Tuesday, 23 April 2013

In Which Francis Begbie Has an Amusing Encounter With a Coquettish Teenage Lassie and Pays Dearly For It

The Luas when it is busy, a fucking nightmare of nightmares ken. The Red line. Heading into the heart of the Big Smoke, about to get the drink on and go on the langers with some cunt and his cuntess. Sweet en aw. This time in particular, it's quite the fucken meait in the room's sandwich sort of thing, with ear to ear people taking up every cubic centimeter within the confines of the tram. A fucken fly couldn't fart without some other flyboy getting the whiff of it ken. A colorful cast of characters, the usual shite. Skobie fuckers with Tommy Hilfiger. The empowered lassie heading back from work. The octogenarian chatting loudly to his mate about the lad down the road ending in the joy. Ah, Ireland. So much in such mundane. But this was not to be a good day for Franco. This was the day when the lassies introduced themselves to the Luas, around Museum stop, which is hilarious because that stop in particular is the biggest waste of taxpayer's money since the fucking phallic symbol (oh hi femcunt!) sticking out of O Connell Street. There's one big fat fucker who looks like fucken Eddie from de Hardy Bucks and this cunt is full blown vivacious, you could imagine half of Tallaght going up his nose en aw.

Then the teenagers come on and it all goes to shite.

A shoal of teenage lassies get on at this stop and worm their way through the heads and bodies. 16 or so years old. Most of them are not bad looking,  but this one, fucken gorgeous lassie, 15, 16 whatever the hell aww man. Since the crowd is such and such, her arse is wedged near my crotch. Teenage lassies sort of terrify me. On one hand, they are (these are lassies with fully developed breasts and ass and hips and whatnot, so this is not Lolita 2: Franco Edition or some shit like that) fucken beautiful, and the innocence ken. The innocence.You just want to get one of these empty shells of lassies and teach her, instruct her on how the world works. But on the other hand, you could imagine the conversations you'd have with the lassie. Fucken One Direction or whatever the kids like these days. Plus the legions of angry fathers holding up placards after you've gotten your hole with them. And the insulting reminder, that lassies like this, are going going gone in the great auction halls of time of man. Soon, your own lassie is bringing open their own lassies from school. How common is that, for the older man wanting to bang 16/17 year old lassies while his droopy titted lassie looks on and yaps en yaps en yaps en yaps huh?

Ass wedged against crotch, nose close enough to her neck. No perfume, but dat smell ken. Estrogen. Fuck me, it was intoxicating. Couldn't move ken. Crowd was packt in like sardines in a tin box. Slubberdegullion laughs at me in the corner. What happens next was inevitable. Ten seconds later, a well hung Franco wedged against her left buttock. Don't know what the hell to do now. But then, and this is where shit gets amusing, and with it, do NOT give me the fucken guffaw that lassies of this age are all innocent and shit, even though, fuck me sideways I made that point already. No, what this lassie does is step purposely backwards so that well hung Franco is stuck even harder against her. This is unbearable. Now shes taking all the hair covering her back neck, and sort of grooming herself in front of her friend, so now the neck is exposed. Looking at the stops. Coming up to Abbey Street. Sheeeeeeeeeeit. She starts grinding her ass, while at the same time talking to her lassie friend about being in school studying for the Leaving Cert next year. Is this lassie drunk? She certainly seems kind of jolly, and it is the time for it. Shit shit shit. I want to grab her ass, want to put my hands on her hips and pull her towards me, sort of doing it by pretending to scratch my leg, but by "accidentally" brushing her hips. Doggy, doggy doggy doggy. No budge ken. In fact, her arse is right up against me to such a degree that well hung Franco is at a 45 degree angle. Zip. Ding ding ding. Abbey Street, here we are. The crowd piles out. What. The. Flying. Bejesusfuckbathell just happened? Some beta male's daughter. My daughter is a saint! She would never grind against strange men on the Luas. I look up. Cars pass. She catches my eye in the window, smiles at yours truly, looks down, turns towards her friends and walks off.

This lassie knew exactly what she was doing. Made me feel like a real fucken pervert it did.

So I step out, one stop later. I'm walking up towards Parnell Street. People are giving me funny looks now. Some stifled laughter, averted gazes, an angry old woman with a shopping trolley. This is weird. But that's ok. Maybe the head is doing a loop de loop on me. I need to take a piss. I step into a bar and try and take a piss. Then this old gentlemen starts doing the stop and chat with me as he uses the urinal two doors down.

