A moment’s silence for the “True Alpha Male”.

The subculture of scum and villainy best known as the Mens Rights movement has lost another idiot.

What? Too soon? Okay, let me start over.

Elliott Rodger, a 22, overpriviledged, bigoted, misogynist college student with glaring delusions of entitlement went on a killing spree. 6 were killed and another 13 wounded in the process.

His modus operandi? No woman wanted to fuck him. So much so, that his entire YouTube channel was proliferated with how women don’t like him and how his life was “so unfair”.

I’m not going to go into why the Men’s Rights movement is completely fucking stupid and being a misogynist fuckhead who sees women as objects will never get you laid. I’ve touched on it here, and I’ve discussed my feelings on MRA’s at some length here. This time, let’s talk about the topic at hand. I’ll try not to get angry, I promise.

So this guy -unlucky in love and apparently everyone was against him as a result, goes out, shoots a few people and then offs himself. He had issues and baggage (just like everyone else) and came to the quick realization that not everything gets handed to you on a silver platter (again, just like everyone else).

The case is disturbing in itself. What makes it all the more disturbing is that people are defending this jackass. Going so far to blame women for not giving a crack at their cracks for the unfortunate outcome.

Think I’m kidding? Here are a few doozies from YouTube:

Yes. these people exist.
Yes. these people exist.

Jesus cocksucking Christ. Maybe if YouTube existed back then, Hitler and Manson could have got off on the “well maybe if you put out” plea…

Which begs the question: Let’s say some gal dropped her panties for our BMW-driving douchebro here. Is that really going to solve every problem this kid had? What if they got into a fight? What if she said no to some Valentines Day pooper action? what if, what if, what if…

I guess if I had the opportunity to reach out to the kid, I’d slap him upside the head and tell him how much of a douche he is. To not be ‘that guy’, because ‘that guy’ is a pathetic excuse of a human being not worthy of even getting a woman to give them the time of day (and I assure you, I’m one of these sappy fucks who think that everyone has someone out there for them)

That’s the thing, really. I think what shits me off the most about this whole thing, is my own god-damned self.

While I never went out of my way to be a misogynist, would never intentionally harm a woman, and never blamed my problems entirely on women, I was certainly on that path, and can see “what could have been” of myself in Elliott and every other piece of shit “red pill” asshole that has come and gone before him, and will come and go well after his name has been forgotten.

Again, it’s the “what if”, that bothers me. Thankfully -as much as I still feel I need to drown myself in some sort of feminist baptism as penance, I’ve wizened, I’ve learned from mistakes, I’ve read far too many feminist blogs.

It’s also the reason why I get the shits with people with this sort of attitude. I speak from a place of experience-of-not-getting-laid-very-much and that most of my relationships happened by complete fluke, not of a place of the pick-up-artist, the nice guy, the red pill. I speak from a place of “If I got it, and I’m pretty fuckin’ dumb, then why can’t these assholes?”. I speak from a place of “I’ve been there, man, and it’s a shitty path to be on. Don’t be that guy.”

While I do appreciate that some women are manipulative, abusive and just downright bad pieces of work (again, been there too), is that a reason to not trust all women? Is there a #NotAllWomen hashtag in MRA circles? I honestly don’t get it. At all. To completely mistreat, berate, insult and abuse women for the simple, well-within-their-rights, and perfectly rational decision to say “no” to a guy, for whatever reason, is beyond me.

Again, I’ve been there. I’ve responded to people I’ve contacted on dating sites like “c’moooon, give me a chance! I’m totally cool, honest!” not realizing that I am part of the goddamned problem. I’ve stalked the blogs of long-since-over paramours for even just a hint of attention, heck, I think I still follow one on Twitter. Should probably amend that.

I think part of the problem, is that we put too much emphasis on one’s virginity. Once you’ve been with a few people, you realize it doesn’t matter. Virginity is a moot point when the first time you’re in bed with someone is awkward, painful and the least-sexy thing you could imagine. That it’s a waste of time building up all this anticipation and expectation on a concept which -really, ends up being an awkward and overly-too-long handjob.

“Really? that’s it? shit, where’d I put the Kleenex box?”.

Another part, I think is the emphasis -at least for guys – on getting a girlfriend. Movies, music, peers and shit, the goddamn internet tells us we’re owed a woman wearing little more than a bow around her waist and a modesty bikini, to have and to hold. When you enter the real world and realize that women are living, breathing people just like us with feelings and opinions and the right to fuck or not fuck whoever they want, we feel lied to, that it’ll never happen, and thus begins the battle-cry of the nice guy, the true gentleman, the true alpha male.

The girl I mentioned before, the one I contacted again after her initial refusal, I remember thinking exactly this. That I was owed, that “hey, you came up as a match so I’m worth a shot, right? I mean I downloaded a Gyroscope album so we had something in common!” line of thinking that would eventually, lead to a hell of a wake-up call later on down the line (not to mention the first of many attempts of online dates, which -in turn- led to the first of many trainwreck relationships). I took that shit hard, man. All because a woman exercised her right to say “no”.

