Modern feminism is a joke without a punch line. It propounds the idiot-ology that women are just as equal as men in all aspects of life except within their chromosomal confines of cooking, cleaning and complaining. First of all, I’ve yet to meet a woman capable of beating me in arm wrestling and second of all, I’ve yet to be privileged to birth a child from my own body. Spare me the notion of “gender equality.” If you can do the job, you’re hired. If you can’t, then you are as useful as a fish on a bicycle. Sorry, but it’s a perverse conservative notion with which I’ve been cursed that demonstrable talent should always override genetic mutation.
If I had a dollar for every jelly jar I’ve had to open for every allegedly equal and emancipated female who feared wrecking her new manicure, then I would be squalidly rolling in filthy lucre equivalent to an AIG executive’s bonus money.
I recently married a woman, however, with short nails who opens jars just fine all by herself. It wasn’t the intellectual challenge for her as it is for most of the women in this town.
Fascist-feministas also feel that they must intrude in every facet of men’s lives while men are excluded from every varying private permutations of “girls’ night out.” Guys today are rapidly running out of explicit male gender territory this side of Internet pornography as feminists are so insecure about the geography in their own socio-political promenade.
I remember when the “The Boy’s and Girl’s Club of America” was simply “The Boy’s Club of America.” NO GIRLS ALLOWED! I learned, with other emotionally damaged males of my generation, how to shoot pool, talk smack, play chess, handle power tools and pick lice from each others cranium. If you couldn’t get along with a fellow chum, you went to the boxing ring. After you settled your disagreement, you shook hands and then went to the pool and jumped off of the high dive together.
This was hierarchical male dominated primate-driven behavioral bliss in all its knuckle-dragging awesomeness with no uterine oversight required! Feminists, however, just don’t get it. For some sick and twisted reason they either [A] want in on it, [B] want to change it so they can get in on it or [C] aren’t smart enough to start their own club.
I usually opt for [C] because if feminists were as smart as they claim then they would have elected a woman as president of the U.S. by now.
By the way, my wife thinks that I would make a crappy president but then again what does she know? I tell her that she’s “just a woman.” Then she hits me. It’s no big deal, though, because she hits like a girl, a girl impersonating Joe Pesci swinging a bat.
My wife and I recently went to see the movie, “I Love You, Man.” Had this movie been missing its comma then it would have been showcasing at the Laemmle Theater as a Westside-inspired version of “Brokeback Mountain.” “I Love You, Man” exhorts and extolls the alleged new millennial nature of the extant heterosexual male-on-male vibe of the local Santa Monica/Venice habituees.
My wife and I laughed throughout the movie for the farce that was presented despite the premised post-modern feminist “truths” it delivered: Men are immature money-making jerks and women are pensively patient penitents. Why is it that the main male character in this film is a successful high-end real estate agent on the brink of the big score, yet is played as a hapless wuss dispossessed of his primary sex characteristics while the female lead who works in kitschy retail in Malibu somehow possesses the emollient gravitas of the two?
It couldn’t be that she’s sleeping with him for his money despite protestations to the contrary, could it? You never see that sort of thing in L.A., right?
Why must the feminist cultural imprint of fallacious gender equality denigrate men and women in order to inflate and justify the flaccid status of feminism’s own XX gender bias? Why is it men’s fault that most women from the aging and sun-dried “I am Woman, Hear me Roar” crowd are incapable of changing a tire without roadside assistance? You want equality? Call AAA. Who shows up, a woman or a guy that bowls a 129?
So either step up to the plate, ladies, or get back in the kitchen and start washing them. Sarah Palin appears to manage both.
Steve Breen knows you can get cooties from girls and is still the “best looking mailman in the U.S. Post Office.” He can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org.