"Good evening yeah?"

"Ah yeah, just got here."


"See you didn't make it then."


"You didn't make it?"

"What do you mean by that?"

"Did you piss yourself?"


The horror, the horror. I looked down. In the ecstasy of it all, I didn't know I left a precum patch on my jeans, a big fucken smiley face of a thing, and it had to be this old lad to point it out. Fuck me.

"Happens to de best of us lad"

He shuffles out, and my dignity dies, rotting in the oriface of a Dublin pub toilet. The only option now is to get lots of toilet paper and make sure it leaves the fabric, but fuck ken, a precum patch does not fucken dry off quickly with toilet paper. Peep Show has nothing on me. This shit was ridiculous. I could see it now. Pisscumjeansfranco, youtube sensation. Truth is, I had to wash the fucken pants again. My pants must be broken. The stain was fucken stuck there. Big fucken precum stain like a bullseye on a dartboard. Suffice to say, the people in the luas found it most amusing. It's not piss though. Not, fucken piss.

So lads, a lesson to yous all. If you see a coquettish teenage lassie on the Luas, remember what I went through. Sad shit ken. At least for day, I now know what it be like to walk a dayin Delicious Taco's shoes...

Saturday, 20 April 2013

So What's On T.V?

Click, spin, zap, flip. T.V Party at the moment ken. Join us if you're not up to much. Lackadaisical, laid back, cannot bear the brunt of the Cathedral, slumped Franco, the lady with the prolapsed face reading the news, can in hand, chugging that shite, Lucky Strike smoke gently filling the room. The Boston bombings are covered again. Explosions, police, houseboat, falseflag, Chechen, Muslim. Some news on President Jackarse hilariously giving the whole crocodile tears thing because the narcissistic piece of shit that he is, amygdala having a jimmy, oh no, my utter failure as a president, my attempt to make a fucken holly rolly out of the First Amendment, a turd in a fishbowl ken, etc etc, going to be in the fucken horrors ken in the morning but the amount of a fuck given is literally in the essence of Tong here. I sigh. Lad and lassie gasp and go awe for a bit. Rapacious, hapless Obamey is there saying shit as I let the smoke drift out through my nostrils. Next bit of news. Rapes. Murders. House fires. RTE News. Prime Time. Evil doctors not treating this Indian lassie in a hospital which leads to her death. The darkness, the malevolence of dirty street corners, the sinister music, the aberdian beside me kept quiet. More oohs and ahhs en esss en aw.

Waste of time ken.

The news. The current affairs of the day. The kind of stuff that a plethora of cunts want to be yapping on and on about to get that crystal f-r-e-s-h, that gooey warmth filling up inside them right to the tip a top ken. Midwits go wild. Guardian articles are analysed and opinions are rigorously examined. A cunt yappers and the world is still spinning last time I saw.

It's entertainment, that's all it is. The news? PAH. RTE in particular loves to pull the sad panda sentimentality card to draw in viewers. The production. The fancy computer graphs and all dem flashy graphs. Fuck man, is this news or is this entertainment? Am I not watching the same crass and rueful entertainment under the knowledge of being the smartiest, smarmiest cunt in the whole pub? We see all but one side of the story. The world is a Fibonacci spiral ken, the relationship of much social intercourse and a billion and one to the power of different variables. A young pup, still wet behind the ears will syphon all this complicated news into a stream of words and flashy images to put on a page. Chris Morris wasn't off by much ken. I watch on. More death. More murder. More rape. More fucken Prime Time, jesus tittyfuckenchrist I hate Prime Time. It's all sensationalism to make a cunt feel like Ireland is the worst place in the worlde. A feature on de evil Irish racists. Sigh.

There is much good in the world. Yes, the women of today aren't as good as your grannys (they were hardly saints either though) generation. Yes, if you're under 35, your ass has been handed to you on a platter by a generation of bumbling dopes. All the exhibilation in the world is one hundred percent justified. Yes, we're heading into a dark, smelly shitstorm. Yes, I'm a cynical cunt and this blog will more than likely be host to many a post in this vein. But, there is much good in this world ken. The Lord of the Rings still remains the best story on good and evil ever written. The bit where that goofy looking hirsute motherfucker goes to the small fellah after the small fellah goes "I wish the ring never came to me goofy looking motherfucker" and the goofy looking motherfucker replies "so do all who live through such times" and it's really inspiring ken. I'm starting to give up on The Cathedral. When one's life is one fucken Office Space remake after the other, the swank and spit and polish of your own cubicle simply disnae hold up. A cunt has to get his hands dirty sometime.

