Spiritual Materialism, Ego, And Self-Deception

There is nothing in this world that the ego can not co-opt for its own glorification. Even the act of killing your ego can become ego fulfilling.

“Ego is constantly attempting to acquire and apply the teachings of spirituality for its own benefit.”
~Chogyam Trungpa

The Spiritual Materialist uses every conquest in meditation to feel more spiritual than those around them just as some MGTOWs brag that their method is the best form of Going Their Own Way. The only benefit to making such claims is to feed the “Three Lords of Materialism“: the “Lord of Form,” the “Lord of Speech,” and the “Lord of Mind.”

As master Kudi, The Mystical Rodent Activist, said “I’m aware that there is plenty of controversy within the Men’s Rights Movement, especially when it comes to minor details, but I’ve also noticed there is a modest consensus emerging at the heart of the Men’s Rights Movement.”

The consensus is the Middle Way.

Discussing MGTOW approaches to relationships, recent articles on AVfM have presented sex vs attachment, as Tawil’s study of basic human needs and the importance of understanding attachment, and “elective de-attachment”, as August Løvenskiolds’ rebuttal. What makes AVfM so great is that they encourage such debate.

Non attachment has a surface appeal that makes it sound easy. Some MGTOWs will advise you to “just say no” and your independence will become some sort of magicalBodhi tree under which you can sit until you become enlightened. Perhaps watching a few youtube videos while you wait.

A few years ago I emailed the office of the Dalai Llama with some questions about non attachment and why they can’t detach from the land of Tibet. The non reply that I got was a brief message saying I should read up on how mean the Chinese are. If the Dalai Lama can’t answer questions about non attachment honestly how can MGTOWs?

August calls his isolation prescription “elective de-attachment” but is that different from non attachment? He offers you religious figures as examples so I think he is just giving it a new name that means the same thing. Does August understand it better than the Dalai Lama? Probably not.

Freedom from attachment is not the veto power of saying “I reject this.” That path of suffering is called asceticism and it usually involves self mortification. It isn’t pretty and hasn’t produced a single icon. In spiritual terms, the only way to truly avoid attachment need is to stop seeing yourself as a separate entity. You become one with everything and everyone so there is no means of attaching because it is you. You give up your personality and all sense of self. You can’t separate yourself from that screaming feminist because she is also a part of you and you love her as you love yourself. Still sounding like a good idea?

MGTOWs are, generally, not doing this.

Most MGTOWs are separating themselves quite distinctly and focusing on setting boundaries between themselves and the world around them. They seek to assess other people skeptically based on lessons from their past and/or observations of their present environment. They increase the value placed on defining themselves in their own way and those definitions have strong boundaries. That MGTOWs are doing the opposite of spiritual non attachment doesn’t make it bad unless you’re also a Buddhist trying to become enlightened, but if you’re just a human being trying to create a sustainable environment it’s a perfectly acceptable and supportable step on the road.

Feeling safe is an important part of mental health and MGTOWs have recognized that traditional relationships are not safe.

Tawil’s article on sexuality and attachment raises a very important consideration for those of us who do not fashion ourselves to be religious icons ready to face a life of asceticism. He asks people to consider what their human emotional needs are so that they do not neglect those needs in the same way so many of us refuse to see a doctor when we are ill. Not all of us have the same social needs. There is no right way to be, but you can certainly do it wrong by neglecting yourself. Those are the folks that die young.

Do you need physical contact?

I am not big on hugging and kissing. I went for about two years without letting another human physically touch me in any way. I didn’t even know I was doing it until a friend put his hand on my arm to ask me a question and it literally shocked me. Human contact is powerful. It is an exchange.

That contact is important doesn’t mean I have to go around fucking everyone I meet. “All things in moderation” is the saying, and moderation is the key: self moderation. Maybe you don’t need to get laid, you just need a good massage, or a game of rugby, or a pet, but you do need physical contact or your body will suffer.

I sometimes look around and am awed by the reality that every single person surrounding me in a crowd woke up that morning filled with a completely different subjective world view that sometimes aligns us and sometimes pits us against each other. We share the same world with so many people yet rarely feel that anyone will ever truly know us but strive every day to express ourselves in a way that will attain that one thing we want so badly: to connect with someone else in a meaningful way.

Humans are social animals. The evidence that we need each other is in our cities and our inventions, like the internet, that let us reach out and connect with each other despite the fact that we are trained to be in direct competition with each other in every aspect of our lives. This competition both invigorates us and tears us apart. It inspires us to create and it inspires us to destroy.

While you don’t need someone to complete you, you do need someone to confirm that you have value. You can’t do that by yourself. Men don’t need women but they do need human contact and validation. When I read Tawil’s article about attachment it resonated with my own concerns that the amount of time it might take to fix the social injustices may be longer than some men can endure. Not everyone is cut out for isolation and men already have a high suicide rate. Those of you who can be happy in isolation shouldn’t assume that everyone can.

Admitting that most people have attachment needs isn’t an issue of shaming, it’s an issue of survival. You can lie to yourself all the way up to pulling the trigger.

Insinuations that MGTOW happens in levels of which all should strive for some apex is not only like a shady pyramid scheme, it is a destructive and dangerous form of Spiritual Materialism. There is no God of the MGTOWs and attempts for anyone to fashion themselves as such is sheer egotism that might liberate some but will drive others to suicide. All religious comparisons fall flat and should stir suspicion.

