Monday, 20 May 2013
Living in a fantasy land that be rivaling fucking Narnia en aw, with nary a cunt swooping beneath the clouds, torper, vertiginous, the engulfed in smoke, flames, gaia. Abortion they yell! Indian lassies who died due to an infinitesimal event in de probability, nothing to doos with an evil right wing conservative doctorspongepants or something to do with sucide abortion psychology ken, dishonest cunts from UCD quoting studies with a sample of 50 in an African village.
Repeat after me. Fuck the Cathedral. Fuck UCD. Fuck the Cathedral. Fuck Trinity. Fuck. The Cathedral. The last word I wrote in a exam. Moldbug. A cunt knows what Lenin be feeling like en aw way back when. The cunt that be distant, all of all here The Dark Enlightenment, the new Dark Age, what's a cunt to say and see and think, so many things do see and do and mega mega white thing, going back the wrong ways...
All of this shit started with corrupt, not playing his fucken workers, construction wally failed Iron Maiden lookalike Mick Wallace getting busted for talking on de phone while driving up toos work. Justice Minister Alan Shatter, a slimy little twerp which evokes the stereotype of the crass Jewboy with de fucking witchie ringer nose, disregards all sense of dignity, honor and nobility, and corruptly, gets his hand on this information trying to public ally shame Wallace with the whole "this is of parliamentary concern" thing. So finally it's happened. People laugh about shite like "ooohhhh 1984 Orwell that old fucken cunt" and whatnot, but here, in essence, is the meat of the matter. A TD does some shit and gets pulled over by a garda. A Justice minister bypasses and breaks the law by illegally retrieving confidential information about another politician in order to look the better in wear, which of course beggars the question. If this cunt has all this information on Wallace, then how do we know that the Irish government don't have information on someone else, or even wee Franco here? An abuse of power, where yous will see that no cunt on the Fianna Gael/Labor side of the fence gets exposed, but the so called enemies of the state fucken do? Fuck that shit.
This is big government, but weak government shit. The vague, sesquipedaliaic rants and tirades, the fact that a cunt is scared enough to bypass all sound jurisdiction to get the hands on information like this is outright frightening ken. But of course, this won't hit in the same way. Yous all care about this fucken abortion bullshit or some gay lads in a house, than fucken this shit. The following set of events that will also be set around to swing are also worrying. First, this is going to make the socialist contingent even more popular. Expect drowned rats like Richard Boyd Barrett and Wallace to become more glorious, more like heroes, in the light of this sinking ship nonsense. Thus, the fig falls further from the tree and the market, the culture is even more broken up than it originally was. But second, it is the reaction to it all ken, the whole thing being surprisingly muted. Now, to be honest, something like economics and sociology is nowhere near a science at all, as fucked up beyond repair as it is en aw, but the way the Irish government has metamorphosed, from more free market principles in the early nineties to this parasite infected mess that it is now....well, hmm, let me put it this way roysh. This whole thing with Shatter was not even remotely surprising to me. The reaction from other people though? That is the ugly thing. This guy falls and is out. Simple. He stays in and all is gravy in the world and you've got a very nasty set of institutions in place. You think it is all sugar and spice and rosy here? Think again fuckos.
The single most important part of the internet, and the subsequent digital revolution is that asymmetric information is being eroded more and more, cunts without it en aw are on a level playing field in a way they never used tae be. Asymmetric information between the sexes, between the different ideologies and schools of thought continue to play a massive role in the evolution of society. The Cathedral, the joke's on you ken, the bloody fuckos never expected any of this en aw. The reason I bring this up is that with the past few days, this Shatter bullshit (whether Shatter falls on his sword or not) has shown what an Irish government is willing to do in order to get its own way, ie, misuse information like this. To extricate one from this, we need the internet. That one goes, it all be over for many a motherfucker ken. Again, we don't care, we don't care. Just snap your fingers together, and let it all dissipate in a hazy cloud of love, feelings and the hurt of a broken heuristic put back together with sticky tape and year old blue tac.Slippery slope ken, slippery slope.
