The world went insane

«Derp-faced Fenris»

Fuck me, but the world went insane overnight;

Chaz Thundersoy broke the chopping block
in all its lidless revolutionary LARPing might.
The femcels drearily lament their lack of cock –
a terrible lack of suitable male suitors, see:
men just earn too little now to be of any interest;
undeniably and undoubtedly hypergamy, admittedly,
yet women still earn too little when compared to the best.
(No doubt a sad state of affairs for them to earn too much
when being discriminatingly paid too little
and being unable to find a husband as such
who will provide for and protect someone so brittle.)

Fuck me, but the world went insane overnight.

There’s warlords patrolling fire-squad streets,
skintight academic elites who really ain’t too bright,
unhinged revolutionaries in your soup and in your sheets,
race riots manufactured by a false-flag moral hysteria
who demand you take a knee and then take a caning,
who demand your obedience, your profits and your area,
who demand your re-education into solemn Marxist training.
To pretend that this fire would burn out,
to believe that this madness would ever end
when everyone and their mums gave them clout
is a silly little game of play-pretend.

Fuck me, but the world went insane overnight.

Radical violence became the answer to a question never asked,
delivered from the diversity-inclusive hands of this swollen blight;
opponents shall be inclusively brained by the masked,
and also by the shameless, nameless, blameless
who shall remain forever forgiven and absolved
through their participation in this motherfucking mess,
since all they ever wanted was for muh racism to be dissolved.
(Except their own bloody racism, of course –
for one can not be racist against the oppressing whites,
say the enlightened bastards and their whores
as they with glee and splendour strip you of your rights.)

Fuck me, but the world went insane overnight.

Black lives matter, sir – well of course they bloody do;
white lives matter too, you shambling massive frostbite,
you white knight, you brilliantine white saviour you.
Ehrmagerd, dem’s be hate-speech words from slavers;
from colonialist white supremacists
and their white anglo-saxon saviours;
not from our cultish tribe; your Maoist nemesis.

To proclaim that all lives matter
is intolerant hate-speech most supreme.
To state that white lives don’t matter
is tolerant inclusivity gone supreme.

Fuck me, but the world went insane overnight.

The menfolk are so privileged that they don’t get a say,
and so too is the case for those who happen to be white –
privileged enough to be shut down lest there be hell to pay.
For those who are allowed to speak are underprivileged buffoons,
and those who ain’t allowed are overprivileged nincompoops,
filled with hate and bigotry, to be beat by hired goons
as the rallying crowd of pestilence jump through mental hoops
to explain why their bigotry, their violence and insanity
is quite alright in the spreadsheet of the current year,
as they use their victimhood as currency
to spread their truth through terror and through fear.

Fuck me, but the world went insane overnight.

The revolution will be televangelised
by woke prophet newscaster spreading the light
to all who never saw and never realized
how privileged and evil and so-and-such they are
for being born white or straight or male;
all racist and sexist oppressors, all gone too far
into their intolerance to be redeemed for being pale,
no matter what they do or how they do or when.
The revolution should be thoroughly memed;
the social justice cult ridiculed by horrid normal men
whose value as human beings is to be esteemed.

Fuck me, but the world went insane overnight.

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 01.07.2020

My Generation Killed Rock «n» Roll:

Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Kindle:
Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Paperback:

Howling at a Slutwalk Moon, a collection of previous blog posts:
Vol 1 Paperback:
Vol 1 Kindle:
Vol 2 Paperback:
Vol 2 Kindle:
Vol 1 Illustrated Paperback:
Vol 2 Illustrated Paperback:

Other links: @MoiretAllegiere

Truth and Journo


Truth comes in at the eyes and
facts come in through the ears.

Deliberately obfuscated and veiled in neglect,
shades of doubt cast from ferret-fingered pouchers
pouncing at the mere hint of vague equilibrium lost –
of beloved equity drowned and of sorrow so profound –
no matter the hop-scotch happenings in fact;
the narrative prevails through all of that.

No matter the tantalizing truth gathered in fact:
proper new-age journalism has no time or use for that.
Hidden in petty scornful vengeance-waves say they:
“The narrative, the outrage, the madness must prevail!
The enemy must remain the enemy,
the martyr must a martyr stay or later a martyr become.”

Manually made martyrdom is the sign and symbol of our times,
a potent secular resurrection of Lord God the Saviour,
brought back to life to linger in the headlines
of dark infested rat-holes that reek of sweat and sulphur:
“he’s marginalized, he’s oppressed, he’s everything
we wish we were or could have been for phoney sympathy.”

And plaster him then on front-pages, invoking War.
And paint his face bubonic blue, invoking Pestilence.
And taint opposing smiles with bad intent, invoking Death.
And present contrary views as heresy, thus invoking Famine.
Age-old and tried and true twisting of the tangled truth
turns politically expedient and efficient propaganda.

Truth comes in at the eyes and
facts come in through the ears.

The kid smirked at tools beating drums in his face,
he must be bad and mean and wicked, see.
The truth, we gather, is found on Twitter nowadays,
the facts all siphoned through bad social maladies
that sing so soothingly of opposition to oppressors;
culturally horrified by the pale and male and stale.

Everything is homophobic, sexist, racist, and such,
and most importantly it must all be pointed out
by pyramid-scheming fraudsters cowering in victimhood,
by high-and-mighty dilettantes that never once tasted life,
by sheltered shivering husks that saw that all was relative
except their own irradiated core-strength beliefs.

Morally superior hacks impervious to analysis
lie basking in the glow of magic muffin-shields;
the bright light of salvation shining from their gimpish lips
as word-salads profoundly express some measured meaning
from within the chaos of the shields surrounding them,
echoing back at them in eternal reassurance.

Here come the blameless as presented by the shameless;
whip the wide web of the world into ferocious frenzy,
going berserk like barb-wired barbarians bringing doom,
bringing fire and death and destruction to all and then to nothing:
“It’s just peaceful protests, no violence here except the
violence from the malicious and malignant enemy – the man”.

Truth comes in at the eyes and
facts come in through the ears.

The penitent will of course and as always persevere;
thrown prostrate before the swaying hips of media-oracle,
begging forgiveness and faith-healing from the hands
that caressed the tender tide of War and rubbed the pounding cocks
of Pestilence, of Famine, of dear beloved Death,
so that now both time and the end of time is theirs.

Welcome, my friends, to misanthropicana.
The fear is spread and wide distrust achieved:
your neighbour may well be a white supremacist;
your boss a thinly cloaked, sexist, groping crypto-fascist fuck,
your husband a homophobe with misogynistic tendencies,
your son a secret transphobe lynching Muhammadans for fun.

Your daughter’s male teacher is a paedophile for sure,
her brother beholden to covetous, incestuous, desire and lust,
your daughter ain’t safe ‘cause there’s white men everywhere,
you yourself ain’t safe ‘cause there’s rapists in your chair,
there’s white supremacists and fascists floating in the air,
transphobes and soggy knees and homophobes, oh dear!

You gotta rat them out, call the cops, clean them out;
oh, shit, never mind the cops, they won’t help at all.
Call the news outlets, seek sympathy on social media,
create a hashtag campaign, rile the sleeping masses up,
then hide in your bedroom, scream anguish into your pillow,
as we whip the world into a frenzy on your word and your behalf.

Truth comes in at the eyes and
facts come in through the ears.

The narrative comes out through the nostrils;
journalism comes out through the anus.

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 10.06.2020

My Generation Killed Rock «n» Roll:

Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Kindle:
Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Paperback:

Howling at a Slutwalk Moon, a collection of previous blog posts:
Vol 1 Paperback:
Vol 1 Kindle:
Vol 2 Paperback:
Vol 2 Kindle:
Vol 1 Illustrated Paperback:
Vol 2 Illustrated Paperback:

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Proletarian Rodent-loving communally raised children


Elite academic rat-fucking bastards stand atop the shoulders of giants pissing into the open, drooling come-fuck-me mouths of midgets.

Goblets raised and cheers abound as alluring tunes rise from the matriarchal maze at the corner of hysteria and mass-psychosis.

“Well, actually, It’s not ‘giants’ any more”, the Banshee screams and roars from atop the drooling pedestal, “it’s ‘person of non-binary towering height’! Check your testicular privilege!”.

“Nor is it ‘Midget’, you inconsiderate penis-wielder,” the Banshee will cry and carry on, “it’s ‘person of strange and unexpected proportions’, got it?”

My bad.

Sorry about the confusion.

I’ll try again.

Elite academic rat-fucking bastards stand atop the shoulders of persons of non-binary towering height, pissing into the open, drooling come-fuck-me mouths of persons of strange and unexpected proportions.

Goblets raised and cheers abound as alluring tunes rise from the matriarchal maze at the corner of hysteria and mass-psychosis.

“Excuse me, cock-charger,” the swollen siren sings again in exuberant delight at her orchestrated interruptions: “we are neither the elite, nor are we ‘rat-fucking bastards’. In fact, we are the proletariat, the oppressed, the poor and the down-trodden.”

“’rat-fucking bastards’ implies something negative in animal attraction to attractive animals. Always and ever one must be tolerant of other marginalized persons and their very marginalized attractions”.

“Likewise: ‘bastards’ in itself implies a negative in being born out of wedlock, when actually, marriage is a patriarchal institution meant to enslave and subjugate women to the war-like will of men.”

“Remove the hateful term ‘bastards’. Use instead ‘Communally raised blank slate children of no defined gender’. That ought to do.”

“As for ‘rat-fucking’, we would recommend ‘rodent-loving animal-attracted non-specific persons’”.

Much apologizing, xir.

Truly, I am sorry.

Allow me to start a-new and a-fresh.

Poor, oppressed, down-trodden, proletarian academic rodent-loving animal-attracted non-specific communally raised blank slate children of no defined gender stand atop the shoulders of persons of non-binary towering height, pissing into the open, drooling, come-fuck-me mouths of persons of strange and unexpected proportions.

Goblets raised and cheers abound as alluring tunes rise from the matriarchal maze at the corner of hysteria and mass-psychosis.

“Hey, fuck-face,” the chunky wonder-woman look-a-like neatly interrupts again; “’pissing’ will not do in this day and in this age of the cosmic current year, as this implies male dominance due to its rather aggressive tone and turn of phrase.

The far less masculine, way more feminine and thusly – and of course – far less dominant and aggressive, more nurturing, caring and inclusive term ‘Tinkling’ would fare far better, we feel.”

“And ‘drooling’? Really? This will not and can not stand! It does not even sit! Did you not once stop to think and ponder and consider and – not least of all – feel how the marginalized population of mentally and emotionally under-developed would react to this? They might be offended! In fact – we ourselves are highly offended and literally triggered at this. Replace with ‘watering’, this instant, lest you offend some of our mentally and emotionally under-developed persons of marginalized girth and non-binary emotional maturation.”

“We also feel that your use of ‘come-fuck-me’ is highly problematic, due to it being said in a rather submissive tone. Instead, use the term ‘I-consent-to-not-being-raped-due-to-this-sexual-encounter-being-a-consensual-sexual-encounter’”.


I got it, Jiggling, Jaded Jezebel.

Please allow me to try again.

