1: MGTOW as Post-peripatetic Therapy

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A few years ago, I started writing a series of articles attempting to isolate the motivations of people who described themselves as Men Going Their Own Way (MGTOW men). After a decade of talking to men in the MGTOW community, running an MGTOW forum (with AfOR), and writing this blog, I’ve come to some conclusions about the teleological pillars of the movement as it exists today.

  1. MGTOW men want to find happiness, in a world that intends for them to become beasts-of-burden.
  2. MGTOW men want to purge themselves, as far as possible of what Karl Marx called ideology, that is, false states of consciousness. MGTOW men thus want to interact with the world as it is.
  3. MGTOW men want to delineate necessary desires, in order to re-configure their lives without worrying about unnecessary desires.
  4. MGTOW men want authentic community.

Earlier I described my conversations with MGTOW men who tended to lean on two schools as the foundations of their personal thought. The Lockean types would likely find support for pillars 1 and 4. The Marxist types would likely find support for pillars 1, 2, and 4. Notable is the fact that none of the theorists that MGTOW men typically call upon is ready or able to discuss pillar 3.

I’ve always found one of the unique aspects of MGTOW thought to be the ability to intuit between necessary and unnecessary desires. For example:

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In this testimonial, an MGTOW man describes his awakening to the unnecessary nature of the desire toward sex and marriage. He goes on to describe this as deeply meaningful, something that has led him to a “tranquil and peaceful life.”

One will note the contrast to the typical game guru, who typically acknowledges marriage and family life as an unnecessary, socially constructed desire, but who will turn around and describe having sex as absolutely necessary to a man’s life. The typical game salesman will not stop there. He’ll often construct phony necessities, such as having sex with a variety of different women. Even a cursory knowledge of history suggests that this is ridiculous. Our grandfathers seemed to be pretty happy, for example, without gaming and banging countless low-quality wimminz at the nightclub every weekend. Far from being “red pilled,” the game gurus who sell these fantasies are the ultimate conformists, who serve to prop up the feminist state by making their gullible acolytes more susceptible to the eroticized advertising that is everywhere present, thanks to corporate culture.

In the next couple of posts, I will continue to argue that this sensitivity to necessity is a unique aspect of MGTOW thought, and I’ll begin to tie this aesthetic imperative to someone who predates modern thought entirely. His name was Epicurus.

0: Introduction

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Men Going Their Own Way (MGTOW) is something that seems to exist. Despite MGTOW’s presence, it seems to have no underlying theory. If I were to ask the average MGTOW dude about the philosophical chassis of MGTOW, I may get an answer. For example:

  1. A guy in the U.S. may quote John Locke and James Madison, and talk about the need to minimalize the state’s intrusion in the lives of men.
  2. A guy in Europe or China may quote E. Belfort Bax, Karl Marx, and G.W.F. Hegel, and talk about the inherent subjugation of men at this stage of our historical development.

These are both high-quality answers, and when I’ve heard them (and I’ve heard them both) I’m impressed by the speaker’s knowledge of the history of human thought, and his willingness to abstract away his own personal issues to talk about general trends. The problem is that while they both seem valid, they’re mutually exclusive and contradictory, and thus neither seems adequate to explain the motives of today’s MGTOW dudes.

Over the course of the next few weeks, I’m going to be looking at general trends prior to modern philosophers (like Hegel and Locke), which may approach a philosophical justification for MGTOW. I invite all of you to join me.

Girlfriends are pointless

What is the point of a grown man having a “girlfriend”? Is a “girlfriend” a potential future wife, or is it a hindrance before commitment is justified? Our man asks the question. Go answer.

Wight of Leeds

I haven’t thought deeply about girlfriends in the past. Might as well start now.

To a Christian, they are kind of useless. I say “kind of”, because to a specific sub-group of Christians, girlfriends have one use, which is making out, or maybe more than that if you play the “freedom in Christ” card, which, when you think about it, actually makes more sense for justifying blowjobs in marriage than subverting God’s commandments about adultery. Hehe.

But to every other kind of Christian, girlfriends are useless. What can you do with a girlfriend that you can’t do with anyone else? Not much.

