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

howl lowres

Illustration: «Howl», 2019, Moiret Allegiere

 

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

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

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

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

…And so forth and so on…

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, baby, it’s cold outside!

It is getting very cold inside as well.

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

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

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

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

Oh, baby, it’s cold outside!

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

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

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

I’ve been hoping that you’d drop in”.

So very nice.

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I don’t have to write about this treachery.

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

Out of sight, out of mind.

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

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

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

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

Ban it.

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

And so, really, I’d better scurry.

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

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

Honk.

Fucking, god-damned Honk.

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

***

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

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

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

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

Mind if I move in closer?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, baby, it’s cold outside.

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

And these people preach tolerance. It sickens me.

Tolerance.

Tolerance.

Tolerance.

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, baby, it’s cold outside!

The freedom of the west is dying.

Long live the freedom of the west.

 – Please like, share and subscribe

 – Moiret Allegiere, 06.07.2019

___________________________________________________________________________________________

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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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Feminist Encounters in the Wild:

Lunching in the garden of the technocracy A3 Lowres

Illustration: «Lunching in the Garden of the Technocracy», A3, 2019, Moiret Allegiere.

 

I don’t think I have ever met a single feminist who was not – if the topics of feminism and/or gender got raised – a complete and utter arsehole. That is to say; they act all nice and fluffy and what-have-you, until these topics come up. And the topics will always come up, because these ideologically blinded harbingers of nonsense and of dread and gloom and doom can not shut up about it for more than three seconds.

I suspect this is because they have no personality to speak of, no strengths and no core, no essence, so they have to lean on their ideology to prove to themselves and the world in general that they are a good and decent person. This despite their ideology being hateful, toxic trash.

Now, I suppose this sounds absurdly cynical and misanthropic, considering my stance that everyone has become a feminist by default through indoctrination and a generation of brainwashing. It sounds – I should think – as though I just hate everyone.

Which I honestly don’t.

I leave the hatred to feminism.

What I mean is feminist activists, though everyone and their mums rush in to defend feminism should one mutter a single syllable in opposition to the holy bingo-wings of feminism.

You know the ones I speak of – the pins-and-buttoned up youngish political activists wearing their virtue on their sleeves and storing their honour in the ideology that tells them that they are weak, hopeless and useless. It is easier, of course, to blame some external force – namely, the patriarchy – for ones own shortcomings than it is to work on oneself. And this is what feminism allows; a finger pointing ever outwards, pointing to some other force than oneself. Women are perfect just the way they are, no matter how they are. Society needs to change and conform to one individual woman’s preferences, whose preferences by virtue of her and her alone are the preferences of all other women, despite what other women may or may not say in regards to this.

The personal has to become political. As long as the personal perspective is that of a woman. Men need not apply. Nor do women who are non-feminist. Of course.

So, when I – a horrible patriarchal oppressor, this time in the guise of a white, straight, cisgendered heteronormative male with thin-privilege, a bombshell trophy-wife and a glorious fucking full beard as a gender signifier of no small importance – tell of my personal encounters with either horrible women or horrible feminists, which are, admittedly, usually the same thing, this is waved away as anecdotal and of no value.

She does not represent all women, you moron.” I never said she did. I do believe they represent most of feminism, however. Also: do you represent all women?

Or when I mention, as I do time and again, the impact education has on young men when they are told that they are the root cause of all the evils in the world, this is again waved away as anecdotal. With all the buts and ifs and what’s and how’s in the world. Or, of course, I am blamed for a woman’s actions by virtue of me being male and her being a woman, which of course means that I hold power over her through some perversion or other of what power-dynamics mean. Women can never be at fault. Somehow, one must find a way to blame a man.

Feminism have no qualms in using personal anecdotes to push their agenda, but can not stand others using anecdotes to explain their stance or reasoning – or just to tell a story. One single man doing something to a feminist represents all men. One single feminist doing something to a man does not represent feminism. Despite feminism being a self-imposed label; an ideology with beliefs and ideas and an intellectual structure to follow and adhere too and men being, well, a sex and not a self-imposed label.

It does not take a genius to figure this out.

One does not chose to be a man. Despite what feminism claims – masculinity, maleness, being a man is not an ideology. It is a biological state of being driven, as is my understanding of it, more by biology than by society. Even if the two intertwine and one feed into the other. I think it would be wise to consider the two – socialisation and biology – as not being separated from each other. I would dare say that societal norms impact us. Of course they do. We do not exist in a vacuum. But there is the thing of it: society did not get created in a vacuum either, and I would think it absurd to claim that society was not built around behaviour, norms and so-and-such that was already there, lying prone in our biology and in our instinctual behaviour, the differences in male and female behaviour dictating the course of our societies. Obvious to anyone but those whose minds and eyes are clouded by ideology, I suppose.

One chooses to wear the label of feminist, and to wave the virtue high and mighty for a wanted lack of personal agency. Thusly, one would not be amiss to consider that one feminist represents feminism, considering that it is an ideology one chooses to adhere too.

Does one Nazi represent Nazism as an ideology?

Does one communist represent communism as an ideology?

Would one do wrong in attributing certain core ethics, values and behaviours to one Nazi or one Communist, considering they are followers of one ideology or other? In particular since both – or, I should say all three, throwing feminism into the mix – are highly collectivized ideologies, viewing people not as individuals but as groups based – more oft than not – on arbitrary characteristics completely irrelevant to anything and anyone but the completely superficial.