So anyways, I'm fucking HAMMERS right now. But the point still stands. You watch the news and you'll think that there's nothing but shite and onions in the world and you'll act accordingly. You never see the good things, the little moments ken. Good news is no news ken. So smile motherfucker, smile. You don't need to be sucked under the umbrella of being "informed". You really don't, because you are not being informed. You are watching selected, altered chunks of information that don't reflect reality. Dummys on springs, that's all it is.

So switch off ken. Stop watching the news. It's healthier for you. Do something with yourself.

Switch off ken.

At least, if you've nothing else to do, watch fucken Game of Thrones ken. If only for dem titties en aw!

Tuesday, 16 April 2013

Freaks and Geeks

Antonio Gramsci, one of the intellectual fathers of Cultural Marxism
Taking a wee stroll through The Cathedral with a can in hand, fag in mouth, grass in view, see the leaves ken, they're dying again, see the sun ken, gibbous moon en aw, see the sexless, androgynous stalks with heads and bodies, tweed shirts on pigeon chests, harder for a wee cunt to discern what be a lad and what be a lassie in our cruel, cigendered monosex world.

You've noticed this bollocks, hocus pocus shit ken as of late. The use of certain trigger words which set off alarm bells in the head. One of the interesting things about at language as a whole is that, through language, one gives reality to something, be it a concept or an idea, it exists now, it is in your reality. It is a powerful thing yes, but limited and prone to sloppiness, a devastating weapon in the wrong hands of the wrong cunts. These trigger words yous are wondering about? Well, once upon a time, the whole concept of gender being separate from sex was a pretty foreign idea to all peoples involved. Hell, even the word homosexual is only a hundred or so years old, the whole idea of being sexually attracted to men didn't exist for most of history in the way we now believe it to. So, why are all these ridiculous words like cigendered, hetero-normative, transphobic, gender is a social construct (Simon Baron Cohen and his studies on babies only hours old beg to differ, fuck you Judith Butler) blahblahblah, why are these kind of words becoming more and more common, especially amongst the fomicating eviscerated Cathedral drones? If you're fucking a tranny, you're still having sex with a guy but with a lot of shit added, bottles of hormones and plastic surgery and all that jazz? Not that complicated ken honest to shite.

There are I believe, two big reasons for this senseless obfuscation of language. First, let's take a look at some of femcunt Judith Butler's writings. This one is from a preface of hers to something or other:

I think that style is a complicated terrain and not one that we unilaterally choose or control with the purposes we consciously intend. Fredric Jameson made this clear in his early book on Sartre. (2) Certainly, one can practice styles, but the styles that become available to you are not entirely a matter of choice. Moreover, neither grammar nor style are politically neutral. Learning the rules that govern intelligible speech is an inculcation into normalized language, where the price of not conforming is the loss of intelligibility itself. (3) As Drucilla Cornell, in the tradition of Adorno, reminds me: there is nothing radical about common sense. (4) It would be a mistake to think that received grammar is the best vehicle for expressing radical views, given the constraints that grammar imposes upon thought, indeed upon the thinkable itself. (5) But formulations that twist grammar or that implicitly call into question the subject-verb requirements of propositional sense are clearly irritating for some. (6) They produce more work for their readers, and sometimes their readers are offended by such demands. Are those who are offended making a legitimate request for “plain speaking” or does their complaint emerge from a consumer expectation of intellectual life? Is there, perhaps a value to be derived from such experiences of linguistic difficulty? (7) If gender itself is naturalized through grammatical norms, as Monique Wittig has argues, then the alteration of gender at the most fundamental epistemic level will be conducted, in part, through contesting the grammar in which gender is given. (8)

The demand for lucidity forgets the ruses that motor the ostensibly “clear” view. Avital Ronell recalls the moment in which Nixon looked into the eyes of the nation and said, “let me make one thing perfectly clear” and then proceeded to lie. (9) What travels under the sign of “clarity” and what would be the price of failing to deploy a certain critical suspicion when the arrival of lucidity is announced? (10) Who devises the protocols of “clarity” and whose interests do they serve? (11) What is foreclosed by the insistence on parochial standards of transparency as requisite for all communication? (12) What does “transparency” keep obscure?

