumb it down for you: you are not a worrying mother for a civilization that is a dumb and rebellious teenager needing to have its curfew in place and its consumption of culture curtailed to that which you deem appropriate.

There are more than enough overbearing mothers around. Everyone and their mums would do well to loosen their reigns and let other people be as other people are. Western civilization do not need an overbearing, smothering mother bearing down on them with all the protection and nurturing of a broken bottle of opiate-laced Jack Daniels; telling us that if we are not in our beds at this hour, if we do not turn of that devil music, if we don’t cut our hair, then Father will be pacing the floor with worry and Mother won’t be sleeping either, and you have ruined the stability of the family and will be the downfall of us all.

Expecting only opinions you agree with to be allowed in the public sphere – and YouTube as well as other social media juggernauts are public spheres, no matter what you say – whilst at the same time pretending to hold liberal values is hypocritical, unthinking nonsense born from an egotistical notion that the world would be far better if only everyone agreed with you and buckled down and did as you do, speak as you speak, think as you think, believe as you believe, and so forth and so on. A multitude of differing ideas, opinions and thoughts will always fare better than a forced, overarching and governing idea proposed by ideology and enforced with an iron fist.

A tyrannical notion of inclusivity and equality where all are equal under the sun, despite the sun being eclipsed by the moon and the nonsense trembling in your verruca warts travelling all the way to your flimsy attack-womb to give birth to the Antichrist who says that in order for all to be free and to be equal, some must be unfree to speak and considered unequal in opinion so that others shall feel safe from some imagined ill conjured forth in the elitist brains of piss-drunk arm-chair politicians with a graduate degree in gender studies and another graduate degree in guerilla warfare and propaganda of the Bolshevik revolution! Because words, as opposed to actual political violence from the likes of god-damned Antifa, are violence, for some strange and peculiar reason. If the ones committing violence of the spoken word does not tow the party-line of the fair and fragile few, that is.

And now, for this fractured notion of equality and inclusion which is defiling and assaulting our liberties – and that is liberties to offend as well as to be offended – I have to sit here and rant and rave and ramble endlessly about this nonsense instead of settling down some place and listen to the fireplace roar.

There are lots of other things that interest me, you see.

I don’t have to write about this treachery.

There are lots of things that I would enjoy writing about that is not infringements – or attempted infringements – upon my freedom to express myself. This seems to me to be the most pressing, however – the most important topic of discussion in our day and age, where we will either stumble into a censorious dark-age of technocratic tyranny and globalist nonsense, or through fantastic perseverance and grit fight our way into a new renaissance where we value and welcome all manners of speech, expression, art and culture and let them die or succeed on their merit instead of being so scared and timid of disagreements that we much prefer to censor that which is not in line with the current cultural zeitgeist so that we don’t need to see it co-exist with our brave new world.

Out of sight, out of mind.

If we do not see it, it does not exist.

If we redefine a word, it changes everything. Imagine the fantastic utopia; a world in which homelessness and poverty and violence does not exist because the words do not exist, or the words are redefined and everything is swept under the rug so that we do not see it. And when we do not see it, it can not be there, now, can it? There are no suicides in this utopia, in this frantically sterile world. Death by self inflicted gunshot wounds are deemed a curious accident; overdose on pills are just the same. A curious accident. For our utopia is so fantastic and so glorious and so equal and so inclusive that one can not possibly wish to kill oneself! Etc. etc.

We can’t have nice things like free expression of ideas and art and culture, because some raging and demented and ragingly demented social justice warrior or frazzled soccer-mom with feminist platitudes tattooed on the inside of her eyelids who does not think and does not speak for being too busy screeching, snivelling and roaring at the top of their lungs, will want to remove everything not fitting in with their narrow view of how things should be.

And everyone is all up in arms at the horrors these people have to witness; someone actually not agreeing, wearing symbols they do not like, listening to music they do not enjoy, saying something that offends them, laughing at jokes they do not laugh at… For some weird reason, people listen to this abhorrent censorious madness and lunacy. The lunatics have taken over the asylum, and the voices on the wind repeat the mantra and the slogan of the offended and insane: Ban it.

Ban it.

Condemn it all to the deepest and dankest pits of hell! Can’t have anything disrupting whatever remains of balance and calm in these choke-point minds of theirs, now, can we?

And so, really, I’d better scurry.

I had better get out of here before it gets even worse. But where should I run to, and how? There is no place to run. The walls are closing in. No room to roam no more. There’s nothing to do but to fortify this apartment even more; write some more nonsense that I get displeased with, only to hear my wife say that it is beautiful, please don’t hurry – or despair!

And so I will try and relax and I’ll have maybe just half a drink more, and I’ll ask my wife to put some records on while I pour so that we, at the very least, can have a good time as the world burns around us; so that maybe we can sit down and laugh at this atrocious absurdity unfolding before our very eyes instead of having to worry about what the neighbours might think, because, baby, it’s bad out there and it is getting worse and it is getting even more bad and I’m absolutely certain that the neighbours are spying on us, prepared at any moment to report us to the Stasi or whatever it is that keeps a track on us nowadays, and they’ll bust down our door, noses wrinkled in disgust, proclaiming loudly: “Say, what’s in this drink?”, then proceed to pour enough LSD in it to kill an elephant in order to frame me for something so that they can remove me from the premises for something that is not merely protesting the status quo and the frail and frantic feminist take-over of the government and the minds of the younger generation as well as our steady decline into petty tyranny and tin-box dictatorship.

Honk.

Fucking, god-damned Honk.

At the very least, they’ll give me a free car-ride as there are no cabs to be had out there any more since all the roads got paved with nails in order to force us to walk instead of drive and I wish I knew how to end this absurdity without slipping into complete and utter madness, but I don’t know how and – oh my – your eyes are like starlight now – it must be the LSD the Stasi slipped into my drink previously – and it is so terrorizing that in order to break this spell I will count the ways you wronged me and then I’ll take your hat, Mrs. Stasi madam – my, your hair looks swell…

***

We attempted to interview the subject, a Mr. Moiret Allegiere, on the morning of July 3, 2019. He appeared to be under the influence of some psychoactive drug or other, though that was hard to say with any level of certainty.

Later examination uncovered that he had been drinking wine laced with LSD; a rather powerful psychedelic drug.

As per regulations in situations such as these, we offered him Koolaid in an attempt to sober him up so that he would be capable of answering our inquires as to his activities since November of 2018. This had little effect, as he threw every glass we offered him at the wall, mumbling under his breath that “I ought to say no, no, no”. When asked why he did not accept this generous offer of Koolaid, he attempted to stare us down with his beard. He then proceeded to manspread like a true patriarchal oppressor, with little regard to the emotional well-being of anyone present.

This resulted in us having to bring in a new inquisitor, as <name redacted> broke down in fits of crying and literal shaking at this strange display of male dominance. We changed tactics and went for the tried and true approach of unlimited kindness and inclusivity. Not an easy tactic, of course, given the severity of the subject and his mansplained manspreading.

Mind if I move in closer?”

Inquisitor C inquired, in an effort to end the subjects obviously militant strategy of manspreaded beard-staring. The subject did not reply.

At this point, we were all at our wits end, I will have to admit, and we left the interrogation room to discuss our strategies further. As none of us inquisitors would like to admit to failure. In particular when faced with a fiend such as this.

Poor sinner; he does not know any better,” Inquisitor A stated, “at least I’m gonna say that I tried – after all, what’s the sense in hurting my pride?”

After letting the subject stew in our kindness-and-inclusivity-cell for a few hours, all inquisitors present, with the approval of the grand inquisitor, felt that the time was right to carry on with our interrogation.

Upon opening the door, however, the first thing that met us was the bare naked form of the subject – a sight, I will have to admit – that made me go temporarily blind. Of course, the temperature in the cell was slightly higher than average – somewhere in the vicinity of 50 decrees centigrade – we conceded, however, that this should not pose too many problems.

