A place for a

05.06.2015

Women don’t fart

I know your blood is already boiling from reading the headline above, but read me out. Have you ever heard a woman fart? (Your mother doesn’t count.)

Consider the following viewpoint that has been concealed from you during your entire life: the female colon. Had you tried to consider it earlier, you would have found out that it’s not possible. That’s right, they don’t have one!

Did you ever get your dick dirty after fucking her in the ass? See!

The truth is: Women are heartless robots. Oh, wait. That’s not the movie I want to talk about. The movie I want to talk about is one I produced. One that will unfortunately never be exposed to the light of day. Just like the female colon. (Except in porn.)

The movie

Nearing the end of last year, I was very enthusiastic to start living my dream, producing movies. Back at the company for which I worked at that time, I proposed to my then-boss to produce two spots.

In one of them, a couple would be on their way in a car on the German autobahn. The woman would complain to the man about not honoring the speed limits and he would yell at her to not be a bitch. Butthurt, she would turn away and fart. The man would try to open a window, but it wouldn’t work and it would force them to halt, accompanied by the slogan for a recovery service. It would be an aggressive spot. Well, at least edgy.

The other spot had a more cute storyline featuring an annoying child.

I pitched both spots as simple text scripts and got an approval by my boss to produce it. It’s noteworthy that this was a small company and the relationship between me and my boss was hardly very hierarchical. (Or patriarchal?)

It took me around two weeks to find suitable actors over Facebook and organize everything. The two actors did their thing while I made myself at home in the trunk with headphones and a small monitor, instructing them. It was great fun.

Selling the shit

When all work was done, I set up a beamer at the office and invited the team – around eight people – and the other company in the office to enjoy the show.

From ten people, six were relatively young and attractive women. While they enjoyed the cute – and harmless – spot, they were slightly scandalized by my favorite. Needless to say, that is just the reaction I aimed for.

The men naturally laughed at it, but it was a politically correct laughter, carrying a dishonest admonition.

My boss always took big pride in knowing what people liked and how to communicate with them. His whole business was built solely upon this ability of his. He and his business partner were quick and confident to say right after the presentation: You can’t do that.

I didn’t flinch. In a way, I had expected resistance, but I had hoped to be able to sell it. I stood behind my idea and argued that a small company like them would profit from a provocative spot which had potential to go viral.

I had produced the cute spot as a back up, because it was safe. It was the kind of cute bullshit spot you would expect from a big corporation and it would only work because a big corporation would have the money to bombard people with it all day long. Nobody would ever share such a thing from free will. Without the marketing budget, that boring cuteness was lost.

Political correctness where undue

But my bosses weren’t open for that kind of argument. They came from a background where they had worked for big corporations and their image decisions usually aimed at imitating that bland and heartless look & feel.

The company I worked for has also been publishing a magazine. Same thing: Copycat-style boring articles and interviews that wouldn’t hurt a soul. Stuff to be sold to all the suit-carrying decision-makers who had to give their blessings so that the companies they worked for would approve of the budget for the ads inside that magazine. These people – representatives of big corporations interested in maintaining trademarks – were the customers, not the people actually reading the magazine. In fact, that is how the entire company had been financed for almost as long as it existed.

That point was always lost on my bosses. They had never thoroughly considered the viewpoint of the final customer. Their thought process could be described as: I am impressed by big successful companies. If my stuff looks like theirs, I am impressed that I can look like a big successful company. Thus my customers will be impressed as well. And thus I will become a big successful company, eventually.

They wanted to have lots of visitors on their website and a high ranking, but didn’t think it was necessary to produce unique, opinionated and good content. They usually recycled the boring magazine articles, the most interesting of which were slightly bogus product tests (consider the money-givers). What mindless fucking idiot reads these things? When I told him it was boring stuff, he told me that I was being insulting towards his – female – authors.

Once, I sketched up a provocative magazine cover with a very hot young girl who had exposed breasts – but no nipples, god forbid, only the edges – and retouched the product into her hand. Just enough to get someone actually interested in that damn worthless piece of paper. My boss actually was inclined to try it, but his business partner quickly talked reason back into him.

