Gazing at the Harbingers of «Female Oppression»

Lonely trainstation blues lowres

Illustration: «Lonely Trainstation Blues», Moiret Allegiere, 2019

Some time back I was served a good old fashioned chewing out by a feminist acquaintance. My crime was one of the most horrible crimes a man could ever commit. Such a terrible display of toxic masculinity and male entitlement was this trespass of mine that I was sure that whatever was lurking in my future would be nothing but brimstone and hellfire. No choir eternal to lull me safely into the long and deep sleep of death and the beautiful grace of the afterlife. No halo to be placed upon my head and no graceful angel-wings upon my back. Pitchforks and damnation eternal awaited me beyond the veil and my long toil on the mortal coil.

So, what did I do to warrant such an exquisite and most justified chewing out?

Simple and easy.

I gave my wife a compliment on her appearance. This is not something I am supposed to do, as one would expect. This is not something any man is supposed to do in this crazy post-apocalyptic wasteland of ours, come to think of it. To the eyes and mind of this frail flower of feminine feminist virtue, this could not mean anything other than me valuing only the physical appearance of my wife and nothing but that.

Granted, my wife is bombshell-hot, wielding an alluring sex-appeal that would turn both heads of any man in any room and – apparently – turn any woman in any room into a boiling cauldron of unfiltered jealousy, making her manufacture any way possible for her to climb to the top of the feminine pecking order. By, for instance, chewing me out for giving my wife a compliment on her appearance. As a point of severe interest, I must add that the feminist in question was in her mid-forties at this point, and my wife in her early twenties. Chew on that for a little while. Might have something to do with it.

Now – the reason given for this chewing out is exactly what one would expect. In the embittered cage of jealousy, spectacle and wonder that was – and, I suppose, is – the mind of the feminist in question, me complimenting my wife on her appearance meant that I did not value any other qualities of my wife. As if her physical appearance was all that mattered to me, and any other quality be damned. A simple compliment must therefore – on feminist insistence – include all manner of other compliments relating to her intelligence, her spirit, her personality, her very soul, including but not limited to any and all prior incarnations of her undying soul as well as any other talents and abilities she must have underneath her bombshell appearance, vintage pin-up looks and alluring feminine grace.

And those other qualities of my wife – those that are not her stunning looks – are plentiful. Of this, there should be no doubt. I am not so stupid as to marry someone solely for their looks. Even if that is how feminism views male romantic interest. I think it would be safe to assume that the feminist in question could see no other qualities in my wife than her appearance. And her youth. Also, I feel quite certain in saying that my wife would probably be a bit peeved if I suddenly stopped complimenting her on her appearance.

Of course, what my wife thought of the matter was completely irrelevant to this single-minded simpleton so hell-bent on ruining this singular compliment. She felt offended at this horrible act of mine, and so she saw fit in her see-saw ways to defend the honour and the grace of my wife. As we all should damned well know by now, any woman not falling in line with the feminist orthodoxy must be a pawn of the patriarchy; an unwitting and un-awakened slave of societal constructs placed upon her against her wishes from which she must be emancipated lest she contribute to and willingly participate in her own oppression. Unknowingly, of course. A very whimsical and witty way for the feminist hordes of salivating salvation and holier-than-thou platitudes to parade their enlightened forms across town. Saying, in so many words, exactly this: “I don’t care what you believe – I know better than you what you feel deep down inside, and if you would only listen to what the sisterhood says it would all be clear to you. Meanwhile, I will just ignore everything you say. Because: as a simple and enslaved woman, you could not possibly understand any of this.”

Forgetting, for the moment, what is implied in the original offence taken – that is that a man can not possibly enjoy anything in his partner other than her physical appearance and what this says about the feminist view of men – I would like to take a look at one particularly terrible part of the feminist poltergeist philosophy. That is their insistence that the private must be political and the political must be private. For this, I believe, is the reason why the hive-mind feel as though they are entitled to intervene in a personal relationship and the compliments given by a husband to his wife.

It is preposterous.

Any personal relationship has to fall in line with the feminist philosophy and their whimsical ways and vices. This is to such an extent that they feel they have the obligation to be moral busy-bodies, poking their powdered and upturned noses into the private lives of everyone. Neighbourhood gossip-mongers given free reign to spy on and interfere with their neighbours. And you can be damned fucking sure that they will do this at the moment someone does not tow the party line. And what is it that does not tow the party line? Well, now, that depends on the feminist in question. If one but gazes beyond the veil nailed to our eyes by decades of feminist indoctrination and power-grabs, one will be able to see this busy-body poking and prodding everywhere. It is commonplace now.

Of course; given that our societies are beholden to a deliberate and – to my eyes – absolutely absurd celebration of celebrities, to such an extent that their private lives are something of a public spectacle, it is no small wonder that the peeking and peeping and attempted control of the private lives of ordinary people are not noticed as much. We seem to be far to busy with the virtue-signalling, moral grandstanding and constant displays of hypocrisy, nonsense, constant crisis and severe debauchery of celebrities to notice this peeping and prodding and poking into our own – by comparison – uneventful lives.

This does not mean that it is not there, however. If a married couple makes it known to the world, be that merely their friends and family, that they live a traditional life – that is wife at home, husband at work – I will bet you that one or more of the frazzled and bedazzled horde will poke their noses out of the cesspool that is social media to make it clear and to make it known that this is not the way one should chose to live. And people will buckle down and they will listen and they will apologize and mutter and stutter something along the lines of “yes, yes, I know, I know, it’s not entirely correct, but this is how we do it”. Thereby giving an admittance of guilt where no guilt exist.

…I am reminded of the “Big Bang Theory” starlet who made a horrible dent in the fabric of the space-time continuum when she said in an interview that she enjoyed cooking for her husband. Being a housewife was something she enjoyed. And this, it was made perfectly clear, was not something she was allowed to enjoy. This is not acceptable to the domineering sisterhood, and the high priestess was most displeased at this heresy. The social media harassment that followed was enough to prompt her to apologize for her wayward ways, throw down her sword at the feet of the feminist conquerors and swear fealty to their cause and their ways. For a woman – any woman – to enjoy something that is not of the feminist dogma is a terrible trespass upon women’s rights and must be fought by any means necessary. The woman in question does not matter. Her choice, her wishes and her enjoyment of anything does not matter. Only the collective matters – the sisterhood – the feminist collective of guilt and shame and attempted remodelling of the personal lives and doings of people whose lives they have no business interfering with.

The most frightening – and I think sobering – part of this privately political and politically private nonsense is of course the loss of personal freedom, liberty and responsibility. Allowing for a political movement to poke their noses in wherever they want in order to interfere and remodel the personal lives of other people – often strangers – is thinly veiled tyranny. It is an obvious attempt to govern what ordinary people do within the confines of their own homes, reaching into their lives and into their minds by telling them that if they do this, it is wrong. Teaching them, through the pain of shame, that they have to sort out their personal affairs, their family dynamic, to put their house in order in a way that pleases not them, but the movement, the ideology, and – in the end – the state. Barring violence and abuse, there should be absolutely no reason nor allowance given for anyone but the people involved to figure out how they want their interpersonal relationships to function. What works for them should work for them. What works for their neighbours should work for their neighbours.

This should be obvious.

But in the era of the collective, in the tribalizing societies we inhabit, this individual liberty and individual responsibility is forgotten – by will and by power – to be replaced with an ideology so determined at tearing down anything slightly resembling their chosen enemy that nothing matters but the tribe and the collective. And that is tribe and collective assigned by value of sex and gender, by random chance of birth. If a woman does something that is not considered suitable by the elders of the tribe and the collective, she must be shamed until she complies. And the same goes for men – doubly so, of course, or more, since he is the de-facto patriarch of his home and the one who has forced his partner into a subservient state of being in which she is valued only for her looks and her cookery. According to the elders of the tribe and the collective, as well as the high priestesses of immediate and visceral femdom.