As an obvious result of this, his nudity was considered to be highly offensive.

This resulted in us charging him with sexual assault and battery.

I really can’t stay”, the subject said, in a hoarse whisper. He then proceeded to ask for water. Which inquisitor B was reluctant to deliver, fearing some kind of water-based assault. When told of our reluctance to deliver water, the subject simply stated “Baby, don’t hold out.” And asked, yet again, to be let out. As the subject seemed incapable of acknowledging the true nature of his crimes – that is intent to disrupt the peace, disrupting the peace, intent to spread misinformation, spreading misinformation, crimes upon good taste and decency, using the word “C**t” more than once, assault upon art, manspreading, beard-staring, mansplaining, manterrupting, manslamming, non-feminist activities, as well as crimes of thought, holding controversial opinions, sexual assault and battery as well as general crimes of a testicular nature and counter-revolutionary activities – we were understandably very reluctant to unleash him upon the general public, well aware of the heinous acts he has been carrying out for almost a year.

Despite it being summer, we felt that the best approach was to convince the subject that it was in fact winter, which, all things of course being subjective and objective fact no longer existing as anything but a remnant of patriarchal and white supremacist power-structures, really can not be considered lies, fibs or anything of that nature.

Said inquisitor A: “Ah, but it’s cold outside.”

Said the subject: “I’ve got to get home! My wife must be worried sick!”

Said inquisitor C: “Oh, baby, you’ll freeze out there.”

Said the subject: “Say, lend me your coat – that should help me with the cold.”

Said Inquisitor A: “It’s up to your knees out there – it’s all to do with climate change, you see.”

Said the subject: “You know, you’ve really been grand. And I thrill when you touch my hand!”

The touching of the hand was a result of inquisitor B attempting friendliness and comfort during the obvious inner turmoil of the subject in question. A tactic that was well planned out, had it not been for us not factoring in the subject proceeding to manbite the hand that comforted him, before manslamming his way to the door which none of us inquisitors had thought to close or lock, considering the passive nature of the subject after being left to calm down and relax in the kindness-and-inclusivity-cell. A tactic which have always worked before.

Upon which biting, Inquisitor B let out a scream, and in a strong and powerful and independent whimper stated: “Why don’t you see… that we are in the right? How can you do this thing to me? That really hurt!” In inclusion to the aforementioned charges, the subject is now also charged with general assault and battery of a patriarchal nature.

After manhandling his way to the door, the subject paused for a brief moment, his horrible mannaked manform outlined against the bright light of the hall outside, his manpenis swinging gently below his filthy manbeard like an improvised manclub. He gazed at us with his terrifying male gaze and said in his manvoice these words:

There’s bound to be talk tomorrow! Think of my life long sorrow; I have to deal with bastards like you all the time! At least there will be plenty implied if you caught pneumonia and died, you wretched puritans. But now, I am afraid to say – I really can’t stay. You should get over that hold out, you imbecilic purveyors of nonsense.”

The subject then manshook his manbeard in our general direction, turned around and promptly bolted out the nearest window. As one would expect, we were all frozen in pure terror and fright at this horrible display of toxic masculinity, and as such were completely unable to calm down the situation and restore order.

The subject is now on the loose, considered armed and dangerous. He must be approached with caution. Wanted dead or alive.

***

Ah, but it’s cold outside. A nuclear winter is looming on the horizon. A dreaded future in which all is sterile and complacent and apathetic. A future in which opinions and even facts that go against the dominant narrative is verboten, unfit for mass consumption for the perceived threat it poses against the delicate sensibilities of those who consider subjective feeling more important than fact; who consider facts and truth, reason and logic to be lies and slander or discriminatory statements despite being none of these.

We are going down the drain, flushed down and forgotten or trampled underfoot by the furious forces of basement-dwelling nincompoops pushing for a violent chaos for reasons they can not properly explain.

A generation lacking in empathy for anyone who does not share their limited and – to be honest – extreme point of view. For lack of reason, for lack of arguments, for lack of thought and conduct and empathy, they chose to beat up, beat down, rough up and pound anyone who disagrees to within an inch of their lives. Politically motivated violence from people to frail and weak and fragile and cowardly to consider the point of view of someone else. High on their own power; their own force in numbers, they become a mob – a buzzing, glaring, stupid mad, insane, rage-fuelled hive of violence and contempt claiming violence of words to justify their violent actions.

And in their minds, it makes perfect sense. In reaching the conclusion – dumb as it very well is – that words are violence, violence is then justified in order to stop violence. In considering words that they themselves have deemed to be hate-speech to be an act of violence, they have every right in the world to face violence with violence. To their fragile minds, caught in the intersection of indoctrination, brainwashing and cult-ish thinking, they are partaking in self-defence. Even when not directly attacked. And even when, by all metrics, being in the wrong, Antifa and their ilk truly believe that they are in the right.

These people are lost within a role-playing game; LARP-ing as revolutionaries; believing that they are bringing down the establishment, that they are fighting the rising tide of fascism… by implementing tactics used by fascists; the strong will survive, the weak will suffer. And the strong is the mass, the mob, the pack, the collective hiding the individual behind a mutually assured strength in black-walled numbers horrifying in their madness and violence against those whom they consider to be the truly violent ones.

These people are lost in their own demented belief in their moral superiority.

I would be inclined to pity them profusely, were it not for the fact that they hurt people immensely and with impunity; were it not for the fact that they seem immune to anything not covered by their hug-box echo-chambers, their backwards nonsense, their bored and pointless lives in which they seek so desperately some meaning, something to do, something to break the monotony and drudgery of their easy existence that they rave and roar and rampage and ridicule; that they bash and beat and break bones and skulls to gain some semblance of action, of meaning, of being part of something bigger than their pathetic weasel existence.

As it stands, I can not pity them. Nor can I hate them. I consider them a poignant tragedy; a symbol of a society sliding into pointless decadence and hedonism, into overabundant debauchery and degeneracy. A society in which living is remarkably easy, a society in which they have it so good that they feel sorry for themselves. And feel guilty for others not having it as good as they do. Lost within a society in which there is nothing to strive for, nothing to conquer, nothing to occupy the days with, nothing that gives any sense of meaning or belonging, prompting the bored beast within to go on a rampage, to complain and to bitch and to moan about non-issues just to break the pale and grey and dull monotony of every day slipping into the next day with no meaning, no point, no search, no quest, no nothing. There is no unifying idea, tradition or ideal. Just the endless fight. Preposterous petulant prepubescent post-graduate children hidden in the bodies of adults, bored senseless and prone to believing anything as long as there is some action, some feeling, something, whatever.

Oh, baby, it’s cold outside.

And it will keep getting colder as long as this tide is not halted. As long as this tide is allowed to run free, backed by mass-media pundits just as pampered and decadent and dull and bored and meaningless as they themselves are. As long as this nonsensical violent beast is given free reign, is given protection and explanation and all manner of mental gymnastics to justify their abhorrent behaviour; their killing of opposing views, their culling of inquisitive minds who do not swallow their dogma hook, line and stinker, we will see more violence, more chaos, a steady escalation of beat-downs and debauchery until someone is killed for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Prompting even more escalation.

And these people preach tolerance. It sickens me.

Tolerance.

Tolerance.

Tolerance.

How that word has lost all meaning. How that word has eluded the grasp of mental midgets, incapable of considering views from anything but their own coke-addled minds and echo-chambers. How that word – tolerance – has escaped the dictionary and floated into the midst of bullies, using it as nothing but an excuse for violence against those considered to not be tolerated or tolerant; using it as the sword or bike-lock or bludgeon of righteousness, when they are incapable of understanding that tolerance is a two-way street. In preaching tolerance, one must also be tolerant. And being tolerant is tolerating that other people hold views different from ones own. And that this is quite OK in a society that is not in the grip of some totalitarian tyranny.