I post all this, partially has a confession. I done goofed and -by all rights, I should be given no quarter by anyone even remotely identifying as a feminist. Somehow I got off light. Either I hid it really well over the years, or they know I done goofed and have attempted to change. Either way, I survived. Let’s see for how long after I post this, eh?

Finally –and I’m butchering an entire post of Andrew’s here– men have got to step up and be better. Assume that we’re not owed shit, and stop being self-serving, Facebo0-hooing fuckbags when a woman exercises her right to not offer to help get our dicks wet.

One Elliott Rodger was bad enough. How many more is it going to take?

Till next time.

Accidental Musings

I don’t normally get personal on here. I feel that personal posts -as much as I could be honest, true to myself, as non-topical as I like and make dick jokes in yet another format, aren’t really at home on DETF. As much as this is a “too personal for a professional blog”/”too-whoring-of-my-wares for Livejournal” melting pot of stuff, I dunno. I need something to say on here, not just blog about how my day went. Which is why I drag ass when making posts. I mean, fuck. Check my drafts folder:

If there was a blog equivalent to that prison from "The Dark Knight Rises", this would be it.
If there was a blog equivalent to that prison from “The Dark Knight Rises”, this would be it.

But this morning? Let’s get personal. Fuck it. Y’all ready?

Wait, I can’t hear you, this is a blog… uh, I’ll just pretend you’re ready, kay?

About a week ago, I was in a car accident and got rear-ended. Stupidity was involved, I wasn’t at fault, just a shitty situation and a case of being in the wrong place in the right time. The guy behind us (of course, in a vehicle that could shred my poor Mazda 323 into tinfoil by just beeping the horn) didn’t break fast enough, claimed he “didn’t see us”, and smashed the back of our car. The boot no longer closes, shit, I don’t even have the car anymore. Waiting on the insurance payout… Whenever that happens (bureaucracy, am I right?).

To add some cherries and chocolate sprinkles to this particular shit sundae, this happened merely MONTHS after I just got a new car thanks to my previous one being written off under similar circumstances (going through a roundabout and someone ELSE’S car got rear-ended straight into the front of ours)

And the little crumbly-ass wafer? My partner, Kim, was injured in the process and now needs physio ’cause of whiplash.

While she’s a big grown up and can take care of herself, I have this idea that it’s my job to protect my beloved from the various ails of the world. I mean, I’m the big manly boyfriend, right? That’s my damn job.

(yes, fat no-talent asshole me referred to myself as “manly”. Yes, I’m aware in non-internet-land, Nikki Webster is more manly than me. Stop fucking laughing)

Point is, take your pot-shots at me if you must, assholes of the world, but NOBODY injures my girlfriend in a car accident… Or something like that.

So I’m at the shit cafe, and the shit waitress (made of shit, her service was impeccable) just served me this shit sundae. I’m angry. Livid. Perhaps even feeling a little shit outta luck in that self-serving “why does this shit happen to ME” sorta way, and heck, upset. Given the loss of the previous car and now this one, right before shooting a movie (again, of course) it almost seems like the payout is totally not worth it. I understand accidents happen, don’t get me wrong. This WAS an accident and I’ve been on the giving end of plenty of ’em myself, but like many, could have been avoided.

I could have been faster on the uptake and sped like a fuckin’ demon to safety, missing my intended turnoff entirely and thus delaying my journey by a whopping five minutes.

The guy could have, you know, been paying attention and not run into us.

I could have whacked more insurance on the car so at least it’d cover some repairs.

The guy, well, could have not hit us. I dunno what else he could have done, really.

I guess the moral of this sob story is “don’t fuck with me, I’ll rant about you in my blog and parade your effigy around the internet for all to see”, and maybe a little bit of Smokey the Bear-inspired “Only YOU can prevent car accidents”, but fuckit. I just wanted once last rant before I put this fucker to bed entirely. Looking back, both Kim and I are relieved that it wasn’t much, much, worse. Had buddy-guy didn’t break, fucker woulda wiped us out completely, push us into oncoming traffic, who knows? I could have been typing this using a straw poking out of a dismembered limb.

Come to think of it, that sounds kinda badass. But then I think that “A Serbian Film” is worth watching at least once, purely for the technical aspects. So perhaps I’m not the best one to ask here.

Till next time.

RIP, The People’s Poet.

A good man died recently. Aged 56.

Well, I say a “good man”, he was a bit of a bastard. But in the best way possible. Because he was fucking great at it.

While Kevin Smith was crucial in my life in the fact that his body of work helped me fine-tune my own writing style and voice, Rik Mayall taught me one very simple thing:

“snot-flicking calling people twats and farts are funny. and being repeatedly hit over the head with a frying pan is fucking hilarious”.


