THE NORTHERN REPUBLIC The morning the Northern Republic had finally strengthened beyond the divisiveness of gender, the world over applauded the enlightenment as humanity’s greatest achievement. Feminists cheered their equality. The queers paraded. And by queers, I mean the L.G.B.T.Q.I.A.+, which includes all gay and lesbian, bisexual, pansexual, asexual, demisexual, graysexual, cisgender, transgender, trans* or trans+, gender nonconforming (g.n.c.), nonbinary, genderqueer, gender fluid, gender-neutral, the m.a.a.b./f.a.a.b./u.a.a.b. (male-assigned at birth/female-assigned at birth/unassigned at birth), intersex, and + (for those whom letters and words can’t describe). Which includes the 2S+QTBIPOC bodies (two-spirit, black, trans, indigenous, and people of colour). But none of these titles existed yet, and they were all still just fags.
But this equality made everybody happy. For a day. Equality: The New Normal. The New Normal for the Northern Republic. The grass beyond the fence was now the everywhere grass, as they had removed all the fences. And how plain did it all appear. Although nobody admitted it, there was a settling realization which clung to the earth like a great fog: the grass wasn’t greener after all. Maybe it never was. The assumption was a lie. All the blasphemy about equality of outcome was empty as the words which represented them. The self-abhorred marginalized and underprivileged could not comprehend that equality required inequality to define itself. And what an oversight this was. In pursuing a fictional utopia, the first step toward such a lofty goal was to eradicate masculinity. O how it became such a toxic word. Masculinity, masculinity, masculinity—I can feel the shivers run down my spine even whispering the word now. They began with the children, coercing the schools to remove all competition in their sports—which were all sports except for soccer; soccer has never been a sport, and for this reason permitted a viable outlet for children to take part in. The children were herded into the sexless endeavour, guided by Christ’s warning that the last shall be first and the first last: the least athletic were captains of their respective teams, the most athletic hobbled into positions of water-boy although it wasn’t called water-boy, for that is masculine and masculine is toxic remember—the term became water-attendant. Do not fear, however, at the participant ribbon ceremony at the end of each season, water-attendants received the same ribbon as all the other soccer players, because all were equal. The rules did not change, there were two teams though both encouraged the other team to win which was only achieved by an identical score, of say, for example, 0-0 or 1-1. Only once in the new history of the game did a match reach a final score of 2-2, and this only with the expert aid of three mindfulness sessions throughout the match. It is important to note that after this gut-wrenching highly stressful event; the sport was finally dropped from extracurricular activities as many of the students suffered tremendously, enormously, during the competition. For historical accuracy, allow me to at least offer the details of the last of the faux sport. The grass was replaced with a softer, synthetic foam which resembled grass, green and reaching and all of that, but less assaulting than natural grass, the kind that stained clothing and caused the sniffles when cut, and what was probably the most repulsive feature of that grass, which played a significant role in eliminating it: grass could assault the ears when an unknowing child horrendously plucked a blade from the ground and tightened it between both thumbs, pressed lips to said tautness and expelled a blast of air. Ugh, the horrible shriek it made, they all complained. And that was the end of grass. They replaced the soccer ball with a helium nitrogen balloon, lighter than air so it required less centrifugal force in propelling it down the field. It remained the same size as historical soccer balls, as did the field: technically, twice the size required for a fast-paced game. This ensured none of the players could come remotely close to each other and in doing so risk bodily contact. Nevertheless, should this unfortunate event occur, the players knew to fall to the ground in the most dramatic fashion. The brushed child would wail and roll and tighten their face to appear in the most tortured ailment imaginable and remain on the ground until the referee raised a coloured card-stock showing that a transgression had occurred. But this would only happen if the fallen player’s teammates swarmed the referee, mimicking the display of the fallen player, begging the authority figure to intervene on behalf of their victimized comrade. These displays became quite the spectacle and were routinely recycled on the esteemed highlight reel. During the first season—which was also the last season after that unfortunate 2-2 match—in fact, it was this 2-2 game; see, there was this youthful girl, a star, if there were stars, so soft-spoken, so petite and nonthreatening. Her wrists dawned all the colours of all the support bracelets ever pawned. What was most lovely about this youthful girl was her gender fluidity. Most mornings she was a girl, then in the afternoon he identified as a boy, and there is even some speculation that just before bed, he’d flow back to she and become a dragon before drifting off to sleep. My! The dreams the dragon child would have adventured in slumber. Most will