…and in turning the political private, any personal grievance – however petty – experienced by a woman must be heard and given time and given due consideration as though it is the experience of every woman everywhere, even if she is the only one experiencing it. That is, of course, if the women just so happen to be a feminist, if she stands bold-faced and wearing warpaint within the ranks of the conquering army. Otherwise, she will be ignored and forgotten unless she allows herself to be engulfed, swallowed and subsequently digested by the tribe and the collective.

People in general want to be good, they want to do good and they want to be seen as good. People, by and large, wish for nothing but the acceptance of the world around them and the society which they inhabit. People, in general, don’t have the time, the resources or any particular interest in looking into things in great depth and detail. And so, when they have been told that feminism is a force for good and for equality and only that, they swallow it hook, line and stinker. And they do their best to fall in line. When being shamed by feminism – whose prime focus is naught but equality, you know – they consider their point of view from the point of view that feminism equals equality, and equality is of the good and so they must have done something wrong if the feminist horde are angered. So they whimper and let loose an apology for doing nothing wrong but arrange their lives in such a way as they see fit, but as feminism does not see fit to accept. There is no more powerful force in the world to bring an ordinary man to his knees than being shamed at the hands and lips of a woman scorned and offended.

What people ought to do is to let loose a barrage of anger and hostility towards those who are so rude as to suppose that they know better than the people in question how they should live their lives. To shame them into the shadows for being so solipsist in their view of the world that only their way of life works, that nothing exist beyond the barricades of their minds and the ideology infesting it. These people – these petulant peddlers of personal grievance and mangled word-treachery – should be shown, time and again, how rude, how inconsiderate of other people, how egotistical, selfish, narrow-minded and foolish they are. They should be told to leave other people alone. To not stick their shit-stained noses where they don’t belong. Or they should be ignored completely. Simple as that. They should not be given anything but a cold shoulder and a dunce-cap, to be sat in the corner of the grand classroom of the world to weep at their perceived wickedness of the world. Then they should be told to grow some balls and respect the privacy of other people, since this seems to be something they are absolutely and completely incapable of doing. Little by little, or with a full frontal shotgun blast of reasonable truth and individual liberty, they should be told – simple as it is – that the lives and affairs of other people are not their business, and that they should keep themselves to themselves and allow other people to do the same. Otherwise, fuck them.

   – Please like, share and subscribe

   – Moiret Allegiere, 07.08.2019

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Deliberately obtuse and lazy; hiding behind drivel to ignore facts:

kikkande på framtiden baklengs

Illustration: «Gazing at the Future Backwards», 2017, Moiret Allegiere

Being woefully, wilfully and deliberately obtuse does not befit anyone. It is not a good look for anyone, nor the tribe of anyone. Laziness is not a good character trait, especially when someone uses this trait in order to dissolve opposing sources shown to frantic virtue-wavers flagging their flannel-shirted self-flagellating morality atop ivory towers wherein lie the indoctrinated, inoculated, sheltered and echoing chambers of self-assured moral superiority.

For someone who is supposedly educated, who is supposedly intelligent, to act and to behave in a manner successfully proving the exact opposite is not exactly behaviour that generates any manner of trust in the soft-spoken or angrily shouted words of vain cotton-mouthed slurred-speech-enablers of the tongue-tied-and-twisted-variety.

And yet, when reading debates on the animosity of the sexes; on the victim-cult of social justice wherein self-proclaimed academes of supposed academic rigour stand silhouetted against the divine light of decades long studies on the emancipation of the mind and spirit through intellectual curiosity, the internalized, the mad and brilliant self-imposed obtuseness floats underhandedly to the forefront of their shiny and pimpled forehead, painting themselves as lazy and incompetent manufacturers of mindful fault lines within the messy mind of echo-chamber rhetoric where arguments that do not fall in line with their orthodox religion driven soul-lessly by dogmatic conviction are never once considered, never once taken into account and added to the vast databank that holds all their prefabricated retorts.

Self-choosing and picking paths to walk that are easily stumbled through by shouting regretful tear-duct-rape forced upon their bleary eyes by having to read something with which they disagree on a base-instinctual level, on a plainly emotional level, no matter how true or factual – they fall into lines of shivered spinelessness and pretend to misunderstand the argument or the facts and sources presented within the argument so as not having to take the act of disagreement based on truth into their cataclysmic cranial apocalypse.

Purposeful misunderstanding of the lines presented as a counter to their repeated-ad-infinitum statements makes sense within a tribe of people whose very being is existing in a state of permanent dishevelment gently prodded into their throats and gutless guts by years of indoctrination in lavish halls of lackademia.

The notion that anything might go against the grain of their ideology imprinted in their minds with hammer-and-sickle would mean that all that they have been taught, all that they have been told and all that which they have paid – or their parents have paid – exorbitant amounts for have been either false or heavily biased bile meant to drive a social movement forward, not the curious nature of man.

The arguments – or plain facts – disproving their metastasized cancer ideology can not properly be filtered through their lens of intolerant orthodoxy, and so can not properly be understood, and so must be wrong or they must have heard it wrong or it must have been written wrongly, giving cause for confusion in their minds so sprained from the free-form association of faulty academia that they stand unable to comprehend the perceived gibberish from opponents to their teary-eyed view of the world as is exactly as they experience it, nothing less and nothing more.

…Or exactly as they have been told that they experience it. Whether this tale of experience is true or not becomes completely irrelevant when ones mind and processes of thought have been beat into compliance with the governing rule of the lackademic tribe, all shining armour and trembling battle-cries, whose first and foremost governing rule is that those who take offence are always right if their tribe happen to align with one or other of the supposedly marginalized tribes of rampant hysteria and hypocrisy.

In not wanting to show any manner of intellectual weakness in the face of such a horrid thing as truth-fact-reason, truth-fact-reason of course being the name given to the three-headed dragon of their mythology; a fabled beast who is sent to bring forth Ragnarok and crush underfoot all who oppose evil and its mighty influence upon the world of men, they refuse to read the sources presented them that disprove their toxic victim-ways and calls for power and complete dominance. Thus, they feign being too lazy to read the sources just at this moment presented them so that they do not have to take into their laundromat-minds anything countering their fruit-flavoured views on the governing topics of the day.

Because being seen, deemed and considered lazy by all who live and work and interact with and around oneself would be a far better prospect than having to alter ones deeply ingrained views of the world and how the world actually functions, that being in wondrous and mysterious ways.

Being a lazy and dishonest bastard then becomes a virtue in and off itself, something to celebrate as it completely shelters one even more from the radical and frightening consideration that the world is far more nuanced and complicated than they or their tribe would like to paint and present it; a dubiously checked and lazily sealed envelope containing lavish words and long, ridiculous sentences full of mirth and fluff, saying nothing at all but giving the illusion of saying something profound.

Cheap excuses to hide the imminent truth somewhere in the back of the mindful and painful cavity that is their mindless minds, within the vortex created by the constant gnawing doubt in the back of their birdlike flutter-by minds created and maintained by the rigorous rigmarole of their echo-chamber and the dilettantes that spit and splutter in their footsteps to be granted inclusion into the holiest of holies, into the inner sanctum of acceptance and inclusion gained from the tribe and from the cult and the orthodoxy which constantly generate new rules of conduct, new dogma to adhere to in a constant flow of self-assured assuredness where no other thoughts or ideas are considered but the ones that their blatant blooming mediocre laziness pick-and-chose from the nebula generated in their black-hole-halls.

Such is the ways – in free fall – of cult-like thinking and behaviour; an absolute and absurd inability to see anything but that which is right at the tip of their noses, that which they have been told repeatedly is the only truth there is, which they have been shown repeatedly as being the only thing that exist, patting themselves on the back for their cleverness and closing their eyes and ears and mouths to anything not confirming their ways, their view, their world and their hollow holiness; their saintlike ascension into the highest reaches of their wordly paradise, a paradise wherein supreme morality reign supreme – that being supreme morality viewed through tribal allegiance and collective guilt, stating quite clearly and succinctly that my tribe good eternal, your tribe bad eternal, and may nothing ever change that view, that truth, that simplicity, amen.

