Feminophilia (My Women's Day Post)

Mood: Feminophilia
[Toot!] Index: 2.2
Communism Bit: Off
Location: Job, of course

Men suck. It's why I like me some nice, smart, cute, strong-minded woman any day. :o) But Women's Day is specifically tomorrow, and here's my dedication to Women for their day.

As the eighties wound down, the records seem to say, the music above the Maghreb realised it was going to die. To make a fitting exit to an illustrious career, it gathered all its energy and tossed it forth in an orgasmic crescendo of music. One of the children born in this last coup was this Rick Astley song, Cry For Help. YouTube, lyrics. It's so rich, it's almost Congolese. But let's talk what brought me here, viz. Women.

Society looked at men and saw that they were usually bigger of build than the women, and made the grave mistake of thinking that physical strength corresponded with other strengths (psychological, for example, or even sexual). Both you and I are guilty of having this wrong idea. It's why both you and I can excuse a little girl for crying, but not the large-shouldered man. `You do well to weep like a woman for what you couldn't fight for like a man.' stinks of the same silliness. This is merely Yet Another Wrong Thing From Back Then, like the idea that the sun goes 'round the Earth, et cetera.

So, you know, men are not allowed to cry, to cave in, to give in. Yet I know that women are generally of stronger mind than men. If they had to endure the woman's world for a day—your bosom being forced to speak for you before all your achievements are looked at, unwashed idiots assuming superiority over you because their build is closer to that of an unwashed bull than yours, the danger of the sex-starved pervert that lurks in every umbra bigger than a hand span, the passive-aggressive sexual assaults that show up as hisses and signs and howls and catcalls and (Jah forbid) slaps-'pon-de-bottom, et cetera—men would be pale-faced suicides dangling from trees by their umbilical cords by the time they are six hours old.
Women endure this shit, and then go ahead and become wives. Treated unfairly, and yet expected to yeild the ... to yield it on demand, when his Urge strikes. Then they become pregnant. For nine under-appreciated months. Then they become mothers. Then they remain mothers. Shulehman, Mill'least philosopher of old, once said: `Omwana omugezigezi asanyusa kitaawe, naye omwana omusirusiru anakuwaza nnyina.' Mothers take the shitty end of responsibility, and none of the bright stuff. If men were abandoned with children for only two days, there would be no men left. Women endure lifetimes of being abandoned with children. Then they have to face job discrimination, and hit the real low to feed these kids. Then the child is, one day, dragged from under a car, or reassembled from the factory machine, exhumed from the mass grave, brought down from the noose ... and all this while the mother is sane; crying, but sane. And men just go mad and throw their daughters out for being sexually-alive teenagers (as though the men are themselves without fault, even when we don't count this as a fault).

Sometimes I am ashamed of being a guy. But that is nothing; I can take it (I have enough of my mother in me). The real killer is this one: men realise that they may be physically strong, but emotionally are just a pathetic failure, it is not even funny. But do they do the honourable thing, viz. cry for help? No, men—real men—don't do that. So we have men exploiting their only, single, lone strength to make up for what they don't have. That, if you look closely, is also what animals do. Beasts, all of them. Using brute force to get their way, when a smile could have oiled the machine. (And it doesn't help that men are obscenely ugly.)
Where women would know the value of just ignoring the adrenaline and moving on, men listen to the testosterone and fight. Where women would try harder, hope harder, pray harder, work harder, men drink harder, run farther, deny louder, go berserk. Where women live, men die. Where women let live, men kill.

Let me finish like so. There are like a million stories of men grabbing the knife and standing over their sleeping families. Think to themselves: I can end this. It's not a hard life when we are all dead. Glance around. Reach for the radio, to record the screams. Turn it on. Brace themselves. Swig one more from the bottle. Lift the knife. Start with the mother, so nobody can defend the kids. Because they know women will happily fight death for their kids, and take it in their stead. But the mother wakes up. Asks what he is doing with a knife. He says he wants to end everyone's suffering. Woman asks, why don't you ask for help. Man, because he is a man, says something stupid: men don't cave in. Death before dishonour, woman. You women don't have a sense of pride. You don't know how to live a man's life.

Feminist women have been duped into becoming cheap, imperfect clones of the failure that men are. It makes me angry. Feminists are more likely to act like men, like the guy up there. Women, feminism is not where you become imperfect copies of imperfection. It is where you remind the world where to look for inspiration. Stop this madness! Don't become equal to men, because that requires you to subtract of yourselves. Stop it already! Just keep reminding us that women are not equal to men, and that it is time for men to catch up.
And, if you are interested in the end of that story: he wrestled her down, cut her throat, and cut all the kids' throats, and cut his throat. The newspapers carried the story (but I can't find no links). And, no, he didn't cry for help. Because, you see, he was a man. You remember the story, don't you? And the whole ghastly thing was recorded, minute for fuckin' minute.

(Ah, the beautiful therapy I get from woman-worship! I feel great after this here rant!)