The Unsustainable Cancer of METOO and the Collapse of Masculine Culture
And so here we are. Basking in all the glory and wondrously hypocritical glow of the post-Kavanaugh bonfire of vanities that is the #METOO destruction of modern society and gender relations in 2018. An era when phalanx of hypersexualized women plying their trade dancing in their underwear on social media and elsewhere, loft epithet and critique of any wayward heterosexual male who doesn’t ascribe to the ridiculous, petulantly nouveau feminist cult of ultimate girl power facilitated by the omnipotent asymmetrical weapon of the ages: allegation and innuendo. Perhaps have a talk with Potiphar’s wife. That Joseph character is on the rise and word is, he doesn’t play by mommy’s rules. Ooopsie. Better frame him for rape. Even if your house only has one door.
Perhaps nothing highlights the generational cultural and political divide more vividly than the blazing contrast in response styles between men who came of age prior to the era of assumed female superiority and who now stand gobsmacked at the notion that “every woman deserves to believed, no matter what,” even as their younger male counterparts bow, scrape, self-emasculate and toady to every edict and demand of the rising, congenital harpyism of the “Cardi-B” feminist mafia, fearing for their very lives being found guilty of possessing testosterone and a willingness to activate it.
American men by and large need to ask permission in triplicate and with a cadre of corroborating witnesses to even rummage through a female purse (not their own) to locate their chemically shrunken genitalia. While women require no witnesses, no evidence and no corroborating logic or circumstance in order to vilify and destroy any man they please.”
Case in point: U.S. Senators, Jeff Flake and Ben Sasse, meet President Donald Trump. And little boys, please witness in full every inch of previously normative American masculine archetype that your own birth timing, educational indoctrination, environmental exposures and inculturated instincts for female bootlicking have stunted you from ever becoming. Poor saps.
Just when it seemed that nothing could illustrate more fully the palpable McCarthyite fear of the average domesticated heterosexual male at the prospect of becoming the latest intractable target of feminist mass shaming than Jeff Flake’s theatrically produced cave-in on Brett Kavanaugh’s confirmation vote, enter one Ben Sasse. The Nebraska Senator, known equally as Flake for being an anti-Trump mental midget in a junior section suit.
Napoleonic complexes aside, Sasse’s clear panderings to the feminist mafia cabal are the actions of a timid, stupid and easily intimidated boy, from a generation where boys, by and large have been well taught, not to grow up, not to speak out, not to unsheathe any evidence of independent will or thought and to give constant heed to the capitulatory fear and neutered malleability necessary to navigate modern culture without being labeled for destruction as a caveman, troglodyte, pervert, abuser, rapist, predator, et. al.
And the future results are only predictable. Soyboys and beta-cucks unite.
Generation upon generation of increasingly servile, increasingly submissive and silent men, anxious and indeed terrified of running afoul of any singular liberal female who will unflinchingly use whatever allegation at her disposal to effect banishment, shunning, persecution and suppression of an offending “misogynist pig,” from the crude society of the zombie horde. Or, as the case may be, any man who simply doesn’t care what mesmerized lynchmob groupthink incorporated is frothing over from one day to the next. Don’t wake me until the cities are burning.
Generations of American men suffering both genotypical incursion of environmentally feminizing chemicals and the constant kick to the head of pervasive psychosocial messaging regarding the inherent specialness of women and the importance of having men be their second or third favorite toy, depending on mood.
I’m reminded frequently of a cinema line from the movie, Last of the Mohicans, where a trundling band of British soldiers and their families are being led through the unbroken wilderness by an Indian scout during the French Indian War. Despite pressing danger of enemy ambush along a narrow forest trail, a British commander gives in to the women in the party who are pleading to halt riding so they might enjoy a few moments rest and a cool drink. After losing an argument to keep moving, Huron scout, Magua speaks in native tongue the truth of the moment:
“Magua understand white man is a dog to his women.”
-Last of the Mohicans
Careful now not to disagree. Magua after all is a socially protected minority class too, despite his intractable masculinity. I wonder how all that equals out on the cancerous misandry flow chart of dreams?
And good ole Magua nailed it, by the way. American men by and large need to ask permission in triplicate and with a cadre of witnesses to even rummage through a female purse (not their own) to locate their chemically shrunken genitalia. While women require no witnesses, no evidence and no corroborating logic or circumstance in order to vilify and destroy any man they please.
Truth be told, even poor doggies receive very humane anesthetic prior to their neutering, done in surgical repose. Males on the other hand, are expected to perform their own gelding with fear and trembling and bloody hand as price of readmission into a God-forsaken collapsing society that wouldn’t know polite etiquette if it bit them in their boorish, slutty, hypocritical, Tinder-exposed thong ass.
Magua from Last of the Mohicans on white women.