So, if I get this right: the feminist mind says:

One man’s behaviour is bad. This represents all men.

One Nazi’s behaviour is bad. This represents all Nazi’s.

One woman’s behaviour is bad. This does not represent all women.

One feminist’s behaviour is bad. This does not represent feminism.

One can rely on anecdotes to justify their stance, one can not even use anecdotes to explain their stance.

Considering all the video-evidence available of feminist groups behaving like a gaggle of cunts, or feminist individuals acting like solitary cunts, I think there is a pattern of behaviour evident to even the blindest of blind in a land of blind people inside a sack at the bottom of the sea.

At some point, when facing down an ideology, the pattern of behaviour is so recognizable as to no longer be anecdotal but just the state of things as-is. So, when people say “feminism”, they see Big Red screaming “I’m talking, Fuck-face!” in the face of a very tolerant and patient man with a fantastic beard in their minds eye. And the man is supposed to be the toxic one!

This is the pattern of behaviour from feminism, be they in groups or as individuals. Acting like complete and utter arseholes, and expecting no consequence for their cuntish and brutish behaviour, all the while claiming that A: it is men that act that way, and B: it is the fault of men that the feminist in question act that way, or, my favourite, C: that this is not real feminism. Because real feminism is only about equality. Even when self-identifying feminist women act as though it very clearly is not. Fuck-face.

Considering the lack of real feminists out there, I have come to the conclusion that there exists no “real” feminists. How could there exist real feminists, when the actions, thoughts, words and deeds of every feminist encountered in the wild does not represent real feminism? What the fuck does any of this abject nonsense mean, then? If there is no such thing as real feminism, why would one label oneself as such? Why, in the name of all that are cerebrally constipated, is this ideology so deserving of praise, of protection from criticism and of unthinking, unblinking, unquestioning blind and stupid loyalty?

Actions speak louder than words. And the actions of feminism prove, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that it is not now, nor has it ever been, about equality between the sexes. It is not now, nor has it ever been, nuanced enough to deliver on their peculiar promise of complete and utter equality between the sexes. It is a foghorn wailing longingly and lonely into the foggy, starless night; a reflective pyramid-scheme painted lovingly in gold by con-artists miraculous in their trickery and genius in their deception.

It should be no wonder to anyone that feminism and feminist women have the reputation that they have. They do have a tendency to barge in at anyone, anywhere, uninvited and unannounced, canker-sore mouths screaming and spreading spittle and herpes at everyone within their immediate vicinity when encountering even the slightest critique – or witnessing behaviour that they – all alone on their lonesome – have decided is discriminatory against women, whether or not it is – often attacking individuals completely unaware that they are doing anything other than being themselves and doing what they want to fucking do, whether that be a woman enjoying cooking dinner for her man or a man saying that his woman is beautiful. Attempting to shame and blame them into submission through a severe onslaught of ad hominem attacks and irrational and highly emotional reasoning leaving no room to contemplate and no room to argue back.

A feminist, faced with facts contrary to her opinion and emotion, resorts to nothing but shaming, attempting to get the – usually – male she is shaming to defend himself against accusations of this or that, instead of arguing the point at hand. Because she has no intellectual honesty, nor does she have any foot to stand on when faced with facts. And so the easiest thing to do is to claim someone hates women and only wish to oppress them further, to get him to defend himself against her assault on his character instead of defending his points, his facts, his opinions. And instead of her defending her points and opinions. You see this, time and again, every single time a feminist is faced with facts which she does not like or opinions which she does not like. It is easier to claim victimhood and foul misogyny than argue the points as they are. More and more are seeing through this bullshit, however, and so their decades-long tactics are being proven inefficient. Time and time again. Feminism is in a state of decay. It has grown pompous, arrogant, decadent, fat and bloated on its own fumes.

I have a thousand anecdotes – and then some – of personal encounters with feminist women in the wild, in the throes of hysterics. Yes, I chose the word hysterics to be provocative. Ain’t that something, coming from someone who does not wish to be controversial. Oh well, diddle my hump – I am at the very least self-aware enough to know that, since I am attacking the ideology that is feminism, I am controversial whether I try to be or not. Because that is the level we are at, where one can be critical about anything, excepting feminism and excepting Islam. Because these two are untouchable and are, for some strange and peculiar reason above and beyond reproach, above and beyond critique, above and beyond anything but love, admiration and complete and utter blind submission.

One would almost be inclined to use the word “Totalitarian”. But just almost. I don’t want the police to come knocking at my door, hate-speech papers at the ready, by stating an absolute. Only Siths and Feminists deal in absolutes. Even when that statement, in and off itself, is an absolute.

Suffice it to say, through my anecdotal experiences with feminism, that I am not in the slightest interested in discussion or debate with them. There is no debate of value to be had with a feminist, as they are completely blind to anything but themselves and their ingrained, narrow-minded view of the world, driven more often than not by some personal grievance some thirty years prior. They have nothing but personal attacks to add to the discussion, nothing but thinly veiled contempt and hatred for men for being men, and for women who love men for being women who love men. Add to this, of course, a blind and seething hatred for men and women in loving and functional relationships not built upon competition but upon cooperation, a blind and incurable hatred for the nuclear family and a frenzied disgust-at-a-gut-level for anyone deviating even slightly from the bottomless pit of fear and loathing that is their abhorrent cult-like ideology.

