Father knows less: Gentrified gender roll-call, on the Expanded Plantation

“Father knows best!” -a beastly relic of a bygone error.

To subsidize vies to see subside strides towards tropes more transcendently natural, “He’s never good enough, no matter how he excels,” and, “She always more than enough, no matter how often she fails,” were deftly, deafly dealt as a delirious dual duel esteemed to be necessary and sufficient for producing men who rise to any and every occasion, and women who weather any downturn.

Yet endless crises, continually concocted to keep him on his toes and her on her knees, led many a man to give up and to seek, elsewhere, his soul’s food, else grind down to ineptitude — in either case condemning countless worn weary worried women to despised lives as common wives-in-common, each driven then by the whims of whomever would take her in from the cold, into the cold of limply filling in for the dead, dying or lying — the abandoned, else abandoning, men.

Then, to channel new-found need for suicide-staving denial, floods of films and texts fondly fed dreams long dead: A competent woman nurturing a disciplined man, so that, edified, he can strive to save the world. As the bell of available and availing men clanged by curve ever steeper, storytelling sank bit by bit ever deeper: First, into depictions of fearful women wailing generally for super men to bravely save the world; then storytelling sank more and more, until finally the meaning of ‘the world’ itself shrank to consist proudly and only of the wanton wants and whimsical worries of the manic woman featured in the filth as saved by increasingly effeminate men, whose pseudo-machismo — purposed merely for the masturbatory reverie of each sterile seething woman, and as a roadmap for the slow suicide of her male heirs — bespoke, above all else, an eerie, even downright feminine dearth of forethought.

“I’m going to die for her convenience!”

“No I’M going to die for her convenience!”

“Well I’m going to die for her MARGINAL convenience!”

“Then I’M going to die as but a precursor to an interlude which hints at a CHANCE for her to receive marginal convenience!”

Then the heroes, warring to win her smirk, beat each other to death; so the porcelain heroine, ascending, became a mongrel-factory for a few braggadocious ball-bouncing drug-addicts, on the Expanded Plantation.

Advertisements

Anti-discrimination as self-slavery, on the Expanded Plantation

The purpose of discrimination

Her vagina — a status symbol which allowed her to chatter fearlessly — always made her feel manic; yet today she felt sad: Tucked away in her gifted car at 2am with the would-be alpha she had selected from class — he tested and teased her, pulling the fluid from between her legs to pool between her ears. It was a huge turn-off: She had hope he’d be a notch on her rectal belt, perhaps even the one to save her from herself, the nothing she’d become: The one to bid highest in her matrimonial auction. She always felt sad when potential saviors failed to quell her hatred of self and fear of the future.

The purpose of discrimination, girlThe next day, she felt sad: Her dad, the minister asked her where she’d been so late the previous night. Too shy to say “passive-aggressively begging to have my hymen torn,” she lied. She always felt sad when she hid her longing to be fertilized.

The next month, she felt sad: A couple in her dad’s Ensenada congregation were discovered to have been renting out their 9-year-old daughter as a sex-toy to local men. She always felt sad when children she cared about were sex-slaves.

The next year, she felt sad: Her dad died. She always felt sad when the only person she ever fully trusted abandoned her to a life of confusion and desperation — a life without a healthy ability for discrimination.

His black skin — a status symbol which allowed him to brag and beg simultaneously — always made him feel cool; yet today he felt mad: He learned that some black women resent the fact that Martin Luther King Jr often cheated on his wife with prostitutes whom he occasionally beat. He always felt mad when black women did not know their place.

The purpose of discrimination, blackThe next day, he felt mad: He discovered that his favorite PAWG pornstar refused to act in interracial scenes. He always felt mad when his favorite sex-objects were too racist to facilitate his fetishes.

The next month, he felt mad: A news outlet reported that an unauthorized person had used a certain word for which he’d been trained to exhibit an irresistible conditioned-response. He always felt mad after reports of a white-latino saying “nigger.”

