Tag Archives: Feminism

Resist Trump with Porn

Oh dear! It appears we have another deranged feminist plaguing us with her stupidity and ugliness. Apparently, the best way to resist Trump  and honor your puritan ancestor is by creating porn. Yes, you read that correctly.

Rebecca Goyette is a contemporary multimedia artist and Rebecca Nurse’s great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great granddaughter. Goyette, haunted by the horrific tale of her ancestor’s death, has long dreamed of making an artwork in her honor. Her summer exhibition at Freight and Volume marks the realization of said dream. Of course, as those familiar with Goyette’s radical feminist practice might have anticipated, this will be no orthodox tribute. Rather, to honor her martyred ancestor, Goyette made a pornography. Two, actually.

I find it hilarious that this woman is going to honor her ancestor by doing something that would have horrified said ancestor. Do you really think that a Puritan woman who lived in a strict Christian community 400 years ago would feel honored by porn?

And, unfortunately for us, this isn’t your garden variety porn. Here is what goes on in the porn flick directed at Donald Trump:

‘I wanted to do a complete domination of Trump, where everything he’s said about women I could throw back at him,” Goyette said. She ties him up, squirts breast milk on him, and cuts off his penis with garden shears. She gives herself an abortion and makes Trump lick the baby’

That is some sick stuff. What is with feminists? Why do they seem to revel in this sort of deviancy? Do these feminists have a mental defect that prevents them from creating anything beautiful? If this is considered honoring your ancestor, Goyette would have been better off pissing on her ancestor’s grave.


Mohawk Girl

Back in community college, I had to read a book called Female Chauvinist Pigs for an English class. The book itself is pure feminist drivel trying to make a point using titillating subject matter. The professor who assigned me the book, a die hard feminist, said that even if we do not agree with the author, then at least we would be able to enjoy the book as smut. I bring this up because something happened a couple weeks ago that reminded me of the book after completely forgetting about it for years. What happened wasn’t exactly exciting or major, just a small interaction with a passenger while doing Lyft (Lyft is basically an Uber competitor for those who don’t know).

It was the Friday before Halloween and I’m told that this is a big holiday in San Francisco. Personally, I don’t get out to the city much as I don’t really have the stomach for it. That Friday was supposed to bring decent business and I didn’t mind driving people around for some extra cash. I remember it being somewhat early in the evening, the time when the city was preparing to party the night away.I spent an hour driving people to parties and bars and around 8, two young women came in.

One of the ladies had that mohawk-like hairstyle that only other girls seem to compliment; it really doesn’t flatter women at all.  If I remember correctly, it looked something like this:

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Sorry ladies, but this is not attractive.

Given the hair and a few other small tics, I assumed Mohawk Girl and her friend to be lesbians. This was proven as both women settled into their ride and told me they were going to a huge lesbian party after I had asked them of their plans. Mohawk Girl asked if she could play her music and I obliged. Surprisingly, I enjoyed the music Mohawk Girl put on and thought the ride would be business as usual.

A few minutes into the ride, Mohawk Girl’s phone rang. She picked up and began chatting. I had no intention of eavesdropping as I was trying to navigate San Francisco’s horrendous traffic. Out of courtesy though, I turned down the music in order to facilitate Mohawk Girl’s conversation. Mohawk Girl also had a loud voice, so I think I would have overheard her conversation regardless.

At first, the topic concerned the caller’s personal issues, something I couldn’t care less about. But eventually the conversation turned to the night’s upcoming festivities and Mohawk Girl began to explain to her female caller that she wasn’t interested in picking up chicks that evening. She had apparently just come out of a relationship and had no interest in starting up a new one, but she was open to some action with any girl that showed interest so long as no commitment or effort was required.

Now, the conversation itself isn’t that important; it was the word choice and Mohawk Girl’s demeanor throughout the conversation that piqued my interest. I can’t really convey the flavor of her language as I don’t really remember the details. But the slang, word choice and cuss words made Mohawk Girl sound like the stereotypical bad boy who pumps and dumps women. You know who I’m talking about. The guy who brags about all the girls he sleeps with, the guy girls complain about but can’t seem to get enough of, the guy whose sexual escapades would make a pastor faint, the guy who exploits women and the guy who women are happy to have been exploited by. Basically, Mohawk Girl was every feminist’s nightmare in female form.  I thought it was funny and wondered what the feminist harpies would say about this because Mohawk Girl was at the top of the “oppressed people” pyramid; she was female, lesbian and Asian.

