Why I am an Anti-feminist, part 6


There is absolutely nothing wrong with physical attraction. Nor is there anything wrong with sex… or sexual desire. Quite the contrary, I would dare say, as I fail to see how the human race would have managed without it.

Contrary, perhaps, to all sanity and reason, I have yet to become a misanthrope. There is too much beauty and kindness in the human race still for that to happen, though the mass-media pundits would tell you otherwise. Might be a case of naivety on my part. No doubt, I am a grumpy and cynical bastard… but at the very least I still cling to a tiny floating burrito filled with hope. This keeps me from becoming completely and utterly black-pilled.

For the time being, at least, the good tend to outweigh the bad. One just need to look beyond the rage-inducing headlines and constant calls for outrage. It makes more sense to focus on the bad. It stands to reason that the bad is something one would wish to change, whereas the good don’t need to change. Even if the bad often is amplified far beyond how bad it really and truly is. And the following outrage doubly so.

Whenever I experience one of my frequent bouts with insomnia, I tend to wake up in the wee hours of the morning… or the middle of the night, completely incapable of going back to sleep. Physical pain, stress, emotional turmoil, constant pondering, racing thoughts… whatever the reason, I have to get up. And in those moments, I tend to watch dog-rescue videos on YouTube. As corny as that sounds. It restores my faith in the world in no small way. And is one of the few things that bring tears to my eyes, soppy romantic fool that I am. Dogs are way too good for us. At times, I think that we don’t deserve them.

There is so much enmity, so much hostility, so much rage and wrath and ruin everywhere one looks. Everything has to be analysed, broken down and labelled this or that. When that happens, it is left open to attack from those that would say that this is better than that. Or that is better than this.

Nowhere, to my bleeding eyes and foggy winter-mind, is this more evident than in the eternal gender-war. The eternal gender-war, I think, is a manufactured war meant to carry on in perpetuity. It is not meant to end. Its sole purpose lies in creating a great rift between the sexes, manufacturing mutual hostility and distrust where there really ought to be mutual co-operation and trust. Where we ought to fulfil one another, we now do nothing but try and outdo one another. As stated time and again; how we fulfil one another – that is – who does what – should not matter to anyone but those directly or intimately involved. Making the personal political and the political personal is a horrendous thing. Barring abuse, none but the people involved in the personal should have a say in their personal day-to-day lives. Do not meddle in the affairs of other people. Respect the privacy of other people. This should not be all that difficult a concept to grasp, yet it is. Apparently. No-one but those involved should care about who cooks dinner, who does the dishes, and so forth and so on. It is not unreasonable to “allow” people to decide for themselves who does which of the many chores and responsibilities that necessarily come along with an adult relationship. What is unreasonable is for other people to poke and prod and complain and bitch and moan if the chores are split in a manner not suitable to their political or personal sensibilities. And here I am not speaking only on feminism. This goes for whichever preconceived set of ideas about who ought to do what one ascribes to.

My tribe is better than your tribe, here’s ten reasons why. Bog-standard clickbait titles. Men this, women that. One celebrated at the same time that one is scorned by popular voter’s fraud.

People tend to be trend-hoppers. This is not something new. The in-group dominates, the out-group does not.

If one man writes an article about women the way many a feminist woman would write an article about men, the powers that be will truly shake, tremble and come down on it with all the rage, wrath and ruin that could be mustered. Even if nothing but the sex spoken about in the article has changed. The wording may be exactly the same. But substitute “man” for “woman”, and the whole world cries out in pain and in anguish. Try it sometime. Read any feminist article, and replace every instance of “men” with “women”. Does not look that reasonable then. For added emphasis, replace “men” with “Negroes”. Or “Jews”. Or “The Irish”… whatever you wish, really. It works.

Nothing negative may ever be spoken about women. And nothing but negative may ever be spoken about men.

At the end of the day, it seems to me that it all boils down to something as petty as revenge. Nothing more and nothing less. And something that petty ought not to be a proper reason, ought not to be an accepted reason.

Even if one accept the feminist revisionist history, revenge should not be an accepted reason for anything of such magnitude and societal impact as feminism. It is small-minded and petty. Which is what the gender-war is, in my humble and barbaric opinion – small-minded and petty, filled with tiny grievances and vengeance-fuelled tingling feminist-senses… lovingly, inclusively and compassionately informing us that men being broke, destitute and in lack of higher education is a problem for women wanting to marry. And that women have always been the primary victims of war. Because their husbands, fathers and sons die.

In other news; Meteor hits earth, Women most affected.

One of my biggest personal peeves with the gender-war, with the feminist-laced koolaid that has been forced down our gullible throats like so much old vine cyanide, is the constant assault on what men in general find sexually attractive. Men tend to be more immediately attracted to visual appearance; to tits and legs and butt and what have you. This should not be something negative. Yet it is presented as such; presented as superficiality and what-not. Odd I think, as the main reason for this, as far as I have understood it, is healthy mate-selection.

Signifiers of youth, good health and fertility are not negative traits to be attracted to. Quite the contrary, one should think. Yet here we are, lost in this nonsensical poop-flinging. Men in general are not attracted to fat chicks, as obesity is not exactly a signifier of good health. This only goes to show that men are far too superficial of course, never delving beneath the outer appearance to see the beauty hidden within the flabby folds of fat. Here, men must alter their sexual and romantic preference to include fat chicks. Otherwise, they are fat-shaming misogynistic bastards, subscribing to a societal brainwashing about what is and what is not attractive.

…For wanting ones partner to be fit and healthy is a bad thing, a superficial thing. An obese woman losing weight instead of a man altering his sexual and romantic preference is too much work, man. Women need not do anything to fix themselves. It is presented, as it always is presented, as if men are in the wrong. As such, men need to change and alter what they find attractive. For not being attracted to obesity; for not being attracted to poor health and all which that entails of future struggles down the long and winding road to nowhere.

Would the same women that scream about fat-acceptance accept a morbidly obese partner themselves? This is a question I think is very interesting. I have no idea, in all honesty. Still, I have to say that every one of these fat-acceptance comics I have seen depicts an obese woman with a decently built man. This is solely anecdotal, however. And I have not delved deep into that grime and muck, patriarchal misogynistic bastard unable to show empathy and understanding for the plight of (insert supposedly marginalized group) that I undoubtedly am.

