They sure have. And we all know it. Even other bitches know this, including the ones who have not yet embraced wholesale insanity and are still, somehow, praise be to the baby Jebus, keeping the madness at bay.
Thing is, while we all know it, no-one has thus far dared to comment upon it. Thinking, understandably in these fractious times, that should they comment on how many meth-chimp-crazy bitches are running around out there, terrible things would happen to them. They may well be right. I wrote a pub review not long ago, and had my whole Facecock account wiped by Zuck’s algorithms when the pub complained about it.
This is how cancel culture works. Though it’s kinda wrong to call it a “culture”. Having a hissy fit, smearing yourself with your own shit, and demanding whatever triggered you be wiped from the face of the earth is not “culture”. It’s just you being a piss-weak cunt.
I can address that cockery in another piece. This piece is about how our bitches have gone mad, and how everyone’s too scared to call them out on it. But I am not the son of a fearful man. What’s the worse thing that could happen? I could get cancelled? I’ll work around it. They would physically attack me? I’ll work through that. I would be called vile names and have groundless accusations levelled at me? Oh, no.
Even if all that would happen, the fact remains is that our bitches have gone mad. That is the real, acute, and actual concern. Someone pointing it out is hardly the problem, is it?
This madness is overt. It is visible. Its physical manifestation frightens fucken children, for fucks sake. And while it is not yet universal, it is certainly widespread enough for people to clearly see a bizarre insanity has gripped our women. And it is ruining them. If they chained themselves inside a fridge and got their girlfriends to roll that fridge off a cliff, they could not possibly ruin themselves more.
And it is entirely self-inflicted – which is what makes it madness incarnate. They are doing this to themselves.
Some while back, when the bitches were sane, the odd one would go out and maybe get some plastic tits surgically implanted. This was understandable. The human is a vain animal. It wants to look its best so it can acquire a mate and procreate. It is how our shit works.
Women are much smarter than men. They know they can enslave us once they have bewitched us with their devil vagina-magic. But before that happens, we need to be lured into their web. And we are infallibly lured into that web when they apply make-up, put on short skirts and high heels, and maybe dance a bit where we can see them. Add some perfume, a bit of wild hair action, and you can choke-leash my fool neck and drag me off to burn entire cities to please her.
There is nothing controversial in any of that. It’s how your mum and dad got together to eventually create the disappointment that is you.
So, as our western society got more advanced, we were able to offer ladies new boobs. Put aside for a second this surgery was created to help women who have had mastectomies get their self-esteem back. Plastic surgeons soon worked out offering ladies “upgraded” mammaries would ensure the surgeons could sleep on ever-bigger piles of money. Because women will always and forever want to look better than they think they look.
As a man, you’d be forgiven for thinking they were slicing open their chests and having wobbly Tupperware forced into the wound to look better for men. You’d be wrong. Bitches were not doing this for you, pig-boy. Bitches were doing this for themselves.
Of course, there would always be the odd cuck who would pay for the surgery and then lie to her about how awesome her new tits looked, and then lie even more about how they felt when he grabbed them. Deep down inside he hated them, but he would never dare tell her. He hated how they looked when she took her clothes off – and granted, bigger fake boobs do fill some outfits out better – and he certainly hated how they felt. Because they felt horrible to the male touch. And in the early days of breast-implants, they often failed and leaked poisonous disaster into the woman.
Did that stop the bitches? Fuck no. They persevered. Medical science tried harder, fake tits got better and harder to spot as fake tits, but they still felt like bags of weird, semi-hardened shit, and they just didn’t move like the real deal.
And maybe if it had stopped there, we would not be in the insane alien bitch-menagerie we find ourselves in now.
Because that is what it is.
Hot on the heels of breast implants came anal bleaching. Bitches started bleaching their arseholes because somehow and somewhere, they had heard some pornstar bleached her distended bunghole to make it more appealing to the eye.
Legions of bitches immediately started buttering their bungholes with a goulash of horrific drain-cleaning chemicals so said bunghole would…well, change its colour.
Did any of the bitches pause even for a second to read what was in their newly-purchased anal bleach? Fuck no. Ain’t no-one got no time for that! I gotta get my shitter de-browned! So there they were in the bathroom, rubbing hydroquinone, arbutin, kojic acid, and good old mercury into their pooers.