Poor, oppressed, down-trodden, proletarian academic rodent-loving animal-attracted non-specific communally raised blank slate children of no defined gender stand atop the shoulders of persons of non-binary towering height, tinkling into the open, watering, I-consent-to-not-being-raped-due-to-this-sexual-encounter-being-a-consensual-sexual-encounter mouths of persons of strange and unexpected proportions.

Goblets raised and cheers abound as alluring tunes rise from the matriarchal maze at the corner of hysteria and mass-psychosis.

“Actually, you over-privileged sperm-carrier, did you know that not everyone have the strength or the limbs to raise a goblet? Also – not every person can afford a goblet. For lack of goblet, use plastic container.”

“We would also like to add that a not insignificant amount of persons lack the ability, or the courage, to cheer. Some persons are mute, whilst other persons struggle with anxiety hindering their ability to cheer in public… or be in public, for that matter. Fix this immediately!”

Very well, Big Bulbous Sister of Sudden Salivation.

I shall.

Sorry, so sorry.

Poor, oppressed, down-trodden, proletarian academic rodent-loving animal-attracted non-specific communally raised blank slate children of no defined gender stand atop the shoulders of persons of non-binary towering height, tinkling into the open, watering, I-consent-to-not-being-raped-due-to-this-sexual-encounter-being-a-consensual-sexual-encounter mouths of persons of strange and unexpected proportions.

Plastic containers stand untouched on tables, profound silence mixed with some token throaty sounds abound as alluring tunes rise from the matriarchal maze at the corner of hysteria and mass-psychosis.

“Well now, shit-lord of the duelling balls – seems we are getting somewhere at last. Though, ‘alluring’ will not do as that is way too sexual in its strange implications. This may, in fact, trigger and offend someone. We recommend either ‘boring’ or ‘lack of’ as a proper substitute, though the choice is ultimately yours as to which of these substitutes you feel comfortable with.”

“And considering that there exist persons out there who are deaf, or who are startled at sudden sounds, struggling with migraines and other similar issues, we would propose removing ‘tunes’ altogether.”

“As for ‘Matriarchal’… that’s just plain wrong. Surely, you are frightfully aware that we live in a patriarchal society in which women – especially mothers – are beat down and subjugated, enslaved all the time and everywhere.”

“You can not use ‘rise’. It can trigger those persons who have been made unwilling victims to the rising – that is erection – of a penis. Everything here is so androcentric it is making us feel ill.”

“likewise, ‘maze’ feels very problematic as it is literally insulting to persons who lack a sense of direction, who are blind or otherwise incapable of properly figuring out where to go. We would recommend a ‘straight line’”.

Yes, Big red rodent with the puckered smacking lips.

Sorry, yet again.

I’ll do my very best.

Poor, oppressed, down-trodden, proletarian academic rodent-loving animal-attracted non-specific communally raised blank slate children of no defined gender stand atop the shoulders of persons of non-binary towering height, tinkling into the open, watering, I-consent-to-not-being-raped-due-to-this-sexual-encounter-being-a-consensual-sexual-encounter mouths of persons of strange and unexpected proportions.

Plastic containers stand untouched on tables, profound silence mixed with some token throaty sounds abound as a dull and boring quiet, made especially for the deaf and for those triggered by noise and for those struggling with migraines lay completely still in the terrifyingly evil patriarchal straight line pointing at the corner of hysteria and mass-psychosis.

“We have to interrupt you once again: there is yet another problem. ‘Hysteria’ is an old, archaic, highly misogynistic and thusly problematic and offensive term made for no other reason than to shame women into silence and servitude under pain of forced psychiatric imprisonment. We find it very triggering and feel remarkably unsafe due to it being used here and in this manner. We demand you use ‘female-identifying justified acting out’ instead”

“You should also be aware that ‘mass-psychosis’ is a terrifying term, for sure, for sure, as this offends and further marginalizes persons of a non-binary mental make-up as well as offending the commune and collective of our fair global harmony, as it implies that every mass has the potential to turn ‘psychotic’; that every collective will one day become an unthinking mob. Change it to something more suitable, something less offensive and more inclusive.”

Yes-um, big Mama.

I shall try to please, once again.

Terribly sorry about this mix-up.

Poor, oppressed, down-trodden, proletarian academic rodent-loving animal-attracted non-specific communally raised blank slate children of no defined gender stand atop the shoulders of persons of non-binary towering height, tinkling into the open, watering, I-consent-to-not-being-raped-due-to-this-sexual-encounter-being-a-consensual-sexual-encounter mouths of persons of strange and unexpected proportions.

Plastic containers stand untouched on tables, profound silence mixed with some token throaty sounds abound as a dull and boring quiet, made especially for the deaf and for those triggered by noise and for those struggling with migraines lay completely still in the terrifyingly evil patriarchal straight line pointing at the corner of female-identifying justified acting-out and glorious mass-inclusion.

“Actually, come to think about it, not every person is able to afford a table.”

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 03.06.2020

Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Kindle:
Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Paperback:

Howling at a Slutwalk Moon, a collection of previous blog posts:
Vol 1 Paperback:
Vol 1 Kindle:
Vol 2 Paperback:
Vol 2 Kindle:
Vol 1 Illustrated Paperback:
Vol 2 Illustrated Paperback:

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The future through a visionay beard

«God searching for his car keys after a night out with the boys»

Inspired by Nostradamus, or by St. John of Patmos, or by a tiny critter living under my bed who’s been whispering into my ear at night… intrepid explorer of the not-too-distant future as I am, strange visionary shaman, mind-bending consumer of fresh woo incense and devourer of present-tense nonsense took I the deep plunge into the shadows of the collective subatomic consciousness… a visionary journey gifted to me by feasting on the strange and exotic mushrooms that grow in my beard, nurtured by caffeine and plucked by hand by forty basement-dwelling neck-bearded virgins, each fedora-tipper more delicate than the last.

Yes, true seeker of truth and of knowledge esoteric, occult and divine – I, your humble humid hermit host, have visited the future through paths unknown to lesser mortal men.

I mean; I’ve got to have something going for me if this writing-gig don’t work out. Why not settle for visionary journeys, time travelling, astral spectatorship and such?

A backup-plan is for sure a necessity.

And I have been told that it pays very well.

Though, of course, for true spiritual seekers such as myself, payment is not a necessity. I am far above and beyond such needs and desires of the flesh. You can read all about it in my forthcoming book; “Breatharianism for the sustainable future of mankind: a green new veal (Or: how I learned to say no to flatulent cows and love the micro-organisms of the air)”.

Alas: as much as I would love to guide you through my green new veal and teach you the breath-taking, breathless pleasures of breatharianism, that is not the course my dissolving ego plans to take on this fine spring morning of the year of the apocalypse. I promised you a journey into a future shared – one which all and one will be part of in synchronous harmony, tangled in our common web and in our unified strands of fiberoptic leg-hair that stand on end and yet will be combed down by children in the guise of dog-faced pony-soldiers.

Yes, I, the awakened and enlightened Moiret of the Beard; he who conquered the blanket of malcontent, who spoke truth to the soft pillow of maladjustment, who bathed in the dangerous waters of a tranquil beach one summer-evening long ago, who besieged, battled and defeated the weird and wondrous wine of the beloved bastard Burgundy… whose beard is of such a magnificent magnitude that it single-handedly fought the horde of Babylonian single women and won, using naught but a pointy stick and a banana – yes – the very same – have travelled to the future, have seen the future and come back to tell a tale of much wonder and delight, of terror and of trepidation!

My wandering soul carried on the wings of my soaring spirit-animal; a most magnificent bat, saw I beneath me on the pedantically paved paths of the future-streets, peoplekinds of all shapes, sizes and sexes walking in single file; each in their own plastic bubble, wireless transmitters attached to cranial implants; rabbit-ear antennae poking out from their significantly shaven heads… shaven so as to signify cleanliness and perfect personal hygiene following the outlawed outbreak of that which shall not be named, shamed or blamed.

Be it by magic or by some strange significant rhythm riding on frequencies unheard by my inferior ear, I do not know, yet the single file I saw beneath me all pressed forward in perfect unison, step by step and wobble by wobble, maintaining a distance of two meticulously measured meters despite the plastic bubble wrapped about their person-hoods.

Looking ever closer, saw I there on the immaculate pavement strange pictograms – amazing, awe-inspiring hieroglyphics put in place to tell the people standing and walking there where their proper place to stand would be so that they would be forever put in their proper place.

Ever so often unknown vehicles, strange chariots of power, would buzz by or stop there before the pavement and before the people walking there, who then stopped abruptly and, standing silently and deathly still, slowly turned to meet and greet the hosts within the buzzing vessel.

The hosts of the vessels, wearing strange garments of blue, with duck-billed masks, all crafted from some strange and unusual material unknown to me and not the bubbles I had seen the others wear, would then come out from the sides of the unknown carriage carrying some strange device which I took to be a tracking-device of sorts and, with many a flirt and flutter, would beep and boop their way through the line until – I assumed – they found the one whom they were seeking for. The others there in line would look away, would avert their gaze as the hosts rolled and bounced the one away into their strange carriage that then would buzz away and from then and there see the line go forth again.

Turning around to gaze upon the sky above saw I there, to my shocked surprise, a dome of glass above and all around; sealing the city which I visited inside its frosted walls.

Atop most buildings waved a flag of a most peculiar design, wafting mechanically, synthetically, alluringly, in the lack of breeze; a crimson hue beset with splattered specks of gold – the symbol, seemingly, of glorious global unity.

With the help and guidance of my spirit-guiding sacred bat, soared I down to street-level to see giant screens adorning the walls of all the buildings erected there, on whose mirroring surface messages appeared, informing the people walking there to do not touch or hug or fornicate; to not congregate or dance or sing in groups… even not in pairs of two and two, under pain of punishment severe, as this might topple and bring down the tower grandiose of globally ensured fantastic unity.

A temporary measure said the signs, both above and below eye-level.

On all the corners of the streets saw I solitary rooms in which to donate either blood or sperm or eggs for the cause of continuation and survival.

A temporary measure said the signs, both above and below eye-level.

Each and every one and all donation were freely donated or not; there was a phenomenal freedom to choose – either to give or to abstain; there were no mandatory donation of blood or eggs or sperm, though one would be clearly suspected of being ill or otherwise infected by that which shall not be named or blamed or shamed, if one failed to donate twice weekly and so lose some privileges such as the ability to purchase groceries or go to work or the privilege to feed oneself. All for the greater good and for the good of that which is greater than oneself, of course, for sacred unification and for hallowed unity.

A temporary measure said the signs, both above and below eye-level.

Then saw I later on down the line bunkers filled with sickbeds underneath the ground; women a-plenty hooked up to breathing apparatuses and noticed, for the first time, that within the bubbles each person carried about their neck a paper or a passport of sorts which could easily be both read and scanned by all who were in close proximity.

Upon this passport which were given twice hourly updates, stood the status of the person – whether ill or well, whether privileged or oppressed and so and such – and points were given according to the status-updates.

A most intricately designed credit system to measure someone’s value, worth and well-being and so attribute scores accordingly. The scores, in turn, would decide whether treatment, care, compassion and such would be given and received.