 – Please like, share and subscribe

 – Moiret Allegiere, 03.08.2019

Vile cacti sodomy: A ramble on the empathy-gap:

rock n roll will never die lowres

Illustration: «Rock’N’Roll will never die», 2019, Moiret Allegiere

 

In this weird and strange hay-stack world of ours, where all manner of elusive illusion reign supreme, one figment of fantasy tower above all other. That would be the illusion – the phenomenal fantasy – of some grand global network of conspirators aimed at making men the privileged sex. This is dubbed the nefarious patriarchy, thriving and revelling on the subjugation and enslavement of women.

The claim that the voices and concerns of women are never heard is so ridiculous given the state of things that wilful blindness is the only possible reason for people to make this claim. Personally, I much prefer the reptilian conspiracy to that of the patriarchy. I think it makes way more sense.

The fact of the matter is that the shrieking tunes of the feminist death-squads and marching bands are heard and given credence no matter how absurd and ridiculous their claims, no matter how much their statements are debunked time and again by people far more clever than both them and myself. If it is a problem predominantly facing women, you can bet your pontificating arse and snivelling snoot that heaven and hell will be moved in order to fix it. Or at the very least alleviate it. Even if it is a ridiculous first-world problem easily mended by taking some more responsibility for one self, as is the case with the horribly sexist air-conditioning; a non-issue and personal pet-peeve of mine, remedied quite easily by the woman or women in question putting on more clothes.

Imagine that.

Considering that the dress-codes for men in workspaces where air-conditioning exist tend to be far more rigid than they are for women, business-suits of course being the only acceptable form of clothing for a professional man, there is little wonder that men in these workspaces would be far warmer than the women in these spaces. A business-suit is a hot thing, warm as the devil himself. And not being allowed to wear anything but this suit; no shorts, no shirts, no nothing of the sort… All to give the veneer of professionalism sorely needed by the company, it would be fair to say that the air-conditioning should keep the space cool and that the women being cold should maybe do something as simple as putting on a sweater or wearing pants or something of that nature. Radical notion, I know. But that is what happens when you get radicalised by the horrible patriarchal reptile forces of the internet.

This is, of course, an incredibly sexist and horribly misogynist thing to say, as women should be free to do whatever the hell they want to do, even if that includes blaming other people for their problems of feeling a slight chill in the workplace when the only thing needed to do is to put on one more layer of clothing. I assume this will be held forth as a shining example of a man trying to control what women do with their bodies; not taking into account the dress-codes for men in these spaces.

This does not matter, obviously, because men being uncomfortable in the stifling heat and lack of oxygen in the sauna-like room temperature that seems to be preferred by women everywhere is just another manifestation of primeval male toxicity calling for the governance and patriarchal regulation of female body-temperatures. Where will it all end? At some point – men may be so rough and domineering as to keep the temperature of the room at a level where they are comfortable.

Cor blimey, governess, we can’t have that, now can we – men can not, under any possible circumstances, be expected to be comfortable? Holy hell and shining madness – soon you’ll be expecting they be allowed to sit comfortably as well… soon, you’d be expecting men to sit in the manner their biology dictate… and we’d see a horrid rise in episodes of vile and violent manspreading. Best get that man-spread-combating chair of monumental stupidity – designed by a feminist apparently considered a hero by the frail and fragile forces of frantic and frazzled feminism – rolled out to meet and greet the world at large. Knock it into the law-books; manspreading to be punished by public castration. That sounds good! YASSSSSS! Slay QUEEN!

…And various other ululations of feminist preposterous pandering and self-congratulations; patting themselves on the back on their path towards irredeemable and superfluous obsolescence.

Anyone not currently basking in the radioactive glow of unlubricated feminist sodomy lovingly delivered by the strap on cacti-dildo of some-odd dominatrix, should be able to see the lack of empathy where men are concerned scrawled across the crossword patterns of our wretched and decaying civilization. Born as much from men being the disposable sex as it is from lobbying feminist activities and academic institutions indoctrinating young minds into the victim cult, it is everywhere. Right out there in the open for all the world to see. If only all the world were willing to see it. The pain of men is unfortunately taboo to the vast void of the world, and so men who suffer and who struggle are shunned. They are told that there is something wrong with them for being men; that they deal with their emotions all wrong and so need to open up and talk about them. Only to be met with ridicule, shaming and god-knows-what when they do. Toxic masculinity causes men to not share their feelings and emotions. And fragile masculinity is the terminology of choice used to shame men when men do. Odd how that works; almost as though the ideology and preposterous ideas therein are manufactured to paint this picture that men are wrong no matter what and how they do.

See, women in general don’t seem to want this emotional openness in a man. And men know this. More oft than not, they know and learn this by experience, the moment they go from being boys to being men and get met with far less understanding and cozy comfort. So men learn how to process and handle their emotions on their own, in their own way. By and large.

When being told that this is the wrong way to go about it, and being shown that trying to talk about their emotions the way the feminist-infused school of thought demand brings nothing but the same feminist-infused school of thought crashing down on them with all the horrid power of the ancient ones, the breaking point is closing in.

And damaged people damage people.

Snap, crackle, pop.

Everyone has a breaking point.

In seeing how much protest any-and-all conference aimed at the issues men face meet, not only by the awesome might and fury of the feminist forces, but also by society at large – so much so that they are shut down, forced to change venues, forced into obscurity – one can not help but wonder how the claim that the voices of women are never heard can make any manner of sense. Nor how it makes any manner of sense that only the voices and concerns of men are heard. Consider the backlash to Cassie Jaye’s documentary the Red Pill, where genderless gender-studies professors of – apparently – no ill repute prop up their terrified and trembling forms on television to completely and utterly lie about the men’s rights movement and what it represents, sculpting clay-models and straw-men of men who want nothing but to be free to rape and plunder like Mongolian hordes. Consider television hosts in Australia admitting to not seeing the film, but bashing it nonetheless… consider screenings of the film being shut down on feminist insistence… and tell me, with a straight face, that issues facing men are taken seriously; that only the voices of men are heard to the detriment of women.

When the voices of the men’s rights movement are shut down at every turn and men are being constantly bombarded with negative messages regarding their sexuality, their sex and their masculinity.

Like the APA guidelines for dealing with men and boys, in which the finite and infant-like wisdom of the dominant ideology reign supreme, putting into place the notion of masculinity as some form of toxic and destructive ideology. IDEOLOGY. The psychiatrists will then, of course, deal with the issues boys and men face when coming in to seek help by telling them that it is their masculinity – that is – their identity as boys and as men that is the main problem facing them, nothing more, nothing less.

So, one would have to wonder – why is the suicide rate of boys and men so high? Not that we hear that much about the suicide rate and how many men kill themselves, of course. Because women attempt suicide more, so that must be the focus point of our societies in which women are hated so-so much. Never taking into account that the women who attempt suicide survive and the men that kill themselves die. Not taking into account that women who attempt suicide may be crying for help – something that, I absolute believe, should be taken seriously, but which is a far cry from actually dying by their own hand. Nor is it taking into account repeat attempts at suicide by the same woman, boosting the numbers some. Or “simple” self-harm documented as suicide attempts. Nevertheless, it is painted as some preposterous problem facing women first and foremost, as are all issues. Even when men are most affected, it must be somehow twisted and turned so that women are the main victims. Men dying don’t matter. Because women didn’t die. It makes perfect sense, of course. When one sex receives empathy and understanding and the other sex does not.

Yet, the claim is there: the empathy-gap does not exist, as we all should well know by now. It is for the lack of the empathy-gap that women who snap and kill their children or their partners prompt us to feel sorry for them, opening for dialogues of immense importance in regards to mental health and how horrible the state of women’s mental health is. Women are, in other words, and by the insistence of the dominant feminist forces in our society, crazy.

You will excuse me giggling like a rabid schoolgirl.

In so doing, they are creating all manner of ways in which the partner of the woman may be made to be the perpetrator after the fact, being that he most assuredly abused her to the point of her snapping and killing him or their children or both. What a splendid thing, what a tremendous stroke of luck, that he is dead then, and with no possible ability to defend himself. Victim-blame much, you trite troglodyte?