agree, however, and though they would never speak it out loud in fear of provoking the slightest hint of animosity, but, it was secretly wondered if her dragon fluidity gave her an advantage in the sport. Midway through this last game, the score a dreadful 2-1 for her team, the balloon drifted to centre field where she had been resting after having jogged several feet only moments before. She certainly didn’t mean to. It wasn’t in malice or anger. It was simply the unattached kick of a youthful girl indifferent to the outcome as all good youthful girls are. Poor thing. She swung her leg and kicked the balloon, and be it the wind, or the precise angle her foot connected with the near floating object, the balloon soared the length of the field and brushed the goaltenders cheek before floating into the back of the net. O how the crowd and the players shrieked in chorus. The scoreboard flashed 3-1. This girl collapsed and rolled in anguish. She screamed in terror. She held her ankle and foamed at the lips. The poor child goaltender, who survived the brush with the balloon ball, likewise fell to the ground and clutched his face where the ball had struck. He wailed and moaned and put on such an exhibit he became tangled in the netting (which the kindly janitor—who was not called a janitor but a Cleanliness Barista of the Educational Enjoyment Centre—expertly cut him down from after the referee resolved the game). Both teams swarmed the referee and guffawed and cried and waved their child arms, begging reparations for these victims. That poor referee. She did all that she could have done and with great solemnity she raised a red card-stock above her head, quieted the crowd and revoked the goal. But the crowd demanded more. As an exemplar of bravery, the referee awarded the goal to the injured goaltenders team. And everybody cheered. And that was the end of soccer. It had become just too dangerous. The conclusion of the athletic holocaust marked the beginning of the Social Justice regime. But a regime is powerless without an emblem. Not oppressive power; rightful, just power. An image to separate those for and to demonize those against because what kind of monster would oppose social justice for all! Much of the original fighting which gave rise to the Social Justice regime began of the feminist movement. Women who wanted to shed the shackles of homemaker and enter the workforce once and for all. Women who experienced life under the thumb of men and rejected heterosexuality for that of faggotry. They vilified everything man-made (for simplicity’s sake, pretend there were at least some things which were not made by a man). And do you know who the greatest offender was? Tampons. That wad of absorbent material introduced into a body cavity or canal to absorb secretions, such as the red menstruation liquid, or to arrest hemorrhaging; or both. This revolutionary hygiene product introduced all the way back in the progressive year eighteen and forty-eight was symbolized as the Nero of toxic masculinity. Surely the new world order could not permit such a cancer. Tear out your tampons! The bullhorns screamed. Free yourself from all toxic masculinity! It seemed implausible anyone would adopt the mandate, but retrospect has a way of providing clarity where now it appears the only logical conclusion. Some sneered at the suggestion. Surely no one would commit such a disgusting act of self-immolation, but they were wrong. The first lady, this brave woman, out in the world making her own way, commuting via public transport in the underground metro, proudly. Encased in that metal tube surrounded by men on their way to work and her being on her own way to work, the tube must have felt like a prison, or a ploy to contain her—whatever the pressure cooker ordered, it was enough to embolden her stand. In flow, tampon eager to be plucked, she scanned the car, made eyes with each of the male passengers, then shoved her hand into the front of her pant suit pants. The onlookers turned away embarrassed, but only for a moment. She wound her delicate finger around the string and yanked with the force of a hundred years of oppression. The bloody wad sprang forth and dripped down her wrist from her high reaching hand. The men gagged. Many groaned. And if this were where the episode ended, that may have been the worst of responses. But no. This is not where it ended. This is where it began. This woman, Hilary Ramhod—yes! that was her name—she twisted her wrist like she was winding up a lasso. Round and round she spun the swollen mess it splattered the entire car red by the time the doors opened at the next stop. The gaggle rolled onto the platform covered in their own vomit and tepid menstrual red. Triumphantly, as the story goes, Hilary stepped forth, unmarred by any of the opposing fluids, only a red spot near the entrance to her birthing canal visible. Thus became the symbol. It wasn’t six hours before the nation had followed Hilary’s lead and removed their own hygiene products. RSD’s, they were dubbed: Red Spots of Defiance. Something like the Jew-band accessory worn proud under Hitler’s reign. With us or against us! It wasn’t long before it positioned the fags to claim their own version of the symbol. Since the male anatomy does not provide the opportunity to shed birthing canal lining in a rivulet of red, the fags had to compromise. Since they ravenously sought throbbing penises to grind their excrement chutes upon, and since after several such poundings, the seal