Buddha ate his own feces for a good many years. At the time, Buddha thought he was likely to be enlightened at any moment.

Moses never achieved enlightenment, he actually spent a lot of time complaining to God that he was a poor choice of spokesperson. Jesus let himself be crucified because he only lived to serve. In fact, all iconic religious figures weren’t “going their own way,” they always served God. They were willing to sacrifice their own needs to serve something more powerful than them and were never on their own because they believed they were the servants of God.

Then there are those of us that live in the real world. The one where, like it or not, you have feelings and needs.

You can fool your mind but you can’t fool your soul.

Honesty is a tricky thing. So many people are being honest with you but not with themselves. So it’s true with MGTOW as well. I’m not MGTOW, I’m a WGHOW who rejects lies. I’m tougher on myself than anyone else and I expect the same vigilance from others.

We count on our friends to tell us when we’re being self destructive or chasing some dragon down a rabbit hole and we owe it to each other to help keep each other on the Middle Path.

You can’t save the world but you can save yourself. If you do it well you can share your technique with others so they might benefit, but anyone claiming to know how to fix everyone else is a person who needs to assess whether or not they’ve got their ego under control.

Men don’t need to marry women and they don’t even need sex but they do have needs that should be taken seriously. It could be a long time before relationships are redefined in a way that makes attachment safe. Women have been taught to manipulate the human need for attachment like they’re holding a winning lottery ticket just by being female and most haven’t read the fine print that says “all winnings will be paid with your future happiness.”

While we wait for the rest of the world to catch up, the important thing is to survive going your own way long enough to see the day when feminism falls into its own fetid footprint. Men aren’t actually alone in this fight. You may need to stand alone in your battle position to keep your strength but you aren’t actually alone.

Also posted on A Voice For Men

MGTOWN

 

Tumbleweeds rolled lazily across the plain as hooves beat a dusty path towards the hazy horizon. The morning sun kindled a coral flame that crept up the barn walls, settling in a halo over the main road then breaking into a golden blaze with the first crowing of a rooster. Three horses reigned to a restless halt, panting and snorting as the lead rider reached up to wipe the dust from the rim of her hat. She glanced at the wooden sign stuck into the dry earth. MGTOWN. Population 421.

“Second road to the left and straight on till morning.” Wisps of blond hair rustled in the warm breeze as Liz smiled at her companions. “Looks like we made it, girls.” Mel and Raven shifted uncomfortably in their saddles. Mel fluffed up her sweat soaked bangs and shaded her puffy eyes, gauging the remaining distance between her and a bath.

“I’m sure I’ve got a rash,” Raven complained. “Do we even know what kind of bushes we rode through? I heard lyme disease is a problem this year. I think I got a mosquito bite about an hour ago.” She shoved her hand under the layers of travel duds to scratch at her upper arm.

“I think I got a blister from these boots,” Mel sighed as she glanced back at the bulging saddlebags behind her. “And I can’t remember where I put my sunscreen, can I borrow yours, Liz?” Liz whipped her 85 UV blocker out of the holster on her hip belt and tossed it over.

“We don’t want to linger, there’s a probably a woman being raped right now in this two-bit town and she needs our help.” Liz held her hand out for the bottle of sunscreen, misted her own face with a quick spray then shoved it back in her holster with a twirl. She dug her heels in and the bloated gelding beneath her snorted then jumped into a trot.

Inside the Sheriff’s office, Joe Goodman watched his morning coffee drizzle its way into the carafe. He’d often wondered which he liked more, the happy gurgling noises of the machine or the smell of java as it wafted from the counter to fill the room. He kicked his feet up on the desk and leaned back in a lazy stretch. Except for the fundraiser being held that afternoon, his calendar was clear for the day and chances looked good that he’d be able to finish reading his novel. His well-trained ear picked up the approaching patter of horses in the distance. Deciding it was the delivery of whisky arriving for the saloon, Joe rose from his desk, sloshed some fresh brew into his mug and sauntered out onto the veranda.

The three feminists jostled in their saddles as they rode into town. Leading the trio, Liz’s ice blue eyes darted from side to side, sneering at the lack of imagination in the paint colours of the houses. She pulled her horse up a few feet from Joe’s doorstep and sniffed down in disdain at his amused, raised eyebrow. They stared at each other for a moment before he took a sip from his mug and turned back inside.

“Are you the Sheriff around these parts?” Liz’s shrill voice made him wince and Joe slowly swiveled in the doorway, glancing up at the clearly marked sign above his head. Liz shifted in her saddle to dismount. “Well, I need a word with you. Come here and help me down.” Joe took another sip.

“Nope. Don’t think I will.” He shook his head as Liz, Mel, and Raven fumbled about with stiff behinds in their expensive chaps layered over designer jeans that, for Raven, fit a little too tight because she hadn’t wanted to admit her true waist size. Mel cursed as her belt caught on a saddlebag and she clung desperately to her gelding’s neck to avoid falling while Raven hobbled over to unhook her. The horses skittered about until Liz managed to tether them to the hitching post. They collected themselves into a solid line with hands on hips, meaning business. Joe took another sip of his coffee then went back inside. Liz elbowed Mel to grab a binder out of one of the bags and waited impatiently with her hand held out. Brushing the dust from her jacket, she stomped into the Sheriff’s office with her cohorts in tow.

