Walk in the Woods

«A portrait of the artist as a moon-faced assassin of joy»

Never underestimate the first cup of coffee in the morning. Never underestimate the profundity of the mundane.

This self-portrait of mine, which I use as a logo of sorts, is not some ridiculous attempt to present myself as some enlightened being, third eye wide open, capable of seeing the meaning of life, the universe and everything. Nope.

I’m afraid not. I can’t even figure out what to have for dinner.

It is far more mundane than that.

It is made to illustrate the joy of the mundane. That is: the joy of that first cup, that first jolt of caffeine in the morning. Caffeine, of course, being the best drug known to man and God’s greatest gift to humanity. As I have stated before, and will repeat here with smug self-satisfaction at such a great fucking line: the eternal quest for God begins and ends with that first cup of coffee in the morning. That is happiness. That is fulfilment. That is completion. The first cup of coffee. The absolutely mundane.

There is a lot to say about the mundane, the dull and the boring aspects of life. Everyday stuff that seem so frightfully dull – like that cup of coffee – can not possibly be wholly unremarkable. Otherwise, it wouldn’t be done in such a ritualistic manner. Over and over and over again.

To be clear: this might just be me pining for rediscovering rituals of sorts, seeing as rituals are something we have more or less forgotten in our over-civilized way of life, where people are far too busy bitching and moaning on Twitter to have anything to do with such old and archaic stuff as rituals. Or ascribing actual meaning to things, for that matter. Which, as I understand it, is what rituals are at their core – a way of ascribing meaning to certain things… like coming of age.

People are floating, untethered, from one thing to the next, from one outrage to the next… constantly seeking that social validation, that dopamine fix, that elusive dragon of superficial moral posturing, instead of grabbing hold of something substantial. And what is substantial? The first cup of coffee, a walk in the woods, a hug from your partner or your child, petting your dog. Things like that.

There is little rhyme or little reason to anything, and what was presented as both rhyme and reason in one moment is forgotten in the next moment when some new rhyme and some new reason is brought to the shattered forefront of our collective hysteria and permanently perpetuated psychosis. And this is followed by people suddenly caring about something else entirely, forgetting and disregarding the last in honour of the latest. The latest, of course, being amplified by social media takes precedence and becomes prioritized where once the last was.

In the end, after much noise… after all the sturm und drang, all the roaring and the screaming and the rioting, pillaging, looting… after all the posturing and grandstanding, the propaganda and the pointless speeches and calls to action… nothing is resolved and nothing is changed. And then it all repeats. And repeats. And repeats.

You can not soothe a rabid beast, and you can not soothe a mob of people who have not understood that life is nothing and has no meaning were it not for the mundane; that life, for the most part, is made up of the boring stuff. Which, ultimately, is the good stuff. Because it is the safe, the known, the stable stuff. Things don’t need to happen all the time for life to be exciting. Once you accept this, you realise that it is damned fucking hard to be bored.

These social justice types; the feminist types, the slacktivists and the activists and the permanently sneering and offended… it seems like such an angry, hollow, pointless existence. Never any manner of satisfaction. Merely a constant state of dissatisfaction, egged on by mass media, amped up by social media, by lies and slander and nonsense and fear and terror and dread. All manufactured, all built and maintained. A constant quest for validation, for likes, for attention, for fifteen minutes of fame, shame or, failing that, infamy. Truth is pointless, facts are meaningless, thoughts are inconsiderate, words are violence.

Feelings, on the other hand, are immediate and thus the only thing of any substance in a world that has become nothing but immediate, celebrating nothing but the immediate and the insubstantial. A world in which nothing matters more than a catchy slogan; where cancellation of those not conforming to whatever moral panic and chastity crusade is currently in vogue is the greatest thing since sliced head. Once cancelled, one does not have to contend with the fact that people do not agree with the oh-so-delicious feeling of immediate outrage.

And all this being as substantial (and as immediate) as a dry, prolonged fart.

It does not do to spread information through 24 hour news cycles, when people – including the fraudsters and charlatans presenting the fucking news – are so caught up in the immediacy of their emotional reaction to whatever “news” is presented that they neither think nor consider whatever is presented.

Shit; the news said something. Better go out and burn something. There’s no point in waiting for further information.

That one kid smirked at an indigenous man gently and soothingly beating a fucking drum in his god-damned face. Oh, the horror of the white bigotry! And a male to boot! And, ye gods, is that a MAGA cap I spy with my little, shuttered, beady eye? Oh, no, oh woe. Lets dox him, threaten him, call for violence to be enacted upon him for the crime of smiling whilst white and male.

All with the blessings of the mass-psychotic media. And all this to present themselves as fools when more facts were revealed. And then double down on the insistence of the wrong done by the kid, of course. Because no-one really cares about what actually happened. They cared about the outrage, about the sense of moral superiority, about hollow, vacuous and pointless immediate moral grandstanding. And the eternally blessed outrage. The sensation of being in the right, despite being in the wrong. The left-hand path is a weird path. But so is the right-hand path. Because life is a weird and strange journey, you see. It is a decent joke with a terrible punchline.

People are too busy being outraged to notice the follow up. Or the follow up that came after that. Or the one after that. ‘cause they got themselves all riled up. You can not stand between hysterics and their target. They are still riled up, because that is where these people want to stay. It’s just some new rile-up, some new outrage, some new opportunity to show the whole wide world wide web how freaking fantastic they are, how good, honourable, noble and so-and-such people they are. Same shit, different day. Same noise, different outrage. Same outcome, different happening.

These people are such self-centred arseholes that they can not admit to having done wrong, thought wrong, reacted or acted wrong. It bloody well is someone else’s fault, god-damnit. Because it always is. What is presented as altruism appears to me to be egotism; a chance to show how good they are. When it comes to celebrities, it becomes doubly that. A great PR opportunity, a fantastic and phenomenal way to cash in on the wave of woke. No values. Except the immediacy of the wave rushing over the world.

Stop choking yourself.

They are like spoiled children in that aspect. Immature. Caught in a prolonged adolescence where consequences are something that happen to other people. Where boredom is a constant if something does not constantly happen. Preferably if it gives them some attention from somewhere. Does not matter if the attention is negative or not.

That anger and that outrage at the boredom and the lack of purpose, the lack of self, the lack of whatever, gotta go somewhere. I stand convinced that a lot of this outrage-culture, a lot of this permanent offence, is driven in no small way by a lack of purpose and a lack of values. A lack of purpose in the sense that most of their base needs are met. The fight for survival is long over. Petty shit can now be amped up and must now be battled. Like the size of Iphones being too big. Luxury is a problem. You never see blue collared people, ordinary working class people, subscribing to the church of woke. The day-to-day existence does not give people time for that. But, you know, as is the case with the Covington kid: he was – and still is – a white privileged dude, and so he must be guilty of something since he is the chosen enemy of this particular era of human stupidity. For fuck sake. And for the sake of all the fucks that came before. And after.

This nonsense… it happens all the damned time. And has happened all the damned time. Nothing ever changes. Just the chosen enemy of the day. It comes in waves and it comes in great gusts of wind. Hard times create strong men. Strong men create good times. Good times create weak men. Weak men create hard times. And so the circle goes.

People are so eager in their wish to fight for something, to be perceived as moral, their longing for a purpose to fill that gaping hole in their soul, that they will grasp at straws in order to stay afloat… that they will throw themselves head first into whatever the latest outrage is so that they appear to care about anything but themselves… all for the social validation of their peers. And everyone and everything else. Hell; if everyone else is doing it, it must be right and true and pure and proper and noble and whatever, right?

The witch offends me. Burn the witch.

My right eye offends me. Pluck it out.

Lord, help me, I think I may be coveting my own wife! This can’t be good. Off with my balls!

And so forth and so on.

The world forgot about the mundane. About every day heroes. The small joys. Or joy at all, for that matter. It does not matter any more. Despite being what should matter most in ones life. The chase is on, the game is on, the madness has festered and true hysteria let loose. No-one shall be celebrated but the victim.

That is now profound; the fight to be perceived as a victim. It is the new hip and trendy thing. The profundity of self-imposed weakness.

The new hero is the victim; the new king the one who kneels, who throws himself prostrate at the feet of the victim. To beg forgiveness for something which he does not do, that he never did do, but have been told that he does and always have done. And so he must have done it, even if he is certain he has not.

Doesn’t matter. People must like and accept him, and so he goes with it. Into the vapid void, faceplanting magnificently, thinking “Now, they’ll accept me!”, only to realise that it only ever gets worse from there. Here’s an inch. Would you rather have a mile? The king is king no longer. He is now, and will always be, a tyrant no matter how flat he lies in the dust for people to walk all over him. The cardinal rule is to never apologize to these people. A lesser rule, which I believe is of incredible importance, is to not give them any attention. Not to speak to them, not to debate with them, but to meet and greet them with a wall of silence, to let them wallow in the misery brought by not being granted any attention.

The noise is a constant. Abhorrent madness. Uninformed and immediate. Overstimulated and senseless. Stressed out, freaking out, roaring and raging and carrying on. Today, they said this and so it must be true and I must be pissed off. The next day, they said something contradictory which is also true, but I must still be pissed off about the first thing. And the second thing.

What is really going on? Death. Chaos. Destruction. War. Famine. Pestilence.

We are being beat down and broken up into smaller and smaller tribes. The chasm is widening, the gulf opening, the wound opened and opened again. To sow the seeds of discontent.

Women versus men.

Black versus white.

Tribe versus tribe.

As it once was, so it shall be.

Forever and ever.

Amen.

One can never be content when something new is constantly manufactured to sow the seeds of discontent.

Doesn’t matter if it is true. What matters is the outrage, what matters is that it may cause this and that to change. Engineered change. To put the one above the other, the other below the one. Forcing the personal to become political; allowing the state to peek into the homes of everyone. Governing all in minute detail.

Can’t say that, can’t read that, can’t watch that, can’t think that.

We’re monitoring your internet, storing your data. All for your safety. You’ve got to understand. Don’t worry, we’re only here to protect you from those horrible others. And from yourself. Your safety is our top concern. That’s why we are watching your every step and banning you from saying certain things.

Someone might get offended, and that would make you unsafe. And no-one should feel unsafe.

And no-one should feel offended. Except you, of course. You can not be offended for reasons of superficial privilege, or something. Hell, I don’t know – we’re just making this shit up as we go along.

There is nothing of substance here, nothing but a fart and a farce. A grim dance of death and a funeral march carried on by people who don’t necessarily know or even realize that this is what they are doing.

*

I didn’t go for many walks in the woods last year. For reasons of severe sleep deprivation and illness, I was more or less confined to my sofa, lacking the energy to do much of anything but write, ramble, rant and rave.

Being riddled with so much pain – probably due to sleep deprivation (it is a vicious circle) – that any activity was a difficult activity. Fatigue and pain does not make for good companions in bed. No matter how small of an activity, it was draining.

Now – some days were better than others, and so I was capable of getting out and moving about a bit. This year is better in that regard, as I have been on many a walk in the woods. I aim for two walks in the woods a day. Preferably an hour each, though this is not a strict rule.

Have you ever just gone for a walk in the woods? Left your phone at home and forgot about it? It is well worth it. Good way to collect your thoughts. Good way to think at all, really. Just the movement, the silence, the smells. It is phenomenal. I highly recommend it to anyone. Preferably alone, as solitude is a necessity for thinking things through. And men especially need their solitude. No hassle, no noise, no constant yap-yap-yap from anyone or anything. Just you and your thoughts. And the eventual release of stress.

Never underestimate a simple walk in the woods. Never underestimate the power of the mundane.

  • Moiret Allegiere, 27.06.2020
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My Generation Killed Rock «n» Roll:
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Howling at a Slutwalk Moon, a collection of previous blog posts:
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Vol 1 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZTPDPR
Vol 2 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075714184
Vol 2 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZR25NL
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Taken for a ride

«Junk»

Motherfucker’s just riding the wave, from here, from now, all the way to the end of the line.
Caught in the flow, in the ebb and in the tide, round bricks in square holes…
pegged by their empty-headed mistress and experiencing phantom pains when the same multi-gendered mistress kicks them in the balls.
You know: you’ve all been taken for a ride.

Bang, boom, crash and burn.
Until the end of the line.
You’ve all been taken for a ride.