becomes sufficiently less a seal and thus as in traditional residential plumbing, leakage occurs, excrement chute seepage became the obvious correlative to the Red Spot of Defiance. It began when two fags were dressing after a night of pounding, not having time to shower and still under the influence of MDMA (a drug which helps to forget the debaucheries and unnatural behaviour they have just taken part in or were about to) when the Power Bottom noticed trace seepage on his Tommy Hilfiger pleated shorts when twirling in the full-length mirror. Fags are the only known people who own full-length mirrors—if you were ever unsure if your comrade was a fag or not, this was a consistent indicator. Rightly aghast at the discovery, he was even more infuriated to learn his playmate was out of bleach—it used to be a ritual to bleach their undergarments and pants daily and ultimately led to acid washing and artificial tears in the fabric. The unperturbed partner, the Top, flippantly said, “Wear it like a Red Spot of Defiance, boo,” before browsing the Home and Garden Outdoor Kitchen issue he used for sexual stimulation when aroused without his Power Bottom nearby. Obvious now, the Power Bottom cocked his head in Utilitarian recognition, pondered the idea, as if considering two shades of eggshell to repaint the nook. Defiantly, proudly, he decided exactly that this is what homosexuals everywhere needed. Excuse me, I must apologize for my distasteful use of the derogative term homosexual. It’s a word only fags can use when addressing each other in greeting, like “Sup, homo,” and exclamation, “Homo please!” and when discussing another fag, “Do you know what that homo did?” Herein I shall purpose to use only technical terms. We are discussing faggots. It was a mark of their own. A mark to separate them from the oppressive patriarchy, which I obviously mean the white patriarchy as all sinister patriarchies are white in melanin. It was a mark to join with their oppressed sisters, who they envied so much, ironically not for their menstrual cycles, but with an innocent feminine admiration. Thus, the Excremental Chute Seepage spot was born, and for strictly administrative reasoning, both groups dropped their verbiage and adopted SPOTS as their self-proclaimed Jew-band. An interesting aside, a year after the Spot movement began leaving its mark, a young faggot entrepreneur, son of two feminist dykes born possible only by an unnamed male sperm-donor, invented a pocket wipe which would remove and sanitize any material marred with either menstrual red or excrement chute seepage. He named it, smartly, “Make Room For My Spot,” and sold millions to the entertainment venue. I could belabour the complete history of how we arrived here, but lets just presume way leads onto way as it often does and the core seven groups finally claimed power. They were, technically named, the Feminists, the Fags, the Niggers, the Single-Mother Whores (or any welfare case), the Sand-Niggers (or anyone not born of the Republic), the Retards and Cripples, and the ISIS—who were lumped together because Islam was intuitively understood to cause all mental retardation and cripple female genitalia. Each group sounded their own march over the community networks, and it was soon discovered that when played in succession of each other, together they formed the sparkling and complicated Villanelle; as if it were a sign of meant to be. Musical by birth, the niggers were the first to create a march. Slavery had long been abolished, and with it the meritocracy of the workforce. Affirmative action had permitted them access to occupations they had previously been excluded from. Reparations had been settled and guilt had been neatly laid upon the shoulders of white people everywhere, regardless if they ever even owned a slave in their lineage or even once, wisely, crossed a street after dark in a Harlem hood when a group of baggy clothed, red or blue bandana wearing, oversized tawdry jewellery exhibiting, untied sneakers tongue limp like a cows tongue, approached on the sidewalk ahead. Everybody quickly upgraded their black and white television sets to techno-colour television sets so in not to appear racist. Other behaviours included owning at least one rapshody compact disc, either TuPac or his rival, the rapshody artist Notorious B.I.G., and if not these modern artists, one of the exploited niggers of the past, such as Louis Armstrong, or Ray Charles, or Stevland Hardaway Morris. Because racism had long been eradicated in the country, it took a tremendous effort to undo the work of the great nigger, Martin Luther King Jr., who famously and with authority proclaimed that he “dreamed of a day where he would be judged on merit, and not the colour of his skin.” Shortly after his martyrdom the world had come to judge everybody on merit—it was the era of all equality—but like the feminists and fags discovered, to be treated equally was difficult in that you had to become of value to society to be appreciated, thus desperately wished a return to the good old days of oppression, but only by using their self-proclaimed marginalization to oppress everybody who differed from themselves. The work that undid the progress was first to take aim at police officers. The niggers always had an issue, incomprehensible to the majority population, of assaulting and murdering each other en masse. To this they were well versed in violence. Taking aim at police officers, inciting them to use force by aggressing the officers