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ACADEMIC
THEORY
ALL
HAIL THE
BLESSED
SUTCLIFFE |
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Trusted
academic Professor Adolph McGroot makes people scream with specific
reference to Peter Sutcliffe, cutting open to reveal the feminine
role in mature capitalism and modern politics
Peter
Sutcliffe, the so-called ‘Yorkshire Ripper’, was sentenced
to life-imprisonment in 1981, after being found guilty of the
murder of 13 women, and the attempted murder of seven.
"Peter
cracked Emily’s head with two blows from his hammer. Then,
using a Phillips-type screwdriver, Peter Sutcliffe dug into Emily’s
prostrate body a total of fifty-two times. He had pushed her sweater,
cardigan, and bra up but left her wearing her pants and tights.
He stabbed her in the breasts, neck and lower abdomen. Peter also
stomped on the body. His footprint of a heavy-ribbed Wellington
boot was pounded into her right thigh. A piece of wood was thrust
between her spread-eagled legs which, he said later, was put there
‘to show her as disgusting as she was’, that he was
‘just pushing her out of sight with it. I pushed her with
it because I couldn’t bear to touch her again’. Peter
also stated that her ‘overwhelming smell of cheap perfume’
nauseated him."
Peter Sotos, Total Abuse, Portland, Oregon: Goad To
Hell Enterprises, 1996, p.34.
"In
this truck is a man whose latent genius if unleashed would rock
the nation, whose dynamic energy would overpower those around
him. Better let him sleep?"
Sign
found inside Sutcliffe’s truck.
Like
a gaggle of giggling pederasts deceitfully securing admission
to a cub-scout jamboree, the massed ranks of prancing harlots
parading up and down the length and breadth of England can congratulate
themselves on continuously ‘getting away with it’ during
the twenty years that have elapsed since Peter Sutcliffe was sentenced
to detainment in perpetuity at Her Majesty’s Leisure. Almost
twenty years since Sutcliffe’s visionary urban hygiene project
was brusquely interrupted; twenty years since his mighty ball-peen
hammer was forcibly prevented from slaking its unquenchable strumpet-pummelling
lust. Now, after two decades marked by the leashing of that genius
and the suppression of that energy, the triumphalist din of shrieking
slatterns threatens to drown out forever the civilising voice
of gentlemanly equanimity that once helped keep in check the rise
of harlotry. Sutcliffe’s ball-peen hammer was, perhaps, the
most potent representative and unwavering enforcer of that equanimity.
This
shrill cacophony of female cawing only confirms what the more
clear-sighted among us have long since grasped: that the premature
termination of Sutcliffe’s heroic whore-cull signalled the
onset of a long societal interregnum for British manhood and the
beginning of a period of untrammelled ascension for strumpet,
shrew and slattern. Wherever he now turns the courteous gentleman
is dismayed to find himself affronted by the same odious spectacle:
the simpering, squawking and screeching of shameless human toilets.
What
went wrong? How could we have allowed things to come to such a
sorry state? What inestimable power have we relinquished, only
now measuring its value in light of its enforced absence? What
has been bargained and what has been lost with Sutcliffe’s
fraudulent imprisonment at the hands of a totalitarian matriarchy?
For, make no mistake, Sutcliffe is a political prisoner.
Feminist
malcontents are right about one thing: the inherently political
character of Sutcliffe’s gynecidal fury will never be too
forcefully insisted upon. Their assessment is marred however by
their disappointingly resentful denunciation of that fury, prejudiced
as it is by the assumption that Sutcliffe was somehow being unfair
to women. Far from being the deranged or spiteful antics of a
madman, Sutcliffe’s acts were visionary political statements,
revolutionary gestures of symbolic intervention. Because capitalism
is female. And if capitalism is female, then gynecide is the only
politically revolutionary agenda left.
The
rise of feminism in economically advanced western liberal democracies
after the upheavals of the late sixties didn’t just ‘coincide’
with the disintegration of insurrectionary resistance to capitalism
and the demise of revolutionary socialism as a political force.
It cut its balls off, both literally and figuratively. With its
privatisation of dissent, its valorisation of self-indulgent female
narcissism, and its domestication of the political — perfectly
encapsulated in the slogan "the personal is the political",
feminism emasculated revolutionary resistance to consumer capitalism
and initiated the ideological legitimisation of passivity and
conformity that helped secure the unquestioned reign of a free-market
‘consensus’ of guilt-free consumption in western democracies.
Global
capital is now in the process of securing its long-term bio-political
investment and women — probably because of some gluttonous
physiological predisposition to consumption — are the great
incubators of that bio-political capital. Every female is at once
a locus of consumption and a locus for the reproduction of consumption;
both a consumer and the potential producer of future consumers.
Capitalism reproduces itself both literally and figuratively through
the human female. Thus, a total feminisation of the populace,
irrespective of biological sexuation, presents the most efficient
method of guaranteeing the perpetual acquiescence of a satisfied
and perfectly submissive consumer workforce, busily refining their
co-operative skills for the workplace while cultivating a compliant
domesticity at home with their ‘partner’.
‘Femaleness’
is no longer just a biological characteristic but a vigorously
enforced sociological condition, an ideological imperative designed
to maximise the population’s potential for docile consumption.
Domesticating the political, feminising the political or neutering
the political all amount to the same thing: gradually eliminating
the capacity for refusal. Feminist rhetoric militating on behalf
of personal emancipation from ‘constrictive’ gender
roles has nothing to do with political liberation and everything
to do with engineering a climate of gender-fixated ideological
myopia, wherein the possibility of attacking the economic infrastructure
or actively resisting the universal liberal-democratic consensus
can be safely dismissed as a socially undesirable instance of
anachronistic, masculinist ‘aggression’.