My Rik Mayall introduction story of course started in part with “Drop Dead Fred”. Before that it was with “Grim Tales”, in which Mayall sat in a bipedal chair and recounted stories such as “Hansel and Gretel”, “Rumpelstiltskin” and “The Bremen Town Musicians”.


Later on was The Young Ones (which led to my fondness of Adrian Edmonson and an impromptu recreation of the opening scene from the episode “Bomb” in 8th grade drama class with highschool chum, Daniel) and Bottom. My first experience of which was the live show, Hooligans Island.


Obviously the likes of Mayall had some lasting effect. Because I’m almost bloody 30 and farts, calling people twats and snot-flicking is still worth a decent chuckle.

While I’m not way into the style of humour that Mayall did these days, It was what it was: Vulgar, in-your-face, brash and oftentimes just plain dumb. Honestly? I wouldn’t have it any other way. That and he proved his “serious” acting chops in Johnathan Creek and the occasional Drop Dead Fred scene, so as far as I was concerned, he can do whatever the fuck he wanted and I’ll laugh it up, guaranteed.

Even if it was “just plain dumb”, his comedic timing was razor-sharp and even the smallest of facial expressions were so finely tuned that he could do them in his fucking sleep if he wanted. If you looked up “slapstick” or “physical actor” in the dictionary, there’d be this mug as the fucking centrefold:

I'm convinced this was just his normal face, really.
I’m convinced this was just his normal face, really.

I could bang on and on and on about how wonderful it was to have a childhood – no, a fucking life enriched by Rik Mayall, but honestly? It all comes down to the following:

Rik, thanks for all the laughs, the tears (mostly from laughing) and the punches in the bollocks, hits with frying pans, and the two-fingered salute. My life would have never been the same without you, you mad bastard.


Till next time


Obligatory Rolf Harris Post.

I don’t normally keep up with current events on here. Mostly because it takes me ages to write a post and the ship has well and truly sailed by the time I get around to finishing it. But given this has been talked about, is being talked about, and will be talked about in weeks, perhaps months to come, I’ll be in the clear (I hope).

I’ve always had -even well into my Kevin Smith-lovin’ mid-to-late 20’s – a casual admiration of the talented, bizarre and far-too-Australian-for-his-own-good Rolf Harris. Be it the kitschy music, the cartooning, the fact he invented his own quasi-instrument, or the fact he was so immensely ingrained in my childhood that really, he was hard to get rid of entirely even when I grew older. Kinda like Stockholm Syndrome by proxy.

There’s also the fact that this exists, which -despite the murky details of what I’m about to get into, will always amuse the fuck out of me:

So, somehow I emerged from under my rock this week and found out the dude was convicted on all twelve charges of sexual assault.

Well, shit.

Perhaps I should have joined the corral of “yep, he’s fuckin’ guilty” early on and save myself the embarrassment. Cause y’know what? I thought he’d be acquitted, that the charges were falsified, that it was just a shitty time in the man’s life due to a huge misunderstanding and he’d be back on his feet soon enough, kinda like a greying, moustachio’d Michael Jackson who spent more time talking about pegs and tying kangaroos than moonwalking. I mean, it’s Rolf fuckin’ Harris! Surely he’s not ‘that guy’ is he?

Turns out, he was. Just like the Hey Dad guy. Man, what is it with people I’m familiar with from my childhood being ‘that guy’? Is nothing sacred?

I suppose I should be glad justice was served, but honestly? I just feel lied to and was fed a hearty three-course-meal of bullshit. I watched the videos, told strangers that my body was mine, made my own ad-hoc wobbleboard from a piece of thick cardboard until Dad threw it out, drew along with the cartooning tutorials and thought his version of ‘Stairway’ was as good as the original. I drank the Kool-aid and was a proud, card-carrying devout member of The Cult of Rolf, all for what? To find out well after the fact that the dude was way into young girls, to the point where just admiring the man for who he was is a futile exercise, because who he was isn’t exactly great, either.

It’s a sad, unfortunate, damn mess and I don’t like it one bit.

I guess there’s still a tiny part of me that still believes that he’s innocent, it was all a big conspiracy and he’s being convicted for the wrong reasons. That said, that part of me also believes that more than six people read this blog, that hoverboards exist and ‘The Man’ is just stashing them away in a big government vault, and I’m capable of being the next Neil Gaiman, so I’ve learned not to put too much blind faith into it. I guess it’s only protecting myself and that -in the immortal words of Jack Nicholson, I can’t handle the truth. So here we are now. Knowing rationally, that even childhood heroes are capable of some pretty evil fuckin’ things.

Tell you what though, if I see Don Spencer’s name in anything even remotely in a negative light involving children, Just grab me a bottle of spirits and hook me up to the memory-erasey machine from Eternal Sunshine and the Spotless Mind, ’cause I am fucking done with my childhood.

Till next time.