The first-up timezones, such as New Zealand's, have already entered the 100th anniversary of the end of WW1. A hundred years ago an armistice ended a war which had caused more casualties than any other war for the past eight-tenths of a millennium. The rest of the Asia-Pacific, Western Eurasia, Africa and the Americas won't be far behind experiencing the 11th of November on the 100th anniversary of the armistice. It has been exactly a century since the First World War, which as a fully mechanised war was the first large-scale conflict of its kind, and the first conflict of its kind large enough to be considered a World War.
As with the anniversary of any major modern war, millions of virtue-signalling normies across the world will speak out against violence on the 11th of the 11th and preach to the choir about the "lessons" we learned after turning at least ten million soldiers' insides into mince so they could die horribly sprawled out on a field somewhere in Flanders or the Dardanelles. War is bad, yada yada yada, commemorate the lives that have lost. Instead of looking at the lessons that everybody pretends to have learned, maybe we should look at things people FAILED to learn after the First World War (and the second, and every modern war that came after that).
People failed to learn how to give a shit about men. Foids working in factories during the war got women the vote and welfare systems got better after all the veterans came home (probably because governments were scared of communist revolution JFL), but did anybody really care about the millions of faceless, unmarried young men who were conscripted and died horribly in the war? Maybe their mothers did for a while, but apart from that who really cared? Who cares today?
How many men fell flat on their faces and died after being shot in the back by a person they never even saw, but whose names, despite their sacrifice, are not remembered by a single living person today? They exist on a memorial plaque somewhere in France, nobody gives a shit about them. Propaganda posters waxed poetic about "dying for your country" and "manning up", but as usual that always meant throwing millions of expendable young men into the meat grinder. They are gone forever, no normalfag actually gives a shit about even a millionth of what they went through in that war.
Even in the 1910s, when the war was actively happening around everyone, men were socially pressured into throwing their lives away for a bunch of faggot aristocrats (fuck you Churchill, rot in hell for what you did at the Dardanelles) by being given a white feather by foids for not enlisting. Essentially you would be branded a coward for not manning up and throwing your life away in the most horrible way possible, because nobody gives a shit about men. Killing ten million of them won't reduce the amount of foids that can be impregnated by the remainder, biology decrees that they are disposable and might as well be thrown away to die painfully.
If, even during a war when millions of people are dying for nothing in horrible conditions, people did not give a shit about young men like ourselves, do you really expect anybody to give a shit about us now? Is it any surprise we get copouts like "therapy", "personality" and "shower" that essentially mean "know your place, don't rock the boat" instead of being given actual honesty by people? For men today who have problems considered far more legitemate than ours by normies, such as the homeless, do people give a shit about them? Fuck no, most homeless people are men and the majority of homeless shelters in many western cities cater to women because women are so precious and vulnerable. Men are responsible for the vast, vast majority of all suicides, but whenever a roastie kills herself it gets on the news. The man working a dead end job at a petrol station in his 30s killing himself after his fat wife divorces him is not something anybody gives a shit about. After all, men are disposable.
Surely if you survived and came back to your home country after the war you would receive some sort of thanks, right? JFL, barely fucking any. Especially if you happen to have lost a limb or two.
The following piece of text is a poem by a person called Wilfred Owen who fought on the Western front and made poems about World War One. The poem is about a man who loses his legs in the war, comes back to Britain in a wheelchair and is rejected by everyone (especially foids) for being disabled. Before he lost his legs in the war he was wanted by foids for his looks, but after becoming disabled he is doomed to die alone and involuntarily celibate. What about his personality, surely he is a brave lad? Surely he is a "decent human being" for almost sacrificing his life for his country? Surely women will see past his new disability and love him for who he is?
No, they won't. They never will, they don't care. Nobody cares about men's problems, even if they expect men to throw away their lives for nothing in return. Nothing has changed in 2018. You are expendable, no matter what you do, unless you manage to get appropriate LMS both foids and society at large won't see you as a fully-fledged human being. Even if you have enough LMS to be considered a valid option by foids, even as betabuxx, you will still be expected to throw your fucking life away for whores, roasties and single mothers you've never met while they sit safely at home away from the front lines (as was the case in the English-speaking world, anyway).
Nobody gives a shit about men. Nobody gives a shit about us. We are disposable, we are expendable, and despite dozens of millions of young men dying in this century alone because of that nobody has bothered to change that. To all the males who were killed for nothing in WW1 because they were born with a penis and were therefore acceptable for throwing into a meat grinder, lest we forget.