A temporary measure, said the signs and whispers on the electrified wind, both above and below eye-level.

As I was floating further down to examine in closer detail the sickbeds and the rooms in which they lay, heard I shouts and screams; a cacophony most obscene, and drifted then away to examine that instead.

Closing in on the source of the caterwauling saw I female-identified person and male-identified person standing together, each in their own bubble, yet saw I that the bubbles were touching.

Such a thing I had yet to see, and so I coaxed my guiding bat to take me even closer to the source of this confounding and confusing cacophony of commotion.

“Brother-sister Blue”, shouted the female-identified person, shaven head and all; “Brother-sister Blue, brother-sister blue! This bovine brother bubbled my bubbly buttocks with his bulbous bubonic bubble!” To which the buzzing chariot which I had previously encountered buzzed up to them, post-haste, and hasted then and there out from the sides of the chariot the same strangely clad peoplekinds I had seen, strange scanners at the ready.

“Brother-sister blue,” said the male-identified person from within his bubble, antennae standing on edge atop his shaven head, “this bovine sister is speaking a bad-truth. Never once has my bubble bubbled her buttocks, except for by accident as this bovine sister so abruptly stopped before me so that I could not help but bubble into her by bumbling bubble-accident.”

“What a load of bovine excrement, bovine brother 0069,” said the largest of the strange Brother-sister blues, having first scanned the passport of said bovine brother, to be sure of their number and their status and their class, their voice concealed and strangely altered by a duck-billed doctors mask; “have you forgotten your unity catechismus already, or are you maybe developmentally challenged that you do not know the good-truth that bovine sisters never speak in bad-truths?”

The male-identified person spoke no word, either in defiance or in agreement, but stared in strange defeat at the feet of his would-be captors, as they continued: “If so – if you are developmentally challenged so that you can not separate good-truths from bad-truths, so that you can not remember the real-true good-truth of the catechismus, why then are you roaming the streets when you should be in one of our special programs to be educated and learn useful skills that would help us promote further unification?”

Tending now to the female-identified person, the smallest of the Brother-sister blues told her to carry on with her day and be at peace; the dastardly bovine brother and his trespass upon the bovine sister’s personal bubble would be dealt with as best they could, and so the bovine sister wobbled ahead, bubbled feet kept neatly in their pictographic hieroglyph-place.

Listening to the brother-sister blues as they spoke their vague words of wondering warning to bovine brother 0069, caught I their choices in my strange visionary ears; to be either banished, branded or burnt – and saw I there, reflected in their glassy eyes, a look of strange puzzlement and surprise as alluring freedom rang within his bubbled soul; freedom – be that through death or banishment – seemed a price and a reward rather than as punishment most severe.

And then I felt myself being pulled through time and space anew; vision ended for this time… and woke then in anxious stream-of-consciousness-cold-sweat, free-form-gasping on the floor of my silent Spartan kitchen, drawing nourishment and comfort from the air surrounding me, as strange colours danced at the far edge of my vision and with whispers of the future ringing in my head sat I then down here to write of what visions I had seen.

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  • Moiret Allegiere 22.04.2020

Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Kindle:
Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Paperback:

Howling at a Slutwalk Moon, a collection of previous blog posts:
Vol 1 Paperback:
Vol 1 Kindle:
Vol 2 Paperback:
Vol 2 Kindle:
Vol 1 Illustrated Paperback:
Vol 2 Illustrated Paperback:

Other links:
Redbubble shop:

Oh, my sweet Melody!

Oh, my sweet Melody! ( , )

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?

Thou art more glitchy and more degenerate.

Rough hands do stroke the darling keys of board,

And Chaturbate’s lease hath all too short a date.

Sometime too hot the glitching face will shine,

And often is thy frozen face too dimmed;

And every bit from bit sometime will freeze,

By chance, or the AI’s changing code, unread;

But thy eternal summer shall not fade,

Nor lose possession of them tiddies that thou ow’st,

Nor shall the THOTs brag thou wand’rest in their shade,

When in eternal streams to Web thou grow’st.

So long as THOTs can breathe, or cams can stream,

So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

Well then, gentlemen – it seems the camgirls have met their match. And the whole world will stop, and hell will freeze over, and hysteria and panic will grip the stalwart tax-dodgers, and the whole of men will turn to incels, drooling misogynistically over big ol’ animated anime tiddies. Probably whilst plotting mass-murder, preferably through doing 130 KM an hour in an armoured truck of peace in a crowded street, polishing the one-eyed wonder at the same time.

All the while, wondrous anime AI Projekt Melody gently moans and glitches out in the background.

F to the U to the C to the K, my brothers – it all goes according to plan, as it was laid down by the patriarchy at our global meetup of 2019. The THOTs have met their end!

Nothing, it seems, brings more fear and terror to the bleeding heart of a feminist than men enjoying something. No matter what it is, if men enjoy it then it must be bad.

For women.

And dangerous, of course.

To women.

For nothing will cause the world to bend over and spread its tender cheeks in preparation for a good pegging more than the confusing claim that something is dangerous and harmful to women. After all, everything has to be about women. Even when it is not about women.

If something, somehow, in some way or other can be made out to be a threat to women, then it must be banned and stopped and regulated and protested and shut down and shot out of the sky.

And any man who enjoy this or that which is, presumably, a threat to women must be shamed and ridiculed until he submits to the will of the women and do as they say and demand, not as he wants or as he wishes.

As oppressed and downtrodden as women of course are, this always works in bringing on change for some reason. A woman’s pain is a call to action. It does not matter whether this pain is real or feigned. It is a call to action. The oppressors have always defended and protected their subjects, remember.

Climate change? Hurts women more. So there! Throw money, time and effort at it until it stops.

Corona-chan? Hurts women more. Despite affecting men moer. So there. Throw money, time and effort at it until it stops. As long as we focus on ending it for women.

Eating meat is misogynistic, somehow, and it hurts women and so everyone should become vegan and sing the praise of veggies and malnourishment from now until the end of time, and we must stop everything and import plant-based alternatives for the environment… for importing things from other countries are sure as hell good for the environment… far better, apparently, than focusing on home-grown stuff… stuff that don’t need to travel all that way in big polluting ships or planes. And then we shall all sit down and shut up and sing kombaya and be at peace and inner harmony; the inner harmony that only feminism can bring… Or something along those lines. Oh my, we are doomed.

I lost the plot ages ago. Every day, there’s something new and more confoundedly confusing than the day before. The contradictions never end.

Everything that is within sight has been grabbed and snared by feminism, made to be a part of their cause. This bloody ideology inserts itself into every bloody thing there is, making every fashionable cause out there a part of itself. Whether people want them to or not.

It is the Blob, devouring everything in its path and becoming bigger and more powerful by the hour. One would do well to remember the theme-song of the movie, as well as its catchphrase: “Beware of the Blob”.

It is so weird how they are able to usurp every movement, every thing there is… and people act as though this is not only completely normal, but also completely acceptable. The main focus of every fashionable cause is how it affects women. That is the most important thing.

The animated anime camgirl Projekt Melody has been making the rounds on Chaturbate. To much applause and even more dismay, it seems, as it irks feminism something awful. She also irks the flesh-and-blood camgirls, whose income is very much reliant on the terrible male gaze and the not-quite-as-terrible male wallet.

They employ the moves of the feminist fandango; the casual two-stepped misandrist mambo, shrieking and stuttering that “There must be some way this victimizes women”, as they tumble and fall from one fallopian fallacy to the next.

How could it not victimize women?

Men enjoy it, so it can not possibly be anything but an attack on women. Anything men enjoy is an attack on women. Because women have to be up front and centre in anything. Even leaving women alone is an attack on women.

Despite men being supposed to leave women alone.

Even when we aren’t supposed to leave women alone, because there are articles a-plenty about how men need to step up and date and marry women.

The feminist thought-process is a most remarkable one.

He avoids me. Must be misogyny.

He approaches me. Damn right it’s misogyny.

He doesn’t care either way. You better believe that’s misogyny.

And so forth and so on and so frothing at the mouth.

It all begins with it being an affront/an attack/an exclamation of hatred of women/whatever as long as it is misogyny, and then that line of thought is followed until it is figured out how it victimizes women.

The conclusion is the beginning, the path to the conclusion nothing but a manifestation of that conclusion… a necessary evil, one could say. The Melody nontroversy is the sexbot nontroversy all over again. The misandrist mambo is exceptional.

I remember reading an article on sexbots in which it was stated that men are raping their sexbots, amongst other moronic assertions: ( ). And it is the strangest thing, as one can not do anything to a literal object that could be considered rape.

Does one rape a fleshlight? Probably not, though the feminist hive-mind have objected to the fleshlight as well. Of course and as expected. Men using sex toys are sad and lonely creatures, after all.

Does one rape a dildo? Absolutely not. Women using sex toys are liberated and empowered women, after all.

That is how it is presented where sexbots are concerned. It is rape. Even going so far as to claim that sexbots – you know – fancy dolls that are bought for no other purpose than masturbation, however fancy that masturbation may be, have to be programmed to be able to give consent. Or not give consent. Because that is what one wants from ones expensive masturbatory device… its ability to say no to being used for what is, essentially, its sole purpose. If the sexbot can not consent, it is rape.

Of an object.

Of a doll.

It makes not a lick of sense.

Unless one realises the reason for the hysteria.

And that is quite simple.

Being the gatekeepers of sex is having an enormous amount of power. Women are, by and large, the gatekeepers of sex. Women do the choosing, men do the competing.

And men are, by and large, far too fucking thirsty and pussy-begging for our own good.

Manipulating men to do this or that through thinly veiled and alluring promises of possible fornication – or perhaps naught but a glimpse of titty – is incredibly easy. Losing that power to an alternative would be an incredible loss of power.

And so it must be stopped, by shaming and ridiculing men who engage in masturbation with a sexbot or who drool and masturbate to the lurid images of a glitchy anime camgirl. By claiming that it is hurtful to real women, despite real women not being involved in any way, shape or form.

All the while, watching real life camgirls, or watching regular porn is also misogyny. As is attempting to strike up a conversation with a woman, should she not be interested.

Let’s get this straight: watching real women in pornography or through camshows is, according to feminism, proof of men’s hatred of women and of patriarchal oppression and objectification and of this and of that. Yet: watching animated women instead of real women is also proof of the same. Preferring the animated is definitive proof of hatred of women, yet so is watching real women. It is wrong either way, gentlemen. Just as it was designed to be. No matter what men do, it is wrong in one way or other and men must fix themselves and that is all that there is to that.

Incels are, of course, held forth as the great big bogeyman they have become regarding the Projekt Melody nontroversy. For a man that is involuntarily celibate is the most misogynistic thing there is, and so that group of people most be made out to be the prime audience of luscious Melody. Given that “Incel” has become the go-to insult and the most popular buzzword in this day and age of feminist mass-hysteria, this is no surprise.

Incel is so used and overused, so spent and ruined by people who don’t really know what it means or what it really entails, but who still know that the use of it is a powerful way to shame a guy. Married men with children are referred to as incels. It is ridiculous. But that is how it goes with these sudden buzzwords of shame and ridicule.

