I’m gonna smack’em, I tell you. Radical feminists, I mean. I’m gonna take a ball bat to’em.
No. Wait. Better idea. I mean, this country invented the wood-chipper. And there’s always a market for cat food.
What astonishes me is how feminists have managed to poison relations between men and women. Somehow they have created a nightmare world that doesn’t exist, an atmosphere of weird paranoid hostility, and made women, or a few women women, believe they live in it.
The other day I saw some mutant frump on television. I think it was Patricia Ireland, but it could have been Shamu gone bad. Anyway, she looked like a fireplug with leprosy, and she was hollering about how men were always battering women. (Ever notice that these gals are all either butt-ugly or gay as Easter bonnets? Suppose there’s a reason?)
Feminists are always hollering about how women are battered, beaten, raped, underpaid, bruised, scorned–how women crawl in gutters, pleading for help, struggling piteously, while men–men–stand over them in hobnailed boots, grinning and saying, “Har har har.”
Don’t the men you know do that?
These fantasies rely on battered-women studies, usually written by academic feminists. (Incidentally, friends whom I trust implicitly tell me that Ph.D. doesn’t really stand for Purple-Haired Dike. I don’t know why not.) They typically say that four out of five women are battered three times every five nanoseconds. Or seven of eight, or nine of ten. It doesn’t matter.
Actually, I can hardly get any work done, being so busy battering my daughters and girlfriends. It’s a burden. I hardly have time to molest my children. (Six out of every four men molest their children.)
It’s nonsense, as a cursory examination of the evidence easily shows. But who examines evidence?
Then there are the feminist rape fantasies, much in vogue with co-eds seeking an outlet for hysterical tendencies. The average feminist couldn’t get raped on a troopship with a gallon of bourbon, but never mind.
I recently read a study claiming that one in two women will be a victim of rape.
Sure. And I’m Lady Jane Grey.
Think about it. Does this mean that one in two men is a rapist? Or are there a few really busy guys out there?
None of this stuff is true, which doesn’t matter at all.
Do women believe it? The other night I was in a bar with a buddy who has wearied of this stuff. He turned to three pretty women playing pool and asked, “Hey, have you been raped?” They looked surprised. (Maybe it’s not a standard pick-up line.) He explained about the studies. They didn’t see much sense in it. “That’s nuts,” said one correctly. Another’s comment was a sardonic “Raped?. . . Not that I remember.”
Oh, lord–I can see the headline: “Study reveals that nine of ten women don’t remember being raped.”
The truth, plain as zits on a prom queen, is that feminists are a hate group, like the KKK or the Baader-Meinhof Gang, only probably loonier. (Feminutsies?) (Sorry. It’s late.) They are liars, and verge on crazy. And they’re chronically furious. They don’t want to be women, and can’t be men, and so compromise on being disagreeable.
Above all else they hate the thought of women having sex with men. At the University of Michigan, maybe it is, there’s a bilious woman named Catharine MacKinnon. Kitty Mac is a nice-looking babe when she keeps her mouth shut, which isn’t often, and has a certain patrician charm that I associate with jock itch. I find by her this, appalling for its sheer prissiness:
“Compare victims’ reports of rape with women’s reports of sex. They look a lot alike. . . In this light, the major distinction between intercourse (normal) and rape (abnormal) is that the normal happens so often that one cannot get anyone to see anything wrong with it.”
I guess Kitty Mac and I date different classes of women.
To a feminist, everything sounds like rape. Peanut butter sounds like rape. Wallpaper sounds like rape. The dew on the flowers of morn sounds like rape. I note in passing that Kitty Mac speaks of sex with men as an alien concept, as if she knew of it by dispatches from a distant front.
I think feminists hate the idea of normal sex because they regard men as poachers.
The feminists have persuaded us that even an office is a dark and dangerous place. Yep. Here we encounter Sexual Harassment, which amounts to absurdity as a rationale for Stalinism. Don’t you love it? Rape lurks by the water cooler. Bob the comptroller, with the love-handles and wry sense of humor, harbors the lusts of Jack the Ripper. Jimbo tells blonde jokes. Clearly he hates women. He probably melts Barbie Dolls for a hobby. Peril is everywhere. We must be vigilant or the boogeyman will leap from the supply closet.
Unfortunately this stuff is serious. If a man tells a dirty joke, or if a woman who doesn’t like him says he did, he can lose his job. We have sensitivity training about impure ideas. It’s because women don’t know about sex. Nor do they have dirty thoughts.
A woman I know said recently that when she entered a room full of guys at work, laughing and talking, they fell silent. She was puzzled and hurt. I wasn’t puzzled. So many women have chips on their shoulders, and the penalties for offending them are so great, that silence is the wise course. Is this what we want?
You might be surprised at how many men–including to my knowledge, admirals, generals, the editor of a major newspaper–won’t let women into their offices without having a witness present. Bureaucrats in Washington live in an atmosphere of (I apologize in advance) fear and loafing, afraid to discipline female subordinates who don’t do their jobs. My buddy the scuba-instructor won’t help female students put on their gear. I doubt that on woman in 50, or one in a hundred, would charge that he groped her, but all it takes is one neurotic.
Trouble is, nobody has the moxie to tell these scrofulous tarantulas to bugger off. Which is well for feminists: If people started laughing at them, the whole shebang would collapse in ten minutes.
And they probably wouldn’t even make good cat food.