Still, and for what it is worth, I would dare say that I absolutely do think men tend to not be critical enough about where they stick their willy. As long as the willy gets wet at a semi-regular basis, it is all worth it in the end. No matter what happens, how it happens or what she does. Or how she does it. There is a reason why there is such a saying as “don’t stick your dick in crazy”, after all.

Contrary to what the current cultural climate would have one believe, this saying is more of a slight against men than it is a slight against women. That is how I hear it, any ways – a cautionary tale in six wondrously crafted words, urging men to think with their big heads and not their willy when it comes to the subject of willy-wetting. There are more important things in the world than fucking. Yet, men are thirsty creatures. To our own demise. And crazy women exist. Just as crazy men exist. The difference lies in what women are told in regards to crazy by society at large, and what men are told. The expectations are not the same, nor is the message delivered. There are few limits to what men are supposed to put up with. Whereas women don’t even need to put up with a lack of attraction from men for reasons of poor health and obesity. Or poor health on account of obesity.

It is still his fault and as such need mending. On his part. His biology must be re-written, his outlook altered and his brain beat into tune so that he plays the fat-acceptance accordion with a painted-on smile and glazed-over eyes, singing along with the ballad of the big beautiful women. These are women who are healthy at any size… and diabetes, infertility, cardiovascular disease and higher risk of certain cancers, etc. etc. be damned. Those diseases are all patriarchal constructs; designed to force a societal ideal of beauty that is as unnatural as it is unobtainable. Being fat is exactly how things should be.

For is it not written that the flab is as the flab does, and any who oppose the fat, the flab or the fold are not of the true roll? Hail to the flab, for it marks the coming of the fold and of the fat and of the roll. From now until the end of time, amen, hallelujah, praise Mickie D’s, all hail the King of the Burgers, and so forth and so on.

I used to be fat. I have lost a little over 30 KG. This was done solely by changing what I ate, what I drank and how much I walked. No strenuous exercise, even… nothing more difficult than self-discipline and adding about 30 minutes of walking to my daily routine. Granted, changing what one eats and drinks is changing habits. And changing habits is fairly difficult. But it is far from the most difficult thing in the world. It is absolutely doable. People do it all the time. It is well worth it.

I must say that losing weight did wonders for my mental health as well as some pretty severe lower back pain I struggled with for quite some time. Not having to carry around 30-something kilos of flab alleviated pain. Who’d have thunk it? It fixed quite a lot of other things of small or big significance, which I do not wish to get into here. Of course, this was before I got hit with this bloody illness of mine which causes me chronic pain and fatigue along with a whole host of other health-issues of varying severity… Bloody genetics, man. This was likely destined to happen. Which would, were I still fat, be even harder on me than it currently is. The only thing you lose when losing weight is weight. But I am getting off track… again.

…It is so strange to see how men are not “allowed” their own romantic or sexual preferences. They are to be shamed for it. Don’t want to fuck a pre-transition transexual lady with a penis? You are as transphobic as the day is bright, sir! How dare you not want your woman to have a penis? Lady-penises are beautiful, I’ll have you know, sir! For added shaming, add the slur “homophobic” and something-something “heteronormative”…

The sexuality of men tend to be viewed as something dangerous, something primitive, something based solely on primal lust with not a smidgeon of emotional connection anywhere to be found. I would dare say that most men quite enjoy there to be an emotional connection as well as a purely physical attraction. At the very least regarding long term relationships. But what the hell do I know – I have only been a man for thirty-some years… it is not as though I have studied intersectional feminism and stalwart gender-studies, after all. As such, I really have no idea about life as a man. That knowledge is reserved for female gender-studies graduates with type 2 diabetes poking its head out of their throats, floating on their radical and righteous acid reflux.

It is such a horrendously arrogant thing.

Feminism knows all about life as a man. And men can not know anything about it, nor can they know anything about life as a woman. If you want to know what life is like as a man, you have to study gender in universities. It is not enough to live your life as a man. This means nothing. Only women have lived experiences. Men need not apply. Particularly women of the gender-studies bent experience lived experiences, with the mark of feminism tattooed on their heads… branded, as it were, by the mark of the beast. To be clear: I do not believe that every man lives the same life and has the same experiences. Nor do I believe this about women.

One-night-stands are another beast altogether where attraction and sex is concerned… but in that regard, there are two people playing on prime-rib primal lust, not only one. With the man labelled an arsehole for leaving the next day, and potentially a rapist were the woman intoxicated. Whether or not he was intoxicated as well plays little part and no matter. He is the instigator and the fornicator, and she is not. An awful gender-traditional view, one would probably be inclined to believe. Yet apparently not.

It is clearly liberating to the extreme; an intoxicated woman is completely incapable of acting on her own accord, whereas an intoxicated man is very much capable of acting on both his own and her accord. Apparently, women turn into children when intoxicated. And men are some horrible paternalistic rape-figure, entrenched in cum-dreams and driven by primeval lust. Both when they are sober and when they have been drinking. For that is the plight of man, mischievous bastards that we are.

One-night-stands may be as they may; I fail to see why anyone should care what people do with their genitalia. I do have my own opinions on the matter, but I see no reason to flaunt that opinion here as some sort of bloody moralizing stupidity. Consenting adults can do whatever the hell consenting adults want to do.

The main problem with sexual liberation is that it also carries with it an immense amount of responsibility, not least of which is to take personal responsibility for drunken one-night-stands. Which also includes regretting it the next day, when the lust has passed and a throbbing urge and desire to scream, roar, and hide beneath the covers in shame overcomes one.

Accepting and then living with that regret is part of the game. Falsely crying “rape” – as have happened more than once – for regretting an in-the-heat-of-sudden-passion one-night-stand is not accepting ones own folly and taking responsibility for it. It is pushing responsibilities for ones own actions away, giving one party sole responsibility for something where it really and truly does take two to tango.

I have no doubt, of course, that rape happens. Nor do I have any doubt that both men and women are capable of rape. And of being raped. But claiming rape of the woman every time a drunken hookup happens between a man and a woman is much akin to saying that men are capable of making their own choices and taking responsibilities for their actions when drunk, and women are not. Which does sound awfully patronizing… seems like infantilising women are in vogue at the moment. I happen to believe women are far stronger and much less frail and weak than feminism wants us to believe that they are.

You see; if women can not consent to sex when drunk, whereas men can, what view would you say the ones claiming this have of women? And of men? And of female sexuality? And male sexuality?

