My greatest misogynistic post ever

 

I forsook anonymity a long time ago on this Goddamned blog.
Right off the bat I published my real name.
Then I started posting my likeness.
Tough-guy bullshit like this.

 

 

So Myspacian and malewhorish.

 

Basically I played my cards right off the bat.

 

I even rail against anonymity in my “Me” section.

 

The truth is, there is a great reward to be found in anonymity.

 

A lot of dudes in this blogosector choose names hybridized from fictional or historical figures (usually with a libertarian or Rand-ian bent) and go photoless and bio-less. Hey, I don’t care. More power to them.

 

Maybe I should have followed suit.

 

Phoenixism without a face. Only strange disembodied words and thoughts. Faceless. How cool. The general public, especially the femmes, wouldn’t know any better.

 

I could lie and say I was 23. The internet is a great tool for dishonesty. Whatever, this is who I am. I decided right off I would never be anything I wasn’t, to my own detriment.

 

Whatever the case.

 

I bring your here.

 

This is why I blog. We all gotta fucking say something, don’t we?
This is why I blogged about blogging as an artform.

 

Ridiculous.

 

There is this dude who blogs, he took his name from a couple of real-life literary figures and has chosen the anonymous path. And, in my opinion, created a great franchise, a great character.

 

His name is Hunter Huxley.

 

I don’t know much about him.
But I know he is a crude motherfucker. He puts me to shame. It’s great. It’s no holds barred disgust.

 

So yesterday, he posted an intriguing little ditty that sums up men’s basic sexual proclivities in all their raw form. We are men, and we like women. And sometimes, these women are your sisters, your cousins, your girlfriends, your moms (oh wait, that’s another post)….
Hey, the male testosterone drive is immense.

 

It has no morals and no compass.
We do what the fuck we want to do, or what we can get away with.

 

Unlike women who play the part and giggle when the discomfort arises, we just do it.

 

So Hunter brings up a subject which all guys can relate to.

 

You get intro’d to the girl’s father. And the obvious but unspoken sentiment is “I’m fucking your daughter, dude.”

 

And that knowledge instantly bequeaths upon the father the humbling wisdom. He has met his male usurper.

 

That’s what this is all about, you realize.
A man with a daughter relinquishes a part of his male soul.
It’s a given.

 

A man who has a son relinquishes also; but it can be reclaimed.

 

I read and I posted:

 

Yeah it’s the great unspoken charade.
I’m so glad I have a son.
Having a child can always chip away at a man’s armor. However with a son, as he gets older (assuming he’s a good kid/man), he will reinforce a man’s aging armor. A daughter will never strengthen her father’s armor. Having a daughter will forever present you with a vulnerability. All you can hope is that you’ve raised her well as judged by the type of man she chooses to have as a mate. Ultimately this strange man is the one you must come to trust.

 

And today I read.

 

And thought.

 

The concept of ARMOR.

 

What the hell is that?

 

What is this male ARMOR?
What is it we lose when we have children?

 

Possessions.

 

The most free of men are those without possessions.
Without fear of loss.

 

Evolution has brought us to the point of fear. We fear loss. Loss of all that is ours. It could very well be that in 500,000 B.C., we feared loss of food, loss of heat.

 

Loss of mate, loss of offspring? I doubt it.

 

Loss of offspring…that’s a modern trend.

 

What is ARMOR?

 

My definition of ARMOR does not involve metal or walls or shields.
Armor in the modern parental sense.
Armor.

 

As single men, we have very few, if any responsibilities.
We grow older, we marry, we have children, we have jobs…the armor grows thin.

 

Armor. It is that layer of existence which shields us from our primal nature. It is the modern exodus of elements which we morally imbue with a righteous qualities.

 

Armor.

 

It tells us to tie our shoes.
To tie a full-windsor.

 

The Armor serving no purpose other than a call to the primitive.

 

Armor is hundreds of generations calling us. Reminding us that in spite of everything, we only have one allegiance.

 

Mankind, hundreds of thousands of years ago, was ruthless and self-driven.

 

Mankind only concerned itself with breeding.
And eating.

 

And in such circumstances.
Daughters are a stain upon the folly that is mankind.

 

 

How a soccer player from Cameroon comes to perish (Part 3)

Preface: see this post for an explanation
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Entry date: 1/20/10

It was Monday morning and Mehann was late for work as usual. He sped down Sepulveda Boulevard in his 1987 Dodge Omni and as he neared Olympic he noticed with a touch of disgust that the light was rapidly switching modes, from green, to yellow…he floored it, but too late, for the light had turned angry red before he had even cleared the intersection. 

Entry date: 1/23/10

And in the instant between when the light turned red and his car crossed the pedestrian lane, Mehann saw it. “Fuck” he thought, but before even that word could be complete, he struck it: an adult, white Russian Wolfhound which had escaped its owner’s hands and fled into the middle of the busy street. Goddamned dog was humongous. It was the size of a horse, Meehan thought just before his small car’s grill indented itself in the dog’s large flanks.

Entry date: 1/31/10
Shocked and disconnected from reality, he steered the car abruptly into the curb lining the center median. He heard a muted pop and attempted to regain his senses as his car rested in the road. Cars honked as they swerved to avoid him and the prone dog which struggled to stay alive in the next lane where it had landed. He slowly looked over and saw the large white dog raise its head repeatedly and drop it back down to the ground as the effort became increasingly difficult for the injured animal. It’s hand legs pointed upwards and flailed unnaturally. For a moment, Mehann wished he had a pistol so he could put the animal out of its misery.
And in the large, grass-covered center median, stood a shrieking woman, a brunette with long tanned legs.