Wednesday, 15 May 2013
Them Russian cunts, they saw this whole thing coming down the line, choo choo a boo boo. Dostoyevsky talked about it when he wrote Demons together did he now, the dark side of the id, the raw buzzing chainblade, the works of Turgenev, Fathers and Sons being another seminal work of literature in this regard. They saw it coming. They saw, at the heels of any movement, comes the clatter, the anklebiters, the Stavrogins of the time. Truly fine works of literature, Demons is as sad and ugly and as applicable today as it ever was.
There are some people who are just day to day sacks of fucken shit, nothing a cunt can do about it, they chose their path and you chose yours, but also, there's a plethora of real dangers that come with being chucked at this side of the sphere. The vehemence, the unadulterated anger ken. Brutal cognitive dissonance, a feeling of all conquering helplessness, an embracing of the uglier components of nihilism. You find out what is up with the manosphere, the pretty lies peed away, the layers of the onion and there often comes three paths. One, is acceptance. There is a lot to accept of course. These are dark empty times we're living in. Jobs are harder to find. Women of decent quality, with feminine, mothering characteristics, who won't cut the kids in half for a bit of dosh are getting harder to find as well. The west is irrevocably in decline, and this is not me being a fucken jimmyjammy naysayer about it. That's it. The answer to this is "so now what?" You beat the system. You become a man of character, a man of soul. You want to get married, sure, you've got a uphill struggle, but if that is what you want, then go for it. But heed this. In today's goldfish attention span culture, plus with impressions being impressions, improvement is going to be slow for you. But that's ok. Myself, I'm still not happy where I am. But, I am a far better man than the pot smoking, skinny fat piece of shit that I was, fuck it even two years ago. There is so much to be angry at. But, you can be consumed by it, and that leads into pathway number two. The omega degenerate. The man who exploits naive young women, just for the cheap fuck and the high five and discards her just like that.
Over the past two years, I've learned two big fucken sthylle things with women. Number one, if you're in shape, if you've got a look, (even if you're not particularly good looking) if you have your shit together and don't do anything out and out retarded, then congrats man, on that alone, you'll be ahead of seventy five of men, pass go and collect two hundred en aw. Now a cunt wants to be the best en aw, but seriously, comparative alpha shit is not a mile away en aw. Second, just like Schopenhauer and Aristotle have noted, women are nothing more than a sort of transitional body between men and children. You will have a lot more fun talking to women if you treat them like your little sister, a spoilt child, rather than a full grown adult with a brain in their head en aw. There is much in Irish literature that is inexorably linked with the dominant, controlling Irish mother, yous really dinnae have to go far with dat shite. Look it up ken. Look it up. Don't be that guy. Be Don Juan. They'll be happier. You'll be happier.
There's a revenge phase in the manosphere. When you get a grasp on a little bit of this shit, and yous are like me and you have been any big sexually frustrated, you might just well be on the revenge seeking side of things.Yousowould posted about this. So did Forney in the comments section.
Fact of the matter is, they're both correct.
The more people who discover this side of the internet, the more caught up in the hate they're going to be, and thus, a bit of revenge and cunning plans is the order of the day. I've done this, and maybe even worse than yous, so this is not any high man, preachy bullshit or anything like this. The thing is though, I think a lot of manosphere readers judge women on the same level as men. That's like trying to take the inverse of a matrix with a zero determinant. You can't fucking do that shit man. Not to mention that, when this is paired off with hypergamy, and the ancillary writers of the manosphere having eh good dime en aw, yous get a little bit feebleized. Cunt feels naupy en aw. Now, nay cunt be fucken saying yous should let the lassie away scot free on charges of dot en aw. But, like any fringe movements, yous are going to attract fuckos on the clock who are sad because they're introverted and not Loud and because they're ugly or because them cursed Cro Mags!, or because they dinnae have two brain cells to rub together. You don't like nightclubs. Wah wah wah. Have a cookie you fucken pansy.