It sounds neither equal, nor healthy, nor sane from my point of view. Either both parties are raped and both parties are rapists, or they are both grown-ass adults, capable of making their own decisions. Even when intoxicated. This removal of liability, of personal responsibility from drunk women is removing all manner of personal agency from women and placing it all on men.


Though certainly a push from feminism claiming to speak on behalf of all women. Consent can be revoked at any point. Even long after the affair. Which is interesting, obviously, as this necessarily must mean that one can not trust in a woman that gives willing and eager consent, as it may be removed seventeen years later and brand one a rapist. I have no idea how this is supposed to work. Men need to get consent. OK, that is fair enough – do women have to get consent? Or does it not work like that? Did you not think of it in that way? Oh, well, no matter. Consent is gotten. And then it can be removed at any point, even after the damned willy-wetting. How can one possibly trust in the consent given then?

Men are hunters, and women are prey. That is what the sexual tango boils down to through this line of thought… as such, any sexual act is an act perpetrated by the man upon the woman. Sex is something men do to women, which women begrudgingly let men do to them. Giving way to such splendid stupidity as “all heterosexual sex is rape” from many a radical feminist, which is, of course, not real feminism. Because such a thing does not exist. Even when it does for reasons of feminism not being a monolith. Sigh and harumph.

I’ll just retreat into the shadows, twirl my moustaches menacingly and laugh in grim-faced patriarchy.

It is almost as if feminism is created to be confusing, giving neither a yes or a no, but perpetually existing in a state of uncertain flux so as to be invoked at any moment as either this or that, depending on the state of current affairs. We have always been at war with Oceania. Or was it Eurasia? It is so easy to get lost in it. Better to just go with the frantic flow of things. Nod, smile, and pretend to understand.

The cat and mouse game is nothing new. One can hear it in songs as old as time, in tales as old as time. Most elegantly in the quaint and very romantic “Baby, it’s cold outside”… It is such a quaint, cute and romantic song that I can not help but love it. Soppy romantic fool that I am. This ballad really blew up around Christmas of 2017 or 2018 – I can’t really remember… with it being referred to as a date-rape anthem and other such stupidity from people who seem to be frightfully unaware of how human beings interact and all the social games we tend to play which, ultimately, are nothing but a set of invisible rules and borders which we all must exist within and work together within, whether we want to or not.

I really do believe there is something to the cat and mouse game… Women are the gatekeepers of sex. And men must “catch them” by proving themselves worthy in some way or other… must convince them that they are worthy of a good and solid fucking, a chance of procreation, a relationship, and so and such. Him protect, him provide, through this, that or the other. There is nothing wrong with this, as such. If people were willing to at the very least be god-damned honest about it, instead of muddying it and hiding it and pretending it is something other than what it is. For it is a dance, a constant back and forth, older than sin.

When considering that men are the ones who are expected – by and large – to make the first move in any relationship, it becomes even more apparent. At the very least it does so to me. Yet, the rules have changed somewhat… the social contract having been rewritten with mainly women in mind, keeping the rules the same for men in no small way and loosening the rules for women in no small way give rise to a certain sense of confusion. There are still plenty of traditional expectations expected from men, even in regards to simple one-night-stands. These are rules and expectations which women seem to cling too, all the while expecting to be released from these rules and expectations themselves. Rules and expectations is something that happen to other people, after all.

She has been “hunted” all night until she finally relented and gave in, willingly gave consent through many an “Oh, God, Yes!!!” and then removed the consent the following morning for regretting it. Which just beggars the question yet again: how can one possibly trust in this consent, if the consent can be given, the act done and the consent then removed the following morning?

One can not trust in it. And it does not make any sense – the rules are nonsensical.

That is a major problem of this current year. If all responsibility for drunken hook-ups lie squarely on the shoulders of men, never-minding any responsibility from a drunken woman who also was very much into it, up to and including willing and eager consent, there is a problem. With great power comes great responsibility. Great sexual freedom is great power. And one has to take responsibility for ones own actions when enjoying that freedom.

Obviously, this is something that goes for both men and women who enjoy this kind of thing. Yet the blame and the responsibility keep falling primarily in the lap of men. And only men, if the winds keep blowing as they do. Only men have agency in this regard, then. That is the view of things. And the feminist hive-mind host slut-walks to protest the shame they claim women who seek nefarious carnal knowledge of someone else’s flesh are met with on a regular basis, forgetting for sake of convenience, that everyone – be they man or woman – are judged on what they do and how they behave.

I do not believe that this is something every woman does. The power to do so is still there, though. And this society of ours keep telling women that 1+1 equals 5, 6, 7 or even 8. That if she feels wronged, she has been wronged – and to hell with all the facts of the matter, up to and including willing consent given in the moment… or at every subsequent step from the moment.

I could have gone on for ages with this… but I’ll take a break here, considering the length of my ramblings being too lengthy more often than not. …And my mind not being at its best behaviour on account of a particularly rough battle with illness the past few months. Also, the construction work going on outside is distracting, making it even more difficult to think and write. Join me next week for some more cruel and unusual rambling on what is, essentially and apparently, not real feminism. Even when it is. Despite such a thing not existing, except when it does.

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 02.11.2019

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Why I am an Anti-feminist, part 5

«2019, Eggshell-frail Enlightenment»

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They know they are not being oppressed.

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

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

Strange how that did not happen.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sorry ladies.

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Entitlement, thy name is feminism.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The reverse do not apply.

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

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

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

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 26.10.2019

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

Howling at a Slutwalk Moon, a collection of previous blog posts:
Vol 1 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/107571074X
Vol 1 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZTPDPR
Vol 2 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075714184
Vol 2 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZR25NL
Vol 1 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075717094
Vol 2 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075723078
Other links:
Redbubble shop: https://www.redbubble.com/people/Moiret/shop
Blog: https://moiretallegiere.wordpress.com/
YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC3IaCxAXE3pQd7PCdvHoaaA
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Outlaw Justice, Outlawed Men:

A shy and awkward student is facing jail after he touched a teenager in an attempt to befriend her”. Such is the beginning of this article: https://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-7557947/Shy-awkward-student-19-faces-JAIL-sex-assault-conviction.html#comments . Go read the article, then come back.