Sex is not an option. Making out is not an option. I’m even skeptical of milder forms of physical affection. Once you start, it’s hard to stop. Actually, a funnier way of putting this might be: once you start, it’s hard.

The idea of a Christian girlfriend, at…

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Shanita’s Demand

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There is really nothing so entertaining as opening up the internet to find today’s whining feminist, complaining about a bunch of trouble she started. Let’s hear it from Shanita, who is issuing an ultimatum to all us single fellas out here.

In 2020, I am vowing to only date men committed to prioritizing their emotional and mental health. If he doesn’t go to therapy, I’m not interested.

I honestly can’t tell if the editors of Vox want me to take this seriously, or if they’re subtly lampooning this idiot. Either way, this article is pretty funny…

In my last serious relationship, I had both the benefit of exploring my toxic behavior patterns and the burden of being with a partner who refused to do the same. Our relationship started to shift when, during the height of an argument, I grew frustrated when my attempts at “helping” him solve a problem were being ignored. He followed up, like he often did, by screaming at the top of his lungs. Then he said something that snatched the movement from my body: “I’m not your project or something you can control.”

A wimminz tends to think that men need her useless “help,” which always boils down to her nagging her man for not doing what she thinks he ought to be doing, which is almost never motivated by a desire to help, but by a need to feel superior to her man. Then she acts all confused when he gets sick of her noise, and tells her to shut her mouth.

This was my second relationship where what I called “the lack of appreciation for my help” my partner called “controlling.” I realized I was the common denominator here.

Did I call it, or not?

What started as an exploration of trying to understand my own harmful behaviors ended in a commitment to therapy. There, I learned to call my attraction to “broken” men something more than a lack of gratitude or control; the illusion of “fixing” them allowed me to ignore all the areas where I was fractured. It allowed me to overlook the ways childhood traumas shaped my current relationship choices. It was classic avoidance.

This is inadvertently good advice, and pretty much the only thing of real value in the article. Solving someone else’s problems is often a way one can distract himself from doing serious work on his own life.

For months, I remained both in the relationship and in therapy to do the deeper work on myself. I directed my gaze away from scrutinizing his behavior and toward addressing the root of my own. I practiced mindfulness to reduce anxiety, used journaling to record and disrupt unhealthy patterns, and rotated coping mechanisms until I found one that fit. I was slowly forming healthy new habits. The need to control others was replaced by a desire for self-improvement.

The best self-improvement that Mizz Shanita could adopt would be to quit nagging. Her current trajectory suggests that her “healthy relationship” at age 40 will be with a dozen cats. No doubt she’ll still be writing whining screeds in the opinions column, then asking where all those great men went…

How about it, boys? Are you ready for some expensive psychoanalysis in an attempt to meet and date this prize catch of a naggy wimminz?

Read more of Shanita’s nagging at vox dot com

A Homeless Shelter for Castoffs and Misfits

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If you were linked to this page because you were asked to leave v5k2c2, then good news! There is another blog on the internet where you will be welcomed with open arms! You’ll find people with whom to openly commiserate, its comment section populated by people I’ve been 86ing since the first days I opened this blog to discussion.

Back in September of last year, an anonymous critic who calls himself ‘Jack’ dedicated several paragraphs to me, over on his ‘Sigma Frame’ blog. I didn’t intend to ever give Jack any publicity for his looney rant, but he continues to post here, so I suppose it’s time. Let’s see what he had to say:

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Perverts and degenerates can’t express themselves without throwing a bunch of sexually-charged and infernal terms into their prose. (coven, speculum, etc.) Freud called this parapraxis, and it’s an amazingly stupid mode of writing to slip into, when you’re playing at rhetoric.

Continuing…

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Aside from bastardizing and sexualizing his articles, Jack uses third-rate neologisms (churchianity, converged, etc.) which are little more than floating signifiers, and ultimately meaningless.