Every so often, I find quite a bit of cathartic release in letting some of my personal experiences with feminist men and women slip through the cracks of my fingers and onto my digital paper, sharing it in delightful, grim and gruesome detail.

For fuck sake, and come to think of it: even women who do not, necessarily, identify as feminist see no qualms in pulling the victim-by-virtue-of-woman-card to silence a debate or an opponent whenever it suits her. Which is a fascinating display of female entitlement in-and-off itself. “How dare you disagree with me? I am a woman, in case you did not notice!” Yes, your banshee howl alerted me to that. Now, please, argue the point at hand. I don’t care about your genitalia. I care about your arguments – or lack thereof.

I find it so infuriatingly interesting to see the aforementioned vile behaviour from feminist women; behaviour that would not be accepted but would be named and shamed for what it is – abhorrent and childish and violent behaviour – be celebrated and applauded as something brave and something heroic, despite being nothing but childish temper-tantrums and selfish, egotistical demands for attention and special treatment for nothing but vagina. Likewise, I find it frighteningly fascinating to see how our societies cave and buckle and give in to all demands, however stupid, however asinine, however imbecilic; to see our societies celebrate, accept and tolerate this behaviour as long as said behaviour comes from women identifying as feminist. Or from women at all, by the hard work of feminism. Because feminism, we have been told and taught for decades, can do no wrong and any opposition is proof of nothing but contempt, hatred and abuse of women.

And you don’t want to hate, harbour contempt for or abuse women, do you?

Because hating women is the worst you can do.

Hating men, on the other hand, is pure displays of virtue on the path towards equality.

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 01.05.2019

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You can do better: on crybully asphalt rites and peace without peas.

coffee a3 lowres

Ill: «Coffee»,A3, 2019, Moiret Allegiere

 

A wild, wandering schoolyard bully comes of age through asphalt rites of gravel, mud and tears. She grows into the festering mold of mad, rupturing mycellium and hides her own insecurities in the safety of her projection that others are just as rotten and useless as she is. And through her veil of tears we are baptized in the gravel of her cottonmouthed words; a lingering foul odour of death and decay from her abysmal baptismal claws and painted cheeks. Grown up lost in the space-time continuum and seeking no solace in the self, solace comes only from reminding others of how she perceives them to be rotten, not seeing that she only recognizes the rot within herself.

Grounded not in reality but in a frantic mirage of her own design, she realizes that her own faults are not faults within herself but without herself. And so, the entire world needs to change to suit her needs. These needs change according to the flight of migrating birds, or according to the position of certain heavenly bodies of astrological significance, for instance the position of the moon, heaving and pulsating within her tremble-mind of virtue lost yet flashed dead-pan to an unsuspecting public.

And never growing past the point where she believed boys to have cooties, she lingers in statefunded institutions to teach others that boys have cooties still. And to teach her insecurities as objective fact, the closeted close-minded bully constructs gargantuan magical diagrams showing as objective fact that there are no objective facts; that only the subjective experience matters. And that is objective fact, no matter what her preaching choir sings about the dissolving of objective fact. All is subjective, except this which is objective by her design and hers alone.

And her disciples grow and flow along the same asphalt rites in which she herself was baptized in blood and tears and snot and snow; a fearful flight from introspection. The blame lies always somewhere else, and if it is not boys, it is a construct which boys created in ol` boys clubs fifteen thousand years ago, in the beginning of recorded time, subjective as the pitter-patter of tears streaming down the crybully-cheeks of her frail and delicate countenance, showing signs of shaming tactics and of shaming tacticians with magicians words that scream unfounded accusations as brilliant truths, hard as melting snow, solid as fog.

Within her own realm where nothing is truth, no truths will ever spring to mind but the truth that she is, in some way, shape or form oppressed terribly by the powerful cooties that be. The same powers that tremble and shake the very forces of the universe itself to make everything tailored to suit her everchanging needs and whims and flights of fancy. A spoiled child evaporating from the lack of the rod; never being told no and thusly never conceiving of the fact that other people have different needs and different opinions and personalities different from her own, spun round the thimbleneedle of her simpering baby-voice and childlike act.

A muttering, stuttering, perplexed and devouring parent stands over her in moonlit madness preparing ever-and-ever her bed and bedroom-stillness, checking every mattress to see if there is no pea underneath to disturb her slumber and much needed rest, frail and weak as she is. There is no pea, and yet she insists the pea is there, bright as day and clear as the bonefragments in her mirror-brain: there is a pea. If she insists, it must be true. Sorry princess, sorry – we shall bring new mattresses for you and we shall move you to a different room with a different view where no peas exist. And so it is done, and still there is a pea, conjured forth from her subjective manic pathology where all specks of dust grow into cobwebbed multitudes of trials and tribulations to be overcome by her and her alone, which she alone must face, and pity her in the grimness of this nightmare world which she must travail in horrid and deplorable whimsical fancies.