However, what struck me the most was just how artificial Mohawk Girl’s behavior felt. While she seemed to ape the characteristics of the cliche bad boy, she did it in such an exaggerated fashion that I still question the authenticity of it all. I really do wonder how much this masculine demeanor was real and how much of it was an act.It was this thought that reminded me of the book, Female Chauvinist Pigs.

The author of the book, Ariel Levy, writes about the ways modern females compete with, objectify and encourage each other to be sex toys for men; hence the term female chauvinist pigs. In the early chapters, Levy goes into detail describing the sexual antics of modern teenage girls, antics that should shock any parent. However, the chapter that stuck with me the most was the one discussing lesbian relationships and how lesbians treated each other. The author herself was dismayed as she recounted anecdotes of lesbians exploiting each other, abandoning their lovers and demeaning their girlfriends in ways that even our cliche bad boy would balk at.

Now I’m not here to discuss why women are like this. Others have done a far better job of explaining these sorts of things. I just wonder at the exaggerated antics of women who act like men and vice versa. See, the behavior of Mohawk Girl is a total exaggeration of what she must have been told about men. After all,  lesbians like Mohawk Girl are not male. They do not live in a man’s body nor think the way men do. It seems to me that these women act this way because this is what they’ve absorbed from the feminist propaganda. They believe that men act and think in this exaggerated manner because it’s what they’ve been told. Honestly, I’d find this funny if it wasn’t so sad and pathetic.

The surrounding culture may shout that gender is a social construct until it is blue in the face but reality cannot be ignored. Gender is rooted in biology. A female cannot be male no matter how much she apes the surface characteristics of males. This is, of course, precisely why Mohawk Girl and figures like Blair White do not feel authentic. They are, at best, acting like caricatures of the opposite gender; they will never be the opposite gender no matter how much they desire it.


You’re a F***ing White Male

I present you with Aids Skrillex, the comedy gold mine that just keeps on giving. Strong language warning:

 

Notice what he does at about 52 second into the clip. He screams, “You’re a f***ing white male” like it’s the ultimate trump card. You’re automatically wrong because you’re a white male. Nobody cares about your statistics, arguments or logic because you’re a F***ING WHITE MALE. White males have no idea what oppression is. Why? Because they’re F***ING WHITE MALES. Now, despite their rhetoric, leftists clearly don’t give a flying fig about racism or sexism. They want power and they will use this sort of rhetoric as a club to beat any dissident into submission. Check out this aging beauty:

 

Like Aids Skrillex above, this ugly, old feminist clearly has no interest in having any sort of rational discussion. She accuses the speaker of being a “f***ing white man”  as if that alone proves whatever point she thinks she’s making. Apparently being a white male lets you do whatever you want. I especially like how she complains about the guy’s “privilege” while holding an iphone in her hand. But living in one of the richest nations and having access to luxuries like iphones isn’t privilege. But being a white male somehow imbues you with this magic called privilege. Where is my white male privilege? I could definitely use some of that.

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If you are a white male, stop groveling and apologizing for being a white male. Leftists who believe this can go play in traffic.


A Conversation with Dunce Cap

My wife seems to enjoy irritating leftists on Facebook and her latest exchange gave me fodder for this post. Now, my wife, (we’ll call her Mme LaQroix) can defend herself where leftists are concerned and I have no intention of doing that here. I want to use this as an example… a warning to those who believe that leftists and Social Justice Whiners are, on the whole, capable of rational discussion.

First, some background info. In a post about Donald Trump, the rapefugee refugee crisis was brought up. Mme LaQroix said something about how the refugees are killing and raping the people of the countries they are invading, that many terrorist activities are being conducted by these refugees and that they are not loyal to their host countries.These are all statements of fact, by the way… remember that. Now one idiot had this reply:

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Clearly this guy was afraid Mme LaQroix would think him intelligent so he made sure to shove his dunce cap into her face. We’ll call him Dunce Cap for this. In addition, this reply was a red flag that further conversation would kill brain cells, but Mme LaQroix has a strong stomach for this sort of thing. She kindly reminded Dunce Cap that her statements were not opinions, they were statements of fact. Now her facts could be wrong or they could be right, but they were not opinion. Dunce Cap was clearly oblivious to such a simple fact.