The next year, he felt mad: After years of routinely indulging in drugs and sodomy, he developed cancer of the liver and esophagus, and his genitals were rotting off. He always felt mad when consequences were racist.

His genetic addiction to penises — a status symbol which allotted parades for pride, vanity and misery– always made him feel empty; yet today he felt happy: The cutest guy at the orgy agreed to sneak off and meet him behind the dumpster, where they would go through the motions of pretending each other’s rectum was a womb. He always felt happy that his genetic fate had fashioned, for him, a human-hamster-wheel filled with orgies, dumpsters and recta.

The purpose of discrimination, homosexualThe next day, he felt happy: Vassals of the plutocracy briefly set aside duties towards their large families to announce that a lifestyle of safely sterile sex was a Human Right. He always felt happy when his choices were declared to be compulsions, rewarding him with doom.

The next year, he felt happy: Successful legal battles allowed him to lurk in the hospital room of his dying husband — intimidating the husband’s ex-wife and children from being there — so, left alone, he was able to convince his disease-ridden Romeo to bequeath, to Julieto, all that the desperate, dying man had accrued in life. He always felt happy to supplant sustainable social-norms, in order to flick away a grain of sand from his desert of anxiety.

Thus pawns on the Expanded Plantation, robbed of their innate ability to discriminate meaningfully, considered matters of morality always and only through the lens of their masters’ placating, mind-numbing policies — and all else was evil.

Desperate gaslighting death-throes, as the invincible all disappear

Hourglass, as the invincible all disappear

“Women love betraying their men and murdering their children, so they can sit in our rows to fill out our forms to file their taxes and file their nails, while working jobs they hate to buy things they do not need, to impress people they do not like!”
-desperate Gaslighting by a doomed culture that forced a critical-mass of mothers into the Welfare State, on the Expanded Plantation.

“Fathers need to man up financially, even if we strategically estrange them from their kids!”
-desperate Gaslighting by a doomed culture that forced a critical mass of fathers into the Warfare State.

“Credulous, malevolent, brain-damaged homosexualist atheists make the BEST parents!”
-desperate Gaslighting by a doomed culture: the death-throes of a culture believing its mythology of interchangeability, pretending to poison the future, while simply clearing out its inventory — as the invincible all disappear.

Kangz be stylin on deez white-devil cave-beasts, on the Expanded Plantation

 

White-devil cave-beasts outmatched by da kangz, on the Expanded Plantation
Jealous pink person punk watches a REAL MELANATED MAN tap some ugly-ass cave-beast! BLACK POWER!

Then, one day, black people got their revenge.

For centuries, indeed millenia, blacks had been enslaved, tortured, and murdered by whites. But then, blacks got their revenge:

White overlords sent black gladiators into the coliseum equipped with so much pride, vanity and shiny trinkets — that it would have made Wakandans jealous; and the white overlords, when casting whites into the coliseum to prevent competition for White Supremacy, afforded the white gladiators far less pride, vanity and shiny trinkets than were enjoyed by the black gladiators.

And so it was that black gladiators were superior in every respect: Mentally, physically, morally; they were better at flopping around rhythmically, better at blindly proceeding from a laughably false sense of certainty — they were just better generally. The only way white gladiators could ever compete was to confuse and betray the least superior black gladiators.

“You know, my fine fellow,” one white, one day, began to his superior — any random black guy: “It seems to me that blacks being mentally and physically crippled by a surfeit of pride and self-pity, then rationed, on this Expanded Plantation, one or more of the least self-respecting white whores — most of which are sterilized anyhow…well, this hardly seems healthy, much less a form of supposed reparations to rectify some mythology about injustices which other whites supposedly inflicted onto other blacks, hundreds of years ago; especially while white elites, as we speak, are conditioning you pavement apes to ignore pavementApe-on-PavementApe violence, and to murder your children at Prevented Parenthood clinics, in order to qualify for the privilege of begging for meaningless paper which the white elites can casually print.”

