I was recently called a “secret Nazi.”
How dare dey? Eh?
But I can’t blame these feminist cunts. It’s all they know. They’re easily swayed by the histrionic pull of drama-politics, like the tide goes in and out, and their periods sync, under the stern insistence of the moon.
Chicks. Can’t live with ‘em. Can live without ‘em—but not worth the loneliness.
I went to a bar and defended the Proud Boys as the topic came up organically over discussion (not any of my prompting, mind you).
“Secret Nazi,” I was called. Like I said. Oh yeah, she had short hair.
There’s no effective rebuttal for that. With them at least. But that’s okie-doke. I believe the solution is the solution to everything else: time.
Eventually, hopefully . . . (maybe never), these dumb feminazis will realize that you can’t spell feminazi without the word “nazi.” They dress in the leather of the Führer, spanking everyone around them for uttering the wrong noises. And eventually all the other dumb-dumbs might change, too.
Or! maybe! it will all stay the same . . .
I secretly hope that I not see it go in the direction where it sometimes seems it’s headed—where everyone’s talking like a fag and their shit’s all, hopelessly, irredeemably retarded.