The sky is falling. Our bridges are burnt.
Resolution is right around the corner.
Straight past the bend, at the junction of the revolution.
You’ve all been taken for a ride.

Spoilt to the core. Superficially inclined.
So-called “proletarians” eating muck and bile crammed into the blood-stained utopia of safe-zone education; cell-shaded limelights atop the pedestrian pedestal where browbeating brown-nosed sycophantic children play in oncoming traffic, disregarding the hole from whence the madness came.
You’ve all been taken for a ride.

No truth beyond the perimeters.
The city is falling.
Future is bright shimmering dollhouse-blue.

Little boxes filled with faeces… flaming flamingo feminists celebrating their gargantuan gargled abortions in streets flowing with white-feather-shame.
Hedonism on the rise, decadence in vogue, debauchery the sad uncertain sign of the times… spoiled children of obscene overabundance doing the happy-slap dance of too much free-time and not enough real problems…
White saviour complex rising in throats filled with enemas and acid reflux… The idea of the noble savage broke through the walls and through the fences of anthropological history. Soft bigotry of low expectations is all fine and dandy, brother. I take a knee against muh much mulched raci-ma-tisms and sir’s succulent sexism. Because why not – everyone else is doing it. It’s on the national news, nagger, now, kneel, nagger-boy, kneel.

You’ve all been taken for a ride.

My dear Lumpies and Gravy-trains: You’ve all been taken for a ride.
Twice past the moon-shined gunk left behind by your father as he was booed and booted out the door of your gimpishly acidic house, You’ve all been taken for a ride.

An entire generation born and bred on reality television, on side-walked, side-stepped, by-passed and bipolar twisted reality, beat and broken into the mould of hysterically inclined historical revisionism… pestilent and penitent faces staring us up and down, pointing fingers and saying: “Look at me – I’m history now”.
We’ve all been taken for a ride.

There’s no future when there’s no plan.
Tic tac toe.
No future and nowhere to go.
Tic tac toe.
For fear of brutal beat-downs by the squawking gutter-mouths, the silent majority stay silent through the shaming, finger-pointing, acid-flinging, shit-stained brutality of the hissyfit-mob. The peaceful and the so serene mob of pyromaniac free-falling formless freaks; the glob, the blob that is the beast, that is the mob.
We’ve all been taken for a ride.

Ah, yes, we’re all racists now.
Ah, yes, we’re all sexist chauvinistic pigs right now.

Hey, now, wait but a tender minute minute boy, girl, girlish boy and boyish girl; white feminism is so last year, so passé, so out of touch and out of tune. In fact, it is even more passé than white-feather-feminism!

Shame!
Shame!
Shame!

We don’t need that privileged white bird feminism in this day, dawn and age of the multicultural, of the globular, the idiosyncratic intersectional intermesso-mess.

Boot and boo the white birds out. Now: watch as this morose moon-mad movement makes a massacre of itself.

All for love.
All for kindness.
All for diversity and for inclusion.
All for gabble-gabble, goba gaba, one of us, one of us!

And a slight smidgeon of auto-cannibalism.
Or auto-erotic asphyxiation.
Don’t forget the slice of lemon.

And so it timidly tumbles.
Washed away and wasted.
Time and terror wasted.
Shame and shaming wasted.
New age rat-hole wasted.

As we’re still being taken for a ride.

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 24.06.2020

My Generation Killed Rock «n» Roll:
Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B089DHKBQB
Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B089M59JXF

Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07ZB6K2JX
Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1692495518

Howling at a Slutwalk Moon, a collection of previous blog posts:
Vol 1 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/107571074X
Vol 1 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZTPDPR
Vol 2 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075714184
Vol 2 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZR25NL
Vol 1 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075717094
Vol 2 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075723078

Other links:
Parler.com: @MoiretAllegiere
Blog: https://moiretallegiere.wordpress.com/
YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC3IaCxAXE3pQd7PCdvHoaaA
Bitchute: https://www.bitchute.com/channel/EvbGZyTZSraY/
twatter: https://twitter.com/MAllegiere
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Minds: https://www.minds.com/Moiret
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Is noting that nothing is

«Squeaky Grease Gets the Wheel»

Left foot, left foot, left foot, march.

In a circle.

Continually.

Permanently.

Expanding and expanding.

And moving towards nothing.

The communal howl of the western world is at this moment, and has been for years upon years, one of victimhood and of oppression. Then came all these wonderful words like “diversity” and “inclusion” and whatever else could fit in our noggins. These words, if one is to be perfectly honest, translates into “no white dudes”. Because, in the western world you’ve got to understand, all white dudes are the oppressors and so they are privileged from being the majority. Despite men in fact being a minority. Yet, words no longer mean what they actually mean. Minority does not mean minority any more than majority actually means majority. Now, it is all seen in the strange light of the new jargon; blasted into some peculiar new meaning from over-educated academics who dominate the discourse and, in so doing, trick the sleeping masses to believe in the new-speak of the current year.

Language, I have come to realise, is a play-thing for the high-and-mighty academes; a BDSM-slave tied up in their basement there to do their bidding and for their amusement.

Besides: all has become subjective, not objective. Objective fact is a conceptual social construct-bogeyman manufactured in the evil scientist laboratory of white supremacist patriarchs of the third order. Or something to that effect. I’m not even joking. Stating otherwise is offensive.

If you were to add the freemasons to the mix, you’d get yourself a glorious conspiracy-theory to rival all the other conspiracy theories. I have mentioned this before, yet it will tolerate repetition: I prefer either the illuminati or the reptilians to the grand patriarchal conspiracy-theory of history. At the very least, the reptilian theory is entertaining. Besides: any thinking tin-foil hat wearer ought to prefer one of these to the patriarchy. The nebulous patriarchy is way too unbelievable to be true. Believing in the patriarchy theory is to believe that men as a group are so mischievous, so malevolent, so wicked and so lacking in basic human decency that they willingly, knowingly and with malice aforethought have oppressed and victimized women through all of history. How, one wonders, can one claim to not harbour any ill will towards men if one is to believe that men are, at their root, as evil as this? At the same time, it purports that women are so weak of will, so fragile and so incapable of any action in any direction as to put up with this for all of history. It does not paint a particularly nice picture of women or men. I am so rude that I just so happen to have more faith in women in general than all that. Imagine that. I don’t believe women are as weak as feminism presents women to be.

In order for feminism to thrive, women have to be seen as – and consider themselves as – weak, frail and incapable; eternally victimized and terrified. Not a pretty picture to paint. And then to present this as some manner of strength is… Hell, I don’t know… ridiculous?

Yet; I am but a humble privileged white dude, and so my inherent privilege refuses me both the right and the ability to speak on certain topics.

One can easily figure out what these forbidden topics are by observing which feminist fables or social justice fabrications are easily countered by the horrible and extremely oppressive patriarchal invention of actual god-damned facts. Or merely a simple, yet effective counter-argument. Or just your average, every day, rational observations.

“No uterus, no opinion” is one such slogan meant to make the horrible men not have a single say on the topic of abortion, for example. Which is interesting, of course, as it takes two to tango. That is to say: it takes two to get pregnant. This don’t matter none, though – the contributions of the father to the pregnancy, to the birth and to the raising of a child is not important in the least. This has been hammered into us for some fifty years. The nuclear family must be torn down. Sperm don’t matter. The father don’t matter. All pregnancies and all births are nothing but the sole product of the mother.

I just read a (feminist of course) woman on Reddit claim that a child belongs to the mother. Emphasis must be put on the word belongs. She carries it. And so the child is entirely her possession, apparently. Yet the child is not her sole responsibility. The father must take responsibility. Preferably in the form of child support. Even when he has no say in anything, and even when the child apparently is the sole possession of the mother. The child, after all, belongs to the mother. The financial responsibility belongs to the father. Though he is not, as the gargantuan fraud and sham of feminism and gynocentrism will say, necessary in the raising of the child. Fathers are not important. All births are virgin births; all children a product of the holy communion between a woman and God the father-mother. The woman, of course, being impregnated by the holy spirit through the right ear, left nostril, or some other unmentionable cavity.

By that same logic, one would assume that women should not have a single say on the topic of male genital mutilation, then, as they have no penis. Or on anything to do with men. A not insignificant number of women – especially in the USA – seem to have fetishized male genital mutilation. “It just looks better”, they’ll say. The most absurd, and I would dare say perverse, things I have heard from women in regards to male genital mutilation is that the penis of their baby boy will look better for future partners, and that it must look like the penis of the father. I struggle to not shudder at this. Surely, I can’t be the only one who finds this somewhat disturbing? “I want the penis of my baby boy to look beautiful, otherwise no woman would put it in her. It must also resemble the penis of the father, and so it must be cut”.

Now – reverse the sexes. And see if the reaction remains the same from this rat-infested den that is the world. It really should not be that difficult to stop mutilating the genitals of babies.

When it comes to baby boys, it apparently is remarkably difficult. Muh religious freedom, and all that. This was the response I got from the government when I brought this up. Which does not cover the freedom of the baby from religion. (Or the religious freedom of those who wish to mutilate the genitals of their daughters – that is illegal. As it damned well should be. Yet – where is their religious freedom, if you want to use that piss-pot argument?) But, of course, the baby is the property of the mother. Apparently. Despite there being huge governmental systems put in place to save children from abusive parents. As there bloody well ought to be. Children are precious, and they should be protected from abuse. Except baby boys. Of course.

And so: which is it? If the child is the property of the mother, surely the mother should be allowed to do whatever she wants with it, right? Right. Fucking morons with their blindfolds and double-speech.

Yet, there is no use for moral, factual or medical arguments. The only thing one needs to say, if we all are to play by the same rules, is this: no foreskin, no opinion.

You perverse filth.

Still: feminism – women overall, really, yet fuelled by the frantic fire of feminism – see no qualms in telling men how our lives are, how we actually feel, why we do what we do and whatever else. Very interesting. Men can never understand what life is like for a woman. (Unless one transitions from male to female… but Male to Female trans-people don’t matter when they don’t align… or when the TERF-wars are made manifest in the news or in society overall… whatever.) Nor can a man know what life is like for a man, apparently. Women, of all stripes and from all walks of life, are perfectly able to understand – to intuitively know – what life is like for a man. Of course. They have all the right in the world to speak on behalf of men’s lives, no matter how very obviously imagined, manufactured or creepily insane. And, of course, no matter what men say in opposition. When it comes to the lives of men, only women are allowed to speak about it. Or, well, only feminism and their pestilent potato-army are allowed to speak about it. For there is but one God, and that God is the secular carpet-munching deity of feminism. Which, one assumes, is the same God that keeps impregnating all these women with children who don’t need no fathers (except the wallet of a father) or whatever and what-not.

In the mass-manufactured madness of the current year, the victimhood-olympics are in full swing; the drooling insanity of the flaccid blue-balled or blue-waffled mob is in control of the discourse. The reins have been handed over to the lunatics. Mass-psychosis brought on by garden variety lullabies and pop psycho-babble reign supreme. Everyone must be heard and must be seen as being oppressed… and their oppressors are, by and large, white men.

Of course.

All of them privileged, all of them oppressors, all of them wicked and evil and tricksy and false. And all of them counted as strong and resilient enough to deal with this barrage of hostility, ad hominem attacks and whatever else that not only attack them on a personal level, but also attack their very identity as men. As masculine. As doers, movers and shakers. If you will allow me some gendered generalizations of supreme offensiveness.

The circumstances of our birth; the colour of our skin and the form and function of our genitalia the only thing needed to be pointed out in order to shut us up. Check your white male privilege. Check mate, you fiend. Now, take a knee. Kneel, I say, kneel! Now, come over here and suck mommas cock.

It seemed, when I first started noticing this god-damned guffaw, sometime in 2013 or thereabout, that it all just sprung up over night. Which, of course, is not true. It has been coming for decades, and it has been gaining momentum. More and more and more.

Choo-choo say the train of insanity and obscenity; Choo-fucking-god-damned-motherslapping-choo.

Over time, I came to the stark, grim and terrifying realisation that this rhetoric; this guilt-inducing, shame-peddling, qualm-manufacturing nonsense did not pop out of some vacuum. Remembering my own days as a naive and hopeful, somewhat innocent and optimistic schoolboy – the rhetoric was there already, presented by teachers peddling bogus information and tall feminist tales (amongst other things) as though they were absolute fact. Opposition was not accepted. Arguments to the contrary not answered, but huffed away with the trademarked sneer and scowl of a feminist scorned. The further into education I got, the worse it became. Art-school was the worst. As one would expect. Who, in their right mind, would ever study art? Someone not in their right mind. That’s who.