of the law at any chance they got, spitting at them, swearing, chest bumping, flashing nine’s (which is nigger for handgun), threatening to rape and murder the officers family, encouraging their children to tote fake handguns to point at police officers of the law to have the officer draw their own service weapon in response; it was only a matter of time before a nigger got shot and when he did the ghettos banded together and exploded like a dam breaking over New Orleans. They marched and sold t-shirts and sang, Black Lives Matter! as if they hadn’t since the progressive days of Martin Luther King Jr.. It is important to note that only the niggers could say, Black Lives Matter! White people had to say Nigger Lives Matter! so not to further the racist narrative. Their march developed like this: Inclusivity, Equality, the greatest Victim is me! I’m Black and I’m under attack, Destroy the White Supremacist Capitalistic Patriarchy! And was first sung on all nigger radio stations, and Nigger Entertainment Television. Finally, after several years of pretending to be oppressed and inciting incidents for attention to the cause, the Republic had back slid to a pre-MLK Jr. footing. The niggers even resurrected segregation in schools to keep white people from polluting the classroom. The feminists and faggots owe much to the niggers for their work ethic. Soon, universities were returning to female only facilities, and the faggots were lobbying for their own schools, too. Though this became costly and eventually all parties settled for gender study courses, and faggot humanity studies, and nigger literature 101—most of which could be completed online or their degrees purchased in three easy payments of $19.99. The material confirmed their group oppression and proclaimed them all victims of the white patriarchy. Or something to that effect. Most certainly, these classes incubated the other marches. The feminists decided upon: Sexism is rampant here on my knees, This feminist is fighting back! Inclusivity, Equality, the greatest Victim is me! And the faggots in rebuttal, though not in confrontation, coined their own verbiage to tack onto the feminists, who attached theirs to the nigger’s. The faggot march went like this: Maybe that’s true but what for LGTQB? Sexual appetite deserves a plaque; Down with the White Supremacist Capitalistic Patriarchy! Needless to say, the Northern Republic was socialist by nature. And honestly come by to boot, as no one cared to read the Gulag Archipelago—understandably as it’s three dense volumes—but at least one citizen, maybe their closet-faggot Prime Minister could have at least read the abridged version. Alas, he had not. No one had. While all the men of the Republic, despised as they were, were deployed overseas to assist in the American initiative in keeping the invasion of sand-niggers from crossing the ocean, the closet-faggot Prime Minister passed a bill to change the Republic’s anthem from the historic, “In all our Sons command,” to the inclusive—albeit grammatically incorrect—“In all of Us command,” and was ultimately dropped for the contemporary, Victim Villanelle. This was the Trojan Horse which began the fall of the Republic. Everyone is familiar with Hilary Hamrod coining the phrase Islamophobic, which roughly translates to: a level-headed and often educated citizen holding reservations about a people who routinely throw faggots off roof tops, force their women into cloth bags, and pass death sentences on their own daughters after learning said daughters were gang raped by family friends and in offering themselves to be raped brought shame down upon the family. Alas, despite warrant, the great and powerful Hilary manipulated the term Islamophobia to be insulting to the person to whom they labelled it. Namely, all free-thinking persons. The closet-faggot Prime Minister even made it law that if anyone was Islamophobic, they would be charged and imprisoned for up to five years. To show absolute commitment to the idea, the closet-faggot Prime Minister awarded twelve-million dollars to a convicted Republic terrorist—who funnelled this money back into the training compounds of his terrorist sand-nigger family in the lands where the closet-faggot Prime Minister had deployed all Republic men to fight. It takes no historian to recognize the closet-faggot Prime Minister was funding the opposing army against his own countrymen. This was an extreme effort to eradicate all masculinity in the Republic. Besides the closet-faggot Prime Minister changing the Republic’s anthem and funding terrorism abroad, the closet-faggot Prime Minister also appointed a sand-nigger to head the Northern Republic Armed Forces. This orange turban wearing sand-nigger was not qualified at the time of appointment, however, because he refused to wear a regimental headdress and fought to wear his turban (though if this General would have ever seen combat, he would have worn a helmet instead of his flagrant orange towel) the closet-faggot Prime Minister applauded his initiative and gave him the position. The closet-faggot Prime Minister also permitted turban-wearing sand-niggers from the largely faggotted west coast to enter government (including a known terrorist if the Air India bombing from decades past—only none of the sensitive Northern Republic citizens understood history, and even the ones who did, believed in amnesty for their own victim-kin, what happened in the past stays in the past, we’re the Northern Republic, they banded