In recovery rooms, money looks like control—so you trade something else. Childhood trauma becomes currency: a pause after “step-dad,” eyes down on “night-time,” voice catching on “alone.” Once is vulnerability. Twice is instability. Not confession—calibration. Stand still by the coffee urn, reflective; people come, wanting to see themselves in your wound. She does. Calls him brave, writes the story in her eyes: wounded man, quiet strength, the one she can fix by being enough. He nods, lets her believe this is the first time—not the fifteenth.
Coffee, then her place. She thinks it’s spontaneous; he’s running a checklist—exits, mirrors, timing—waiting for her comforting touch to shift from pity to permission. “You’re safe with me,” delivered warm, measured, perfect. No feeling required. Reusable recovery phrases slide over everything: “opposite of addiction is connection,” “hurt people hurt people.” When it ends, gentle exit with scheduled tears: “It’s my damage, not yours.” No villains—just tragic misfit pieces. Truth: it wasn’t collision or healing. It was a sequence. Login. Session. Logout. Trauma as lock-pick, disclosure as leverage. Not broken—effective. A reusable tool, sharpened, no emotional fingerprints. He didn’t feel guilty. He felt nothing. Damage reported.
An old leather-bound ledger: 2,151 entries. Not addiction, not rebellion—obedience. Father’s curriculum: drink more, dominate more, fuck more. Mother’s footnote: women are cold, rejecting, prefer absence. The formula set early—masculinity as consumption plus domination, divided by her disappointed silence. Every encounter a chemical shout against the void she left and the cage he built: I am here. See my damage? It proves I am a man.
Hidden column: the men. Grip on the neck, proving “you’re my bitch”—purest execution of the script. Connection was never intimacy; it was a weapon, a fortress of flesh where he could be alone inside someone and never found wanting. Thirty-four years clean, recovery didn’t erase the math—it exhausted the bodies. The numbers stopped adding up to a feeling, only fatigue. With 2,151 amends impossible, the honest report: the damage isn’t something he did. It’s what he is—built from their equation, performing an autopsy on the monster only to find the blueprint in his own hands.
A man fresh out of prison justifies five years for beating the lover of his partner—“If I don’t do something, the boys’ll think I’m weak.” In the car after an NA meeting, the narrator challenges the cost of that instinct, but the lesson doesn’t land. Weeks later, reading about enslaved children sold away triggers a darker thought: if someone ever threatened to “sell” his own ten-year-old daughter, he’d do whatever it took—even decades in a cage.
He voices the hypothetical to his wife. She hears not protection, but threat—afraid he’s lost sight of who he’s protecting. In that silence, the gap opens: intention twisted into madness when spoken aloud. The real line isn’t violence versus peace—it’s instinct versus responsibility, reaction versus reason. Love, unanchored, can sound like danger. He’s still figuring out where his line sits. Damage reported.
From the trenches of the Somme to the wharves of union battles, contempt for “pricks with bird-shit on their shoulders” was the family heirloom—officers and bosses alike, wasting days or getting men killed. The narrator grows up believing this distrust is normal, a personality forged at the kitchen war table.
Decades later, daylight-saving night shift: clocks jump forward, he heads home at honest knock-off time. The supervisor—another set of epaulettes—blocks him, points to the lying wall clock, threatens docked pay. The confrontation isn’t about minutes; it’s the grandfather’s trench and father’s wharf reborn under fluorescents. Hostility wasn’t chosen—it was inherited, burned in long before the words were spoken. Some lessons don’t need daylight to stick.
1990s tropical therapy closet: a violent client justifies hitting his wife because she called him a faggot—the word “made” him do it. The therapist repeats the slur back, flat and clinical: “But you are a faggot.” The man freezes on the edge of violence but doesn’t strike—proof, the therapist once believed, that choice always existed. He packaged it as therapeutic victory for years.
The real report comes later: it wasn’t healing—it was dominance. Running his father’s crude manhood ledger—dominate, humiliate, prove superiority—only translated into professional dialect. He drank the man’s silence, hammered his shame, used the crisis to secretly confirm his own inherited masculinity. The violence didn’t vanish; it migrated from fist to authorised tongue. Same ritual, cleaner hands. This episode exposes how “helping” can be just another way to knock a man down.
Mid-1990s. A Reclaim the Night march built on the sanctity of “No.”
One woman says 'NO" clearly, repeatedly—eight times. The organiser overrides her, announces her name anyway, extracts a devastating story. The crowd applauds the “empowerment.” The only man in the room counts every refusal in real time and stays silent, protecting his fragile place in the space. He tells himself it’s respect. It isn’t. It’s comfort.
