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 InstituteCampaign Against Living MiserablyAbused 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.

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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:


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!!”

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Taranto takes on the twitstorm


James Taranto is an experienced columnist with a healthy sense of humor. When feminists attack he welcomes it because, like hecklers to a comedian, they only make his show better. On June 17, 2013 Taranto’s op-ed about a war on men was published in The Wall Street Journal. The next day he had roused enough frothy bile from rabid feminists that he followed up with a response on June 19th that exceeded the excellence of his original article. Since his critics do such a sloppy job of summarizing what Taranto’s article is about I’ll give you his more accurate version from the reply.

“To recap briefly: Sen. Claire McCaskill has placed a “permanent hold” on the nomination of Gen. Susan Helms to be vice commander of the Air Force Space Command. McCaskill is punishing Helms for having granted clemency to an officer under her command, Capt. Matthew Herrera, who was convicted of aggravated sexual assault.

We reviewed the facts and concluded that Helms was correct in holding that the prosecution case was so weak as to make the conviction unjust. (Herrera did not escape punishment: He pleaded guilty to an “indecent act” and was involuntarily discharged from the service.)”

While Taranto’s wit needs no choir for backup there are some wonderful muffs he failed to penetrate. I’ll go diving in.

Jezebel’s Katie J.M. Baker offers an extravaganza of lunacy faithfully cheered on by her devoted disciples in the comments section who are too obtuse to see the inconsistency of her hastily chosen words. Most likely they just don’t care if it makes sense. The day after Mr. Taranto’s article was published, Baker declares to her fans that she is definitely not “freaking out.” All evidence suggests otherwise.

In addition to writing “HE IS THE WORST” in all caps, Baker is unable to control the urge to use phrases like “slimy,” “woman-hating troll,” and “overwhelmingly horrible.” She’s not freaked out, she’s just overwhelmed. She is, in fact, so frenzied that she complains she hasn’t gotten a reply from WSJ editors to an email she sent just that morning. Take a deep breath Katie and remember they have real jobs. As she points out, “Wall Street Journal, [is] the best-selling newspaper in the country” but she fails to imagine that they got there by choosing good editors. When Katie calms down she may figure out that reminding people of how successful they are is not a good prelude to effectively questioning their ability to manage their own affairs.

Calm people don’t start campaigns to get someone fired, that’s what vindictive people do.

It’s hysterical to write “I’m not interested in engaging with Taranto” in an article all about him and his work. She probably didn’t get a response from the editors because by the time they read her email stating that Taranto’s piece “doesn’t foster discussion or present an interesting viewpoint” they could see that it had fostered her article. Bloggers worth speaking to don’t write articles about uninteresting people. Baker is either not worth replying to or she is lying.

I find Katie Baker’s viewpoint very interesting. I wonder how someone whose article discredits its own assertions manages to get published. Fascinating. She is a gruesome form of entertainment — if you like watching people repeatedly hit themselves in their own face.

June 18 was a busy day for Katies. Over at Salon, Katie McDonough published her bizarre response that begins with calling Taranto a “well-practiced troll” and attempting to prove it by linking to one of her own articles published in WSJ. Trolling happens when you put your fishing line in someone else’s pool. When he’s writing on his own site and you are going there to read it, you’re actually in his pool.

These feminists do love to redefine words.

In explaining the art of becoming a rape apologist, the “five easy steps” that McDonough lists are actually lazy leaps of illogic on the part of the writer. Step one involves quoting her own article that asserts rape in the military is increasing instead of linking to one by a third party that debunks that assertion.

There is little doubt that McDonough is happy deferring to her own authority when rushed for time. In conclusion Katie 2  is outraged Taranto won’t accept that a guy not even accused of rape committed the act of rape. This glitch in her reasoning happened because feminists like her are proffering the myth that all men are rapists who just haven’t raped yet. That’s actually not true, Katie.

Now we move onward to “recklessness.” When Taranto described Capt. Herrara’s behaviour as reckless, even if not rape or sexual assault, and stated that his accuser was also acting recklessly, McDonough claims he was implying the girl asked to be raped. Katie, there was no rape.

Step three involves not using a dictionary.