"The
new face of capitalism"
Look
around you. An Observer journalist hails the hysterical
public reaction to Diana’s death as a ‘triumph for feminism’.
It’s true: an entire nation blubbers and wails at the death
of ‘the people’s princess’ in a totalitarian paroxysm
of mewling femaleness. Blair, not Thatcher, is Britain’s
first feminist premier, just as Clinton is the US’ first
female president. The Clinton-Blair axis marks feminism’s
— which is to say, consumer capitalism’s — ultimate
victory. Warm, caring, compassionate, even as they give the go-ahead
for large scale redundancies and lethal injections. Because it’s
middle-class women, not steel-workers or convicted men, that provide
the bulk of their electoral support. Clinton and Blair are female
in everything but genital endowment.
Capitalism
is female. Its body is that of the slimy titted hog accosting
you in the street. Feminism is the attempted reduction of all
mankind to the level of that desperately leering female dog. The
tainted gaze of the cheaply perfumed strumpet offering to sell
herself to you is like a filth-caked shopfront window, blankly
mirroring the fathomless degradation that’s the ultimate
measure of the capitalist exchange-rate. The whore is the model
citizen, the perfect paradigm of the emancipated consumer in the
feminist blueprint for societal reform. The citizen consumer gets
fucked like a piece of fucking street garbage and learns to pretend
that she’s exercising power by selling herself because her
body’s a commodity of which ‘she’s really in control’.
Just like a leper’s in control of the running sores and chancres
forcing him to beg on the street. As if getting fucked like a
street pig could ever be an instance of ‘being in control’.
As if selling your diseased cunt -not even to the highest bidder,
just the nearest one- was another instance of labour-power and
retail commodity exchange. But prostitutes don’t sell a commodity:-
they are the fucking commodity. They’ve already been bought
and sold. Their entire existence -the totality of their miserable
life’s hopes and fears- is a mass manufactured, cheaply available
and eminently disposable commodity. And the ideology of generalised
‘feel-good femaleness’ championed by feminism -with
the whore as universal prototype of the perfectly liberated consumer-
promises to reduce mankind in its entirety to the level of the
self-deluding prostitute: the worthless but ‘sex-positive’
street sow telling itself that getting fucked is a liberating
activity; that powerlessness is really power; that degradation
is really ennobling and that self-deception is really enlightenment.
Sutcliffe’s
imprisonment at the hands of a crypto-feminist police state signalled
the onset of this confederacy of cunts. After his sentencing,
the green light was given for Thatcher, the Spice Girls and the
seemingly interminable parade of impudent slatterns revelling
in the climate of male cowardice encouraged by the great man’s
incarceration, smug with the certainty that the spectre of a shackle-wielding
matriarchy will suffice in dissuading the exasperated gentleman
from perforating a bitch’s skull with a blunt instrument
when he has truly had enough of the cunt’s intolerable screeching.
How
long before a million disenchanted gentlemen up and down the land
finally awake from their media-induced stupor, and, noting that
this is the billionth time they’ve been upbraided by their
titted ‘partner’ for failing to display due deference
to her precious female sensitivity, set aside the sports pages
of the idiot newspaper they’ve been befuddled by for the
last twenty years, reaching for the nearest blunt instrument,
quietly deciding at last that enough is enough?
Sutcliffe:
the name alone rings out like a peal of hope for mankind. Every
well-aimed swipe of Sutcliffe’s ball-peen hammer was a gesture
of defiance staving off the creeping onset of generalised whoredom.
Sutcliffe, perhaps the most eminent advocate of that famed seventies
‘do, the Caucasian Afro. Sutcliffe, Afro’d avenger.
Sutcliffe, corrector of female impropriety, liberator of mankind.
After Sutcliffe, the skull-cracking thud of iron on scalp has
a peculiarly satisfying resonance: the worthless female thing
sprawled on the pavement in a darkened alley with a blood-matted
skull will think twice before raining her semen-stained mouth
off again. Where’s your girl-power now, cunt?
—
"But you’re just a pathetic, sexually frustrated little
misogynist!"
Misogyny?
Misogyny is a typically narcissistic female conceit: men working
themselves up into towering lather over women because they can’t
get laid or because mummy didn’t give them enough cuddles
and hugs. It reassures women, gives them a sense of power, lets
them think that they’ll always have enough of a hold on us
to provoke hatred, that we must care enough about them to resent
them. But we don’t. At most, the average female inspires
nothing more virulent in the well-adjusted gentleman than a sense
of benign contempt. If he’s honest with himself, a healthily
contented fellow must acknowledge that he doesn’t actually
give a fuck what a woman thinks about anything, least of all what
she thinks about him. We don’t care enough about women to
hate them. Women aren’t worth hating. They’re cum-buckets
suffering from delusions of grandeur, sperm-spittoons that have
forgotten their place and purpose in life. And if capitalism is
female, misogyny is no longer a piece of personal pathology, it’s
a universal political imperative. Female capital is the enemy
of mankind. It’s not personal, it’s political, cunt.
And
please don’t mention sexual frustration. Well, Madam, your
faith in the irresistibility of your own physical charms is touching.
But frankly, I wouldn’t piss up your cunt if your guts were
on fire, you slimy titted hog.
The
blood’s rising.
Sutcliffe,
greatest living Englishman, is the last great hope, but perhaps
also an emissary from the future for English manhood. Like Excalibur,
his cunt-stained hammer has become the symbol for a revolutionary
call-to-arms, the blood soaked emblem for the great whore-cull
whose time is surely drawing closer. Violence against women? You
haven’t seen anything yet. Exterminate capital. Exterminate
the female.
Better
let us sleep?
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