together. We accept everyone for who they are. Soon the orange turban-wearing sand-nigger in charge of the Northern Republic Armed Forces, forced everybody in uniform to wear turbans so not to visibly discriminate from the two other turban-wearing sand-niggers already among the ranks of the brigade. The Republic opened their borders to 250,000 sand-niggers annually, with the ambition to raise the entry number to 500,000 by the year 2021—fortunately the Great Fall occurred beforehand or these parasites may have converted all of Western Hemisphere. With the influx of sand-niggers, they were soon to coin their own march and join the ranks of the victim with the feminists, faggots, and rightful niggers, however, their chant began in their native tongue before they could translate it into oppressive English. It went: Dur-durka durka durka durk durka dur-durka, Durka durka, dur-durka, durk dur durka dur durka. Dur-durka, Dur-durka, durk durka Durka dur durk! Loosely translated: Immigrants have rights and need guarantees, Health care, education, and a place to relax. Inclusivity, Equality, the greatest Victim is me! Because of their inclusion, the Republic became the rape capital of the world, because the sand-nigger men formed gangs and raped all the white women who had not yet adopted burlap sacks and paper bags to cover themselves with. The closet-faggot Prime Minister supported the sand-niggers in their conquest, chastising the white woman, if you do not embrace progress, you are enabling the White Supremacist Capitalistic Patriarchy, despite many of the woman having been nominal feminists before the parasite sand-niggers consumed the Republic. The raping finally ceased when all Republic women covered themselves with potato sacks and balaclavas, which proved warm in the harsh winter months, but otherwise restricted their movement, quality of life, and encouraged rampant pubic hair growth, which dreaded over their birthing canals and swelled under their armpits. But they are French and many were already accustomed to this unhygienic approach to grooming. It's the same as when an institution offers benefits to entice people to become patrons or members, and in doing so, refuse to reward the already patrons or members of the organization. Take, for example, the modern banking system—modern in the sense of before the Great Fall. Banks earned their income from the amount of money they kept under management. To attract new customers, or clients, as they preferred to refer to the consumers as, banks often offered rewards for switching to their institution. Some banks offered free televisions when an account was opened. Some banks, notoriously southern, offered bolt-action rifles for new account owners. Often banks simply offered to match the first deposit into the account. This was great for bank-hoppers, but what for the customers who were already loyal to their bank? The reward was only available to new customers. The current and loyal customers got nothing. This is how the teenage mothers of the Republic felt when the sand-niggers began receiving free healthcare and business grants and educational preference and social assistance and whatever else was afforded them because there were of a difference land—namely, the land of sand-niggers. Not only teenage mothers, but single-mothers whores of all ages, as they all lived under the poverty line. This should not be a surprise, as graduation from the standard school system at the end of grade 12 is the single variable separating graduates who live above the poverty line and the failures who live below. This and a woman who at least finished the standard grade 12 level of schooling knew better than to allow a man to ejaculate in her birthing canal, hence social assistance and trailer parks and the statistical probability to be impoverished. If this was only bad enough, but further to the poverty, the actions of these single-mother whores created its own poverty feedback loop. Undoubtably hooked on pharmaceutical drugs or those of the illegal persuasion, they would not have the money to pay for said drugs and having already offered their birthing canal to be be ejaculated in for the selfish desire of owning a child that would always love them and never leave them as their repulsive and often borderline personalities caused those who once loved them to love them no longer—would again offer their birthing canals to be ejaculated into, to cover the expense of the drugs in the transference of the government subsidy, and subsequently give life to another welfare case. This was no problem as the Republic would provide for basic income and provisions, affording the now junkie single-mother whores the freedom to refrain from work, continue consuming drugs, and ultimately increase their output of degenerate children. It is a fact that most times involving these junkie single-mother whores—who for some perverted reasoning were touted as heroes among the Republic—because of the drug dealers she lay with, spread many of the known communicable diseases which came to infect 83.9% of the global population in the only recorded contemporary pandemic. These parasites, native to the Republic, felt slighted by the sand-niggers receiving benefits over what they already weaseled, and realized they were being made the victim, too. They rose. They marched. They spread their legs to all who would become erect in their presence, and with much labour, they became the fifth recognized marginalized group of the Northern