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SIX WASTED MANSLAVE YEARS

 

SIX WASTED MANSLAVE YEARS

Prof. Dr. Hugo de Garis

profhugodegaris@yahoo.com

https://profhugodegaris.wordpress.com

 

This flyer gives a bit of history on how and why I became a masculist.

I grew up in the 50s and 60s in the doldrums of Australian suburbia, in an era when women were housewives, before the rise of second wave feminism, which didn’t get off the ground until the publication of Betty Friedan’s book “The Feminine Mystique” in the early 60s. This book expressed the malaise and ennui (boredom) of upper middle class housewives who had good brains that were not being used.

Friedan felt this malaise herself and found it in many other women, so she launched the second wave of feminism, that swept the world, as women who found they had time on their hands, due to the existence of the contraceptive pill, invented by men, the existence of household gadgets, invented by men, and higher education, invented by men.

Women had their 2 kids and then faced a 4 decade drought of purpose, rotting in the home, as vapid, drifting, housewives, frustrated, impatient, and unhappy. Friedan’s book came as bombshell, and women’s groups, women’s consciousness raising groups popped up like mushrooms all over the US and Europe.

I remember as a teenager, observing the mothers of my high school peers and thinking that they were as vapid and boring as my own mother. I was disgusted.

In my early 20s, I started coming across media articles about feminism, and became intrigued. I got the impression that feminism, was motivating women to become responsible adults, pulling their own financial weight, pushing women to have careers, and become self-actualizing adults. I was intrigued.

I had a bad relationship with my own mother. She was too dumb for my father, and I’m smarter than my father, so the genetic IQ gap between me and my mother was unbridgeable. It also did not help that very probably my mother was going through her menopause at age 47, when I was 18. There was no HRT (hormonal replacement therapy) then, so my mother was in the thick of menopausal craziness, just as I was reaching adult level brain wiring, finishing my puberty at 18.

The previous year at age 17, I had developed a passionate interest in science, switching from my previous ambition of wanting to be a doctor, probably a surgeon. (Interestingly, my son ended up being an anesthetist, and my daughter a doctor. My sister is a doctor, my uncle was a doctor, and so was my great aunt, so medicine runs strongly through the family).

My interest in science and its way of thinking became a strong part of me, so the utter irrationality of my mother when I was 18 was intolerable. I told her in no uncertain terms what I thought of her, resulting in a man to man chat with my father, who was probably suffering the brunt of my mother’s frustration and bitterness that her own oldest son had no respect for her.

My father was always a fair and reasonable person, so I listened to him. He wanted me to “lay off” my mother, i.e. be less critical of her. I agreed to, telling my father, that in a few months I would be out of the house anyway, and off to university as a fresher in math and physics, washing dishes at the college I would live in, to pay my rent, and getting a government scholarship to pay my university fees. I was thus financially independent from my parents (actually my father, because my mother was a real fluffie housewife, living off her husband’s money.)

I was quite an immature young man, and knew almost nothing about women from first-hand experience, because I went to a private, boys only, school from age 8 to 18 and had no first hand contact with women, other than with my shitty mother, with whom I felt I had nothing in common, being disgusted by her habit of watching mindless movies on TV every evening, that I felt were well below my intellectual level.

I had a little sister, 8 years younger than me, who was as smart as I was. I had a kind of brother-father relationship with her, encouraging her to learn skills and independence. One particular incident in that regard, I strongly remember, because it made such a deep impression on me, and her.

She was still small, and could not reach the door handle to open the door to go outside into the back yard. She always asked me, if I was near, to open it for her. One day, I felt that she had grown enough, so that if she stretched on tippy toes, her fingers could reach the door handle and she could open the door by herself.

I told her she could do it if she stood on her toes. She whined that she couldn’t (which was a reasonable attitude, given that for her entire short life, she had been unable to open the door for herself.) She whined some more, but I was insistent. “Stand on your toes, see if you can do it!”

So she did, and miracle of miracles, she was able to open the door! Man, did the penny drop in her mind. I could see her thought process on her exhilarated face, as the thought dawned on her – “Freedom!” From now on, her life would be different.

She had the power and the autonomy to go outside the house when SHE chose to. The sense of freedom on her face was highly memorable, which is why I still remember the moment, even though I was probably only 11 years old.