Sounds like the rhetoric of an abuser to me, but what the hell do I know? Men can’t be abused by women, after all. Because feminism said so. And since they said it, it must be true. Proven, of course, by the severe lack of domestic violence shelters for men… or for boys, given that boys above a certain age who are abused are not allowed within the premises of these shelters for women and their children fleeing the horrible and tyrannical patriarch at home. A son is only to be sheltered as long as he is a boy and not a man. For, when being a man, he clearly can take care of himself – as women are absolutely incapable of doing, apparently. The train of ridiculous logic that follows is circular – there are few – if any shelters – for abused men – there are many shelters for abused women – therefore it follows that women are abused more and men are abused less. This is despite the fact that feminists have protested and done all in their power to not have shelters available for men. This goes all the way back to the first shelters created by Erin Pizzey – a woman I have an immense respect and admiration for, and whose experiences I recommend any and all to read – in which she quickly learned that women who sought shelter were just as, if not more, abusive as the men from whom they sought shelter.

She then tried to open a shelter for abused men, and got met by a campaign of harassment by the feminist forces that is difficult to believe in a society in which feminism is painted as a force of good and nothing but. But that is the way of revisionist history and historians; she who controls the past controls the present. She also controls the future.

For the simplest and most profound example of the empathy-gap, one could simply point to male genital mutilation being allowed and – in many cases – recommended, whereas female genital mutilation is illegal, in order to best showcase the glaringly obvious presence of said empathy-gap. But that don’t matter none, because mutilating the penises of baby boys ain’t no problem. Boys don’t have bodily autonomy, my little pumpkin. And that is quite alright; nothing sexist or horrible about allowing one sex to be genitally mutilated at birth – shaming those who oppose it – and making it completely illegal for the other sex. Nothing wrong with using these severed foreskin in facial creams, for the vanity of women either. This is just to be expected; fresh baby-facials for the women, and shame on you if you disagree, or find this a bit icky. These women have all the right in the world to smear severed baby foreskin on their wrinkly faces, you boorish blue-collar slobs. As if the genital integrity of boys mattered more than the unwrinkled countenance of some past-her-prime woman in superficial distress; woe betide you, should you dare oppose the facial gluttony of the barbarian queen.

Honk, fucking honk.

I could go on and on about this. This is just a rambling introduction to the empathy-gap; a roguish ballad sung by a bearded bard riddled with spontaneity, insomnia and sudden bursts of insanity. There is a lot to unwrap, to ponder and consider in this silly world of ours.

I will leave you with some more thoughts on incels, which I touched upon in an earlier piece – “Shame and Ridicule on the Howling Plains of Twitter”, available on Bitchute, YouTube and my blog. Incels have been on my mind quite a lot lately, and I am pondering doing some larger piece on the phenomena of inceldom, if I find more thoughts on this accumulating within the vortex of my cranial madness.

Norway has a television channel very much like the BBC, which of course is far more than a television channel now. Funded by the population by force and the government by choice. It is also infected very much with the vampiric forces of regressive progressivism and the holy ghost of feminism, obviously making them less-than unbiased. Even when they claim that they are unbiased.

That is the problem when people are so engulfed by their beliefs and convictions that they do not consider it properly – they do not see their own bias. This is a very human thing. For itself, there is nothing wrong with it. We all have confirmation bias, one way or the other. It is wrong when something that everyone is forced by law to pay for does not represent the interests of the population in any objective way, mirroring only one set of beliefs, values and convictions and claiming this to be unbiased, thus colouring the mainstream view of the thing by presenting itself as nuanced and unbiased.

Some years back now, they had a news-article on their website about a woman in a wheelchair complaining that the lack of interest she received from men – when sitting in a wheelchair, as opposed to pictures where she was not in her wheelchair – on tinder was a form of sexual harassment in itself, as she felt herself ignored by men for being in a wheelchair. Hardly worth doing an article about, I thought then and I think now. There followed a few lines about her being just as deserving of love as someone not wheelchair-bound.

Maybe she should have used some of that baby-foreskin facial cream. That might have helped. Probably not though. Wouldn’t have helped. Not with those legs.

What sticks out here is, of course, that she sounds very much as though she is involuntarily celibate, forced into a state of permanent singlehood by forces beyond her control. As though she is one of those disgusting incels we’ve been hearing so much about. You know; the ones who feel as though they are entitled to companionship and to sex. Those horrible people whose situation in life has been turned into a quick and easy insult for disgruntled feminists and their orbiting white knights to pull out at their whim and fancy whenever arguments are lacking.

If said incel is a man, of course.

If a woman shows up and acts as though she is entitled to love, companionship and sex from men, she is met with empathy and understanding. To such a degree that woe-is-me type news articles pop up from the wood-works and make themselves heard to make us feel sorry for her and do all that we can in order that her plight of being single – that is, being an incel, is alleviated. For how could any man be so horrible as to have romantic and/or sexual preferences on their own? Men are not allowed this, you see. If a woman shows interest in a man, the man is expected to reciprocate in kind – lest he be considered a superficial arsehole. Does not matter whether the woman is fat, or in a wheelchair, or whatever it may be that throws the man off and makes him not turn on the testosterone-fuelled rape-cannon below his belt – if he shows no interest in her if she shows interest in him, there is something wrong with him. Some would maybe call this behaviour entitlement, but what do I know? The inverse does not apply, but that is part and parcel of life in the strange purgatorial afterlife we have inhabited since 2012.

This is not the only article I have read in which female incels are shown care and compassion that male incels have never been shown, nor ever will be shown.

I sent a complaint to this state-sanctioned, populace-and-government funded channel of ours regarding this article. I worded this complaint properly, of course. Thinking that – since I bloody well pay for this mass of propaganda and nonsense, I have every right in the world to complain.

In this complaint, I asked them if they would publish the same kind of article were it a man complaining about – in essence – not getting laid due to circumstances beyond his control.

They never replied.

As they usually never do whenever I complain. I have sent them a few complaints in my time. Only when their bias is clearly shining through, proving that they do not for one flat-farted second represent the interests of the people who are forced to pay for their spewing of biased bile.

There is that which is so strange to me; that mist floating out there on the horizon, within which all manner of ghosts and ghouls and terrors roam; that outpouring of empathy and understanding where women are concerned, that majestic lack of it where men are concerned. Men, who feel a lack of companionship and of sex are scorned and shunned and ridiculed; are told that they are not entitled to sex, nor are they entitled to a woman’s time. Which I, admittedly, agree with. I also agree that women are not entitled to sex, romance, companionship or what have you.

However; women who feel entitled to this are given empathy and understanding; are given a place in our government-funded public broadcasters of propaganda and sanitized trash to vent their frustrations in regards to this, to lay all the blame on men for not wanting to bang her, for not wanting to enter into a relationship with her for her being in a wheelchair.

And it is not that I don’t have empathy for her. I actually do. Just as I have empathy and understanding for men who are in a similar situation to her. It is that society at large demonize men who are in that position – men who long for meaningful relationships, men who long for physical touch, who long for anything beyond the purely platonic. It is that our newspapers and our public broadcasters paint these men in a horrid light; as haters of women and as rapists-in-waiting, as potential mass-murderers and whatever they’ve got to throw their way, whilst simultaneously making empathetic fluff-pieces about women who act just in the same way that these so-called foul, horrid, basement-dwelling, neckbearded, fedora-wearing incel-bastards do.

Women who feel entitled to sex, love, romance and relationships are to be listened to and understood. And be allowed to shame men for not wanting to fuck them, love them or caress them.

Men who feel entitled to sex, love, romance and relationships are to be shamed and ridiculed. For wanting to fuck women, be caressed, or loved by women.

And yet, there is no empathy-gap to speak of.

And all men’s dreams are torn asunder.

And all men’s love denied eternal.

And all men’s pain invisible.

And all men’s all lost.

And still, men are supposedly the ones whom all the world listen to.