Anyone, anyone? Bueller? Bueller? 

What, in the bloody fuck is this wrinkly prune faced crone talking about here? What terrible, stupid, ugly, cunty language from the maw of de cunt, is it not? "When the arrival of lucidity is announced?" Shit ken! Lucidity is here with a few cans en aw! Get the couch up! Free gaf! Lucidity is doing lines with fucking coke off the buttocks of a stripper in de club keeeeeeennnnn.

Done scratching the noggin en aw, still trying to decipher the ramblings of a pyknic twat, what the bloody fuck she's trying to say? Good. I believe one of the big reasons for using words like cigender and hetronormative, despite the metaphorical rubbing your beans to it all, and writing in this needlessly confounding style is as of follows. If you write like this, cunt comes along and thinks this cunt, eyo cunt, is a person of considerable intellect, scintillating opinions, capable of engaging in most sagacious discourse, but here's the kick up the whole ken, you will never ever be able to understand it.

So you keep your pretty mouth shut, lest you are one of the stupid ones. In The Pale King, David Foster Wallace makes an excellent observation that if you don't want people to find out about something important, whether it is corruption at a higher level or whatever, no matter how useful or interesting, you make it as dull as fucking shit. Economy is going to crap ken? QuantitativeeasingandabitofderivatesandseniorbondholdersandTARGET2andexpansionaryfiscalpolicyand


Where's my tv remote ken?

Same thing here. You hide your bullshitty little points within a garbage dump of stupid language and people, afraid of being called out for being fucking quacks, will keep their mouths shut.

That be reason one, and it goes hand in hand with reason two.

The second big reason is offensiveness.

The following link is the blog of one of these Marxist, cigenderfunkfest lassies or lad or whatever, I'm offending said and sad person by using the pronoun she?  Perhaps I'll use some Irish slang instead? Cork? Limerick? Skank? Beure? Dublin 4 HO? Ah, yes! Pure horrorshow! I'll go with beure. Always liked that one. So, to carry on, this beure writes an article about how horribly offended that this other lassie said all this shitetalk about he/she/her/it/doggy because she rightly talks about the needless sloppiness of language, complaining that god forbid, fucken LGBTFAGGOT has too many letters in it. God forbid ken! The article is mostly rubbish, but it feeds back into my previous point, and a couple of others I've made in Smithy's past.

I wrote a post a while back about a gay mate of mine and his hate of all things faggot. I've lived in Ireland for most of my life. I've talked to some of these lads for a bit, and believe it or not folks, most people really don't give two shits if you're gay. Irish people are easy going in that regard. Go to Dublin, Cork, Galway, and you'll get a similar response. Ye like man bum! Ehsure, fair enough! But where would the left be without their little of conflict to drive their inane course? Back to my gay mate. According to him, the LGBT fellows are quite the narcissists ken. So what do you do to completely over-blow the in reality, very small amount of conflict and aggression between heterosexuals and homosexuals, to exacerbate proceedings even more?

Simple. You make the language as vague as possible.

Example: Such and such a person says something about someone. You make the simple observation say, that transsexual men are men with hormone treatment, and you back up your point with the fact that a huge proportion of these men have suffered and come from broken homes and have a ton of baggage in the closet. The vagueness of this language means you can make up something to be offended by. You and your cigender privilege! Thus, Cultural Marxism and language disintegrate into a series of increasingly illegible meanings, feelings, and tautologies are rampant, cold, shouting love into the heart of the world is suddenly broken down by the lack of concrete words, the fear of offending a cunt, and the strengthening of moral relativism.

They're like flies in the soup ken, dem tautologies. Every fucken tom dick and harry will want one, and then soon, sloppy slogans. What is equality? What is rape? What is love baby? You know, that thing that we peoples, all peoples used too dos before we all came apart like silt from the sea?

Sunday, 14 April 2013

30 Days To Franco (April to May Edition)

Not really a post, more a sort of sketch board for meself, a soon to be common thing in Smithy. This has basically been inspired by the lad of the moment that is Robert Koch. Basically, every month, I'm going to set out a challenge for myself. The point? To learn, to grow and to build good habits and be an awesome motherfucker in a million and one different ways. Habits are the key ken. Giving up pornography is hell at first, but when you break the habit, break the cycle, it's actually remarkably easy to keep up. You're just in the habit of doing something else now. So, combining this with the Winning!!! post and voila. Awesome Franco. I'll report back in a month.