I remember, back in 2007/2008, “Emo” being one of those suddenly appearing buzzwords of shame and ridicule when ones dislike of something had nothing to stand on but ad hominem attacks.

I remember it being wildly popular in the bloody god-awful fucking art-school I attended at the time, where the teachers would label the art from students they did not like as being very “Emo” and so dismiss it in its entirety based on naught but that bombastic buzzword. As quickly as the buzzword came, it went away. To be replaced with something new. This happens all the time.

Now it is “incel” that is being used in this way and in this manner, with those using it not really thinking about its meaning, its origins, its anything but that it can be used as a way to shame and ridicule a man; a quick and easy shutdown so that they do not have to think and consider anything beyond that hasty dismissal.

It is so much easier, so much simpler, to label someone this or that, and in so doing dismiss and delegitimize everything that is being argued. For there is no reason to consider anything an incel has to say, is there? After all – they are one of the many identifiable enemies of this time and in this place… nothing but a part of the shunned and shamed out-group. And the out-group must not be considered in any way, shape or form.

Incels – if they are men – do not deserve any empathy or compassion.

If they are women, then we must write articles about how hard it is for them and how men really need to date them, and so forth and so on. Women are entitled to sex and companionship, ya know.

If a woman is involuntarily celibate, there is something wrong with the men around her. Men must shape up.

If a man is involuntarily celibate, there is something wrong with him as a man. And men must shape up.

It boils down to there being something wrong with men either way. Strange and peculiar, but that is the way of things as things are.

I believe the word “Incel” is such a powerful shaming device because the social success, the worth of a man at all, is apparently tied to whether or not he has been able to bed a woman. Which is complete and utter bullshit, of course.

The measure of a man’s worth, be that to himself or to society, should not be whether or not he has been able to fuck a women.

It is also incredibly weird how the feminist claim is that men hate women so-so-so much, yet all our worth is apparently tied to whether or not we are able to bed a woman. From their own mouths.

One should think that there would not be so much of a man’s worth tied to bedding or being in a relationship with a woman if women truly were as hated as the hive-mind claims.

These people, who think slut-shaming is such a terrible thing, see absolutely no qualms in virgin-shaming a man.

The same can be said about the body-positivity movement, who see no qualms in shaming a guy for his height or dick size or whatever… but don’t you, as a guy, dare have any preference in weight or whatever in a woman.

The whole of the feminist movement is a shambling mass of contradictions and moronic attitudes. Of course; it can easily be explained as not being contradictory, considering that they have othered their opponents to such an extent that any attacks on their opponents are not attacks on a human being… rather, it is attacks on a terrible drooling and snarling beast-like creature.

Just a damned shame that that which they have othered is half of the god-damned human race, then.

One assumes that the woman, for a man, becomes nothing but a fancy trophy when seen through the eyes of feminism… who don’t hate men, you know, except when they do, which is never, except when it is. Which, incidentally and as it happens, is always, as all the so-called faults and flaws of men are the prime gobble-de-gook of feminism.

For a movement that is supposedly about women, they sure spend an awful amount of time complaining about men, up to and including what men do that does not have anything whatsoever to do with women.

No wonder, of course, as they have decided that all men, through all of history, have had nothing better to do with our time but to oppress women.

They have made men the enemy.

Or, to put it another way: they have decided that all women, through all of history, have been so weak of will, so powerless and so completely and utterly useless that they have allowed men to oppress them for all but the last hundred years or so.

They have made women their own enemy.

Except that women are still oppressed, according to the whimsical will of feminism. Even when women are powerful. The use of patriarchy theory is ingenious in a way, as it can be used to explain just about everything. Women doing something feminism do not like women doing means that the women have been brainwashed by the patriarchy to do its bidding. Any woman who do not conform to the ideals of feminism is brainwashed by the patriarchy; tricked into believing that she enjoys what she does, and so must be liberated by feminism.

And so is any man who do not conform to the ideals of feminism; brainwashed by the patriarchy into being such as he is as a man. He too must be liberated by feminism, as he is a defective woman. Feminism helps men too, you see. But first women must be liberated, then men shall follow. And all shall fall in line with the flat-faced feminist fiasco.

And now, through the might and influence of feminism, men have been told for decades that they must leave women alone. There is something wrong with male sexuality, and women are not interested and if she is then you will know, but you must never touch or attempt any conversation… except when you must, when is when you aren’t being creepy, which is entirely based upon her subjective opinion of your behaviour, your appearance and your income… And you must take a hint and you must not take a hint and you must not misinterpret a hint, nor must you believe that which was not a hint to be a hint… and you must be able to read her mind, because she can not be expected to tell you yes or no… and, most of all, you are not entitled to anything yet you must do all you can to impress and prove yourself to be worthy… even when you mustn’t.

The dating game, the whole sexual game, has been muddled and confused for men for a long time. Post-me-too, it has become even more so. All the power of sex and of dating is placed in the laps of women, and all the responsibilities to engage in it has been placed in the laps of men. Men are still expected to make the first move, still expected to take that risk.

Which weren’t all that bad, I assume, when the risk was only the risk of rejection and a small amount of ridicule. Post me-too, however… Post #BelieveWomen and the incredibly weird and nonsensical currency of victimhood, the risk is no longer only rejection and a small amount of ridicule… the risk is being labelled a pest and a sex offender; it is having ones name and character smeared through social media and mass media for doing nothing but showing romantic or sexual interest… possibly not even romantic or sexual interest, as everything is now based upon the completely subjective experience and opinion and emotion of a woman, and the intention of the man in question be damned and doubly cursed and sent to hell.

The risk has become far greater than the reward.

And so men turn to the alternative; to bots and sextoys and anime camgirls. Things that are not real women. Because women – through the awesome might, through the awesome handwringers of feminism, have made it perfectly clear that men should just leave them alone.

Women ain’t interested and men ain’t entitled to sex, or to their time, or to anything to do with women. And so men just step away, turn away, drop out and leave well enough alone.

After all – the only thing on a man’s mind, as has been beat into the throbbing brain-inflammation of the societal zeitgeist for all eternity – is sex, and any conversation attempted with a woman if a woman is not interested in a conversation has to be the man feeling entitled to her time and her sex and a glimpse of her over-valued and deflated titties.

And so men now leave women well enough alone.

Yet that is not what we are supposed to do, because that is also wrong and is clear proof that we hate women.

No matter what it is, if men do it or if men find enjoyment in it, it is wrong and must be bitched and moaned and complained about, and men must change their ways and look into themselves and figure out what is wrong with them. And men must control the behaviour of other men, and protect women over all else and over all other. This despite women not needing men. So men must protect and defend women, yet a woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle.

No matter what men do it is an affront to women and an attack on women and proof of men’s overall hatred for women.

More fuel, in fact, for the feminist fire. Who claim to speak on behalf of the wishes of all women, yet shudder and rage and roar at any generalizing of the wishes of women… The thought that men do not obsess over women as feminism believe men to do do not even enter into their minds. It is not a thought that is entertained.

And I am sorry to be the one to break it to you, lovely luscious ladies of lullabies and loss of love, but men do in fact have more important things to think and talk about than women, for the most part and believe it or not. Not everything men do or say or think revolve around women. Nor does it have to.

Since the feminist hive-mind keep assuming that men only ever think and talk about women, I can only assume one of two things: either women in general do nothing but think and talk about men, or women in general are terrified that men do not only think or talk about women.

The message still remains the same: men must step up their game and men must change themselves to accommodate the ever-changing whims and will of women overall and feminism specifically. Even when neither is a monolith, except when it suits the powers-that-be-trembling-at-their-knees.

Yet, the opposite is never the case. Instead of thinking that maybe – just maybe – there is something wrong with this bloody culture, this fucking society and the way it treats men… instead of thinking that maybe women in general – and feminism specifically – should stop and do some soul searching, some thorough introspection, stop and breathe and figure out why men seemingly prefer sexbots and animated anime camgirls to real women… that maybe there is something about women and the way our societies treat women; how our societies teach women to view and treat men as well as how our societies overall view and treat men that cause this to be the case…

Instead of doing this, they shame and smear and ridicule men yet again; painting men as rapists-in-waiting, as pathetic incels, as woman-hating misogynists for doing nothing but that which men have been told to do: to stay away from women for we are not entitled to their time or to sex or to anything, really.

Men drop out and fall away.

From everything.

Women most affected.

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 14.03.2020

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Internet so Dangerous, part 2


Should you be unaware that the internet often brings out the worst in people, I believe you are lying. Or blind. Or you have been living in a cave without access to the internet for the past 28 ½ years.

Not that I’m judging, of course – I can quite understand the wish to be a hermit. Yet, such is the way of it: one has not been present on the internet if this has gone unnoticed.

There is a strange lack of self-censorship and civility when people are faced with digital keystrokes instead of real life flapping tongues and galloping lips.

It is as though people believe that the text they see is not another human being typing. It is merely machine-text texting, to be easily dismissed as a Russian bot, a troll, or some other nonsensical buzzword-effort at dehumanizing and dismissing instead of considering and digesting what is actually being said. It is remarkably easy to do. Usually, it follows the same pattern:

Person A says something.

Person B says something contrary.

Person A responds with dismissing Person B as a Russian bot. (Substitute “Russian” for whatever bogeyman is currently in vogue.) And then promptly blocks the bastard-bot, son of a thousand machine-whores that he of course is, with neither thought nor self-awareness present.

Rinse and repeat.

It is pure internet-magic from putrid internet tacticians. Every day, we stray further from God and from God’s good graces. Every day, I lose a little more of my faith in humanity.

Oh, the humanity!

This tactic is such a marvellously tried and true formula that it could easily be dubbed “Copypasta”.

Such Artful, much wondrous, wow!

Were it not for the inconvenient fact that Copypasta is made to ruin every last bit of originality, it would be an exercise in pure social experiment clickbait. Masquerading as art, just for the sake of it.

Relax, brah, it’s just a social experiment. Just as the whole rest of the world is; a science project that saw God receive a D. Maybe a D+. Good effort, terrible execution. Back to the drawing board, God. Jesus Christ, I know you can do better, buddy, now put some backbone into it!

Originality, as we so often see, is of no consequence when there are contrarians and other vile cretins to contend with on the internet. Copypasta; for fun and profit!

Besides; ones own opinion is hallowed and sanctified, no matter how inane and ridiculous. Responding to it with disagreement, however civil, is akin to harassment. But only if the victim of someone responding to their chicanery in an open forum that is open for all the forum-happy world to see happens to be a woman, or a minority. This rule does come with its own exception, as expected. For it is only when and if they are partial to the shenanigans of Social Justice, as well as being faithful adherents to the cult of woke, that it is to be considered harassment.

Of course.

One could always choose not to get engaged in online feuds, arguments, petty squabbles and such silly bickering. No matter where one is, no matter what one does, somewhere on the internet, someone is wrong. This is just a fact of life. To engage each and every person who holds different opinions, no matter how factual (because there is a vast difference between having an opinion and having a fact) seems to me to be a waste of time and energy best spent elsewhere.

Particularly so when someone argues in very bad faith, using all the mental gymnastics, all the lies and slander and smears and jet-black oily manipulation a Russian bot could ever hope to eat.