Joe was just putting his feet up again when Liz slammed the binder down on his desk.

“What’s that?” He had a sinking feeling that he wasn’t going to finish his novel.

“That is the damning evidence of your shoddy rape conviction record!” Liz glared at him accusingly.

“I’d imagine it is pretty shoddy, since I’ve never raped anyone. Just hasn’t made it on my ‘to do’ list.” He rested his cowboy boots on the binder and started rolling a cigarette. Liz grabbed the book from under his feet and opened it up to show him a chart. Joe rolled his eyes and squinted at the page as she jabbed a manicured finger at the bolded number circled in red.

“Don’t get smart with me, mister! Did you know that one woman in four suffers from rape and you only had one conviction in Mgtown over the entire last year? ” Liz took off her wide brim hat, shook out her blond locks and threw her hat on his desk in disgust.

Joe put his feet back on the ground, leaned over and flicked her hat onto the floor with the back of his hand. “Who are you clowns? And what will make you go away?”

“You can’t intimidate me, Buster! I chew up rape apologists like you for a living and you’re about to hit my dinner plate.” Liz grabbed her hat from the floor, snarled at the dirt that clung to it, and deftly snapped her binder shut with the other hand. Mel and Raven smiled gleefully in the background. “I want a list with all the names and addresses of the women in this district, I want safe space granted for my interviews, and I want three rooms with running water and a private bath for me and my associates. We’re not leaving here until we get to the bottom of this.” She tossed a business card at Joe’s head and he caught it mid-air.

Liz Fudd, President, Centre for Women’s Advocacy and Protection (CWAP)

“Look here, Ms. Fudd of CWAP, I haven’t let a woman tell me what to do in twenty-five years and I’m not about to start now. We’ve only had one rape in this town and it was a traveller that done it. As a result, we don’t take kindly to strangers so I suggest you turn yourselves around, get back on your neutered horses and ride your diva asses back out of town.” Joe stood up and refilled his coffee mug hoping he’d get a chance to actually enjoy the second cup. Mel shuffled out of his way with a limp. She should have picked boots with a softer leather. Raven was looking nervously at Liz, there was no way she was getting back on a horse until her rash had settled down. Surely they couldn’t make her do it.

Liz nodded reassuringly at her sidekicks. “You are a public servant and I represent the public. I’ve got legal documents here and a mandate to monitor every county until the number of men in jail matches the number of crimes against women!” She waved her binder in the air. Joe put his cup down and strode over to grab the book from her hand. He flipped through the pages and chuckled.

“Justice for wives? We don’t have wives, in Mgtown. And these aren’t legal documents. You wrote them yourself. It’s just CWAP.” He handed it back to Liz dismissively.

“These CWAP documents have just become law in this state. There’s a new sheriff in town, buddy boy.” Liz donned a smug grin and turned on her heel. Mel and Raven fell in behind her and they made their exit. She called back over her shoulder, “Feed our horses and bring me my list. I’ll be in the pub in two hours.”

They grabbed their luggage and headed for the nearest inn.

Closed signs whizzed down over store front windows as the women passed. Liz narrowed her eyes. “Looks like a town that’s got something to hide.” Raven had other things on her mind as she juggled Liz’s bags with her own while trying to dig out some baby powder. Liz whapped her on the back. “We’ve got a lot of work to do, girls.”

Three feminists walked into a saloon. The barkeep looked up. “Wine?” A finger was jabbed at his face.

“You sexist bastard! I haven’t even started talking yet.”

The barkeep raised his palms in the air, slid a full bottle and some glasses down the bar then moved as far away as possible. Liz surveyed the saloon and decided to claim a table in the corner for their interviews. Mel carried their beverages over while Raven squirmed at the idea of sitting and excused herself to find the ladies’ room. Liz chose a seat facing the door and started pulling out her questionnaires.

“No time to waste. A woman gets raped every 2 minutes and we’ve already been here for three hours.” Liz arranged her paperwork and looked for a pen.

As Raven returned to join her comrades, a group of ten women threw open the saloon doors and stormed in.

“Where are they?” A robust woman with cropped hair followed the barkeep’s pointed finger to Liz’s group in the corner. The townswomen, varying in size and shape but not in their anger, closed the distance quickly. Liz’s plastic smile quivered for a moment.

“Good afternoon, ladies. My colleagues and I are here to help you.” Liz straightened a paper stack in front of her on the table.

“Then fuck off. We don’t need you, we don’t want you, and you can pack your lies up to peddle your poison somewhere else.” A redhead in Doc Martins dutifully documented events on her camcorder.

“I understand your anger,” Liz calmly replied, “at least two of your group have probably been raped and never had closure.” She picked up a survey and held it out to a brunette who glared and snatched it from her hand.

“Bullshit.” Reading from the paper, the brunette laughed. “Have you ever been looked at in a way that made you sexually uncomfortable?”

“Yes,” Liz nodded, “you can be raped by someone’s eyes. And there’s not a damn thing you can do to stop it. Eye rape is real.” The ten women fell silent and stood staring at the CWAP table in disbelief. Liz felt a small victory. “That’s right, ladies, the men of this town may be raping you every day and you don’t even know it.”