Things I want to do over the 30 days:

-Go completely without fast food, soft drinks, snacks, sweets, chocolate. Chewing gum is an exception, as it's great for concentration. Seriously ken, go to a lecture and chew a pack of gum while you're there. Everything else is off limits. Brown rice, potatoes and cheese are fine in limited amounts, say once or twice a week. The rest is going to be straight paleo though. No processed garbage in my body ken. Shit like tobacco, weed, alcohol has been around for thousands of years. Trust throwing that shit down the old gulliver more than a McDonalds meal en aw.

-Gym every second day, no exceptions. The days I'm not in the gym, I want to do 100 situps, 100 pushups. I am buying a pullup bar in the next week or so when I get the cash. So once I get my hands on the pullup bar, 100 situps, 100 pushups and 50 pullups. If I cannot make the gym, I MUST substitute it with either the 100/100/50 plan, or I go two days gymming in a row. Never ever let a day drop ken.

-Pick 4 books on Russian history and read them. Any era of Russian history you want, just pick them. They just have to be on Russian history.

-Spend 20 minutes a day learning code from The Code Academy.

-Grow out my beard without shaving to see the reaction (probably the worst fucken challenge ever created).

So yeah, here we go lads. I'll hit yous back up on May 14th with the results. Better posting to resume shortly.

Saturday, 13 April 2013

Franco's Armchair: A Review of Brains and Brawn by Robert Koch

Brains & Brawn_fin
So you're a regular around here ken. Fair fucks to ye. You're reading all the shit, all these alpha fucks en beta bucks lozozozoz and whatnot. You're aware of your Roissys, your Rollos, your Rooshs. Ok. But, there are a number of underrated, underneath the surface bloggers that you should be reading, guys that are well worth your time. One such lad is Robert Koch's 30 Days to X blog. The blog is great, simple. There's no bullshit when it comes to this guy, not even a modicum of whiny shite, just pure focus. Challenge, focus and ideas. He's also released a short book, more of a pamphlet entitled Brains and Brawn.

So is it worth getting your hands on ken?

Yeah, absolutely. I mean, it's not a big, long, comprehensive work, but it's pretty good all the same. Brains and Brawn is essentially a TLDR version of how to get your shit together, manosphere style. You don't have time to wade through blog post after blog post on the paleo diet? Cool ken, but read Brains first. You want a couple of great book recommendations (that are also Franco endorsed?) Read Brains. It's a quick, breezy read that will certainly surprise you. Hell, it finally got me off my hole to buy a copy of The Book of The Five Rings.

There isn't much really to say on it. It's not very long, but there is some excellent, practical information contained within. It's not very expensive either, only a dollar in price. But yeah, grab it. This guy's not a moany little turd ken, he's trying to find solutions, figure shit out. His blog is one of the most promising on the manosphere, and Brains and Brawn is a promising, likeable e book that warrants a purchase.

P.S, I promised Robert I'd review this a lot earlier, but the past few weeks have been fucken hell ken. My bad ken. Either way, hopefully the next while won't be so all over the place. 

Wednesday, 10 April 2013

Good Morning Captain!

In the ninth underworld, a gambrious cunt, bathing in the incandescent lights of drooping lights, taxi drivers, neon signs, tips of embers of remnants of people flailing around steps out of a club, lost in the crowd, girls applying their makeup assiduously, fast frood emporium, sympathizing with fast food cunts who dread the night shift, because the nights are where the cunts come out of the grass, on all sorts of shit. Lads will be in the horrors the next day.

I see old people. They are as lost as us. They are in the clubs. An older man but without the ostentation or suave to get himself that hot piece of pussy. There will be a moment, and every man has it. It is the moment when that tight pussy, olfactory sensations triggered by the beautiful smell of estrogen that only lasts for so long, will be gone for him. The coquettish lass with the hot ass in class, hair done up in curls will be akin to a geometrically decaying function, what was so simple, so obvious is now lost. Some men get it, some don't. In a healthy society, this guy would be the pillar of wisdom and experience, but now he is chasing the dragon of youthful effervescence. One way for a cunt to tell if a man is poor with women is his views on maturity. Oh, I don't like little girls! he says! 18 year olds are dunderheads! Immature. Bless the cunt. Schopenhauer was right, roysh. Face it to de fucken heads ken, the older women you find out there are like wrecks in the ocean. You want to see the damage feminism has done to women ken, you fucking bitches like Lindy Oreo Rabbit Up De Butt West, all you have to do is visit a nightclub in Dublin at nighttime and see these skinny fat crones who leap on every guy to get the smallest bit of sexual validation. Banausic to the point of tedium, tribal drum, dump da dump da dump da dump, some cunt has popped out of the toilet having got off on a bit of the Charlie. Fuck that shit to high heaven ken.