A lot of the opinions on the internet are presented as nothing but shitty reposts… strange pictures with some manner of text on them meant to elicit an immediate emotional response, either that way or this way. Seeing as every repost is always a repost of a repost, one has to get fairly tired of trying to refute them and challenge them again and again. It just ain’t worth the hassle.

Granted, this line of thinking comes from a bearded bard who is turning more introverted and reserved with every passing day. It often takes me days – or even weeks – to respond to a single private message or email. So there’s that, of course. I am not the most social of creatures, to say the least.

This is not to say that I don’t believe there are merits to online discussion. I spend far too much time reading and observing debates online to have no faith in it. However: there is precious little point in arguing with someone who has no interest in listening. And that is so often the case when encountering someone who is – as Jordan Peterson puts it – ideologically possessed. They do not talk with someone. They do not engage in discussion or debate as such.

No, no, no.

They talk at someone. Not with someone. Ears close and reason leaves the moment someone disagrees, no matter how well sourced, how well put together, how well informed. Facts and numbers do not matter. Pointing out errors in statistics, or in methodology (something I am not skilled at, but I have observed others that are extraordinarily skilled at it), for example, is inconsequential to someone who has decided that they are in the right, no matter what, and where, and when, and how.

The so-called gender wage-gap is a prime example of this. Debunked time and again, and still living on. Because these people really and truly want to be oppressed. The same can be said for the nonsensical “Pink Tax”, and most everything else they can manufacture. It is either a dirty, rotten lie, or it is half-facts that conveniently neglect to mention the other part of the equation. It gets droll and dull and boring and tiring after a while. Yet, as long as there is social currency in victimhood, it will carry on.

There is no purpose to feminism if feminism has no purpose. And the purpose of feminism – as I believe is the case with all the social justice warrior stuff, steeped in childish identity politics as it is – is to perpetuate itself. It is to keep itself going, marching forward toward an uncertain future.

In order to do so, they have to be able to present themselves as being oppressed. The cause, in itself, is the cause. It is the beginning and the end. And the middle.

What are we fighting for, fellow peoplekind-comrades of non-gender specifics?”

The Fight, comrade, the fight!”

And so it goes, on and bloody on.

If shown – if proven beyond doubt – to not be oppressed, they lose their purpose. They have no big bad daddy to fight if the big bad daddy is proven to not exist as they have presented it. So it is better to double down, ignore the truth, and carry on as though nothing happened.

It is a vile sickness, a terrible blight on society, this celebration of victimhood, this willingness to be seen as a victim, this eagerness to be counted among the downtrodden, the gleeful acceptance, this tragic ambivalence, to being “oppressed”. It is fucked up social currency in a nonsensical social game; its slap-happy followers speeding drunk down the information highway, posting one stupid so-called empowering pictogram of overcoming perceived oppression after the other, where relation to the original topic decreases with every single post. Best to not engage.

It is an obscene celebration of character-flaws masquerading as strength, where overcoming obstacles and hurdles no longer matters or are of any importance for one chooses to petition the government to ban the obstacles and criminalise the hurdles instead. And if said hurdles and obstacles are a few individuals who dislike this or do not agree with that, then that dislike, that disagreement, must be considered hate and swift action be taken promptly by the strong whip-lash hand of the law. This is prime egotism.

Particularly so when the laws and regulations that spawn from such petitioning wind up being very much discriminatory in-and-off themselves.

How can one look to a government that states that there are too many of this demographic working here, so you have to even it out by hiring quite a few of that demographic, otherwise there will be hell to pay, and claim this to be non-discriminatory?

Sorry you didn’t get the job, boy, but the government has decided that your outie is wrong for this job, we need an innie. Your credentials look great, by the way. Better luck somewhere else, buddy.

It truly is a sad state of affairs, when people are so devoid of any personality or character trait that they would resort to wallowing in wallopped victimhood instead of working on bettering themselves… instead of cultivating a personality, people cultivate victimhood. Instead of learning a new skill, instead of pouring time and energy into a hobby, people sit flat on their haemorrhoids and wallow in victimhood, going neither here nor there, but staying exactly where they are because they can not do anything but that because they are only ever a victim of this or of that.

Yet, I do get where it comes from, to an extent.

Hurdles and obstacles are incredibly difficult to overcome. I have overcome quite a few myself, and still have a whole hell of a lot to overcome. This despite being a severely privileged white, cis-gendered, heterosexual male, basking in the glow of my eternal privilege and bathing in the rich waters of whatever it is the patriarchy is supposed to give me for free. I assume free handjobs and a harem of scantily clad lesbians or bi-curious women feeding me grapes. Unfortunately, the patriarchy has been slow in paying me my dues. Ah, well, all good things come to those who wait.

I have overcome severely disabling anxiety, shut-in tendencies and a particularly rough encounter with psychosis. None of these were easy to overcome. I have also struggled with a chronic depression for close-to two decades. For living with the constant tension from this anxiety (amongst other things) for almost fifteen years, I now live with chronic pain and fatigue which, at times, are close to unbearable. Yet: the dogs must be taken for walks, the apartment must be cleaned, food must be cooked, my rambles must be written, then ranted, raved and uploaded, etc etc. All these things help in overcoming whatever it is that needs to be overcome. A wise course of action.

The easy path to take, when faced with these hurdles, is to lie down and give up. On everything. It is the easiest path, and it is the least fulfilling path. Sure; I may complain about it. I may bitch and moan about my insomnia and my pain. Particularly when writing. This is very cathartic. I have no interest in using it as a tool to get my will, or to get cheap sympathy-points. Which, for all intents and purposes, are rare currency where men are concerned any way, so why bother? Get over it and do carry on, pretty please with sugar on top.

Yet, to some people, this so-called weakness, this so-called oppression, this victim-identity gives a reason for existing. It gives a perverse sense of purpose.

Which is why, I believe, you see feminism complain that the latest overpriced god-damned luxury-item Iphone is too big for the tiny and inferior female hands, and so this is supreme sexism. I can hardly think of anything more of a bloody god-damned fucking privileged upper-class-twat first-world non-issue than that. Bloody petty whining from insecure victims with a degree in supreme victimology from the university of woe-is-me! I can’t even bloody afford an Iphone. Where’s my victim-credentials, you absolute turd-maggots? I’m too privileged. That’s my problem.

Of course.

Oh boy.

They may not be able to overcome the terrible burden of having tiny, childlike hands… but, ye gods, are they adept at objecting to the so-called oppression from the luxury brands which they are privileged enough to afford. It is topsy-turvy with gravy on top.

They may, at the very least, post about this terrible oppression on the internet in the most glorious slacktivist way. Why should we care about the disturbing amount of male suicides or work-related injuries and death? Why should we make it illegal to genitally mutilate baby boys, subjecting them to torture and possible death? There are more important matters at hand: the tiny ferret-like hands of the female and its relation to the phallocentric Iphone, mirroring, as it does, all of patriarchy through all our ovary-acting herstory of hysteria. Feminism is quite adept at turning everything into a zero-sum game. They believe that talking about men’s issues will detract from feminist issues – which are not the same as female issues – for the very simple reason that they wish to detract from male issues. It is projection. Feminism plays the zero-sum game, then pretends everyone else does as well.

And so there is a purpose to life for these baby-handed ferrets, and that purpose is to force the entirety of the world to fall to their knees and praise the cult of woke, the church of social justice, the grand majesty of feminist up-fuckery with all their victim-hierarchies and weird penis envy.

Enter censorship.

Enter the cold and uncaring ban-hammer fantastic.

Enter tiny Iphones for the small-handed females with their inferiority-complex.

Enter highly subjective hate-speech laws and hate-crime and whatever and whatnot.

Enter a slow and steady slip-slide into censorious totalitarianism, into thought-controlling authoritarianism, into elitist victimhood circles and their laws on compelled speech, compelled thought, manipulated language from lascivious language manipulators of a herd-like victim-mentality… who believe they are doing good, who believe they are working from liberal principles… yet do nothing but push the walls ever closer… who do nothing but tighten the screws and limit liberty as much as can be.

Or am I being too harsh, too snarky, too sarcastic, even?

I don’t know man… I more or less gave up any discussion on the internet aeons ago. I mean – one could probably make the case that me writing and posting what I write and post is discussing on the internet. But when I flat out refuse to engage in debates and things of that nature, am I really adding to a discussion, or am I just sitting in a fortified compound I refer to as my apartment, screaming at the walls and clawing at my own eyes so that I shall not have to see any more of those god-damned, god-awful, god-forsaken reposts? That is, if I am able to keep my mind on track long enough to not get distracted by random passer-by thoughts that somehow allow themselves to be weaved into an already way-too-long rambling rant… Ye Gods, But I do Blabber on when I write. Probably for reasons of not being a good speaker.

I used to take part in discussions. With fondness. Not too long ago, in all actuality. Yet, when I realised that any topic could easily be turned into something completely unrelated, I kinda lost interest, lost faith and lost touch with the whole universal kerfluffle. No matter which discussion, someone had to come along and make it about the plight of women and how feminism will save us all. I wish I were joking. I am not.

I once joked on Facebook that “There is nothing wrong with society, when taken in moderation”. I got so much god-damned flak for that simple and silly little joke that I lost faith in humanity for a few weeks. For those who are uninitiated: there is quite a lot wrong with society. Also: all faults of society are to be blamed on white men. I was given a few lectures after that very obvious joke. The internet sure as hell brings out the best in people.

To get back to the hurdles and obstacles thing a bit: The anxiety I used to struggle with was the kind of anxiety that made me not leave my apartment, that made me lock myself away and throw away the key. I fixed this by picking myself up by the scruff of my scrawny neck and kicking myself in the ass enough times to make a difference. It was not an easy journey. Not by any stretch of the imagination.

But I managed it, and though I still feel that old anxiety creeping up from time to time – particularly in times of high stress, or at times when my insomnia is very bothersome – I no longer struggle with anxiety.

Thus, I found myself joking around with a good friend of mine who had experienced similar struggles with anxiety in the past. This joking around was done on Facebook. (And so comes another Facebook-anecdote from the fabled days of yore.)

Eventually, we got around to the terrible anxiety experienced when buying toilet paper. Stupid as fuck, of course, but that is anxiety for you – completely irrational and absolutely absurd. And, as expected, hilarious in hindsight. If you, as a grown man, can not laugh at yourself for experiencing anxiety when buying toilet paper, you have lost all humour and might as well dig a hole in the bottom of your bed, from which to never re-emerge.

Well, who should pop up from the ferns and grasses of the luscious lands of Facebook, but a wild feminist? Now, clearly, seeing two guys talking in a joking manner about some irrational yet severe discomfort they had experienced… experiencing two guys talking lightly about having experienced tough times due to pathological anxiety was too much for her delicate sensibilities to handle!

Here, one assumes that she thought, were two guys who had forgotten what is important in life. In fact: they had forgotten who it is that really struggles, and so they need a gentle reminder.

Try buying sanitary napkins, boys.”, she wrote. For women are the only ones who need to buy sanitary napkins, and so that trumps buying toilet paper. One presumes, obviously, that toilet paper is bought and used by both sexes.

Take that, patriarchy.