“Fuk you mean, white-devil crakkka mufuka!?,” the Kang began kangly, too wise to reflect on anything said by a white-devil crakkka mufuka. “Y’all mufukin yt bois killing me, nigga. Ya’ll yt devils know dat whenever Martin Luther King Jr., peace be upon him, took a break from beating black women, dat nigga said he have a dream n shit! Das real shit mah nigga! Das poetry! Ya’ll white-devil cave-beasts aint know a mufukin thang bout poetry mah nigga! AND y’all niggas ain’t built da peanutbutter pyramids!”

Outmatched, the white-devil crakkka mufuka retreated back to his bichazz trailer-park, where he fuks hiz ugly-ass cuzins and hiz sis be fuking dey dogs n shit, cuz white-devils be some nasty mufukas, gnome saying? Real talk. BLACK POWER!

White Utopias vs Black Shitholes (Demystifying White Supremacy: The Rule of Law, not the Mandate of Moods)

 

Winston Churchill v Nelson Mandela

Leftists have a mouth.

One side of that mouth shrieks, “The utopia of Black supremacy only eludes the world by the hate-filled, small-dicked evil and jealousy of white devils!”

The other side of the mouth declares, “White people are worse than Hitler if they, in any way, seek to stifle the droves of desperate black people who beg to place their necks under the boot of white supremacist nations!”

The two sides of Leftists’ mouth are not on speaking terms with one another. Instead, each side simply enlists various mascots–guilted whites, pitied blacks, generalized mongrels– as mouthpieces to popularize whatever political sewage happens to flow, one moment to the next, from either side of the leftist mouth.

To say the least, this oral inconsistency among Leftists leaves black people wholly unaware as to the technical nature of white supremacy: It’s like magic to them. Black Magic…or rather White Magic — in a bad way.

Yet, much to the chagrin of noble nettle-nibbling witchdoctors, nothing about the supremacy of white establishments amounts to magic, nor is it even complicated: It’s just the Rule of Law; as distinct from the Rule of Moods and the Moment so popular among pitiful black societies.

For example, citizenry in superior white societies debate, with relative civility, the merits and demerits of extending full political rights, and thereby governmentally normalizing, those people who choose to indulge in homosexual behavior at the expense of other contributions to society which are arguably more meaningful or at least more enduring. Conversely, black-run shitholes such as Kenya simply throw a tire over the head of a given homosexualist deviant, set the tire on fire — “Thus,” says the Kenyan Justiz System, “problem solved.”

Plenty differences exist between bad black governance and good white governance; none of them are race-based (and most have nothing to do with the distraction-du-jour of homosexualism). Yet the foundation is the same: Rules of Law, which is to say Rule of Rules — not “Rule of the moods of black Vicimologists” nor “Rule of the most Pitied non-white Enclave” or “Rule of whatever black hypocrite can cry wolf loudest” or “Rule of black terrorist Nelson Mandela, because he’s an anti-white black hypocrite who speaks in weak-minded, empty soundbites palatable to his constituencies of racist, stupid, violent blacks.”

Feel that? That’s your mood; and it has no place in the Rule of Law: So go mentally masturbate away your mood, and do not return until you’re ready to white-up (like man-up, but with political whiteness as the goal).

Brown usurper Bill Of Rights

If the immigrant hoards had been anything short of frantic to displace–at any cost, and for any wage–the native competitors of the ruling elite, then they may have sought, quite ironically, to secure promises, perhaps even written ones–quizas a ‘brown usurper bill of rights’, in which their corporate sponsors would bindingly pledge to end the gentrification brought by mass-immigration, the instant that the last white-trash sacrifice was raped and murdered by the last unarmed dindu, who would then be, in turn, decapitated by un hizonada.

Yet the nobly enriching, grunting, brown scabs knew in their little brown corazons that the tactics by which their rulers had used them to obscure issues, divide forces, and deplete resources–this never would be easily used against the reconquistadors; because there is honor among thieves.