In the manosphere, there's a bit of a "she got what she deserved, fuck her" sort of mentality kind of thing going on when it comes to the cum dumpster slut. While that is definitely going on in a cunt's head, I don't see that when I see a couger with a barren womb dressing like the younger lassies in the club. I just feel really depressed when I see women like this. The house is always the same ken. Immaculate, polished, clean, fresh. The pet. The credentials. The car. The boasting about owning the property, the golf trips in Spain, the little girl, the shelf of romance fiction and self help literature. The conversations about her precocious childhood, the persona that just pulls everyone in. The vivacity of that little girl is long gone. We have an ersatz man, we have nothing on show.

I'm still drinking. I'm dancing with this lassie. The wide space, people packt in like sardines always depresses me. Nightclubs depress me ken. They're just these loud, uncomfortable, depressing places, snapshots of fake people, frauds. This lassie is a strange one. She's cute and I'm grabbing her ass and going caveman on her. Her eyes are dilated, her hands are on my hips. The fat friend gets irritated at this and drag her away. Mood for the rest of the night. Act a bit needy. Fuck it up. Walk off. A creepy cougar threesome and it aint Sex and the City shite by any means ken. These broads are losing it. They smile, but its a creepy, unhinged sort of thing that has been drawn on with a permanent marker.

This is what denying reality getcha. This is what the fucking dragon, gets ya. When the parents and elders are even more puerile than the kids in the club, the whole thing cannibalizes itself. One of humanity's greatest achievements, a mentor system which tries to stick old heads on young shoulders is being propelled forward into an almighty conflagration. Building the antiuniversity will require one looks from the bottom to the top. You don't have guidance. You get rid of mentors, you get rid of structure. You get rid of structure, BAM there goes the curtain and there's the abyss in all its fucken glory and fuck me cunts the abyss is big and ugly and frightening looking and just unpleasant, like a bad itch or a crap wank, and yous can sees why the comforting (wink wink) tongue of the nanny state whispering in your ear appeals to yous so much...it isnae there ken, it isnae there...

So yeah, long story short, I didn't get laid last night.

Thursday, 4 April 2013

One Up the Bum, No Harm Done

I know a lad and he happens to like putting his mickey into man butt. Apparently he likes it in the same way I like lassies and I like putting my well hung mickey into lassie butt. Shocking isn't it? Well, for yous and I, it's boring as shit to talk about, and a normal part of people being people, but all them lefties with their fucking causes and issues! They were discriminated against, they were tied up and they were made fun of and tortured during The Spanish Inquisition or any (Christian) related events!  All this guffaw roysh, all this fucken shite roysh, drives a fiend up the wall en aw. All these dumb liberal fucktards who go on about "all the gays I knowwww" (when they dinnae no shit) and "ten percent (in reality it's closer to 3 percent) of us! Ten percent of us are gay and all that jazz. Hopefully this post won't descend into the usual coprolalia shit, but everyone has been talking about gay marriage like it is the BIG MEGA MEGA WHITE THING issue of our time, and how we must bow down before animal and primal drives, oxytocin with a pinch of endorpins, it be love, it be love and that is all that matters and fuck the reality principle cause it be all about feelings ken.
So back to this lad. He's a homosexual, not a faggot. The former, just to clarify is a normal guy who is sexually attracted to men. Fair enough. Unless you're getting yourself involved in children/coercion or something like incest, I don't give two shits what the fuck you do, no matter how kinky or weird. Your business ken, not mine. So anyway, this guy is a homosexual roysh, established like a billion times already. Jack Donovan is a homosexual. Wittgenstein was a homosexual. Proust was a homosexual. I get talking to this lad about what the gay community in Dublin is actually like over a few pints en aw.