Jack’s overarching contention seems to be an attempt at a defense of his religion: Christianity. Jack is offended by my lack of faith, and my propensity to criticize Christianity when its adherents make fools of themselves. Jack is absolutely correct, that I consider the average Christian to be an immoral scumbag, and given that Jack has volunteered himself as a typical Christian, we can immediately segue into a list of his lies:

  1. Jack suggests that I am an agent provocateur, who tries to get men in the manosphere into legal trouble.
  2. Jack suggests that I am attempting to get Dalrock’s real-world contact information, for publication on the internet.
  3. Jack claims that I have been banned from the Dalrock blog.
  4. Jack claims that I resent people for their anonymity.

Given that no screenshots were forthcoming, it is easy enough to dismiss this nonsense out of hand. Even so, here are my answers:

  1. I have always encouraged men to stay away from drugs and alcohol, shun organized crime, and eschew radical politics (including the pathetic antisemitism that is a regular feature on sigmaframe). A man’s general orders are to increase his net worth, his personal options, and his circle of friends.
  2. Back in 2017, someone posted Cane Caldo’s legal name in a comment here. Posting real-world contact information has always been a violation of the comment policy of this blog, and that gentleman was immediately asked to leave. People occasionally write me private emails, and they do so with the confidence that I will zealously guard their details until I am dead.
  3. I have never been banned, “ostracized”, or otherwise made unwelcome on Dalrock’s blog. Here’s a recent comment I left over there, less than two weeks ago.
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  4. I have always encouraged men to remain anonymous while they expore antifeminist content on the internet. I think that Dalrock exercised a very healthy level of prudence in keeping his blog separate from his real life.

Jack can continue to complain about my lack of respect for Christianity, even as he behaves as a typical Christian (i.e. a dishonest piece of shit.) He shouldn’t wonder about my distaste for the type, and neither should anyone else.

If you have been asked to leave my forum, please post the details of your eviction over on Sigma Frame. There you’ll find a number of unhinged whackjobs, ready to lend their shoulders to cry on, most of whom were already banned before you, and can never seem to get over this.

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49 And Very Successful…

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When boredom strikes, I typically open one of the British tabloids, where I’m sure to find some dirty, lying feminist jacking her jaws. So it was this morning, when I found some sage advice in the “Ask Mariella” column over at the grauniad.

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Let’s read along and see what truths Mizz Frostrup can teach us, shall we?

I’m a 49-year-old woman. I work hard, own a home and live a fairly good life. My problem is that I can’t help but feel regretful that I never had children. I can’t quite believe this is how my life turned out. When I was younger I ached for my own child.

As dumb as this bitch has been, we can all be grateful she didn’t go the single mom route, and raise up some lawless hoez and thugs, who would right now be terrorizing law-abiding citizens.

I have a partner currently.

Which translates to: “I’m presently fucking a series of men, all of whom refuse to marry me.”

We don’t live together, he’s younger than I am and quite possibly the loveliest man I’ve been in a relationship with. It’s too late for me to conceive now and IVF isn’t an option as we don’t have the money. He says he doesn’t care, but he dotes on friends’ children and I fear that when he’s older he’ll feel regretful, too.

In previous relationships I’ve had two abortions and two miscarriages and I’m not sure I ever recovered emotionally. I somehow got my life back on track, though I suffered another miscarriage along the way. Those losses left me feeling numb and I pretend to others who ask that I made positive choices. I feel ashamed, guilty and cowardly.

As you should.

I want to know how to get through these next few years unscathed. I’m too serious, anxious about money, the environment, everything. I suppose I am a typical spinster cat-woman. I fear the emotional wrecking ball of the menopause and want to move on and to not think about what could have been – but it’s getting worse, not better.

Sisters take note: this could be you. You’ll never be more attractive than you are right now. Laser off the skank-ho tatts, Quit fucking random men, and start presenting yourself as a serious, marriage minded girl. Once you score your husband, don’t divorce him.

Now here’s Mariella’s response:

Don’t panic! It sounds like you are living through a full-blown midlife crisis. No one wants to think they are just a number, but sometimes it’s easier to navigate life’s difficulties when you know you’ve got company – and companions with similar concerns are one thing you won’t be short of as you hit 50, brimful of anxiety, regrets and melancholy. There’s no shame in seeking help and the best place to start is with your local GP, provided they have menopause experience, so they can sort hormonal bedlam from mental wear and tear.