And as one, all voices rise to meet her demands, and proclaim that all peas shall be outlawed, lest they disturb her slumber. That some people might prefer to eat peasoup and object to this banning of all things pea-related is proof without doubt that there is a vast conspiracy to ruin her life for her and only her. Clearly, these people are out to get her and clearly they can not possibly like peas. Clearly, this is some madness they have been told to believe by the cootie-riddled boys of ol` boys clubs which she could not enter in the schoolyard years of her growing and developing temperament. Ban all peas: they are hurtful to her and others like her. And the objections to this banning is proof of this. If you like peasoup, you hate her. And by hating her, you hate all women. Liking peas is likened to hating all who do not like peas, and all who do not like peas are only her and those like her; her tribe of clean and sober right-thinking haters of peas, both personal and public. The logic is infallible in its infinite infantile infrastructure.

Orobouros shall be the symbol of the new dawn. Grand peaburnings are afoot. All cheer and marvel at this wild and tribal magic: the peas go up in flame, and now the world shall know peace at last, and our schoolyard bully, ravaged and ruined by the peas, shall be left in perpetual peace in this lack of peas.

That is, of course, until she notices that there are monsters in her closets when she sleeps. These monsters peak in at her while she is sleeping, and they disturb her sleep and her slumber and her peace of pealess mind. And so, they to must be removed by some stroke of some brush or some sledgehammer-justice doled out to crumbled cabinets and closets lurking in the corners of bedrooms world-over. And the whole thing starts over again. Her subjective knowledge trumps the clear objective fact of the matter. There are monsters in her closets, so we must ban closets. All must be banned, all the time, all over the world, to rid the world of monsters and cooties and emptyheaded disturbances infringing on her rights to sleep in her bed in complete and utter peace, with no peas and no monsters and no peace of mind but the piece that left with the peas and the monsters in the closets.

And who would have thunk it; the ol` boys club to which she protests and objects, which she claims hate her and all the others like her, wriggle in their seats in terror at her terror and, with a wish to protect her as much as her doting, overprotective parents did and do, they conspire to rid the world of her grievances as much as humanly possible. Peaburnings and closet-and-cabinet smashings are now written into law, mandated and enforced by violent thugs marching in uniform synchronicity through streets illuminated by the constantly combusting flames fuelled by her internal combusting engine; the burning of all things which offend her delicate bully-sensibilities and the enforcement of her will by the powers to which she object ever so much; the long violent arm of the ol` boys club which also must be torn down for their constant ignoring of her pleas for pealess peace in perpetuity; her clinging to catatonic cravings for a constantly cabinet-and-closet free cosmos.

Through her wishes and through her immaculate visions of peace from her psychologically projected rot, the world turns clinically clean and sterile. A cleanliness maintained through force via the evaporating deathgrip of a crybully choking the life out of everything; a boot stomping on a human face forever and ever, maintaining an illusion of freedom through freedom being gradually eroded by a voice whispering in cold shivers: save us from ourselves: we can not tolerate disagreements.

Moiret Allegiere, 12.01.2019

Intersecting bodies at the intersection of madness and gibberish: a rant

happyslapped by the godhead a3 lowres

Ill: «Happyslapped by the Godhead», A3, Moiret Allegiere, 2019

 

Feminism dictates. The world bends its knees. Then it tumbles, then it rolls. Lost in the vast vacuum of space for a while, beat down by the weight of heavy-handed assumptions, assertions and mandates dictated by bodypositive nonsense caught in the throes of orgasmatronic ecstasy. Woe unto the world, lest feminists have spoken. And so they spake, and so they shrieked.

It is a peculiar arrangement we have gotten ourselves into, is it not? We listen and we believe. And we bend at the middle until we break. Words of wisdom from the mouths of feminists dictate the course of society, deliberately dedicating dictatorial decisions on womens lives and bodies: women should be free to do what they want to do with their lives and their bodies, with no questions asked and no judgements passed. Hark; the choir offended sings – falsettoes rise with trembling vibratos. Or was that vibrators? I can`t remember.

Vibrato or vibrator – it doesn`t matter much, in the long run. It`s just silly illusions of literary talent coursing through my neural pathways, gathered from whatever strange force of inspiration I am currently channeling. Or challenging. The tides are rising again, the fever peaking again, the choir of offense touching upon the pinnacle of control. Tremble before the falsettoes and the feminist siren song of women being victims of their own choices! Again.

For uncounted years, the feminists have been telling us that womens bodies are womens bodies and that womens choices regarding womens bodies are their own to make. And no judgement should be passed, be that legally or socially. They seem to have forgotten, in the heat of the moment, or by their own design, that everyone is judged on their actions, be they male or female. They are astray within their solipsistic worldview in which only their own binocular projection of the world around them matters. Logic is only logical when viewed from within their current framework; the prismatic lens of the only gender that matters in the quest for equality between the genders.

And so they tell us, with forked tongue and eyes sewn shut, that their bodies are their choice. And we bend. And they rise. And they dare us, they doubledare us, to pass judgement on a womans choice to do what she wants to do. And so we don`t pass judgement, lest we be judged ourselves, lest we be thrown to the wolves and passed through the meatgrinder of feminist destruction of anyone who`s opinion is deemed by them unworthy to be held in the maniac limelight of the current year, whichever current that may be. Ok we say, we cleanse, we rinse, we repeat the mantra: her body her choice. And we pass judgement upon what men do, but not upon what women do. Because that is peak equality!

Then come the crossroads; the intersection where madness meets gibberish and is, somehow, considered sanity.