Turns out, I got an extremely interesting answer which goes completely bonkers arseways against the narrative of The Cathedral. Not that I was expecting those fuckos to be the epitome of verisimilitude. But oh so entertaining at the very least.

First, faggots hate hate hate with a spreading of the purest unadulterated abhorrence, homosexuals. For all the why can't you homophobic people be more oppppeeennnn wank, the quickest way to socially ostracize yourself amongst the gay community is to not be a faggot. To not be a superficial, narcissistic, selfish Gok Wan effeminate piece of shite, is the end of a lot of gay friendships. Which is hilarious because the narrative implies that faggots are fucken holier than thou types when in reality, they are even bigger plonkers than you or me, and look what kind of blog you're reading. He hates the shite mind you. To have girls acting overly friendly to him, to have SWPL types with femmed up hair and lisps that would make Big Gay Al blush, would drive a cunt mad. He wants to make mates based on their character and soul. Not because they see him as a victim of oppression, or a character out of a shitty Colm Toibin novel.

But, and this drives the utter nonsense of gay marriage home, he starts talking about relationships. Now, dear lad or lassie, with alacrity I type this, fucken pills, oooo, eh, billy boy likes butt en aw, the million moolah question, pure fucken horror show is like this and that and this en ut?

What happens when you combine man's polygamous and voracious sexual appetite with the predilection to like playing fucken dressup and wanking over Queer Eye for the straight guy or Vin Diesel?

Well, according to this lad, you get an awful lot of fucking. An awful lot. Like this is fucken Caligula shite we're talking about here. Eyo. The lad who fucks lassies has no idea apparently. What we also get as a result. is extremely unstable relationships. Like real drama queen shite. Women shit through and through. A lot of superficial friendships, but nothing that can be embedded in stone. Like fucken, a cunt has to ask this, how the bloody arse can people survive this, let alone a kid? Like fucken, people taking shite about the other cunt cause this cunt had a go at that cunt because his pants was a crap color. Now, yous got to ask yourself ken, what be the result of this pandemonium? Well, you get less people wanting to marry because the relationships are more goddamn unstable than fucken Tony and Carmella Soprano and so...And you never see this shit on TV do you?
he he..

floss is boss.

Three percent of people ken. Such a fucken small number. Then, you take into account that the motherfuckers (or fatherfuckers ho ho ho) are nowhere near as interested in conjugal relations and you get left with a tiny tiny number literally the most stupid, pointless, logically fallacious, non issue on the whole goddamn planet. There is of course, in a post like this, a requirement for the reference to Orwell or some cunt like that, or someone spooky at the very least, a dead, depressing wanker will do, because by allowing gays to marry, you fucken change the meaning of the word, and this proceeds to change he pattern of thinking in ones mind. Sloppy language is very very dangerous and one of the biggest problems a cunt has. My definition of the word marriage is different from most people for example. So what term do I use? Old Marriage? Marriage 2.0? Pure Marriage? Civilization 101: How tae fucken survive with free towel? But that is for another post en aw.

You want my opinion ken? This might be all tin foil hat on the mat shite, a combination of smoke screening and just out and out blatant narcissism. Smoke screening because it diverts a cunts attention from important stuff, the ancillary points, the essential factors, whether that be obesity, poverty, the decline of the nuclear family, quasi post scarcity, etc. All this juicy shit one needs to keep the clock going, to keep the fuel in the car is ignored, because Fred and Ted want to get married. Narcissistic because, well take the way you have atheistkult right? You know how you are bright in atheistkult? It's not because you've tried your best to be a sagacious Yoda type through hard work and suffering and reading ans studying. It's because you wanted to be a bright, but you were too goddamn lazy to make something of yourself. Gay Marriage? The bottomless well of ineffable feelings, the rise of moral relativity, we are all feminine now, we are good people because we support gay marriage. Not because we work for being good in and of it self. Not because we helped improve our community. We are good because by supporting gay marriage, we are good, without having to lift a fucken figure. Short term wank.

Let them marry. Let them eat cake and then fuck it.