The saloon doors were flung open as Liz was carried out over a shoulder with her buddies close behind. Her legs kicked as the townswomen transported her back to the hitching post. They strapped the saddlebags back onto the horses, shoved her papers into a side pocket and dumped her at the foot of the watering trough.

Joe sauntered out from his office with his novel in hand and chuckled as Liz sputtered and tried to regain her footing. “I see you’ve met some of our women folk,” he quipped. “How are the interviews going?”

Liz waved a fist in the air. She pulled her business cards out and started shoving them in nearby faces. “I’m a professional, damn you! Damn you all to hell!!”

Joe lifted up his cell phone. “There’s about 45 women in Mgtown. Would you like to meet them all at once?” Liz shot him a look intended to kill but the target was impervious. He smiled, “I’m not hearing an enthusiastic ‘yes’ so I’ll take that as a no.” He tucked his cell phone back in his pocket, cracked open his book again, and headed back inside. The last chapter was getting really interesting.

As the three visitors eased their asses back on their mounts, Joe waved to them from the doorway. “You can update your statistics when you get back. Our conviction rate is 1 for 1. That’s 100%”

“That’s impossible!” Liz retorted.

“It’s quite easy, actually. You just have to have a town that ain’t full of liars and leeches.” He tipped his hat as Liz slumped in her saddle and the three feminists rode off into the sunset.

Also posted on A Voice For Men

Don’t Be That Prosecutor

 

Putting more men in jail is a feminist issue. Keeping innocent men out of jail is a men’s issue. It’s no surprise that these two opposing forces have finally met in a public train crash on the railroad of prosecutorial misconduct.

Mary Kellett, a Maine prosecutor, is facing disciplinary hearings for withholding exculpatory evidence to increase her conviction rates regardless of guilt or innocence. In Kellett’s predicament, whether it was a personal hatred of men or a distortion of priorities placing her career ambitions above her duty to uphold justice is something only she can understand but this is not an isolated incident of a singular, sick individual.

Prosecutors have more power than judges and less accountability because what they do is mostly hidden from public view. They decide which cases will be pursued, what sort of plea bargaining will be offered, and what sentencing to seek in each case. All of this happens before the accused gets his day in court and, often, prevents the falsely accused from even having a day in court. The prosecutor is both judge and jury in approximately 95% of criminal cases.

“The disproportionate power prosecutors have under our system means it is vital to have some policing mechanism to ensure they do their jobs fairly. Yet, this is where we fall far short. The system protects prosecutors from civil liability even when they knowingly mishandle cases. And the legal concept of “harmless error” allows convictions to stand unless the prosecutor’s improper actions affected the outcome of a trial.”

The Innocence Project has currently helped exonerate over 300 men who were wrongfully convicted, some of them on death row, for crimes they did not commit. One of the common reasons that innocent men are sent to prison is “government misconduct” which includes both law enforcement officials and prosecutors.

Concern over lack of accountability in the legal system has been ongoing yet the conversation keeps getting waylaid without action. Fifty years after the term “Brady Violation” was introduced, Lawrence S. Goldman notes that “[p]rosecutors who have committed Brady violations, even those which have been later demonstrated to have resulted in wrongful convictions and lengthy terms of imprisonment for persons later proven innocent, are rarely prosecuted.” A Brady violation describes cases, such as Kellett’s, where exculpatory evidence is suppressed when it may have proven the innocence of the accused. Brady violations occur on a regular basis.

If we were to gather up and put on trial “The Brady Bunch” of prosecutors there wouldn’t be a courtroom big enough to fit the guilty family. Such a trial would be most rewarding if the jury was composed of all the people sent to jail for the benefit of the these lawyer’s careers. The sentence, instead of just losing their licence to practice law, should be equivalent to the amount of time spent behind bars that their victims had to endure.

But there will be no such trial in the name of justice, and the concern of the media fizzles out every year without effecting an ounce of accountability. In February, 2012, The New York Times pointed out that instead of working towards greater accountability, the Brady law was instead weakened by adding a clause that it only applied to “material” evidence. The Pacific Standard reported in April of this year that “[e]ven when prosecutors engage in strikingly unethical behavior, they are rarely sanctioned for it, much less criminally charged.”

These are problems that arise when an industry is created that benefits from putting men in jail. And the prison industry is huge.

The question remains as to what truly motivates lawyers to subvert the justice they vowed to serve.

Just as lawyers, police, and judges have no job without crime, professional feminists have no job without “patriarchy” and “rape culture” theory. The efforts of groups likeEdmonton’s SS-A with their “Don’t Be That Guy” campaign are the type of incentive given to people like Mary Kellett to bypass the law and convict as many men as possible. It impresses the public.

In 2007 The National District Attorneys Association (NDAA) produced a report on whether or not lower conviction rates were an indication of poor performance by a prosecutor. They made many observations including that “[p]ublic accountability has become paramount in a world of social interests competing for limited public resources” and that 90% of the media calls they receive relate to conviction rates as a measure of performance.

“Unfortunately, when the media, legislators, and county/city councils rely solely on conviction and plea bargain rates to define “success,” prosecutors may find it difficult to surmount negative public opinion, and worse yet, challenges to their funding needs.” The NDAA produced flow charts and guidelines that include recommendations to reduce the public’s fear of crime as well as promoting the “fair, impartial, and expeditious pursuit of justice.” The report both recognizes the external pressures to increase conviction rates and cautions prosecutors about their methods of collecting performance data.