Violently assaulting people for holding different opinions is not tolerant. It is quite the opposite. It is the hallmark of tyrants; the banner of obscene and horrible tyranny.

Which we are sliding into, gently, to mass applause.

Which we are drifting into, lovingly, to cheers and celebrations.

Which we embrace as though the worst crime in existence is someone having their feelings hurt and being offended for seeing or hearing that someone disagrees; for believing lack of tolerance in other people whom they beat to a bloody pulp for their lack of tolerance of opposing views spoken or written.

Oh, baby, it’s cold outside!

The freedom of the west is dying.

Long live the freedom of the west.

 – Please like, share and subscribe

 – Moiret Allegiere, 06.07.2019

___________________________________________________________________________________________

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The Cult of Feminism Proper; a secular religion with all the bells and whistles of a dimly lit lighthouse:

When the musics over lowres

Illustration: «When the Music’s over», 2019, Moiret Allegiere

 

Have you accepted Dworkin into your heart and soul?”, she says, brushing a strand of hair dyed the colour of danger away from her eyes as she longingly sucks on her cigarette.

It’s all here, in the scriptures,” she continues, blowing a cloud of acrid blue-tinged smoke from her lips, half parted, cracked and vibrating with some strange inner restlessness almost, but not quite, mimicking nervousness, “embracing the light of feminism will release you from all your woes and worries. In finding Sacred Dworkin and Feminism, I also understood and found my place in this world.”

She fumbles around in her purse for a while, cigarette resting solemnly in an ashtray meant to mimic a pair of labia lips. Gazing around her room, I see, amidst the chaos and turmoil of empty bottles and strange exotic teas, posters hanging on the walls reminding her solemnly, with big bold words, that she is, in fact, a slave and a victim of circumstances beyond her control. In a strange and prophetic manner, these same posters miraculously manage to claim strength; a powerful and exemplary powerlessness; strength through weakness.

I was lost, you see. But now I am found.” She reappears from her purse and hands me a bundle of pamphlets, very similar to the posters in design and – I assume – in message. “It’s strange, how obvious it all is when someone just points it out to you. It’s not me, you see, it is the thrice-cursed Patriarchy pushing and prodding me, forcing me into bad decisions that have impacted my life in this most horrible manner.” Here, she closes her eyes and, with much reverence, makes the sign of the Holy Womb in the air. “My circumstance is not of my making. Girl howdy, was I happy when I figured that one out. Now I spend my days spreading the gospel and the teachings to any whom I encounter.”

Against such conviction one would be hard pressed to argue, I think, as I sip the bitter tea and ponder what the hell I am doing here in the first place. Some strange force compelled me into this darkly lit room, yet I can scarce understand it. It is not her room – that much is for certain – there is a certain air of… headquarters… floating around in here, scents of hustling and bustling… evidence of meetings… stains of strange liquids on the tablecloth and on the carpet… a sacrificial altar of sorts placed in a corner… soiled tampons strewn about the place… a strong smell of sweat… of body odour… a gust of decay… walls crumbling… broken windows mended with sanitary napkins… bloodstained dinner plates… S.C.U.M manifestos printed for cheap mass-consumption… gloom and doom… a meaningless search for meaning… a strong sensation of teenage activism… simplistic and naive… political know-it-all-ism… dogmatic explorations made to explain it all… religious undertones… pinned to the wall… crucified martyrdom… a lonely acceptance of vile submission… crumbling walls… crumbling narratives… clinging to myths as though they were true…

I thank her for the tea, grab the pamphlets and solemnly declare my intention to read them as I make ready to leave before more inhabitants of this foul cesspit arrive. She looks at me with eyes that do not see me, with eyes that see right through my skull and sees goodness knows what in my place: “You had better read them, fuckface!” Her whole demeanour changed in an instance. Where once was a sort-of, kind-of, distanced friendliness there is now only dishevelled madness. I assume she understood my intentions not to read the pamphlets. I assume the holy ghost of Dworkin inhabited her body for a split-second. I assume religious madness in place of reason. I assume many things, as I stumble backwards towards the door, never once losing eye-contact lest she stabs me in the back in a religious frenzy, driven by the certainty of her convictions and the quest for salvation, driven by a fanatical desire to cleanse the world of the unclean, unsaved, the ones who are not baptized in period-blood… the ones who have not accepted the light; the Dworkin, the Vulva and the Holy Womb.

*

We search for meaning and we think we find the answer.

These lives of ours is a great stumble and tumble towards the grave; a great wide chasm between birth and death that has to be filled with something. The eternal search for meaning is a confounding spectacle of weirdness. The meaning of life, I think, is not found. Nor is it meant to be found. It is permanently sought; life being more about the journey than any conclusion. Considering that the conclusion to life is death, which, in itself, makes little meaning, little sense, little of anything, there is little reason to keep searching for an answer to this age-old question. So pass the time with tiny tipsy trivialities instead, point to this and point to that to define and to explain something that is above and beyond explanation; always burying the fear of death and meaninglessness beneath layers of problems created to build an illusion of answers and of meaning. Then claim you have found the answer; that you have found meaning in that which is absurd and meaningless.

Life.

Consciousness.

Meaning.

Seeking answers in the meaningless is, quite literally, meaningless.

This is, obviously, not to say that one can not have meaning, goals and things of that nature in ones own life. Of course one can. To claim, however, that there is some overarching answer to the massive spectacle of life that is easily broken down into black/white good/evil and so forth and so on builds a fantasy upon which one can do little but point fingers and proclaim that all must live as oneself does and believe and act accordingly.

Humanity are, to my insomniac eyes, exemplary and fantastic in this regard, in this grand quest for answers where there is no meaning. For we are blessed with consciousness and curious curiosity, with an urge to seek and to explain the why, the what, the wherefore and whereto.

I consider this inquisitiveness, this curiosity to be one of the greatest traits of humanity. Don’t get me wrong.

The problem lies not in the ones who seek, but in the ones who claim to have the answer and, as such, the solution beyond any flicker of a doubt. People of that nature are so often blinded by their belief to such an extent that they do not consider other points of view. Minds that are shut down, that are closed forever to outside influence because they claim to have the one and only answer. As such, there is no need for further questions. In particular when their own convictions and beliefs are questioned. This is fanaticism 101. And a strong and determined stumble towards doom.

I am not the first, nor will I be the last, to make strong comparisons between religion and the victim-cult that is feminism. Other people, far more brilliant and insightful than myself, have made this claim already.

…And it is easy to see why.

Now, I would like to make it perfectly clear that this is not an attack on religion on my part. My issue lies not in what people personally believe. Nor does it lie with religion. My issue lies with people who demand that everyone who does not believe as they believe, who does not believe as fervently and blindly as they believe, must be forced to believe as they believe.

It all boils down to belief, as nothing these people state can be proven. And when disproven they still cling to their beliefs as though their beliefs are the only thing that brings any meaning or joy to their lives. As though their entire world would tumble and crumble were they to change their views. Or even question their views. In part, I suppose, this is because their entire identity is built around this one label, this one world-view in which the world is built upon smouldering ruins, ash and dust.

The bothering part of this way of thinking comes when people are so driven by their blindness that they aim to impose – with force – their meaning upon others. That they chose, willingly, to assault, harangue, harass and otherwise bully people into compliance, into conforming to their meaning, their path, their God and chosen destiny as though there is no other variables, no other path, no other meaning to be sought. People who claim to have all the answers are wilfully blind and should be stripped of their titles and their pride. They should be re-located to pig-farms or something of that nature, to leave the podium open to people who are humble enough to admit that they do not know with certainty, but they have an idea and would you please consider it, thank you very much.

Feminism is a secular religion.