But yeah, the revenge part. This of course is a problem in and of itself, but whats also hilarious is that coming out of this, yous see lads who get the interpretation of the whole thing completely fucken arseways and they end up as these fake alpha things. The kind of lads who have the decor of being "so mad lyke" but in fact, they just end up as unbearable tools. The kind of fuckos who think a neg is just going to a lassie and saying: Olivia. Yeah. You're a cunt. So, as you see revenge porn being the norm and aw, expect to see more emasculated guys, people just trying to massively overcompensate for it all. Should be fun ken. Not exactly raising the next generation of kids, which is nothing more than page one: how de bloody fuck can civilization survive material is it? But in essence, don't hold up women to men's standards because very few have the cranial capacity, are actually capable of doing this this. Hold them up to the standards of a good woman instead. Being feminine, being sexy, having a strong maternal instinct, and Franco's favorite, love taking it up the bum now and again.
Women are a lot more fun to deal with when yous think of them as children with nice arses and big swinging titties.
Monday, 13 May 2013
Zip, zip. Cunt be blazing en aw with this, the finest of D4 wagging the tail, de rich cunt with de condo, the walled security gaff off down on de Shrews-bury road, surrounded by Blackrock laddos wearing Lenister ruggers heads, the fuckers with the slits for the eyes, the perfectly square bits of head and face, the fellas, ah man, there be some lads here who are just really spicy, fuckers who just smoked their lungs. Brutal, this fucken shit ken. Brutal. Every drug has a personality attached to it ken. A story. A life. This is your story ken. The lassie out there with your name on it, well it's just like that roysh, there's a fucken drug there too, just for you, to match up with your personality be it speed, amphetamines, speed, microbots, or a whole cabinet of happy happy joy joy. Blazing. I fucking hate this shit, vile vile vile and vile, veryyyyy vile. Did I mention that it was fucken vile? Why did I take it? It's like ten cups of coffee injected into you ken. It's not really a high is it? It makes your right nostril feel a little bit numb for a bit. Then one of your teeth. These fuckos have built a resistance around it for a bit.
ONE: In which Franco is the fucken most vivacious, must be getting shite done motherfucker, convivial, loquacious, scintillating (oh yes), pirouetting around like the head honcho jack of the box, lights, the perambulations in this den of sin, Franco, Franco, Franco yep, giddy up, the lassie with the fucken arse on her. Some lad is out front is eating this one's face.
TWO: Jesus fucken shit. Does this shit play into the hands of the devil en aw? From indignant to despondant. The fucken shit is wearing off, base jumping off of the Grand Canyon, and nay more am I in the essence of Tong. Suddenly it is like a sledgehammer to the soul. Kill. Kill. Kill. The song She Sells Sanctuary is playing. DAW DA DAW DA DAW DAW DAW DAWWWWWWWWWWWWWW. Fuck, the comedown is brutal. This shit lets you get in touch with your misanthropic side. Then, the shittiest, worst feeling in the world, like everything you love and have ever loved and everything will ever love is just cold jelly, pointless, sad, extra-venous, malignant, gangrene on the limb. Stone cold stinking sober now, but with the smithy laid bare. This hurts. I'm sitting on the couch. Can't move ken. I'm not sick, but I can't stop fantasizing about ending my map once and for all. They're, they're the fucken cunts right there en aw, watching The Longest Yard, and it's the that fucken wally derpy derp Adam Sandler and there's this really fucken bad hip hop music. The guy next to me is even worse for wear. This sesquipedalian tirade on this Latin lassie from somewhere. Yeah maannnnnnnnnn. I hear ya. Nice one. Yeh fucked her up the shitter. Fuck, Sartre and Heidegger must have been on something else to be that pratty. Existence precedes Essence or some shite like that.