Monday, 1 April 2013


Is it now true, and did Franco not say it, in the Gospel of Franco, that the fatarses shall inherit the earth? The tools, the twats, the weeds, the pegs, the Cathedral fuckos, tuning in to the new high definition rendition of the third remake of the obligatory Hollywood action movie where zombie cunts, barely moving corpses,try to ignite in your heart the memories of yesteryear. Here's John McClane again yippykiay.  Vendiprotent arseholes, taking each other down with metal walking sticks and MMA shit, complementing painted on abs. Life ticks away, bit by bit. The Manosphere are in a way, the new kind of aristocracy. We are concerned with what is good in and of itself ken. Sometimes, it is far too easy to get lost in it all, sometimes, its far to easy to be all fucking mulligrubs and shit, and sometimes a cunt needs a bit of firing up, a "you can do it man, go for it" and great, godly things can be achieved can they not?

I've noticed something unusual, something great ever since starting the old blogging. See, for nigh on my 22 years on this piece of rock, petrichor, sun, sea, sand, gibbous moon, all of it ken, I've done everything half arsed. Like literally not a goddamn bit of motivation. I would wager that part of it was because of the fact that the average of your five best friends was like being friends with fucken The Adams Family at one stage. But as well as that, I never really got called out for any of my shit. Well, not really. I was always the loser, the weed smoking layabout, the fucken nerd who defeated both Ruby and Emerald Weapon in Final Fantasy 7 (if you understand what I'm talking about, you were probably the same as me), but moreso, there didn't feel like much of a reward for the effort I put in. When I started eating paleo and lifting, there wasn't any real motivation for doing so to be perfectly frank. When you're young, moody and kind of depressed, you don't really notice these things say, until they're looking you straight in the eye. An awful lot of time as a result, you need a horribly unpleasant moment where the bottom falls out of the bucket, say, fatty mac fatty eats a bit of ham and has a heart attack and because he realizes his kids might grow up without a father, he starts getting his shit together. Epiphany equates to gymwork and weightwatchers salads.

I've found a great way to become motivated to do something though, and here it is.

Step 1: Start a blog.

Step 2: Tell the people reading it what the bloody fuck you are going to do with it.

So let me expand. Earlier this year I wrote a post about lifting weights in the gym, how awful my deadlift was and how I strives for something a bit more.  Before then, I was quite the lackadaisical lad. Turning up whenever, stuffing the gulliver with Chicago Town pizza, biscuits, chocci, shit never ends. But the second I made that post, I started feeling, well, guilty if I didn't go. Of course, I could make shit up and no cunt would be the wiser, but everytime gym time loomed, it was like death in a spastic bin, and this might sound quite narcissistic, but what it boiled down to was this: you told a bunch of people what you're doing and if you don't do it, you're a lying piece of crap and no better than Fatchops Lindy West or the fuarking phaggots on bodybuilding.com who piss and whine and don't do fucken shite. The result? Deadlift is still poor, but gone up 40 pounds, so thats quite horrorshow in my opinion. I've also been in the gym every second day since January (apart from a three week span due to exams, and I hate myself for that) and continue to do so. Nowadays, the burn of the weight, the iron that doth not lie with a supercilious smile on its face, no laughter, no guffaw, is just a habit, not a struggle. And a damn good habit at that en aw. If I get little to no reaction from mates or family or whatever, hey, sticking it up here certainly helps me.

So, to finish off the post, I'm going to go off on a timmy tangent and spout off a couple of things.

1: If you want to get motivated to do something, write a blog. The fact that you've got a couple of readers or whatever, and the fact that you set yourself a goal, online for every cunt to read, will make you want to go after it more.

2: These are some small projects I want to do in the next while: Have a decent knowledge of Russian History (read 3 to 4 books on it?), stop drinking unless I am hanging out with friends or trying to chat up a lassie at a bar (in otherwords, watching soccer on tv with a beer is a no no), understand the following philosophers: Heidegger, Berkeley, Popper, buy a pull up bar, and for the days not in the gym, do 50-100 pushups, pullups and situps. Get some new clothes, the ones I have are shite. These are small things of course, but they add up and add up and suddenly, you're the man you want to be. Rome wasn't built in a day ken.

I'll report back on how I do in this regard soon enough. If I fail, if I am scalized by a lassie (thank you Roissy for inventing one of the finest words in the English language) I'll tell yous. If I kick arse mega mega white thing all over the shop, then I'll tell yous as well and I'll put it intos a book and make a bit of moolah off of it. Sigma for Franco ken. Sigma for Franco.

Nay great cunt was a great cunt in a day, and nay great cunt was a great cunt by watching reruns of Glee and masturbating to the blondie one, little miss spunksalot. Just saying is all.