It has its own canon of anointed saints. It has its own dogmas and rules and regulations. Its own scriptures and weird effigies. It has myths that will not die, despite being debunked time and again, despite being proven to be wrong. It is built around the belief that women are the chosen tribe, and that men are both God and the Devil; the ones responsible for all the evils of the world as well as being the ones meant to fix it all.

Women, in the eyes of feminism, are good for nothing but being slaves, permanently downtrodden and oppressed no matter what they do. And no matter what is done to ease the path women as a group walk through life, feminism will mumble and grumble and complain that it is not good enough. Because how could it be?

How can anything be good enough for the chosen tribe?

They are, after all, the chosen, and so they deserve anything, no matter how ridiculous. And it is men that must do for them, as men are God and the Devil. Women are but mere humans – an elevated tribe of humanity, perhaps, but human beings after all, no more capable or culpable than ants in an anthill. Whereas men are capable of all, and so must use this capability to ease the path women have to walk, poor wretches that they are. Women are, by the insistence of feminism, naught but humble servants, capable only of submitting to the actions of wicked men, hidden behind the obscenely obtuse God-Devil dichotomy that is the “patriarchy”. God works in mysterious ways, and so, even when doing good, it could be considered bad. And the Devil is a tempting and alluring son-of-a-bitch, and his temptations are difficult to resist for anyone, man or woman.

One need look no further than the words and deeds of feminism when faced with a woman so bold as to proclaim that she is in fact not oppressed, nor does she fear or detest men as a whole, to see the beast unveiled. They reach firmly and deeply into their bag of tricks to explain to her why she is wrong, that she is in fact oppressed and can not do what men can do, can not reach the heights that men reach for being held down for her gender and naught but her gender, so help me Dworkin! If she does not consider herself oppressed, feminism will do all that they can to make sure that she sees herself as oppressed. Even disregarding her lived experience, despite the importance feminism places upon lived experience, to disprove her. For feminism holds the answer.

And the answer to their wretched lives and inner turmoil is that they are not responsible for it. They carry the brunt and the burden of womanhood, which must be celebrated and detested in equal measure; which must be hoisted high above the gloomy reality of the world and must see no evil, hear no evil, feel no evil; which can do no evil, speak no evil and so forth and so on. It is the patriarchy making her believe she is not oppressed; that her choices and actions are her own and not those of the patriarchy. If she would only welcome the light of feminism into her heart and soul, she would see how oppressed she is. Her eyes will open to the realities of her slave-existence, and she will recoil in horror and let them baptize her in period-blood and see herself as one of the chosen tribe, put on earth to suffer such hardships at the hands of the patriarchy that she actually believe that her choices are her own and not driven by the nebulous hands of the Patriarchy, all-knowing, all-seeing, all-devouring that it is.

The devil made her do it, in other words.

And to repent for her sins, she must accept into her heart the shining light of feminism.

She must eat the cracker of communion baked with vaginal yeast; drink the period-blood of their saviour presented her and celebrate her vagina and her vulva and her womb as her own divinity and divine grace; her only saving grace, in fact.

Hell; they even have pussy-hats; a curiously non-obscene obscenity to wear as symbols of their tribe and truth and path and what-have-you. Just as a whole host of other religions wear headgear as a signifier of their faith.

Setting this female-centric and culturally dominant secular religion alongside the gynocentrism in our species – the biological reality that women are more important than men are for the continuation of the species – and you have yourself a secular religion driven as much by the primitive reptilian brain as it is by popular vote; that one must protect women – and children – above all, if this whole meaningless drivel of existence is to be driven forward. In protecting women the way that we tend to do, we accept and tolerate far more venom and vile and spite and wickedness from women than we do from men.

Feminism even goes so far as to insist that it is the other way around!

Because they do not live in reality, but in myths, legends, fairy-tales and fantasies. So, when feminism and its cohorts claim that men are all evil, all contributors to the nonsensical “rape-culture”, all guilty of oppressing women, we cave in and we apologize and we crawl on our bellies to beg forgiveness and swear to do all that we can to alleviate the burden of women. For a chance of procreation. Even if that means blatantly discriminating against men; even if that means blatantly hating and shaming all men for being men; even if that means placing all responsibilities on men for everything bad. And stripping men of the honour for anything good.

We do this, instead of calling it out for the bigoted, nonsensical, hateful and dishonest screech, vomit and noxious waste that it is. Because this society just hates women so-so-so much that we bow our heads and necks in silent submission and acceptance and allow this, that and the other from women which we would not tolerate from men. Because this society so hates women that we have allowed the female-centric cult of feminism to dominate the cultural narrative for the past sixty years or so; demanding all men apologize profusely and pave the road in front of women with rose-petals, gold and diamonds of the rarest and bloodiest sort.

And it is never good enough.

And the nonsensical screech never ends.

For now, the lines in front of women’s toilets are too long. And this is the fault of men. Blame men, then, blame the patriarchy, instead of spending less time on the toilet.

For now, the air-conditioning in office spaces are too cold for women, and this is the fault of men. Despite women’s dress-codes in these places allowing for far lighter and cooler clothing than the dress-codes do for men.

For now, in case of divorce, a proposed default 50/50 shared parenting is somehow a step back for women. This despite feminism claiming that mothers are the default winners of custody because of patriarchy hating women.

For now, women should not have to suffer imprisonment if they have committed heinous crimes. Men should still have to suffer this, of course.

For now, any accusation of rape must be believed at once and not investigated, thus removing the presumption of innocence, removing the need for evidence, removing due process.

For now, as it always have been, men are the only ones capable of domestic violence and as such men who are victims of domestic violence at the hands of women need no support and are given no support nor belief. This despite evidence quite clearly to the contrary presented time and again.

For now, women can not rape men.

For now, women are more often victims of violence than men are, despite the opposite being true.

And on.

And on.

And on.

And still they yammer on, lost endlessly within this perplexing maze of their own design, dimly lit clitoral corridors of self-assured weakness, frailty, insecurity and lack of personal agency clothed, for some peculiar and unbelievable reason, as strength in adversity! Feminism handcrafted a monstrous being; a beast of the apocalypse, hidden behind the ever-changing concept of equality.

And that is then: equal to whom, and equal how? For true equality in how our societies both view and treat the genders would most definitely be a step down for women. Feminism built this world in which they honestly believe that men are treated superior to women; they propose solutions to problems they themselves dreamt up in silent bedsits and boudoirs, egged on by a sensation that Me myself and I have suffered this, and someone else – namely men, namely God, namely the Devil, namely the patriarchy – must be to blame. Then demanding privilege – in the truest sense of the word, being: “private law” – for them being women and that is all there is to it.

Gripped by the religious fervour and blind submission to faith that one can only find in the most frightfully self-assured believers in myths and legends, in unproven and disproven claims that still persist, they still persist in claiming to hold the answer. And that answer is quite simple: we must do all we can to help women. With the other side of the coin of course stating that we need not help men. For men are both God and the Devil, not the chosen tribe, not even human. And in the midst of it all, in all the chaos and spectacle and noise and confusion, the question and the quest are both forgotten to those who claim to have the answer.

 – Moiret Allegiere, 29.06.2019

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A guided meditation for the currents of the current year:

Peter Pantheist A3 Lowres

Illustration: «Peter Pantheist», A3, 2019, Moiret Allegiere

 

(Disclaimer: Despite the fact that obvious sarcastic and snarky satire is obvious, I have to include this disclaimer about the obvious sarcastic snarky satire of this piece since people are prone to misunderstand the purpose of something. More often than not, the misunderstanding is done on purpose. But, ah, well, that is the level we are at. This piece is obvious sarcastic and snarky satire.)

Make sure that you are sitting down or lying down comfortably. Is your room dark, are the lights dimmed? Good. Very good. Let’s begin.