To every cuck and foid that still thinks men's struggles are trivial and womyn need special protection, fuck you. You deserve to be put in the trenches a million times more than any of these innocent young men did. I hope you die in a chlorine gas attack blinded, with your skin burning, and with bloody froth coming out of your mouths you fucking faggots
As with the anniversary of any major modern war, millions of virtue-signalling normies across the world will speak out against violence on the 11th of the 11th and preach to the choir about the "lessons" we learned after turning at least ten million soldiers' insides into mince so they could die horribly sprawled out on a field somewhere in Flanders or the Dardanelles. War is bad, yada yada yada, commemorate the lives that have lost. Instead of looking at the lessons that everybody pretends to have learned, maybe we should look at things people FAILED to learn after the First World War (and the second, and every modern war that came after that).
People failed to learn how to give a shit about men. Foids working in factories during the war got women the vote and welfare systems got better after all the veterans came home (probably because governments were scared of communist revolution JFL), but did anybody really care about the millions of faceless, unmarried young men who were conscripted and died horribly in the war? Maybe their mothers did for a while, but apart from that who really cared? Who cares today?
How many men fell flat on their faces and died after being shot in the back by a person they never even saw, but whose names, despite their sacrifice, are not remembered by a single living person today? They exist on a memorial plaque somewhere in France, nobody gives a shit about them. Propaganda posters waxed poetic about "dying for your country" and "manning up", but as usual that always meant throwing millions of expendable young men into the meat grinder. They are gone forever, no normalfag actually gives a shit about even a millionth of what they went through in that war.
Even in the 1910s, when the war was actively happening around everyone, men were socially pressured into throwing their lives away for a bunch of faggot aristocrats (fuck you Churchill, rot in hell for what you did at the Dardanelles) by being given a white feather by foids for not enlisting. Essentially you would be branded a coward for not manning up and throwing your life away in the most horrible way possible, because nobody gives a shit about men. Killing ten million of them won't reduce the amount of foids that can be impregnated by the remainder, biology decrees that they are disposable and might as well be thrown away to die painfully.
If, even during a war when millions of people are dying for nothing in horrible conditions, people did not give a shit about young men like ourselves, do you really expect anybody to give a shit about us now? Is it any surprise we get copouts like "therapy", "personality" and "shower" that essentially mean "know your place, don't rock the boat" instead of being given actual honesty by people? For men today who have problems considered far more legitemate than ours by normies, such as the homeless, do people give a shit about them? Fuck no, most homeless people are men and the majority of homeless shelters in many western cities cater to women because women are so precious and vulnerable. Men are responsible for the vast, vast majority of all suicides, but whenever a roastie kills herself it gets on the news. The man working a dead end job at a petrol station in his 30s killing himself after his fat wife divorces him is not something anybody gives a shit about. After all, men are disposable.
Surely if you survived and came back to your home country after the war you would receive some sort of thanks, right? JFL, barely fucking any. Especially if you happen to have lost a limb or two.
The following piece of text is a poem by a person called Wilfred Owen who fought on the Western front and made poems about World War One. The poem is about a man who loses his legs in the war, comes back to Britain in a wheelchair and is rejected by everyone (especially foids) for being disabled. Before he lost his legs in the war he was wanted by foids for his looks, but after becoming disabled he is doomed to die alone and involuntarily celibate. What about his personality, surely he is a brave lad? Surely he is a "decent human being" for almost sacrificing his life for his country? Surely women will see past his new disability and love him for who he is?
He sat in a wheeled chair, waiting for dark,
And shivered in his ghastly suit of grey,
Legless, sewn short at elbow. Through the park
Voices of boys rang saddening like a hymn,
Voices of play and pleasure after day,
Till gathering sleep had mothered them from him.
* * * * *
About this time Town used to swing so gay
When glow-lamps budded in the light-blue trees,
And girls glanced lovelier as the air grew dim,—
In the old times, before he threw away his knees.
Now he will never feel again how slim
Girls' waists are, or how warm their subtle hands,
All of them touch him like some queer disease.
* * * * *
There was an artist silly for his face,
For it was younger than his youth, last year.
Now, he is old; his back will never brace;
He's lost his colour very far from here,
Poured it down shell-holes till the veins ran dry,
And half his lifetime lapsed in the hot race
And leap of purple spurted from his thigh.
