The Cuck Tower: Because Fuck You

By R.F. 

Just as the Dark Tower is the nexus of the multiverse, so Hollywood is the nexus of the Cuckverse. It is said that two of the biggest killers of men are Heart Disease and Cancer. Hollywood is the number one killer of white men. Recently the Cuck Machine churned out the sour feminist cream known as Ghostbusters, a film designed to not only give the fans the big “fuck you,” but to also give white men a gargantuan fuck you, full of bitter girth. There seems to be this trend forming like fungi from the damp corners of unoriginality; the trend of gender swapping and race swapping for no other reason than “fuck you.” For a good many years I have been a big fan of Stephen King’s The Dark Tower Saga and waiting for the film adaptation has been more grueling than going through testicular cancer.

Recently news has been sprouting from the Internet, tales of an adaptation finally coming to fruition, but instead of a film that will appeal to its very dedicated cult fan base, what we have a race swapped cuckfest. Why? Because “fuck you.” In brief The Dark Tower focuses on Roland, a gunslinger akin to Clint Eastwood’s Man with No Name. He is very much like a medieval knight, except instead of a sword he carries two imposing six shooters. His quest in the novels is to reach the Dark Tower, the lynchpin of all existence, binding the multiverse together. In the novels (and comics) he is portrayed as a white man with striking blue eyes (his defining feature). He also has a companion, Jake, a white boy with blond hair and blue eyes. In the film adaptation Idris Elba has been cast as Roland and some unknown cast as Jake. Roland is a black male and Jake is a white boy with dark hair and dark eyes. Why? Why was there a sudden need to drastically alter the appearances of these characters? Because “fuck you”

Idris Elba is a fine actor, but this is not a role for him, in fact the studio has completely wasted the potential to hire an actor suited for the role. For me Scott Eastwood would have been perfect, considering Roland was inspired by his ProudBoy father Clint Eastwood. As for Jake’s casting I am not really fussed, but it seems suspicious that two characters from the novels, both white and with blue eyes, have been changed. There seems to be this blatant disregard for fans in the media today. The lesser man may accuse me of being a racist/sexist fool, but it’s not about race/sex per se, I don’t care if there are films with predominantly black or female casting, what I do care about are treasured sources of films or books with deep rooted fans being fucked with to try and force some cuckolded political and sycophantic agenda upon the people, and mainly the youth, because it’s the kids who absorb this bitter medicine, they are the ones who will grow up in a society where white men are openly humiliated and told they are worthless because of their “privilege.”

This is what Hollywood “fuck you” machine is doing, they are engaging in the systematic destruction of the straight white male. They are not striving for equality, as they would have you believe. Why else would there be films and TV shows constantly portraying white men as lesser members of the species when confronted with either a woman or black male? Because “fuck you.” That’s why.

The Dark Tower will be another example of Hollywood trying desperately to please the black masses while simultaneously putting forth the message that the white man is no longer relevant. Despite all I have written I still look forward to watching the film, out of interest more than anything. Stephen King is the reason I became a writer, but in more recent years I have had to separate the man from his work since he has proved himself to be one of them; the cucked. I lost major respect for him when he okayed the casting of Idris, stating that race was not important. How can he do that to his own child? A black man didn’t just fuck his wife; a black man fucked his child. He also stated he was given free rein to edit the script, yet did not write in bold letters across the front ROLAND IS NOT BLACK. Because “fuck you.”

It’s a shame, I’ll always respect his work, but I cannot abide his politics. The Cuck Tower is to be released on February 17th 2017, I highly recommend reading the novels.

Miscreant Mammaries

By R.F.

As the great philosopher once said: “Women. Are. Dirty.”

And he couldn’t be more right, but women are not just dirty, they are crazy too, some more than others. Men who have been caught in the maelstrom of degenerate sexual insanity often affectionately refer to these women as “crazy pussy.” I am one of those men.

There is something quite endearing about a woman who is willing to suck her own menstrual blood off your cock, but in that moment when she smiled and I saw an almost brown blood clot on her lip, I knew this one suffered from deep seated issues. What made the situation more grotesque is that I went in for the kiss, despite that dreaded mass of coagulation on her mouth. In the heat of the moment you forgive such an act of sin, and the taste of copper in your saliva.