THREE: Silly sailor shit. The anger. Just angry with everything. Stormed out. Lost. Never again as always. It's too safe to get a taxi back out of the South Side and intos the (gasp) North side. Walking walking. Drugs are bad kids. Right now, it's fucken hilarious, I'm making my big, super fucken epic plan to leave this fucken dump. Riding third class on a one class train. Get money. Take plane to Provence in France. Backpack. My dream ken. Then, a cunt starts walking. Walking walking, walking. Just like I am now. Walk. Walk through all these towns, cities, cultures. Hey, they might not be around for much longer. Smile and wave as yous pass them by. Walking. Walking. Walking. Keep walking. Get that nice job. Nice everything. Nice bank account. Nice face. Walking. Walking. Nice lassie. Soon, after enough walking, you end up in China. That's what I want to do. But a cunt be too scared en aw. Someone will talk me down and say it's silly. This movement, this fragment of thought. The alt right. These fuckers are all Trotskyites. They think by spreading the word, that it might all be ok? No fucken way ken. The only way we're getting things back together is by letting it completely crash. That's the only way. It is like a maths proof. But, another question? If you say, have a system of thought, is it inevitable that such and such a pattern has to play itself out? So, lets say you have an orthodox form of economics, a la Austrian School? Suppose we had this magical system where the economy was carefully deconstructed in a way to allow for such change to happen, be it some plan to equate the market with actual value? Is it, a historical certainty, that something like this will give way to something stupid like neoclassical economics? How does a cunt step in? What is the correct way to rule? Why am I even thinking about this? Perhaps we create our own movement, our own party? But what the hell. That's depressing. That after all of this...
But in the end, all yous can look out for is your little patch of ground, your friends, and your family. Certainly, the roof of stars, the machine that is bleeding to death, dinnae have your name on it, because those old words like family and loyalty and purpose dinnae mean what they used to be. They are lost, distant, almost intangible.
If if isn't us that gets this shit working, you know it's over for all of us. Some cunts gonna have to step up and make and example of himself.
Charlie ken A hell of a sexy drug.
Wednesday, 8 May 2013
So I'm there roysh, sitting in St Stephen's Green, fag in my mouth, and bathing in the good weather, sporadic as it is, in this part of the world. Juggling some notes, doing abysmally in exams quite frankly, but I guess that is my own fault en aw. I have a theory, this is just a bit of figure grabbing and whatnot. The Irish banks, I believe, are not as foundation-ally sound as have been claimed to be by the cognoscenti spastics in Trinners, IMF and that cunt in RTE, and are quite highly leveraged, erroneously so, but sigh, mutter, splurt mah tae out, nay cunt like de Baldy Noonan wants yous cunts finding out about this kind of shite do they now? Not that it really matters anymore en aw. It's kind of funny though, the whole thing. Flicking through a paper. Tax cuts, dodgy proposals, hilarious that The Sunday Tribune are driving intae Labour at de mo. But then, I see a quick flash in the pan article on education in Ireland. Cue Francis Begbie donning his old lad thinking cap.
I've been in the Irish education system for 17 or so years at this stage of the game. Nowt, if Ruairi Quinn wanted to know shit, about shit he'd listen to me and all, would he now and then everything would be better. And but so, the cunt hears the pitter patter of tiny feet and voila, there it is for all to see.
90 or so percent of the education I've had has been a complete and utter fucking waste of time that a cunt will never get back.
Primary school. You have your sums, your copy book, the reading riting and rithmetic shite. That be gravy, a cunt needs that to calculate how many beers he be having at the pub or how fat his lassie is. But then, once yous get into the Irish secondary school system, it all becomes like a dodgy night out in Coppers. The education standards? Oh of course they've slipped. When you have a teacher for mathematics who flat out doesn't know how to differentiate an exponential function, something well and truly is rotten in the state of Denmark.
It's dreadfully dull, usually, the whole experience. The packed lunches, the kid who never fucking washes, the banausic to the point of tedium drip for drab of being stuck in a room with someone who doesn't give two shites, he's just there because he's got his nice three days holidays and because he was too fucken stupid to get the Finance degree he so lucidly dreamed up. Now, the cunt is propped in a chair and he's teaching yous de fucking exponential. The setup of the class, ruler, desk, seat is hilarious as well. The cunts here in this rome who are capable of understanding it, but not as well as the rest lag behind, get no help and drop de interest as quick as shite as a result. The smart fuckos get bored to death, their motivation gets a jackhammer to the noggin as well. Thus, the lads in the middle get its together, the maw on de fucken pig in charge is all smiley and everyone is happy.