* * * * *
One time he liked a blood-smear down his leg,
After the matches carried shoulder-high.
It was after football, when he'd drunk a peg,
He thought he'd better join. He wonders why.
Someone had said he'd look a god in kilts.
That's why; and maybe, too, to please his Meg,
Aye, that was it, to please the giddy jilts,
He asked to join. He didn't have to beg;
Smiling they wrote his lie: aged nineteen years.
Germans he scarcely thought of, all their guilt,
And Austria's, did not move him. And no fears
Of Fear came yet. He thought of jewelled hilts
For daggers in plaid socks; of smart salutes;
And care of arms; and leave; and pay arrears;
Esprit de corps; and hints for young recruits.
And soon, he was drafted out with drums and cheers.
* * * * *
Some cheered him home, but not as crowds cheer Goal.
Only a solemn man who brought him fruits
Thanked him; and then inquired about his soul.
* * * * *
Now, he will spend a few sick years in institutes,
And do what things the rules consider wise,
And take whatever pity they may dole.
Tonight he noticed how the women's eyes
Passed from him to the strong men that were whole.
How cold and late it is! Why don't they come
And put him into bed? Why don't they come?
And shivered in his ghastly suit of grey,
Legless, sewn short at elbow. Through the park
Voices of boys rang saddening like a hymn,
Voices of play and pleasure after day,
Till gathering sleep had mothered them from him.
* * * * *
About this time Town used to swing so gay
When glow-lamps budded in the light-blue trees,
And girls glanced lovelier as the air grew dim,—
In the old times, before he threw away his knees.
Now he will never feel again how slim
Girls' waists are, or how warm their subtle hands,
All of them touch him like some queer disease.
* * * * *
There was an artist silly for his face,
For it was younger than his youth, last year.
Now, he is old; his back will never brace;
He's lost his colour very far from here,
Poured it down shell-holes till the veins ran dry,
And half his lifetime lapsed in the hot race
And leap of purple spurted from his thigh.
* * * * *
One time he liked a blood-smear down his leg,
After the matches carried shoulder-high.
It was after football, when he'd drunk a peg,
He thought he'd better join. He wonders why.
Someone had said he'd look a god in kilts.
That's why; and maybe, too, to please his Meg,
Aye, that was it, to please the giddy jilts,
He asked to join. He didn't have to beg;
Smiling they wrote his lie: aged nineteen years.
Germans he scarcely thought of, all their guilt,
And Austria's, did not move him. And no fears
Of Fear came yet. He thought of jewelled hilts
For daggers in plaid socks; of smart salutes;
And care of arms; and leave; and pay arrears;
Esprit de corps; and hints for young recruits.
And soon, he was drafted out with drums and cheers.
* * * * *
Some cheered him home, but not as crowds cheer Goal.
Only a solemn man who brought him fruits
Thanked him; and then inquired about his soul.
* * * * *
Now, he will spend a few sick years in institutes,
And do what things the rules consider wise,
And take whatever pity they may dole.
Tonight he noticed how the women's eyes
Passed from him to the strong men that were whole.
How cold and late it is! Why don't they come
And put him into bed? Why don't they come?
No, they won't. They never will, they don't care. Nobody cares about men's problems, even if they expect men to throw away their lives for nothing in return. Nothing has changed in 2018. You are expendable, no matter what you do, unless you manage to get appropriate LMS both foids and society at large won't see you as a fully-fledged human being. Even if you have enough LMS to be considered a valid option by foids, even as betabuxx, you will still be expected to throw your fucking life away for whores, roasties and single mothers you've never met while they sit safely at home away from the front lines (as was the case in the English-speaking world, anyway).
Nobody gives a shit about men. Nobody gives a shit about us. We are disposable, we are expendable, and despite dozens of millions of young men dying in this century alone because of that nobody has bothered to change that. To all the males who were killed for nothing in WW1 because they were born with a penis and were therefore acceptable for throwing into a meat grinder, lest we forget.
To every cuck and foid that still thinks men's struggles are trivial and womyn need special protection, fuck you. You deserve to be put in the trenches a million times more than any of these innocent young men did. I hope you die in a chlorine gas attack blinded, with your skin burning, and with bloody froth coming out of your mouths you fucking faggots
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claims which is stupid. There are many examples that make that argument invalid.