The next day he calls out the hypocrisy; he’s shut down. That night, bitter, he creates a graphic poster—exposed, swollen genitals, fingers parting them, captioned “NO means NO” and “Read my Lips,” branded with the movement’s name. It wasn’t critique. It was retaliation, using a symbolic woman’s body the same way the organiser used another’s story: mining flesh to make a point. Same violence, different dialect. Clarity without courage is just another form of damage. This early report sets the season’s unflinching stance: self-incrimination over self-absolution.
A tired voice in an empty room welcomes you to Season Two—no gimmicks, no uplift, just the stripped-bare truth.
Last year’s clever spelling and “twisted tales” were just another dodge. This isn’t storytelling anymore. It’s inventory.
What follows is a damage report: the cold list of what broke, when it broke, and how much of it I still carry like it’s useful. Inherited rage, toxic wiring, manhood built on fear with good posture, and the lies we tell ourselves first so we can keep telling them to everyone else.
This season starts with me—the original people of the lie—and works outward: the quiet violence of petty authority, the loneliness of defensive positions, the wreckage we pass down like family heirlooms.
No victory laps. No redemption arcs. Insight isn’t action; it’s just observation. Some damage doesn’t heal—it possesses.
If you’re ready to sit with the ruin, stay. If you need hope or heroes, this isn’t the place.
Damage Reports. Season Two: People of the Lie begins now.
Soft Cocks and Therapy: Twisted Tales
"If abortion had been legal... I would have had one."
Welcome to a raw, unforgettable episode of PHUCT FABLES: Twisted Tales. This story strips away the cute trauma narrative. It’s a brutal look at maternal rejection, misogyny, and the kind of pain that turns a man into a functional emotional assassin.
Hear the true story of a 1960s NZ upbringing, the legacy of "soft-cock" shaming, and chasing love just to abandon it—all while sitting in a therapist's office. If Bukowski got clean and joined a 12-step group run by narcissists, you'd get this.
CW: Suicide, trauma, intense content. Find us wherever you seek the dark truth. Stay messy.
"When are you men ever going to stop beating us women?"
In this brutal episode of PHUCT FABLES, we crash a 1991 rehab group therapy session where the narrative of victimhood meets the undeniable evidence of the scar.
A woman’s bitter diatribe against "all men" is countered by a silent, shocking display: every man in the room reveals a physical wound inflicted and lasting scarred by a woman.
This is a raw, cynical examination of trauma, shame, and the stories we refuse to tell—or to ask about. The scar is sacred because you were taught to kiss the hand that struck you.
(CW: Domestic violence, physical abuse, raw language.)
After the Professional Hour? I Love You Too
"Stop apologizing. Learn the difference between discomfort and danger."
Welcome to PHUCT FABLES where the hour is professional, but the therapy is pure trauma.
In this episode, we eavesdrop on a brutally cynical therapist whose coping mechanisms include sketching and chainsawing. His client? A man feeling "soft, like nacho cheese," desperate for a blueprint for masculinity.
The advice delivered is toxic gold: Don’t fix her problems; misery is her generator. Compassion is terminal softness. Strength is constipation.
Listen to the raw, unedited rules of performative masculinity, then hear the therapist’s quick, shattering admission of vulnerability as soon as the door closes. Find out what the cost of being "fine" truly is
Pussy-Whipped by Empire
"The approval you crave is the cage you built."
This episode of PHUCT FABLES dives into the slowest, most corrosive violence: internalized colonial trauma.
We explore the "mind job" that outlasts the land grabs—the psychic scar that teaches Indigenous peoples (specifically referencing Māori, Aboriginal Australian, and Native American experiences) to hate their own reflection and apologize for their ancestors.
Hear the brutal critique of seeking approval from a system built on stolen wood. This is about the pressure to shrink, to smile, to rehearse being acceptable, and the anger that gets medicalized and punished.
This isn't history; it's the aftertaste of empire, and it's happening right now.
(CW: Colonial trauma, racism, psychological oppression, explicit language.)
Sacred Damage: The Cost of Prophecy
"Hitler and Stalin were amateurs. Prophets built systems."
This episode of PHUCT FABLES tackles the highest level of trauma: the kind written in sacred code.
We ask: What if the deepest wounds in civilization didn't come from dictators, but from the prophets?