You’ve reached the first age of reckoning and you’d be one in a million if there weren’t plenty of choices you’d love to rethink with the benefit of hindsight. I’m afraid that has to stop. There is no gain and a lot to lose in looking over your shoulder instead of keeping your gaze firmly forward-facing. The past is a place to mine for happy memories, not dwell on for those that are less so. It’s easier said than done, but it’s definitely possible. Dwelling on the many things I could have done better, some major, some minor, would definitely flatten me.

I’ve front-loaded on the negativity because, quite honestly, the future is far brighter than you envisage. I understand your regrets about not having children and agree the likelihood of getting pregnant now is extremely slim. You can sit around and mourn or consider the surfeit of opportunities offered by not being responsible for anyone but yourself. Whether it’s relocation or re-education, your bucket list is far more achievable than if you were a parent saddled with the cost of an umbilical connection you can’t shake off.

A close friend, like you, wanted children, but didn’t have them. Quite honestly, it’s her unfettered lifestyle I envy most when my teenagers make Harry Enfield’s best caricature of adolescent angst seem normal! Instead of rueing your misfortune, write a list of all the amazing things you can do now you’re mature and solvent, grab your younger man and start ticking them off.

What’s predictably human is that despite the much longer list of achievements you have to celebrate – a good job, trophy boyfriend, decent lifestyle, own home – you’ve zoomed in on the one ambition you have not succeeded with. They are not minor details to be shunted aside, but amount to the very things that most kids hope one day to achieve.

Mariella! You brainless cunt! Healthy women don’t want a “trophy boyfriend” at forty-nine freakin’ years old.

If, despite all my encouragement to count your blessings, you still feel your life requires a child, then there are around 6,000 children a year desperate for a secure home, and nearly 50% of them are school-age siblings, which means in adopting them you’d have a ready-made family. Bearing your own biological baby may be a natural impulse, but the enormous gift you can give a child who needs parenting is well worth considering, and not as a second choice. It sounds to me like you tick all the boxes for an acceptable adoption prospect so a life with children to rear and rage at you is in reach (contact gov.uk/child-adoption).

Whatever you choose, the life lesson remains the same. From now on it’s imperative to be grateful for what you’ve got, not preoccupied by what you haven’t. And finally, the menopause… well that’s a whole other conversation, but a good place to begin is on BBC iPlayer with my documentary The Truth About the Menopause. Reaching midlife is a time for contemplation, but also for positive action. With half your life left to live there are options aplenty and inspiring ways to move forward. You just need to review your perspective.

Far too long, empty headed, and useless, the feminist pretends to advise others, even as she makes excuses for her own wasted life.

Christmas in The Christian Sewer

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Dalrock’s dramatic threats of departure caused me to go search up one of the memories I left on his blog, way back in 2012. It’s a good story, and I think it illustrates the sad state of affairs that exists in American Christianity.

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I remember a bit of trepidation concerning the posting of details on Dalrock’s blog, which I continue to consider justified. At the time, I considered a few of the people who posted there to be friendly acquaintances, and I didn’t want to offend them.

One of the things I left out was the greasy sleaziness of the Christian priest at this megachurch, who was openly sending an obsequious sexual message to the women of the congregation. Specifically, this included my date, and her mother, who were seated on either side of me. I remember glancing over at my date’s father, and wondering how it was that he could tolerate the disrespect from this disgusting Cruxtoid grifter, day in and day out.

In any event, the story within this story is itself evocative of the sort of anti-masculine hatred, which is eternally displayed by the disgusting Christians whenever they open their stupid mouths.

“If You Are Missing Baby Jesus, Call 7162”
Jean Gietzen

When I was a child my father worked for an oil company in North Dakota. The company moved him around to different parts of the state, and at some point between one move and another, we lost our family Nativity set. Shortly before Christmas in 1943, my mother decided to replace it and was happy to find another at our local five and dime for only $3.99. When my brother Tom and I helped her unpack the set, we discovered two figures of the Baby Jesus.

“Someone must have packed this wrong,” my mother said, counting out the figures. “We have one Joseph, one Mary, three wise men, three shepherds, two lambs, a donkey, a cow, an angel, and two babies. Oh dear! I suppose some set down at the store is missing Baby Jesus.”