Now, whether this next person jumped in to help steer Dunce Cap in the right direction, I’ll never know. But she came in anyway and asked for sources because she wanted to know where Mme LaQroix got her facts from. Normally this would be a reasonable request, but we are dealing with bottom-tier leftists here. Mme. LaQroix, bless her heart, then replied with a list of news articles backing up her statements including one article stating that Swedish police have dealt with over 5000 incidents involving refugees. Here is Dunce Cap’s retort:

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Oh look at that, we have the standard bad-apple defense. These incidents do not reflect on all the rapefugees; we’re only talking about a few bad apples. And of course, I have to note the typical resort to sarcasm that leftist idiots are so fond of. If all else fails, just use sarcasm, that will save your hide. This is why the requests for sources or further information is a red herring. These leftists don’t really care for your source. They are simply setting you up for the bad-apple defense. No matter how many sources, incidents or events you manage to cite, they will respond with the usual “You stereotype the entire group for the acts of a few individuals”. Never mind that these incidents involve far more than a few “bad apples”. Cologne, anyone? I wonder what Dunce Cap would say if these rapes, assaults and murders were committed by young, white men. Ha ha, just kidding. I don’t wonder; I know what the reaction would be…

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Sadly, Dunce Cap never got around to answering the one question Mme LaQroix posed. I’ll ask it here as well. How many people should the rapefugees rape and/or murder before you leftists, feminists, and social justice whiners begin to notice?


I Raise You One Perpetua

We are in the middle of an invasion… no, not that one. I’m talking about the “strong, independent female” cliche. Of course, we have the screeches of feminist harpies to thank for this. Now by strong, I’m referring to the female that takes no crap from anyone and beats up male thugs far larger than her… all while wearing high heels and looking fabulous. Furthermore, she will constantly remind the audience just how little she needs men. After all, men can only hold back our feisty heroine. Oh and don’t forget, these females cannot be vulnerable or genuinely feminine in any way…and God forbid you try using rape as a way to show vulnerability.

This ties in to what happened prior to the launch of  the 2013 video game, Tomb Raider. Before release, the social justice whiners had a field day when one developer said that the studio decided to make Lara Croft (the protagonist of the game) a bit more vulnerable because then players “would want to protect her”. In addition, the game features a scene where Lara faces the threat of rape. She’s not actually raped, there’s just a threat of it. As usual, feminist harpies shrieked themselves hoarse because this strong, independent female what, you know, any young woman would face on an island crawling with male savages. However, we see the lavish praise  feminists gave Star Wars because the female protagonist is the “feminist hero we’ve all been waiting for“. Of course, feminists aren’t content with simply creating new strong female characters. They have to take a movie that featured male characters and give it a sex-change.

Then again, this isn’t surprising as the average feminist seems to think that women are only worth anything when they are aping the behaviors of men. Women that exihibit true feminine strength are anathema. So, to all the feminist harpies out there, let me say that I see your Rey and Ghostbusters cast and raise you one St. Perpetua.

Vibia Perpetua lived in Carthage during the reign of the Roman Emperor Septimus Severus. A noblewoman and the daughter of a Christian mother and pagan father, she was arrested and imprisoned for being a Christian. At the time, the ancient Romans believed their fortune to be tied up with the favor of the gods. Displeased gods could visit destruction upon Rome faster than you can say “Jesus Saves”. Because of this belief, Christians were sometimes considered enemies of the state and a threat to the empire because of their peculiar loyalty to one god only.

Perpetua, also the mother of a baby boy, converted to Christianity much to the displeasure of her father. Sometime after, she was arrested and imprisoned for her faith. While in prison, it is said that the separation from her baby boy haunted her more than anything else. Fortunately, she was later allowed to have the baby brought into prison for nursing. Meanwhile, Perpetua’s father was frantic with worry. He would visit and plead with Perpetua to deny her faith. With tears in his eyes, he would kiss her hands and throw himself at her feet. He was getting old and this is how she repaid him? He begged her to think of her family, her honor, and himself. Other times he visit her with her baby boy in his hands and beg her to recant, to think of her baby boy. What kind of mother would leave her only son.

