You can’t lie to your testicles. You can neglect them, ignore them, tuck them back into the enlightened mangina of the non-judgmental modern male – but the rationalizations that ease your gynecologic mind will never pass muster with the one part of you that cannot be separated from nature. So keep wearing your cause bracelets, keep pissing away Saturdays at breast cancer awareness walks, keep “Liking” clichéd women’s empowerment links posted to Facebook by chicks you’ll never fuck, and keep expressing concern for the comfort of the rare broad that actually lets you penetrate her instead of monkeyfucking her like she wants you to. Because no matter how deep into the ocean of western civilized emasculation you sink – you’ll still feel an uncomfortable sensation deep within yourself. An immutable voice warning that something is wrong – that you’re drowning. An outstretched hand ready to guide you to the surface… and slap you in the face and call you a fag for not being able to swim. It’s not your gut talking; it’s your nuts talking. Their message is as follows:
Hey fuckface, remember us? How many more decades can you ignore us for? When the kindergarten bully stole your milk, we said punch him in the face: you sacked out. When Sarah Allerdice showed you her fun parts in third grade, we said drop your dong: you sacked out. When they announced high school football tryouts, we said go light fools up: you sacked out. When the frat brother slapped a beer out of your hand freshman year, we said line him up and punt him in the face: you sacked out. When your barren-wombed bitch manager sat you down for your first annual entry-level job review and said you weren’t pulling your $26k worth of weight, we said tell her to stop taking out her inability to conceive on her subordinates, shave seventeen pounds of cellulite off her ass, and tone down her general cuntishness, then quit and strut out of the building like Ric Flair: you sulked back to your cubicle and sacked out. And when your chunky, banana-titted girlfriend gave you the ultimatum to propose or have access to her perma-dry vagina indefinitely suspended, we told you to snicker condescendingly, walk out the door, and never look back: you got on one knee, put a big shiny debt on her fat finger, and sacked the fuck out. So where does it end? We were put here to pillage and plunder, not be held hostage to the whims of entitled women and busybody bosses. For your entire life, we’ve tried inspiring you to compete, excel, penetrate, and orgasm. Yet you’ve repaid our inspiration with cowardice, placation, and internet masturbation. And the few times you’ve actually achieved insertion, you’ve committed the ultimate testicular betrayal and blown our sacred juice into a condom. Testicle Handbook Rule 1: Thou shalt only blow loads upon faces. Bitch.
Like it or not, as goes manhood, so goes society. If Generation OPP doesn’t unravel the last tattered threads of civilization, the phantom-nut affliction of an ever-increasing number of masculinized women certainly will. Once the fempocalypse is complete and the societal separation of mind and sack is achieved, the spermless wasteland of limp noncompetitiveness that remains will be uninhabitable for any surviving man capable of achieving erection and woman capable of self-lubrication. Good luck bringing sexy back to the post-testicle world of submissive male apologists and Hillary Clinton fembots.
Dealing with women in formal slacks on a daily basis is excruciating enough, but nothing wears on the masculine soul like spending forty hours per week surrounded by men complicit in their own repression. One man after another; the absence of testosterone evidenced in his dead eyes and sunken shoulders. Defeatedly he feigns the motions of existence, dreading his workday almost as much as the evening that follows, during which he’ll commute in a debtmobile to a four-bedroom debt-trap where a semi-faithful debtress awaits his arrival with a day’s worth of bickering on her tongue and nothing in the oven, hurrying him to taxi the debt-spawn produced by their lackluster love making to its tongue thrust therapy appointment to cure its crippling speech impediment. Know who’ll never eat pussy? A boy that needs tongue thrust therapy. A boy whose dad herds himself through the day like a castrated sheep; tucking a short-sleeved button-down shirt into pleated pants with a waist that outmeasures length by eight inches; speaking in pre-approved sound bites designed to offend no one with their meaninglessness; averting his eyes from female passers-by to avoid tempting the wrath of the alpha-victim-cunt.
