brattybabybows:

It’s hard to have a male superiority kink when men are so stupid

Nonsense; that’s what makes it kinky. If the male population weren’t a seething hotbed of half-witted mendacity, misplaced aggression, and weaponized asshattery, then “male superiority” would just be vanilla fucking.

It’s only when you acknowledge the full extent of male stupidity that you can truly appreciate how delightfully deviant and arguably misguided it is to turn one of us loose on your holes.

Crossed

This qualifies as the least fucked-up thing ever written in Crossed, and only because I’ve taken it out of context.

For those who are unaware, Crossed is more or less the comics franchise equivalent of The Aristocrats; it’s a gore-soaked, rape-happy, one-joke premise that dares each writer/artist team to somehow exceed the raw depravity of those who came before. It’s also a bit like The Walking Dead, if Rick were forced to watch a gang of grinning psuedo-zombies fuck Carl’s headless torso while they rape Michonne to death with her own severed arms and legs.

It’s a questionably acquired taste, but serves as an ongoing reminder that my freak-flag is flying at half-mast compared to Garth Ennis and friends.

Clarity

This is going to read like a pro forma disclaimer, but it isn’t. I often go to a lot of effort to speak truth through lies and misdirection, but I’m being 100% straightforward right now.

This blog is not a work of advocacy. It is not trying to persuade anyone of anything. While I certainly hope it occasionally provides grist for the philosophical mill, it is ultimately no more or less than a work of transgressive literature. I’m an individual playing with ideas that are extremely impolite and impolitic in a way that –on my best days– unpacks the hypnotic allure of sexual destruction and despair.

I’m not trying to troll anyone. I don’t want to fuck up your weekend. I don’t want anyone reading this shit who isn’t emotionally prepared to deal with it and intellectually aware that nothing I’m saying should be accepted at face value.

Question everything, children. Especially me.

On Misogyny

I don’t call myself “a misogynist” because such a label is woefully incapable of conveying the vast and murky depths of my misanthropy. Hell, I’m as much a misandrist as anything; on the whole, I find men kind of simple-minded, tribal, and boring. Given the option, I’ll take a cunt over a prick every time.

In fact, what I view as My Misogyny generally manifests as an amiable, amused sort of pity. I’m not angry with women, don’t feel threatened by them, and don’t resent their successes; that sort of thing strikes me as ridiculous. When I get in an elevator with a random woman, I’m not the one who has to become momentarily aware that she is small and I am large and we are all alone. When people are looking for authoritative opinions, I’m not the one who has to worry that the pitch of her voice will render her thoughts instinctively irrelevant and irritating to at least half the room. When we’re at a party and someone inquires about not having kids by 35, I’m not the one who’ll be getting the sad, vaguely smug looks that say “You are defective and will never be whole.”

That’s why angry misogyny perplexes me: it’s so goddamned petty. From where I’m sitting, being a girl is a process wherein you’re yanked from the womb and thrown directly into a never-ending spanking machine made out of misused erections and deferred dreams. If I stretch my eye, I can see that there are a few perks that go with that extra X chromosome, but I can’t think of a single one that I covet. It’s simply a shit gig, the socio-sexual equivalent of working the drive-through window at McDonald’s. If you’re a guy, I figure the very least you can do is let the girls do their jobs and not yell too much when they get their orders wrong.

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