Fight Of The Year: Dominic Breazeale vs Izuagbe Ugonoh

Dominic Breazeale, coming off a KO loss to Heavyweight kingpin Anthony Joshua, appeared to be living the good life. He came in with juggs – Can’t Stop, Won’t Stop, Golden Corral – always a good sign. His opponent, Izu Ugonoh, a black Polak, famous for competing on some eastern bloc version of Dancing With The Stars. A classic Man Tits Vs. 6 Pack Abs Bama Brawl.


Attention Male Pigs: Just Rape Someone So We Can Crucify You Already


In a world where sexual assault is such a hot commodity, and victimhood a badge of pride to be respected, it is no surprise that women with long-harbored rage would be blowing their Mt. Vesuvius tops to cover the rest of us in ash.

This is now a culture where facts are decided ahead of time, and evidence cherry-picked on the fly. There is a tornado of harassment with allegations circulating the internet from everyone to Hollywood elites, to politicians, to local business owners.  Accusations are indictments, and in this wave, the acts of Weinstein are now equal to Franken.  100+ victims are now comparable to a dumb and shameful photo on a USO tour. 

Can we take a breath, or find the nearest potted plant.

Of course, it would be horrible to imply that consent is something to play fast and loose with. Unwanted sexual advancement placed upon another person is despicable. Status and power carry…..something…

While consent should never be taken for granted in the bedroom, there seems to be a double standard when it comes to recollection outside of the sheets. In one of the more high profile cases, a Louis CK accuser has revoked consent years after the fact. When recalling an incident where CK asked to masturbate in front of her, the anonymous woman has said on record that she “went along with his request, but later questioned his behavior.”


Another case of regret being apparently equivalent to rape is the infamous case of the Mattress Girl, the Columbia University student who accused a male peer of anally raping her. She was then found to have exchanged texts with him prior to the incident begging him for anal sex. In addition, there have even been widespread reports of her texting him flirtatiously even after the fact. Her case has been proven false, and the man cleared of all wrongdoing with the university settling out of court with his family. The social stigma, of course, will probably follow him for the rest of his life. She, however, is often still celebrated as a hero to this day because of her “artistic” interpretation of self-proclaimed victimhood.

“In a matter of hours I was tried, convicted and sentenced for something I did not do.” – Zach Ward (via News & Observer)

But here is the problem with online accusations: they stick. They always stick. Even without any form of real evidence or due process. In my home town, a man named Zach Ward who owned a comedy club woke up one day to an old fling from years prior accusing him in graphic detail of sexual assault. There were no witnesses, no proof, nothing damning other than her word against his. There was no approach to the police at the time of the incident nor at any point afterward. The result though was him being forced to step down from his business that he built from nothing, and to sell the property in haste at an enormous loss in value. No one in the community for one second thought to give him a fair shake. He maintained his innocence and provided a counter story – was labelled a pig for denying her statement. The accuser has seen an incredible resurgence in her prominence within the community, and the man who led the charge to believe her without any semblance of a question has seen himself become a hero of the people. Well, to everyone but Zach Ward.


Journalist Emily Lindin came under fire for posting a decidedly brash statement on Twitter

So where do we go from here? It appears that we are actively trying to erase all of the social progression achieved from the “sexual revolution” started in the 60s, which seemed to have snowballed into something that approached sexual equality until just recently. Women were free to enjoy some level of promiscuity without the judgment of yesteryear. It’s hard to imagine many men having a problem with this development either. But it seems that society has screeched to a halt at a glaring red light – and the crossroads we face is, as Douglas Murray so eloquently puts it, a very complicated one. Men are afraid of vengeful women; women are afraid of vicious men. Moreover, everyone seems to be afraid to speak their minds, because those who do get tackled in some way. In particular, anyone with conservative thoughts.

One thing that has become more obvious over time is that people on the far left, intersectional, trigger-happy political spectrum continuously speak out of both sides of their mouths. They have pushed a narrative of “hate speech” not being free speech, although the definition of hate speech seems to constantly change. However, when this idea is turned onto them, as it was when Facebook started banning comments from women advocating violence against men, it is met with outrage, condemnation, and accusations of sexism against the social media behemoth. “It’s just a joke to say ‘Kill all men,’” they said! Meanwhile, right-wingers have been banned from Twitter and the like for making far less offensive jokes than that.