I’ve rambled about this before. And I won’t bore you with it again. Suffice it to say that my ramblings on my experiences in school has been referred to as “lies and bullshit”, and let’s leave it at that. Because of course it is: a man’s experience is not his own. It belongs to the dragon dominating the discourse; the vapid venom-spewing serpent hiding behind the equality-peddling monotonous drool of their supreme ruler. Besides: it is way to horrifying to realise, to understand and to accept what our society is doing to boys and young men. And so it must be denied instead, any exposition and explanation of what has happened and what does happen must be dismissed. Above all, the holy sea-cow of feminism must be protected from any criticism; its faults and flaws, lies and bullshit be hidden from view.

One would think that accusations of lies and bullshit ought to be replied to with an angry keyboard and low, guttural growls. Yet I can’t be bothered with it. Except for now, obviously. I know it to be true. And I know their accusations to be untrue.

This goes for any accusation of misogyny, of racism, of fascism, of Nazism, of white supremacy, of this or of that; whatever nonsensical label of shame is currently being used by the hordes of sneering and rampaging social justice fuckwits. Don’t be bothered with it. If it ain’t true, it ain’t true. There’s no point in defending oneself against such accusations. When the truth is that you ain’t A, it does not matter how many times these cowardly receptacles of insufferable indoctrination will say that you are, in fact, A.

The truth is what matters, I think. When the truth is the truth, the shaming tactics are lies. As long as you know the truth, accusations of allegiance to the unholy vermin of the day does not matter in the least. Do not give them the time of day. And – not least of all – never apologize to these people. They will use that apology as a stick to beat you with.

For my part: arguing with random rancid reptilians on the internet won’t amount to much except clog my sinuses and bring me internal bleeding from the stress of unwanted social interactions. Sometimes, I wonder if I am an undiagnosed autist.

Come to think of it: they burst the bubble of my safe space! I call sexual assault and ovary-acting woman-spreading cunt-plaining of the third degree!

Of course: I understand the idea of referring to my experiences in school as lies and bullshit. That which is asserted without evidence can be dismissed without evidence.

Yet, I struggle to understand what I would win… what I would gain by lying about something like that. I also struggle to understand how I am supposed to conjure up evidence from so many years ago. It’s not as though I am winning any popularity contests by writing about what I write about. Quite the contrary, in fact. The truth of the matter is that the social punishments – if one wish to look at it like that – is far greater than any social rewards. Going against the established status quo is a lonely path, as these things go. Still, it is what it is. If people don’t believe me, that is all fine and dandy. And if people believe me – hell, that’s even more fine and dandy. Anyhow; that’s more than enough about that. Fuck if I don’t get a bit riled up about this despite all I say to the contrary. Time to go pet my dogs and drink some more coffee. Caffeine is a nice substitute for painkillers. And so are dogs.

To not notice the male-bashing… the anti-male sentiments of the vapid void that is the western world, is to be blinded. To not notice the cultural revolution; the Maoist refurbishing of society – out with the old and in with the new – tearing down statues, getting rid off, or rewriting books based either on the sex and race of the author or some unpalatable-in-this-world-of-woke sentence within, is to be blind and deaf. (Don’t know what it’s like in other places, but the alteration of literature has begun over here. The father of Pippi Longstockings is no longer a “king of the negroes”. He is now naught but a humble sea-faring king.) You don’t bloody change art or culture just because it is not suitable for the current sensibilities. Shit; it’s only a matter of time before people start bursting into museums, wielding paint and brush, painting clothes on the naked women present in the works of the old masters. So as not to offend. Unless the naked woman is a feminist statement, of course.

This blindness to the cultural hatred, the cultural shaming, is made manifest either by will or by indoctrination. To not simultaneously notice the constant attacks on that terrifying concept of “whiteness” (whatever the rancid fuck that means) is to clog ones ears and pour bohemian bleach in ones eyes. Yet, it is all considered justified through some perversion.

Muh whiteness is muh raci-ma-tisms. Muh maleness is muh soggy knees. Muh oppressors are muh raci-ma-tist soggy kneed white men. It is all muh problematisms, and it must all be potatoed out.

It is all identity-politics, it is all collectivism, and it is all nonsensical. I’m not buying it for a second. Nor, I think, should anyone. Yet it is gobbled up with lustre and with guts and with glory. Rage running rampant in the radical sphere of young people’s minds, here to rebel against what is perceived to be the establishment and the status quo. As is how things naturally go. In the line of fire, they never noticed that they are the establishment.

Young people… the youth… are supposed to rebel. It is a natural part of growing up, such as I have understood it: a part of establishing independence. Independence filled with piss and vinegar. And loads and loads of booze. And cigarettes.

However; such as our societies are today, our adolescence has been lengthened so that people stay in a bubble of prolonged adolescence, never maturing and never really growing up… acting sixteen at the age of 25, or beyond. I would dare propose that an immature mind will seek social validation above all else; will consider the validation of their peers to be more important than truth, than reason, than functionality. And when the minds don’t mature as they should… when adolescence is prolonged out of some fear, I suppose, some terror about growing up and taking bloody responsibility, or whatever… then we’ve got a problem. Then we’ve got an entire generation of me, me, me who can not stand disagreement, who can not fathom that somewhere, some one is in disagreement with them, who seek nothing but validation, who do nothing but posture profoundly about their remarkably good moral character, their phenomenal altruism, their radical hatred of the pale and male and stale (which somehow does not contradict their kind and inclusive altruism), their inclusion into the fold of all the other hateful and spiteful, vacuous and vapid lost souls of the world who don’t really understand that what they are seeking, what they are – in fact – lacking, is a greater purpose that is not found in social validation but in knowing and coming to terms with oneself, warts and all.

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 20.06.2020

My Generation Killed Rock «n» Roll:
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Howling at a Slutwalk Moon, a collection of previous blog posts:
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Vol 2 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZR25NL
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The goose that lay the golden squabble

«Cross the frozen borderline»

Deal with it, forget about it, don’t give a fuck about it.

The identity-pundits are pining for relevance. This nonsensical outrage-culture of ours is the fabled goose that lay the golden egg for those who wish to be seen as relevant… for those who look for a higher purpose; a purpose greater than themselves. Outrage sells and mob-rule is a frightening thing. People throw themselves at it with all the filth and the fury a bored and overeducated upper-class twit could ever muster.

God-damnit, but we need something to fight and to champion, for fuck sake. Gotta be some banner to flock behind so that we don’t fade into irrelevance and have to look at ourselves for a change… ain’t nothing the fuck wrong with me… it’s the rest of the world that needs to change. And such is the way of it, trickling down from moronic diatribes posing as intellectual lectures breeding revolutionaries perfecting the art of petty squabbles solely to distract from what is really going on behind the scenes: honest-to-god cultural revolution.

We’ve had it so good – relatively speaking – for so long that we don’t really know what struggle is, it seems… people are lost in a vacuum, soulless and squabbling, manufacturing first-world outrage to get a sense of reason and of relevance, of purpose and of pathways. There are many paths towards fulfilment, I believe. Screaming and raging about absolute nonsense ain’t one of them. At the very least it’ll fill that gaping hole in the soul for about fifteen minutes.

Then it is to be replaced with the new outrage as one refuses to look at the gaping hole in the soul and fill it with some manner of personhood… of cultivating an actual personality for a change.

I honestly believe that if one works on bettering oneself, all good will follow.

Instead of celebrating ones god-damned neurosis and mental health issues, learn to deal, to cope, to conquer and come out the other side.

Fucking god-damned safe-zones and trigger-warnings do nothing but let the wound keep festering. Overcoming anxiety, for example, means exposing oneself to that which causes anxiety.

Hell: I struggled with anxiety to the point of being a complete shut-in for many years, until I kicked myself in the arse and challenged it. Damned fucking difficult it was, yet it was bloody well worth it.

I remember suffering an extreme panic-attack whilst standing in line at the post-office. Shaking and sweating and with that bloody numbness in my face and that fucking tightness in my chest which makes one get that sudden sense of impending doom. Still, I got my pale, sweaty, shaking arse to the counter and did what I was there to do. In the process I learned a valuable lesson: getting the bloody mail, going outside ain’t gonna kill me.

…then I got kicked out of a supposed “mental health support group” on Facebook by pointing out this simple fact: it is possible to get better, but it lies with oneself first and foremost. These groups on Facebook, man… they are not focused on healing, for the most part. They are focused on wallowing in self-pity: on remaining ill, on comparing illnesses to see whose got it worse and whose got it better. “Help me wallow in misery, pretty please!” Now, of course, I am painting with a broad brush here. I’m sure that some of these groups are actually focused on healing from whatever ailment instead of wallowing in it and celebrating it.

People riling one another up – or, rather, dragging one another down – into the utter depths of despair is a peculiar thing to see. Particularly so when getting kicked the fuck out for being bold enough to proclaim that healing and recovery is possible, one just has to work on oneself, challenge oneself and whatever and what-not. The reason for me being kicked out was that I was “twisting reality”, whatever the bloody hell that means.

Social media is anything but social. I would dare propose that it is anti-social.

And yet, in the murky muddied depths of anti-social media, the eternal quest for purpose and for petty squabbles carry on. Gotta stay frightened, gotta stay outraged, gotta stay mentally ill, gotta stay working towards some greater good which is, well, whatever, undefined and unapproachable by those who are not woke enough and thusly not human enough to warrant any consideration from the permanently offended middle-to-upper-class twits whose got nothing better to do with their lives than be over-educated simpletons, screaming into their pillows at night because the moonlight shining through their curtains is too bright and the government ought to intervene and fix the moon. Hell, blow it out of the sky. The moon is way too reminiscent of the eye of Sauron, or something like that. And that is just way too damned terrifying.

For lacking any real problems in life – for lacking any purpose and in order to fill that gaping hole in the soul; the void left by unimaginative and soul-sucking boredom and vapid descents into complete and utter irrelevancy, the fantasy-race of Orcs are something to get professionally offended about. The supposedly horrible woman-hating slur “Karen” weren’t enough of a nonissue to get up in arms over, unfortunately. That the whole nonissue of the Karen-slur appears to be started by someone who considers all men to be subhuman scum that ought to be placed in concentration-camps is of little relevance. “Karen” is more offensive than all that, which ought to tell one a whole hell of a lot about the world which we live in and how said world views men. But, oh, well, never mind and no matter – no mind and never matter. The first rule of this life is that men, as a group, may be subject to whatever the hell and women, as a group, may not be subject to anything except pampering, provision and protection. Which, one assumes, ultimately leads to either women being confined to their homes for their safety from the horrible men out there, or men being placed in concentration-camps at worst or given a curfew at best… in order to protect the poor and frail whamens who see rapists and murderers behind every beer-bellied t-shirt and beer-quaffing blue-collared slob. It seems that the Karen-outrage from the permanently offended and sneering Karens out there didn’t get quite the traction the morons were hoping for. Instead, it achieved mockery and contempt. As it bloody well fucking should.

Honk, bloody honk, you magnificent bastards – honk, bloody honk. Now, let me talk to the fucking manager.

The fantasy race of Orcs, you see, have become a picture of dark-skinned individuals; a pernicious portrait of the coloured people of colour… a dastardly demented way of telling people of a certain pigmentation that they are savage sub-humans. Apparently. It is an affront and an attack on specific races and specific cultures that are, according to the winds of woke, socialized into violence and into brutality and savagery and barbarism and whatever else.

Now; the more observant amongst us will probably have noticed that the only ones who are openly drawing the lines between the savagery of the Orc and the supposed savagery of the “lesser races” are the ones who are supposedly opposed to viewing certain groups of people in this light.

One wonders, then, why these warriors for social justice; these enlightened individuals of wokeness – all so white as to be transparent, and so woke as to be abhorrent, one must add – draw these lines between the uncivilized, savage and barbarian Orcs and certain genetic populations of particular cultural adherence. One would not be amiss in stating, quite bluntly, that this reflects more on them than on any one else engaged in pen-and-paper role-playing, or wherever else the Orcs pop up as a terrible depiction of these genetic populations; these savage cultures where man-flesh is eternally on the menu. Feminism comes calling for man-flesh, one assumes. The age of men is over; tonight they’ll taste man-flesh. Gobble. Gobble.