It is closing in on mid-day, Saturday, October 12th, 2019. I am a bit hungover. Admittedly a normal state of being come Saturday, having delved a bit too deeply into the waters of life the day before.

That is what a bucket-load of home-brewed concoctions and loud music will get you.

Rock’n’roll ain’t dead. Neither is Punk, for that matter. It just got old, developed a bad case of rheumatism and had to take it a bit easy for while.

Usually, I don’t do much writing on Saturdays. Or, well, that is to say – I tend to work a bit on other projects. Things that are not necessarily related to men’s human rights. More of the personal/spiritual stuff that I would focus a lot more on were it not for this god-awful gender stuff being of far more importance. The personal realm can wait. As can the spiritual realm. These don’t matter much in the grand scheme and schism of things. “Things” in this instance being a fancy word for a society that appears to have gone well past its sell-by date.

No, the personal/spiritual stuff I write does not matter all that much. Not when the basic humanity of boys and men are being eroded beneath our feet; a great wide chasm opening up to engulf us and then close above us. To leave us forever devoured by the world; soulless, homeless and absolutely, gobsmackingly hopeless.

We are lost beneath the dead and decaying waves of a split-seamed society that turns its whip-stroked back on boys and men more and more for every passing day. It may very well sound as though I am being hyperbolic. Mayhaps even overly dramatic. Maybe I am… I am afraid to say that I don’t think this is the case.

I first encountered this article two days ago. October tenth. On the day of its release. I Was planning on doing a piece on it next week. Maybe postponing part four of my unending ramble of why I am an anti-feminist. Just needed some time to think about it, devour it and consider it.

I tend to leave the more poetic stuff for Wednesdays. Then focus on a bit heavier, lengthier stuff for the Saturdays. This allows me to write both prose-poetry and more conventional opinion pieces once a week. Writing is my first and greatest love. Or at the very least my greatest outlet for the whatever and whatnot. But I can’t for the life of me get this thing out of my head. It is an absolute atrocity. And trust me and believe me and upon my oath and my honour both: I do not use the word “atrocity” lightly.

And I find myself at a loss for words. This is not something which I am used to. Not when I am writing. I am often at a loss for words if I were to speak to someone whom I don’t know all that well, not being the best versed in social interactions. Chalk that up to introversion, shyness, anxiety, social awkwardness, whatever you want. All in all, it does not matter. I fare much better with the written word than I ever will with the spoken word.

And no wonder, in all honesty.

The topics that I write about is not particularly accepted within the murky depths of society as society stands. The feminist narrative has all but won. And we are all shackled and chained beneath its iron-grip and flimsy iron will. It is not without reason that I refer to it as a tyrannical, totalitarian ideology; the dominant -ism of our day and age. That I choose not to speak on these topics in public – that I choose to write about them in the way that I do instead of debating those who may, for lack of a better descriptor, be called my ideological opponents may very well get me labelled a coward. And I may very well be a coward. Truth be told, I don’t care. At the very least I do some small thing in opposition, however small the part in opposition I play really and truly is.

When I am writing, it is a whole other matter in regards to the words. They tend to come flowing out of my haphazardly thrown together, aching, borderline broken joints and fingers and muscles as though shot from a double-barrelled shotgun deep within my very soul. Which, in truth, is where they come from.

I don’t believe I have ever tried to hide the fact that my writings come from an emotional place – that is to say – they are tainted and given form and shape from the emotional state I am in at the moment of writing. This is not to say that my reasoning or my arguments are based on emotion. Far from it. The delivery, however, is. Such is the realm of art, I think. At the very least the realm of art which I inhabit. It may very well be that I am a fairly sensitive man. I write poetry, for Christ sake! I don’t see anything wrong with this. For the simple reason that there really is nothing wrong with this. It is what it is.

When looking at this article… no, not when looking at this article. When looking at the fate of this young man… his doom, as it were…

I don’t know what I feel.

I know what I think.

There is no doubt about what I think.

There is no doubt about this absolutely horrid display of injustice. Malicious, vicious, brutal, destructive, savage, uncaring, cold, callous… an absolute disregard for this young man’s life, his mental health, his emotional well-being… All for being socially awkward. All for a false pretence. All for the girl and the justice system deciding that they know his intent better than he knows his own intent.

And I feel only cold.

Unbelievably, wretchedly, disturbingly cold.

This is what feminism has done. Welcome the feminist utopia; the age of untangled enlightenment. In the dark. With neither flint nor tinder to light a fire to warm your bones by or illuminate the corkscrew path ahead of you.

The intent – the true intent – of this young man does not matter. Nor does it matter that absolutely no-one was hurt in any way, in any real, tangible, measurable way. Except the young man. The subjective feeling of the young woman in question decides not only his fate, but his intent. Her subjective feeling in the moment trumps his original intent. Were he socially anxious and awkward prior to this, you can be damned sure he will be socially broken and destroyed after this. This is obscene. It is a travesty. And yet, I am not in the least bit surprised. I doubt anyone really and truly is. Western civilization is broken. I fear beyond repair. And I am frightened. Honestly. Truly, really, to the depths of my heart, frightened.

One can not apply logic to this case. Nor can one apply reason. Because the girl, her parents, the entire god-damned justice system has not done it. This is not a case built on evidence. It is not a case built on reason. It is not even a case built on any criminal act. It is a case built entirely on emotion. On subjective feelings. This case should never have been a case. It should not have been a criminal thing. It should have been thrown out; laughed out of the courtroom and the hands of any law-wielder with any amount of self-respect. Or respect for their profession. Being socially awkward should not carry with it punishment by law. Yet it does, in the land of the damned. Which is to say the UK.

The offence – if you can even call it that – carries a maximum sentence of ten years. And a lifetime – if I understood it correctly – of being on the sex offender register. For touching a woman’s arm and waist. Because the woman… no, the overgrown girl-child was certain he was going to touch her breast. How is that proven? I don’t understand it.

How does one go about proving the intent of someone else without employing some hitherto previously unknown psychic telekinetic abilities? “I think it would have been on my breast had I not moved”, she says. She thinks. She feels. With all her awesome neoteny and arrogance.

…Therefore, it has to be true. That is the evidence presented. And that is the evidence accepted. The unbelievable mind-reading abilities of an overgrown girl-child ruining the life of someone else, who is – by his own admittance – socially awkward and anxious and overwhelmed by loneliness.