Republic, contributing nothing more except children who would grow up to follow in their whore mother’s shadows and become the same sloths sunk into their La-Z-Boys purchased with Republic money in front of 64” LCD televisions bought with more Republic money. Their chant was cleverly worded: I’ve not finished school and I’m pregnant, can’t you see? I’m a product of this low-income pack; It’s the fucking White Supremacist Capitalistic Patriarchy! And it was a home run—home run refers to the historic sport of baseball, a man’s sport, which lost its relevance when the first and only movie which depicted the racist nature of the sport in exploiting the only black man who ever played, ran its four weeks in theatre but could no longer be leveraged to educate the public on how systemic the issue really was because the goal was to return to the pre-MLK Jr. days, and so the movie was outed as having lost its relevance in pursuit of progressive equality. The march, which rose from the plight of the single-mother whores, catapulted them into the limelight. It even received special airtime each week, which marched between all marginalized artist who had their songs on the radio. And now there were five. The feminists, the fags, the niggers, the sand-niggers, and the single-mothers whores (who represented poverty everywhere). Of rational minded people, the ISIS becoming a protected group was the furthest from purview. The Islamic’s were jacked up sand-niggers known for abusing women, persecuting those persons of different sexual appetites, for poor fashion, and so forth, contradicting what the other five groups stood united for. In fact, the estranged prophet, whose name can not be mentioned, meticulously presented the exploits of the ISIS in the docu-book One Hundred Little Victories. It is a disturbing publication. The ISIS joining the ranks shouldn’t have happened; but it did. And that through a sneaky loop-hole which only now in retrospect makes absolute sense. They were disliked, check, hated in some circles, check-check, and feared—and fear stems from being misunderstood—so thus, they were victims, too, of the White Supremacist Capitalistic Patriarchy. After Hilary Hamrod went on record calling the White Supremacist Capitalist Patriarchy the ISISophobic, the Republic determined that as a group, the ISIS met most of the victim conditions: They were largely from poor camel countries; they were not white, except for the single-mother whores who converted for the surplus of men willing to gang-bang them; and when the ISIS moved from their camel countries to the Republic, they were quite poor. Since the ISIS were not known for their tolerance, in order to be elevated to marginalized status, they had to re-brand their dogma as the Religion of Peace. This caught on like wildfire. All of their attacks were viewed as natural reactions to the White Supremacist Capitalist Patriarchy and thus became justified. It very similar to how the SJW’s supported ANTIFA, the masked thugs who performed gang attacks on unsuspecting whites—despite being white themselves, as niggers didn’t attend rallies and wouldn’t aim a can of mace in someones face when they could pull their nine and bust a cap instead. The ISIS became the Religion of Love, and anybody who dared question their tactics and aggressive nature were immediately called ISISophobic and were stripped of their public standing and forfeited their jobs. Still, the marginalized elite don’t like religion, and many believed that to adhere to a religion there must be some mental deficiency or retardation in the believer, so in order for the ISIS to be added to the already five, they had to accept being categorized with all the other Retards and Cripples. The ISIS quickly accepted the terms. As soon as they were elevated to marginalized status, they killed all the Retards and Cripples—and were applauded for demonstrating such mercy. Many of the Zika-heads and Downsfolk, and Transgenders (when they were still labelled medically as suffering from gender dysphoria and lumped in with the retards), were quickly eradicated. The Transsexuals who survived the initial Mercy Campaign realized it was only a matter of time before they would receive mercy themselves and be dispatched like the other drools. They lobbied the faggots membership into their group instead. This became known as the mass-exodus from the ISIS, the only marginalized group to ever experience an exodus of such magnitude. The Retards and Cripples might have found refuge in another group, only they were retarded or lame and couldn’t gather enough mental resources to access foresight—but mostly could not escape the mercy of the ISIS because they had no legs. There march was created and sang like this: Islam is about love, don’t you dare disagree! And what for being a paranoid insomniac? Inclusivity, Equality, the greatest Victim is me! Damn the White Supremacist Capitalistic Patriarchy! The seven groups united and their marches were set to the tune of London Bridges Falling Down, because London falling is emblematic of the fall of the White Supremacist Capitalistic Patriarchy. Together, it sounded as: Inclusivity, Equality, the greatest Victim is me! I’m black and I’m under attack, Destroy the White Supremacist Capitalistic Patriarchy! Sexism is rampant here on my knees, This feminist is fighting back! Inclusivity, Equality, the greatest Victim is me! Maybe that’s true, but what for LGTQB? Sexual preference deserves a plaque; Down with the White Supremacist Capitalistic