Can you taste the bitter fucking irony and sarcasm bleeding from my sweaty palms and hissyfit-throwing fingers? I’m pissed right the fuck off. Well, no, that is not true in the least. I am disappointed. Very, very disappointed in a culture that has gone so far off the deep end as this.

For fuck sake, people. Get a fucking god-damned grip. Of course: one assumes that these people have such terrible weakness in their hands that they can barely get a grip on their luxurious vitamin-water or Starbucks-coffee or whatever it is that the cool kids are drinking these days. Men will always be needed, if not for anything else but get the lid of the pickle-jar. Ho-ho; shots were fired – I predict future articles about women being very capable of getting the lid of the pickle-jar, thank you very much, and we are strong independent fish that don’t need no man-handed bicycles. Not with these new kinds of lids… and especially not with these strange tools manufactured simply to make it easier to remove the lids from the pickle-jar. Come to think of it: I predict future articles in which it is stated that the lids of the pickle-jars are sexist. That seems to be the more likely outcome of the coming pickle-jar controversy. Wouldn’t surprise me. Shit: nothing surprises me any more.

Orcs, as they were created by Tolkien back in the fabled days of yore, are aspects of humanity just as much as all the other races of Middle-fucking-earth are aspects of humanity; allegories of certain traits of the mental make-up of the human fucking race. Certain traits, not certain races.

See; they were elves once. (Or, well, that is one possible origin-story. Tolkien, it seems, had a few to go around.) Then they got ruined, tortured and malformed by the big meanie Morgoth. Damaged beyond compare; they are now broken and ruined. An image, perhaps, of what happens to people who are exposed to the atrocities of war and come home damaged beyond repair. Written by someone who had experienced war, and the outcome of war.

But, no, of course, to the outraged outrage-mob who dwell in the shades of simplistic duality where all is black or white, they are a certain genetic population; depictions of certain cultures which they themselves have decided are savage. None but these people who are offended on behalf of other people see this and get up in arms about this. They gobble the golden egg of outrage so much that they have nothing else to poop but remnants of failed outrage. They defecate outrage from every orifice. Everything is something else. And one can never be happy, one must ever be outraged. There is no purpose beyond the great outrage, no life beyond the vast nothingness of permanent sneers and demands to speak to the manager of western society and culture.

Add the postmodern, deconstructionism or whatever else fancy jargon and piss-pot philosophy they lay on it to the mix, and you’ve got people saying that the intent of the author don’t matter, the intent of whatever don’t matter because it all depends on the eye of the beholder, not on that which is beholden. Objective reality don’t exist. It is all subjective. Which is, of course, self-defeating when taken to its logical conclusion, but that don’t matter much in the grand scheme and schism of things. Because consistency don’t matter – winning (and whining) does.

At the end of the day, it comes down to power and to control. They don’t like this or that or the other, and so it must be banned, censored and cancelled for the convenience of the new, sterile and synthetic dawn. Out with the old and in with the new. All that is old must go, and all that is new must be embraced. All must change according to their whims and fanatical fancy. For their progressively woke utopia, their woke-topia, depends on uniformity of thought, of speech, of opinion and of habit. And we can’t have that without banning everything that goes against that, however much or little it goes against that, however imagined or however manufactured. It’s just gotta go because it hurts their feelings that people are disagreeing; it hurts their fee-fees that someone might not want to bend the knee and bow their necks to the guillotine of social justice and the cult of woke.

Deal with it, forget about it, don’t give a fuck about it. Let them fade away; floating out to sea on their own imbecility. Sooner or later, the bombs will drop and the tides will turn and this outrage-culture will fall flat on its permanently offended Karen-snarl.

I hope.

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 23.05.2020

Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07ZB6K2JX
Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1692495518

Howling at a Slutwalk Moon, a collection of previous blog posts:
Vol 1 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/107571074X
Vol 1 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZTPDPR
Vol 2 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075714184
Vol 2 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZR25NL
Vol 1 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075717094
Vol 2 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075723078

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Coming Out!!

«4 Horsekins of the Wah-pocalypse #2: Pestilence»

“It’s not easy being green”, claims Kermit the Frog.
Damn bastard ain’t got a bloody clue.
Shit-head knows nothing of troubles.
Should have been through what I’ve gone through.

For years, I have self-identified in a particular manner.
Not that anyone cares, or believes me, for that matter.
See; I am a rarity – undoubtedly, an odd peculiarity.
Not at all comfortable in this weird human odyssey.

See; my self-examined identity reveals a hairless blob,
An icky gelatinous thing, an insubstantial gob.
You wanna talk discrimination, micro-aggressions,
double-sanded white privileged post-colonial oppressions?

You wanna talk trans-phobia, male privilege banality,
horrible smirking-whilst-white-and-male criminality?
Try tackling the terribly vicious Medusozoa-phobics,
all damned bigoted pale and male and stale geriatrics.

Bah, humbug! Barely lucid hubris from a tone-deaf bard!
From here until the end of time, I revoke thy victim-card,
I strip you of your place atop the victim-pedestal,
I refuse you unearned pity no matter how hard you bawl!

My self-identity by itself causes violence.
I’m forced by bigotry into a life of utter silence,
by sick-minded phobics of the screech-and-run-variety.
(If they don’t beat me with sticks on account of anxiety)

My pronouns don’t matter, cause nobody cares.
So I just blubber along this lonely trail of tears,
laid down for me, as it is, by faces twisted in disgust.
(Though, some fetishize and greet me then in animal lust.)

No-one believes me, and I doubt they ever will
as I lie face down on the beach, completely naked and still.
It sure is hard being me, with no-one to trust,
just me and the sand turning slowly to dust.

It’s such a hard life for the naked, the timid, the gelatinous,
naught but phobic passers-by with disgust clear and obvious.
And the ladies most frigid, the gentlemen all impotent…
oh, were I only God, were I only omnipotent…

Were I only God, I would force them all to love me.
To hell with free will, to hell with such nonsensical absurdity!
It is rampant phobia, a wicked lack of understanding me;
clearcut case of discrimination, I think, as I blubber out to sea.

Alas, I am neither omnipotent God, nor impotent man.
My identity is one which all and one would wish to ban:
A lonely non-binary translucent jellyfish-kin,
destined to throw the dice of life, never to win.

This bushy beard of mine; each strand a mimicked tentacle,
beneath the water where it floats, such a gorgeous spectacle.
My flabby belly growing by my hand and choice alone,
for years of non-gelatinous privilege now made to atone.

For those who have non-gelatinous privilege have no inkling,
know nothing of Medusozeic woes or worries… all that wrinkling,
that flabbiness, that blobbiness, that terrible lack of blinking,
that floaty feeling, in the ocean, fearing predatory eyes twinkling…

And behind me, at my back, children poke and prod with sticks,
giggling or screaming bloody murder. (Children are such dicks.)
Surrounded by vicious sociopaths, made from all of people-kind,
every age and shape and sex there is, flesh and bone and little mind.

I have no backbone, this is true. In fact, I have no bones at all.
Bones are present in my bio-body, standing 5.8 feet tall…
yet that is just a lonely skin-mask, a saddened human mannequin,
a host to the wailing, longing soul of a gelatinous other-kin.

Piss right off with your quick points of personal privilege,
your caterwauling, comrade-headed opposition to a civil age;
a wondrous age where non-binary translucent jellyfish-kin
may play the game of loving life, come out on top and win!

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 05.02.2020

Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07ZB6K2JX
Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1692495518

Howling at a Slutwalk Moon, a collection of previous blog posts:
Vol 1 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/107571074X
Vol 1 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZTPDPR
Vol 2 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075714184
Vol 2 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZR25NL
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Vol 2 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075723078

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Why I am an Anti-feminist, part 5

«2019, Eggshell-frail Enlightenment»

Back in 2016, a video made the rounds through the commentator-communities of YouTube. And beyond.

This would be the ridiculous, god-damned awful, horribly brain-dead, superficial-as-a-valley-girl video “36 Questions Women Have for Men”. If you have not seen it yet, you should. Go watch it now. I’ll have coffee, wine and strange and exotic pharmaceuticals waiting for you when you come back.

It is safe to say that, if this video was a child, it would be referred to as having a face that only a mother could love. It would be caught trying to smoke its own socks in the one and only gender-neutral toilet in its school, because the cool kids told it that this is what the cool kids do. It is that one kid that everyone knows should really be getting special education, but who does not, for some reason or other. Mainly to do with its parents.

In other words: it is ridiculous, stupid, mentally and emotionally challenged. It should be locked up for its own protection, in a padded cell with a straight-jacket and a bottle of finely aged antipsychotics, its tongue tied down so it did not accidentally swallow it and subsequently choke to death.

Of course; this child would have already choked on its own sense of self-importance, slipped on its own dribble and landed straight on its arse. Which is to say – it would slip on its pride, and land on its honour.

I really and truly enjoyed watching it being torn to shreds by everything and everyone able to get their wonderful hands and biting tongues on it.

Though it is, without a doubt, low-hanging fruit.

Sometimes, that is just exactly what one needs. I am not going to beat a dead horse and respond to that video. We should really leave it alone. It is already dead.

And, oh the humanity, oh the woe and oh the torture never ends!

I’m just using it as a necessary tool; an introduction to this part of my cruel and unusual rambling.

It is incredibly funny to me – bordering on hilarious – that the supposedly oppressed class can speak to their supposed oppressors like the women in that video did. That is – with impunity.

It is almost as though women are most definitely not oppressed and men are certainly not their oppressors. That these nincompoops are unable to see this is something I am absolutely unwilling to believe. No-one can be that stupid, that lacking in self-awareness, and still be able to breathe and stand at the same time.

They know they are not being oppressed.

They are riding the gravy-train of self-important smugness, arrogance and the incredible sensation that their shit don’t stink. High on their own fumes of moral indignation and self-righteous imbecility, they know themselves and their ideology to be considered untouchable by the culture at large.

Were women as oppressed as these fools claim, they would never have dared to make this video for fear of the bogeyman Patriarchy smashing down on them with all the fascist jackboots and cruel whips it could muster.

Strange how that did not happen.

Of course; cue the inevitable calls and cries of misogynist harassment and patriarchal interference for people responding to their video in which they do nothing but insult, condescend, stereotype and belittle men in the name of holy feminism and her cohort gynocentrism. The self-perpetuating and self-fulfilling prophecy has come full circle. Women can say whatever the hell they like about men in general, and if men dare respond – well now, that is an outrage and absolute proof that what they are saying is true as well as the necessity of the movement. Add to this the chronic case of the one rule for me, another for thee sickness, and you’ve got yourself feminism 101.

Though I am not going to respond to the video, I will take one quote from the video as a starting point, paraphrasing it a bit: “Why do you make women talk about men in movies when you can sit around and talk about boobs for hours?”

Men are – just as women are – not a grey homogeneous ooze. The actions of one man are not the actions of every man in existence. It is also incredibly funny that this is, in fact, a video where women do nothing but talk about men. Or talk down to men. Whatever you want to call it. Which kind of disproves that point a little.

Which only makes me think that anything a feminist claims that men do is something she does herself. It is psychological projection from someone who is incapable of understanding that other people act differently to herself.

Now, to be fair, I believe we are all guilty of psychological projection in some way or other. The only reference-point we have are, after all, our self. So it would be fairly natural to assume other people react or act in a manner similar to us. More so for people who have problems with empathy, if I understand correctly. It is, however, something that one can learn not to do. This involves introspection and an understanding that oneself is not the blueprint for humanity, though, and this is clearly something that does not come easily to the feminist hive-mind in the garden of voluptuous hysteria… or aboard the gravy-train of grace and hubris.

For my own sake, I can not remember the last time I discussed boobs with any one of my friends. Granted, I discuss boobs with my wife from time to time, but that tend to be because she brought it up after seeing boobs in the Bada-bing scenes from the Sopranos and commenting on the terrible boob jobs. And, yeah, they are fairly terrible.

You know, boobs may be great and all… but it really is not an interesting topic of discussion.

Sorry ladies.