Unsurprisingly, the growth of the business had been slow and steady over the years. It succeeded in providing a few people with jobs, but never made any leaps.

Lost argumentative efforts

So when I tried to argue for my spot, my bosses told me that they of course liked it, but they were men, after all. You just can’t show a woman fart. My boss actually phrased it that way and was dead serious. He didn’t say it like a Machiavellian psychopath; he said it with a sincere display of guilt in his face.

He, the people’s person, felt actually guilty for even considering to expose that women do such a dirty thing as fart.

I laughed incredulously.

It’s the kind of experience that opens your mind for the idea that you may actually have been fed a big fat lie. But let’s not trail off.

My boss had long been employing something he called housewife-test. In fact, he had done it so often I had long been sick from it. It works like that: Show something to the women in the office. If they like it, good. The idea behind the concept was that women have some kind of sixth sense about what people like and that women usually decide what to spend money on.

It made me furious. A nation of pussy-whipped faggots subduing everything that makes life worth living. And for what? Ultimately, for sex. Oh, wait, and for female approval, of course. Your weakness disgusts me, fellow men. I would not consider for a second to be more docile for sex, although I am miserable with women in general. But who am I to tell you, dear clowns? You gotta do what works, right. You listen to women, because you want to fuck them. Or you pretend not listening to them, again to fuck them.

But most of you people don’t even pretend, no, you actually think that women are somehow holier-than-thou. More adult. More reasonable. Yes, indeed, you have accepted blandness as an equivalent to adulthood. You disgust me.

We got into conflict over it. I wanted to show my spot to the world and said that I would simply use another logo and company name. But they said I couldn’t do that. I said I could do whatever I wanted. Then they said they wouldn’t use the other spot – because people would recognize the same actors and it could hurt the image. The image of the partner corporations, of course. I ended up demanding more money to not release it and I got it, so I can’t show it to you.

I have reserved myself the right to show it to potential customers and individuals. Drop me a mail if you are curious. It’s in German, though.

I have shown it to a handful of friends. Some thought it was not that good or creative and that’s fine. But those whose opinions I value at least all agreed that it had way more soul than the one that I finally sold. In fact, I was accused of being bovine and uncreative for producing the cute one.

The word used wasn’t really cute, by the way. It was charming. The euphemism for “How a conformist gentleman from the puke-inducingly finicky movie The Artist would act“.

Where it went from there

Of course I often accused my boss of being boring and cowardly. Yet his little company’s product and whole income was based on cooperations with big corporations who need to approve of every little piece of information that mentions them. Make one mistake and you lose them. After all, you are replaceable.

Enough reason to self-censor preemptively. When you sell a product, you don’t wait for your customer to not like something – you make damn sure everything is to their liking.

Too bad when the customer ends up not really being the end-consumer.

So even when your end-consumer is not a sheep, you have to cater to sheep if you are sleeping with a big corporation.

Wonder why the world around you is careful and sheepish? In the end, because people today (always?) are cowards and don’t want their precious feelings hurt. Because corporations sell to those cowards. Because little companies have cooperations with corporations.

It’s not only boring, it’s dishonest. Most people go for the real life when they have the choice. Girls go for bad boys – not that there’s anything bad with those. But if you can’t have it, no one should.

We men grow up with a false image of life because those who know life are smart enough to keep it to themselves. Do you get what I am saying? Life. The thing you are experiencing right now. Yes, you sheep are actually too scared to acknowledge something as ordinary as life in all it’s shades of g-g-g-grey. Pardon, the PC phrase is of course “Shades Of Gay”. In such a world, simply being a normal person becomes secret “red pill” knowledge.

See how you can’t trust Hollywood? It’s not a big conspiracy. It’s millions of normal people who make the smart money choices without evil intent. It’s business! Wake up! Democracy doesn’t mean that you get what you deserve. It means that you get what the majority deserves – and sometimes less.

Who made it all go to hell? The feminists? The Jews?

Hell, I don’t know. But I do know who allowed it: You, fellow men, whenever you let your bitch decide. Yes, I also mean your inner bitch.

And I also do know that women fart.

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