And it is not that I don’t understand the importance of having and maintaining personal boundaries. Of course I do. I am not a big fan of being touched by strangers myself. But does anyone really and truly believe this is a case of sexual assault? And does anyone really and truly believe that this warrants punishment? Particularly punishment that may be as severe as ten years imprisonment and a lifetime subscription to the sex offender register?

Come on.

The young woman stated that “I struggled for a couple of months afterwards”. For being touched on the arm and waist. Sounds to me as though someone really, really, really wants to be a victim of something in order to push away any responsibilities she may have for her own life. Or just to get them sweet victim credentials that are oh so popular at the moment. Particularly so when taking into account that she apparently was unable to finish her mock exams and then apply to Oxford University. Seems very convenient, does it not? Also sounds as though she is not cut out to be part of wider society if this small, petty and – for all intents and purposes – absolutely harmless happening is enough to ruin her for months on end.

Admittedly, this is speculation on my part.

Everyone is looking for someone to blame, you know.

…As long as that someone is not oneself.

And it is so excruciatingly easy for a woman, in the madness of today, to push the blame onto a man. Any man.

A man is not a human being, after all. That is what we have been told and taught for decades. Men are nothing but rape-machines, and any contact with a man can not lead to anything but unwanted sex. They don’t deserve our empathy. They deserve nothing but scorn. Men do not seek anything but quick and cheap sex. Usually by force. That is the myth and legend being told and presented. And so it must be true. A man could not possibly wish to have a relationship with a woman without sex being up front and centre in his mind and at the tip of his throbbing, mutilated rape-implement. This is what the feminist hive-mind as well as traditional views have told us about men, creating a generation of neuroticism, sexual hang-ups and neo-puritanism in the process. To such an extent that touching a woman’s arm and waist is now considered sexual assault, carrying with it a maximum sentence of ten years. And a lifetime in the sex offender register.

…you know, the amount of times I have been touched on the arm, shoulder, hand, chin, beard, cheek, butt and – on one occasion – groin by women – often in a state of inebriation – whom I did not properly know at the time are not few. Believe it or not, given my not exactly dashing good looks as well as my lack of charisma. I wonder if either the police or the courts would have taken me seriously if I reported them? Or if anyone else would have taken me seriously, for that matter.

Come to think of it, I once had a woman follow me around in a pub, constantly putting her head on my shoulder and whispering sweet nothings into my ear. A compliment, for sure, though I was not particularly interested in her, not being a fan of one night stands at any point in my life. This happened when I was eighteen. I wonder if it is too late to file charges? For me, it would have been too late no matter when I did it.

We all know this.

Had I been bestowed a vagina upon birth, however, it appears that this resting of her head on my shoulder would be enough to ruin her life for good. In particular since her sweet whispered nothings were slightly on the sexual innuendo side of things. Besides; women tend to touch other people more in casual conversation than men do, be that other women or men. It is alright when they do it, of course.

Because men have nothing to fear from women, as the petulant peddlers of prime bullshit will peddle you from their long-reaching serpent tongues and spineless forms.

…Well, boy howdy, do I have something to tell you. And that is this: evidently, we do. Very much so. This is violence by proxy, using the government. This is violence, intimidation and kidnapping. A young woman using the government as her weapon of choice. And now this young man will carry with him the label of sex offender for the rest of his life. Which, I fear, will not be a long and happy life. I hope this young woman will realize what she has done at some point in her life, and that regret, shame and guilt will follow her to the end of her days.

I am usually not this vindictive.

But this is absolutely horrible. Given, of course, that the information presented is true. I have not seen anything to indicate otherwise.

I find it absolutely astonishing that the courts are able to state, without a smidgeon of doubt, that “The complainant’s evidence was very clear, logical and without embellishment. We can think of no motivation for you to touch the victim other than sexual”.

This despite him giving his side of the story as not being sexual. It does not matter what he says in his defence. His actions – his intentions – are not of any importance. The importance is placed upon what the alleged victim believe his intentions were.

And nothing else matters.

Nothing else matters.

Nothing ever will.

A woman’s capabilities of mind-reading is all that is needed in order to destroy a man’s life.

Remember Emmet Till.

That is all I should have said.

And I am incredibly cold.

I don’t know what else to say. The article linked really does speak for itself. This is from the UK, the same place that granted a woman who assaulted her boyfriend… stabbed him with a breadknife, if I recall correctly… her freedom. She did not get any punishment. For punishment could possibly interfere with her academic future and her future career as a gifted surgeon. Don’t want to destroy the life of a violent woman, of course. Her actions should not carry any consequences for her, poor dear. A woman’s actions having consequences for her? Goodness – that would be the day!

It is clear that the UK has a two-tiered justice system. There is one set of rules for women and another set of rules for men.

Where women are concerned, the law does not apply.

And where men are concerned, the law really and truly does apply. For the law is able to read the minds of men and so divine their original intent, never-minding what they themselves say. Men are nothing but liars, scumbags and fuck-guzzling pigs, after all.

This ability to divine the original intention of men is something women seem to have in general and en masse. An astonishing ability, to be sure, and one that I wish I had. It never matters what a man says in his defence. It matters only what a woman says, no matter how absurd.

And yet the feminist hive-mind as well as society overall dare to still make the claim that women are oppressed and are never heard nor taken seriously.

It is a brutal, ugly, vicious thing. And it will never end. Not as long as good men and women are silent about it.

George Orwell was correct in all but the year. This is the junior anti-sex league on full display. It is the new-speak guidelines for the current year; the divinity of womanhood and viciousness of manhood. Women are now synonymous with God. And men are synonymous with Devil. Women are good and men are evil. That is the language of the current year.

Fuck it, who am I kidding?

It is the language of the current year and all the years that have gone before. A beast with different shapes and forms, but the same beast. Even after all this time.

And yet, women dare to write articles about how horrible it is that men are now refusing to be alone with women. How horrible it is that men don’t dare to make the first move, to do something in order to get a romantic relationship going. No wonder. We stand in danger of imprisonment if the woman decides she does not like us.

Though I would absolutely dare say that not all women pushed for this or are like that – this is, after all, the work of feminism – I fail to see that many women standing up against this, nor do I see many women caught in outrage-mode over this.