Given that pressure from special interest groups and the media creates an acknowledged ethical problem for prosecutors, we should be very concerned when “rape culture” advocates create headlines demanding that more rapists go to jail.

In April 2013, The Guardian ran a story that pitted Keir Starmer from the Crown Prosecution Service (CPS) against Emily Thornberry, a Labour MP. Thornberry was demanding answers for low conviction rates in rape cases.

“’I am disappointed that the proportion of domestic violence cases where no action at all is taken remains stubbornly high,’ Thornberry said. ‘Given that the CPS has rightly made violence against women and girls a priority, I would have expected this proportion to fall.’”

When Starmer attempts to explain that “A case may fail for a whole host of evidential reasons” the discussion turned to funding issues. The faulty premise of Thornberry’s vehemence about increasing conviction rates is the same error made by Lise Gottell in her outrage at the transformation of her “Don’t Be That Guy” message: They assume that false accusations of rape are negligent and that the few who are convicted are always guilty.

In a Global News article on the subject Karen Smith, of Edmonton’s SS-A says of rape “people just don’t lie about that.” She is backed up by Sean Armstrong of the Edmonton Police who assures the public that false rape claims are “extremely rare.” Both of these assertions are not only impossible to maintain when proper analysis has never been conducted, they encourage more aggressive prosecution of all rape claims without concern for the presumption of innocence.

Not only are false rape claims a real problem, there are repeat offenders committing this crime. I offer a partial list of the recently guilty who have been in the news just since last June:

Leanne Black July 9th, 2013. Jailed after five false rape allegations.
Astria Berwick July 4th, 2013. Jailed for 16 months.
Sara Ylen trial set for July 9th, 2013. Also accused in another county of lying about having cancer.
Wanetta Gibson June 17th, 2013. In connection to the Brian Banks case was ordered to repay $2.6M of compensation money for a false rape claim.
Philippa Costello June 23rd, 2013. Jailed for false rape allegations against a soldier.
Linsey Attridge June 27th, 2013. Randomly chose her false rape accusation victim on facebook.
Jasmine Levanna Kurre July 5th, 2013. Convicted of assault after filing a false rape report.
Cierra N. Reyes-Benitez July 3rd, 2013. Plead guilty to filing a false rape report.

The problem with quoting a 2% false accusation rate is that more properly conducted studies result in compelling evidence that it’s closer to 40-60%. The above listed cases indicate that the higher statistic, based on more thorough investigations, is more accurate than what The Weekly Standard calls “The Noble Lie, Feminist Style.”

While the methods and “tone” of men’s right groups may be distasteful to some people, being “politically correct” is not going to stop the current boxcar full of innocent men trapped on the Railroad To Prison. Every time the media parrots agenda driven claims of feminists another Mary Kellett turns the men of her town into fodder for a political machine. Every campaign that characterizes men as inherently evil puts another innocent man behind bars. Every poster that claims men are solely responsible for “rape culture” releases another guilty woman from the jail cell to which she was gleefully sending her victim.

The myths perpetuated by campaigns like “Don’t Be That Guy” are demonstrably part of the motivation for prosecutors like Mary Kellett to convict innocent men. It’s not a problem of one woman in one town, it’s prosecutors everywhere who have no safety checks on their potential abuse of power and mostly enjoy immunity for their crimes when caught. The problem has been well known for decades and nothing has been done about it.

Sometimes justice is served by dropping a criminal investigation but a curious condition arises when people’s careers are put in jeopardy by doing their jobs well. While it is reasonable to assume that those who enter into legal professions do so out of a passion for justice, it is also reasonable to assume that they also care about getting promotions and keeping their jobs.

While some lawyers are more concerned with their careers than the ideal of justice, we should also appreciate the type of lawyers who have teamed up with The Innocence Project to help exonerate the wrongly accused. Decades of concern over Brady violations and prosecutorial misconduct hasn’t effected any changes yet but the court system is being given a chance to make a difference every time a Mary Kellett comes before their bench.

Feminists ask the public to presume defendants guilty until proven innocent then scream when such innocence is proven, declaring it to be poor performance of the justice system. Men’s Human Rights Advocates ask the public to presume innocence until proven guilty which is, not surprisingly, a human right.

It’s time for organizations like Edmonton’s SS-A to become socially accountable and show their professed morality by ceasing to persecute an entire gender while failing to hold the other gender responsible for their own crimes. It’s time for prosecutors to get a clear message that their job is not to appease lobbyists or politicians. It’s also time for the media to stop printing spin articles supporting the idea that defending wrongly accused men is somehow supporting the act of rape. You can’t be a “rape apologist” where no rape was actually committed.

Get the story straight.

When The Brady Bunch offers their defense before the courts, asking why they intentionally sent innocent men to prison, those prosecutors might start naming people like Emily Thornberry, Lise Gottell, Karen Smith, Sean Armstrong, and the media as their accomplices.

Also posted on A Voice For Men

Villains and Fools

In their July/August 2013 issue, The Atlantic published an article entitled “The Masculine Mystique” and quickly toned it down to “Home Economics: The Link Between Work-Life Balance and Income Equality” for the online version. Possibly one of their editors noticed that the author, Stephen Marche, had failed to make a clear point so they built a topic into the new title. Instead of the manly masterpiece that Marche intended we are left with a home-ec student’s sunken souffle.