“Hey, that’s great, Mom,” my brother and I shouted. “We have twins!”

“You two run back down to the store and tell the manager that we have an extra Jesus. Tell him to put a sign on the remaining boxes saying that if a set is missing a Baby Jesus, call 7162,” my mother instructed. “I’ll give each of you a penny for some candy. And don’t forget your mufflers. It’s freezing cold out there.”

As we might expect, “mom” is both the head of the Christian household and the hero of the story.

The manager of the store copied down my mother’s message and the next time we were in the store we saw the cardboard sign that read, “If you’re missing Baby Jesus, call 7162.”

All week long we waited for the call to come. Surely, we thought, someone was missing the important figurine. Each time the phone rang, my mother would say, “I’ll bet that’s about Jesus,” but it never was. My father tried to explain that the figurine could be missing from a set in Walla Walla in Washington and that packing errors occur all the time. He suggested we just put the extra Jesus back in the box and forget about it.

“Back in the box!” I wailed. “What a terrible thing to do to the Baby Jesus. And at Christmastime, too.”

“Surely someone will call,” my mother said. “We’ll just keep them together in the manger until someone calls.”

When no call had come by five on Christmas Eve, my mother insisted that my father “just run down to the store” to see if there were any sets left. “You can see them right through the window, over on the counter,” she said. “If they are all gone, I’ll know someone is bound to call tonight.”

“Run down to the store?” my father thundered. “It’s fifteen degrees below zero out there!”

The Christians think that fathers are lazy and uncharitable oafs.

“Oh Daddy, we’ll go with you,” I said. “Tommy and I will bundle up good. And we can look at the decorations on the way.”

My father gave a long sigh and headed for the front closet. “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” he muttered. “Each time the phone rings everybody yells at me to see if it’s about Jesus, and now I’m going off on the coldest night of the year to peek in a window to see if He’s there or not there.”

My father muttered all the way down the block, while my brother and I raced each other up to the window where the tiny lights flickered on and off around the frame. “They’re all gone, Daddy!” I shouted. “Every set must be sold.”

“Hooray, hooray!” my brother joined in, catching up with me. “The mystery will be solved tonight!”

My father, who had remained several steps behind us, turned on his heel and headed back home.

Inside the house once more, we saw the extra figurine had vanished from the set and my mother appeared to have vanished, too. “Someone must have called and she went out to deliver the figurine,” my father reasoned, pulling off his boots. “You kids get busy stringing popcorn strands for the tree and I’ll wrap your mother’s present.”

We had almost completed one strand when the phone rang. My father yelled for me to answer it. “Tell’m we found a home for Jesus,” he called down the steps. But the caller was not an inquirer. It was my mother with instructions for us to come to 205 Chestnut Street immediately and bring three blankets, a box of cookies, and some milk.

“Now what has she gotten us into?” my father groaned as we bundled up again.

Can “dad” get any more pathetic?

“205 Chestnut Street. Why, that’s about eight blocks away. Wrap that milk up good in the blankets or it will turn into ice by the time we get there. Why in the name of Heaven can’t we all just get on with Christmas? It’s probably twenty degrees below out there now. And the wind is picking up. Of all the crazy things to do on a night like this.”

Tommy and I sang Christmas songs all the way to Chestnut Street. My father carrying his bundle of blankets and milk looked for all the world like St. Nicholas himself with his arms full of goodies. Every now and then my brother would call back to him, “Let’s pretend we’re looking for a place to stay, Dad, just like Joseph and Mary.”

“Let’s pretend we are in Bethlehem where it is probably sixty-five degrees in the shade right now,” my father answered.

The house at 205 Chestnut Street turned out to be the darkest one in the block. One tiny light burned in the living room, and the moment we set foot on the porch step, my mother opened the door and shouted, “They’re here, they’re here. Oh, thank God you got here, Ray! You kids take those blankets into the living room and wrap up the little ones on the couch. I’ll take the milk and the cookies.”