And no wonder! Women – and feminism – have more important things to worry about. Such as the lines to the women’s toilets being longer than that of men’s toilets. Or the non-existent pay-gap. Or the nefarious pink-tax. Or the air-conditioning. All incredibly important injustices to be fixed and mended, clearly. Not to mention that feminism claims to fight for men too, so really – there is no need for any men’s rights movement to take on this battle on behalf of men. All is good and fair. There is only equality sought here. Now, get back to the plantation and fall on your knees and state, quite proudly, that you would never, ever, under any circumstances, do anything but what a woman tells you that you must do. All hail the goddess Feminism; lady of chaos and bringer of perpetual darkness.

Men are facing quite genuine discrimination in the legal system, in the social sphere, at schools and at work.

So much so that any man’s original intention does not matter – what any woman imagine his intention to be does matter.

If you wanted to drive a wedge between the sexes – which there really should be no doubt about at this point in time – congratulations. That is exactly what you have done. I hope you are pleased with yourself, ms. Feminism, ms. Queen Bee Supreme.

Now, wait ten years.

And then reap what you have sown.

You will not enjoy the reward.

And it will all be of your doing and by your flimsy will brought forth.

Woe upon the plight of womankind.

Surely, they are never taken seriously.

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 16.10.2019

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

Other links:
Redbubble shop: https://www.redbubble.com/people/Moiret/shop
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YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC3IaCxAXE3pQd7PCdvHoaaA
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Truth in the age of Deceit:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And this by any means.

And that is the truth.

For that is the nature of deceit.

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 14.09.2019

My book – Howling at a Slutwalk Moon, a collection of previous blog posts:
Vol 1 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/107571074X
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On Violent Censorship and Quaint Duets: A postmodern tragedy in four parts:

howl lowres

Illustration: «Howl», 2019, Moiret Allegiere


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

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

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

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

…And so forth and so on…

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, baby, it’s cold outside!

It is getting very cold inside as well.

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

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

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

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

Oh, baby, it’s cold outside!

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

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

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

I’ve been hoping that you’d drop in”.

So very nice.

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I don’t have to write about this treachery.

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

Out of sight, out of mind.

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

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

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

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

Ban it.

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

And so, really, I’d better scurry.

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

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


Fucking, god-damned Honk.

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


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

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

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

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

Mind if I move in closer?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, baby, it’s cold outside.

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

And these people preach tolerance. It sickens me.




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

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

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

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

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

Oh, baby, it’s cold outside!

The freedom of the west is dying.

Long live the freedom of the west.

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 – Moiret Allegiere, 06.07.2019



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Limited not to escape:

Lonely parkbench blues lowres

Illustration: «Lonely parkbench blues», A3, 2019, Moiret Allegiere

Limited not to escape are these dreams of complete liberty. Free-form expressions are denied by hands twisting and churning in feigned anguish, whose mere presence do nothing but waste time over disagreements regarding words judged to be not suitable for use by any but the twisters of hands themselves.

Aghast with sudden pain and thought-pattern-demise and blinking in the bright light of imprisonment, this sheltered spiritual decay of ours cry out in harmonious whispered whimpers, labelling as forces of liberty the same forces that lock the cage, that throw away the key.

Painting with broad strokes across the trembling sky, in black ink resembling soot and smog, a grand unifying manifesto calling the unburdened masses to arms, to fight, to feud, to fracture and dissolve what is, was and always have been through clinically insane trials of men whose only spoken crime is being men.

This manifesto adorn the walls and wails of bedsit-boudoirs under which roof sit fancy-free conformists claiming nonconformity, establishment pawns supposedly pawning the establishment, bound by unparalleled duty to spread the words and deeds and unthinking hate of this new morning of our mourning; a mutually assured suicide on part of both man and woman, on part of the feminine and masculine. Shaded, mumbled, jumbled, words thrown to the plasticine walls of society in a quest for sovereign ownership of the word and words hidden in and around the irrefutable, yet never understood term “equality”.

Smog-induced brain-fever is freely available, delivered with state-sanctioned gratification, with diaphragms vibrating with smug, superior glee. Dutiful neglect of responsibility. It was we who burnt the seas, who scorched the forest to spite the trees, who brought the mirage to the forefront, you see, thus removing any sense of truth and of justice and of liberty for all. Liberty is a pipe-bomb-dream, a long sought and forgotten treasure, a fragment of ages past standing in the way of this new sharp and shining razor-blade utopia.

To speak in tongues and gargled pseudo-intellectual cabbage-talk is divinity. Exhaustion and anxiety now revered by fragile nimble fingers seeking something to do. Drained by her sudden swollen body-odour and shaving her tongue with whiplash-cream, she turns to the camera obscura, proudly proposing personal hygiene to be a patriarchal conspiracy. It is her freedom to be just as fat, sloppy, stupid, sweaty, disgusting as men are.

Muttered words of some hardship or other spread like winged slimy eels beneath the slutwalk-moon and iron skies within this shallow and ridiculous opium-dream of hers. She thinks in terms of his and hers. Yet, surely, surely, surely, his and hers do not exist as anything but societal distractions from the radiant core, the essence that is all of humanity; the blank slate onto which all obnoxious behaviour on part of men is poured, all wondrous behaviour on part of women dripped and dribbled?

What, then, pray tell, is the doom and subsequent judgement of man? To be fat, sloppy, stupid, sweaty and disgusting? To have these shambled cornerstones of voluptuous ideology poured into our ears to ease the suffering and lamentation of the women, upon whose backs the chores and chains of the world left their mark as charred scars of some half-digested slavery?

Slavery making it so that she, now, carried on wings of affluent emotional labour, may soar like a vacuous eagle into the thin night of maladaptive malcontent. For her beak to spread this vile infection, this bubonic plague through spittle draining from her canker-sore eyes into the hearts and guts and golden cocks of men, onto these flat-chested streets paved with gold and oppressive affronts through words and deeds not proper etiquette in the presence of a lady such as herself.

Our illusion of liberty lying sprawled on the ground in some mockery of Christ, one thinks; crucified to die for our sins of masculinity and be buried in the gelatinous blob of intersectional feminism, transcendent academia throwing shade on history and on truth and on culture and on beauty.