This is not the first time Stephen has screwed up. He has a reputation for being pointless,incoherent, and rambling. He admits that, despite being a former professor of Shakespeare, his book on the Bard is not a scholarly work. His bumbling career annoys men and women equally – so, at least in one aspect, he is an egalitarian.

This pussyfooted promenade careens, prances and bellyflops into a pool of self-pity. Thinking contradiction is an art form, he references “inherently absurd” men’s rights groups while claiming that men are silent in the gender dialogue taking place. He coins the intriguing phrase “hollow patriarchy” wherein we are all equally oppressed by a few, evil men at the top while simultaneously asserting that women are oppressed while men merely struggle with their identity. Marche finally reveals the key to unlocking his madness: he’s only talking about “good” men who are, of course, exactly like him.

After a quick google search of his other scribblings, it became clear that Marche is a confused and ineffective puttering artiste who will say anything to get attention – preferably female attention.

He tweets: “The women who show their contempt for my piece on the contempt of women prove my point by virtue of their contempt. Does that make sense?”

If you have to ask, Stephen, you should reconsider your career choice.

The only interesting thing about Stephen Marche’s meandering musings is that he led me to wonder how many other men were trying to whip the movement into another version of feminism. A softer, fluffier version that lets the feminists keep their fallacious jobs.

Freethoughtblogs posted a summary of the candidates.

Richard Carrier despairs. He’d like to make the hollow patriarchy sound less hollow and flat and the best way to do that is fill it up with Men’s Human Rights Advocates. What a hero.

While some criticize AVfM for having too many vocal women, Richard asserts that we are actually woman haters. Richard admits that the MHRM has legitimate concerns but can’t endorse MHRAs because they want to silence… me.

As opposed to most MHRAs, Mr. Carrier is unable to distinguish the difference between women and feminists. In my own experience, those MRAs who do hate women roughly equal the number of feminists who think the male population should be reduced to 10%. On the other hand, I find that those who merely distrust women in the current social climate are being wise.

To mesh his compassion for men’s issues but distaste for the people who brought them to his attention, Richard offers alternatives to sites like AVfM. These are his choices for “how to do men’s rights rightly.”

The Good Men Project. When you go there you can discover Mark Green’s pride in being a Men’s Rights Feminist. Mark Greene’s biggest concern with AVfM is that he can only muster “Fuck you, assholes” as a response and, because that’s the limit of his vocabulary, he blames the site for trapping him into “intellectual and spiritual death.” Feminism 101: when in doubt, blame it on someone else. Greene wants the dialogue to be mainstream but is, unfortunately, offended by the people who have done just that.

Just say “thank you,” Mark. You’re welcome. Now fuck off.

Good Men Project also offers advice on how to be desirable to women. Andy Bodle has read The Feminine Mystique and now, thanks to Marche, he can read the Masculine one to addle his brains even further. With ramblings like “different strokes for different folks, blah di blah” Andy explains how his life was made meaningful by spending a year reading all the feminist literature he could get his hands on, studying up on sexual trivia, and landing a girlfriend that stayed with him for a whole three and a half years.

Bodle will also teach you how to practice womanology on his own site, where you learn valuable things, like why cocaine is bad.

In conclusion, odd choice, Richard.

The next alternative in doing MRA work properly leads to A Men’s Project. AMP’s first mission statement is to “1. No longer [hurt] women and girls, as well as other men and boys.” Words are tricky things, guys. First of all, this either states that men and boys are different versions of women and girls or that only men are doing the hurting. Both versions are wrong.

In case it’s unclear as to their agenda, AMP kindly provides a quote of praise to clarify. “This site is a public resource for anyone – women, men and young people – committed to gender justice and ending violence against women.”

Richard points out himself that by clicking on Men’s/Father’s Rights you will not find help, only a bunch of articles about why to stay away from men’s and father’s rights groups. How is this helping men?

People like Richard Carrier and Stephen Marche think that men should work within the feminist framework. This sets aside that feminism can not admit that men are as equally but differently oppressed as women. Their entire ideology would crumble. They would disappear in a puff of logic. Feminism requires the denial that men face just as many obstacles to happiness as do women. It’s their bread and butter.

Marche (with the help of his editors) asserts that the real concerns are financial, not gendered. He catches on that leading feminists are living in “a capitalist fantasy” but fails to see how that has affected the economy. He thinks affordable day care is the big solution but forgets that it’s subsidized by taxes. Feminism is and always has been a materialistic movement draining the tax system. It’s all about empowering middle class women to get more stuff.

The women who actually suffer survival dilemmas are not helped by professional feminists who are too busy helping themselves. Feminists claim to strive for self-actualization but are obsessed with wage gaps and dollar signs.

Richard, at least, has a clear breakdown of his beef with MHRAs. While Richard is welcome to his personal preferences in who he likes or dislikes, I suspect he cares a lot more about being right. So here’s a response to some of the errors he has made:

MRAs don’t promote pseudoscience and conspiracy theories, we debunk them. We don’t believe in Patriarchy Theory for the same reason Richard doesn’t believe in God.

He claims that we seek to instil a warped narrative or worldview. No, that’s Women’s Studies, and they charge a lot of money for it too. Feminists are more “consistent” because they have training camps and university degrees to teach their narrative to each generation. Women pay thousands of dollars just to learn the feminist point of view.