Picture yourself lying on a beach which was, once upon a time, conquered by the western imperialist swine of ages past and as such ruined horribly by colonialism, losing all of its indigenous charm in the process, now being nothing more than yet another mass-manufactured tourist retreat for the well-to-do’s and the well-off’s, who have contributed immensely by the oppression and the violence inherent in the system, which of course does not include you in the slightest.

Above you, the sky is blue and the sun is shining warm and bright. A few clouds drift by, mere strips of vapour, almost transparent, not blocking out the warmth of the sun, just adding to the sensation of tranquillity and relaxation, filling your whole being with the sensation of being – simply being.

A calmness and clarity of mind fills your body and your mind as you realize, slowly, that what you took to be clouds may very well be industrial smoke from the next city over; yet another sign and signal of western colonialism and white cis-het patriarchy destroying the nobility of the land such as it used to be, tearing down the huts and burning the lands of the noble savage who lived in perfect harmony and balance with nature, and would still do so were they not corrupted by western industry and colonialism. Such a horrible thing, such a corruption is this westernised display of hegemonic masculinity, this tragedy that is the patriarchy.

You should take to Twitter to inform someone of this revelation. Go on. Just press pause. I’ll be here, waiting for you.

Back? Good. Now, let’s carry on. Make sure you are lying down or sitting down comfortably. Rest your muscles and release all that tension you are carrying from dismantling the kyriarchy, one self-righteous twitter-post at a time.

You are still lying on the beach in your minds eye. The sky is blue, a deep and marvellous shade of blue, reminding you of dreams and of childhood, of pleasures immediate and of a life simpler and less complicated than that of the current year.

All around you, you can hear birds chirping and a wind rustling the leaves of whichever trees have survived the invading forces of the hegemonic capitalist displays of toxic masculinity. The smell of the ocean surrounds you, the sound of the waves crashing on the beach engulfs you.

So calming.

So relaxing.

Focus your consciousness on the sound of the waves. Slow, rhythmic, beautiful, back and forth, back and forth in full karmic retribution and restoration. So spectacularly well-suited to cleanse all your overstressed chakras; permanently clouded and muddied by fighting the omnipresent kyriarchy. Now – let your breath follow the waves. Let your breath become the waves. Let your breathing and your self become as deep and as rhythmic as the ocean, as the waves.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

Beautiful.

There you go.

Keep focusing on your breathing, focus all your attention and all your consciousness on your breath.

Try not to think of the waves as a symbol of the rhythmic and primal thrust of male sexuality; the primeval force ever and always thrusting in and out, in and out, back and forth, back and forth in a continuous cycle of heteronormative rape by deception, subjugating women by using their very biology against them and as such turning any woman in a loving heterosexual relationship into a sufferer of Stockholm-syndrome, eternally oppressed, and in being eternally oppressed not being aware of her own oppression because she has grown to love her captor and tormentor as only a brainwashed victim of the patriarchal institution of marriage and the social kyriarchical construct of heterosexuality could be.

Try not to think that she should be liberated from being too stupid to know that she is oppressed, and that it is your duty as a proud feminist to both inform her of this and of liberating her from her prison of silk and satin and negotiable comfort.

Breathe in.

breathe out.

Inhale.

exhale.

Try not to imagine your breath as a penis going in and out of your body, penetrating you over and over. Try not to consider your breathing as a symbolic representation of heteronormative marital rape which all heterosexual intercourse is, whether or not enthusiastic consent is given by the woman at all stages of intercourse.

Try not to picture this guided meditation as yet another sign of toxic masculinity, raping you brutally with every inhalation, with every exhalation.

You can’t, can you? OK then. That’s fine. Just fine. Take a break. Take a breather. Go on – post this revelation to Facebook and Twitter. Maybe you could even write an article or two about the dangers of ego-induced self-hypnotic subconscious rape, and how guided meditation is yet another tool of the patriarchy to subjugate, oppress and subsequently rape women; how it perpetuates a stereotype of women as passive and inactive objects, designed to do nothing but lie there, breathing and breeding. Go on. Just press pause. I’ll wait for you.

Welcome back. Are you sitting or lying down comfortably? Good. Wipe the sweat of your brow now, and relax your muscles and then we shall carry on.

Imagine the sand of the beach, the sensation of it touching and caressing your skin, not too coarse and not too soft in texture, not too hot and not too cold. Perfectly balanced and perfectly aligned with your chakras and your clean-cut karma and your kundalini, waiting to be awakened.

Try not to focus on your breathing. Focus your consciousness instead on all the different sounds you imagine around you – the birds chirping, the wind rustling the leaves, the waves of the ocean stopping and freezing completely so as not to remind you perpetually of ever-lasting self-induced rape.

Focus all your attention on the birds in your minds eye and ear, chirp-chirp-chirping away, so beautiful and so spontaneous, so natural, so incredibly free, not burdened by the weight of fighting the kyriarchichal methodology of the heteronormative patriarchy of white supremacy all day. Feel how your chakras are being cleansed as a massive surge of energy rises from the lower end of your spine, moving ever up and up along your spine as you do kundalini yoga, thinking of nothing but the sounds of calm and tranquil nature surrounding you in your minds eye and ear, hoping with every essence of your very being that you are, in fact, of Indian heritage and as such are not victimising their culture and their people by this horrible display of cultural appropriation which you may or may not be partaking in.

Try not to let your mind wander to the affront upon an entire culture, pillaged and raped by the ruinous forces of colonialism and western hegemonic white patriarchal dogmatic masculine toxicity and industrialization, trapping them all underneath the umbrella of the western industrial complex, ruining their beautiful culture with notions of western chauvinism.

Try not to picture the noble culture of those whom you consider to be noble savages being crushed under the heel of the might of the western industrial complex. Don’t let your mind wander as you realize that you are not of Indian heritage and are guilty of cultural appropriation. Try not to figure a way out of this mess through fantastic mental gymnastics, instead, let your focus again be fixed on the tranquillity of the nature in your minds eye and ear, of the slow and steady breeze that caresses your body and your mind simultaneously.

Do not breathe in.

Do not breathe out.

Do not breathe in.

Do not breathe out.

There you go. There you go. Feel how your muscles relax. Almost as though you are melting into the bed or the chair you are lying or sitting in, as if your body becomes a gelatinous mess, a blob of nothing-at-all. Try not to interpret this as some kind of fat-shaming or other.

You can’t, can you?

Have you figured out a way around your own cultural appropriation yet?

Good.

Very good.

Go on.

Take to Twitter to inform your followers about it, about how you read a book written by a Guru once upon a time when you were a small child, which so influenced your life that you have been identifying as trans-vedic ever since, and how horribly oppressed and persecuted all you trans-vedic folk have been ever since the beginning of recorded history and that really – really – were it not for the white supremacist underpinnings of the patriarchy, everyone all around the world would be born a true vedic, not a trans-vedic and as such your own cultural appropriation is nothing but yet another tool of the patriarchy and the fault of all men everywhere for doing exactly what all men everywhere – at least in the western world – have always done; keeping women from discovering their own vedic nature by forcing them to submit to the kyryarchical institution of marriage instead of allowing them to awaken all their kundalinis and all their chakras and realising their topsy-turvy buddha-nature at the same time, bringing forth the beautiful, loving and peaceful matriarchy which would stabilize the entire world and make us all hold hands, eat cake and sing “My Rainbow Race” in perfect harmony.

Go on.

Press pause.

I’m waiting.

Settled back in then?

Good.

That’s good.

Now, cleanse your sinuses and clear your mind of all thoughts and try not to remember that the swastika is a recurring symbol of Hindu religion. Try not to get angry at the fact that a literal swastika is literally placed above doorways and entrances literally all around the Hindu-world. Try not to remember that your own yoga-centre more likely than not are literal Nazis for having this abhorrent symbol of bigoted white supremacism and westernised male chauvinism waving hatefully and bigoted literally everywhere as the full frontal assault-like conspiracy of Nazism literally everywhere hits you full in the brainstem.