One woman’s affected ambivalence: Review of Shelly Turkle’s “Alone together”

Sherry Turkle
Click to listen to a massive matrimonial failure splay its point-missing advice on love & life

“Divorce is adultery!,” demands the monolith of Judeo-Christian mythology. And adultery is heresy. And heresy is unforgivable. Thus spake the intolerant of our era–prohibiting our natural yearnings for divorce.

It could be said that adulterers and other supposed heathens ‘have a hard time’ appreciating the edicts, even etiquette, of those whose claim to shame derives from a reverence for a White Jesus with blue eyes–and his greedier, more unforgiving antecedent Moses.

However, ‘strike the shepherd to scatter the flock’; and so when quick cultural forgiveness, even admiration, so soon meets so many of those so quick to betray their family, disposing of the advice of morality’s Third Reich, then not a ‘hard time appreciating’ but rather the ‘rewards in rejecting’ lead to what we see: Massive anti-mom mires, legions of morally incontinent cultural cogs; each and all content to fall, relent–to throw out baby Jesus with so much baneful bathwater. Nevertheless, “Divorce is adultery,” can, for those addicted to positivity, be easily structured positively: “For the sake of your children, and for the children of wider culture, you will maintain your pledge to your partner, regardless.”

Simple. And, as with so much that is simple: not easy.

Meanwhile, in an attempt to absolve themselves of the response-ability inherent, for motherhood, in marriage: Droves of divorceés spin fantastical, fetid, fabergé farce to each other, either as to their own morally exceptional matter–where, generally, enduring commitment is good but not in their case–else that the religious are all naive, that disposable relationships are the progressive wave of the future; this, after such women have hardly recovered from their extended celebration–their hurried, harried jubilation–of the empowered success of widespread infanticide, deigned to them by seven old white men, at the turn of the seventh decade, in the year of their Lord: the self.

Thence waddles one such social-succubus: Sherry Turkle, in her prosaic romance-novel, Alone Together (2011, Basic Books), bemoaning the moral inevitabilities which presently befall (i.e. bully and degenerate-shame) a culture filled with she-cowards too weak to woman-up to motherhood–shetards who don’t have the labia to stay married.

Turkle, an ambitious, elegant young woman in her late sixties wrote Alone Together while an ambitious, elegant young woman in her early sixties. In it, she bemoans the bearings of the discarded driftwood in the current of our current Lost Generations, for which she–along with plenty like-mindless, aged divorcées–now serves as matron, even matriarch. She wails that her transcendent moral-line–“People should not hump robots”–was likened to the hateful moral-line of certain, certifiably bigoted others: “Men should not pretend to use a rectum as a womb; and women should not pretend that neurotic, penis-envy-bespeaking, throat-rotting cunnilingus is a ‘lifestyle choice’.”

By Turkle’s prose, she seems not to know of eunuchs–those relegated to sterility and servitude–and their modern-day equivalent: Homosexuals. Alone Together serves as her Magnum Opus of pretense–the feignedest fiction: that popularized pedantry left her better than any other quelled quilter, however hi-tech.

They will surely strut. They will indeed fret. They may, thereby, even extend their hour upon the stage. Yet these ’empowered’ yetis will also continue to avoid any and all mirrors not yet calibrated carefully enough to output their farce as success.

Many will choose to be Alone Together, albeit to Turkle’s lament, if only because they have long since lost the will, indeed even the vocabulary, to tell such obvious truths to the Sherry Turkles of the world–those wholly she-addicted to quaffing quaint queefs of pitiable she-elites: How awkward and socially-loaded it is to refer, as did Turkle, to “Ellen, an ambitious, elegant young woman–in her early thirties;” only to further describe the aged, ragged worker–doomed to die in a fem-anesthetized hive–as “unhappy.”

Imagine that: empowered and rewarded…for being delusional and hypocritical…and still unhappy.

They are their punishment. Thence: Alone Together.