Limited not to dreams of cowardly escape are these dreams of freedom and of liberty – to be allowed to speak and utter sentences and structured thoughts that go against the grain, the dominant cultural narrative of these decadent decades of socially engineered gender-blueprint-nonsense. This without the vile and violent milkshake-assaults from haggard street-thugs, soft and frail and weak and meek in the media limelight painting the assaulter as the assaulted, thusly blaming the victim and celebrating the victimizer, with no clarity of vision, focus, truth or sense of reason. Poor victims; fighting the establishment when the establishment is on their side. Detached from reality, pandered too and pampered still, delusions somehow given credence in this poorly painted plagiarized society of ours.

Should these labourers of self-induced coma ever harbour thoughts of more substance and more sense than grandiose hedonistic whispers of affront from some imagined ailment of the sexual interplay, I fear their caged minds would rupture and their spinal fluid leak out through their flaring nostrils.

The twitterati tweet and twatter with all the obscene and obfuscated flirt and flutter of a brilliant raven, perched atop the flaccid bust of a moral high horse just above their chamber door, speaking words that make less sense than “never-nevermore”.

Succulent whimpers from infant-like adults veiled as brave and heroic calls for censorship of hate-speech and thought-and-syllable-and-breath-hate abound in this spectacularly grim shell-shocked utopia. All hate-speech controlled by an unparalleled unified singularity; a cosmological universality deemed singularity by the chosen frozen few who consider it absurd that their calls to kill all men should be considered hateful speech and conduct, not proposed equality in luscious bullshit-peddling. Snake-oil is what it is, was and always will be. A fantastic cure for any and all, no matter the functionality of the thing. It is piss. Piss and ink. Call it what it is, and carry the fuck on.

Freedom does not equal freedom in the minds of so-called freedom fighters fighting for fragile freedom to be free from their own self-imposed frail fragility, bottled by operatic, dramatic, coagulated upper-middle-class snobs as heroic bravery. It equals freedom for them and theirs and their ideological equals, not for the likes of me and you and they and them who dare to disagree with the pussywillow-masses, shaking profusely and profoundly in glass-shoes and silk undergarments, donning battle-helmets of pink pussy-lips so empowering and fantastic; reducing women to their vulva, their vagina, their urinary tract infection and fungal-coated thighs and Venus fly-trap charm. Courage is being weak no matter what. Weakness is being courageous no matter what.

Are there any vaginas in the room?”, she says, to jaundiced cheers and mindless glee and thunderous applause. “Are there any vagina-friendly men in the room?” she carries on, to the same mind-numbing hum-drum, banal as only a room full of drools and dribbles may be; then complain that men reduce women to their vaginas, then complain about objectification, even when referring to women in a room full of women as “vaginas”. Woe unto the weirdness of it all. This is the age of instantaneous insanity, of moral decay through decadence and hedonism; we have it so good that we must have it bad. We have it so good that all must be bad, and we are bored and we are dull and we are nothing but a snake-pit floating out to see, sinking to the bottom, not realising that the only thing we need to do to stay alive is stay afloat. Or, perhaps, perchance, ride the currents of life and calm the fuck down for a moment or two.

Criticism is not tolerated by the equality-brigade, whose understanding of equality is not equality as one should think it is, but equality for those who are of equal opinion as the equality-brigade, engineering equality in equal measures to the equal opportunity destruction of society. All speech to the contrary of their definition of equality is akin to the clenched fist of a neo-nazi Obersturmbannführer wishing each and all a grand day and a free speech, thank you very much. A Nazi, a fascist, a true scum-fuck, is anyone who wishes that everyone should be allowed to speak and to listen. Whilst the true liberal view of liberty and truth and justice for all is the denial of the right to speak and listen for those who do not think as the equality-brigade and their vacuum-cleansed sense think. Hell hath no fury as a feminist scorned by someone disagreeing in a civil manner.

It is so painful, this lack of diverse thought in the dawning of our age of diversity; a clouded muddled mind shared by thousands upon thousands, the same thoughts and meaning and feeling and sensation, a shared experience, mutual as mutual may be, sound of mind and sound of heart and sound of body, yet hard of hearing, hard of seeing, hard of thinking anything but the buzz of the hive, the drudgery of the colony the beep and bloop of the collective.

This present-era diversity is doubtlessly good. As long as the immediate knee-jerk reaction of the eyeballs see representations of women and minorities, the rest do not matter. A superficial brilliant diversity in this dawning of diversity, diversified in appearance but not in thought by the might and power and influence of clawhammer-feminism, whose wisdom veiled the truth behind incoherent moutwash-gibberish, exposing cleft palates of distinguished beauty within their salty attack-wombs and sagging choke-hazard breasts.

This present-era hypocrisy is doubtlessly of the good and for the good. As long as no-one speaks out in disagreement against the salty brigades or the bonesaw-brutality of their rhetoric, dripping with venom re-named champagne, all shall be well and all shall be good and all shall praise the miraculous coming of the Christess from beyond the slutwalk-moon, from beyond the iron-labia sky, whose reign on this earth shall be the best and also the last, the finale, the end.

There is more at play and more at stake than anyone could have guessed. There is no path nor plan nor ploy nor play more distinguished in their brilliant stupidity than this force now sweeping across the world in a fantastically morbid dance.

This assault on basic liberties – to speak, to think, to express oneself – somehow wormed and wiggled and sucked enough cock to get all the way to the top of the elusive pyramid-hierarchy. A trail of dust and broken shields behind. Free speech is hate-speech. Thusly, hate-speech is not free speech. And those who control the language control the world. Those who control speech control thoughts, control patterns of behaviour, control the domesticated primates in their cages, in their cosy comfort-zone never seen as cages. Now repeat after me: I am free. Must be free. I can not see the bars and chains, now can I? Nor can I see the door closing shut, the roof falling in, the walls closing in around me. Individual freedom dies slowly. Bit by bit. So slow, that we do not see it go.

Limited not to escape is this dream of freedom; of emancipation from tyranny. To wish all and one the same freedoms as one wishes for oneself is the basic humanitarian approach. Not to curtail someone else’s freedom to elevate ones own, but to allow for the possibility that people dance to different tunes, and tread different paths than oneself, and that this truly is no problem, no matter how vehemently one might disagree. That this is cause for celebration: the diversity of ideas and of opinion; the battlefield upon which they are tested and tried and trialled.

In this evening of our society, this autumn of our civilization, a boot is stomping on a human face, forever. And the ones who are doing the stomping cry to the ones who are being stomped that they are oppressing the boot and foot with their face and head. The face and the head is denying the boot access to the ground, you see. And so the boot must stomp harder, the face be more pliable.