Besides, I have always been more a fan of legs than I have ever been of boobs. Legs are far better than boobs, and I will happily fight anyone who says otherwise. Or I will offer them a pint of my finest home-brew and make them see the error of their ways. Whichever may come first. I can only assume that what women – in particular feminist women – do when they are alone, is talk about men and nothing but that. Either that, or they are terrified that men do not talk about women when men are alone together. There can be no other topics of importance or interest for men than women, right?

Cockadoodledo.

You know, I have received unsolicited tit-pics on Snapchat, back in the days when I was dumb enough to use it. To which I responded that I have always enjoyed legs far better than I have ever enjoyed tits. This did not get me any response. Probably should have called the cops on them for sexual harassment, come to think of it. But, oh well.

T & A aside, what I am rambling my way towards is this: feminism often make the claim that men oppose feminism because feminism focuses on women.

…To which I would dare say that it is quite the contrary. The main point of contention is that feminism focuses so very much on the perceived evil of men. So much so that it borders on obsession; a grotesque display of obsession. Like some frenzied, mad ex-girlfriend that can not understand the meaning of the words “leave me alone, you crazy person!”, feminism lays the burden of blame and shame on men for being men. It does so all the time. It has the worst, the lowest opinion of men. Painting us all as terrible oppressors, misogynistic bastards and so forth and so on. For nothing but being born as boys, for growing up and becoming men. At the same time, feminism tend to call on men to rise up and do all we can to make the world a better place. For women.

Men must give and sacrifice so that women shall feel safe. From other men. And if men do not do that, men are shamed by feminism. And by society at large. Men are disposable tools to be used for the betterment of society, for the safety of women and for the safety of children. Chivalry is not dead. And feminism, with all its claims of equal treatment, are the ones keeping it alive. Whenever it suits them.

Traditional expectations where gender-roles are concerned is still a thing when it comes to the expectations we put on men – to protect, and to provide. And most men, I am willing to bet, do this quite willingly. It gives a sense of purpose that is much needed in the lives of boys and men. This is something men have done for millennia. I don’t think this is something we will ever get rid of, despite men walking away, despite MGTOW, despite all that jazz. It seems to be something we are biologically hardwired to do.

Now, we have grown smart enough as a species to be able to make conscious decisions to walk away, to work on ourselves, to be aware of how we interact with society – and with that I mean all of society, not only men, not only women.

This is, in all honesty, all well and good. More power to you.

I find myself turning my back on society more and more in my own way. At some point, I really just got tired of all the shit-flinging, imbecility and hypocrisy on display in the public discourse. Civility is dead. All that is left is civil disobedience. And that is a misplaced, poorly managed, never thought through parody of civil disobedience from sheltered nincompoops who do not really understand the what, how, when, where, why and such.

Everything has become so scathingly, so eye-scarringly black and white. It is either this, or it is that. Opposition to this must as such necessarily mean complete allegiance to that.

I often wonder if this is due to our dwindling and very limited concentration-spans, making concentrating on something for a prolonged period of time a difficult prospect for most. This giving rise to merely a surface understanding of various issues. It is easy to point at one thing and claim that this – this one thing is what needs to be fixed. Then, and only then, all of this and all of that will be in perfect order.

And then one could probably argue that this is exactly what I am doing when I focus so much of my writing and rambling on the forces of feminism. To which I can only reply that I have a lot of things to get out of my system where feminism is regarded before I feel – and here the emphasis is, I absolutely admit, on the word “feel” – ready to tackle other issues.

I consider it very dangerous when one ideology, when one set of ideas, are given the monopoly on any one concept. Particularly so in regards to such a strange and ever-changing concept as “equality”. More voices should be heard than only the one. And feminism have become so mighty, so big and powerful that it is able to – quite successfully – kill other voices attempting to speak on the topic. That is a dangerous thing. This is something I would say no matter which set of ideas are granted a monopoly, to be perfectly honest. Particularly so if this set of ideas have the power to shut down voices in opposition. Any -ism that shames and threatens other voices into silence or compliance or obedience is dangerous. Protesting is one thing. Refusing people to listen to other voices is quite another.

This black and white thinking is the price to pay for immediate satisfaction through immediate outrage, and facts and nuance be damned.

…Though I am obviously not a MGTOW, being a married man and all, I absolutely understand where it comes from. The best one can do is to carve out a space for oneself – to follow ones own path toward happiness and self-fulfilment. Which feminism consider wise words to give to women, but horrible words to give to men. For, to the eyes of feminism – and to a sure and certain extent, society as is – if a man does not make the betterment of women’s lives his main priority, he is not a real man. That is putting it very simple, obviously.

If there is anything we ought to have learned by now, it is this: the only ones allowed to judge whether a man is a real man or not are women as a group, not men and most certainly not the man being scrutinized at that moment in time.

That is the level of insanity we are at. There are more than enough books, articles, lectures and so and such out there by women telling men what to do in order to be a real man. Which tend to be what the one woman want to see in a man, and never mind the men themselves – men are there for their amusement and their convenience. This is supreme entitlement driven forth and weaponized by the frantic forces of feminism.

It is not without reason that the word “boy” used to refer to a servant. Just get the boy to do it. See what I mean?

As an example, it is a constant source of amusement to me that men are still expected to pay on dates. Scores of women get offended if they are expected to split the bill. No strong independent women to be seen there, I gather – some fish most certainly need a bicycle. At the very least where dates are concerned. This is a traditional expectation.

And though I am very much aware that there are women out there who do pay for dates or split the bills, they are in the minority. To be clear – how people chose to delegate responsibilities in their personal relationships is their business and their business alone. I have no interest in meddling, nor should anyone else. My point is only this: one can not expect one side to fulfil the traditional expectations and then be outraged when the traditional role is expected from the other side. One must give in order to receive. This goes for both parties.

There is this interview with Emma Watson – she of the hypocritical he-for-she funk and flurry – on YouTube in which she magically and majestically swirls triumphantly through the garden of mental gymnastics to explain why she still expects men to pay on dates, despite feminism, equal treatment and so and such. And despite being filthy stinking rich herself.

The traditional roles are very much alive and well where men are concerned, but it is not to be reciprocated in kind. If you want a woman to fulfil a traditional role, you are a misogynistic bastard. You, however, must fulfil a traditional role. If not, you are a misogynistic bastard. For that is equality as seen through the eyes and bleeding gums of feminism: supreme entitlement, because men owe women ever so much and yada-yada-yada, blah blah blah. And you want to be seen as a real man, do you not? And a real man does whatever the hell a woman and society says he must do, at the cost of his own safety, sanity, life, limb and economy.

This “real man” rhetoric is complete and utter shit. A real man is a real man if he says he is a real man, and he does whatever the hell he wants to do, shame and ridicule be damned. Whether that shame and ridicule comes from women or from other men should not matter. Rise above the self-flagellating and self-sacrificial bullshit and do your thing, whatever that thing is.

I was bullied for reading books when I went to school. Literature is one of my first and greatest loves, one of my greatest pleasures in life. Always have been, and always will be. Apparently, this is not something real men do. Whatever the hell this means. Granted, I was singled out for bullying… so whatever I did would give get me bullied. This one stuck out the most to me. Because there is something precious and special about some imbecilic moron with the vocabulary of a toddler proudly boasting about never having read a book in his life ridiculing and belittling someone for reading books, referring to the practice as stupid. Stupid. Maybe I am expecting too much from kids aged sixteen, but – god-damn, if that is not some ridiculous piss-pottery.

It must also be mentioned, mainly for my own amusement, that the girls were not particularly interested in leaving a party and going home with someone whose main accomplishment in life was having a complete collection of Dostojevskij and Jens Bjørneboe on his shelf. Can’t say that I blame them – I am very much aware that I am a boring, introverted social fuck-up with all the charisma of a wet and well-worn sock. I was, however, led to believe that women and girls both preferred intelligence to brutishness, calm mannerisms to “toxic masculinity”, a cultured mind to a fornicating mind, and so and such.

…Now, had I owned a car or a motorcycle, on the other hand – in other words, being able to provide something of value…

There is this constant bombardment of messages aimed at boys and men. Mainly from women. And more often than not feminist women. About how men are supposed to be and act and do and think and behave and not behave and live and love and fuck and breathe and eat and die.

And the messages are self-contradictory more often than they are not, unreasonable at the best of times and completely and utterly shining, burning and flashing with entitlement. In particular when taking into account that men can not say a single god-damned thing about women and how women should be – or, for that matter, what kind of women they want to share their lives with – without being rained on by the great and glorious feminist brigade. And any and all woman and simpering white knight in the immediate vicinity of your tweet or twatter or private conversation in a public space.

I have been verbally harangued many a time in public by self-proclaimed feminists who believe they have the god-given right to charge in on any-and-all private conversation and private relationship if they don’t like what they hear or see – or believe that they hear or see.

Entitlement, thy name is feminism.

If you don’t believe me, try telling the world that you – as a man – want a traditional marriage where the woman stays at home and you provide.

And see what that gives you. Conversely, and for amusement, try saying that you – as a man – want to stay at home and expect your wife to provide for you and the family, to be the main breadwinner, as it were.

Both are equally wrong and terrifying; signs of misogyny and toxic masculinity and what-not and what-do’s and what-don’ts, what, what, what. Kyle’s mum will always be a bitch, no matter how selfrighteous.

The inverse applies as well – if a woman wants to stay at home, the feminist brigade will submit their opinions on her poor choices in life whether she wants to hear them or not.

There is not a single coherent message delivered. There is only the messages – the constant bombardment – that men and boys must do this, do that, do the other stuff even when that contradicts the previous stuff. It is never good enough, for there is always something to bitch and moan and complain about where men are concerned.

I am aware that many of these articles written about what men must do, need to do and so and so are written by different people with different views.

This is not the point. Or, well, were I playing the collectivist blame-game that feminism plays, it would be the point. And that is exactly the point – feminism plays the game of collectivism and tribalism, where men are one group and women another group. Therefore, anything one man does reflects on every other man.

The reverse do not apply.

Anything one woman does is her actions, and does not reflect on every other woman. When it suits feminism. Any one man is representative of men. Any one woman is representative of her self and her self only. When it suits the powers that be. So that painting all women with a broad brush is terrible behaviour, and painting all men with a broad brush is expected, accepted and celebrated behaviour.

It is a confusing time. And has been so for years and years, as the dominant cultural narrative has shifted more and more towards the trembling might and fury of feminism. Which in turn opens the discourse for women to say whatever the hell they want about men – as long as it is in line with feminist thought and philosophy. At the same time, it closes the doors for men so that men can not say anything about women, including what kind of woman they would like to settle down with. Men are not “allowed” sexual or romantic preferences, whereas women are. And any positive thing said about men must include women, otherwise it is perceived as a slight against women. Any positive thing said about women need not include men, and any who say otherwise are labelled an incel by people who have no idea what incel means.

There will be more on this later. Here endeth part five. Join me next week for part six of this never-ending rave and ramble.

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 26.10.2019

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Why I am an Anti-feminist, part 2:

Growing up in a culture that has got feminism running through its veins and its putrid sewage systems is a dreadful thing. This dominant ideology, this serpent cult, has infiltrated and demanded control of just about every facet of society. It slithered and wormed and crawled into our collective consciousness; a viral infection – an inflammation of the braincells – presenting itself as the noble truth, as the one and as the only. In so doing, it allowed no other voices to speak on behalf of equality, nor did it allow any other voices to speak on behalf of sex and on behalf of gender. It demanded, and it were delivered, the monopoly on the topic. To such an extent that we who grew up with this dominant cultural narrative, this deified ideology, were forced to have its message tattooed on the inside of our eyelids. So that we should never forget but always repeat its perverse mating call.

Throughout all my life, this ideology has been there, running wild and unchallenged. It was not until I got older, until I suffered a medicinally induced psychosis that tore my entire being apart, that I managed to gaze above and beyond the lies and see the beast for what it is. That is the power of political indoctrination, that is the power of allowing one set of beliefs to be told and taught and re-taught as truth and fact, unchallenged. I remember being told in school that sex, that gender, was nothing but a social construct.

I also remember being told that there were something wrong with men, and therefore by extension myself. All the flaws and all the faults of the world was the doing of men, not of women. I write about this sometimes. It is not popular, and it is often dismissed as lies and bullshit by the voices that say we must #believewomen without a sliver of a doubt.