Although free speech is a fundamental constitutional right, Facebook is indeed a private company, and is completely within their rights to remove anything they feel is not in line with their terms and conditions. There is also an argument for the advocacy of violence not falling under free speech due to Supreme Court precedents. For some reason this leaves me with the impression that the new, regressive version of the left tends to meet most things with negativity.

And with that in mind, is it any wonder that they are closing both their minds and their legs?

Your Friend,



Waking Up In Sarajevo



It was pouring as I stumbled back, drunk and exhausted, towards Nedjarići. The rain didn’t seem to stop the stray dogs. They were having their usual orgy, defiling the construction site I hadn’t seen operating since I had been in Sarajevo. Who will it house? The youth were leaving, and the siege generation wasn’t getting any better. Maybe it was financed on a whim. I doubt it matters all that much whether it fails or succeeds, as long as the oil money flows in. None of this had much effect on my mood. The kiosk was still open, and after the usual run around with the attendant, Haris, who functioned with war torn clubs for hands, the chains were removed from the beer fridge.

The next morning I woke up to Sabina’s phones alarm. Apparently, she set it with the Muezzin which echoed as I tripped over the empties, ending any idea of leaving without the awkward morning goodbyes. Neither she nor I wanted anyone else in our group to know we were fucking. I told her my bad, as I closed the door.

It was rare to come back to my room without any beer and if didn’t settle I would vomit. So, I went about the dumb drag down to the nearest shop to refuel. Thankfully, departure was being held up by the two Turkish girls. It would be a long ride to Banja Luka. I didn’t need to come down yet.

Passing through the smoke filled lobby people were gathered around watching a failed coup, I guess there would be none of that Gülen shit in Turkey for the time being. At the checkout desk waited your typical Saudi nuclear family; a man, his three wives, and their 12 kids. The little boys were all wearing Messi jerseys, and the little girls donning their cute hijabi training wheels, yet to go full beekeeper and pick up the burqa.

Outside, the fog lingered above the mortar marked edifices of yesteryear’s Yugoslavia. The uniformly block buildings were decorated by the ornaments of laundry and leaking bullet holes that oozed streaks like running mascara. Because of both the weekend and the weather, few from the neighborhood ventured out.

Edin, a teenaged corn vendor, was unpacking his stand from the trunk of his grandfather’s Yugo. It appeared today he would be without his usual competition; a profusely bearded Islamist caricature whose judging gaze I tended to welcome in my intoxication.

I had heard locals talk about the recent reversion back to faith. A culture war was brewing between secular Bosniaks who identified the faith but didn’t give a shit about strict adherence, against the Islamist who saw doctrine as the end- all be- all. What had been taboo expressions of faith, such as the hijab, were now commonplace, even amongst the youth. Worst more, former drunks were now sober and bearded, donning halal skullcaps and Capri pants in the way of the prophet.

The locals might tell you this came from their new Arab neighbors. The ones from the gulf that financed the mujahideen during the war; Saudi Salafist that built mega mosques and Qatari playboys bathed in cologne. The zealous among them, the true believers, would often be linked to a collection of black burqaed ghosts, shadowing their Versace dressed master. I wondered what the city seemed to them through the slits, with its bare skin ads and alcohol. How did they see the unaccompanied women, the buxom Bosnians with their bouncy boobs of a bread diet? Or was this part of the plan? A foothold in the heathen continent they would eventually bring to Allah. I saw a platoon of those suffocated women leaving Victoria Secret – bags full of lingerie – submitting their instincts to Sharia. Bin Laden had a bunch of porn with him when he was shot by Seal Team Six; perhaps he could have shed light on the paradox.

After the usual dance at the kiosk, I purchased five 18 oz. beers that would last me the ride up to Banja Luka.

From there I decided on corn for breakfast. Edin noticed his corner competition had failed to show up. I joked that maybe he had gone to Syria

 Yeah, but maybe someone just replace him.