One day, her father came in and again begged her to apostatize. Ever the saint, Perpetua looked her father in the eyes and pointed to to a water jug.”See that pot lying there? Can you call it by any other name than what it is,?” She asked. Her father said, “Of course not!” Perpetua then responded, “Neither can I call myself by any other name than what I am — a Christian”. This so infuriated her father and that he began to attack her. Luckily the guards came and separated them.

When Perpetua was taken before a judge for trial, her father came to see her again with the baby boy in his hands. He pleaded her her and the judge. This time he must have caused a scene, because we are told that the guards took Perpetua’s father and beat him in front of her. Seeing her father beaten like this, Perpetua still refused to back down. Even the judge took pity on her and tried to change her mind reminding her that she had a baby boy dependent on her, but Perpetua remained steadfast. She was sentenced to be thrown to the wild animals in the arena.

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The Death of St. Perpetua

When the day of her death finally came, Perpetua watched as her friends were torn apart by leopards, bears and wild boars. In addition, the women were forced to strip and face a rabid cow. Perpetua was finally wounded but did not die. At this point, the crowd began to get impatient and called for Perpetua and others who still lived to be put to death. Tradition has it that the young man who was ordered to execute Perpetua was so nervous that he couldn’t give Perpetua the killing blow because his hands shook too much. And so, Perpetua took hold of the man’s hands and showed him where to deliver the blow. And that is how Vibia Perpetua was martyred for her faith. Gentle, courageous and defiantly graceful to the very end.

Now, despite what the decadent culture around us may say, one Vibia Perpetua is worth a thousand Reys. A woman that can face ridicule, abuse and even death with the gentleness, courage and perseverance of Perpetua has far more strength than the female character who can fight toe-to-toe with male thugs.

 


Sketches of Male Privilege Part 2 – The Great War

The harpies we commonly refer to as feminists tend to be so spoiled and pampered that they will complain about the most trivial of things. Other times, they will say anything to paint themselves as victims of oppression by the evil, white males. Take war for example. War is a horrifying experience for everyone involved. Men and women both suffer. One feminist in particular couldn’t have that. No, women actually suffer far more than men do in times of war. In fact, they are the primary victims of war, far more than the vast majority of males who fight and die in war. Male privilege and all that.

The mostly male soldiers who lose their lives don't count right?

I’m sure that any man who has lost life or limb in war appreciates your support, Hillary.

It’s clear that the feminists who spout this sort of bullshit have never experienced anything close to the horrors of war. They are so coddled by the luxury they live in that they can’t imagine others having it worse, especially their male oppressors.

I recently finished Dan Carlin’s fantastic series of podcasts called “Blueprint for Armageddon” detailing the events of World War 1 from beginning to end. It’s a great series and you’ll learn a lot from it. I highly recommend it. Anyway, this series of podcasts has taught me about the sickening amounts of privilege that male soldiers have enjoyed throughout history, particularly during World War I. Here are a few short sketches highlighting this privilege.

One of the defining features of World War I was the staggering amount of artillery that was used on both sides. The numbers are quite mind-boggling. For example, during the first 8 months of the Battle of Verdun, the French expended about 23.5 million artillery shells and the Germans 21 millions. Shells would fall and explode so fast, it was nicknamed “drum fire” because the exploding shells sounded like a drum roll. Very few people have lived through this sort of thing, much less dealt with it for weeks on end. The experience is unimaginable to those who have not lived through it. One German soldier, Ernst Jünger describes the experience:

Our ribald conversations were suddenly cut off by a marrow-freezing cry. Twenty yards behind us, clumps of earth whirled up out of a white cloud and smacked into the boughs. The crash echoed through the woods. Stricken eyes looked at each other, bodies pressed themselves into the ground with a humbling sensation of powerlessness to do anything else. Explosion followed explosion, choking gases drifted over the undergrowth, smoke obscured the treetops, trees and branches came crashing to the ground, screams. We leaped up and ran blindly chased by lightening and crushing air pressure from tree to tree looking for cover, skirting around giant tree trunks like frightened game. A dugout which many men had taken shelter and which I too was running towards, took a direct hit that ripped up the planking and send heavy timber spinning through the air.