 – Please like, share and subscrive

 – Moiret Allegiere.24.07.2019

____________________________________________________________________________________________

Howling at a Slutwalk Moon:

Vol 1 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/107571074X
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Shame and Ridicule on the Howling plains of Twitter:

Reach lowres

Illustration: «Reach», 2019, Moiret Allegiere

In order to bring your regular blue-pilled and blue-balled man to his knees, whimpering and stuttering profound expressions of regret, you need two things. A woman. And shame. This is something that is difficult to spot at first, as it seems to be a thing that has been cemented in our cultural evolution just as much as it has been fixed in the midst of our biological evolution. As such, it is something that gets taken for granted, by both men and women. A part of the social game and fabric of our mutually assured societal suicide; a living, breathing entity trapped within the basement-dwellings of our primal reptilian longing to fornicate and procreate.

Women are the gatekeepers of sex; of fornication and procreation and thusly the ones who decide whether or not a man is allowed to create any form of progeny… or to see his lineage dwindle and die.

Little wonder then that we are willing to put up with so much ridicule and shame from the fairer sex than we would ever be willing to put up with from men. This is not to say that we should put up with it. It is to say that it is so commonplace that it is nigh impossible to see unless you have your eyes opened wide by some personal tragedy or by forcefully applied reason, logic and common fucking sense. And when you do not see it, you take it for granted. It is part of the social fabric; the way things have always been and always will be. Unless we change it.

See, during my much-needed hiatus from writing on these topics, I have not been lazy. Nor have I kept myself out of the loop, as any sane individual would do were they to take a break from everything. I am clinically insane. As a result of this, I can not take a break from things no matter how much my aching body and decaying mind tell me that they need to. The show must go on, I suppose. Well, the show and my obsession on certain topics of the day.

I am not someone who will willingly participate in a debate. Hell; I have to be dragged kicking and screaming out of my cave just to go outside and get something to eat, leaving behind me a trail of despair and destruction much befitting a pseudo-hermit like myself. Winding up in some online debate with a perfect stranger would be, to my gobsmacked intestinal tract, an ulcer in waiting and a prolapsed back emerging from the shackled shadow of the somewhat social teenager I used to be, with all the gloomy angst and mysterious stranger vibes I could conjure forth from my then-emerging extreme introversion.

No, I am not one for debates. I always wind up muttering, stuttering, mumbling something incomprehensible and then doing my best to fade into the woodwork or dig a hole in the ground where I could sleep for a thousand years.

Cause I am tired, I am weary.

My Twitter profile is a living testament to this, as one would expect. My tweets are few and far between. The “likes” I have doled out lovingly to the masterful guards standing in the way of the rampaging feminist hordes, shielded by facts and wielding flaming words of immense illumination are not that few and far between, as I very much enjoy reading and watching debates online. Whether that be professional debates in professional settings, or on online forums like Reddit or Twitter or what-have-you.

Used to be I’d watch or read debates on just about everything, in order to get a grasp on the thought-processes of people and the arguments espoused from either side of a debate. It didn’t matter then, and it don’t matter much now whether I agreed with any side or not. My interest lies in seeing and understanding a side, understanding their reasoning and their conclusions. Keeping an open mind is key to this; to view things from as many perspectives as possible, and then letting what makes the most sense guide my own view and opinion on things. Lately, what debates I have read and/or seen have been mainly feminist vs non-feminist/MRA’s. For obvious reasons.

And what is so absurdly and incomprehensibly gobsmacking in these debates – if you would even want to call them that – is the amount of shame and personal attacks ushered forth from the feminist harpies. There is very little argument of any value to be found – if there really are any.

There is a constant flow of shaming and ridicule, and that is more or less that. And these people seem to be absolutely unaware of this. It is funny to watch and to behold how their regular shaming tactics don’t work on men who have woken up to this horrifying fact and facet of life and the social fabric. How they take it all in stride as the frightbat tunes of shame and ridicule fall on deaf ears completely in tune with the harmonious winds of their own mad-genius laughter as they watch these tried-and-true tactics be completely useless in the face and eyes of the enlightened and noble transcendent spirits.

In encountering non-feminist women, the shaming tactics get even worse and more ridiculous.

Cause this is unknown territory – these are uncharted waters, captain, and we don’t have any particular framework to navigate. We can’t seem to shame them for the size of their genitals any more, nor their lack of sexual prowess and/or ability to provide for and protect a woman and children. God-damn, what should we do then? Well, arr, damned if I know, matey. I assume that there can not possibly be women who think like this, and as such it must be a man clothed and disguised as a female internet-persona as a fantastically smart way of bringing shame upon the global sisterhood. Because that is what I would do, god-damnit!

Clearly, no woman could possibly be opposed to the feminist mindset of being an eternal victim and permanently downtrodden; of being constantly so beat down by the world that she could not possibly be expected to navigate it on her own without breaking into hives, sweaty panic and full frontal feral nudity and madness in protest of the sexualization of her voluptuous body-rolls and ginormous foot-impact on the soil.

It is either a man, or a woman so desperate for intimacy with a man that she is willing to lie in order to get a foot within the door of his provider-protector shack. A “Pick-me” I believe is the terminology of choice to these people, so up their own ass and addicted to sniffing their own farts that they are completely incapable of comprehending the simple fact that sex and gender is not a unifying ideal; that neither sex is a homogeneous mass of drones doing and thinking the exact same thing in perpetuity. So foreign is the notion of women opposing feminism that there has to be some nefarious reason for them doing so; either an MRA – as of course are only men – posing as a woman, or a woman who can not find love and so must pretend to be opposed to the sexual inequality and infantilizing of women which feminism so clearly crafts and creates wherever they spread their filthy wings and period-blood, all hysterical and ovary-acting to anything not deemed suitable conduct for a woman. And what is suitable conduct for a woman? Anything feminism dictates. Anything feminism does not dictate is not suitable for a woman. Even if women can do whatever the hell they want. As long as they do what feminism wants, which is not what women in general want, but what feminism wants. Rinse and repeat.

The shaming of men who are opposed to feminism is much the same as the shaming of any man, whether they are opposed to feminism or not. Just another fucking Tuesday for those of us who grew up in the era of feminism. Nothing much changes there, to be frank and perfectly honest. It is the same old rhetoric of feminism when faced with the tragic horror of men and masculinity which they have always spewed from their gibbering jaws of wanton death and destruction; a constant stream of shame for men being men and doing whatever it is that men do.

And, to the eyes and fatty tissue of feminism – whatever it is that men do and are is exactly what feminism is opposed to. And this is subject to change at any moment of any day. Depends on if the moon is in the seventh house or not; if Jupiter is aligned with Mars and if the demented Moon-goddess Luna is on the rag or not.

Usually, an attempted debate devolves quickly into insinuations of a less-than-satisfactory genital size, a lack of sexual partners and sexual prowess, lack of income or ability to protect and to provide for a woman and for a family. Oddly gender-traditional, I always think, as I watch this train wreck occur in front of my eyes in slow motion. I swear to high heavens that feminism is the most gender-traditional set of entitled bastards you will see this side of a medieval romance novel. Both male and female feminists.

Words like “incel” are thrown around willy-nilly, never-minding if the man in question is in a relationship or not. I have seen feminists claim that men who are in a relationship or who are married are lying about it just to deflect from their incelhood. Further establishing the feminist view of men as beings incapable of detaching their selves from their lust to fuck; as if there is – to the poor sight of feminism – nothing more to a man than a throbbing and mutilated cock eternally on the quest for a quick rape or two in some dank alley infested with patriarchal lice and women – pick-me’s – willing to be defiled by the tragedy of male sexuality, begging for a cheap fuck to validate her existence. It is as if feminism sees men as being absolutely nothing without a woman in their life, to defile and subjugate.

Thus pouring the insufferable narcissism of feminism deeply into the cracks of our pavements and the paths on which we walk to our sudden and sullen gloom and doom. How can a man function without a woman in his life? Men, to the eyes of feminism and to society at large, are complete and utter failures if they are incapable of ensnaring some poor woman in their manspread manweb of incessant mansplained mancocks. Men are nothing without women. And women are the moral fabric of society, they shriek and shudder, as they shame men for not finding a woman and shame women for wanting so badly to find a man that they oppose feminism and the divine sisterhood to do so. Then they shame men for wanting to find a woman. And women for not finding a man. Herpityderp.