People do not think. people react. people do not consider. people act. Immediately, without pause, without glances, without second chances, without consideration for the fact that denying someone the right to express their views for fear of hate or fear of hurt feelings does not reflect kindly upon those who wish to suppress the basic liberty of speech and thought and expression of someone else. And who defines hate, and who defines truth, and who defines sanity in our mass-deceived societies? To the victor go the spoils.

People do not think further than the tips of their noses; do not have the self-awareness and introspective power to realize that they might be wrong. That these calls for the limitation of speech and expression should never hit them in the backs of their heads or in their drooling moron-mouths for they – they – they themselves are never in the wrong; self-obsessed and vain modern-era narcissists are they; gazing in the mirror admiring their own beauty, gazing at their mind-mirrors and marvelling at the beauty grasped from minds and thoughts that never stray from the trodden path, the accepted path of societal discourse where white men are bad, women are good, and minorities are stomped under the heel of the ever-affluent patriarchy, sometimes known as the kyriarchy, omni-present and elusive as fog, as mist, as smoke and mirrors.

Always present, yet never seen or pointed to as something concrete. Just a vague rumour, a susurrus, a rustling of the leaves and breeches of highly offended maidens of integrity and honour.

This patriarchy, who honours men and dishonours women, who elevates men and oppress women, is the same patriarchy that allows for calls to kill all men; that allows any critique of any women saying that all men should be killed to be labelled as hatred of women. For wanting to kill all men is not hate-speech. Attacking the harpies who shout from pedestals of translucent morality that all men should be killed is hate-speech. Under the reign and thumb and crushing weight of the cock and balls of the patriarchy, women shall never be criticized no matter what they say. And men shall have no say in any matter, no matter the matter at hand. This patriarchy who absolutely hates women, this society in which women are treated so poorly, allows for a movement for women and women only to speak on behalf of women and men as genders and as sexes, simultaneously denying a movement for men to speak on behalf of men.

You kerfluffled yet?

Limited not to escape from society is this dream of freedom. It is a dream of values and responsibilities. A future shared in co-operation, where diversity of thought and of opinion is valued, not diversity of shallow superficial traits. Where thoughts and thinking and ideas hold more sway than sex, than gender, than racial traits and characteristics. Where people are judged on the content of their character, not on the colour of their skin or the lack of a cunt between their legs.

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 – Moiret Allegiere, 05.06.2019


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We Swim in Silence:

Meditating cynic 2 A3 lowres

Illustration: «Meditating Cynic», A3, 2019, Moiret Allegiere


We swim in silence;

With laced veils tied around our faces, across our mouths and hands and chests, we swim engulfed in silence, profound and deafening, quietly maddening. Waves crash at the shores of desolate desert-islands and we crash to the shores with them, ground into the coarse sand and broken shells of futures indeterminate.

We swim in overwhelming silence;

Beneath skies clothed in iron underneath its flowing gown of silk and satin; beneath a moon of complex and dubious duality, beneath the majestic majesty of translucent travesties, we sit and watch the bonfire at the beach in whose magnificent flames our accumulated wisdom burns and turns to ashes. By whose flames our midnight camp-ground is illuminated with pages of books floating by, ablaze, aflame, unheeded and unheard, accentuated by a loud death knell not in mourning, but in celebration.

We swim in exhausting silence;

For ours is the vampiric era of censorious insanity. Ours is an age in which we must pretend we do not have a past upon which to build; an age in which we must do all we can to undermine accomplishments of days and days before our time and before our shadow showed itself. This is the age where all that is, was and ever will is considered offensive criminal offence, criminal neglect and superfluous ridiculousness. Ours is an age in which all that dissent from the proclaimed truth, who disagree with the dominant cultural narrative – forged by culture-war convenience – must be silenced, must be brought to their knees and suffer silent silencing by any means necessary.

We swim in radiant silence;

Caught in opiate whirlwinds of fanciful fanaticism, we march with pandering, meandering, misplaced, misguided notions of altruism upon our brows and around our waists and wrists and ankles. We march with superficial knots tied around our necks, with tattoos upon our eyes and tongues and nimble fingers commanding: “Be malignantly virtuous, or else.”.

We swim in washed-out silence;

With gag-orders forced down our throats from hastily scribbled pen-pal-like petitions to hinder and to halt and then to silence; a proclamation of continual dependence on fear and tribulation, a co-dependent tangling of the untangled social madness and hysteria at the dawning of the age of superficial identity politics. Through the bonfire we see, glassy-eyed and cold, manipulation of history, ruination of free-form discussion, wreckage of words and collapse of meaning presenting only one side and making sure that only one side is seen, to tear sanity, truth and reason asunder, to turn a hard-spun, hand-woven lie into truth and into beauty unquestioned.

We swim in deafening silence;

Where it is considered better to censor history, better to burn and to ban and to eradicate literature than it is to suffer someone reading and learning on their own accord; where it is better to bring all we see and all we built and all we gained crashing down in feral wild and violent crash-bang-booms, than it is to learn from past mistakes which are naught but mistakes of the past. Better to view all of history and all of literature in deep black and white rather than learn from the negatives and build upon the positives; to view it in a much more nuanced light, stating: this is what it was, this is how it is, we learned from this, we can learn from this as well.

We swim in dilapidated silence;

We find ourselves cast adrift and floating, in chains, tied up with seaweed, with post-truth and with rot and riot, in a time and place and day and age where all but one is one and all but one is all, where all-or-nothing thinking is perceived to be and are presented as nuanced thinking, where we lose if we should stop to think, where those who understand, where those who comprehend, that a willingness to expose oneself to a multitude of ideas, opinions and speech is the mark of an open mind are burned alive on metaphysical pyres of indoctrinated mumbo-jumbo magic imposed upon them by ravaged authority, or hunted down for sport in dark woods of social media rapture, frozen over, doomed to die.

We swim in absurdist silence;

…for the perception of one trump the perception of the other; the perceived and subjective feelings of one trump the facts of the other. In order for none to have their feelings hurt but those whose feelings are not considered real and proper and true feelings, we censor, we de-platform, we chase the witches out of the cities and into isolation, into desolation, into alienation.

We swim in pregnant silence,

In decadent decay,

in obscure relativity,

in relative obscurity,

we swim in nonsense, reaching only death.

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 – Moiret Allegiere, 04.05.2019


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