That it is dismissed is fair enough, I suppose, as that which is asserted without evidence can be dismissed without evidence. This dismissal is also the reason I don’t write about it all that often. It is difficult to write about due to the gravity of the situation and the impact this shit has had on me on a deeply personal, psychological level. And it is even more difficult when I know it to be nothing but a cunt-hair away from dismissal and ridicule from the feminist forces that claim to care for the sexes equally. Childhood damage is as childhood damage does, and to experience this being dismissed offhand as lies and bullshit is not exactly easy. Though it is to be expected. Feminism does not take prisoners. And it sure as all hell does not take criticism.

The notion that women are completely innocent and incapable of wrongdoing lies at the beating, festering cankersore that is feminism. As do the notion that men are absolutely guilty and mainly capable of doing wrong. Strange that, if there are no differences between the genders and gender does not exist. Of course – the feminist hive-mind has got some manner of mumbo-jumbo to explain this away.

It has got all to do with socialisation and all that jazz, ya know. Which means that men must unlearn being masculine, boys need to be untaught their boy-ness. Social engineering, in other words. The feminine is the state of nature one should aspire to, not the masculine. Despite both being social constructs. Strange, weird and peculiar. Try this with any other group in society, and see how far you get. To put it another way; we must unteach the homosexuals their homosexuality. Which have been tried, and, luckily, found to be complete and utter insanity. Well, for most of society. Some stupidity still linger.

If a man – any one individual man – does something wrong and winds up in the news, this is a shining example from feminism that there is something wrong with men. And the might and awful feminist influencers see no qualms in using a tragedy to further their narrative, never-minding those that suffered as a result of this tragedy. As long as it is a man that done did something horrendous, scoring cheap political points on his actions and his victims is quite alright.

After yet another tragic Islamic terror-attack over here in Europe-land some years back, the national broadcasting media-machine of Norway (it functions much the same as the BBC) saw fit to publish an article wherein men and masculinity were to blame for these Islamic terror-attacks. Not the ideology of Islam, but men and masculinity were to blame. Strange. One would believe that blaming characteristics one are born with and can not do anything about – that is ones sex – would be worse than blaming a set of ideas which one choose to follow. One would think to label it sexist that a sex is blamed instead of the ideology. But that is not how it works in the topsy-turvy blubber-mouths of feminist stupidity. For in their mumbo-jumbo voodoo, they have decided that one can only ever be sexist towards women. Something something power something something bullshit. Any criticism of Islam as an ideology or as a religion is met with harsh calls of racism and islamophobia and other such nonsense. That criticism of Islam is racist is pure absurd nonsense, of course, considering that Islam is not a race nor a genetic population but a set of ideas. Nothing should be above criticism. And Islam is included in this. Yet, feminism, or “intersectional feminism”, in its infinite wisdom, has seen fit to take Islam under its wing and protect it from criticism. So blaming the ideology of Islam for making Islamist extremists commit acts of terrorism in the name of Jihad and Islam is Xenophobic, horribly bigoted, racist and so forth and so on. Blaming men – the entire god-damned sex – for these terror-attacks that are done not in the name of men but in the name of Islam is quite alright, of course. There is nothing bigoted nor hateful for blaming an entire sex for the actions of someone who is driven by an ideology and not his sex. It astonishes me, the hoops and mental loops.

These are the same forces that tell us that stereotyping and generalizing based on sex and gender is wrong. This, however, only ever apply if women are the ones being subjected to the stereotyping. Stereotyping of men is A-OK.

This to such an extent that being a man overrides the guilt of the ideology that man subscribes to where terror-attacks are concerned. A set of extremist ideas that have told a man that he must kill in the name of God is less to blame than him being a man. Which is amazing.

It is constant and chronic double-speak. One rule for me, another for thee. In the world of feminism, men and women are not held to the same standards.

One could argue the case that this is not exclusive to the world of feminism, of course, as women always do, always have and always will be getting excuses for their bad behaviour should they do something bad. Men do something bad, it is because they are men. Women do something bad, it is because of men. Women tend to not be held to account for their behaviour in the same way that men are. This is innate to our nature, it seems. But it is weaponized by feminism.

For example; how many times have you heard anyone claim that the woman must have done something to deserve it when suffering domestic violence? And how openly? Articles about men being abused by their significant other tend to be flooded with these kinds of comments. I remember reading one article about a woman amputating her husbands penis. The comments celebrated her, cheered her on and stated that he must have done something. Others said that it was glorious.

And what is more frightening is that this was not the same incident as the one Sharon Osbourne giggled, ridiculed and celebrated on god-damned daytime fucking television! Separate incidents of genital amputation celebrated by women. And yet, these cretins claim that men do not experience less empathy in society!

It seems that a man being abused by his partner, then, is a source of amusement. To men as well as women, though particularly to women. Especially in cases of genital amputation or mutilation. How strange, that men do not come forward when abused by their partners, eh?

The assumption is that he did something and she retaliated. Deny and reverse victim order. Now, of course, people are incapable of believing women to be abusers and men to be abused. Which is another damned pickle. Despite the insistence that there are no biological differences between men and women, men’s greater strength is given as evidence that women can not abuse men. Which is flat-out ridiculous and a bald-faced lie. And very interesting, coming from the mouths of those that claim that there are no biological differences between men and women… Boys are taught, at a very young age, that they must never-ever under any circumstances hit a girl. Girls are not taught the same. A man hitting a woman in self-defence is a bastard, as viewed through the nonsensical imbecility of society. Granted, I don’t think people should be hitting each other at all. But one should be free to defend oneself when attacked, no matter the sex of the attacker.

I don’t often talk about this. But I will tell this story in short, since it is relevant to this topic. It will, more like than not, be the first and last time I talk about it. I was in a relationship once where I was abused. When I was in my early twenties. It began with severe emotional manipulation, love-bombing and all that stuff. This was followed by fits of extreme jealousy and emotional abuse. To such an extent that she kept track of my every move. No matter what I did, I had to check in with her every ten minutes or so through my cellphone, if I was not in her immediate vicinity.

If I did not, or if I was talking on the phone with someone else, she sent SMS after SMS until I replied. I once was on the telephone with a friend of mine, and when I hung up I saw I had received twenty-something messages from her. This was a relatively short phone-call. Maybe ten-fifteen minutes.

The messages got more and more frantic and accusatory. She believed that I was with some other woman, that I was cheating on her, that I was ignoring her and so forth and so on. If I did not reply quickly enough, there would be hell to pay.

Luckily, we did not live together. The relationship lasted a little more than six months.

After a while, things got physical. And the amount of control she held over my actions were extreme. I ended it after a while when I was out of town. While I was out of town, I attended a party where an ex-girlfriend of mine also happened to be. This was purely coincidental.

As would be expected, I got heaps of text-messages during my being out of town, and particularly during this party. She was wondering who was at the party, and when she learned that my ex was there all hell broke loose. After a good and long while of whining and bitching and moaning and complaining, she managed to convince herself that I had gotten my ex pregnant and flooded me with text-messages about this absolutely nonsensical and hysterical fantasy of hers. The reason? My ex didn’t drink. So of course, this had to mean that she was pregnant, not that she did not like getting drunk. She was absolutely convinced of this. This all happened in the span of an hour or so. And so I ended it. Which led to about a year of stalking, scary fucking harassment, constant phone-calls, text-messages and all manner of vile behaviour that sent me into a spiral of depression and anxiety that was only alleviated when she found another poor bastard to pair up with. She tried to get me jealous a few times after this new victim of hers was found, which of course did not work. Then she stopped.

Now, were the genders reversed in this, feminism would undoubtedly use this as an excuse for the victim to hate the opposite sex. “Of course she hates and distrusts men – she has had horrible experiences with men”. I had this terrible experience with this one woman. And I do not hate all women on account of it. Nor do I distrust them. Because that would be god-damned foolish. This was the actions of one woman, not all women. Oddly enough, I do not believe I would be given any excuses if I did in fact hate and distrust women based on this one experience. Strange how that works.

Now, I abhor and distrust feminism. But that is not women, that is feminism. I know that I keep repeating this point. I believe and I hope that it will make this fact sink in, that is: feminism does not equal women. It equals feminism, and that is that.

It is this constant downplaying of actions and of responsibility if a woman does something bad; this celebration of male pain and suffering presented as scoring a goal for the sisterhood… This blaming and demonizing of men and masculinity, the inability to understand that men and women both have their shadow, their darkness that is exclusive to them, that manifest in different ways for the simple reason that we are different. The feminine shadow is celebrated. The masculine is not. Women deserve their revenge, as they say. So all manner of disgusting and vile behaviour is, must and always will be expected, respected and tolerated. Otherwise, you just hate women and wish to chain them to the kitchen sink to cook dinner, birth children and whatever and what-not.

Feminism may talk the talk, but it does not walk the walk.

Equal treatment of the sexes would mean acknowledging the capacity of both for good as well as bad. This is something feminism does not do. Feminism acknowledges only the dark where men and masculinity are concerned, and acknowledges only the light where women and femininity are concerned. Worse still; it depends upon the kindness and decency of every-man to help save every women from the horrors of every-man.

Implicit in this call on men to help save women from men is the knowledge that men are, at heart, good. Which will never be acknowledged in words by the hive-mind, of course. But which is shown as the frail and frantic forces of fragile feminist femininity call upon men to fix everything whilst at the same time blaming men for fucking everything up. It is a game where the rules are written in such a way that men can not possibly win. One would not be amiss if one would assume this to be the point of the exercise.

And as long as feminism are the only ones allowed to write the rules, it will not change. We – our societies – allowed this to happen by allowing one ideology to go unchecked. We allowed the smearing of opposition, allowed the lies and filth and fury to become mainstream. We turned our cheeks and looked the other way as boys and men were demonized, pushed out of this and pushed out of that until only the voices of feminism were heard, until only the plight of women – such as feminism saw it – were heard. We allowed a society to claim that a quest for equality begins and ends with only the one, neglecting the other. And that is only the one as seen through the eyes of an -ism that has at the root of its beliefs the idea that men – all men – are wicked oppressors of women; that all men hate all women. Thus allowing feminism to hate men, allowing women to hate men, manufacturing a nonsensical bullshit gender-war that does nothing but ruin cooperation and love and honour and respect that should be there between the sexes and should go both ways. In the land of feminism, gender means women, sex means women, gender-equality means women must get all.

Feminism made it so that the voices of men are not heard when it comes to issues predominantly affecting boys and men. It made it impossible to speak on behalf of boys and men without simultaneously taking girls and women into account. And what is worse; feminism proposes to speak on behalf of boys and men. They decided that their ideas on sex and on gender also include men, that they – by excluding boys and men from the conversation are including boys and men in the conversation. As long as only feminism is allowed to speak on behalf of boys and men, as if they and they alone know what it is like to be a boy, to be a man.

This they do by demanding boys unlearn their boyishness, men unlearn their manliness. Because feminism, according to feminism, help men too. Except when it does not and feminism says that they are for women, not for men. It is that double-speak again, that nonsensical stream of babble. Helping women would help men, and so we should only help women. Trickle-down equality.

And regarding issues where men undoubtedly suffer more – such as suicide, dropping out of education, homelessness, alcohol-and-substance abuse, etc, etc, – feminism says that we must not turn it into a gendered issue, but must help both sexes. Because it does not need to be gendered unless women can be made out to suffer more. If women predominantly suffer something, it is a gendered issue. If men predominantly suffer something, it is not a gendered issue. This comes from the mouths and clucking tongues of those that insist everything has to be a gendered issue.

But more on this later, I think. Here endeth part two of my cruel and unusual rambling – part three comes, lest I be sent to the Gulags for hatespeech most foul, next week.

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 05.10.2019

My book – Howling at a Slutwalk Moon, a collection of previous blog posts:
Vol 1 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/107571074X
Vol 1 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZTPDPR
Vol 2 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075714184
Vol 2 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZR25NL
Vol 1 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075717094
Vol 2 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075723078

Other links:
Redbubble shop: https://www.redbubble.com/people/Moiret/shop
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Minds: https://www.minds.com/Moiret
Flickr: https://www.flickr.com/people/152465815@N04/

Redemption Song:

There are those who believe in redemption.