And of all the horrible things they could find to shame men for, they resolve to involuntary celibacy as the prime force behind their shaming; the core of their unending male shame: the male lack of partnership and sexual as well as emotional fulfilment.

Incels, as is my understanding of it, are often men who have been deeply damaged by society. Or who have some developmental issues, some mental issues, some physical issues that make it very difficult for them to find any meaningful companionship, platonic or not.

Often – but not always – these men have been abused and/or neglected by their parents. They have lacked love and understanding for most of their lives, and they are still incapable of finding love and understanding and so vent their frustrations on the internet, where there at the very least exist other people willing to listen to them and share a bit in their despair.

Most people do want to love and to be loved; to find emotional as well as physical fulfilment in the company of another human being. Physical contact is incredibly important to human beings. In particular in their younger years. Give a child everything but physical contact, and the child will suffer immensely for the lack of physical contact.

A whole hell of a lot of these incels are men who are deeply damaged, scorned and ridiculed by society. Who have been neglected and abused throughout their lives. Who have not found any place where they feel that they fit in or are accepted, and as a result they get angry and frustrated.

This is not to say that I agree with their venting, their anger and frustration. Nor is it to say that I don’t.

This – dear feminist horde of rampant rage and ruin – is what is called being understanding and compassionate; to show empathy. Which the entire world is in dire need of where men are concerned. The empathy-gap is real. Glaringly and obviously so, if one just manage to view men as human beings and not merely human doings; as utilities and a nifty set of tools to get the job done, the lack of empathy where men are concerned becomes really bloody obvious. Especially so the moment one takes a short pause to consider that “incel” is a term now used to shame men.

That incels, men who – more often than not – find themselves at the bottom rungs of society, who are deprived of emotional fulfilment and of physical fulfilment, who are lonely and despairing, are shamed for being just that. Shamed instead of understood and shown empathy and given help. Further hammering the point home in their heads and despairing psyche – that they are not now, nor have they ever been, wanted, loved or needed.

And still this gynocentric, feminist-infested society of ours will claim that the empathy-gap is not real.

It is enough to make me feel sick to the bottom of my soul.

It doesn’t matter what the facts are. It doesn’t matter how many studies and statistics are used in these debates to prove the point against feminism. For these people, feelings are more factual than actual facts are factual. I assume this is because the feelings are immediate and thus take precedence to the ability to stop and think, ponder and consider. If something feels bad, it must be bad. Never mind if it is true or not. Thus, facts counter to the feminist narrative that has been droning on for years uncounted that feel bad can not possibly be true. Cause they feel bad, and that is that.

In my ramblings, in which I will absolutely admit that I am not as good at dropping sources as I should be, there is not a single thing I have stated as fact that can not be backed up by statistics or studies or news-articles or whatever. My lack of dropping sources stems from the fact that I am a writer, not a scholar; an artist, not an academic.

I do my very best to make it obvious when I am talking for myself and when I am referring to some study or statistic or the like.

Believe it or not, given the rambling and hop-scotchy nature of my writing, I happen to chose my words very carefully. The rambling is by choice and by design. And I very often find myself having a hard time writing something if I am just a wee bit uncertain about it. If I have not completed my – admittedly very slow – thinking or research on a certain subject, I falter and my fingers stutter over the keyboard like some drunkard at the bar, searching in vain for that last glimmer of sobriety stuck somewhere in the back of his throat. This is because I want to be as sure as I can be that I am correct in what I write and what I say and what I think. Obviously, this is not to say that I am infallible – that I am always right, like some weird angry God. It is to say that I do my very best to speak truth, even if my style of writing is very much impacted by my emotional state at the moment of writing. My writing may very well be emotional. My reasoning, on the other hand, is not.

For reasons very much unknown to me, but which are probably tied neatly into the obscurity of my blog and of my channel as well as my lack of participation in debates, I have not experienced a lot of shaming and ridicule after I began writing on these topics. Nothing near what I expected. In fact, I have been shamed and ridiculed for my sex and sexuality more before I started writing about these topics than after. I guess it is easier to attack someone who does not speak openly on things of this nature in the holy name of feminism than it is to attack someone who does.

For blue-pilled men are easier prey to various forms of Succubi and harsh siren songs than red-pilled men are. There have been some attempted shaming and personal attacks. Of such grandiose stupidity that I refuse to reply to it. Because I can not understand why in the everlasting blowjob-sunrise I should reply to non-arguments presented as arguments; to self-contradictory statements made within the same paragraph of babbling monologues as each other. I see no reason to counter shaming tactics with anything but the wall of silence which it deserves. Because shaming tactics are not arguments; personal attacks will never be arguments. They are not worthy of a reply. At least not to my eyes. There is really very little to be said to someone who is so possessed by the ghost of feminism that they would claim – without so much as a flicker of regret or doubt – that the only possible conclusion to be had from my opposition to feminism is that I want to be free to abuse my wife however I wish. There is no reasoning with this type of madness, this type of ideological and dogmatic blindness. And I don’t have the time, the energy or the health for it.

Of course; I see that the point in any debate is not so much to sway the opinion of the one with whom one is debating but those who may be looking on. Which is much the reason why I so much enjoy watching debates. Not necessarily to see a feminist PWNED and WRECKED and DESTROYED by FACTS(!!!), however much fun that is, but to see those who may have been on the sidelines getting swayed as much by the behaviour of the feminist or feminists in the debate as by the reasoned arguments by the non-feminist in question. As much as I believe that fighting fire with fire may be worth it (if only for the lolz), as much as I think that holding feminists accountable to their own standard of behaviour and thusly replying to them in kind would be a spectacular display of hypocrisy on their part, there is very little doubt in my mind that the true path towards a society in which feminism does not hold as much sway and power and might and control that they do at the moment of writing is to debate them calmly and succinctly, to disprove their nonsense with actual evidence, with cold and hard facts instead of rambling emotional tirades and ad hominem potshots.

To gently and slowly sway the public opinion.

And to those who are capable of doing just that, I tip my fedora and wriggle my neckbeard in ecstatic glee. For you are the ones fighting. I’m just sitting sheltered in some bunker somewhere, doing what I can on my part, as little as that may very well be.

 – Please like, share and subscribe

 – Moiret Allegiere, 17.07.2019

____________________________________________________________________________________________

Howling at a Slutwalk Moon:

Vol 1 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/107571074X

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

howl lowres

Illustration: «Howl», 2019, Moiret Allegiere

 

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

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

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

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

…And so forth and so on…

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, baby, it’s cold outside!

It is getting very cold inside as well.

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

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

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

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

Oh, baby, it’s cold outside!

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

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

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

I’ve been hoping that you’d drop in”.

So very nice.

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I don’t have to write about this treachery.

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

Out of sight, out of mind.

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

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

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

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

Ban it.

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

And so, really, I’d better scurry.

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

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

Honk.

Fucking, god-damned Honk.

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

***

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

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

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

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

Mind if I move in closer?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, baby, it’s cold outside.

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

And these people preach tolerance. It sickens me.

Tolerance.

Tolerance.

Tolerance.

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, baby, it’s cold outside!

The freedom of the west is dying.

Long live the freedom of the west.

 – Please like, share and subscribe

 – Moiret Allegiere, 06.07.2019

___________________________________________________________________________________________

Links:

«Howling at a Slutwalk Moon» is finally out. Get it here. Expect another blogpost on it quite soon:

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

Amazon author site: amazon.com/author/moiretallegiere

Redbubble shop: https://www.redbubble.com/people/Moiret/shop

Visit my blog: https://moiretallegiere.wordpress.com/

Check out my youtubechannel: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC3IaCxAXE3pQd7PCdvHoaaA

Check out my bitchutechannel: 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/

 

Howling at a Slutwalk Moon: Book launching soon.

Howling at a slutwalk moon vol 1 u-illustrert

 

Through the magic and splendour of DIY-or-die, as well as good help and support from Tom Golden of http://www.menaregood.com and my wife, I am both happy and proud to announce that I am releasing a book in a couple of weeks.