“Would you mind telling me what is going on, Ethel?” my father asked.” We have just walked through below zero weather with the wind in our faces all the way. …”

“Never mind all that now,” my mother interrupted. “There is no heat in this house and this young mother is so upset she doesn’t know what to do. Her husband walked out on her and those poor children will have to spend a very bleak Christmas, so don’t you complain. I told her you could fix that oil furnace in a jiffy.”

My mother strode off to the kitchen to warm the milk while my brother and I wrapped up the five little children who were huddled together on the couch. The children’s mother explained to my father that her husband had run off, taking bedding, clothing, and almost every piece of furniture, but she had been doing all right until the furnace broke down.

The skank-ho single mom tells her tale of woe, about the man who abandoned her. We’ve never heard such stuff around here, have we?

“I been doin’ washin’ and ironin’ for people and cleaning the five and dime,” she said. “I saw your number every day there, on those boxes on the counter. When the furnace went out, that number kept goin’ through my mind: 7162. 7162.

“Said on the box that if a person was missin’ Jesus, they should call you. That’s how I knew you were good Christian people, willin’ to help folks. I figured that maybe you could help me, too. So I stopped at the grocery store tonight and I called your missus. I’m not missin’ Jesus, mister, because I sure love the Lord. But I’m missin’ heat.

“Me and the kids ain’t got no beddin’, no warm clothes. I got a few Christmas toys for them, but I got no money to fix that furnace.”

“Okay, okay,” my father said kindly. “You’ve come to the right place. Now let’s see. You’ve got a little oil burner over there in the dining room. Shouldn’t be too hard to fix. Probably just a clogged flue. I’ll look it over, see what it needs.”

My mother came into the living room carrying a plate of cookies and a tray with warm milk. As she set the cups down on the coffee table, I noticed the figure of Baby Jesus lying in the center of the table. It was the only sign of the Christmas season in the house. The children stared wide-eyed with wonder at the plate of cookies my mother set before them. One of the littlest ones woke up and crawled out from under the blanket. Seeing all the strangers in his house, he began to cry. My mother swooped him up in her arms and began to sing to him.

This, this, is Christ the King, Whom shepherds guard and angels sing, she crooned while the child wailed. Haste, haste to bring Him laud, the Babe, the son of Mary, she sang, oblivious to the child’s cries. She sang and danced the baby around the room until he settled down again.

“You hear that, Chester?” the young mother said to another child. “That woman is singin’ ‘bout the Lord Jesus. He ain’t ever gonna walk out on us. Why, He sent these people to us just to fix our furnace. And blankets we got now, too. Oh, we’ll be warm tonight.”

My father, finishing his work on the oil burner, wiped his hands on his muffler and said, “I’ve got it going, but you need more oil. I’ll make a few calls tonight when I get home and we’ll get you some oil. Yessir, you came to the right place,” he grinned.

When my father calculated that the furnace was going strong once more, our family bundled up and made our way home. My father didn’t say a thing about the cold weather and had barely set foot inside the front door when he was on the phone.

“Ed? Hey, how are ya, Ed?” I heard him say. “Yes, Merry Christmas to you too. Say, Ed, we have kind of an unusual situation here and I know you’ve got that pickup truck. I wonder if we could round up some of the boys and find a Christmas tree, you know, and a couple of things for …”

The rest of his conversation was lost in the blur of words as my brother and I ran to our rooms and began pulling clothes out of our closets and toys off of our shelves. My mother checked through our belongings for sizes and games she said “might do” and added some of her sweaters and slacks to our stack. We were up way past our bedtime that night wrapping our gifts. The men my father had called found oil for the furnace, bedding, two chairs, three lamps, and had made two trips to 205 Chestnut before the night was done. Our gifts were piled into the truck on the second trip, and even though it must have been thirty degrees below by then, my father let us ride along the back of the truck.

No one ever did call about the missing figurine in the Nativity set, but as I grow older I realize that it wasn’t a packing mistake at all.

I suppose if I had wondered why Christians all seem to hate fathers and healthy families, before Christmas of 2012, this was a good lesson to me.

 

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These are the fruits of following the teachings of Jesus: Being cucked in public by your priest, who openly ogles your wife and daughter on the highest Christian holiday.