Richard Carrier claims that other organizations which help men with specific problems are a better cause, ignoring that AVfM encourages and fosters the same organizations: those that aren’t seeking to attack us and divide the movement. AVfM supported Earl Silverman and his shelter for battered men, mourning the loss of both. The links Richard gives to The Fatherhood Institute, Campaign Against Living Miserably, Abused Men In Scotland, and Mankind Initiative are all the precise types of organizations AVfM promotes. They are part of the MHRM with us.

AVfM is the leading voice in getting attention and, therefore, funding to the organizations that are helping men who have been locked out of the social safety net. Feminism, on the other hand, not only has government departments devoted to allocating money for women’s causes, they hijack ones started by men.

Richard states that, in regards to excessive breast cancer funding, if the MRM “weren’t pissing on women, but actually cooperatively and respectfully working with them, they could make progress on this issue. If, that is, MRAs actually did things like develop campaigns to fight prostate cancer.”

In June of this year, feminists took over a mental illness charity that was started by a man to raise money for both genders and turned it into a fundraiser solely for women. They had the gall to give a case example of a girl who was depressed because her brother had killed himself a year earlier. Her brother wouldn’t have seen a dime of the money raised.

Feminism cannot be incorporated in the MHRM. Only villains and fools would try.

In an ode to the unscholarly Shakespearean ex-professor who led me to the doorstep of other loathsome creatures like Carrier, I offer this testament to how women like me feel about guys like them:

Oh, cursed blight upon mine eye
Oh, wretched vermin, alas and fie!
The dew full morn hath turned awry
With rueful pen I ask you: Why?

Your ill-bred, mangled boil-brained verse
Leads but to naught. Depraved! Perverse!
A gleeking, rough-hewn, weeping sore
That draws to it the currish whore

Infectious, base and boorish wit
Here wallows in its stinking pit
Harken how he soughs and cries
And see through this thin veiled disguise

Unfettered, foul and festering
The words persist in haunting, pestering
How the villain doth plead his virtue
When motives beg and have been seen through

All flight and fancy is my foe
Yet his vomitous verse clumsy and slow
His rapier dull, his judgement flawed
His poetry a shameful fraud

I pity the lass who may be wooed
By the spleeny spur-galled lines you’ve spewed
Flaccid, wilted, weak and limp
A talentless nitwitted chimp

Tis not to fear but wary be
The trappings of this wanton flea
His candy-coated chivalry
Obscures true personality

Now lame and woeful ploys aside
Your disgraceful strategies denied
You lewd and knotty-pated lout
It pains us all to hear you spout

A paunchy pox-marked wagtag weasel
A frothy fetid rump-fed measle
Pedal backwards, white-liver’d toad
And proclaimeth not a moral code

For brandishing filth and calling it art
This feckless faker I call a fart
To shame! En garde! Take up your sword!
And make amends to those abhorred.

Also posted on avoiceformen.com

There Can Be Only One

Voices mingled as the crowd found their seats and the arena echoed with the cackles and squawks of geese at a tea party. Excitement bred with tension as last minute bets were placed, tweets were twitted, and statuses updated. A cacophony of heels clattered and scraped as ticket holders rushed back from concession stands with scones and iced lattes in hand. The chittering rose to crescendo – then descended to a hush.

The burly announcer strode to center ring. With cropped black hair, winged eyeliner that would skewer a wild boar, and shoulder padded tuxedo, she extended an arm as the microphone snaked its descent to her sweaty palm.

“Laaadies and Lapdogs! Welcome to the kickboxing match of the year! Brought to you by Arid’s new personal care product Winter’s Whisper. Don’t fight it with flowers, freshen with freedom. This night is sanctioned by the International Feminist Fight Foundation and will be scored on Twitter. This is a ‘no holds barred’ match so tighten your bra straps and prepare to see blood.

And now… Let’s get ready to grumbllllllllllllle!”

The spotlight swept to the side and all attention was riveted as black doors flew open to reveal Julia Gillard. With a royal blue head band and matching silk cape brandishing ALP stars she punched at the air before her with determination. There was a roar from the stands as she worked her way to the ring looking agile with the occasional wave to the crowd that turned into a mean mock uppercut. Ringside attendants stretched the ropes and Gillard paused, turning back to her fans to blow a two-handed kiss before ducking into the fight zone.

“In the big red corner, weighing in at a lean 160 pounds, you all know this feisty redhead. Recently ousted by her own party, she fought the patriarchy and made one of the best last ditch misogyny speeches ever heard in parliament. She attempted the impossible: to deploy accusations of sexism in defence of sexism. A woman who knows no bounds and isn’t ready to whimper softly into the night. Born in Wales and with the ass of one, it’s the Former Prime Minister of Australia, Juuuliaaa Gillaaard!”

The announcer’s voice trailed as Julia whipped her robe from her shoulders, twirled it over her head then tossed it to the ground before spitting on it. The crowd applauded. With her blue blazer and coordinated leggings, Gillard picked up the cape, cradled her ass with it and dramatically wiped her behind with aplomb. As the stands screamed support she nodded vigorously, held the cape high and stomped on it with her Gucci pumps.