My sister grew up to be an extremely capable woman, a doctor, and an entrepreneur, employing some two dozen other doctors, and by far the most financially successful of the three siblings of my parents. My brother was into finance and banking. He was gutsy and entrepreneurial but the dumbest of the three. He went bankrupt three times, so my father eventually gave the executorship of his will to my sister, because he felt she would do the best job in handling the money.

I’m not very into money. I love ideas, not sheckles. I suspect also that I learned an aversion to thinking about money from hearing the arguments between my parents over money. My shitty mother was not very bright, but was extremely hypergamous. She latched onto my father probably largely due to his rather famous family name of “de Garis” (due to my great uncle being a household name in Australia in my mother’s youth), although my family spell it in an anglicized way as “De Garis.” I did too, until I moved to England, when everyone asked me why I used a capital letter when my family name was so obviously French, so should be spelt with a small “d” so I changed the spelling of my name.

My mother expressed her ambition vicariously through her husband, whom she thought was not ambitious enough, didn’t have enough “drive” (god I hated that word) for her tastes.

One of the reasons why I became such an avid male feminist, was that I thought feminism would have solved my mother’s problem, if she had been a feminist, because then she would have entered the work force, and had her abilities tested and perhaps even crushed. Even as a young teenager, I remember thinking that there was something morally wrong with the gender roles of the time, that a woman could put moral pressure on her husband to make big money, rather than earning money herself.

Thus my masculism probably has its roots in the experience of listening to the awful arguments my parents had over money that I could hear at age 12 or so. Actually, as the years passed, my father’s natural ability brought him financial power and responsibility as he became a director of a company with 100s of employees, which shut up my mother, but she must have been a real bitch in other ways, because my father, once she died young at age 68, three decades ago, he remained single, i.e. MGTOW, by choice for the next 3 decades.

My father is still alive, at 98, as I write this, and is in good health. He will very likely get to 100, and since I think I have inherited his longevity genes, I too expect to become a centenarian. (I’ll need to live that long if I’m to finish the 120 PhD level courses in pure math and math physics that I plan to film and upload for the world to learn from, for free.)

As an undergrad at university, I was effectively girlfriendless until the age of about 22, when my hormones really, finally, kicked in in a big way, and I started seeing women as “walking cunts” like my peers. I was rather slow maturing that way. One of my good friends, used to tease me for my sexual innocence.

On the boat from Australia to England, a 5 week voyage, I met my future wife, my first wife, who, before me, had a boyfriend who was a surgeon, and 15 years older than her. She was a fairly typical 23 year old Australian female, off on a voyage of discovery to see the big world outside provincial Australia. This was in 1971, the year the Jumbo jets really started to fly.

This woman went cow like (i.e. intellectually passive and dulled) when her period was about to come, which annoyed me greatly. I broke off with her three times, but she would bounce back and hang on to me tenaciously, until I realized that there was a pattern to her cowlike state. It occurred on a monthly basis, and only disappeared when she went on the pill.

She got the message from me that I thought rather lowly of her status as a nurse, and not a doctor, or something more substantial. I guess I inherited that from my mother. She was motivated to study more and improve her academic status, so she started a philosophy degree.

She wanted to do other things, but the advisor at London University told her she was excluded from most things that she wanted to study, because she did not study calculus and the sciences at high school.

You could say with some justification, that I based my concept of the fluffie on her, because that was what she was. She just did not have the ambition to get well qualified as a youth, so paid the price as an adult. She was the archetypical “fluffie. The concept was based on her.

When her philosophy degree was finished, 4 years later, she was 28 and wanted to have a baby.

At the time, it did not occur to me to think hard about whether I agreed to that as well. It just did not occur to me, so brainwashed and unconscious was the expectation that a man got married and had kids, that it was unconscious for me.

It was only during the pregnancy, that the reality hit me that this baby was going to radically change my life. My wife was pretty much a fluffie, her philosophy degree made her economically useless. At the time I was a math supervisor to the undergrads at Cambridge University, which was something I enjoyed doing and it was part time, it did not eat up my whole waking life.

I got sick of having catarrh in London, with the awful air pollution of the early 70s and moved to Cambridge to escape it and to live in a strongly intellectual environment, which was in many respects the happiest period of my life. I loved Cambridge, and may return there to live again for a few years before I get too old. (I’m now 70.)

With the baby coming, I thought that I would have to get a full time job doing something in the computer field, since I had taught myself how to program. This was before the era of computer science degrees at universities.