Crazy pussy, for all intents and purposes, is the best pussy, a damaged woman with no self worth knows how suck a dick because deep down they know they have nothing more to offer the world, but even though the sex may be out of this world, crazy pussy is not something you want to wed.

During my sexual exploits I like to throw out some weird requests, or set up weird scenarios, this is how you get to find out what the woman is really like. I asked one of my exes if I could sniff her asshole like a dog, she replied with yes. One night after a few drinks sitting around naked, she went to the toilet to relieve herself, I decided to surprise her by walking into the bathroom and pissing all over her while she was on the toilet. What ensued was a debased session of nasty sex that involved me sticking my nose into her asshole and sniffing it like a rabid hound.

Crazy pussy enjoys being humiliated, that is why they call us Daddy and let us defile them in ways that sometimes seem too pornographic. I have been with plenty of crazy women in my life, and will probably keep falling into their trap for another few years, they make you feel alive and young, the wild sex invigorates the soul and their low self esteem means you can do pretty much whatever you want to them, so long as it’s consensual. This makes you feel powerful, up until the point you empty your bollocks onto their chest.

Don’t make the mistake of trying to wife these women though; they will drag you into their depraved pit of depression and self-loathing. Falling in love with them is easy because their intense passion in the bedroom can ensnare any man, but the will to resist is a form of discipline that develops over time. They are free spirits doomed to float through life in a deluded haze. Their miscreant mammaries bring temporary happiness to those seeking some shameless adventures to fulfil their devious needs. They come in many guises but watch out for those who dye their hair diverse whacky colours on a regular basis, this is a clear sign of someone with a fickle nature and incessant daddy issues.

Whether it be them telling you they want to wear your skin, or curling into a ball midway through sex and talking about how their dad upsets them sometimes, you will never have a dull moment with crazy pussy, but ultimately marry someone who hasn’t eaten their own vomit off a guy’s dick.

Multiculturalism Works…If you’re a Dribbling Spastic

By R.F.

When you introduce different ethnicities from a wide variety of cultures there is bound to be a lot of tension. Culture tends to have deep roots spanning across generations, with it comes particular ideas and customs, specific types of behaviour within the society and traditions that cannot and should not be compromised. This is why Wars are fought, why certain crimes exist in society today and why Islam cannot integrate into the Western World, but there is one place where social groups comprised of multiple ethnicities and cultures can co-exist: special needs groups. Or spastic societies if you’re inclined to use a more vulgar term.

Most mornings on my leisurely stroll into work I witness what could be considered an almost utopian scenario unfold before me: a group of mentalists trying to cross the road, each one holding hands, aiding their fellow brother and sister in the monumental task of trying not to get annihilated by a moving vehicle. What makes this scene more tear inducing is the fact that they all come from different ethnic backgrounds. It always seems to me that when I see these groups of adult friends consisting of more than three different racial groups, there is an 80% chance they come from an institute for the mentally deranged. Their faces may be contorted in that same retarded manner, the vacant globules of their eyes all tell the same story of the mentally handicapped, a story their decrepit minds cannot quite comprehend, yet their skin colours are different. The cultural roots of these subhumans vary completely, but here they are existing in a kind of outlandish harmony many of us will never experience.

This is integration at its peak. For the average human mind, one riddled with intellect and self awareness, integrating into another culture can be foreboding and can oft times turn violent, this is evident with gangs of Muslim men raping Western women in countries like Sweden and the United Kingdom, yet if you were to cripple the minds of people from barbaric and incompatible cultures and soften them into retardation, you would find their integration would become a far less strenuous process.

I have noticed a trend recently of these multicultural groups of dribbling spastics sauntering through the city I live in like benign zombies. I look at some of them and think: “your ancestors would have tossed you off a cliff at birth, and now you’re here today leading the example of a United world.” Multiculturalism is a zeppelin waiting to burst into flames and come crashing down on society, but there is a vague glimmer of hope within these groups that it can work. Those with mental retardation have no concept of race or religion; they care not about the petty squabbles of “muh racism” and “muh feminism.” All they probably care about is making it through another day without shitting themselves in public.

Being Alt-right on a Dating Site

By R.F. 