Like a couple of squirrels having stones thrown at them, the NCO and I dodged, panting behind a huge beech tree. Quite mechanically, and spurred on by further explosions, I ran after my superior who sometimes turned round and stared at me, wild-eyed, yelling: “what in God’s name are those things? What are they?” Suddenly there was a flash among the rootwork and a blow on the left thigh flung me to the ground. I thought I had been struck by a clump of earth, but the warm trickle of blood indicated that I had been wounded…

…I threw down my haversack and ran toward the trench we had come from. From all sides, wounded men were making tracks towards it from the shelled woods. The trench was appalling, choked with seriously wounded and dying men. A figure stripped to the waste with a ripped open back leaned against the parapet. Another with a triangular flap hanging off the back of his skull emitted short, high-pitched screams. This was the home of the great god Pain. And for the first time I looked through a devilish chink into the depths of his realm. And fresh shells came down all the time.

I lost my head completely.

This sort of thing happened all throughout the war. In fact, soldiers had to live like this for weeks and even months. The ordeal rendered many insane.

In episode 3 of the series, Dan Carlin quotes another soldier, an Australian, pinned down on the beach during the Battle of Gallipoli:

A galling fire rained on us from the left where there were high cliffs. One man dropped alongside me, laughing. I broke the news to him gently: “You got yourself into the hottest corner you’ll ever strike”. I showed him where the enemy were and he fired a few shots and again I heard the sickening thud of a bullet. I looked at him in horror. The bullet had fearfully mashed his face and gone down his throat rendering him dumb, but his eyes were dreadful to behold. How he squirmed in agony! There was nothing I could do for him except pray that he die swiftly. It took him about 20 minutes to accomplish this. And by that time, he’d tangled up his legs and stiffened. I saw the waxy color creep over his cheek and breathed easier.

Words fail to describe what those last 20 minutes of life must have been like for that soldier. Furthermore, his buddy, the one who lived, will likely have that horrifying image seared into his mind for years after, possibly the rest of his life. But hey! Male privilege, right?

In his book, The Great War, historian Peter Hart describes one horror that many soldiers dealt with during the Battle of Passchendaele. He quotes a soldier named Norman Cliff:

The approach to the ridge was a desolate swamp, over which brooded an evil, menacing atmosphere that seemed to defy encroachment. Far more treacherous than the visible surface defenses with which we were familiar, such as barbed wire; deep devouring mud spread deadly traps in all directions. We splashed and slithered, and dragged our feet from the pull of an invisible enemy determined to suck us into its depths. Every few steps someone would slide and stumble and, weighed down by rifle and equipment, rapidly sink into the squelching mess. Those nearest grabbed his arms, struggled against being themselves engulfed and, if humanly possible, dragged him out. When helpers floundered in as well and doubled the task, it became hopeless. All the straining efforts failed and the swamp swallowed its screaming victims and we had to be ordered to plod on dejectedly and fight this relentless enemy as stubbornly as we did those we could see.

It happened that one of those leading us was Lieutenant Chamberlain, and so distraught had he become at the spectacle of men drowning in mud, and the desperate attempts to rescue them that suddenly he began hysterically belabouring the shoulders of a sinking man with his swagger stick. We were horror-struck to to see this most compassionate officer so unstrung as to resort to brutality, and our loud protests forced him to desist. The man was rescued, but some could not be and they sank shrieking with fear and agony. To be ordered to go ahead and the leave a comrade to such a fate was the hardest experience one could be asked to endure, but the objective had to be reached, and we plunged on, bitter anger against the evil forces prevailing piled on to our exasperation. This was as near to Hell as I ever want to be.