Seriously 20-something guy I work with pissing at the urinal next to me? You’re talking to me about the weather? The fucking weather? Do you even have a dick or have you just developed urinal-worthy aim with your vaginal urethra? Look at me. I’m a fucking man. I though you were, too. But men don’t talk about the weather with their dick in their hand – or ever. We both just saw that perfectly manicured Russian sexbomb in knee-high fuckboots out in the lobby, and instead of laughing about fucking her ‘til she cries “Capitalism,” you’re laying the ten-day Weather.com forecast on me? You looked me in the eye, dick-in-hand, and actually said “weather.com.” Fuck you. Why won’t you acknowledge that Soviet snatch? Hard nine, fresh out of the Eastern Bloc, just cruising for green card dick, and when I confide in you my willingness to swan dive straight between her asscheeks all you can do is chuckle nervously, zip up your droopy pants, and scurry out of the pisser? I can hear the screams of your testicles from here. Your left nut just called you an apple woman.
I hate this shit. I spend more time checking out if other dudes are checking out tits and asses than I do checking out actual tits and asses, because I’m forever dismayed by the percentage of assholes that now refuse to acknowledge the presence of ass. Men no longer allow themselves to partake in ritual maleness even inside their own heads. No longer are we simply dealing with politically correct placation; individual males, unto themselves, now willfully deny their own essence in the face of righteous female hindquarters. And we wonder why nine out of ten boys have lisps.
Maybe I’m crazy. Maybe I’m the odd man out. Maybe I was just fortunate to have a contrarian prick for a dad and older brothers to give me a sense of maleness beyond my years. But even without the influence of males that dared be male, the influence of my testicles alone was enough to steer me clear from acts of faggotry. Well before I could ever comprehend the subliminal mechanisms at work in human interaction, the pure testicular repulsion I felt seeing other dudes display the slightest degree of pussy whippedness or spinelessness, or commit any act that compromised their testicular integrity was all it took to prevent me from acting similarly. The unbearable nut-punch discomfort of simply witnessing such weakness compelled me to honor my balls. No deep analysis was necessary. When my nuts sounded the bitch siren, my brain received the signal, because I never constructed the typical blockade of dissonance between my nuts and conscience. Such blockades need no longer be built, though, as unmitigated nutlessness is now genetically encoded in male DNA.
The reactive weapon engineered to combat the war on nuts is the internet niche known as the “manosphere.” This is an expanding association of websites and message boards that range from those pointing up and lambasting the shortsightedness and double standards of femtards, to pickup artist, or “game” sites that aim to aid nerds and other social misfits in their attempted ascent into normalcy. More simply, it’s a support community for the reintegration of testicles into the lives of their owners. While it is utterly necessary, that a “manosphere” even exists is evidence of the monumental lack of natural maleness plaguing the western world. Think about it. Men have been so psychoemotionally fucked out of their natural state that millions of them now spend time researching maleness in an effort to be what they already are – at least in strict anatomical terms. I applaud these sites – some are phenomenal – but I can’t help cringing at the irony of achieving alpha male status through meticulous research. It strikes me as the lowest act of beta to have to study the Maleness Handbook in an attempt to become alpha. It works, and bless the hearts and cocks of the internet Dr. P’s willing to provide guidance to those that have wandered off the testicular path, but the only reference material you should ever need to be a man is already inside your scrotum.
Nevertheless, the following is my contribution to internet-based instructional maleness, and the best guidance I can offer on escaping your continued testicular disgrace:
If you’ve lost, or never developed, the ability to communicate honestly with your testes, watch the movie Gran Torino and analyze every action you take throughout your life in terms of whether or not Clint Eastwood would call you a pusscake for whatever it is you’re doing. Clint Eastwood is a walking, talking pair of testicles in high-rise slacks. Predicating your actions on what he would think of them will establish a behavior pattern identical to one inspired by your nuts if you could actually hear them. There have been a million uncreative spin-offs of “What Would Jesus Do?” – but following the mantra of “What Would Eastwood Do?” is like self-sourced testosterone replacement therapy. You can try in vain to find an imaginary moral heaven with the former, or, with the latter, you can experience the smellable, tasteable, penetrable pussy heaven here on Earth.
If this is your goal, start asking yourself “What Would Eastwood Do?” and don’t ever stop. If he growls “pusscake;” immediately change your course of action. If he remains stone-faced; proceed. Use this handy chart to monitor your progress:
Congratulations on escaping emasculation and restoring the sanctity of your sack. But you can forget about achieving 100% – there’s only one Eastwood. And it ain’t you, pusscake.
“Respect your efforts. Respect yourself. Self-respect leads to self-discipline. When you have both firmly under your belt, that’s real power.”
- Clint Eastwood