Do not breathe in.

Do not breathe out.

Do not breathe in.

Do not breathe out.

Good.

Keep doing that; keep holding your breath in quiet indignation as you acknowledge the fact that Nazism have infiltrated everything you see around you, everything you claim to care about; that all your trembling anarcho-communist trans-vedic feminist vegan yogic Hindu non-binary pansexual double-specied intersex two-spirit liberal progressive atheist friends are, literally, Nazis.

Try not to remember the swastika you saw in the photo taken of the Guru whose book you may or may not have read as a small child who so altered the trajectory of your life and made you a trans-vedic child of the universal harmony.

Try not to think about the picture of this gentle brown-skinned man with the twinkle in his eyes and the permanent, almost rascally, smile beneath the swastika. Try not to picture him as a white supremacist neo-nazi scumbag, which, by definition, through guilt by association, would make you and all your friends literal nazis and white supremacists.

Try not to understand that some symbols are ancient, that some symbols have more meanings and more uses than one, have been used by other cultures at other times in other places.

Now, count backwards from ten.

Ten.

Nine.

Eighty-eight.

Seven.

Six.

Heil.

Four.

Three.

Two.

One.

Bring yourself out from the meditation, gently now, gently. And then, take to Twitter to inform all your followers that it is not always OK to punch a Nazi. Bring your mental gymnastics into the fray to explain how your brand of Nazism is OK.

That maybe, you should all look into yourself and embrace your inner Nazi since you have unwittingly been using the symbols anyway, and it dawned on you through deep tantric meditation that the only true path to take in order to awaken all your kundalinis and cleanse all your chakras so that they are aligned, not only with your own chakras, but also with the chakras of Gaia herself and to awaken the buddha-nature at the root of us all is to continue the glorious forward march of the pure, true and noble Aryan race; to bring forth the shining splendour of the fourth reich and, in so doing, paying the debtors of your karma!

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 17.04.2019

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A quick update

Baphomet patriarch lowres

Ill: «Grand Patriarch (Or: Baphomet re-imagined for the age of nonsense)», A3, 2019, Moiret Allegiere.

 

Lately, I have been working on compiling a book.

The book is nothing more exciting than a collection of my blogposts, with some of my attempts at poetry thrown in there, I’m afraid. But it sure as hell keeps me busy! I aim to selfpublish this book within three months or so from now. The working title of the book, and the one I probably will land on is «Howling at a Slutwalk Moon», an apt description, even if I do say so myself.

I am also working on a book detailing my experiences with the mental health services, psycho-pharmaceuticals and the muddled mess this made of my sanity and my life. This will probably not be done until mid-to-late 2020.

These two projects take quite a lot of my time, and as such the wednesday posts have been little more than a drawing lately.

Got something going up on saturday on ideological purity and our tendency to learn nothing from history, thus allowing it to repeat itself over and over and over again.

And that is all.

Be well.

  • Moiret Allegiere, 13.03.2019

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Revolution for the hell of it:

Howling at a slutwalk moon A3 lowres

ill: «Howling at a slutwalk moon», A3, 2019, Moiret Allegiere

We slip and we slide and oh how gradually, and how quickly, we decline. How quickly we forget, how quickly we throw away all that we have. Caught in a vortex of dissatisfaction brought on by an incredible inability to see how good things actually are. And being bored and being lazy and being hollowed out from the inside by having all our needs catered to, we manufacture drama in order to bring points into an existence deemed as pointless by a refusal to see the point right in front of us.

We slip, wiggle and slide and crawl on the ground like the worms we are as we deny ourselves the pleasures of sitting back and just sitting, doing, being, enjoying. Seeing reality manifested as brutality where no brutality exist. Causes to fight for are not causes to fight for. They are manifestations of an insane need to fill an unseen hole dug out in the chasm that is our chests and beating hearts. Somehow, we have got to struggle, don’t you know. There’s got to be some cause to fight for, some glorious unifying ideal which we can hide behind and mine manufactured outrage from to fill an odd desire emanating from… something.

Is this the breaking point? Is this the point of no return? Is this the point upon which the west slides into decadence and hedonism; with no cause, reason, dreams and aspirations but the brilliant poster hanging on the wall of disgruntled college-students demanding revolution for the sake of revolution, having no idea what that entails? Am bored today. Time to bring the entire system crashing down for no other reason than it giving me something to do. Burn it down, you bastard, burn it down. Make it all crash and make it all burn. And from the ashes a fantabulous utopia shall arise, where all are equal except those who are not equal.

The proles will still walk the streets in gin-laden haze-dreams, and Big Brother will still be watching every step and every breath. And facecrime, thoughtcrime, nonsense words and newspeak come screaming towards us in mad perplexing dreams.

When the thought-police come crashing through your doors for misgendering someone on Twitter, you know you’ve reached the pinnacle of equality. My, what a beautiful, glorious, unifying collective pipe-dream you’ve got going there. All opinions are valid and all should be allowed to speak their mind. Excepting those whose opinions goes against my mirror-mind, of course. Hate speech is not free speech and free speech sure as hell ain’t nothing but hate speech. See how that works, grumble grumble, slip, slide, bullshit-artist and confidence trickster. Hide your solipsist need for censorship behind a paywall of unchallenged kindness as much as you want. It ain’t nothing but egotistical demands for controlling the discourse. Control. Censor. Remove. This one. It was this one, Officer, I swear. He looked at me funny through Twitter. Remove him from my sight at once. Off with his head!

It should be worrying to anyone that they come for the clowns and the comedians. The jesters are not safe any more; the fools have all been slain and the satirists are gagged and bound in re-education camps.

At the very least, they did manage to rid the world of the Nazi-pug death squads. I am happy to report that I finally feel safe walking the streets again, knowing that I will not be subject to the perplexed sniffles and grunts of uniformed pugs wobbling along in groups. Never again shall we suffer the horrors that was the night of the long whines! Context? Nah – never mind, no matter – you wanted to gas the Jews, remember? Shit – come to think of it – am I in trouble now, for writing “Gas the Jews”? Probably. If my blog goes down and my you tube channel disappears, you know they’ve come for me as well. It was a good run. Catch you later – it will be better, once I have been re-educated. Thirty lashes in the town square for that one, boy. Yes xir, thank you very much. I deserve this. What do you mean I’m not grovelling enough, Xir? I do the best grovelling I can. Gas the guys. Is that better?

Some years back, the virtual virtuous hive-mind of impeccable virtue and grace and style and intelligence came for a mens group on Facebook, over here in the frozen wastes of Norway. It was a fascinating display of moral panic the likes of which I had not seen in quite some time. This group for men was made for the sole reason of sharing non-pc humour, as opposed to NPC humour. And you all know what that entails. The horror. The travesty. The foul misogyny of men gathering in packs to hunt down and slay the whamens and the childrens whilst chomping on cigars, twirling their moustaches and saying “harumph” a lot. It was a grand unifying meeting of the patriarchy, where the true oppressive nature of men reared its ugly head and bared its fangs for all the world to see. Their crimes were so heinous that I hardly dare mention them. For me, the trauma is still real. The hurt and the wounds will never fully heal. It is as though I have been stabbed in the heart with a Morgul-blade.

Every week, the horrors of that Facebook group haunts me.

Some nights, I can still hear the screams.

They never leave me; hellish visions of such depravity and torture that I think anyone who encountered it will never fully heal.

Their crime? Telling crude jokes about pedophiles. The whole moral panic began with a blog-post written by some woman who just had a baby; a woman so stunning and so brave that she dared infiltrate this nest of filthy misogynists and rapists-in-waiting, disregarding her own safety.