The next screwball stride can only be accomplished if you forget the testimony which showed the accuser to be unreliable came from a woman. Lt. Michelle Dickinson, who was present and the only one sober at the time of the incident, contradicted all evidence given by the accuser. It was not a case, as McDonough asserts, of “he said/she said” in which what “he” said was given more weight. It came down to “she said/she said” and weight was given to the sober one.

The final farce is that she faults Taranto for not asking what happened to the accuser. The reason we keep calling this woman “the accuser” is because no one knows her name. We’re legally not allowed to know who she is.

Katie McDonough has a very interesting viewpoint. I wonder how someone whose article discredits her own ability to reason manages to get published.

James Taranto has not only written a great article and a respectable reply to the furious flurry of feminist wrath, he’s managed to prove that Wall Street Journal editors are incredibly smart. I think Taranto deserves a raise. I’d like to hear more from him on the subject of gender wars. He seems like a clever bloke to know.

If Taranto is a cockroach he is the free verse poet from Archy and Mehitabel. Though I share his sentiment that the underlying destruction of men’s lives is extremely serious, I’ll leave you with his thoughts on why the twitstorm didn’t scare him:

“We can take the abuse. In fact, in this instance we delight in it, not only because we see the humor but because it proves us right.”


Archy, New York Tribune, September 11, 1922

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Words of a Woman Going Her Own Way

Leave me alone

The words “I love you” have a physical effect on me: The blood drains from my face, I start to sweat, my throat dries up and I run from the room. It’s a guaranteed conversation killer. Of all the four letter words, “love” is the most odorous and foul of them all. It is a garbage truck that pulls up to your curb under the premise of removing your trash then, instead, dumps its load on your doorstep.

A declaration of love draws you into a contract in which you can never repay your assumed debt. It turns lithe, sturdy shoulders into a guilt laden hump. It flattens the arch of your soul, offers a saddle blanket intricately woven with blame, starched with promises, washed in tears and tumble dried with misplaced faith.

Romantic relationships are narcissistic, selfish affairs. It’s rather ironic that the inception of romantic relations was promptly followed by women becoming repulsive parasites. As soon as a woman acquires an emotional commitment, her previous lack of happiness transforms to become the result of her partner’s inattention, her frustrated career become a helpless condition of her partner obstructing her path. Where she had to take control of her destiny she can now foist her fears and foibles onto her companion’s hapless shoulders because she believes “all you need is love” so your love must suck.

Romantic relationships create a kind of insanity that can’t be cured. It is a fraud. Snake oil in a ribbon wrapped box of chocolate fudge. Supporting this neurotic, delusional state will never recover the sunk costs of our investment. Even as the tower of illusion groans with inevitable collapse and every spare moment of your time is spent patching the holes in the mortar of your mangled heart we are assured that it was not due to the faulty foundation of the structure, it was a result of poor maintenance of the roof tiles.

In case it hasn’t become clear, I’m a WGHOW. I’m boycotting women. As a bisexual, I lucked out and have an alternative but I still live in the same world with the wraiths of walking wounded, struggling in a sea of insecurity and brandishing my wit as my only weapon.

The sociologist Erich Fromm wrote that “mature love is union under the condition of preserving one’s integrity, one’s individuality.” That’s the Dijon of mating mustard for the connoisseur of commitments. I reject all relationships that ask me to sacrifice my well being for the sake of making someone else feel better about themselves. I am not a commodity. I’m not a happy pill to be kept capped in your vanity cabinet. People that make their happiness your problem are coaxing a co-dependency where there ought to be mutual self-respect.

MGTOWs are accused, among other things, of being selfish but self-love is something entirely different. Someone who doesn’t love themselves is incapable of loving another and, additionally, will warp all relationships into vampiric feasts for their feckless facade. But we don’t owe them an explanation.

“If other people do not understand our behavior—so what? Their request that we must only do what they understand is an attempt to dictate to us. If this is being “asocial” or “irrational” in their eyes, so be it. Mostly they resent our freedom and our courage to be ourselves.”
~Erich Fromm

I’ve met two self-proclaimed relationship experts. Both were in the business of teaching people how to put their own needs aside, cater to the whims of their partners, and support their partner emotionally even where they disagreed with what their SO was doing or saying. They were coaching their clients how to make symbiotic two person cults. They transformed individuals into a barnacle on a whale, a cleaner fish in an aquarium, a fly on a lump of dung.

