Your Masculinity Is a Pain In Me Arse

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The Burning Block Vol. II - No. 9

I.

In which it is suggested that the reader read the following out loud in the voice of an Irish farmer or a pirate.

Your masculinity is toxic.

No, masculinity is not toxic - just yours.

It’s toxic because you’re obsessed with it.

I don’t care if men have gradually feminized over the years. I don’t care if feminist principles have taken over all of our institutions.

If you have to go whining about masculinity to the world and how it’s been taken from you, then you didn’t deserve it anyway.

You look around yourself in disgust because all you see are kale eating soy boys - they’re happier than you’ll ever be.

‘But it’s true! Our birthright has been robbed from us! We need to stick together!’

What makes you think I want whiners in my tribe? What makes you think I would come anywhere near men who talk about their masculinity? Keep rallying others around your grievances.

But you’re going to save the west? You’re sucking a milkless teat (lactose free).

You’re already dead.

A guppy in a stagnant swamp.

What could modernity take from you that you haven’t already squandered on your self-righteous resentment? What could women take from you that you haven’t already committed to giving them with every one of your movements in this shopping mall of a society?

You think you’re rallying warriors but you’re picking scabs.

You think you’re delivering scathing monologues but you are gobbling like a forest turkey.

The manosphere long ago exhausted its purpose. You’re a red pill addict. You’ve built a tolerance to it and have become incapable of learning anything other than what you did when you realized you were dumb enough to fall for it all in the first place.

You treat the 48 Laws of Power like a manual for a Ford pickup.

Modernity itself might as well be all the women who have rejected you, on whom you have fashioned an entire lifestyle in order to take revenge.

You live according to first principles, but unfortunately, you had to work backward from victimhood to find them. One starting from victimhood always stops short at the whip.

So you’ve tripped your dominatrix and now want to be whipped by true brutes to test your mettle. The Omphalos of the bukaki of the current year, the world is against you and you are against the world. You speak your mind because you are too impotent to act.

You value free speech because you don’t know how, when or why to shut up.

II.

In an effort to maintain an air of diffidence, he finishes his Guinness from a can (a far cry from the real foamy thing) and sits up straight, shakes off his Irish/Pirate affectation and whistles listlessly into the empty evening. He is accompanied by his fish-tanks, his untuned guitars and calendar models he cannot call and whose names he cannot remember. Everything is more pleasing than the angry air he put on a moment before would have suggested, and yet, he feels it necessary to summon such anger for the sake of exorcising spirits of old; spirits of 2017 which were old even then but which would have, arguably, been then deserving of some faint last, dying gasp.

‘I was told by a reasonable feminist that the Patriarchy is bad for men too… Patriarchy is the reason so many of them lost their lives in war… Women are responsible for the Patriarchy and traditional gender roles as well - two outworn husks constantly reinforcing one another.

‘But then there was laughter on all sides. I was in a hall of mirrors. It was only one person laughing and yet I was surrounded. I broke the mirrors and cut my hands, blood in my hair from trying to soak it all up somehow. I saw myself reflected a thousand times over in the shards on the ground, but there was another with me.’

III.

He sipped his soy, pensively. It was corn-dog night. The corn-dogs were made of tofu. Non-vegan men come here to pick up women. The scant variations of human individuality announced themselves precisely through their enduring sameness - ever indicating a higher agency to which all the individual autonomies were beholden. A cosmic joke. An enemy or a delusion about reality? A woke-ness/Red Pill when realized, or a hand down the garbage disposal and a lesson learned? he thought.

It mattered little. He brushed a hand over his face to wave a graying lock from his forehead and sipped on an over-carbonated drink he hated more than the people he was trying to become.

IV.

An Irish drinking song, to be sung only with Irish whiskey in hand.


Tullimore cup

Tullimore cup

Everybody drinks from a Tullimore cup

Drink. It. Up.

Drink. It. Up.

Can fit a lot of whiskey in a Tullimore cup


As I was down a country road

I saw an apple orchard

And I shot my load

It settled to the ground below

‘N’ out sprouted a son without no clothes


Tullimore cup

Tullimore cup

Everybody drinks from a Tullimore cup

Drink. It. Up.

Drink. It. Up.

Can fit a lot of whiskey in a Tullimore cup

The reader is invited to add verses which loosely fit this rhythm and rhyme scheme in the comment section below, with the assumption that the chorus will repeat between each verse (you don’t have to write the verse). There will be no prize save, perhaps, adulation.