…Those who rush in with clown-like drive-by so-called take-downs, snivelling penitent cluck-clucks as the golden rays of the sun bounce of their shrivelled husk, polished and whitewashed to reflect saintlike self-reflection.

…A certain kind of self-reflection forced upon them by hollow religious sermons meant to make them unburden their beastly masculine shape and form of anything resembling masculinity. That is to say: masculinity as viewed through the mute liturgy of cross-cultural feminist zealotry; masculinity as the brutal cross that only men have to bear, upon which they are to later be crucified atop the hallowed peaks of self-flagellated Golgotha.

…A cross and burden which they must carry with them underneath the vice-like grip and ever-judging eyes of this awesome Goddess of immediate pussy-willow whips and thongs, of self-congratulatory neoteny and fruitful hips, through whose eyes and wretched form all men are sinners singing songs of sinner’s vice and virtue none.

…Within whose judging god-hand grasp and heaving bosom none shall ever be wholly and fully redeemed, yet still see and then consider their murmured self-inflicted martyrdom for the curse and for the cause as a source of grand amusement, picked then doubly-pecked at time and time again with angry knitting needles through their tortured manly eyes, their horrid, horribly horrifying perverse male gaze, or through their dubious liar-tongues that wriggle so amusingly as they choke to death on their own self-sought and self-bought self-immolation.

Never to be fully acknowledged within the church and its angelic walls, its trumpeter halls, its holy smear of period-blood, but to be referred to endearingly or mockingly as “allies” for the noble cause, caused by sex and sex alone, forever doomed to stand without the whining wall and holler at those who did not wish to enter that they are crackpot sinners, brutish bores, never to be absolved of sin.

…as he is surely soon to be…

…for all the pilgrim steps he shall endure upon the path to absolute redemption…

As all truly penitent sinners cursed with cock and balls are want to do, must he now and ever and anon carry the wormwood cross, the snivelled cluck-cluck, into the unwashed masses and their meaty mouths to meet and greet and then dole out calls for redemption as redemption is; acknowledge first the grandest of all earthly sins – the never-seen nor never-heard before privilege of being male (add a sin or more for also being white) – and then work through and then come out the other side, crawling on your knees to beg forgiveness for the sins of you and of your father and your fathers father and so forth, back through time and through the ages until you meet the protoplasmic ooze, until you greet the primordial chaos-soup from whence all men were ripped and torn, born from rape and ravaged ruin, born from perplexing shame and into shame reborn and born again, the original sin once spurted in the face of sinners straight from sinners cocks; a semen-speckled bukkake from the majestic godhead and his cohort, the grand dragon patriarch himself.

Though redemption is dearly sought and even more dearly bought, it is one to never be delivered. For the sins and trespasses one wishes to be absolved off are so grandiose in nature, so undeniably vicious and evil and cold-hearted and mean that none can say or see or think or mean that any true redemption can be had, nor absolution passed upon the shrivelled cluck-cluck husk or the beacon of his armour, rusted and then polished ‘till it turns to glass and passes then as passing gas into the stratosphere, shattered and then chewed and then passed up and passed on and spat out unto the dirt and earth where dead men walk who passed this way before, who self-flagellated ‘till their backs were sore and whipped of all but blood and bone.

For the truest of all that is true, and the realest of all that is real is the knowledge, festering at the bosom’s core of the Goddess’ high embrace – that all men are vicious and are born that way from the loins and in the groin then tangled and entwined.

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 02.10.2019

My book – Howling at a Slutwalk Moon, a collection of previous blog posts:
Vol 1 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/107571074X
Vol 1 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZTPDPR
Vol 2 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075714184
Vol 2 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZR25NL
Vol 1 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075717094
Vol 2 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075723078

Other links:
Redbubble shop: https://www.redbubble.com/people/Moiret/shop
Blog: https://moiretallegiere.wordpress.com/
YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC3IaCxAXE3pQd7PCdvHoaaA
Bitchute: https://www.bitchute.com/channel/EvbGZyTZSraY/
twatter: https://twitter.com/MAllegiere
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Minds: https://www.minds.com/Moiret
Flickr: https://www.flickr.com/people/152465815@N04/

Why I am an Anti-feminist, part 1:

I’ve been doing this blogosphere dance, this YouTube-istan waltz and BitChute tango of mine for round and about a year now. And never once, I believe, have I addressed in simple terms why I bitch and moan about feminism as much as I do. Particularly so since the issues facing men – which are supposed to be my main concern – do in fact stem from things besides feminism. Often things that are biological in nature and re-enforced by culture. More likely than not, it would be somewhat easier to address issues affecting men in society without declaring war on feminism. It would make for less attacks along the lines of “you just hate women”, or similar silly statements which are as ridiculous as they are absurd. I doubt it, though. The preposterous claims of misogyny would come whether one mention feminism or not. For the simple reason that trying to make this society of ours realize that men also struggle somehow takes away from women. Feminism is playing a zero-sum game, where only their voice shall be heard. All must go towards women, nothing need go towards men.

You see – within the coprophilia that is feminism and the way feminism attacks anyone who oppose it lies the answer to my anti-feminism. And I must admit that I have lied to you. I can not possibly address this in simple terms. You will have to be subject to my cruel and unusual rambling yet again.

Feminism is an -ism first and foremost. In my eyes and murky mischievous mind, this alone is enough to raise some alarms. An -ism is a set of ideas and beliefs; an umbrella under whose limited roof one seeks shelter from the rain. Stray but a little beyond its clearly defined borders, and one can not help but get rained on. Feminism, as an -ism, is incredibly totalitarian and tyrannical in its approach. It does not only propose to speak on behalf of all women – no, no, no – it also proposes to have a monopoly on the concept of all things equality. It is not enough to hold the belief that the sexes should be treated equally – you also have to refer to yourself as a feminist. Otherwise, you can not possibly be for equality, according to their flightless feminist fancy. It is incredibly important for feminism that one wears the label of feminist. Were it a movement only for equality, surely it would be enough to state that one believes that the sexes should be treated equally? This is not the case. Feminism demands you wear the label of feminist. To such an extent that they will ignore someone’s wish to not be labelled as such with the wonderful fuckery that is: “Oh, so you believe in equality between the genders? Congratulations: you are a feminist.” Or, of course, claim that you are either a feminist or a sexist. There is no in-between, nothing but either/or. Strange thing to come from a movement that proposes to be nuanced. This is terrifying, no matter which movement, which -ism, which anything. But, OK, fair enough – I’ll play. If you are a feminist, you are a sexist.

It should be enough to frighten people away from feminism to look at how they attack anyone who dares disagree with their infected and ready-to-be-cut-away concept of equality (which is not equality of opportunity but equality of outcome), as haters of women; foul basement dwelling misogynists who just want to maintain the power men have over women in society. Which is odd, of course, considering the fact that the basement-dwelling bozo bogeymen of their patriarchal conspiracy can not possibly wield any manner of influence and power on account of being basement dwelling bozos with no power and no influence. Which is the claim of the feminist hive-mind, of course, when meeting any opposition. Either that or shame for lack of sexual prowess and success with women. As if the most important value a man has is whether or not he is attractive to women. From the mouth and rotting brain of feminism comes the truth…

I would dare argue – as I have done many times before – that any movement that claims to hold the monopoly, that claims to be the only voice to speak on a certain topic, is one not to be trusted. Especially not one to be trusted on to speak on that certain topic. Doubtlessly so when riding under the banner of an -ism. And I don’t care whether this be an -ism I tend to agree with or not. Nothing and no-one should be believed when claiming to be the only one to speak on this or that or tit or tat. Everything can and must be questioned.

This goes for my own convictions as well. See, as critical as I am of feminism and the ideas of feminism, I am even more critical of my own ideas. Which is one of the reasons why I tend to avoid writing on recent news and such. I go through an excruciating amount of self-doubt and hesitation before putting thoughts to digital paper. To see if they hold up. Usually they do.

One of my greatest character flaws as well as one of my greatest character strengths, I think, is my excruciating self-doubt.

Of course, I am just a nobody on the internet, merely a drink or two, that is – some slightly lowered cognitive abilities away – from becoming a good old fashioned anarchist.

I am not a massive movement with fat chunky butts placed in seats of immense power and influence such as feminism undoubtedly is. And within the broader men’s rights movement, or the manosphere, or whatever you want to call it, I am absolutely nothing but a tiny voice whispering into the broken algorithm of the Google-God.

With this in mind, I think it is only fair that a movement of such magnitude as feminism should be scrutinized more than any one individual sucker on the inter-webs. For it is the movement I am attacking, not individual members and hangers-on to that movement. With a few exceptions to this rule, as there always are.

The movement is not understood properly by society at large. This is due to feminism worming its way into the minds and thoughts and zeitgeist of our cultures as the only force fighting for equality between the sexes, and so any opposition to this must mean opposition to equality between the sexes.

This is, at best, dishonest.

Mostly, it is just lies, social engineering and brainwashing.

It seems that most everyone refers to themselves as a feminist by default. For simple reasons; this is what the term “equality” has come to mean in the heads and minds of the populace who don’t have the time or the interest to delve beneath the surface: “feminism”. And the obvious hatred of anyone male, anything masculine, is brushed away as just the ravings of a radical few, not a picture of the movement as a whole. And the obvious push for female supremacy, the obvious rhetoric that states quite clearly that women are not only better than men at doing anything, but women are also superior to men in morality and in understanding and dealing with emotions, as well as everything else, is brushed away with a flick of the wrist and a laughter that it is just building up girls after girls having been thrown under the bus for so long. In order for the sexes to be treated equally, girls and women must be treated far better than boys and men.

This is… ah… obvious, I suppose, to those who believe that preferential treatment equals equal treatment. Or who are daft enough to believe that revenge for perceived prior oppression done by none alive today and likewise suffered by none alive today is equality made manifest in goose-flesh… For equality, boys and men must suffer what imagined hardships girls and women suffered in the past. It is the sins of the father for which the son must pay, seven generations down the lie. Revenge is equality, you see, not pettiness and stupidity.

Feminism has got to be the only movement in the world where the thought-leaders, the founders of the movement, the ones that write the books, who change the laws to be anything but equal, who found gender studies courses, who wield the power of the movement are said to be “not true feminists”. It has got to be the only movement in the world in which the ones that made the movement what it is are not true adherents to its movement.

Take the term “the future is female” for example. This comes from Sally Miller Gearhart. She co-founded Women’s and Gender courses on universities. Which are still taught today. She wrote about reducing and maintaining men to about ten percent of the population. Which is where the term originates. “The future – if there is one – is female”.

This term is printed on t-shirts and proudly worn by those who have drunk the sacred period-blood and eaten the vaginal yeast communal wafer of feminism. And everyone else who believe that girls and women need a leg up, a handout and a pedestal on which to stand because, in being equal, girls are better than boys and women are better than men.

With this knowledge – that “the future is female” has its origins in a fantasy of reducing and maintaining men to about ten percent of the population – would it be inappropriate for me to assume everyone wearing this shirt to hold similar sentiments? If not, why not?

If I wore a T-shirt with a quote from Mein Kampf – taken out of context – for simply enjoying that quote, would that fly? Would it be OK for me to state that Hitlerism is not true Nazism? That the figurehead of the movement had it all wrong and was not a true Nazi? Or would people pelt me with rotten fruits and throw me into the glorious fjords of Norway, to either drift away or drown? Oddly enough, I believe wearing a T-shirt stating that “The future is male” would visit worse worries upon my head than any random quote from Adolf Hitler. That would be hating on women, you see. And that is the worst crime one could possibly commit. Far worse then killing men for the crime of being men, you must understand.

…Lo, and behold, how the herp does derp, how wondrous is this magnificent herping of the derp…

Should I not be allowed some manner of indignation that a term whose origins lie in wanting to reduce men to ten percent of the population – gendercide, in a word – is as marketable and loved as it is? Should I not consider it a bit weird that the thought-leaders of a movement are said to not be true to the movement? All par for the course in the double-think-stink of the feminist hive-mind. All hatred is justified, downplayed and forgotten. The worst I have ever heard in regards to the “men must be reduced” thingamajigger is that she was either not a “real feminist”, or she just had a very bad day.