While the experts insisted clients always focus on their own insufficiency in conflicts, both of these experts eagerly explained their personal marital failures as an inability of their partners to follow the rules of relationship. Taking responsibility for yourself is a great idea but it’s somehow been manipulated to demand you fuse yourself to another until their emotional state becomes your own. This obliteration of individuality can not support meaningful life.

Contrary to what feminists claim, these farces are not played out because any one gender controls the world. The strife exists because both genders experience a legitimate lack of control in the world. When you inspect the rabbit hole of relationships it turns out to be a microcosm of the human battle to overcome insignificance. The macrocosm is much more trouble to deal with so we’ve been railroaded into blaming each other instead.

Ernest Becker, a sociologist, psychologist, and anthropologist, spent his life trying to understand and solve the problem of human evil. He arrived at the concise conclusion that we are ultimately all driven by a shared need to feel like a significant being in a world of meaning.

Since we can’t overcome death, merely hope to put it off, we busy ourselves with what he called “immortality projects” in order to satisfy that compulsion. Some people achieve fame, others are satisfied with being known and admired by associates, and some just reproduce like bunnies until they feel their number of ancestors will successfully carry on their legacy until one of them manages to hit the immortality jackpot on behalf of all preceding generations. You might have noticed genealogy is a rabidly growing obsession and there will soon be more family tree graphs in existence than we have of the bark variety.

While “evil” seems a dramatic word for folks that are crouched over the search page results of people who share their surname, the consequences of these death denying quests do not remain as harmless. The study of human evil is not new. The same fears that fuel the furious fires of our love lives feed the flames of nationalism, racism, genocide, bigotry, and war. Our immortality projects aren’t hobbies and despite needing our companions to validate our significance, these drives put us in direct conflict with the competing projects of our consorts. This is the human tragedy. Our Divine Comedy.

“Nobody was very happy with the way history and civilization had turned out, and many thinkers of that time supposed that if the first steps in the process of the oppression of man by man could be pinpointed, then the decay of civilization might be arrested and even reversed.”
-Ernest Becker

Becker didn’t want his final work, Escape From Evil, published because he thought it was too cynical but the only way to dispel a darkness is to turn on a light. What makes Becker’s work significant is that, though he practised “soft science,” Terror Management Theory (TMT) has now progressed his ideas and accumulated empirical evidence that his assessment of the human condition was correct.

People have learned to fetishize perceived evil, giving it a killable form, in order to gain false security in an uncontrollable world in which they find themselves immersed. This is where feminism comes in with a jackhammer and pulverizes the residual cement that held marriages intact. When they declared men to be the source of evil, feminists created a bonding group to which women could cling while they set about exterminating the threat. It’s absurdly unique that the movement demanded that the threat remove itself then blamed the enemy for abandoning their stations.

Men fight a different battle, they are on the true hero’s journey.

“The usual hero adventure begins with someone from whom something has been taken, or who feels there is something lacking in the normal experience available or permitted to the members of society. The person then takes off on a series of adventures beyond the ordinary, either to recover what has been lost or to discover some life-giving elixir. It’s usually a cycle, a coming and a returning.”
-Joseph Campbell

The condition of loss or lack is shared but the mode of travel is strikingly different. Where feminists used blame and shame demanding men fix their problem, men are just asking obnoxious women to fuck off. The MHRM doesn’t hate women who take the hint.

The question that remains to be answered is whether or not women will become something to which we wish to return. Unlike many in the MHRM, I’d fuck a feminist if only to see the look on her face when I googled up my articles on AVfM in the afterglow. (Amateurs should not try this at home.) The problem with actually bedding the bitches is that the moment a feminist opens her mouth she gets less attractive with each sentence. The mouth that had me longing for a kiss takes on the appearance of two worms wriggling around a crusty crack in the sidewalk. It’s hard to make it to the bedroom when you have to keep saying “this isn’t going to work if you talk.”

