An Ode to the Man Haters

Mandatory Note: I wrote this piece when I was a little peeved with a certain “type” of woman. I tempered my intense frustration at that time with the following humor. I recommend it be read in what I would call a Scottish or Irish or Old English dialect (I am too much of an idiot to diffrentitate these for this one writing, and no offense is intended towards any of these various waring factions by lumping them together in my dialect soup!) . This piece can be delivered as an angry attack or as a somber statement of some harsh, yet accurate observations of human (specifically femanine) behavior. I advise delivery and reception of such in the latter mindset. Some will think this an attack on all women or their collective spirit and try to redefine it inaccurately as such. In truth, it is a heartfelt declaration of the most devout respect and honor for all of the true (Queenly) women within our midst. And sooner or later, I am sure a balancing Ode to Woman Haters will grace the pages of this blog. Enjoy and judge as ye will.          

Awaken, oh man haters, to the truth.

 

Your conquering conquest and excuses to demean, weaken and subjugate man, in his independent will, spirit, objective thought and appropriate interactive dominance, fail to shroud thy true essence; an insecure, neurotic, self loathing creature who is unable to deny the fact that somewhere in the chasms of her perpetually isolated and abstinent heart, that she is alone and in misery because she is truly a wretched back-stabbing, selfish, sadistic creature, unworthy of love, attention and admiration.

 

Oh man haters, how thou must not look upon a mirror, to see thyself standing alone. How thou must not open thine ears to the words of the undeniable truth that terrifies thine fictional fabricated existence.

 

Oh how thou welcome the weak, decrepit man of apathy, ignorance and incompetence, of poor mind and submissive yearning, to rally to thy side, to be thy proclaiming champion of delusional self-stultifying behavior and action.

 

Oh how thee gather the worst amongst us men, to seek ye out reason, of such loose tongue and empty hand, to judge unyieldingly, by standards raised higher than the head of God, the best of our numbers. And all of this whilst thee pat thine obedient pet of a man upon his head and proclaim “good lad” for being such an inept, four legged creature of broken posture and of eyes that hath been taught to cherish only thine whimsical decrees of attention and torture.

 

Powder thy wig, mask thee face, tighten thy corset and pretend thee pretend not, to be who thou art. Thou pet may bow, though a man shall not. Thine efforts in so much vain; the tightest corset, the finest wig and the most delicately applied face, only illustrating the tricks of the courtesans’ trade in a more flamboyant and flagrant fashion. Though painted, bundled and brushed, a Queen thou art not and even in thy measures of make-believe, thou fail most miserably in the art of the imposter. It is a gruesome, ill-fated masquerade to look upon.        

And thou men of honor, thou knights of chivalry and integrity, who follow oaths of honesty, find it hard not to raise sword and shield against such wicked deception; the ways of the man hater witch, which dishonor all Knights, all Queens, all Kings, and the entire nature of the Court and the Castle and the Grounds; even the beasts which roam about suffer from the iniquity of this idolatrous egocentric witchcraft. But in patience and foresight, the most efficient application of energies of an honorable Knight sometimes transforms itself into thine expedient energies of the Court Fool, where sword and shield art not the most apt means to vanquish such an imbecilic and doltish enemy, abounding about absent of wit and reason, whilst exuberant in cornucopic boisterous bravado.

 

Oh a Machiavellian heart and soul, lacking utterly in actual aptitude, poses no bona fide peril except the probable exsanguination of its own chambers.

 

The thief of always and a friend of the Fool, brotherly time, whispers secrets ever constant, that will be heard only by a Knight that shrewdly and sagely, stills thy hand and sheathes thy sword; the most efficient means of impaling art not the sword and shield of the honorable Paladin, but rather the splintered bone, jagged nail and filed incisors of the succubi themselves which hath been transmogrified, denatured and barbed by the indigenous grindstone of perpetual hellfire which erupts in racking tantrums from its furnace of infinite volatile insanity.     

 

For whenst the boogeyman of a man hath been removed, thee will eat and macerate thy own.

The feast of madness and misery, without a course complete in the consumption of a man, who walketh only upon legs of two and waits not for lashings or saddle, turns evermore, as fate decrees it must, to the gnawing upon of thine own forked tongue, even as it is tightly wound about those other slithering serpent tongues of thine own venomous house of hidden fang.

Oh thee serpents writhe in agony without the hearty blood of good meat to satiate their wanton bellies, for no other dish distracts their palate so much from their odiferous, purulent saliva, which bathes their fangs and words and breath, without respite.