I moved to Eindhoven in Holland and joined Philips, the electronic gadgets company and got a computer type job with them. The money wasn’t bad, but I wasn’t happy. I felt that I was merely earning money to pay for my wife to stay at home with her kid.

After a year or so in Holland I moved to Brussels, to pick up another superior culture (French, in addition to British, in comparison with the intellectual backwater that I grew up in) and got more computer type work.

I became more and more unhappy, feeling that my soul was dying. I felt I had no time for me, no self-development. I was just a manslave to a fluffie, working to keep afloat a fluffie wife with her 2 kids, who was definitely not FIP, with her useless philosophy degree.

I would wake up, go to the train station, commute to the city, do my day’s work that I didn’t really have my heart in, commute back home, play with the kids, bathe them, read them stories, fuck and chat with my wife who was adult conversation starved, and then go to sleep.

I had no time for me, no “me-time.” The soulless monotony of commuting to the city to do a job that I had no real heart for, robbed me of my individuality, my zip. I became increasingly despondent, increasingly unhappy.

My marriage than started unwinding. My first wife, started saying she wanted to get back to her roots in Australia. She did not like being a foreigner in Brussels, not speaking the two languages, Dutch and French. She was quite happy in England, because he mother was British, having married an Australian as a war bride, and returned with him to Australia, where he was a sheep farmer. My wife got on well with her aunt who lived not far from Cambridge, so we would often visit her aunt.

I would tell my wife, that if she left for Australia, she would go alone, because I hated Australia. I hated it’s anti-intellectually (sageism), which was a denial of my essence, my very being, so if I returned with her, it would be a living death for me.

Things came to a head, and eventually she gave me an ultimatum. She would leave for Australia, being prepared to kill the marriage and take the kids, if need be, but that I could return with her if I wanted. I did return with her, because I thought that after 11 years in Europe, I had grown up a bit and might find Australia less horrible than I imagined as a young man of 23 when I left.

However by that stage I was quadrilingual, English, Dutch, French, German, and was giving media talks and interviews on masculism in those languages in half a dozen countries. After 3 days in Australia, I realized that I had made a huge mistake, and that I would now have to make a very tough decision, whether to live a living death staying in Australia with my wife and two kids (boy and girl) or leave them all behind and head off back to my beloved Europe, alone.

I stewed and stewed on the question, because either way, there was a hefty price to be paid. It was the toughest decision of my life. Eventually after several months, I was watching a documentary on TV about the cathedral of Cologne in Germany, and noticed the characteristic grey sky of Europe and felt a wave of emotion wash over me, jolting me hard.

That grey European sky reminded me of what I was missing, being in Australia, where I felt my (intellectual) values were not being valued. The emotional jolt was so strong, that I think the decision to return to Europe alone, was made there and then.

I told my wife that I would be returning to Europe. She then took 3 years before she latched on to her previous boyfriend, the surgeon, and had two more kids with him, to cement her financial dependence on him, so that she could remain being a fluffie to her second manslave, the poor sap!

As the months passed, after I flew back to Brussels, I reflected on what I had lost before returning to Europe, my beloved Europe, where sages (intellectuals) are valued.

I felt that I had wasted six years of my life. I had lost my two kids, that I had been a manslave for, working at jobs I disliked, just to get reasonable money to pay for a fluffie wife to stay at home to raise them, while I kept the whole family afloat financially, working at jobs, and living a life style, that destroyed my soul.

I felt bitter about that. I now no longer have any contact with my kids. I read somewhere that in the US, if the mother gets custody of the kids, and the two former spouses live in different cities after the divorce, then after 5 years, 90% of fathers have lost contact with their kids.

I suspect my ex-wife probably told them things, like “Your father doesn’t care about you, because he doesn’t pay for you!”

As a masculist in the early 80s, I expected women to be FIPs. If a woman takes the kids, she pays. My first wife was a real fluffie, so probably bitterly resented the fact that she was forced to pay her own way, until she got her financial claws into her surgeon, her second manslave, whom she parasited upon, who allowed her to be a fluffie again, for the rest of her life.

The only silver lining in all this was the fact that I moved back to Europe, so that my fluffie ex-wife could not financially massacre me in a fluffie feminist hypocrite dominated divorce court. I was a British citizen by then, and she was Australian, so she had no legal power over me, thank god.

