Sunday, 23 December 2012

It's Christmas Time In Hell



First, a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to everyone out there. Things might look dark now, these are as Dickens said, "the best of times and the worst of times", but hopefully, at least for a few days, we can lose the rag for a bit and have a bit of craic.

For anyone else out there, for those who view Christmas morosely, wanting to spit on and strangle those who bombard you with messages and symbols and low quality television programming about the family, the toasty fire, the drunken shit that family members say that they will never ever say again, the bottles of beer, the turkey, the presents, the smiles and waves, the scrooge who finds redemption, him of all the fucking cakeholes out there, yet coming from a broken family where a pair of disgruntled children (oh, sorry women and men!) nod to each other and push stilted small talk, cutting the kids in half and all, one of the bigger reasons for this weary, forlorn view and opinion of Christmas. For men like that, I'm not going to patronise you, and at this time of year, certain emotions and opinions can flare up. A chunk of my family won't be here this Christmas for example, forced to find work abroad, whereas the old cunts take advantage of Croke Park agreements and generous retirement packages. It's good being the fucking whipping boys of some aul wrinkly German bratwurst cunt, with the little teacher from Mayo with his fucking heffalump of a wife leading the charge, all of us doss fuckbats, demoralised, strung up. Jesus tittyfucking christ.

 

Men have hope, even in these uncertain, strange times. The fat, bald 40 year old virgin can still get in shape, dress better, find a family, start a business venture, get himself a gang of men, make up for his previous fuckups. Women, the 40 year old cat lady, her cunt laid under siege by alpha male battering rams, has no hope. We all know where her map will end. That is her life, and it is ending one second at a time. Women don't have that feature of abstraction that men have, that ability to take hold of something and examine, work on it meticulously. This is something to become cognisant of around the holidays. This is the time to genuflect, past times, past attitudes, how will the future roll out? I'd recommend that you do some good work this Christmas. Besides setting your own goals, donate some money to a charity. Some old toys to a children's shelter. I'm an atheist, but going to church and taking part in a tradition that your ancestors did is a comforting feeling. These things will ensure you feel less lonely, and others too. Community might be dying, but it should not be left rotting and lying in its own fecal matter. It should be fought for with all your strength and courage.

The Manosphere is addictive. It is addictive, not because it is racist, or condescending, or what have you. It is addictive because for the first time, we see truth, we know now. Our hope is not constructed on a foundation of sand. We know facts. We want answers, because no one else thought that providing them would be a good idea. Timorous kids, rapicious liberalism, reckless faggotry. Our hope means something.

So merry Christmas you slags, and I'll see you bastards in a bit for more Franco funnies.

P.S, for anyone in Dublin, Ann Summers is having a sale, so if you're having trouble thinking of pressies for the lassie, I highly recommend it. Unless she's fat.

1 comment:

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