Well, two books, really. Due to the length of this bastard lovechild, I had to split it up into two volumes.

Titled «Howling at a Slutwalk Moon: Contrarian Ramblings in the Age of Conformity» (A title, I will most humbly admit, I am very pleased with in a snarky sort of way), it collects most of my ramblings and prose, driven, of course, by caffeine, cheap wine and sleep-deprivation in round-and-about equal measures.

Editing this bastard has been more time-consuming and more exhausting than I ever thought it would be. Of course, there is not much needed to exhaust me, frail and weak sickling that I clearly am (albeit with a fantastic ability to poke fun at myself). Due to this exhaustion, there has been little new art and a reduction in uploads since editing began.

Post-release, I aim to take a week away from the wonders of the internet in order to recharge my batteries and/or dance naked in my livingroom to the soothing blastbeats and fiercely reverbarating guitars found in Extreme Metal of the meanest, blackest and most evil sort, guzzling several litres of wine and laughing like a god-damned maniac at the pissing rain outside where summer should have been.

That is, unless I get un-personed and deemed a clinical insane provocateur by the technocracy looming above the remnants of our civilization and as such forced  – with good reason, one assumes – into re-education. One never knows.

Originally, I intended it to be fully illustrated with my drawings. This turned out to make it absurdly expensive as a paperback, so there will be two paperback versions available. One with, and one without, illustrations.

For those willing to pay extra for the illustrated version: my fedora goes off to you and my neckbeard will literally shake with barely concealed glee.

Of course, I don’t expect many sales of the illustrated version. It will, however, be available to those who would want it. There will also be a Kindle-version available, as one would expect. This will not be illustrated, as black and white does not mix well with my tendencies towards a psychedelic use of colours.

Expect magnificent amounts of plugging, pushing and prodding in regards to this bastard lovechild of a book over the course of the next few weeks or months.

Catch you next time.

– Please like, share and subscribe

– Moiret Allegiere, 26.06.2019

____________________________________________________________________________________________

Redbubble shop:

https://www.redbubble.com/people/Moiret/shop

Visit my blog:

https://moiretallegiere.wordpress.com/

Check out my youtubechannel:

https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC3IaCxAXE3pQd7PCdvHoaaA

Check out my bitchutechannel:

https://www.bitchute.com/channel/EvbGZyTZSraY/

Stalk me on social media (as long as it lasts):

twatter:

https://twitter.com/MAllegiere

Gab:

https://gab.ai/Moiret_Allegiere

Minds:

https://www.minds.com/Moiret

Flickr:

https://www.flickr.com/photos/152465815@N04/

We who fell from Grace/Alphabet-soup/Being but boys

Venlafaxine blues 1

Illustration: «Venlafaxine Blues», Moiret Allegiere, 2017

We, who so lovingly devolved and fell from grace; who longed to be devoured by the rush and the filth and the harshly whispered words…
who so quickly succumbed to illness, to tribal despotism and despair; who saw sudden surges of revenge pondered in school-yards a-flame…

…who so slowly broke down and fell apart on streets lined with gold…
who so openly announced our departure from our selves for all to hear…
who so honestly drank slow-burning ruination from chalices offered by silver-tongued Succubi speaking soft nothings in our ears…

who so truthfully believed belittling tattle-tales and nursery-rhymes, timid and scared and frozen in the headlights…
who so freakishly, annoyingly, self-devouringly swallowed the hook and line and sinker of preposterous tongue-tied dogmatism…
who so very much longed to prove our worthiness in shaded temples overrun by smog and asbestos by the light of her countenance…
who so dramatically disowned our inner-most being for the flicker of her shanty-town eyes and trash-heap domestication…
who so simple-mindedly tore our beating hearts from our chests through our throats and shattered jaws to present as tokens of our love…
who so lonely in nights beneath concrete-breasts, betwixt asphalt-thighs slick as weapons-grade plutonium, cursed ourselves just for being…
We, who so longed for love that we became a self-mutilating spectacle burning with desires deemed demonic, satanic, beast-like…
who so longed to be loved that we fell from our heads and minds and souls into caricatures resembling anything but ourselves…
who so believed the foul things we were told in classrooms steeped in ideology that our souls, our spirits, died by slight-of-hand suicide…
who so fell for the tranquil war-cry of dogmatic serpents, ideologically blinded by pins and needles, that we waged war upon ourselves…

We, who made ourselves disposable, expendable, throw-away-able..
who made necklaces from our own teeth and presented them as gifts…
who made solemn vows to never be the ones we were…
who made promises to sacrifice and to protect and to serve…

We, who were told we were – by our mere presence – dangerous…
who were told we were – by our very nature – fiends…
who were told we were – by testosterone itself – immature…
who were told we were – by birth – untrustworthy…

We, who were made to make amends for the sins of our fathers…
who were made to take a pledge of inferiority…
who were made to mimic serfdom from infancy…
who were stoned by popular vote…
who were put in laughingstocks for speaking up…
who were hung, drawn and quartered when we drew a line in the sand…

Where are we now?

…lost in opiate-daze, body-outlines drawn in charcoal upon streets of yesteryear, heads resting on pillows of impenetrable street-trash, sleeping rough beneath lonely midnight-clouds, being spat upon by passers-by whom we, in the prime of our youth, swore we should protect?

…lost in manic labyrinthine chores and demands with vision clouded by push-and-prod-and-pulls infinite, minds ensnared by senses of righteous indignation at the here-to, here-now, come-here-boy, slaving away at the rat-race in indebted servitude to make amends for the sins of our fathers?

…lost sleepless between lead-sheets where our groins are slowly eaten away by bedbugs crawling through our shameful erections, working to do what the constant buzz and drone and hum of puerile, infantile, prepubescent publications tell us that we must do in order to be men?

…lost in fulfilling a barrage of incoherent societal demands levied at us for being us; a disastrous crack-haven voice calling for our responsibilities, our self-sacrifice, for us to do better and to be better so that women and children shall be safe and free and be safe to be free and be free to be safe?

…from us…

…lost in alleyways, brutally beaten and kicked to the curb, shot between the eyes and mugged, robbed, ripped apart by violence gratuitous and grandiose, crawling our way through broken bottles and puddles of piss to be told, at the end of the line, that we must end violence against women?

…lost between the spread legs of time, shadows floating by, unseen and unheard, unnoticed and unwanted, vague bodies crippled from stress and melting minds, double-narratives told constantly, double standards imposed upon us, heart, soul, mind, body now lost in time and space?

Where are we now?

…free-falling with arms flailing impotently into some dread future-scape, numbed by cogwheels ticking away, by machinery, by mechanical contraptions brutally burying into our skin and bones, our skulls and minds, our hearts and souls.

…free-falling with temperaments doomed to die, with judgements passed on the monstrous cock, the savage balls, the passage of time from mirrors mirroring history viewed through period-blood, menstruated heavily from high-and-mighty academes who never once tasted truth.

…free-falling into delirious neglect from a society whose whispers maniacally conjure grins and glee toxic and nauseous through perpetual lies and misrepresentations, through hit-pieces a-plenty and the everlasting tide of self-assured cock-shamed shaming of the cock.

…free-falling maddeningly into spirals of deceit where once stood truth atop the shoulders of giants, now ground into spastic broken shards of glass doubtlessly preaching dubious equality handcrafted marvellously from uncertain rustling behind the shower curtains.

…free-falling, lambasted and ridiculed for standing up where once we fell down, delving ever deeper into the solemn solitude of cathedrals erected to honour the death of potent masculinity; the culling of young minds seeing young boys led to the slaughter viciously, maliciously.

…free-falling into chemical castrations; blood and chalk on blackboards coveted by legions of pedagogues armed with orthodox new-truth, pale and pasteurized, homogenized and swollen with lies of a dogmatic nature, dominatrix school-mistress with fell venomous fangs.