Education is unproductive, sloppy and wasteful, when it really shouldn't be. Most of the stuff I've learned of value have been, with the absence of mentors and mates to look up toos, the internet. Game, lifting weights, fiddling around with your bike, eating well, all of this shite. That was all me, applying the stuff by myself, no one in real life to guide me. The end of mentors ken. University in particular is a very worrying topic, for the sole reason that, I would wager, 90 percent of women and 70 percent of men simply don't belong in there. A combination of intelligence, drive to work hard, being happier getting married and having children, and being gifted with your hands all play big parts, amongst others. If you're not of this caliber, then that's ok ken, there's other options out there. But, the whole fucken thing is ridiculed roysh, because here in Dubbie, the land of the knob and de Castlerock spasticcase, there's fucken every class of clown walking the streets saying, ohhhh you need a university degree and my son (even though he's a plank) should be entitled to go en aw because he is my son and he watches Ted videos every night so he must be a brainy cunt! There are a huge amount of problems with this and I'm not even going to get into the whole Cathedral thing, the pillars, peer science, social sciences, bullet in the head kind of malarky, but a few points to blather on about. First, universities are killing entrepreneurship. For all the great things that come with a bit of age, be it sagacity and experience and whatnot, the time when you make that highly risky, highly brilliant bet on 31 black is when yous be young dumb and full of cum. Ok, obviously it doesn't always pay off, but if it does, yous have got a Bill Gates with a shiny new computer to show for it. That 30 year old will be less prone to stepping out of his shell after slumbering in the great halls of the Cathedral after all. So say sayonaro to that killer instinct, the success of all successes snatched from your bony little fingers. Second, there's a simple and salient fact that university courses are being dumbed down. Arse on seat equates to more moolah in the pocket. Third, there's something intrinsically depressing about university. Call it the transitional period between taking the safeties off and venturing out there yourself, or call it something more feral and raw, but there's something deeper there, something sadder, something human, all too human undoubtedly.
The main thing about it all though is that prolonged exposure to the Cathedral changes you. Have yous ever seen a guy whose been studying something like economics or physics? These cunts are all like Paul fucken Krugman with the little beady monkey eyes, or some shit, all sorts of nerdy "hey ladies, form a y=mx+c" kind of jokes. Scum ken. Subhuman scum. The guys, as Nassim Taleb says, have no "skin in the game". Fuck economists. They are the epitome of what is wrong with the world today. They are as incompetent and as reprehensible as a group of muslims trying to bomb a fucken Boots chemist.
This is why Ireland will continue to suffer. The education system is hanging by a gossamer thread and will continue to deteriorate in quality. It has has now turned into a way of looking intelligent, looking super serial, rather than being intelligent, having achieved something of merit and praise. But of course, a cunt can only masquerade for so long in this manner. To the lads and lassies that are in there now, that are groomed for a life of boredom and floundering, you have my deepest sympathy. You'd rather talk about the x case and fucken gay marriage?
Enjoy the decline!
Monday, 6 May 2013
A few light taps upon the pane made him turn to the window. It had begun to snow again. He watched sleepily the flakes, silver and dark, falling obliquely against the lamplight. The time had come for him to set out on his journey westward. Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland. It was falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and, farther westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the hill where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.
This is the future motherfuckers. The antiuniversity is nothing more than a grain of rice, an embarrassing, degenerate mess where the once great Irish man is nothing more than an ersatz shell. Seeing the abyss, he decides to fill it with meaningless, crass drunkploitations, cliched opinions about Paul Galvins faggy clothes and primitive, overproduced pop music. The lassies are not much better. Hypergamy is their cross and look where it has led them ken.