And for what precise purpose, you might ask? Good question. I’d like to believe that once her arsehole was properly bleached, her joy would be overarching, and she would henceforth surrender that same bleached arsehole to you for exploration and enjoyment at every opportunity. Dream on, fool. If you weren’t getting anal before she bleached it, changing its fucking colour is not suddenly gonna turn your girl into the arse-fuck-loving whore you might think you want.
And who else from you would ever see it? She can’t even fucken see it! Surely you understand what’s required for you, or anyone, to get a proper look at someone’s rectum? It’s a fucken process. Things need to be prised apart and illumination is required. But I’m not familiar with what happens in women’s changerooms, and there very well could be some crazy, cheek-spreading shit going on among the freshly-showered bitches, all with the iPhone flashlights turned on so that newly-bleached chocolate (well, caramel know, I guess) starfish is properly lit for viewing. Because that’s normal, right?
Shit just accelerated after this.
Bitches were having ribs removed and bags of salty water surgically shoved into their glutes. Too lazy and dumb to go to the gym, they climbed willingly onto the surgical conveyor belt and let their madness take them.
Then, damn them for adopting Mad Cow Disease, they turned to their faces. And their downfall into utter dysmorphic insanity was complete.
They began injecting botulism toxin into their faces. Botox is short for botulism toxin – one of the most lethal neurotoxins known to man. And bitches line up down the street to have some other bitch syringe that into their faces.
Instead of straight-jacketing these lunatics and pumping them full of sedatives and opioids and keeping them away from normal people with the aid of cattle-prods, we said and did nothing.
The bitches took our acceptance of their insanity as approval, and took it to another level.
They started filling their lips with hyaluronic acid, lumps of fat siphoned from some other part of their bodies, or even fucking alloderm – which is tissue from cadavers. Maybe they felt having corpse-chunks pumped into their lips would complement the dead-woman hair they’ve had sewn into their own hair at the hairdresser. But the word “extensions” markets better than “some dead-moll hair”, doesn’t it?
The result? It’s a fucking horror show. Freak-filled carnivals from Eastern Europe during the time of the Ottoman Turks had less-scary-looking and downright bizarre attractions. Many of the bitches have utterly ceased to appear human. Their physiognomy resembles some misshapen simulacrum pretending it’s a human female.
They look like deformed freaks. And I am being kind. They somehow do not see this when they look into their mirrors, so I am left to think maybe all these chemicals are damaging their eyesight. You have to be partially blind to look a mirror, see your heinously deformed and rigid face with its bloated baboon-arse lips, and think: “Yeah, I’m hot. So worth it.”
But if you’re not blind, and you see the horror you have made of yourself clearly, and you still think this is attractive to any human male, then you’re insane.
Of course, things have not just stopped for the mad bitches and their munted faces and deformed bodies. They continue to plumb still further depths of horrific depravity. Enter the Vampire Facial.
So, Ms Alien Pig-Face Horror decides this bullshit is her new go-to for looking even hotter, and off she goes. A beauty practitioner then syringes out some of Ms Alien’s blood. She then centrifuges the blood to separate the platelet plasma. Then Ms Alien’s face is pierced by hundreds of tiny needles, and when she has turned her already grotesque features into a seeping wound, the beauty practitioner then smears that brutalised face with the plasma. This procedure costs between $1000 and $3000. Huzzah!
Bitches, please. Fucken stop. You are not doing this for men. You’re lying if you say you are. You are doing it for yourselves. But you are manifestly insane if you’re doing this and you need treatment and counselling. Not one of you looks any better with your swollen mouths, your garbage boobs, your stretched plastic facial skin, or even them awful dumb fat-and-hairy caterpillar eyebrows you’ve all decided look lovely.
Men stare at you, for sure. But they are not admiring glances. We look at you because you look like misshapen freaks. One shudders to imagine what would happen to all those plastic inserts, your poison-injected faces, and your cadaver-hair-extensions if some crazy monkey-sex would happen in your lives. Ten minutes into some doona-ripping, pillow-biting bung-bunga, and your unnatural faces and bodies would simply crumble and wilt.
Happily, looking like you do, it’s unlikely that will happen. But seriously. Cut it out. You look like fucken shit.