We, whose wings were cut, whose fangs were pulled, whose claws were trimmed…
we, whose thoughts were silenced, whose tongues were amputated, whose throats were slit…
we, whose heroism was dubbed toxicity, whose playful banter was labelled hateful, whose sexuality was considered primitive at best…

We of the conveniently neutered generation,
of the conventionally tortured generation,
of the chronically tormented generation…

Who are we now?

…A generation of boys and young men shamed into silence, into servitude, into self-flagellating microcosm misanthropy aimed squarely at our sex and gender…
…A generation of boys and young men whipped into the deserts and the tundra to be food for the vultures and the buzzards and the demons; to feed the roar of the moving dunes, like waves…
…A generation of boys and young men lost within the manifested reality of grim-faced bespectacled poet laureates of fame and befuddled fortune in feudal-systems crafted from narrative convenience in academic stupidity…
…A generation of boys and young men ripped from the arms of their fathers and thrown into dungeons to suffer and then be crushed beneath the weight of the wickedness of the world…
…A generation of boys and young men scarred from a thousand strokes of the whip; the cat of nine tails poignantly expressing the societal dissolution of our very nature…
…A generation of boys and young men being told that they are at fault for the demons in the wilderness, the ghosts at the door, the past, present and future atrocities of humanity…
…A generation of boys and young men who never witnessed the rod being spared; who were spoilt with the tongue-lashings of a million studiously inept traumatized graduate students of brainwashed notoriety…
…A generation of boys and young men lost within the vortex of a de-constructed society, within whose arms and upon whose bosom we were never wanted, wished or welcomed…
…A generation of boys and young men who have been socialized into sacrifice, who have had their sexuality scrutinized, their essence demonized, their eyelids sewn shut with barbed wire…
…A generation of boys and young men raised into self-loathing and cold despair, losing ridiculous societal games by their mere presence considered harmful to all within line of sight…

And we were promised that our problems also mattered.
And we were promised that all should be treated equally under the sun.
And we were promised, were we only to open up, we would be saved.

And we were told the problems of boys and men were of their own making.
And we were told the problems of girls and women were also of men’s making.

…then we were told that boys and men have no problems, but that we are boys and men.
…then we were told to shut up…
…then we were told that we were the problem.

…then we became the problem…

*

Agencies devoid of reason chase us out of bed in stone-cold mornings.

Belated birthday-wishes for the dream that was the child within,
Choked out at the corner of bedlam and squalor,
Delirious and dripping with fright-night splendour,
Eternally seeking empathetic connections – salvation through society.

Fear being what they taught us in our ruptured barnyard-schools,
Gullible as only small children could be,
Hated and shamed for nothing but our crucified cocks,
Illuminated by the rudimentary petticoat-philosophy of nincompoops.

Jealousy reigned supreme in the bloodshot eyes of low-gear thinkers;
KKK-lynchings emulated in child’s play: boys are inferior.

Lying is the path towards miss-understanding,
Maddeningly hiding truth for sake of ideological convenience.

None who speak truth live long to tell the tale;
Only death await those who dare defend the masculine –
Painting perverse, obscene portraits of we who fell from grace –
Quiet, quaint, devilishly innocent political “truth-seekers”,
Raped by sourced evidence and facts to the contrary,
Silencing us as we advance ever more; crossing the borders of obscurity.

To tear the blindfold away from the inebriated waste-face of society,
Understand that society need to know more than lies and slander.

Vile assaults on men, on boys, on masculinity called us out to war.

We will win through persistence this war of nuclear attrition,
Xeroxed and force-fed to our gutless, gullible generation;
Young and old are all the same, tranquillized and mindless,
Zombiefied by rigorous academic intellectual insanity.

*

Being but boys, we lived vivid summer-evenings entranced in woodland playtime, running wild and free through trees infested with trials and tribulations for us to conquer…
…being but boys, we slew monsters and crossed paths with gods in never-ending summer days where we dazed about in frantic free-form imagination, hopelessly devoted to expressive life and love…
…being but boys, we grabbed every minute, every moment, and shook it endlessly, heedless of time passing through us, ecstatic, burning internally with wild warlock energy…
…being but boys, we stomped the ground beneath our feet until it turned to mud, conquering horrifying demons and fears and sweating like mad, hungry, powerful beasts…
…being but boys, we were shamans and warriors, magnificent playwrights of our own shared destinies, found in the holiest of holies, the inner sanctum of boyhood imagination…
…being but boys, we danced to tunes only we could hear in the soft, warm, murmuring summer air, breathlessly entangled and ensnared in lifesaving, life-affirming explosions of joy…
…being but boys, we were unhinged, burning with rebellion, with piss and vinegar, with breaking the cataclysmic chains that tied us to the daily drudgery of routines like superstition…
…being but boys, we evolved and we grew and we came to be young men, affirmed through fear-mongering parasites in burnt-out messianic lectures at school to be viciousness and lust and rage and ruin…

…being but young men, we were thrown overboard, cast adrift, to float face-down in lost mid-summer dreams where hopelessness gripped our throats as saltwater filled our lungs…
…being but young men, we succumbed to the allure of life-denial, taught haphazardly with veiled words sung from irrational gurus atop pinnacles of forced chemical castrations…
…being but young men, we saw our heads stomped by tender feet preaching liturgies of our foul wickedness through tyranny clothed in excruciating religious fanaticism…
…being but young men, we were made to rebel against our selves in days and nights of self-flagellating dishonesty, disrobing our masculinity to cleanse the palates of tin-foil-hat dictators…
…being but young men, we were made to break the supposed mould of maleness imposed upon us by our tyrannical forefathers, whose words and deeds should trickle down from history and manifest in us as shame…
…being but young men, we were shame incarnate, rebuilt, reborn from aeons of historical dust and mist and mud, disgusting swine of society dribbling with glee at every lash of the whip across our backs…
…being but young men, we fell into despair and never uttered a word in opposition to clinical insanity reigning supreme in miraculous lamplight-plays of smoke and mirrors…
…being but young men, we were castigated, ridiculed and shamed, laid in chains and iron and led towards torture-chambers to be confronted with, to admit to, our sins and seek repentance through pain…

And we saw, as men, our friends fall into catatonic states of unbridled drug-abuse, chained to the bottle and the needle as time wore on and wore them down.

And we saw, as men, the falling-out of our sanity linked to pre-programmed academes interrupting the heartbreak with lectures plentiful of shame and neglect.

And we saw, as men, broken and beaten and crushed by the weight of all our sins, God pass by in miniscule whimpers to lead some other stranger to some other far-away land.

And we saw, as men, summer floating into winter, permanently frost-bitten and trembling with hypothermia and repressed rage, our selves blow chunks of brain across living-room walls and floors.

And we saw, as men, suicidal ideation taking the place in our minds where once we used to stomp the ground to mud, where once we used to laugh to our hearts content.

And we saw, as men, our own deaths mirrored in the eyes of society shining with self-assured mockery and overambitious celebration at the death of we, of us, being nothing but men.

And we saw, as men, a world which passed us by and flew above our heads, daring us to reach out and touch its wings and tender beak, to seek its nurture and its love and compassion and fail, for it to mock and laugh…

And we saw, as men, the dawn of our demise where we were drowned in monsoon-rain, choked by moonlight, thrown from the cliffs onto the lashing, crashing, smothering waves below…

And we saw, as men, our friends and then ourselves checking out and longing for release and, after quick snack-breaks in rudimentary ghettos, finding solace in dropping out…

Where are we now?

No longer lost.
No longer losing.

No further fall from grace.
No further need for grace.

No more mindless dogmatic self-flagellation.
No more mindless pilgrimages of redemption.

No more swollen tongues from shutting up.
No more swollen chests from having to prove our worthiness.

We were mockingly proven to be unwanted, unneeded, unnecessary.
We were mockingly proven to be lecherous, treacherous, syphilitic.

We were told we were violence incarnate; anti-Christ resurgence, war, pestilence, famine and death in one neat package of toxic testosterone and vicious venomous boners.

So that now, to still the beating of your hearts; we’ll stand repeating:
There is no balm in Gilead;
and we who fell from grace
shall play this game
ah
nevermore.

 

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– Moiret Allegiere, 22.06.2019

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