If I was to describe myself, I'd say I'm a pessimistic optimist. Optimistic about myself, that if I put the work in, my family, friends, hobbies, whatever, have potential to be something worthy of merit, worthy of being a man. Pessimistic, because the combination of no god everything follows shite, alongside Cathedral boys being baptized in the waters of Keynsian economics, historical revisionism and utilitarianism is a toxic one. Fuck this shit.
But hey, at least we have iphones now! And digital watches, the mostly harmless cunts that we are.
Thursday, 2 May 2013
Taken up the drink and a fiend be all jolly, flying all Aces fucken high, standing like the statue of David, with the head swinging, minging, tearing it up, approaching lassies, smiling, singing, dancing, all faces in the club, wringing hands, holding your hands up and it's all talking in heads.
Once in a lifetime brethern. Pure fucken horrorshow like. Oh my brothers, isn't it quite the feet, to glance upon all these sorry lewdies, gloopy motherfuckers which stretch and yawn and expect that this party will still keep going the way that it is...
Blinded by the lights, iridescence, blinding, incandescence scorching. I see a swarm of milquetoast betas, sucking at the teat of this post modern fuckjob. I see a myriad places, the people in towers stretching out into the deep blue sky, this dismissal of cardinal truths, bequeathed to us by men of intellect, heart and soul. Ever notice that people who take up the charge in a certain discipline have their personalities start to change? I'm thinking in puzzles, equations and fucking logs ken. All the fucken time. This thinking...They rationalize away the evil that they do. The silly decisions and derision. Don't forget that en aw. The manosphere is like a club. You must be this alpha to enter ken. I'm not this cunt ken.
In the dream, I am crawling around on my hands and knees. There's grey, grey everywhere. Grey walls, grey ceilings, grey skin, fluorescent lightbulbs, pudgy managers with cowlicks, red cheeks and dying eyes. There's the perpetual ticaticaclick of keyboard typing. I'm in my own little cubicle with pictures of family nailed up on the walls. Economic necessity, smiling to all the people in the room with heads and bodies. The most charming fucker in the room. People speaking in monotones, dry sardonic humor. Everything is so clean and perfectly arranged and fresh. the carpet has been vacuumed. I am a fraud. HR speaks the same words, the new vernacular of the modern epoch, deturpate the remnants of the joy of the chase, the thrill. Carpe Diem. Diversity day. The meat in the room's sandwich with many a cunt forcing small talk, chitter chatter on a unsuspecting fiend. This is boredom, pure, unadulterated tedium. I am a fraud. The death of emotions, siphoned through excel spreadsheets and non linear regressions and GARCH and covariance matrices and packt lunches with sandwiches filled with an assortment of fillings, cholesterol lowering yogurts, low fat soups made up of 50 percent maltodextrin.I'm sitting out in the park and it's lunch time. 15 minutes. Fuck the paleo diet. No time to cook or exercise. Munching down foods with high glycemic indexes. Stomach feels off, but a cunt tells a cunt that TOMORROW you'll be right back at it lifting weights and keeping that beer belly down ken. Every day. You see your father return home. His hat on the windowsill ken. The flop down in front of the tv ken. The 330 ml of shitty, watery american beer. Ye see dat? Fucken bankers ruining the country! Today was the most boring day in the world. The most. Boring. Day. In. The. World. But it is a success. Everything you ever wanted, in the form of waiting for a bus for nine hours a day, five days a week.
i2 = j2 = k2 = ijk = −1.
I am a fraud.
I wake and it's time for a drink. I've stopped caring about university. Right now, I'm just punching the clock. You could have a job, these cunts say! Good employment prospects they spit back. Say what ken? This be just numbers en keys ken, damp drizzy despair. Men are creators. We are not posters on walls, advertisments, job opportunities and quotas. We are builders, not ext-ravenous ornaments or disposable props. We have a purpose, right?