Strip away the halos and examine the consequences of revelation—from the justification of slavery and oppression of women, to the psychological warfare of eternal punishment.
This is a blistering critique of divine authority, obedience, and the moral license that allows bloodshed and deep, intergenerational psychological control.
If we want healing, we need to stop kneeling.
(CW: Religious trauma, historical violence, oppression.)
PHUCT FABLES: The Man-Shaped Ashtray
Tonight, the violence is internal. This is the horror of codependency, where a desperate search for connection becomes an act of self-harm.
Host Steve tears open the ugliest truth about abandoning yourself for someone else and calling it love. He became her "man-shaped ashtray"—used, burned, and disposable—mistaking trespass for truth and cowardice for desire.
WARNING: Themes of self-harm, codependency, and emotional abuse.
Are you performing recovery when you're just begging to be wanted? The cost of "home" is about to bankrupt you. Pity is not foreplay. It's the scaffold for the executioner.
The jury bought the lie. The law set him free. But the truth of what happened that cold night in Hobart follows an older, darker code.
In this Twisted Tale, we dive into a chilling confession: a man charged with an accidental killing recounts the real story—a brutal, inherited philosophy born in the trenches of the Somme. The narrator reveals the moment he felt his Grandfather’s curse flow through him, delivering a verdict the court could never comprehend.
Ask yourself: What price would you pay to settle a score the law won't touch? The verdict isn't the point. The bullet is. Unforgettable, raw, and absolutely unforgiving.
WARNING: Graphic violence, cruelty, strong language
Imagine a recovery meeting where they rewrite the opening script to be “trauma-informed.” A woman with missing teeth and good intentions reads the new line and says, “Wow, this is a bit of a mouthful.”
The room freezes. Half the men hear an innocent idiom. The other half (me included) hear a blowjob joke from 1997.
I mutter, “I’d give her a mouthful.” Someone laughs. Someone storms out. We pray anyway.
This isn’t about cancel culture. It’s about the predator that never leaves the room just because you got sober. It’s about how language is a loaded gun, and recovery only teaches you to hide it under the chair instead of pulling the trigger.
Raw, filthy, uncomfortably honest: one man’s confession that the thoughts don’t stop just because the drinking did. If you’ve ever sat in the back row terrified of your own mind, this one’s for you. Hit play. You already know the slogan: keep coming back… it works if you work it. Even when “it” is the ugliest truth you’ve never shared out loud.
WARNING: UNHOLY TRUTH. Meet Pope Leo XIV: smiling, sanctified rot wrapped in humble robes. This isn't renewal—it’s an open casket dressed in incense. We expose the "sacred decay" at the heart of the Neo-Roman Mausoleum.
The doctrine is simple: Rape and slaughter are forgivable sins; private pleasure is cosmic heresy. Leo is the new spiritual asset manager, scrubbing reputations, laundering lies, and protecting the hierarchy. Confessionals double as surveillance booths, and shame is weaponized as control.
This Church won't protect —it protects tradition.
Lavender sprayed over centuries of blood, semen, and silence.
WARNING: NSFW. When a woman hides her sexual past, it's not deceit—it's survival. Society hands her a rap sheet the moment she spreads her legs for anyone but you. This sermon from the confessional booth reveals the cheat code: to get her truth, you must trade judgment for fetish.
We track the escalation from a tame story to the director's cut: crying in the shower because pleasure felt like sin, wedding-ring chill against another man's shaft. Your hard-on becomes her absolution. The final gift is not a story, but the integration of her history into your hunger—a "Baptism by Boner." Lock the shame in a drawer and watch the floodgates blow. Life can be wet and hard.
WARNING: NSFW. I thought I won the lottery: a public queen, private skank, custom-built to stroke my ego. We made a joke of it—until I wore her out. She stopped playing the part, leaving me to face the bill: I was the real fuck-doll, dancing to a script I thought I wrote. This is a story of consumption, emotional failure, and the cruel comedy of a fantasy curdled. Click to hear the silence.
A man’s enemies will be those of his own household." My wharfie dad lived by it. He taught me to punch walls (find the stud first) and how to never love again ("That awful feeling? Never feel that."). A raw eulogy to a man who saw women as disposable and violence as efficient. This episode unbuilds the lessons of a fist-happy life. DARK. BRUTAL. CLICK WITH CAUTION.
The High-Functioning Ogre: Addiction masked depression; sobriety built a beautiful prison. Step Zero reveals the monster running the show is competence. Therapy's useless—feelings are marketing budgets. Kill the part that needs peace. Bleed better.