A year after moving back to Brussels, I met another women, 10 years older than me, who was quite happy to have a man in her life again, and who did not want kids, having had 2 already, who were off her hands. I had a 16 year relationship with that second wife. (We married, due mostly for visa reasons, because I left Brussels after getting a PhD to do a post doc in Japan, and needed the marriage to get a visa for her to come with me to Japan).

After the bitterness of the first marriage experience, realizing that all my problems had started by having kids, I definitely resolved not to have kids the second time around. My second wife, with whom I lived together for the first 8 years, also did not want to have kids, so I was spared a repeat of being a manslave again to a fluffie wife. My second wife was a lot more FIP than my first.

Actually her story is quite dramatic. When she as 5 years old, she was handed over to a complete stranger woman on the platform of the cattle cars to be transported to Auschwitz, because her mother was Jewish. She said her mother believed that she would be killed, so gave her daughter away to some Catholic woman. At age 12, she was then put into a Jewish home for orphans, and grew up there.

For decades, I believed her mother had been gassed by the Nazis until I learned from the historian David Irving, that there was no gassing at Auschwitz, that that myth was just another example of abuse by the elite Jewish banksters pushed onto the stupid goy to make it easier for Israel to extract “guilt money” from the US and Germany to pay for a bankrupting Israel, so they invented the myth of the Holocaust (which wasn’t really pushed by the Jewish elite until the 70s, when Israel was going bankrupt.)

So my second wife’s mother probably died of starvation or typhus, which were the two major causes of death of the 70,000 prisoners who died in the war at Auschwitz (as discovered by the Russians when they captured the concentration camp in western Poland). Gorbachev opened up the Russian archives in the late 80s, so researchers were able to find the death certificates of the prisoners who died. 40,000 of those 70,000 were Jews (not millions, as the Jewish elite lie to us), probably including my second wife’s mother.

Her father was on the same train, but he did not know it. He managed to jump off the train on a slow bend and escaped back to Brussels, only to learn later that his wife had died. He was so traumatized that he was unfit to father his daughter.

The Jewish banksters funded Hitler to push the Jews out of Germany to Palestine, so the Jewish banksters screwed ordinary Jews as much as they did the goy. They were the major engineers of the two world wars, and created the Russian revolution, which was actually a Jewish putsch, funded by the NY Jewish bankster Schiff, who spent $20M of his own money to train and transport several hundred Jewish Russian communists (including Lenin and Trotsky (Jewish name Lev Bronstein)) to take over the Russian government, so that Schiff could steal the Czar’s gold, which he eventually did.

Getting back to my reflections on 6 years of life lost in a role I despised – guys, learn the smart, easy way, not the slow, hard way, by learning from the mistakes of others, rather than by making the same mistakes yourself, and learning the hard way from your own suffering.

In today’s fluffie feminist hypocrite dominated divorce courts, you would be a fool to marry and have kids. If you are stupid enough to do that, you subject yourself to a one in four chance of being financially massacred by your fluffie ex-wife.

You will lose custody of your kids with 90% probability. You will lose your house, so that she can live in it with HER kids. She will take half your possessions. You will pay child support to kids you will hardly see, and if she if a real fluffie, you may have to pay her alimony for life.

So, until the gender laws are menfaired, don’t marry, don’t have kids. Look at my case. Be smart. Learn the quick way by learning from the mistakes of others. Don’t make the same dumb mistakes yourself. Don’t marry, don’t have kids.

Go MGTOW, live your own life, live for yourself, doing what YOU want to do, not being a manslave, wasting years of your life, so that some fluffie parasite can sit on her fat parasitic arse, raising HER kids that you pay for. Fuck that. Go your own way. Do what you love, and not what you have to do to be paid good money so that you can pay for a fluffie wife and HER kids, i.e. kids whose custody you have a one in four chance of losing anyway, which are totally unacceptable odds. So guys, live for yourself, not for a fluffie, be MGTOW in your own life, and be masculist to see the gender laws menfaired and the Parer (paternity rejection right) brought in.

Cheers,

Prof. Dr. Hugo de Garis

profhugodegaris@yahoo.com

https://profhugodegaris.wordpress.com

(YouTube channels) “de Garis Masculist MGTOW Flyers” “de Garis Essays”

(Patreon) https://www.patreon.com/profhugodegaris

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