And I have forgotten, due to cosmic vibrations and solar storms, what the current year is. Have I been struck blind by the beast of interchangeable restorations? Have we gone full circle? Are we not in the current year anymore? Did the world end and noone remembered to tell me? I mean, I wouldn`t blame them if they did. I would just like a heads-up. That`s all.

Fine.

I`ll just try and remember that it is always the current year somewhere; that the currents of time will lay down the foundations for the current year, so that we can pick it apart at a later year to make it, once again, the current year. Because, after all, it is the current year and that should tell you all you need to know about our current year and the societies which dwell both within and without the current of the current year.

Did they not tell us that a womans body is her own to do with as she pleases? Why, then, pray tell, do the feminists tell women what to do with their bodies? A womans body is her own to do with as she pleases. As long as that woman does with her body what the feminists would have her do with her body. If you are a stripper, you are not allowed to do what you want to do with your body. Or if you are a gridgirl, or find yourself in any profession where you make your living of your looks in a way that would make the victorian-era enlightened feminist sniff and swoon, crying «poor me! Fetch me my sniffing salts, boy!» Or was that Bathsalts? Meh, never mind, no matter. The difference between the two are probably insignificant.

I should like some sniffing salts. Or some bathsalts, in order to understand this doublethink. Maybe that would put me in the frame of mind that these feminists exhibit when this topic comes up; make it possible for me to talk out of both corners of my mouth with my tongue gently licking and caressing the cavernous emptiness of my cranium.

Understanding this strange phenomenon is, to my eyes, impossible if one has a mind that is firmly put in its place and functioning on more than a baselevel of consciousness and conscience both. But, as stated before, all is possible in the feminist world of illogical logic and unreasonable reason.

It is not men that dictate what women do with their bodies. It is feminists. Under the guise that certain womens actions are actions that no woman in her right mind would take, were she not forced by men to do so. And so the feminists force her to not do so. And they label it equality. And they label it fairness. And they take away these womens jobs and incomes and consider it progress for womens rights. All the while chanting «My body, my choice!», all the while disregarding what these women whom they have deemed as being in professions unworthy of women have to say about the matter. Womens voices don`t matter much to feminism. Only feminist voices matter to feminism. It is almost as though one would be inclined to believe that feminists believe that all women are one and the same and that all women have the same goals and aspirations in life; namely – feminisms goals and aspirations. Which is… well, who the hell knows anymore? Everything is a feminist issue. Even the things which contradict the other things. All things are true. Even false things are true.

You need only listen to how feminists speak to, or about, these women whom they deem unworthy to see how quickly they pass judgement on what a woman choses to do with her body and her life. Tear the veil from your eyes and your ears and look and listen. Don`t repeat the mantra that it is only about equality. Don`t resort to pointing to the dictionary definition. Look, and listen, and all shall become clear.

It is a hodgepodge of moronic diatribes and astoundingly rude and disrespectful behaviour towards women. This coming from the same set of ideas that tell us that we should respect women by virtue of nothing but vagina. Of course, it is quite clear that they don`t mean we should respect women, but that we should respect feminist women. Or merely the concept of feminism itself, totalitarian ideology that it is. Respect women, or perish. Meaning: respect feminism, or perish.

Why is it that feminists can tell women what is proper conduct for women, and yet lambast anyone other than feminists who dare critique a woman? And that is not even women as a group, but one single woman. Here come the cries of harassment, here come the cries of misogyny and violence against women. Because women are so weak and frail, according to feminists, that they can not handle criticism. Unless that criticism is coming from feminists towards women who are not – in their eyes and goblin-minds – real women. «Don`t sexualize yourself. Go find real work instead.», they say. And so remove their jobs so they are forced to find some other area of employment. It does not matter what women want. It matters what feminism wants.

Over here, in the frozen wastes of Norway, one of our prominent radfem-groups are protesting BDSM. Because they, in their allembracing benevolence, consider it domestic violence. And so, they try and infiltrate our bedrooms. All the while claiming it a move for equality and liberation of women. It is astounding. This group protested the cinematic screening of 50 Shades of Grey; a series of books and movies mainly enjoyed by women. And written by a woman. For its supposed promotion of domestic violence. Do they not know what fiction is? Do they really believe that everyone apart from them are so simpleminded that they are incapable of separating fiction from reality? Or is it that psychological projection again; that they can not separate fiction from reality so noone else is able to either?

One of these feminists, when asked what they thought about women stripping for their partner, answered something along the lines of «Well, we don`t want to tell people what they may or may not do in their bedrooms. But it is a shame to see that the pornculture has seeped into our private lives like this.» Women are victims of their own choices. And a woman must never, ever, do anything to please her partner. If that partner is male. A male pleasing his partner is a good thing. A woman pleasing her partner is misogyny. Well, in all fairness: a male pleasing his partner is probably misogyny as well, according to the corrupted minds ruling the church of feminism.

Meanwhile, us sane and reasonable individuals consider it a good thing for a man to please his partner and a women to please her partner in a fair and functional relationship built upon cooperation and trust instead of enmity and competition. Bugger it. Millenium hand and shrimp. There is no reason to be found here, within feminisms fractured walls and ravaged halls.