The online dating world is a septic tank full of degeneracy, desperation, snobbery, and humiliation. Not to mention the old women who still delude themselves into believing they are in their 20s and think they can still be picky with their men, and they all seem to fall on the left side of the political spectrum. So if your Plenty of Fish headline is: “Could you be the highlight of my alt-right?” don’t be surprised when the only messages you get are from disgusting fat wombats who have no redeeming features whatsoever. You can’t fuck a bubbly personality. In the U.K. every woman I have come across on dating sites seems to be left wing. I’ve had messages that ask gobsmacked questions such as:
“Are you really a Brexit voting Trump supporter?”

It’s the kind of consternation you would expect to hear from someone asking if there are really inter-dimensional child molesters running the world. They think people like me are mythical beings they only hear about on the Internet and the news. My answer is always the same:

“Lol yes.”

Then I receive no reply, as they are probably too busy sweating intensely at such a beastly individual like me. They have lived in a bubble of beta male cucks for so long that when faced with such controversial alpha opinions they melt down into putrefied puddles of confused vitriol.

I foolishly engaged in a “debate” with a wench from London, 22 years old, about Donald Trump and why I support him. Over an hour of my life was wasted in this vain crusade trying to explain to her how she is wrong. Her comments quickly deteriorated into typical left wing insults like:

“You talk a load of bollocks”

And:

“He’s vile, racist, sexist, and every other ‘ist’ that exists”

And my personal favourite:

“You’re just brainwashed, it’s a shame because I liked you.”

She told me she wasn’t in the mood for a debate, yet she was the one who instigated it. This is an archetypal reaction from the left, when faced with intelligence and passion they crumble and resort to childish mockery or just plainly give up with no shame, yet they still maintain the notion that they have won the debate. In my futile attempt to still get some pussy I explained that politics did not need to factor into our discussions. She signed off with:

“I’ll think about it but I don’t really want you near my child with those views.”

I signed off with:

“You have a child? LOL Goodbye.”

And that was that.

The online dating world seems to have changed since I had last traversed its decadent depths. There used to be a time when hooking up with some fairly attractive slag from Tinder or Plenty of Fish for a casual fuck was easy, but now it seems to be only the horrid hogs wanting to shag. Maybe it’s all due to my political attitudes changing, and the fact that I am very open about it. There is this moral high ground these left wing women take when it comes to fucking a Trump supporter, like it’s an abhorrent act of treason against their soul, like Trump has for real grabbed their pussy and nothing they do will ever scrub it clean. They do not care about the fact I voted Brexit, that doesn’t even process in their minds, they focus only on the Trump aspect, and as one wench said to me:

“If you support that monster then you obviously support Farage.”

It’s like you have known me your entire life darling, let’s get married and on our wedding night I’ll alternate between a Trump mask and a Farage mask and pummel you like Daddy’s little slut.

 

Seething Situations: The Race Card

By R.F.

BAM! There it is, staring with bleak indifference upon your gobsmacked face. The Race Card. The perfect weapon when it comes to getting what you want as a member of an ethnic group other than Caucasian. If the Race Card is pulled out during a situation where the environment is relaxed, for example: a social gathering or an urine soaked bus journey, then you would be well within your rights to give that cheeky bugger a damn good verbal thrashing. But what happens if a customer at your place of work pulls out the Race Card?

You seethe.

What you are about to read is the first in an ongoing series of articles known as Seething Situations. In this series I will regale you with tales from my life and other people’s lives where we have had to seethe like turbulent vats of poisonous broth, and in telling these stories I hope to pass on some wisdom to those with a more trigger happy and troublesome attitude to certain situations where Life just fancies being a bit of a cunt.

First of all I should begin with this: Once upon a time there was a bearded fella who worked in a theatre. You may think that the world of theatre is mainly dominated by SJWs, fags, and women, and you would be right about the latter two, but in the theatre where I work most of my immediate colleagues are pretty right wing in their political views, which works to my advantage on certain occasions. Around six months ago we had a nightmare customer, the kind of deliberate, obnoxious, bloated mass of flesh you would love to see boil in a tank of putrid sewage. For legal reasons I cannot name the customer in question, but I will call him Rohan Dogsbody for the sake of argument. Dogsbody is a Sikh gentleman who came to watch a show around six months ago, he left halfway through due an argument with his wife whom he claims was divorcing him. He complained his experience was marred by this altercation and was told by an usher he could receive a refund in voucher form and two free tickets to another show. This was not the usher’s job to say such a thing, but nevertheless we had to honour it, and honour it we did. From the start we knew something did not smell quite right about Mr Dogsbody, and I’m not referring to the contents of his turban either. He had lied about the way in which he had paid for his tickets, but we initially chalked this up to forgetfulness. As far as we were concerned the matter was settled.