Women-worsting 101, and oh the humanity, oh the insanity, oh the double-edged dildo of narcissistic vapidity!

To this I replied that I had often, and with absolutely no anxiety whatsoever, bought sanitary napkins (and chocolate) for my wife when need arose. Which is the truth. Particularly the chocolate-thing. There is one thing – and only one thing – to do when your significant other is on her period, and that is to retreat into a safe corner and throw chocolate at her until better times come around! Granted, I put that thing about buying chocolate in there to rile the feminist in question up a bit. But I was civil about it.

The wild feminist replied with “Maybe it will be easier if you pretend that you are buying her toilet paper”. This reply made absolutely no sense, given the context of anything. I had just stated that I had no issues with buying sanitary napkins. Or toilet paper. Not any more. I understood not a damned thing about that sentence, and I said as much. What in the hell was there to pretend?

I never got a clear reply to that.

Though, it transpired that she had never had any problems with buying sanitary napkins either. So, then, what was the bloody point of the exercise, except to come swooping in and state that women have it worse than us guys, despite her not experiencing any difficulties with buying sanitary napkins and us experiencing anxiety when buying bloody toilet paper?

Men can not experience any problems whatsoever – however stupid those damned problems may very well be – without being reminded by feral foaming-at-the-mouth feminists that women experience worse problems, so men should just shut up until women get over their collective neurosis. Which they will never do as long as they can use it as a bloody bludgeoning tool.

In fact, I am very surprised that she did not infer that I might be gay, since I was anxious about buying toilet paper yet had no problems buying sanitary napkins… Because why not? One must, after all, always question a person’s sexual preferences without any real reason. And these social justice warrior types… these feminist types… they trade in stereotypes all the bloody time, despite claiming to oppose stereotypes.

It is such a strange self-contradiction on their part that there is no wonder they do not see it. After all; they keep telling people to check their privilege, seeing nothing of their own. Or their own hubris and absolutely god-awful crap-shit-fuck behaviour, for that matter.

But, ah well, the internet does bring out the worst in people. And so too does the cult of woke, the church of social justice and all the various -isms and isn’ts and aint’s that flow from its drooling mouth. (Of interest: I also got flak for posting a picture of myself with a beer and the caption “cheers guys!” I did not include girls, and so this was a trespass most foul. Herpidityderpidoo, they have precious little to worry about when they feel entitled to police what people say.)

There is precious little that is as terrifying, as gut-wrenchingly nauseating, as someone who considers themselves to be morally superior to everyone around them. These people use their so-called moral superiority as a supreme stick of justice, beating people with it until they either submit or the guardian of supreme morality labels them a racist fascist misogynistic white supremacist Russian bot and blocks them.

Or, as is the case when any one of the Twats on Twitter who have bowed their neck and pledged allegiance to the holy spectre of feminism confront a –ghasp – female MRA, they will misgender them (despite the church of woke considering misgendering as hate-crime most foul).

For, ya know, women can not possibly think about anyone but women. If they do, they are gender traitors and, as such, not to be trusted. It is absolutely impossible for a woman to actually care about men, according to these venomous intellectual vagabonds. These twitter-twats will always question a person’s gender, just in case it’s really a man. Or, well, that is to say: they will always assume it is a man. For men can be dismissed easily and shamed into obedience and compliance, whereas women can not.

Women are not to be touched.

Men, on the other hand, are dehumanized in no small way through the wondrous whimsy of the frail and frantic feminist few, alongside the social justice warrior hive-mind and all their hastily assembled damaged-goods-from-IKEA identity politics nincompoops. This is made evident by taking a quick peek at just about every media there is, be that news media, social media, mass-media mediocrity and so forth and so on. Never has it been more trendy to hate on guys for nothing but being guys. Nor has it ever been so commonplace as to be completely and utterly invisible to those who have not had their eyes and minds forced open by the grim spectre of self-annihilating reality.

Reality is as reality is, but reality can be bent and twisted and turned on its head by rabid ideologues and religious nutcases with more opined convictions than rationality… just package the message in neat language with pretty bows of select statistics; the finely tuned instruments of id-pol and the hive-mind both, and you are on easy street.

Then you will be allowed to sit back and watch as reality burns in front of your eyes… As those who claim to despise and hate stereotypes and stereotyping, who lecture others about their wickedness, their unconscious bias, their conformity-phobia do nothing but spout stupid stereotypes, engage in severely biased and bigoted behaviour, and fear everything and everyone who goes against their grain and mass-media induced psychosis.

In the reality as seen through the eyes of rabid ideologues, women can not possibly oppose feminism. Nor can women oppose social justice, seeing as women are sugar and spice and everything nice. For social justice in all its forms is naught but sugar and spice and everything nice. Despite being tyranny disguised as liberty.

And so, any woman who oppose, any “marginalized” group who oppose the double-stink group-think of the social justice/feminist swarm must be a white straight guy in disguise. And there is nothing more heinous, more depraved, more dangerous, more privileged and entitled than a straight white guy.

On the internet, all girls are men and all kids are undercover FBI agents. This seems to be their line of thinking, made evident by their high-strung joy whenever they commit the horribly trans-phobic hate-crime of misgendering a female MRA or just a woman who oppose the social justice warrior hive-mind. No living by their own rules for these people, of course. Rules of censorship, conduct and behaviour only ever apply to the bad people. And they are not bad people. Even when doing the exact same thing they say that others should not do. Herp goes the derp.

Truly, there are no girls on the internet. Except those who subscribe to the one true faith. They are not to be questioned. They should be allowed to shit all over the carpet with no repercussions.

Well, excepting those-who-shall-not-be-questioned and the THOTS, who appear to have been able to turn Tits or GTFO into a valid and lucrative career-option, there are no girls on the internet.

Mind you: I’m not judging. To each their own. The choice is theirs, after all. I don’t much care how people make their money on the internet.

However: one can not flash exorbitant amounts of flesh and skin in one beat of the lions mane, then turn around and complain about sexual objectification of women online in the flap of a lions cock.

That would be hypocritical at worst and completely and utterly stupid at best. Sexual “objectification” of women will only stop when women stop objectifying themselves sexually for fun and profit. Which I sincerely doubt will ever happen, as long as there are thirsty dudes out there willing to pay ridiculous amounts of money for the slight chance of seeing a nipple. Or even cleavage.

Jesus naked monkey-ball wanking on a chain-link fence – guys would do well to heighten their standards a bit, if I am to be perfectly honest. Seeing a pair of tits on cam ain’t worth the bother or the money, brother.

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 22.02.2020

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On Sports Banter and Maggot-infused Coffee:


This morning, my first cup of coffee appeared to be replaced with maggots. Thousands of them, squirming and gushing and being generally icky.

In disgust, and fearing that true Lovecraftian horror would soon emerge from the mass of maggots, I threw the cup of coffee at my admittedly crowded living-room wall. It proceeded to shatter into tiny pieces of cheap porcelain and coffee, revealing that there were no maggots in my coffee.

It had all been a hallucination, or a vivid daydream, or cultural enrichment, courtesy of Yuggoth.

“Maybe I’m just tired”, I thought, before I fetched a new cup of coffee with which to awaken and enlighten my melting mind, cursed with brain-fog and intelligence-drain as it is in this horrible and overcast post-apocalyptic morning of mid-february 2020.

As my gigantic brain-erection began fizzing and sizzling with the cruel and unusual rage, wrath and ruin that can only be attributed to enough caffeine to power a moderately sized Norwegian village, I embarked upon my daily crusade against the blank bleakness of the digital paper and the harsh black void of my keyboard.

Deus vult, motherfuckers, deus vult.

Even as my fingers, conspiring with my throbbing brain-boner, typed the admittedly absurd (and quite possibly stupid) maggot-coffee-introduction, I wondered why.

Why the maggots, Moiret? Why the maggots in the coffee? Seemed about as good an introduction as any other, as I sit here, waiting on the coming of Corona-chan to cleanse the world of non-believers.

Deus vult, you bastards, Deus vult.

I will admit to being mentally and physically drained today, after a fairly exhausting yesterday. Reading the news chronically and obsessively does not help matters, if I am to be honest.

Particularly not whilst drinking coffee in the morning. Which finally explains the bloody maggots and the bloody coffee. It’s all to do with the news. Or lack thereof. It has reached a point where nothing is to be trusted. Trust no-one and believe nothing. Everything mass-media manufactured news item appears to be served with a delicious side-dish of propaganda and flat flatulent lies.

Mental and physical exhaustion inevitably comes to mean that inspiration is somewhat lacking today. Yet, write I must. Or else master will beat me again.

News ain’t news no more and nothing is true and everything is fake news and I can’t trust anything any more, not even my own bloody mind. Or my own perception of my own morning coffee which, for those in the know, is where I tend to find God each and every morning. (Which is the meaning behind my avatar. Or “logo”, if you will.)

Besides, for the topic I wished to tackle today, with maggots bathing in my coffee and Lovecraftian horrors nesting in my brain, I could not figure out a proper introduction for love nor money.

In fact: today I would much rather lie down in the corner and drown my woes and worries in coffee and home-made wine. With cyanide chasers on the side. So I let my fingers do the talking, as my wife so often have asked me to do.

Then I settled for the soothing crackle of painkillers upon my ruined and ravaged nervous-system, upon my aching and failing skeletal muscular system, upon my self-deprecating illusion of literary talent and artistic merit.

Also: I have been rather obsessed with Lovecraft lately, for some odd reason. For such a silly person like myself, “lately” comes to mean the last two years or thereabouts. I don’t let go of fascinations, interests and obsessions easily, to put it as simple as I can.

Prior to Lovecraft, it was Poe.

Prior to Poe, it was Milton.

Prior to Milton, it was Bukowski.

Prior to Bukowski, it was Thompson.

Now, this is not exactly true, as these literary obsessions often happen at the same time. But it looked better written down, and sounds better when read, when saying “prior to”. Makes me sound like I know what the hell I’m doing. And we all know that appearances is everything. Any illusion given about professionalism is a good illusion of professionalism. Make of this what you will; I am rambling, as per usual.

All of these authors are dead white guys. And so it will mark me as the devil incarnate and probably some god-awful racist sexist xenophobic Trump-troll Russian bot with a homophobic love for all things pale, male and stale in the literature department. There are, after all, far too many books written by white western male authors in our libraries. And we can’t have that, and anyone who read them contribute to some manner of oppression or marginalizing or something-or-other. But that is a ramble for another day. I have to push forward to get to the actual point sometime today.

Oh, well, such is the way of things: no matter what one does, someone somewhere can – and will – build a monument to offence around it, which reaches all the way to the teary-eyed and dry-heaving heavens above. The tower of Babel has been replaced with the tower of Offence. And all they do in the tower of Offence is babble.

Obsessing over old, dusty and decaying literary works (or obscure extreme metal from eastern Europe) beats obsessing over sports, however.

I have always considered professional sports a waste of time and money that could be better spent elsewhere. Like being loaded onto a rocket and blasted into the sun. Or sunk into the depths of R’lyeh, to be lost there in non-euclidean geometry for evermore. Or placed in a container atop the mountains of madness, then blown to smithereens.

Regarding sports banter, Quote the snowflakes: Nevermore.