I’m a satirist. Laughter is what gets me through the day but do not mistake the nature of my comedy. It is dark and expresses a message though it stops short of offering a solution. As a woman in the MHRM it is not my place to tell men what to do. I spread my message with humour because when people are laughing they open up to information they might otherwise reject. Satire is a form of social criticism that uses sharp tongue to incite improvement in the behaviour it mocks. It is not nice.

Honesty and courtesy are rare bedfellows. When it comes to tolerating stupidity I’m a cold-hearted bitch and proud of it. As a WGHOW I won’t tell you what to do because I’m not in the business of fixing people the way I like them. What I can do is lend my voice in an accountable, responsible way with the passion and commitment required to reach as many closed minds as possible.

Going your own way doesn’t have to mean giving up on the human race.

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Bible Of The Bearded Clam


Cultists of the Bearded Clam come in two varieties, women who think they can do everything better than men and men who think women are worthy of worship. This is the Canon of Cunt, the Dogma of Douche, the Gospel of Gash, and the Tenet of Twats. The holy grail they seek will be served by men, filled with male blood and a tray of crumpets on the side.

A cunning stunt has been performed in which a class of people strive to “have it all”(1) while simultaneously insisting they are oppressed. This is their bible.



In the beginning the Holy Harpy created the feminist universe. She looked about and saw nothing of value. (2) The waters of this nothingness swirled about Her and was filled only with Her own reflection. Seeing that Her reflection was dark and murky She set Her bra on fire to create more light then quickly replaced it with a padded three way push-up version.

Next, the Harpy divided the light into masculine and feminine qualities putting a great divide between the two thus declaring one to be good and the other evil. So ended the first day.

Then the Harpy said, Let there be a firmament separating the waters and placing Women’s Studies between the two. Below the firmament was the Patriarchy and above it was Enlightenment. She looked down on Her creation and smiled. Thus ended the second day.

And the Harpy caused dry land to appear so that She might spread the seed of Her ideas amongst the arid cuntry. Feminist tablets were carved and groups gathered around them and soon those seeds took root. Trees grew and their fruits were self-propagating so that new seeds would spread into the wind. The Harpy saw that it was good and so ended the third day.

And the Harpy said, Let laws be enshrined to preserve the separation of masculine from feminine.

And so battered wife syndrome, rape culture, sexual harassment lawsuits, educational reforms, and special grants offered only to women were adopted by the governments. And the laws flourished and multiplied and the prisons were filled and the politicians cowered at the foot of the female vote. The Harpy saw that it was good and so ended the fourth day.

Then the Harpy said, Let the evil waters fill with bloated creatures and She called them Manginas. She taught them to satisfy the whims of the female and the Harpy instilled shame upon them so that they would be repelled by the Sea of Patriarchy in which they swam. Then the Harpy said, Let the arid cuntry fill with spindly creatures who can fly overhead. She called them White Knights and they protected the female from above picking off the belligerent sea creatures who evaded the Manginas and dared to raise their slimy heads from the evil waters. The Harpy was pleased and thus ended the fifth day.

And the Harpy said, Let all women control reproduction so that no man be they from sea or air may wilfully cause or prevent a pregnancy. She created laws to strip all men of their reproductive rights forcing them into homelessness or banishing them to the Land of Prison if they resisted these laws. And the Harpy gave woman dominion over all the heathen male creatures before her. So ended the sixth day.

Seeing all that She had created, the Holy Harpy laughed and blessed all of Her creation and on the seventh day She rested.


When the Holy Harpy awoke She heard woman crying that she was lonely and had no suitable mate with which to breed. (3) The Harpy caused woman to fall into a deep sleep while She took men from the air and sea and ingrained female qualities into them so that they might be allowed to walk the dry land of the female. And when all of the things that made him masculine were flogged out of him, then woman did awake. She cleaved unto her spouse so they became as one flesh and they were not ashamed.


For a brief time woman and her crafted version of man lived a happy but stunted libidinal life. But the serpent of masculinity slithered into her garden one day and dangled his manhood before her. He told her how sumptuous the apples of the sea were and so woman gave into temptation. While the Harpy was busy engraving a new magazine that spoke of sins, woman followed the snake into the ocean and they copulated with abandon. And so the Harpy discovered that many of Her blessed creatures had been sneaking off into the evil waters to lay with the slimy sea dwellers. (4) In a fit of rage, the Harpy then decreed that the definition of rape be expanded until all acts of fornication could be defined as criminal. She turned woman against woman until the lush garden was ripped asunder with frivolousness and suspicion. Women turned away from the Harpy and the Harpy sent them from her sight and they scattered into fractured houses.