“And in the other big red corner, her challenger!” the crowd ooohed, the spotlight swooped, and matching black doors burst open on the other side of the venue as if by mysterious force. Standing with head bent, Ranty Minx slowly raised evil eyes as music filled the stadium. In her bright white suit jacket of fame she stood, wispy flames of red hair flicked around black pencilled eyebrows while her plastic lips curled in a slow smug smile. Arms spread, she bounced her hips to the beat then placed a hand on her cinched waist and swaggered her way in a catwalk towards centre stage. “Patriarchy! Patriarchy!” rang through the ceiling as she pointed her red gloved hands accusingly at those within sight. When attendants rose to lift the ropes she shoved them aside and flung herself onto the mat, rolling to a crouch then springing up with both hands ready.

Thunder erupted from the stands.

“Weighing in at an impressive 185 pounds, she came out of nowhere: the fearless young feminist who, with no wasted years of internship, took Canada by surprise. Often found at rallies fighting religion and the patriarchy at street level. It’s the University of Toronto’s saint of ‘Shut The Fuck Up.’ The evangalizer of ‘I’m Reading Here.’ She’s the perfect fucking woman and she’s not done! Aaaanyway! I don’t know if you’re noticing a theme, It’s Raaantyyy Miiinx!!”

Ranty plunged both arms above her head with a snarl and pranced around the ring as her theme song faded out. Gillard waved a dismissive hand from her corner and the announcer took the spotlight once again.

“As you can see, gals, we’ve got to two Big Red corners and you know what that means?” She held a sweaty palm to her prominent ear as the crowd joined in the traditional reply:

“THERE CAN BE ONLY ONE!!”

Kicking off their heels and straightening their blazers, the two women sized each other up, stalking in a casual concentric circle.

Ranty curled her upper lip. “I had a music demo on Youtube. I sing.”

Gillard laughed dismissively. “I knit my own boxing gloves.”

“You bitch!” Ranty tried a surprise left hook but Gillard deflected it with ease. The smile disappeared from Minx’s maw as she took three sharp jabs to the ribs before managing to block a fourth. She stumbled back then squared off in a wide stance.

“You print your speeches off the internet,” Gillard scoffed. “You’re an amateur!” She tried a front kick but Ranty was fast.

“Your speeches were written by staff. And some of them were men!” Gillard’s legs flew out from under her and she scrambled to the side as Ranty moved in. Gillard struggled to her feet fending of the blows as she regained her stance. There would be bruises. They both staggered in the direction of their corners and tried to regain their breath. With perspective, Ranty muttered “Germaine Greer was right, you do need a better tailor.”

Gillard levelled her shoulders. “At least my eyebrows are real hair!” Ranty missed a round kick to the head and Julia wasted no time closing in. She dove onto her prey with fingers clutching clumps of over-processed tresses and her knee firmly in Minx’s back. “Two radio jocks were punished for making inappropriate remarks to me!” She smashed Minx’s face into the canvas but Minx managed to flip Gillard from her back with the sheer power of her buttocks. Both women rolled over with a groan.

“I managed to elicit rape and death threats from just one public appearance!” Ranty wiped the blood from her nose and took the power position. “How many years did it take you to get attention, you hack?” Gillard stumbled to her feet but her gloves were unravelling. The crowd rose in expectation. The end was near. Ranty moved in for the kill.

Gillard lunged for a final swing, “I ousted a man as the head of my party!” Her fist met empty air.

Ranty ducked and came in under Gillard’s guard, landing a solid uppercut. “Look what it got you!” As Gillard listed back, Ranty stepped forward, sneering. ”You were kicked to the curb! Your Party actually gave a shit about men and their opinions. Who does that? That’s right. You were bargaining with Patriarchy!” Ranty shoved Gillard back: “I,” jab to the nose, “am!” right hook, “A meme!” upper cut.

Gillard slumped to her knees on the ring floor. Ranty caught the back of Gillard’s head and slammed a knee into her jaw. Gillard slid into a heap at her feet. Ranty regarded her with disgust, “And memes live for fucking ever!”

Panting, Ranty turned to the crowd and raised her arms. A deafening roar filled the arena. Pumping fists of encouragement Ranty led the chant. “THERE CAN BE ONLY ONE!!”

Gillard’s head raised from the mat and fell moments later in defeat, briefly wondering if she still had dental coverage.

It was over.

“Aaand there you have it!!” The announcer sprang back into the ring with flushed cheeks. She scooped her arms to the ground and lifted the rising cheers of the crowd as a puppeteer. Pandemonium erupted.

“And the winner by knockout! Raaaantyyyy Miiinx! The new champion Big Red title holder of the world!”

“Yeah! That’s right!!” Ranty fell to her knees and threw her hands wide. “Who won? I did!”

The announcer crouched at Ranty’s side. “Tell us, what are your plans now you’ve won the world title of Big Red?”

Ranty grinned. “First I’d like to send out a big Fuck You to all those misogynists who doubted me! And for my fans… when men are whining about their problems and losing their privilege I’ll be there to grab Patriarchy by the balls and give them a final twist! We all know men’s problems are a result of their own Patriarchy and all they need to do is shut the fuck up and listen!”

Fans clawed their way into the ring, swarming Ranty and pushing past the Announcer. They hoisted her up above their heads, screaming with joy. The announcer struggled through the throng to get the microphone close enough to catch Ranty’s final words of victory. “Listen to what?”

Ranty’s smeared lips spread wide. “My… Feminism… Is fixing it!!”

Also posted on avoiceformen.com