Wow. I am stunned. That is downplaying it some, no? When I have a bad day, I am a bit grumpy and complain about my grumpiness on Twitter with a biting self-deprecation in regards to my chronic pain. I do not propose we reduce women to ten percent of the population. But, in the feminist utopia, women are never held to account for what they do. In particular feminist women. Even when they are not true feminist women and so should be open to attack by the real feminist women.

… Look how the derpy-herp herpy-derps through the meadow and the fields; how it derps in the herpy depths of the herp-derp stream…

If one believes in the history delivered by feminist revisionist historians, which looks at how women were supposedly treated in societies past, neglecting of course to look at how men were treated, it is easy to believe that women were terribly oppressed.

However: it is never as black and white as feminism pretends.

Women were protected. And men were sacrificed. And still are…

That is about as simple as I can put it, as black and white as I myself can put it. Of course; fighting fire with fire is stupid. And fighting black and white imagery with black and white imagery gives us nothing but a fuzzy black and white picture.

You see, in the dismal cosmic dance of society, for every perceived privilege men had, there were also responsibilities and sacrifices attached. And for every perceived oppression women suffered, there were also privileges and protection attached. The relationship between the sexes have always been a complex and difficult dance.

Neither black nor white nor black and white for either. Suffice it to say that the past was hard for everyone but the elite, but the aristocracy, man and woman alike. Looking only at how one side suffered does not give the whole picture. Yet, that is what is done. Just as it is done now. We look only to how women are doing, and label this equal treatment. We care only for the plight of women, neglecting the plight of men. And we refer to this as equality.

Not only women suffer. Men also suffer. And that is how it has always been. Both sexes experience difficulties within society and within culture that is exclusive to them. Helping one at the cost of neglecting the other – as feminism does – is contrary to treating the sexes equally. Completely and utterly contrary, in fact. For a movement that is supposedly about making the sexes be treated equally, it is damned good at refusing to treat the sexes equally.

I would posit that the world would do better with a human rights movement than one exclusively for men and one exclusively for women.

Were it not for feminism, I would not wear the label of a men’s rights activist. I would, more like than not, wear the label of a human rights activist. That is, if I have to wear these fucking labels at all. See, the older I get, the more I believe that all these labels, all these this-that-and-the-others are nothing but a ridiculously overcomplicated tangled mess of words and wires that only confuse and complicate everything far more than is necessary. But I digress.

…Feminism refuses to view men as complete and complex human beings. Evidenced by their hand-waving away of the various severe issues that our side – that is the manosphere, or whatever – bring up.

Smearing and ad hominem attacks is about all they have when faced with the arguments delivered from the men’s rights movement. Included in this is of course the incredibly stupid and obvious to anyone with half a braincell attempt of theirs to smear it as a white supremacist movement. That is the weirdest one. Misogynist? OK – it’s not true in the least, but at the very least it is somewhat related to the topic at hand. White supremacism, on the other hand… that is so obviously bullshit that I am amazed they get away with it. But, ya know, women are wonderful and all that.

Of course; feminism does not care much for women either. It cares only for feminism. Evidenced by how feminism treats women that do not wear the label of feminist; how they treat women that behave in a manner not accepted by the feminist hive-mind. They are gender-traitors and must be burned at the stake and have their heads put on pikes as a warning to other women that they must tow the party-line, lest the same fate should befall them. Online bullying and harassment is only an issue when it is a feminist that fall victim to it. It is not a problem when it is multiple feminist goons that perpetrate it, targetting a non-feminist traitor. This is the glorious effects of their othering of any-and-all that do not bend the knee and swear fealty to their cause.

And feminism – for all its portrayals of itself as some sort of underdog fighting the power – is not the underdog but the power. They are the establishment. Of course – it wins popular vote merely by its portrayal as an underdog. Because who does not love an underdog? The top dog. That is who. And in portraying men – in the guise of the doubtfully existent ”patriarchy” – as the top dog they have done two things (and more). 1: they have painted and portrayed themselves as the underdog fighting the top dog. 2: they have created a wonderful excuse for their shaming and hatred of men and all things masculine, hiding every instance of obvious hatred of men behind the curtain that “oh no, we are only talking about the patriarchy”. And every critique necessarily must mean that the man critiquing is guilty of being the very man they complain about. Clever.

For, ya know, the oppressed have every right to hate their oppressors. Even if it does not make sense for the oppressors to allow the oppressed such amounts of power and influence as feminism has got in these topsy-turvy worlds of ours. This should be evident to anyone.

Supposing that women are oppressed, how in the fuck are the oppressed allowed as much social influence as women as a group do indeed wield? And have wielded for some time…

Why do the oppressors – as horrible as they apparently are – allow their subjects to spew their vile hatred with impunity? It does not make any sense. And for all their blubbering about dismantling gender stereotypes, the feminist hive-mind are not doing a good job at removing the stereotype of women as irrational, hysterical, overly emotional creatures with little-to-no capacity for reason and logic… To be clear, this is not my view of women. It is, however, my view of feminism as a movement. Well, part of my view of feminism as a movement.

Supposing that feminism is fighting and are oppressed by the establishment, why then do powerful figures within the establishment – that is, political, media, entertainment, you name it – pose with t-shirts proudly stating “this is what a feminist looks like”? Were women so oppressed as feminism claims, a merely whispered accusation about foul misogyny and hatred of women would not be enough of a shutdown to derail any conversation onto the character of the man in question instead of the argument presented.

Mumbling something about “internalized misogyny” would not be enough to shut down any woman who dares move beyond the confines of the umbrella that is feminism. Yet this is what happens. Time and bloody time again. It is the worst case of the Chewbacca defence I have ever seen. It makes no sense. Yet, it works. And it works and more are in the works.

It has been led to my attention that my ramblings tend to become a bit lengthy… too lengthy, in fact. This… well, it is absolutely true. Thus, I am doing this in several parts. Here endeth part 1. Join me next week – if the heathen Gods of old are willing – for part 2.

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 28.09.2019

My book – Howling at a Slutwalk Moon, a collection of previous blog posts:
Vol 1 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/107571074X
Vol 1 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZTPDPR
Vol 2 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075714184
Vol 2 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZR25NL
Vol 1 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075717094
Vol 2 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075723078

Other links:
Redbubble shop: https://www.redbubble.com/people/Moiret/shop
Blog: https://moiretallegiere.wordpress.com/
YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC3IaCxAXE3pQd7PCdvHoaaA
Bitchute: https://www.bitchute.com/channel/EvbGZyTZSraY/
twatter: https://twitter.com/MAllegiere
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Minds: https://www.minds.com/Moiret
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Truth in the age of Deceit:

We live in times of universal deceit. We can not tell the truth. Bit by bit, truth is being eroded beneath our feet, as is our ability to speak it. Speaking the truth is an act of insubordination, an act of revolution. The truth is becoming a fragment of the past, a remnant of times that were, that came and went and blew away.

The doors are shut for facts and for balanced discussion of said facts. Truth means nothing lest it comes from the gut-instinct, lest it stems from the high-strung emotional turmoil that shriek and punch the air with tremors that state “I feel like this, and so it must be truth”.

And don’t you dare question my truth, my lived experience as anything but complete and utter fact that everyone of my tribe experience and have experienced and will keep experiencing seven thousand times or more.

And don’t you dare share your truth, your lived experience as fact if it contradicts my lived experience and my truth felt in the cornucopia of emotion in my safe-space sheltered heart.

And don’t you dare provide evidence, the concrete fact, the truth-and-beauty of absolute beauty in truth that speaks truth to power and tumbles the tyrants down from their thrones.

For tyranny flows from the top to the bottom, it flows from the tremors and the trembles and the fake-and-fancy inner turmoil shared by those who have had it far too good for far too long, whose tongue-twisting nursery rhymes are still sung and whispered at their bedside by overbearing parents who have told them all their lives that they can never do anything but good, that they can never do anything wrong. That, no matter what they do, they are in the right and the entire rest of the world is wrong and must burn if it disagrees. If lacking parents, substitute hired government goons.

This frantic world of ours allowed the throne to be usurped by warmongers that peddle propaganda; whose tongues and teeth are brown and stained with coagulated blood drained from the throats of subdivided willing victims of a war that stem from trying to please everyone. That is; pleasing everyone who is considered by those who wield the power of deceit to be underprivileged and oppressed in true Marxist fashion. Carried on and carried forward by champagne socialists who do not know the difference between a shovel and a pickaxe, who never saw their cheap-rent apartments disappear and turn to dust from new governmental regulations that deemed them unfit to live in, yet whose silver-tongues that claimed to do good for those that could not be choosers never did think that this would limit the availability of apartments and never did anything to alleviate this, rendering the market ever worse for those that have always been forced to settle.

There is no mistaking it. This is a war. A war that is the result of a cuntural cultural revolution that has been going on beneath our feet for fifty years or more; that has been fought in classrooms with cheap hits dealt from subversive pedagogues whose dimwitted godly light and siren-song shone and sung its way into the minds and developing personality of impressionable children who caught the words and let them fester and spread within their own nuclear brain cavity. More pawns, more peons and peasants handcrafted in indoctrination-chambers to hunt the Kulaks.

To manufacture dissent. Manufacture chaos. To spread disillusion and disharmony to the hungry masses, presenting feels as reals and wiping away any remnant of objective reality to bring forth the new-found reality, the subjective reality where every instance of emotional turmoil on behalf of one and not the other is an issue that has to be dealt with, that has to be overcome by governmental over-reach to limit what we should say and can say and how to say it, to bring forth the hate-speech laws and make them so convoluted, so confusing that everything and nothing at all may be considered hate-speech on the whim and will of whomsoever feel offended by the voice and uttered utterance of those who are considered privileged by the privileged powers-that-be that dominate the discourse, never allowing dissenting voices to be heard. And that is dissenting voices not being allowed under pain of governmental punishment, under the majestic banner of the stately ban-hammer fantastic; the tyranny of governed speech deciding what speech is the correct speech, what opinions are the correct opinions, which -ism is the only -ism one should be allowed to follow in the gloomy grim funeral rite of our liberty.

We are being ruled, governed and drugged by television and media-conglomerates that spin their so-called truths in new-speak news that starve our brains of oxygen until we are close to passing out; that blast us with new information every five seconds so that we can not process the information properly, or never read beyond the click-bait headlines calling for our permanent offence and anger at the unjust nature of the beastly world we live in. That just so happen to only be unjust for the one and not the other, in the eyes of new-speak news and their cohorts that manufacture the perpetual war. Because war is peace. Freedom is slavery. And so forth. And so on.

It will keep us distracted, wilfully sheltered from what is going on behind the canvas and the cloth of looming tyranny that aims at uniformity of speech, of voice and of opinion. We are being ruled by fear and governed by terror to make us accept limitations imposed on our speech and our expression. To label it hate-speech laws is blatantly obvious manipulation of language, telling all that do not think beyond the headlines that any who oppose this set of rules is guilty of hating something or other, and are as such not a decent person, not a good person, not a proper person but someone improper, someone to be shunned and punished for daring to defy the whatever and what-not. Anyone who hates anything is not a good person. Excepting those who hate the ones who supposedly are the haters. They are good people. When they hate what the sheltered stately state have decided is OK to hate.

For a governmental body to decide what is or is not accepted speech is tyranny clothed as compassion. It is a government telling us, in so many words, that this and only this is accepted opinion. And any-and-all that disagree hate the oppressed and are, as such, an oppressor, a bigot, a beastly bastard for whom violence is but a censored Tweet away. And so, they deserve anything that may come their way and the government will not only look the other way, but take part in the punishment. The Kulaks must be dealt with.

And this by any means.

And that is the truth.

For that is the nature of deceit.

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 14.09.2019

My book – Howling at a Slutwalk Moon, a collection of previous blog posts:
Vol 1 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/107571074X
Vol 1 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZTPDPR
Vol 2 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075714184
Vol 2 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZR25NL
Vol 1 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075717094
Vol 2 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075723078

Other links:
Redbubble shop: https://www.redbubble.com/people/Moiret/shop
Blog: https://moiretallegiere.wordpress.com/
YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC3IaCxAXE3pQd7PCdvHoaaA
Bitchute: https://www.bitchute.com/channel/EvbGZyTZSraY/
twatter: https://twitter.com/MAllegiere
Gab: https://gab.com/Moiret_Allegiere
Minds: https://www.minds.com/Moiret
Flickr: https://www.flickr.com/people/152465815@N04/