And here ends the chronicles of the Garden of Feminism.


And it came to pass that women busied themselves with industry causing them to spend increasingly more time in the domain of men. The Holy Harpy looked down upon them and became enraged at all the women who had wandered astray. Women had let men believe that the men owned the homes they lived in and unleashed a baby boom after many men had been smote in a great war. Some of them did speak fondly of housewifery as a career.

The Harpy appeared to Her prophet, Betty Friedan, and instructed her to build an ark. A great wave would be caused to wash over the world flooding all that there was and only those that Betty brought upon her boat would survive. And so Betty set about the task of crafting the sailing vessel and named it The Feminine Mystique.

Though charged with saving all of the female species, the ark was only big enough to fit a select group of first class women. (5)

As the whole world was flooded, this elitist problem was pushed aside and those few who had been spared heralded the ark as a miraculous achievement. The men who were saved for breeding and for hoisting the sails and emptying chamber pots were kept busy fixing leaks that sprang in the boat lest it sink with them and all those aboard. After forty days and forty nights Betty sent out a male dove to search for dry land and it did return brandishing a twig of poison ivy and she had it slaughtered. She sent then a female dove which dutifully brought back an olive branch, thereby making her the symbol of peace.

When the ark struck land, the Harpy reiterated Her command to go forth and multiply. They did so, resulting in the epoch of The Sex Wars (6) The Harpy promised to never flood the world in wrath again and next time would merely make a rainbow. It seemed all was innocent and so time did pass once more.


Women began to begat as never before. Teenagers swollen with child filled the land acquiring their own network shows. (7) Women took control of sexuality and men slaved to keep up with their demands. (8) The female lust for cock so enraged the Holy Harpy that she confounded their language until it became impossible for them to communicate. Words and phrases such as “privilege” and “phallocentric hegemony” became entwined with “intersectionality” (9) until feminists found themselves warring with each other as well as with men who identified as female. The rainbow that the Harpy did promise became a curse. (10) Gender bent until it broke and young children were put on hormone blockers. (11)

The communication faculties of all genders were brought to a grinding halt and every generation stared woefully at its own destruction. The Harpy assured them that the end of men was a good thing. (12)


The tribes gave birth to heirs and they fought many territorial battles. As time came and went the Holy Harpy no longer walked with them or let them see Her face. They had many leaders who became oracles of the Harpy, and they passed along the commandments and the laws laid down so that they might appease Her. But women continued to stray into the evil waters to seek out their old false gods and the forbidden alpha men. The prophets warned the women of the Holy Harpy’s wrath but their vanity and their weakness caused them not to shy from the call of the sea of testosterone. Despite numerous magazine articles and self-help tablets, they had been unable to turn their blessed land males into the thing they desired. This caused a terrible rift among women until they were split into two sides which have remained at war to this day.

For the men, they worshipped by proxy watching for scarce and subtle signs of their own worthiness. Every time they got lucky it was a sign that the Harpy was pleased. When one tribesman sinned all were punished and so they watched each other closely offering regular sacrifices to their resident priestess. These men served woman faithfully and in fear. (13)

The warring tribes followed two different sets of commandments, and the men were now beholden to both versions of the holy book. They slaved to make more jails and as the lists of commandments grew so did the prison system. (14) On occasion they would cry out in despair and the Holy Harpy heard them.

The men of the land were allowed to drink beer and watch violent games contained within arenas where some of the water dwellers were permitted to play sports. Women monitored their men closely during these times because they knew that the men would be vulnerable to reverting to the old ways of the Alpha. (15) Some of the women took pleasure in the elevated excitement that would result from their men’s brief exposure but would quickly destroy any lingering testosterone brought home from the games. (16)

And so they continued in this manner, waiting for the Promised Land.

Thus ends Genesis of the emasculated man.


  2. Ignoring facts about the protections built into society that benefited women.

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