Sexual liberation is a great thing! As long as women fuck in a way deemed suitable by feminists; under the covers, with the lights off and a copy of the Scum Manifesto clutched firmly in one hand, and the Communist Manifesto in the other. Or celebrate their sexuality in a way that is not offensive to the eternally offense-seeking minds of feminists. And there`s sex-negativity and sex-positivity and doublethink and doublespeak and doublestandards and not one semblance of reason amongst them.

The great feminist revolution claimed to be about liberation, but tears away our liberties and dictates our lives, making the private political and the political private, attempting to dictate what we do with our privates in the privacy of our own homes. Noone is free from the allseeing eye of feminism. A great eye, enveloped in flame, gazing ever hither and dither, eternally seeking more power, more might, more influence, more control! One ideology to rule them all, and in the darkness bind them.

Moiret Allegiere, 05.01.2019

Resting on the loadbearing daze of depression: why I do what I do.

Introspection A3 lowres

Ill: «Introspection», A3, 2018, Moiret Allegiere

 
I have been fighting a depression for the better part of two weeks. It is a slow, long, lingering and deliberate depression. The type of depression that does not leave me feeling sad as such, but drains me of all energy and any-and-all ability to enjoy anything, which in turn makes it nearly impossible to get into a headspace where I am able to do much without thinking that it is – at heart – futile.

And then, just to really shake the core of my haphazardly put together cerebral cortex, this possessive fuckery is in deep conspiratory cooperation with a horrifying ailment which causes me chronic pain of some severity, as well as chronic fatigue, this also of some severity. This, my friends, is a recipe for disaster; a grade A psychological collapse. If I don`t keep it in check, that is.

Of course; depression is nothing new to me. This is, more likely than not, the same depression I`ve been fighting on and off for seventeen years.
I will absolutely admit that I draw a lot of despair from the everincreasing infringements on allowed speech and allowed action. The world is balancing on the edge of a razorblade. Slowly being cut in half. Tip-toeing about, walking on eggshells, so as not to offend those who must not take offense; the protected and the pampered who can not comprehend that people hold different beliefs and values.
It is, however, far too easy to lay the burden of blame strictly on this and this alone. It goes far deeper than that. As these things usually do. Truth be told, I am burdened with the melancholy and an overabundance of pessimism. Well, that is to say: pessimism in my darkest moments and realism in my lighter moments.

As the world stands, it leaves me precious little room in which to manouver and elaborate on the structure of my mind and expect to be taken seriously. This, it would seem, goes for men in general.
The feminists are quite content with telling men that they must not hide their feelings. Then they ridicule and protest whenever men try to talk about their feelings. In particular when doing so under the tainted term «mens rights advocacy».

«Do it our way, or you hate women.»

The idea, it seems to me, is this: men getting together to talk and ponder the struggles of men is proof of mens hatred of women. Men need to talk about their struggles in a way that is tolerated by women. That is to say, by feminists. Men struggling is, in the reality behind the looking glass inhabited by feminists, something that needs feminine values and virtues. Not masculine ones, as the masculine ones are inherently toxic. And so, any struggles men face will also be fixed by feminism. And the serpent of feminism glides on, coopting and devouring any-and-all in its path. Were feminism, as they have claimed whenever the topic comes up, concerned at all with mens issues, they would not be named feminism.

Consider this: men and women differ – often substantially – in the way they approach dealing with their feelings and the state of depression. Men often being drawn towards activity and solitude I.E: actions done in solitude to work through the grief, women being drawn towards networks of support to vent and talk and find comfort in others. One is not better than the other, it just works better for one or the other.

I have often, in the murky past of my bluepilled existence, attempted talking about my feelings. And have been met with little to no understanding when I do. More often than not being told that others also struggle, and that I should consider their struggles before my own. This does not matter much, in the end, as simply talking about how I feel has never offered me any form of release. Producing something of value; drawing from whatever inner turmoil is festering in my soul at the moment, does offer release. A most cathartic release, to be frank. Should I dare to be so bold, I would even claim that it might be of help to others with struggles similar to my own. A shared sigh and release of pent-up energies from whichever feeling has the strongest hold of heart and soul and mind in that instance.

Of course, this does not break the shackles and chains of my ongoing battle with depression. It merely offers some release; an outwards expression of my neverending inner monologues and/or dialogues.
The depression must do its work, trampling about in my subconscious until it makes like a tree and fucks off. Only to come back at some later point in time. It might be a chemical imbalance. It might be a continued spiritual crisis of some form or other. Or it might just be that I am clinically insane. Blame whichever seems most suitable.

What things I can do to alleviate this sense of misery, dread and doom are already done. Or in the process of being done. And yet, enlightenment is far away.

Thus, it is a perfect time to try and explain why I do what I do with this blog of mine and this youtube channel of mine. Somehow, the fog in my mind will find its way onto the keyboard and then be spat out for consideration and judgement by the frozen tundras of the internet – haven for all outcasts and madmen. Myself included. Release is sought and found in thoughts racing to find their place on the white background-noise of digital paper.

So why do I do what I do? Mainly, and as previously stated, it offers some release. Selfish reason, I will admit. Now, there is more to it than that, of course. As is the case with all advocacy work. I say advocacy work, because that is – at heart – exactly what I am doing. It may have sown its seeds in a place of subjective experience. During my travels through the brightly lit sanctuaries of the internet, however, it is clear to me that my subjective experiences fall more in line with objective experiences for boys and men; that what I have experienced in regards to this gender-war-nonsense that has been going on for ages is a experience shared, in part or in full, by other boys and other men; that the misandry abundant in feminism is a coiled snake lurking underneath the mud and blood and bones of our societies. And the venom dribbling from the jaws of this snake drips into the muddled waters of our civilization, rippling outwards and poisoning everything in its path. A cataclysmic ripple-effect tearing us down from within and from without.

