My dear sister, it is some years since last I heard from you now. I am worried, my dear. There you are, far away, outside the loving matriarchy, where you would be safe and never oppressed. I don’t even know if you receive my messages, but again, as I do every year at this time, I write to you, womyn to womyn.
Today, things are very different from what you had become used to in the years BM (Before Matriarchy). You were used to the not-womyn roaming freely and oppressing womyn at every turn. You were used to them having the vote and a political voice. But the problem was that allowing them a political voice also allowed them to exercise their masculinity and through that their violence. Society could not progress as long as we allowed not-womyn to influence it.
To combat this, it became necessary to strip the not-womyn of executive power and to replace them with womyn. This was always the purpose of the Feminist movement, following the words of the Great Prophet Karl Marx (PBUH) and his Holy Priestess Gloria Steinem.
I’m going to become a Hedonist. No really, I am. Seriously. I am going to join the Church of Hedonism. Yup. Before this happens to me.
Of course, no such church actually exists, and most religions seem to be mainly concerned with stopping people having fun. But anyway. If there isn’t one, I think it’s time we started one.
I am rapidly approaching that watershed in life, the dawn of my seventh decade. I don’t have that much time to waste any more. I quick demographic of my parents’ families suggests that if I remain a non-smoker, keep the drink to a moderate level and eat reasonably healthy food, I have maybe another fifteen years of active life, and another five or so of winding down, before parting the mortal coil and becoming one with the Earth again.
That is not an awful lot of time. And I am beginning to resent every moment of it that is not spent, basically, having fun.
I see a lot of immature, childish videos and web posts denigrating ladyboys and telling men how to spot — and so avoid — them. But why would anybody want to avoid them? Here are ten reasons why dating ladyboys is a really good idea.
Croutons and Cheese: French Onion Soup 2 is the second in Rod Fleming’s hilarious series of memoirs about his life in France. Filled with anecdotes about aviating cats, the Bull in the Back Passage, what to do about ex-pats, transporting the cheese to Scotland, it’s a laugh a minute.
With the lovable and roguish characters you first met in French Onion Soup!, this book will keep you entertained all right, so much you’ll come back for a second read!
Available now in paperback: ISBN: 978-0-9572612-4-2
They’re the elephant in the room, where relations between transwomen and men are concerned.
Elephant, you say? Well, almost without exception, the assertion is made that the men who like transwomen are straight. Yet when you talk to transwomen in private, a very different picture appears. Half at least of men who seek out transwomen far from being straight or anything close, are closet autogynephiliacs (AGP) (and homophobic to boot). They’re not homosexual, but they are gay.
We would not expect honesty from these men about this; after all, look at the lengths they go just to deny their own sexuality and maintain a false façade of hetero-normativity. The elephant must be hidden. Their words may be taken with a moderately-sized bucket of salt. But what about the girls? Why do transwomen ever lend credibility to this falsehood? Why don’t they just call out these guys as closet queens from the get-go?
Life certainly has an interesting tapestry here in P’tit Moulin. This morning I was awakened at some ungodly hour—well, just before ten actually, but I am semi-nocturnal—by an excessively enthusiastic clangour (good word that) of my front door bell, of which more later.
Well, I threw on a pair of jeans and a T and went to see who had disturbed the peace in this manner, and there on my doorstep was a rather scruffy individual, definitely of the traditional French horny-handed persuasion. Behind him was a truck that looked, to my bleary and unaided vision, even older and more dilapidated than my Isuzu, and that’s saying something.
He must have recognised my absence of recognition. ‘Sir,’ he said (in French of course, I’m just trying to make it easy for you. Do keep up.) ‘Sir, the last time I passed you said you had some scrap.’
Well, so there you are. You find yourself with an attraction to ladyboys, traps. transsexuals, whatever. These are not your Western autogynephilic transvestites a la Bruce ‘Caitlyn’ Jenner.
We’re talking about sex crazy, man-obsessed homosexual males who live as women. They are wonderful, beautiful, so sexy that just watching a ladyboy walking down the street will get your dick hard. And they are the Ladyboy Trap. Yes. Those ones right there.
A long time ago, when I was a young lad, I had the acquaintance of a dog called Seumus.
Now Seumus was of, shall we say, indeterminate lineage. There seemed to be a fair bit of black Labrador in there, but it was mixed with some distinctly non-pedigree characteristics, including a tail that curled over his back. When Seumus was feeling full of himself, he carried this high and showed to the world his anal sphincter. I’m sure that’s not in the Labrador breed book.
Well, it’s been a fucker of a week, folks. I split up with my girlfriend. That train had already signalled its impending departure though. Also in the Philippines, the Half-Wit Prince has announced his intention to emulate Hitler and murder three million citizens. Hilary Clinton looks likely to be the next President of the Land of Fuckwit, which means we’ll probably celebrate the turn of the decade from a nuclear shelter. In the UK, Auntie Tess is now showing that she couldn’t organise a piss-up in a brewery. In France, full denial has broken out as, after all, one must never offend the Islamic rapists and child-shaggers — in case they take the huff and murder another 100 or so innocent people. And in the latest US-inspired human tragedy, Syria, the body count rises. So I thought I’d do a piece about cursing and swearing.
Because cursing and swearing is something I feel like doing a lot of, right now.
The 19th of November being International Men’s Day — which you probably did not know — I thought I’d do a humorous little piece about freedom. Escaping the gynocracy and its would-be closed sex market, that is.
An essential part of the gynocracy’s closed sex market is that women must be the only permissible sex providers. But the fact is that men are not so fussy. In the dark, well, then — one cul is much like another, n’est-ce pas? So why can’t we have a free sex market? Why do women have to control it, especially in cultures where they have effectively given up motherhood?
Women have always tried to make male sex with other males taboo, in order to control men. After all, it would not do if a man refused his wife’s demands because he was getting his knob polished by that cute batang bakla from next door, you know. Women have to maintain power over men somehow. And shaming them for the way they have sex, well, that’s an easy one. It’s the go-to weapon and always has been.
Despite this, across the planet, especially where cis girls are strictly verboten, men pursue sex with other males, who look like girls and can be fucked.