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Corporate whores

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?

Trusted academic

Further Reading

Zero Tolerance (UK)

Women in global capitalism

Womens Aid (UK)

Project Prosper (US)

More on Peter Sutcliffe


From the Whorecull mailbag:

The Ripper Returns!!

Glad to see you're still going and whilst we applaud ridding the world of metaphorical whores, doing a Sutcliffe on real ones was somewhat over the top (even for us!!) - have a butchers at our site

[ Phil Thornton 12/03/2004 14:34:13 :: web]

From the Whorecull mailbag:

This article was either:

A) A noble challenge to the borders of taste and decency

B) A deliberately provocative article to incite discussion on important contemporary issues


C) The rantings of a man not happy with himself and blaming it on everyone else.

Either way I doubt if he'd care to read it aloud in a room full of Sutcliffe's victims' close relatives.


Harry Fox

[ HF 12/03/2004 14:45:27]

now there appears to be a properly consistent bloke with a hammer (ball peen?) going round london killing 'whores' (or agents of capital, or women or whatever)....just where is McGroot these days? SW London?

[ 25/08/2004 01:22:53]

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