There's this thing about the Manosphere, it sounds all happy go lucky en aw, when it fact it's quite the turd in the urinal. There's this whole botched thing going on, where it's like, just get your money together, get your fucken tattered suitcase and your STEMMIE office job and then it be fucken merry, fucken barry, as you head off and just tear your way through Eastern Europe's finest, where you drink juice and then die. But, herein lies the rub. You are who who are, whether you like it or not. You can get your arse over there, find the loveliest, most feminine woman who will bear your a whole bunch of children and you can absorb the language and the mannerisms and the culture and the whole shebang, but at the end of the day, yous are still Irish or Japanese or whatever. Culture is a heuristic, and to realize the whole thing is a degenerate sack of shit is even more disturbing. Rule of thumb, incoherent societies, lacking the pulchritudinous qualities of that thing, that entity, that concept called God, that shorthand for whatever the bejaesus is out there, produce degenerate, crude cultures. Cultures? They're like a fucking cheat code to get around Dunbar's number. The ensuring result is that you're Irish, but you're not Irish, to get into this requires getting a big ice cream scoop and getting the brain drill readys. You are who yous are and there be no going away from that. That be why it be tougher en aw.
The red pill throws up a plethora of questions and answers. But more than the rest, it instills one with a sense of almost paralysis. You don't act on it. You just feel more lost at the start. It's just something that you keep putting off, like that book you have on your bookshelf that yous never read. That, something about coming across it, forces yous not to act, like a cunt has too hits rock bottom before the whole edifice crumbles shatters and disintegrates, nay care or any cunt with nothing to literally, look up to.
So this moment, what does it entail? Well it involves lots and lot of drinking. It involves manipulating a beta male and fucking his lassie and getting the oneitis and dumping her. It involves books, fiction with little silly moments in it that make you see what you have to do with it. Everyone in the manosphere is some little bit dysfunctional. Not in the classic sense, but in the great out there, encompassing this sort of lepokurtosis sort of sense. And remember the culture is a heuristic quip? Yeah, it's a poisonous one. Your brain is consistently rallying against. Ireland is finished. But you're Irish. Enjoy the decline! But you are one guy and you know that the future is like a river in its last stages, and you are merely the rock in the meander, and is there not something fucking cowardly about just enjoying the decline? But is there not something utterly pointless about trying to do what is right, rather than doing a Galt?
You need to hijack art, culture, science. All of these are beyond us, we're the bedrock and society fucken hates our guts. For every Broken Roads piece of literature, we have shit by people like Jonathan Franzen or that cunt Dave Eggers. I don't see any science around me. I see the evil in pharmaceutical companies trying to push drugs onto people by setting up dubious, fucking BULLSHIT regressions and fucking hacks trying to run programs and set up samples that include perfectly health men, that fucken hurts de peoples needlessly. I see that I can get farther by acting like a dominant prick, than being a person of character. The fuck?
So a cunt goes down that one road and starts looking after himself. The question is, is that enough?
The manosphere has done this weird sort of thing where I'm at once better socially, but on the other hand, there is no real joy in talking to others anymore, this detachment where your brain is working and thinking independent of your mouth. Maybe I should stop reading this shitup. Or the insomnia. Sleep is really fucken bad ken.
What goes on inside is really a great fight, a perpetual motion machine inside your head that is a million different syllables and meanings and paradoxes all taking hold and forcing this painful level of self awareness on yourself, and this is not being "duh sheeple" shit, this is you, having the unfortunate ability to be aware of your own conscious at all times. For once, just to forget that you are Francis Begbie and you ate 700 calories of cheddar cheese and you are in this room and it is 68 degrees farenheit and one of your fingernails is broken and your flatmat is asleep in a room ten or so feet away from you. Your mind is constantly trying to rationalize some meaning, but for some people, the stuff you read here just makes you want to drown in entertainment or dream it all away, post haste en aw. The rest will struggle through and it will sting and hurt, not having anything to rationalize anymore but they will get through it, somehow, a basin to capture the water will be there, but these people, they will make it though, but not without some mark left on their soul.
Some of us will fall into heaven and some of us will fall into hell. Perhaps, we are the evil ones. Were people ever meant to be this free, the libertarian ideal quashed, gazing into divinity, big, so big, nothing but the sound ex ante, of a thousand dry and wispy tongues?
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...