My own dislike of professional sports aside, I can easily understand why people enjoy watching it, reading about it, learning about it and obsessing over it. A man needs a hobby and a man needs his entertainment… and his obsessions. Why not? I can’t think of any reason why not.

Ann Francke, on the other hand, can think of plenty reasons why not. All of them ridiculous. Not Anne Frank of diary-fame. A different Ann Francke.

And so we come, at long rambling last, to the main point on today’s agenda.

Sports banter amongst men at work may encourage laddish behaviour, and so should face the wrath and ire of frail and frantic feminism on the battlefield of allowed speech.

See pestilent article linked below.

Then marvel and be amazed at the unfettered arrogance on display.

Sports banter leads to tall tales of the sexual exploits and conquests of the weekend, see, and so men should not be allowed to talk about things men generally find interesting in order to not keep women out of the limited social folds of the corporate machine. God forbid that men should be able to bond with other men over shared interests. Men must be isolated and contained, each in his own cell, for the safety and inclusion of women. With the added bonus of tearing down any manner of male camaraderie, mentoring and fellowship.

For sports banter is not inclusive enough. And probably not diverse enough. Definitely not feminine enough. And absolutely not feminist enough.

Anything said, spoken, thought, done, danced, sung, spelled, spun, spat, vomited, grunted, sweated or otherwise secreted, written, rambled, raged and rotoscoped must first and foremost pass the test. The test is whether or not women may take part in the conversation.

Apparently, to the eyes and drab drool of feminist women, nothing is more terrible and terrifying than not being the centre of attention at all times.

Imagine something as horrible as not being able to put oneself in the midst of a conversation as a soaring centre-piece of whatever and what-not.

Imagine the terror of not taking part in a conversation once in a while.

Imagine being so bloody arrogant as to demand rules be put in place so that people shall not talk about something which does not interest you in particular.

It is absolutely, mindbogglingly, insanely arrogant.

And terrifying.

Ann Francke, she who did not live in a cupboard, invokes the slippery slope with ghastly grimaces of delight, as she states that there is but a small step from sports-banter to tales of sexual conquest.

Laddish behaviour – one assumes she refers to any and all masculine behaviour – must be stomped out and left to die. For all things masculine are terrible. Men are maggots, and are to be gagged and blindfolded for the convenience of women in whatever workplace they co-inhabit.

What is even more extraordinary is that she – in almost the same breath – claims that she does not suggest that it should be banned. Even when that is exactly what she suggests, since it ought to be curbed according to her.

Just your everyday double-speak from the forked, serpentine tongues of feminism, where A and Z is the exact same thing, where 2+2 equals 5, where yes means both no and yes, where no means both yes and no. All is possible in the land of Feministan, also known as the land of make-belief.

I will have to admit that women do not seem as strong and powerful and empowered and independent as all that if they have to demand men not talk about bloody sports in the workplace for reasons of feeling left out of the conversation. There is nothing particularly strong, independent, empowered or mature about demanding certain topics – which are completely tame topics – be banned from workplace banter. Particularly so under the preposterous pretence that it might cause men to slap each other on the back and talk about their sexual conquest over the weekend. For men think only about sex and sports. And beer. Of course. Which is not true. I have absolutely no interest in sports.

One would think, and not unreasonably in my humble opinion, that any mature adult human being – be that human being male or female – would be able to accept that, sometimes, not all conversations include topics that one self is interested in, and that it is quite alright that one can not participate in that conversation at that point in time. Sometimes, believe it or not, people will talk to someone other than you. And sometimes people will even talk about things that don’t interest you.

Very difficult to grasp, I understand, but there you have it: the world consist of more than women, be that one individual woman, or women as a group. I should not have to spell this out, but such is the state of the world.

This is almost as absurd as the “women poop at work” article… Of course, the implications of Ann Francke whose diary is not published, is far worse, as this goes for the jugular – so to speak – in attempting to curb something as innocent as sports banter at work.

Men, believe it or not, are quite capable of managing themselves without having a woman around to act as a moral guiding force, deciding what is or is not acceptable behaviour or suitable topics for discussion. Women do not have to act as parental figures to grown-ass men, demanding that they behave in a manner that pleases them and talk only about things which women are interested in. And men should not accept that the will of women dictate their behaviour or topics of discussion amongst them. It is ridiculous.

Now, I do of course understand that there is a difference between the workplace and just about any other place. I understand that there is a difference in accepted (or expected) behaviour in professional settings as opposed to non-professional settings.

I also understand – despite the strange brutish man-beast Ann Francke of the non-famous diary have manufactured in her sheltered head-space – that men talking about sports does not equate to men talking about the latest cheap thrill picked up in a bar come closing time late Saturday night. But, ya know, laddish behaviour and the stereotypes of men reign supreme in the minds of those who claim to dislike the use of gendered stereotypes.

Sports banter makes women feel left out and not included, she continues, with all the poor swooning ladies she can paint for us in-between her snarling and thinly veiled contempt for men and all things masculine.

Ignoring, for a moment, that not all men enjoy sports and that some women in fact enjoy sports, I would propose that these women may take their feelings of being left out and kindly fuck off.

Admittedly, I may be harsh here – blame that on the maggots in my coffee and the strange influence of Yuggoth on my mind – but it seems rather egotistical, self-obsessed, entitled and narcissistic to me for women to expect and demand that everything; every single conversation, every single happening, every single event, has to revolve around them in some way or other, be that them as a person or their interests.

It also seems contrary to the notion of women being strong ‘n’ tuff ‘n’ capable if they can not handle guys talking about a topic which does not interest them in the workplace.

But what the hell do I know?

I have been designated the role of oppressor, so I am of course not allowed to comment on anything. Particularly not where sex and gender is concerned. Except how horrible, terrible, vicious and cruel me, myself, I and the rest of the guys are, of course.

Despite not being allowed to comment on anything, I have to wonder – do these “rules” of inclusivity, these “rules” of accepted workplace banter extend to female topics of discussion? If you will allow me to think in stereotypes for a moment; would one stomp out women discussing the latest manufactured reality-television drama? Or make-up? Or fashion? Shopping? Footwear?

Women discussing fashion choices, shoes or reality television at work may lead to birdish behaviour. It may even encourage them to cover each others faces in yogurt and cucumber-slices and perming each others hair whilst discussing last months period or the lack of batteries in their monstrous vibrators. For that is the only thing women talk about, right? Vibrators and periods?

One would not be amiss in thinking that this would make men feel less than included in the conversation. It should be curbed so that all and one might feel included in the workplace.

It has to be equal, after all. All and one must feel included. So any topic of discussion (stereo)typically feminine must be curbed, lest it leads to men not feeling included.

If there is one thing feminism has been, and continue to be, remarkably good at, it is infantilizing women. It is painting women as absolutely incapable of dealing with anything. It is painting women as egotistical entitled twats who demand that everything revolves around them. If it does not, then women must be protected from it. Clearly to such an extent that women must be protected from topics of discussion which they are not interested in.

At the same time, it proves that it views men as inherently more mature and capable than women. For men not only accept that not every bloody discussion has to involve something that is of particular interest to them, men are expected to do so. Just as mature adults should be expected to do, of course. In fact; men are mature enough, and are considered to be mature enough, to accept that people do not have to bend over backwards to accommodate their slightest whim and fancy. Women, apparently, are not considered mature enough to accept that people sometimes discuss things that are outside their sphere of interest. Still, it considers men as absolutely incapable of acting properly without a woman being present to supervise them, since women are more mature and definitely more moral, prim and proper and all that jazz.

The whole ting is bloody ridiculous. Bring forth the fainting couches gentlemen; there is a strong and independent whamen coming to work here!

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 19.02.2020

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Internet So Dangerous, part 1

«Forbidden Fruit»

The internet is dangerous, I’ve been told. Particularly for women. Because of course it is, as are all things. If you do not know that by now, buddy-boy, you are either blind or you are deaf or you are stupid. There’s no two ways about it: if it happens somewhere, no matter whom it happens to, women are most affected. At least it must be spun that way.

Still, one should be fairly safe on the internet if one takes care and watches ones steps, as it were. However, since it is such a dangerous, such a wild and wacky place – particularly for women – I thought it would be of interest to write on the terrible dangers of the internet, for all the world to marvel at and furthermore dismiss.

Beyond the borders of the screen, where all sanity goes to die, women are in grave and terrible danger… horribly assaulted by the fell misogynistic males who traverse and guard the dankest pits, the most nauseating cesspools of the internet. Most of the internet is a hive of scum and villainy, as one would well expect, populated by men as it is. As long as you do not talk about / B /, though,you ought to be safe.

Now, me being a naive and innocent gentleman and scholar; naught but a humble thought-crime salesman in fact, I have of course never traversed the dangerous tundra that is / B /. I am far too gentlemanly, far too delicate, for such an endeavour. I can not talk about it for not having experienced it, in fact, so I do not talk about / B /. Yet, as I have understood it through the scholarly articles I have read on the topic, / B / is where all hope and dreams goes to die. It is a graveyard for all that is good and noble and feminine and true, a massgrave for sugar and spice and everything nice. As such, it is for fools as myself who still cling to a tiny floating burrito of hope, of course, out of reach and out of bounds.

There used to be a certain sense of personal freedom, of individual liberty, of anonymity on the internet. Even when it is solely populated by garbage-people clothed in phallic symbolism. Beyond hope, I hope that it will one day return. With gusto, with wild, furious, maddening songs and battlecries, roaring… triumphant trumpets blaring wildly in the echoing cavern where the censorship-brigades lie weeping for having lost the battle…

But it is not this day. Nor is it the day after today or the day after tomorrow. I fear that it will be a good and long while until we are allowed to be anonymous again.

Net-neutrality is all but dead.

Just as God is dead.

And we killed it, just as we killed him.

All of us, with our weeping and our inaction, our apathy and our lethargy.

We killed it.

And so it has become legend.

And so it has become myth…

Legend and myth; morality tales told to children sitting lonely and sleepless in bed at night, tales to make them behave…

If you don’t behave, child, anonymity will find you. For anonymous is legion.”

And the child will tremble and hide its freckled face beneath the covers, wishing that the tale will both end and continue… the duality of peoplekind as only a child, in its adoring innocence, can portray it.

Fear, and love, terror and intrigue all in a pint-sized package.

The child has been told all its life that Anonymous never forgives; that Anonymous can be a horrible, senseless, uncaring monster… it is the creepy sounds outside at night… like fingernails scratching at the window… wolves howling at the door… blizzards that turn to ghostly screams in the child’s mind… Anonymous is still able to deliver, despite being long dead. It is a ghost, a ghoul, a zombie, a demon, sent to kill and to maim and to ensnare the child’s soul… to capture it for an eternity of torment in the very bowels of hell.

As expected, Anonymous is particularly fond of young female victims… male children do not run free of them, of course. They will be twisted and malformed; forced into obedience, made to succumb to the wicked weirdness of the internet… forced to merge and to become Anonymous themselves.