Two months went by and he reached out again claiming he had not received a refund voucher, nor his two free tickets. I was not involved in this particular exchange of words but I immediately remembered his name when one of my colleagues told me of his angry phone call. According to my colleague he hung up after saying he was going to take it further.

All was quiet on the Southern front.

Another two months peeled away from the calendar (see a pattern emerging?), my colleague Laura answered a phone call and was greeted by the sound of Mr Dogsbody telling her he was due a refund and two free tickets that he wanted to use for an upcoming West End show. Laura is a timid creature and would not really say boo to a goose, unless she was wound up to the point of mental implosion, but it was apparent from her demeanour she did not want to deal with the call. Upon hearing the dreaded name of Mr Dogsbody I immediately told her what to say to him, in my excitement I unloaded a diatribe about Mr Rohan Dogsbody. Laura sternly held the phone out to me. I snatched it out of her grasp and as I hit the resume call button I felt this surge of adrenaline flow through me and my asshole puckered in anticipation of a confrontation. Mr Dogsbody was pleasant enough to begin with, he walked me through his situation in a condescending tone as I nodded and made gestures with my hand that suggested he was yapping on a little too much for his own good. I knew what was coming so I retorted in a calm and collected manner, affecting a posh accent to add an air of superiority. In customer service you’ll do anything to keep yourself entertained.

He denied that any action had been taken on our part. I pulled up his customer account on our ticketing system (all of the details on that account had been confirmed by Dogsbody when we issued the refund voucher six months ago). I gave him the name on the account and the address and read to him which shows he had attended since the night of his complaint. He told me that name on the account was not his wife’s (even though I never mentioned it was his wife) and the address was incorrect, that it was number 20 Bollocks Lane, not number 15 Bollocks Lane.

“You can come over right now and see for yourself,” he said.

I laughed and gracefully declined in a sarcastic tone.

He told me he was “taking it to the wire” and going to the local news about this abysmal behaviour.

The phone conversation was into its twentieth minute at this point and I was growing bored with this conversation, as you have grown bored of this article I imagine.

I stuck to my guns and was at the point of giving him the administration contact details and terminating the call when he did it. He whipped out his greasy fucking Race Card and flashed it in my face like some obscene brown phallus.

“You have been very, very rude to me and quite frankly very racist…”

I didn’t give this rag headed bastard a chance to finish. I told him I was terminating the call and had never heard such a heinous accusation in all my life. I slammed down the phone and muttered “cunt” under my breath. My colleagues voiced their concern for me and said I did a great job of handling the situation. Maybe I exacerbated it. Who gives a fuck?

For the rest of that wretched shift I seethed.

Upon using the Race Card I felt the armies of vitriol mustering inside me, preparing for a full-scale attack on Mr Dogsbody. I wanted to tell him that he is the reason why racism exists, not because people are actually racist, but because people like him used it as an excuse to get something for nothing. I could have said he is a miserable excuse for a human being and should have been tossed in the canal with the rest of his wretched kind at birth. You want racism buddy? You got it! I wanted to say how funny I found it was that a British born Sikh man (he accent proved that much to me) was using the Race Card when, apart from his religion, he is probably just as white as I am. What shocked me most was that a member of the Sikh religion was systematically lying and harassing staff members to get free tickets and a refund that he had already claimed six months ago. From the way he spoke I would have sworn he was Jewish.

But instead I seethed, as difficult as it is for me to seethe in a situation where someone’s deliberate stupidity is displayed in such a way, and I am proud of that. I went to the gym, pumped some hard iron, and beat the savage fuck out of the punching bag and reflected upon the moments that had transgressed. Mr Dogsbody seems to be a creature of habit, so I suspect he will return in two months and this seething saga will start all over again.

I could have found myself provoked into a situation that probably would have found its way into the local news, thus exposing me as some kind of racist bigot, thus getting me sacked from my job. Luckily I have strong ties with my colleagues so the latter may not have come to fruition, and I suppose being featured in the local news as a racist bigot could have worked to my advantage. It could have been an official initiation into the alt-right…

Hang on. I need to make a quick call.