Patriarchy! Immigrants have rights and need guarantees, Health care, education, and a place to relax. Inclusivity, Equality, the greatest Victim is me! I’ve not finished school and I’m pregnant, can’t you see? I’m a product of this low-income pack; It’s the fucking White Supremacist Capitalistic Patriarchy! Islam is about love, don’t you dare disagree! And what for being a paranoid insomniac? Inclusivity, Equality, the greatest Victim is me! Damn the White Supremacist Capitalistic Patriarchy! With the Seven Marginalized officially codified, the prestige in being of the masses quickly diminished. Fortunately for the Republic, or so the Republic hoped, the fags presented intersectionality, based on their own already complicated group identity, and offered it as an overlay which could apply to all marginalized groups. A pointed system to determine exactly where one stood on the totem pole. Something simple made complicated in desperation to save a system which glimpsed its own death. It used to be queers were queers. Or fags. And then they became capital “Q” Queer. During all their marches and bubble parties and unprotected bathroom stall sex, the designation was expanded to LGBT: Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, and Transgender. They covered all their bases, although it seemed a little bit excessive. Lesbians are gay. Bisexual people are gay. Transgender people are gay. But everybody wants to be special, so it turned out Lesbians weren’t gay. Bisexual people weren’t gay. Transgender people weren’t gay. Something about sharing sexism as their common root of oppression. Used to be nobody cared what you did behind closed doors, and everything was fine that way. Now everybody wanted to be defined by what they did behind closed doors, and not only that, but to have everybody praise them for it. So, all the weirdos came out of the woods, came out of the bathroom stalls, came out from the bed of truck drivers, and formed a line. To skim the complexity of the situation on hand, consider this condensed version of faggot identities. Advocates were fags who actively worked to end intolerance while supporting social equity (whatever that meant); Allies were straight people who desperately wanted to be a fag but were not aroused by the same sex and so they could only support queer and transfolk; the Androgyny-ites were fags who expressed themselves with elements of both masculinity and femininity; Asexuals, like the eunuchs of old, were fags who generally did not experience sexual attraction to any group of people; Bisexuals were fags who had an emotional, romantic, or sexual attraction for a person of more than one gender; Closeted fags—consider the closet-faggot Prime Minister of the Republic—were fags who keep their sexuality or gender identity a secret and had yet to come out of the closet; Cross-dressers were fags who got off from dressing in the clothing of the opposite gender; Fluid fags were fags who fluctuated between all the options; Gays and Lesbians were fags who had an emotional, romantic, or sexual attraction for people of the same sex; Intersex were fags who identified with dragons and cats and turtles and such; Pansexuals were fags who experience sexual, romantic, physical, and spiritual attraction for everybody inside the fag identity group, excluding white male hetero, as they were the patriarchy and the cause of all oppression; Queer used to be used to defy sexual restrictions, but under the regime became an expletive—kind of like how the savages alternated between Indian and Native Peoples, dependent on whichever term their oppressor used they could insist on the other and further show how the oppressor continued in their tyranny; the Questioning were fags who wanted to get their feet wet but were afraid of the water; Same Gender Loving or SGL’s were what the niggers used as an alternative to gay and lesbian so to separate them from the white fag community; Stealth’s were fags who lived their self-identified genders without other people knowing that they were transsexual fags (but everybody always knew); Transsexuals were fags whose self-identified gender did not match society’s expectations of someone with their sex characteristics; and finally Two-Spirited were savage fags who had both masculine and feminine spirits. The one group of sexual deviants they didn’t accept were the pedophiles. Initially, it was not considered kosher to lust over the delicate, virgin, petite, glowing body of a child. About a year after the ISIS joined with the Retards and Cripples to complete the group of seven, the pedophiles were acknowledged as Allies under the faggot umbrella—because to suck dick or eat cunt against traditional biological programming is not a choice. Pedophilia, therefor, shouldn’t be a crime as it’s their natural inclination to prefer children and this feature should instead be celebrated. Each group identity contained its own intersectionality and corresponding hierarchical position. For example, the traditional pedophile is similar to the heterosexual white male. He’s plain. There are, however, Fluid Pedophiles, much more respected among the fag populace, who fluctuated between the mix of options available: man and woman, gay and straight, Ze, Hir, and etc.. And this yet without defining their sexual appetites, e.g. attraction to male identities under the age of four. It was a beautiful display of all deviants propping each other up. These were most of the unique identities within the LGBT species, and although they were lumped together here as being identical to each other; they insisted that there were specific needs and concerns related to each individual identity, and so quarterly, the Brahman of each identifier and Brahmans of other identity groups not yet included in the L.G.B.T.Q.I.A.