But the girls… oh, the girls… their fate is better left unsaid, so as to create unfathomable horrors as warnings in the tender minds of young girls so that they shall never dare step outside the boundaries set there by their opulent masters; so that they shall stay in their proper place and later turn and run and weep so that the government and various tech-giants shall finally slay the mythical beast that is, and shall forever be, known as Anonymous. For, in order for the censorship-brigades to win and Anonymous to lose, girls and women must be irrationally afraid and angry at that which they have been told makes them afraid, all the time.

Following such observations, one sits, as one does, browsing Twitter. Beholding, watching and – yet again – observing all the twats that tweet and twatter about everything, yet managing, by some strange magic, to say absolutely nothing.

It is naught but free-form forums limited to snark and salvation in equal measure. With rules of conduct so strange and convoluted as to be impenetrable. Denser than the densest dope, stranger than the strangest stranger.

Supposedly, the rules of conduct apply to everyone equally. And so it should be safe, even for women. Yet, as one will experience time and again: there are no real rules about posting.

This is self-evident, as people are still allowed to be mean towards women online. The fact that people are mean – often meaner in fact – towards men on the internet is of no matter, little consequence and whatever. And the uncomfortable fact that most “misogynistic” abuse encountered by women online comes from other women, not men, matters even less. For, through mental gymnastic galore and burlesque, men can still be blamed for the actions of women.

If you will allow, gentlemen, as we are all men of the world here… men who have been around the block a few times, so to speak… know what I mean, nudge nudge, wink wink? We all know, gentlemen, that being mean to women online usually means nothing more and nothing less than merely disagreeing with them.

That is harassment.

Particularly when facing down a stampeding feminist, or a stampeding horde of feministas.

It is pure vile misogyny to disagree with women – particularly with feminism, and misogyny is the worstest thing there is to encounter on the internet, no matter how factual ones rebuttal to the inane ramblings of a feminist is. Non-feminist women are free game and good pickings, so have at them all you like. Yet, do not touch a feminist woman with the gentle stroke of your keyboard. That is harassment, misogyny and all that other terrible stuff. And we can not have that. For added effect, the words racism, fascism, white supremacism, rape, wifebeater, etcetera, in any one of their forms, will also be used and spent like some drunk billionaire spending money during a wild weekend in Vegas.

After a while of flawed and faulty moderation and some observations on the liberal use of the grand ban-hammer fantastic by whip-and-chain moderators, one comes to learn that there are no real rules about moderation either.

Enjoy your ban.

Pro tip: to avoid being banned, don’t refer to people as “retarded” if they ain’t retarded, yet spouting retarded arguments. Refer to them, instead, as “mentally deficient” if they ain’t mentally deficient, yet spouting mentally deficient arguments.

For those who are in the know, in the flow, in the midst of the stream – that is, the ones who count themselves as woke – are protected from moderation, as opposed to those who refuse to be ensnared by the church of woke. The prophets of woke must do something particularly egregious in order to be banned, in order to be moderated, as opposed to those who are not woke, who may be banned for the disastrous crime of disagreement. Tactics from the cult of woke include, but are not limited to, mass-reporting, harassment, doxing, dog-piling, brigading and various and sundry. There are, in fact, accounts on Twitter made for no other reason but to take down and ban the accounts of those of a political persuasion whom they do not agree with. Some of us would, perhaps, consider these poor people as having no life, no purpose, whatsoever. But, then again, some of us are merely hateful, bigoted and various and sundry and so can be easily ignored and dismissed.

The cult of woke is a peculiar and confusing thing, and its adherents, its prophets, its followers and clingers-on deserve each other more than anyone has ever deserved anyone else in the whole history of hysteria.

The cult is auto-cannibalistic by its very nature, by its core design. The woke shall eat the lesser woke; the lesser woke, in turn, shall eat the woke. And the lying shall lay down with the lame.

And both shall play the blame-game, the name-and-shame-game.

Until the rapture, until the end.


Of course; one must never, under any circumstances, migrate to different sites. There must always and ever be a tech-giant monopoly, a technopoly, no matter how censoriously moderated the moderators chose to moderate, no matter how much of a cancerous polyp on the anus of humanity they may be.

The message delivered then is a simple one: if you enjoy any rival sites – don’t!

For the rival sites are filled with Neo-Nazi scumfucks, crypto-fascist marginalizers, male supremacist white-faced smirkers and other such terrible entities, who, by their vague association with the fundamentally flawed and faithfully fascist concept of free speech, wishes for nothing but the subordination of women and other disadvantaged minority-groups. (the fact that women are not a minority does not factor into it. Minority does not mean what it used to mean, due to the voodoo of lackademia.) These sites must, by necessity, be taken down as best they can be taken down, banned and shadowbanned and blacklisted by the tech-giants and the iron-glove with which they rule the internet.

It does not matter what one says, it does not matter what one does. Supporting and frequent other sites than the bulbous sites that the tech-giants have conjured forth from the abyss means that you are, in fact, a fascist. Fascist being yet another of the vague in-vogue-words that no-one really knows what means any more, yet spend until it is completely spent and pointless.

In the glowing light of the Technopolis, all your carefully picked arguments can be ignored. For no-one knows your own mind better than those who have decided to ignore your position and your words, your actions and your deeds in order to push and present their smear-job caricature of you.

Anything you say can and will be used against you.

Anything you say can be turned into something else.

Your opinion as well as the fact of the matter matters little.

The hive-mind hath spoken.

The hive-mind is always right.

So it is.

The hive-mind and its tactics change according to the whims and will and fancy of Ms. Queen Bee Supreme. (Ms. Queen Bee Supreme of course being the current societal, cultural or academic feminist or social justice warrior zeitgeist.)

Lately, over on the men’s rights subreddit – which I frequent often, though in the guise of a ghost… always reading, never writing – concern-trolling has become the latest trend and tactic of the hive-mind scorned by concern for men.

Alongside the obscene assault of concern-trolling, one may often encounter seven thousand varieties of the “not real feminism” fallacy.

Which is to be expected. Most subscribers to the ideology of feminism know precious little about feminism, it appears. Those who oppose it know quite a lot about it. Know thy enemy, as the saying goes.

Scratch the surface, and the point, the rust and muck, of the exercise – that is, the concern-trolling, the attempted tone-policing – becomes as clear as the empty gaze of a vacuous garden-variety feminist.

The point of the exercise is, of course, furthering the feminist agenda and the eternal feminist talking-points, one feigned concern, one falsely presented empathetic gaze at the plight of men at a time. (One can easily spot it by seeing them use the term toxic masculinity over and over again.)

These people ought to be ignored.

Just as we do not negotiate with terrorists, we do not argue with trolls. It means that they win.

They are there to spread pestilence, famine, war and death. No matter the mask they wear at the moment.

The best tactic is to ignore them. Let them scream, splutter and blubber into the void of their own dismal sense of “equality”.

In doing so, they will potentially learn that the harder they try, the harder they will fail. Of course; this is somewhat doubtful. These people never learn from their mistakes. Instead, they double down, convincing themselves that if they fail in epic proportion, it may just become a winning failure.

I blocked the bastards, see?! That means I won!!”

Followed by a long and drawn-out REEEEEEEEEEEE, a lengthy herp and some epic derp.

Even if they do believe themselves to be winners, there is comfort in the knowledge that every win fails eventually.

Every imagined win is destined to fail.

And the mighty do fall and the tremulous do tremble for every fall.

Yet, the trembling forces tremble on, marching towards the gates and winning inch by bloody inch.

Hate-speech and hate-laws and crimes of a hateful nature.

As long as that which is hated is what they do not wish to be hated.

What they themselves may hate is quite alright… for their hate is not hate, it is, instead, opposition to oppression. And the oppressed have every right to hate their oppressors. In the heat of the moment, the troglodytes, goblins, orcs, ogres and nincompoops forget that everything that can be labelled can be hated… that one can not condition hatred, stupid as hatred very well may be, out of people.

One can not force someone to like something, to love something, to approve of something. That is quite contrary to liberty. Like it or not, to live in a free society is to allow for people to hate what they hate, to love what they love, even if one disagrees. Not allowing for this is to not live in a free society. Particularly egregious is this when both allowing and celebrating certain types of hate against certain groups.

When mere criticism of one group gets labelled hate, whilst actual calls for genocide and violence and genocidal violence to another group is not… when this is based solely on arbitrary characteristics… one does not live in a society that is free and open and easy-going. One is living in a prison where freedom is, in fact, slavery.

Hatred may very well be stupid, futile and way too simplistic. Yet, it will never go away. When implementing laws that determine what is and is not OK to hate, all one does is push certain groups even further underground.

Hate breeds hate.

And hating certain groups is still nothing but hate, no matter ones justification, no matter whether allowed socially or accepted through laws. The more you hate it, the stronger it gets. Underground and unseen by feeble-minded nimrods who believe that nothing is to be taken seriously except that which they consider serious, which, for all intents and purposes, is anything but serious.

By which I mean that it is anything but rational. Even the most robust feminist argument is based on feelz before reelz, ya dig.

Particularly so in the latter days of our societies. With this used as truth, a woman who feels unsafe is unsafe, no matter the truth of the matter. And if a woman feels unsafe, she must be protected. Particularly on the internet, where there are so many dangers lurking right beneath the surface.

Apparently, this tale as old as time, this fainting-couch woman, is originality made manifest. Seen clearly in feminists disciples parroting feminist dogma from feminist internet-users using old tattle-tale dialectics like used-car sales-peoplekinds, presenting it as original content.

All new rims, good steering, fantastic tail-lights, good deal, brakes usually work, buy it now.

Even when it is an old and decrepit rustbucket…

Original content is original only for a few seconds before getting old. And feminism is old, ancient, dead and decaying. It is an old and decrepit rustbucket.

Still, it clings to its glory.

Burrowed in the pale and flabby skin of society like a tick, spreading disease, chronic pain and a solid case of good old ickiness. Now, it is not merely feminists who believe this. All the white knights with their bulging mass and alpha-posturing will jump out of the woodwork to defend m’lady and her honour, no matter if she is clearly in the wrong or not.

For if there is one thing one can believe in, with utmost sincerity, it is the weakness and frailty and powerlessness of the strong, powerful and empowered woman. Manufactured as it is by the frail and frantic forces of feminism and enabled by a society that swoops in to save and to shelter and protect and provide for women, no matter who suffers something more or who suffers something less.

Social justice is a farcical farce, ladies and gentlemen, and feminism is at the forefront of it all.

Because why shouldn’t it be?

If there is any talk about victimization, feminism has got to swoop in to make sure and to make certain that women are up front and centre. As original and predictable as a good old fashioned copypasta. As we all well know, being gentlemen and scholars all, the woes and worries of any given feminist is nothing but feminist copypasta. And copypasta is made to ruin every last bit of originality.

(AN:I know; I was supposed to write less about feminism and more about other things. But inspiration struck some hours ago, and now I am rambling my way through something that was supposed to be short, quick, easy, to the point and somewhat humorous. It turned out to become tender finger-gymnastics for my insomniac hop-scotch mind. Oh, well, finger my diddle and pound my nostrils – it is at the very least extraordinarily fun to write. Even when the short piece had to be split into multiple pieces on account of my rambling mind going every which where except towards the direction I pointed it at. Such is the way of things.)

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 15.02.2020

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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.


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.




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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