Archives For November 2012


If you haven’t heard as of yet, Hope Solo, mannish US women’s soccer player (I know, I didn’t think it was a real sport either) recently got her ass kicked by husband Jerramy Stevens (no, his parents weren’t good at spelling), an NFL tight end with an enormous history of smacking his bitches if they ever got annoying. I suppose precious Miss Solo was expecting the 250 pound lineman to suddenly metamorphose into an angelic embodiment of love and gentleness in response to her feminine guiles and heaving man-jaw. Sadly, something a bit different happened. He beat her ass like he’s done to every other one of his past girlfriends (excuse me, I think the precise term Mr. Stevens uses for them are ‘hoes’). What is Miss Solo’s response to Stevens? To be a ‘strong, independent’ woman and exact some revenge by manipulating the court system and media to get him in jail for life? Oh, hell naw! Not even close. This is what she does.


Apparently, she’s ‘blessed to have found True Love,’ and would defend Stevens to the grave. Wonderful. I’m curious though if her love is to the man, or rather to the action itself. Does she crave him or the violence? Experience suggests the latter — she is aroused by, addicted to, desperately hungry for — wait for it — his fist. It’s a psychological need not unlike masochism itself, but a bit less nuanced. She needs to be dominated in the most direct, emphatic and aggressive form. She is specifically attracted to men known for their violent predilections, and the blood that drips from her face or arm after he’s finished yet another episode only serves to bolster the attraction. It is a craving as deep, as urgent, as any man’s need to fuck. Women like Solo will go to the ends of the earth, turning down ‘less attractive’ suitors, to find and embrace men like Jerramy Stevens. And to think that the modern West is filled with chumps willing to grovel at her feet, to meet her every demand, to serve her till death no matter the consequence. No, she will never have a man like that. She cannot. Her most basic, primal psycho-sexual makeup demands dominance of the strongest sort.

For the sake of full disclosure, I love women like Hope Solo. In fact, if she ever got some chin readjustment done, I think I’d call her. God knows smacking a hoe is the best kind of therapy.



For those who may not know, I’m a huge NBA fan (call it genes — I honestly haven’t found a single black or partially black guy who isn’t) and have been for as long as I can remember. I watched Jordan win his last few rings, make a fool of himself with the Wizards, and go on to manage a playoff franchise into the ground (see: Charlotte Bobcats). I saw Kobe falsely accused of rape, try to beg his wife not to commit divorce theft with a two million dollar bribe ring, and play out an entire season with the speculation of divorce and lifetime alimony on his head.

Suffice to say I’ve never really been a fan of any of the star players the NBA has to offer; my love affair has always been with the game itself and with my hometown team (Golden State Warriors, for the curious). Indeed, I’ve had much more fun laughing at the utter stupidity of players both on and off the court than I ever spent admiring or respecting their athletic talent. And if any of you are fans of any major American sport yourselves, you know exactly what I’m talking about. Athlete behavior vacillates between, “that was a terrible lapse of judgement” to “this man is straight retarded,” usually leaning heavily on the latter end of the spectrum. It is difficult to admire men who, whether through the supposed weight of celebrity or ridiculous amount of earnings, appear notably dumber than the viewer.

Which takes me to the case of one Mr. Lebron James.

When Lebron entered the league as an eighteen-year-old prodigy extraordinaire in 2003, he was purported to be the next Magic, the next Jordan, the next Bird, and, to be completely frank, rightfully so. The kid was ridiculously athletic (see: Bo Jackson), highly coach-able, and had a sort of on-court intuition that I’d never seen before. Unfortunately  though he spent the next seven years of his career dominating the sport at higher and higher levels, I saw the same boring athletic persona I always had: same nice-guy-to-the-media attitude, fake-tough-guy arrogance on the court, and lavish but unoriginal party plus alcohol lifestyle off the court. Nothing interesting. Indeed, I imagined I would never respect him for anything beyond his athletic feats, that Lebron James The Personality would fall into the landfill along with most of the other all-stars that preceded him. That all changed one fateful Thursday evening on July 8, 2010.

For those who may live in a cave, take a minute to catch up. A quick summary of what Lebron did in so called “Decision” special: The dude bought out an hour of national television (airing his own shoe commercials during the breaks, lest you naive kiddos think otherwise), held out double middle fingers to his hometown of Akron, home state of Ohio, and essentially yelled “I’m out bitches! Fuck Cleveland! South Beach hoes, get ready to spread your legs!” In the course of the five seconds it took him to utter his “Decision”, Lebron James went from the most beloved, hyped, and lauded athlete in American sports, to its most hated embodiment of everything wrong with civilization itself. It was in this moment that I, for the first time ever, became a fan — not just of Lebron, but of any single professional athlete ever…(to be continued)


November 25, 2012 — 3 Comments

The blog was dormant for quite a while in part due to the explosion of Manosphere blogs that seemed to have sprouted up last year. I was doing so much interesting reading, in fact, that my leisure time left no space for any actual writing. Curiously, though, in the course of the past several months, men’s blogs have been dying off like Native Americans exposed to smallpox. Now, while conspiracy theories loom suspiciously over the phenomenon, sensibility suggests that time constraints, lack of readership, or personal issues were the cause. In any case, the Manosphere is no gotten significantly sparser here in 2012, and I don’t intend to contribute to any thinning of ideas and conversation. As feminists add heavy censorship to their calculatedly gynocentric agenda, I find it damn near a moral imperative to continue writing, spreading, expanding. The minds of young and old men alike are at stake, and if, heaven forbid, feminists implement their end game — a Clockwork Orange slash 1984 punitive system that enforces ‘retraining’ for all who fail to think in accordance with their doctrine of male hatred and disregard — all will truly be lost. As a consequence, I intend to post at least once a week, and if for some reason I fail to do so, the invitation is open to message me till my inbox bursts. Remember, we are all in this thing together, and the battle is won first and foremost in our minds. The more intelligent we can make ourselves about game, female nature, feminist doctrine and politics, the better we are capable of defending against indoctrination and slavery.

So. Here’s to the last stand. God Bless.

In the meantime, here’s something to chew on: