Advanced School on Tropical Agriculture
The Manosphere: Home of the Oppressed And Angry
In my ever-expanding journey to the right of feminism, I’ve come to find myself to be naively and altruistically embracing nearly anyone who appears to support traditionalist values. I feel there are a lot of ills and injustices within the feminist movement that have had a profoundly destructive impact on society (I will be writing more about that in the coming weeks) of which other treacherous and cantankerous movements have spawned and gained momentum and notoriety.
Sponsored Ads
Looking For Dating Single Men? Try Loveawake:
One movement of which is called the “manosphere” movement. It is akin to the subpar loser PUA (pickup artist) movement but on the scale of a salmonella vomit raw egg type diet on steroids. In my premature assessment and eagerness to be supportive of all men and my willingness to embrace men’s rights, I’d soon discover that I’d failed miserably in my mission to consider the men of the manosphere to be bona fide men.
The men of the manosphere are not true men in the sense of honor, chivalry or stewardship. They are not alpha golden-boy masculine ladies’ men and they are not as wealthy, handsome and successful as they portray themselves to be. Reason being is simple – alpha males accomplish what manospherians only dream of and so much more, without ever having any inkling to resort to whining, hatred and female debasement.
Alpha males don’t think twice about getting first glances, second dates, getting past third base, getting laid or getting on well with just being men. That and they are too busy enjoying the freaky sex they get every night of the week by brick-house stacked trophy Stepford wives who cook them Eggs Benedict, do their laundry and worship the ground they walk on.
No sir, the manosphere is quite the opposite of all things alpha. It is a condemned black mold-infested halfway house situated next to the Greyhound bus station for men who have arrived from being discarded from the discard pile and have been exiled into roach colonies. They are a misnomer with no home outside of the abyss of perpetual rejection and abjection by their peers and the majority of women, for which they will albeit remain prisoners until the days of smelly bedpans, nitro glycerin and nightgown strings that get tangled in the hair on their backs will become of them.
Being a fool and being politically-minded and curious about these manosphere commandeers, and with innocent kindred spirit, I approached a couple of these manosphere armchair generals on Twitter and ended up cutting off my own nose to spite my own face. I had the gumption to ask these self-proclaimed manosphere gods why they tend to frown upon women who are intelligent, based on this assessment I took on a very popular manosphere blog.
Before I’d gotten any type of response from the manosphere-elect royal elite, a seemingly normal, well-adjusted non-manosphere supporting gentleman chimed in first:
Fear. Plain and simple. Alot of man equate intelligence with role reversal leading to emasculation
— Radio Richard (@BlazerTalon)
In a nutshell, there you have it. I could very well end this blog post here because the answer is right there in blood, written in stone by a man, no less. The manosphere is indeed as I suspected, a cockroach halfway house for discarded males who are threatened by intelligence of the female variety and have an irrational fear of amassing shriveled testicles.
But I can’t end it here, people. It gets much better.
Soon after violently shaking the manosphere tree at the root, from atop leaked this gem of machismo volcanic diarrhea:
Girl, get off my nuts. I don't want to sleep w/ you. Your prattle has no meaning to me.
— Roosh (@rooshv)
I felt obligated to give him a pass. All I could do was offer an apology out of clemency that any swipe he could take at a woman, who happened to be me in the wrong place at the right time, was motivation to feed his unfillable ego. All I could do was feel sad for him and implore that the manosphere gods send him a woman to love. One that he could sleep with to his heart and dick’s content because if he did, he wouldn’t be living out his days being such a pent up indignant sexually frustrated buffoon.
It’s no mystery that people who get laid regularly and in a proper and sufficient manner don’t obsess about hating the opposite sex. In fact, people who get laid often very much come to appreciate the opposite sex – much like wine becomes an appreciation to the most ardent of wine enthusiasts. Wine becomes an acquired taste and gradually develops into a lifelong yet, romantic pleasant, personal and complicated love affair of the senses.
Thanks to new age feminism, the only love affair of the senses relative to manospherians and feminists is that they hate each other, when they should be joined together at the hip, loving each other in beautiful, fulfilling relationships.
There is a very real and tangible relief in the release of achieving heightened sexual pleasure and gratification in a fulfilling, monogamous relationship. So much that suddenly the world around the people who are getting laid in fulfilling monogamous relationships becomes much less stressful and that much more manageable. It becomes a cloud nine heaven on earth enshrinement of post-flood dopamine and oxytocin induced stupor evolving into sanity and bliss – better than any sort of meds, ego trips or female humiliation sessions on Twitter could possibly deliver.
Marvin Gaye didn’t sing the song “Sexual Healing” in vain. There are proven biologically beneficial healing properties to making sweet love 3-4 times a week and being in an emotionally and spiritually fulfilling relationship – one that both feminists and manosphere extremists have become alienated from. One that they could both tackle by pulling each other out of the fire hand-in-hand together, if they could get past their sense of inadequacy, entitlement and selfish ambitions and accept each other the same.
Sexually frustrated people don’t feel that serenity and much needed sense of satisfaction that can only be achieved in fervent and consistent sexual release, and it is an especially dire and painful condition for men – the manosphere is a testament to that. You don’t get laid, you’re resigned to suffering from disaffected prick syndrome – and the only cure for it is a woman’s love and passionate sex, and lots of it.
I gave him a pass because like so many men and women who have been victimized by feminism, he has been misunderstood, discarded and displaced. He is an emotionally damaged man who is a product of the women he loves to hate, who just wants and needs love and meaningful companionship like every living, breathing human being.
I could have said to him what I said to this leathery toolbag, who happens to be an ardent supporter of these misguided kings of the manosphere – who hides behind an ugly Incredible Hulk avatar in obvious shame who feels a sense of power in calling a woman like me a ho:
Go back to your hand, your AstroGlide and your cup-o-noodles.
Normally, I can have a dialogue with just about anybody, on Twitter and otherwise. I consider myself a reasonable and sensible person so much to the extent that I extended a hand to a group of people who are beyond any realm in which one could find reason or sense or a platform for dialogue.
You can’t have a reasonable dialogue with angry, embittered, emotionally and mentally-battered people. And you can’t expect to be respected by people who don’t respect anyone, including and especially themselves.
What do these manospherian rejects need?
They need women. They need love. They need sex. They need monogamy, home-cooked from scratch meals, an ample, round trusting bosom next to a warm fire to cozy up to every night and maybe a few dozen dirty diapers to change every week. And they need it all desperately, right now. Today.
Time is of the essence, yet time isn’t on their side. And neither is their “game”, of which is all they believe they need and of which they possess none.