And what a blog-post it was! She began the entire thing with – and I am paraphrasing here. This is not verbatim – “So there I sat, with my newborn son on my lap…” Already, we should be horrified. A clear appeal to emotion. She then went on to outline the horrors of the jokes, and how this impacted her and her son who was so sweet and innocent, lying there on her lap whilst she browsed Facebook looking for something to be offended by so as to attract readers to her blog. Whoops – sorry – I strayed from the script. I’ll do my best to crawl back into the lap of gorgeous conformity of thought and morality.

She went on, in her stunning and brave blog-post, to outline the horrible jokes she had seen within; jokes so foul and horrible as to wreak havoc on the green and sacred fields of the hallowed earth upon which we had thread up until this point; fields that were now besmirched and ruined by the creepy-crawling of jokes and humour so crude and offensive as to de-consecrate the fields and turn them into rotting marshes. They might as well have salted the earth so that nothing would ever grow again.

I can’t remember the jokes. I will absolutely admit that they were crude. That they were offensive. Seeing as that was the whole point of the group in question, I struggle to comprehend why this was shocking to this stunning and brave woman. But there you have it.

In this blog-post, she posted courageous screenshots of the jokes as well as the perpetrators of the jokes. Full names and all. Obviously at the expense, yet again, of her own emotional safety. She told that she had no qualms in showing their full names, because they deserved all they could get. In her words.

Fifty lashes in the town square. Death and dismemberment. Social ostracising. Being put in the laughing stock and publicly shamed. They deserved it all. For the crime of telling crude jokes in a private group on Facebook, which she infiltrated. Were I cynical, I might say that the entire reason for her doing this was to attract followers to her blog. Were I cynical, I might say that she was looking for something to be offended about so as to offend others and turn them on this group. Were I cynical, I might say that this was nothing but a grab for attention on her part; a quest to show her moral superiority and boost her superficial ego at the expense of someone she did not know, whose crimes amounted to nothing but telling crude jokes. But I am not cynical. I’m not allowed to be cynical by the moral crusaders. I must, at all times, be offended and show my moral superiority. Reason has no place here. This is the current year, after all!

Following her original blog-post, everyone was up in arms for weeks about this travesty. How dare these men tell jokes? And the shaming began. The newspaper articles, the politicians, the facebook-hangers-on and various and sundry all showed up in uniform groups to show their solidarity and their morality; to showcase their virtue and dignity and to shame, shame, shame anyone who dared go against the narrative of these men being evil incarnate for telling crude jokes. Whilst the original blog-post and writer of said piece, who very clearly invited violence upon these foul perpetrators of humorous assault through her saying that they deserved all they could get and thus clearly broke the law of the land, was painted as a whistle-blower of immense grace, moral purity and virtue. For some strange and inexplicable reason.

The fact that a website with a forum, dedicated to and focused on, women, had hosted for years two threads on said forum with titles such as “share your most offensive jokes”, wherein lied hidden the same crude jokes that were shared within this horrible den of misogyny and rape were mentioned but once in a newspaper article that was promptly ignored by all and sundry. This did not matter. We had our sacrificial goats. We had our men to whip into shamed submission and drive into the desert to appease the demons and soothe the gods. Because only men are capable of such heinous acts as ballistic assault jokes. And at the very least, only men shall be shamed for it. And, besides, the crude jokes within the forum for women were probably posted by men anyway. Women are the light and the saviours and the holders and banner-carriers of our shared morality. And don’t you forget it, bucko.

And the amount of hysteria surrounding this happening was such that I gave up on arguing my point that this was nothing but jokes. There were no reasoning with these people. There was no reason to be found, as the outrage machine went on generating outrage. There was no empathy to be found for the men who were shamed, vilified and threatened severely for telling jokes and nothing but jokes. The madness had begun. The sickness had eaten into the heart of the public, and the public demanded blood. Not one could argue why, nor could they argue against the points I brought up with anything but “My hurt fee-fees”.

That people had all the right in the world to tell jokes, even when the jokes were offensive, did not matter. When I inquired as to whether or not followers of this moral outrage had ever told an offensive joke themselves, I was met with derailing and perplexed silence. Perceived moral superiority above all, and not one semblance of introspection or empathy. “I might have told crude jokes, but these are worse”. Meaning: I am clean and holier than thou, and how dare you imply that jokes are nothing but jokes, or that people are allowed to tell jokes which offend my delicate sensibilities? There is no reason to be found when a mob has decided to charge. And the speed at which the outrage comes and is generated leaves no room to stop and no room to think. Part of the group, the click, the anthill, the mob. People jump on the latest outrage without a second thought, and are incapable of seeing more than their side – that is – the side of the mob; the hive-mind mentality of a mass of worms burrowing through the ground. There is no room for thought, no room for anything but the split-second emotional reaction.

In my more vengeful moments, I hope that they will have to face down the mob themselves one day, and that they will learn something from it. But they won’t. Having to face down an outraged mob themselves, they will be the victims and they will not learn anything because they will already have forgotten the outrage-mob they were part of; painted as a force fighting for good and nothing more. What we do unto others does not matter, and when others do unto us, it is evil and wicked. We have strayed so far from reason that madness is the only path left to thread. We have strayed so far from empathy, compassion and understanding of others that we paint the lack of empathy, compassion and understanding of others as empathy, compassion and understanding of others. We are so caught up in not offending that we do not care who or what we kill when looking to not offend. And, as stated before, someone will be offended no matter what.

What is left to do then? Kill all discourse, censor all lest someone, somewhere, gets their feelings hurt. That can be the only conceivable end-result, if all are to be treated equally in the unifying ideal of non-offense. No one must speak, lest someone gets offended. And my feelings are more important than your speech, your expression, your opinion. Only one opinion is valid, and that opinion is the one I hold. Because I, in my absolute grace and impeccable virtue, never offend but hold the truth and nothing but the truth. This is what we are seeing in the current cultural climate. This is the path we are slip-sliding down; so comfortable and so bored and so devoid of any real struggles that the only battle left to fight is to fight for our right to not get our feelings hurt by someone whose opinion or sense of humour differs slightly from our own.

  • Moiret Allegiere, 16.02.2019

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An Evening in the Brave Blue World:

Portrait of the artist with a sligthly bigger dog a4 lowres

Ill: «A Portrait of the Artist With a Slightly Bigger Dog», A4, 2019, Moiret Allegiere

 

With his back aching from his union-sanctioned fourteen hours of rigorous work, he enters his bathroom to wash the dirt from his face. The computer in his mirror asks of him, carrying his own voice synthesized, digitized, dead and soulless: “Did you smile more than your designated quota today?” He shakes his head to indicate that he did not, and then proceeds to wash the grime from his face, and his eyelids, heavy from lack of sleep and rest, dips and droops.

Quietly, he removes his outer layer of clothing, leaving the inner layer on, obviously for the sake of decency; his cock and balls nearly shackled to his thigh from the tightness of the thing, almost a second layer of skin. What a grand way to combat the plight of manspreading and displays of toxic masculinity, he thinks, as he steps into the shower and waits for the blast of cold water to wash the mud and shit away from his inner layer of clothing and what little is revealed of his flesh. That is: his hands, face and feet. Cold water, of course, to combat what sudden feelings of lust and arousal may still be present, even after his long and hard day at work.

Have you fulfilled your designated work-quota today?”, the computer in his mirror ask. He looks deeply into the camera hiding in the head of his shower and nods twice, smiling carefully so as to prove himself pleased with both his place of work and his output of the day. The computer soothes him with quiet buzzing, apparently pleased with him today as well as yesterday and the day before and the day before. Such a splendour it is to have everything be so predictable, so stable, so incredibly ordered! The beauty of extreme order combating the calamity that is frightful chaos. Day after day the same, evening after evening, night after night. How quickly we may slip, he is told. Be careful and keep your eyes ever on the ground and on your feet as you walk. Do not let your eyes stray, and your thoughts will not stray either. He does not let his eyes nor his thoughts stray.