In one fell swoop, it has been unilaterally declared that, though both sexes suffer, women suffer hardest. Thus: only womens suffering will and must be dealt with. Men, being the ruling class in the corrupted minds of gender-ideologues, is by definition the privileged class. And as such do not suffer anywhere near as much. When men do suffer, it is because men are the ruling class and those men who do not make it to the top of the pyramid-like hierarchy of masculinity will suffer at the hands of stronger men. Just as women do. Albeit not as much. In this way, feminists decry that they are the only ones who should be allowed to talk about and do something about gender and gender issues. Men, as a group, are the problem. And women, as a group, the solution.

The arrogance astounds me.

Feminism has managed to work its way into the collective consciousness of our species as the alfa and the omega of all things equality, sacroscant and holy. And as such, everyone is a feminist by default. If you are not, you are opposed to gender equality. And there is nothing more foul and horrid than being opposed to gender equality, I.E: feminism.

It is clever worldwide emotional manipulation. And it works. It works so well that pointing out the faulty reasoning and logic behind feminism, or pointing to the blatant hatred of men so abundant within feminism will result in «oh, well, those are not real feminists! Feminism is about equality!»
By who`s authority then, I feel inclined to ask, is feminists the only ones allowed to speak on issues of gender? Why, by golly, by the authority of feminism, of course!

See how that works?

Criticism of feminism is turned on its head and drawn full circle to its vague and emptyheaded emotional circular logic reasoning of – «see? This is why we need feminism.» And those of us who actually believe that the sexes should be treated equally – that is equal rights which come with equal responsibilities and accountability – are waved away as womanhating misogynists of the foulest, meanest sort. For simply daring to point out the many ways in which men are not, in fact, treated equally, be that under the law or in society as a whole.

By declaring themselves the sole saviour of gender – meaning, women, of course – and playing on the gynocentrism inherent in us as a species, they have been able to occupy all the space there is to speak on gender issues. They have colonized our shared spaces, and the mycellium grows like mad, claiming one and all under their dominion.
Gender equality has come to mean this: all genders are equal, but some genders are more equal than others. By manipulating the media and our politics cleverly with laced words and veiled notions of equality; hiding their hatred and shaming of men across decades behind the backs of a supposed radical few who are not «real feminists», they have managed to dehumanize men to such an extent that we are not heard when we speak about issues affecting us. Not heard, nor taken seriously. And ridiculed more often than not.

Dehumanize, and carry on.
Cultivate female friendships.
Lets band together to kill all men.

Yet, they claim that feminism helps men too. By helping women. Men help men too. By helping women. And only women. It is astounding in both its arrogance and absurdity. And I don`t much care about your soggy knees anyways. I`ve got my own issues to worry about. Men have their own issues and their own needs, and attempting to «solve» these issues through the warped magicians lens of feminism will do naught but bring forth the ruination of both our western societies and men as a whole. One would not be amiss to believe that this is their purpose.

The dehumanizing of men has gone on for so long and reached so far into our culture that it has become nigh invisible. We are so used to seeing it that we don`t notice it. Even if it is waving its filthy hands right in our downcast eyes. Which brings me, at long rambling last, to when I reached my breaking point and started writing about these things. Why I do what I do, and in the way I do. As I stated previously – it does stem from a place of selfishness. If one would be inclined to label it as such. It has been a slow awakening for me. Yet it all seemed so sudden.

Over the past five or six years, more and more of my friends – both in social media and in real life – started spewing what can only be described as vile hatred of men in general, and white men in particular. Little at first, then more and more. Coming to the realization that every single one of my friends – bar only a few – saw no issues at all in hating me based on my gender and the colour of my skin, was not a easy task. And when they were called out on it, the response was something akin to «Oh, not you. Fragile masculinity. Blah-blah – notallmen – but most men – blah-blah – it is our turn now.» According to these people and these views, men are not fully human beings. Or we deserve what ever comes our way because some men have been evil for too long, or some such garbled nonsensical mumbo-fucking-jumbo which makes them feel just and makes them feel righteous and makes them feel, not least of all, good about themselves.

To be clear: I have been noticing things like this my entire life. To me, at any rate, it is only recently that everyone and their mums seem to spout the same vacuous bullshit, or share the same dimwitted view that all men are privileged scum, and as a result the one group in society unto which all bile may be spewed and all wishes for death and dismemberment are A-OK!

Then there is the idea to get rid of any-and-all gendered words. An idea of feminists which seem particularly ridiculous when you look at their own gendered terms such as «Mansplaining», «manslamming», «manspreading», etcetera. I left Facebook, never loking back, shortly after a supposed friend shared an article with a title something akin to «I walked with the entitled swagger of a white man for a week». Everything men do is wrong. How we sit, how we talk, and now – how we walk. That was the straw that broke the camels back, and made me finally leave my selfimposed hermitting to try and talk about these things in the only way I know; through drawings and prose.