Though lacking the merriment of such delectable digestion of those days defunct, these creatures of hate must still consume and never rest, for that is the vile compulsion of their nature. Thus, those twiners of tongue will gulp and choke and scream as hate shifts its predatory eyes away from honor and integrity, to focus anew upon its own doppelganger; then, hate will consume hate, serpent will swallow serpent, witch will bewitch witch, harlot will hang harlot, despot will defile despot and succubi will sodomize succubi.

 

The coven’s cauldron will bubble and boil with putrid incestuous spoils until the last man hater gobbles down the globes of her own vision, gnaws off the stump of her own tortuous tongue and slurps up all of the loose, slithering, reptilian skin which slides about upon her digits, to sheathe and unsheathe, her own, misshapen claws.

 

And the world, though never to be made perfect, will still be incomparably ameliorated, once the man haters have cannibalized themselves into oblivion.

 

Heed my words and mark the marks of my quill. I proclaim not, nor approach the suggestion that every damsel or maiden or lady or lass is a man hater witch, only that the witches are numerous in number and that they lurk about, hiding their true faces from us all, as they practice their dark arts.    

 

A man, who hath a mind and sight, distinguishes the difference most readily between fiend and Queen.   As the fiend fiercely solicits such warranted and deserved vitriol and condemnation to the doorstep of her dark, dank deception, the Queen’s countenance elicits, even more eagerly so, public proclamations of pronounced praise, the compulsory revealing of the utmost reverent respect and the decreeing of an eternal declaration of such devout dedication that its extension extinguishes every ounce of doubt regarding conjecture.            

    

Whilst the succubi shroud themselves in numbers of reinforcement, to move not as ones responsible and accountable, but as a flock of birds or a school of fish or a scurry of rats; so cowardly in singular purpose and so fearful to be uninsulated with exposed insecurity, yet so imbued with invigorating herdly conviction of blind poppycock purpose and pretense, a Queen stands contentedly and assuredly in independent attendance, surrounded only by the aura of her own presence, for she needs not to be flanked by the illusion of numbers, nor surrounded by submissives that self-deceptively prompt her psyche with fanciful and contrived notions that she hath conquered minions through her dominant devious trickery and astuteness. 

 

A Queen is not of a school or a flock or a scurry; a Queen is not one of a number, for she stands outside of numbers; a Queen is not a liar, nor a deceiver, nor a manipulator; a Queen does not desecrate the temple of her own body; a Queen holds never the council of vermin or serpent or weasel; a Queen needs not wig, nor corset, nor painted face; a Queen suffers not narcissistic celebration of either truth or untruth whilst concurrently, never cringing nor cowering from her own scrupulous, revealing reflection; a Queen hath no need to contort the spine of Knight, nor King, nor even, other Queen; a Queen hires no henchmen to do her bidding; a Queen understands the limits, and the honor, and the importance of the true truth; a Queen looks not at but one blade of grass or but one tree, for she retains sight of ye fields and ye forest for the sake of all; a Queen seeks, desires and accepts the council of all the Knights, Paladins, fellow Queens and Kings, for she knows the value of such council and court is greater than the value of her own pride and glorification; a Queen seeks not a kingdom of weaker souls subjugated by blind obedience to her unwise philosophy and proclamations; a Queen art not a coward and she does not hide in cracks or crevices, nor under mask and costume; a Queen does not whore herself out in a brothel built on excuses, falsehood and back stabbing, to fall a man whose worth she will never equal under any circumstance.                       

 

A Knight, Paladin and King will reverently kneel at the foot of a Queen whilst defending her and her kingdom against the endless hoards of hell, for honor is the bond that binds them together; it is the bond of a Kingdom and the bond of natural order.

 

Ye man hater witches, ye succubi and ye courtesans, know not honor, nor the bond of a Kingdom, nor the bond of natural order. Ye whores art hell spawn, never to understand such devout and reverent principles of respect and purpose. Ye enrich only hell in its infernic misery, for thy necrotic myocardium, thy spineless form and thy soulless spirit, art capable only of mimicry when dwelling outside the gates of the nether world; such atrocious, cloven-footed, malicious, Mephistophelian monsters art simply incapable of even feigning they possess the slightest hint of philanthropy, whilst in their act of mimicry, except for the most terse of terms. 

 

Thou art only deserving of thine own isolated prison with thyself serving as thy own jailer and torturer. Thou merit most accordingly to look only upon thy own reflection in thy cell of self and see thyself in thy true undeniable form forever more.

 

 

Me (Cribb), from my Castle and Kingdom          2013

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