Feeling somewhat refreshed after his six minutes of prescribed showering time, he leaves the confines of his shower-box and wipes his face and hands and feet, as well as his inner layer of clothing, dry. A few months ago, he submitted an application for three more minutes of showering time, arguing that his advanced age – reaching his forty-second year soon – ought to grant him such favours, seeing as he had worked to advance the continued glory of the union since he was a mere boy of thirteen. Of course, he understands perfectly well that such applications take time to process. It is not a small task, and it is not a small favour he is requesting. And far be it from him to complain or to grumble over the time it takes. He has, however, been showing slight signs of impatience and dissatisfaction which, he hopes, are not of sufficient magnitude to be picked up by the bio-scanners in his cell.

Well, that would be as it would be. Some things can not be helped, and his lack of patience is absolutely one of them. Clearly, this was one of the reasons why he was put to work underground, to expand the… come to think of it, he really didn’t know what he was expanding. Well, as is with most things, he would not have understood it even if they told him. The government moves in mysterious ways, and no-one except Andwogs herself knew the absolute truth behind its movements. Being but a simple man of the ground-and-mud, he could not even hope to understand. Best not to burden his mind with things far beyond his level of comprehension.

He looks at his calendar: Four months down, two more to go until he could remove and request a rinse and renewal of his inner layer of clothing. Not too bad. Time did seem to move faster lately. This pleases him some. With a slight smile on his face, he tunes in to the evening exercise routine. Two minutes late, but that is within the governmentally sanctioned frame of time. In her infinite kindness and compassion, blessed Andwogs understood that personkind is not as precise as her computers and her clockwork, and as such slight deviations from the norm will occur. Here follows forty-five minutes of rigorous exercise to exorcise the demons of sloth – the beasts that have plagued personkind for years beyond count. Busy hands and bodies are the best, and one must stay busy at all times, lest one fall prey to grumbling, dissatisfaction and destabilization.

At the end of his exercise, he is drenched in sweat and his inner layer of clothing chafes and itches. It will pass within fifteen minutes or so, if he just sits down like so in that corner over there, and moves his head over there like so, he can stand the pressure and the discomfort. A small price to pay, he thinks, to live in a world cleansed of the horrors of manspreading, mansplaining and the eternal longing to rape and oppress which lies dormant, yet ever vigilant, within his genetically coded socialization; learned behaviour so vile and so powerful as to be encoded within the DNA of his ancestors and passed down to him via generations of trauma-memory. The government has soothed his mind in regards to this, though. Within only five or six generations, the trauma-memory will pass, and his ancestors, if not he himself, will finally be cleansed of this socially manufactured original sin. That is their most priced and highly budgeted project; the elimination of Original Male Sin, previously wrongly labelled as Toxic Masculinity. This is the reason why he, and every other man, every six months, as his inner layer of clothing is refreshed and renewed, is required to ejaculate into the suction-bots so that the government may spawn children and genetically alter them to speed up the process of removing all trace-memories of Original Male Sin. Without this process, it would have taken ten to twelve generations, the scientists confirm, before the ravages of the patriarchy are completely washed out of the shared communal DNA-pool of the glorious union.

With cameras buzzing and moving to follow him, he sits down in his one chair in one of the two allowed manners of his kind – knees touching together, or one leg resting over the other, thighs touching. He counts the seconds, as regulation requires to keep the mind occupied, until the six minutes have passed and the computer-monitor flickers into life for the thirty prescribed minutes of communal laughter. Some comedy-routine or other, today as tomorrow as yesterday. This evening they showed one which he has not seen for three weeks. What a great surprise! There were not that many in circulation, and so it was always of the greatest pleasure and surprise when they showed one of some rarity. This was not a complaint on the lack of proper entertainment, he noted to himself. It was merely an observation of joy. Of course he understood that the governmental budget was such that their main priority could not possibly be something so mundane as comedy. That went without saying. And far be it from him to show more joy than was necessary at this fortuitous event. After all – the world was so full of evil and wicked oppressors and oppression that pure radiant joy was an absolute impossibility, no matter who or what you were. However, some bursts of joy were allowed, as that only solidified the glory of the government and the union and Andwogs; imagine something so highly functional as to be able to bring joy into a world so dangerous, treacherous, oppressive and terrible. Showcasing, quite clearly, the power and might of the union and their scientists. And proving, without a shadow of a doubt, how beautifully free they were within its walls and beneath its fantastic skies!

From the cell adjacent to his, he can hear roars of laughter so powerful that he senses the vibrations of it in his own chair, and so he laughs as well. He laughs and trembles and vibrates, pausing only now and then to wipe the tears and the snot from his face before he continues on with his laughter. My, how good it feels! My, what a glory this laughter and this comedy is. What he is laughing at, he has absolutely no idea. But he is laughing, as the images on the screen flickers by and becomes a blur seen through a cloud of tears welling up from laughing, laughing, laughing. And the voices from the screen he does not catch and the jokes fly straight over his head and past his ability to focus or concentrate, and yet he laughs and yet he shivers and yet he trembles, trembles, trembles, for as long as the thirty minutes last. And then, with a blast and a kick in the neck, the thirty minutes of communal laughter is over and he stops dead in his tracks; the laughter and the tears and the snot and the vibrations stop abruptly, just as they came, and his body tenses up again. Thinking: “Did I sit as regulations required? Did I lose to much control during my fits of laughter?” As the computer has not told him otherwise, he assumes that he was well within his obligations and responsibilities during the communal laughter as prescribed by the government and by the glory of Adwose herself.

He taps the wall, and a small window opens allowing him to take a look outside at the streets below and at the buildings towering above him. It is grey and overcast, but it has not rained in years uncounted. Still they have water, and he praises the glory of the union for supplying it. Where it comes from, he has no idea. It doesn’t matter, of course, and he does what he can to suppress that curiosity and sense of wonder as that is a token sign of Original Male Sin which they have yet, even two generations down the line, not dispatched of. Some remnants of the past seem to be more resilient than others, he thinks, as two minutes pass and the window closes with a click and a buzz. The scientists have as of yet no general idea of the length of time required to cleanse the world of this plight. It shouldn’t take too long, they guess. But then, they guessed that as soon as they began. And it has already taken more than enough time.

Of course, his impatient nature is such that he is unable to grasp the concept of long-term goals. His is the realm of the here-and-now. It is for the government – persons far more clever than himself – to think ahead. He can scarcely remember yesterday, and the government in all their glory can remember clearly a time when every man, woman and child were slaves, though some were more slaves than others and others were more equal than others, as opposed to now were everyone is as free as they could possibly be. This should be more than enough proof of their superiority; their ability to actually, accurately and precisely, remember the past, the old days, the days of slavery and oppression. He sure hopes they achieve all their goals soon, so that the government and the women both may return from their exile at the colony of Mars to free the men from the shackles placed upon them by the burden of masculinity and Original Male Sin, so that men and women may finally live in peace and harmony for the first time in the history of personkind.

With a sigh, he clears his head of thoughts. Such pondering is not for the likes of him, and he sure hopes he did not stray too far from the path. He suspects he did not, as there, once again, are no indications that anything is wrong. He reclines as much as he may in his chair, and awaits his evening-dose of medications; his beloved Mothers Milk, to soothe his mind and to ease his aching body before he delves into his six hours of prescribed sleep.

From his chair, a needle protrudes and lends his arm a tender kiss. It takes but four minutes, before he feels a heaviness in his limbs and a clarity in his mind. As he is smiling drowsily and content, but not overmuch, his chair reclines and takes the shape of a bed. As his eyes close and sleep creeps in, the loudspeakers hiss and click into life and the nightly sermons begin. He floats gently into sleep to his own digitized voice whispering from the speakers: “I am aware of my own inherent privilege…”

 

  • Moiret Allegiere, 06.02.2019

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