Sinking into the mud and dying in agony would be terrible enough. But try to think what it must have been like for those soldiers who were forced to their friends behind, sinking in the mud. That sort of thing will come back in nightmares to haunt you for the rest of your life. Other times, soldiers wouldn’t sink into the mud fast enough. Writer Adam Hochschild quotes a story from a British Major during the same battle:

A party of A company men passing up to the front line found a man bogged to above the knee, the united efforts of four of them with rifles beneath his armpits made not the slightest impression and to dig, even if shovels had been available, would be impossible for there was no foothold. Duty compelled them to move on up to the line. And when two days later, they passed down that way, the wretched fellow was still there, but only his head was now visible and he was raving mad.

I find it hard to imagine anything worse than being stuck in mud and slowly sinking knowing there’s no way out. This sort of thing boggles the mind.

Male Privilege At Its Finest

Male Privilege At Its Finest.

Finally, we have the one thing that defines World War I more than anything else: gas warfare. The experience of a WWI-style gas attack is simply indescribable. You really can’t comprehend what it’s like unless you actually been in one yourself. Peter Hart again quotes another soldier, Private William Quinton, talking about his experience with the gas:

Suddenly over the top of our front line we saw what looked like clouds of thin grey smoke, rolling slowly along with the slight wind. It hung to the ground reaching to the height of 8 or 9 feet, and approached so slowly that a man walking could have kept ahead of it. ‘GAS!’ The word quickly passed around. Even now it held no terror for us, for we had not yet tasted it. From our haversacks we hastily drew the flannel belts, soaked them in water and tied them round our mouths and noses. Suddenly. through the communication trench came rushing a few khaki-clad figures. Their eyes glaring out of their heads, their hands tearing at their throats, they came on. Some stumbled and fell, and lay writhing in the bottom of the trench, choking and gasping, whilst those following trampled over them. If ever men were raving mad with terror, these men were…

Our biggest enemy was now within a few yards of us, in the form of clouds of gas. We caught our first whiff of it: no words of mine can ever describe my feelings as we inhaled the first mouthful. We choked, spit and coughed, my lungs felt as though they were being burnt out, and were going to burst. Red-hot needles were being thrust into my eyes. The first impulse was to run…

It was one of those occasions when you do not know what you are doing. The man who stayed was no braver than the man who ran away. We crouched there, terrified, stupefied.

After this terrifying experience, Quinton goes on to the front lines which were abandoned and see the remains of the first victims of the gas attack.

Black in the face, their tunics and shirt fronts torn open at the necks in their last desperate fight for breath. Man of them quite still while others were still wriggling and kicking in the agonies of the most awful death I’d ever seen. Some were wounded in the bargain and their gaping wounds lay open, blood still oozing from them. One poor devil was tearing at his throat with his hands. I doubt if he knew or felt that he had only one hand and that the other was just a stump where the hand should have been. This stump he worked around his throat as if his hand was still there and the blood from it was streaming over his bluish-black face and neck. A few minutes later he was still except for occasional shudders as he breathed his last.

This final story has stayed with me since I first heard it. Nothing describes the horror of war quite like this story. It’s brutal, it’s shocking, and maybe even a little gratuitous. But I believe this is necessary to show you just how much privilege these soldiers, like all soldiers throughout history, had. Male privilege indeed.


Where Are the Feminist Harpies Now?

Former Cheerleader-Plea

So a former NFL Cheerleader was recently convicted of having sex with 15-year-old boy. Here’s NBC News:

“The ex-Baltimore Ravens cheerleader who pleaded guilty to having sex with an underage boy she met on social media was sentenced Friday to 48 weekends in jail. Molly Shattuck, 48, appeared to sob as a Delaware judge ordered that she serve every other weekend in jail for two years. The judge also ordered that Shattuck pay the victim’s family $10,650 and register as a sex offender, according to NBC affiliate WBAL. “I will spend the rest of my life making this right,” she said.  The family of the 15-year-old victim told the judge that Shattuck’s actions have been “devastating” for their son, the station reported.”

48 weekends? Really? Just imagine if the genders were switched and you had a 48-year-old man having sex with a 15-year-old girl. Does anyone really think that the man would be sentenced so lightly?

I ask again, where are the feminist harpies shrieking for equality now? I, personally, don’t hear anything. But then again, this is male privilege at work. We live in a patriarchal society where men receive tougher sentences relative to women for the same crime. Men, it’s time to check your privilege.

H/T to Will over at Patriactionary for the story.