+ acronym, met to discuss the merits of affording other groups protection under the equality umbrella. Brahmans from the Dragonflies, the Aliens, the Mushrooms, the Fetuses, the Electronics, the Infants, the Tri-Androgynies and the Asexual-Bigenders attended each quarterly mass. This was the atmosphere to which the men decided the kids had played long enough. With no public recourse available, the straight white men gathered together, stripped, and engaged in faggot coitus. This was not for enlightenment. These men were not gay. They did not enjoy corn-holing, or the smell of shit on their partially slumped penises. Many of the men gagged and vomited, and on first penetration exploded feces all over their partners. No. If any of these brave men were here today, they would confirm, the orgy of men, legion, were simply doing what had to be done. Because that’s what real men did. See, these men, these peasant caste white heterosexual males, remembered what the world had forgotten. Faggot anal coitus spread the acquired immunodeficiency syndrome—and that shit kills. You could see it on the withering faces of the L.G.B.T.Q.I.A.+ everywhere. The slow death. The cigarette burned eyes. The pale skin, unless hidden beneath the orange-tinted skin from the artificial UV—another sentence of nature’s justice in correcting wayward humanity. You could see it in their thin faces, unless plumped from Botox—it seemed the louder they proclaimed their happiness, their actions focused on their lust for death. They evidenced it in their diet pills and unregulated supplements. A race to the grave—and to take everybody with. Except for the men. The men knew death claimed soon enough. Better to get up in the morning, do their work, eat their dinner, rest a while, and retire to sleep. It wasn’t much. But it was something. Only not anymore. Despite the endless attempts to destroy masculinity, men never stopped being men. They got up, worked, went to bed and kept the world turning. And so, these men, doing what they always did, seeing the issue for what it was, then determining to fix it, they stripped down to their birthday suits and fucked like they were fucking their once appreciative wives. Semen entered assholes at a rate never even tried at a Pulse nightclub. Blood dripped down legs. The pungent, sour-hinted sweet aroma of various feces consistency thickened the air. The saltine tears which threatened to singe the cheeks of these brave soldiers were quickly wiped away while they dressed. It was D-Day all over again. A suicide mission. But necessary for survival. The men returned home and continued their routines, getting up, working, going to bed. They rarely saw their wives anymore. The women were always moving about, busy, but never having much to show for it, and often only returning late in the evening, or in the early morning hours. It was their right to be sexually liberated, dammit! It was their right to murder unborn children if they wanted. That’s what being liberated meant. Doing whatever you wanted whenever you wanted. Men, on the other hand, understood autonomy to be the ability to lead disciplined lives. As a power move, wives withheld sex from their husbands, and in the off chance when they were hot and bothered and fired up to fuck they’d demand a go at pegging. Pegging was penis envy. Woman wore special jockstraps designed to fit plus sizes which had a overlapped slit at the crotch like a man’s pair of boxer shorts. Through this slit they would slide a silicon baton to simulate a man’s throbbing penis. Though they were available in flesh tones, the women, exercising their liberation, preferred colours of purple and pink and cherry red. Until then, the men had resisted these rape-fantasy advances. But not anymore. This time they were ready. They could feel it in their veins. The AIDS, slowly commanding control of their bodies. Yes. Now, it was time. When the wives strapped up and slapped their faux-penises on the table where their husbands were eating a solemn last meal, they were prepared, because men are always prepared. They negotiated. If I do this for you, I want to finish how we used to (as in ejaculating into the birthing canal). Overzealous at their apparent victory, the women most hurriedly accepted the counteroffer. And so it began. There was less blood this time around, as the men had already stretched their assholes once. Some even ejaculated prematurely from the stimulation to the prostate. This hadn’t been accounted for. Still, enough men endured like warriors, and when their wives were satisfied with the pegging, the men mounted them and exploded tainted jism into their birthing canals. Soon, and in part because all the liberated fags had already been carrying and spreading the virus, 99.999999999999999% of the world population was HIV+ and died a little quicker each day. Only a select populous of vegetarian Jaines who had moved to the coniferous north of the Republic at the turn of the century, remained unscathed of all the crockery spread about the world. They carried on with disinterested concern, treading lightly and purposing to do no harm, while the rest of the world died. THE END
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