Men are now effectively dehumanized. Second-class citizens. To such an extent that articles and videos and what-have-yous which vilify and demonize men are shared willy nilly by one and all, with no consideration of the effect this has on men within their own fucking circle of friends and family, because men are nothing but mere homunculi to shame and ridicule and dance to their tunes for their amusement!
Everyone plays along, as if this is a perfectly fine thing to do. Mothers telling their sons that they are rapists-in-waiting? A-OK. Teachers doing the same? Quite alright. Media also? Go on. Ain`t no thing!

But don`t you dare disagree with one single woman. By the logic of these malicious tyrants, this makes you hate all women. Their claim is that the reason for disagreeing with a woman is her gender, not what she says. And by pulling the victim-by-virtue-of-vagina card, the ones in opposition are shamed and bullied into silence by a rampaging mob of fevered madness collapsing into the moldiest abyss of socially approved hatred.
Unless the woman is a conservative. Or a nonfeminist. Then she is also fair game to the feminists. Because women are strong and powerful and one should always listen to them. Unless they are nonfeminists and unless they speak on behalf of themselves and not feminism. Straying from the path of feminism makes women heretics. Burn the witch. She is a gender traitor; a festering sore on the trembling lips of the messianic sisterhood of feminism.

Name me, I implore, one other human rights organization claiming to be the only human rights organization allowed to speak on behalf of human rights. And show me, please, how the garbled woo of patriarchy theory differs from the jewish banking conspiracy. See, the term Feminazi originated for good reason. The nazis blame the jews with garbled conspiracy-nonsense and the feminists blame men with muddled conspiracy-bullshit, and the only differences are popularity and gender.
And of course, with the birth of intersectional feminism, in which feminism – in its grandiosity, care and compassion – coopted the cause of other groups under their laced panties-umbrella-term «equality», sexuality and skincolour and ablebodiedness also play a significant part in their victim-narrative- poop. And they aim at being the only movement allowed to speak on behalf of perceived equality; to create a monumental monolithical church under which all banners aiming at equality wave, all painted in the same colours and all flying the same flags. Different causes, same cause: women first, then the rest. The reach and might and influence of feminism is immense. Power corrupts. And feminism is corrupt. It is rotten at the core.

What follows in this wake is the supression of free speech. Denying someone their right to express themselves because someones feelings may be hurt in the process. This is incredibly frightening; a gallant glide into the waiting arms of totalitarianism. Liberty dies to the sound of thundering applause. Free speech applies only to the few, whose hatespeech is not hatespeech because the targets for the hatespeech are men. Every other group is to be protected. Then it follows: if every group in society, but one, is protected – what does that really say about the one group that is not protected?
To the reasonable mind, this group is not in any way, shape or form privileged. And yet the claim is that it is. That the reason for protecting every other group but this one group is that this group is privileged. Nevermind that extending special protection to some groups but not others is, by definition, privileging those groups at the expense of the other.

I honestly believe that all and one should be allowed to speak their mind; to try their ideas, however stupid, silly or hateful on the grand battlefield of ideas. This includes feminists. My aim is not to stifle their speech. Far from it – the more hate they spew and the more open they feel they may spew it, the more they show their shrivelled, rotten and unbeating hearts. The push from feminists to stifle speech in opposition to their speech should tell all one needs to know.

And yet, in my minds eye and in my darkest moments I envision ethereal medieval castles enveloped in fog; a dreary and corrupted feudal system built around feminism. Scraps trickling down from the quivering lips of goddess-queens, dribbling down onto the hungry masses, each with their own place in the victim-hierarchy with needs needing to be met. These needs then being graciously met; offered from the hands of the goddess-queens themselves; to each according to their needs and from each according to their abilities. And then: who decides what ones needs are, and who decides what ones abilities are?
Downwards the trickling go, until men are left with the hardest labour and the driest, moldiest crumbs. Equality and justice for all is served following the rules as laid down in dusty cobwebbed tomes of feminist academes of ages past; vague history barely remembered at all, and with all nuance and all fact and all truth hidden away in sacred chambers where neither man nor woman dare thread under pain of death.
I see dystopia emanating in waves from the burning, sacred heart of feminism; a future both sterile and putrid with all sense of humour stripped away and all speech and all conduct governed by laws impossible to abide by for all but the saintliest of saints and godliest of goddesses. I see the totalitarian tango danced through streets lit brightly at night by radiant spotlights; eternally searching for offense. And if no offense is found, offense will be conjured forth by high-priestesess, immaculate in their cleanliness and virtue. The walls of civilization will crumble and all that remains is a whispered word of ages past: «Equality»; a word which has lost all meaning through the phantasmal dance of time. And the glowing embers of madness will be fanned into an allconsuming fire, to cleanse the world of nonbelievers and bring forth the shining light of the future; progress for the sake of progress, with no thought and no pause and no purpose but to tear down and rebuild for the sake of tearing down and rebuilding.

And I sit here. And I write. And I sit here. And I draw. About these topics. And I try, to the best of my abilities, to shine a light on this. Maybe it will help. Maybe it will not. At the very least, I will go to my grave knowing that I did something right with my life; that I partook in fighting one battle for a just and good cause, in a small and, most likely, insignificant way. And yet, I did it. And yet, I tried. And that is not all bad.

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For some great books on how men cope with Grief, please take a look at Tom Goldens books on the topic. They did wonders for me, in my own moment of grief: