NOTE: This article was originally published at In Mala Fide on May 30, 2012. I’m re-posting it here as the site is now defunct.
“If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue, Or walk with kings – nor lose the common touch; If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you; If all men count with you, but none too much; If you can fill the unforgiving minute With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run - Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it, And – which is more – you’ll be a Man my son!”
Forgive me o Lady, for I have sinned. I have mocked fat women for being unattractive, unsightly and unpleasant. I have reinforced the dogma of the heteronormative patriarchy because I thought it was the truth.
I’d been refused entry to Canada after a two-hour ordeal, then harassed by a couple of pigs with nothing better to do. After getting lost trying to find the nearest motel (no cell service in that little podunk town), I finally got a hold of the only taxi driver within a thirty-mile radius and got a lift. I was exhausted and brain-fried from being awake for close to forty-eight hours and barely eating anything aside from my supplements and a little beef jerky.
Perhaps most encouraging is that anecdotal evidence suggests that sons of feminists tend to hate the ideology with a passion. I’m pretty sure that anti-feminism is a lot more widespread amongst youths and young men than most older people realize, especially as they are reaching out and finding explanations for the frustration they feel in a world that is hostile to masculinity. I’m happy to say that I’ve helped some of these boys along, and I know I’m not the only one.
Feminists have long expected a backlash from some mysterious cabal. They have breathlessly spoken of it as a wonderful opportunity to finally finish off the hated patriarchy. Imagine their horror as they realize that this backlash they have been preparing for all these years is coming from their sons.
Last week, Danger & Play Tweeted a link to “A Letter to My Future Husband,” in which a dating blogmistress displays her various mental pathologies so her online girlfriends can high-five her. In response to a few comments which rightly called her creepy, our heroine left this:
Totally love the double standard. Boys write about the relationship they hope to have one day and it’s sweet. Girls write the same thing (prompted from someone else) and we’re insane and creepy.
The easy part is to link this to the lack of fathers.
The hard part (and where we will test your economist mettle) is to explain how the majority of victims brought this upon themselves, have only themselves to blame and the delicious irony that has resulted (and consequently sweetened our official “Enjoy the Decline” drinks!).
Chuck Ross has re-posted this article of mine, which originally appeared at the now-defunct In Mala Fide, at his blog:
Plenty of writers have made the observation that MRAs are identical to feminists, only with the sexes swapped. Unfortunately, when you look at how both groups react to shaming, you see a lot of similarities. Feminists love to campaign against social shaming that disadvantages women in any way, whether it’s fat-shaming, slut-shaming or prude-shaming. “Fat acceptance” advocates like Kate Harding have to twist and contort logic to ridiculous degrees so they can keep denying the truth that yes, being overweight is bad for your health, your social life, and your state of mind.
NOTE: This article was originally published at In Mala Fide on April 11, 2012. I’m re-posting it here because I’ve taken the site off-line. I’ve replaced the text of the (inferior) review that was previously at this URL.
During my first semester at college, I had the misfortune of having an emo for a roommate. Everything about this guy was effeminate and despicable: he talked with a lisp, he wore his hair long with bangs, and all of his friends were girls. We clashed on almost everything, from his habit of making out with his girlfriend underneath the sheets to our fights over the thermostat (he always bitched that it was too hot, even when it was five degrees out). Living with him was like being married. I initially just tried to avoid him, spending most of my non-class time hanging out with my friends or other stuff, only coming home to sleep, but things eventually came to a head and I ended up transferring to a new room.
If you need an extra-concentrated dose of aggressive stupidity, check out this article “Pick Up Artists” at Counter-Currents Publishing. The author, apparently a woman, rages against game with the usual screeching hysteria and general irritability you expect from women on the Internet. I’m not interested in countering her thesis, dumb as it is, but commenting on the opening of her article:
On a recent date with a semi-suave Australian venture capitalist, I experienced what all western women currently go through to find a proper mate. Things started out nicely. Over VIP treatment, he complimented me on my natural beauty and told me that he was impressed with my “real” conversation skills – only to demand a short time later direct control of my nether region’s grooming habits.
“Do you mind if we order dinner first?,” I casually replied.
Welcome to modern day misogyny, a.k.a. the Seduction Community: an online community where lust-filled beta males devour techniques of trickery to strip unsuspecting members of the opposite sex of their panties along with their honor. As Andy Nowicki has said, game is a “reverse feminism” that has become a national “machoism” phenomenon.
Yes, Canada, that friendly northern country with friendly people known for letting in just about anyone, turned me away twice last week because I “had no ties to the U.S.” The second time was after I threw my passport, driver’s license, social security card, hostel booking receipts, round-trip bus ticket, names, addresses and phone numbers of my friends, and motherfucking bank statements at them. The only identifying pieces of paper I didn’t have on me at that point were my W-2 and birth certificate.
Maybe if I was poorer, browner and could only speak English in monosyllabic grunts, they’d have not only let me in but given me a ride all the way to Montreal.