I’ve always wanted to make that dumb rhyme. I apologize to everyone for my absence. I’m on vacation right now and can’t be bothered to argue with people who feel oppressed by my vagina ownership (see recent comments). I’m in the Tokyo airport on a layover right now and don’t feel like writing other than to say Japan has the world’s best selection of soda flavors. I’ll get on it again soon, I promise — and I’ll be approving comments at least once daily — but for now my main concern is getting these three days of travel over with and getting myself settled on Pulau Perhentian Besar (look it up, I promise you’ll want to come meet me).
If, after you have done so, it isn’t your favorite band/song/video, then I’ll need you to explain why.
That’s right, I’m admitting it. Tell all your MRA buddies that they’ve been vindicated, call Rush Limbaugh, make sure to let all the other feminists know I’m blowing their cover for them. Men are obnoxious, arrogant, entitled, violent, stinky, crass, loudmouthed, stupid, craven, bragadocious, thoughtless, unreflective, abusive, selfish, lowbrow, willfully ignorant assholes. Well, most of them.
You see, I don’t hate all men, just almost all of them; some of my best friends are men (snarf snarf). There are three or four that I love and consider to be fundamentally decent human beings, there are about seven that are big enough “faggots” that I like hanging out with them, and there are maybe ten that, though I’m sure they have no idea what “male privilege” means, I would equivocate before sending to a re-education camp if given the chance (if the camp conditions were harsh; if it was like summer camp I’d snap up the opportunity to send them for a week or two of re-humanization training and craft lessons).
But back to that bit about me hating men. I’m tired, tired, tired of people expecting me to defend myself against the accusation that I just hate men. It’s bullshit deluxe, and it’s the most transparent derailing tactic there is. I know that I’m raising spooky specters when I hint (I’m really subtle, right?) that there might be something wrong with male supremacy, with gender roles, with men violently abusing women, with men treating women like subhuman sex objects, with men being stupid violent alpha-male dicks towards each other, but it isn’t my job to reassure men that I still love all of them and give a shit what they think just because they’re uncomfortable confronting the possibility of the loss of a bit of their privilege.
And besides all of that, why shouldn’t I hate men? Men, being the default humans, get to decide how they want to act and how to define humanity and masculinity with fewer constrictions than women face. What they’ve opted to go with is pretty abysmal, and I don’t have to pretend to like it. I can already hear the whiny voice of some MRA saying, “Then why can’t I hate women? They choose to act as they do!” Women have to deal with enforced femininity, and while a lot of the behaviors femininity entails do indeed suck, they aren’t chosen as freely as men’s behaviors are. And now I hear the whiny voice of some dude who doesn’t adhere to the NFL Masculinity Guidelines claiming that he has to suffer the opprobrium and violence of those who do. Well, duh. But again, it’s men who are the problem, and it’s men who are responsible for men’s behavior. Oh, shit, here comes that MRA again, claiming that women are gold digging sluts who won’t date men who aren’t rich. Who created the ideological world system in which a man’s worth is judged by his material possessions and in which wealth supersedes decency as the chief indicator of a man’s value? Pretty sure that was men (unless you want to try to tell me that women have been running the world and doing all of the important philosophizing and ideological treatise writing for the last few millennia).
I win. Men are assholes. It’s time we admitted it. And hence I bring you my new series on why I hate men.
What brought about the sudden urge to admit to the public that I hate men was a few hours spent waiting at the Delta terminal of La Guardia in the middle of the afternoon on a weekday. In case you aren’t aware, that particular terminal tends to be awash in suits at that time of day, and what is more representative of American middle-class maledom than your average suit hanging around waiting for a flight home from New York to Charlotte? I was already in a heinous mood when I arrived, having thought I was late and would miss my flight, then arriving and hearing it’d been delayed for like four hours, so I was in no state to suffer listening to the kinds of conversations these dudes have and to witness their bizarre masculinity rituals.
I sat down to wait for my flight and to attempt to read some terrifyingly boring book for one of my classes and was immediately enraged by the conversation going on to my left. A woman was sitting primly with her knees crossed and looking bored as her male companion sprawled out over three seats with his legs blocking the walkway between himself and the seats across from him (which he’d commandeered as his own personal luggage storage space) and talked incredibly loudly on his iPhone. He was a big, arrogant simian with a giant head, that shiny look that men who shave constantly seem to have, and a permanent smirk. I immediately wished he would have a premature stroke as I listened to him talk about the meeting he’d just left. He machine-gunned whoever was on the other end with the finer points of his performance at the meeting — at which he’d apparently showed everyone who was really the boss — before calling one of the other meeting attendees a “pussy.” His female companion finally got tired of being ignored and got up, saying, “I’m going to get some magazines.” And he replied, without looking at her, “Get me Sports Illustrated or Sports. Anything, I don’t care, as long as it’s sports,” and then returned to his conversation. No offer to pay for these magazines, no hint that he had grasped the fact that he was behaving like an unfathomable prick, nothing. Unbelievable.
This same asshole was in line behind me when I got on my flight. He sat down two rows behind my seat and continued his phone conversation, which at this point had turned to the topic of some recent NFL draft. He constantly referred to whatever team he was talking about as “us” and “we” and was apparently thrilled that “we” had scored this particular player. He affected his most derisive voice and said, “Pshhh. Yeah. I’d like to see Dallas try to fuck with us now. They’re going to get dominated.” Mind you, this was after he’d carried on the same loud conversation all the way down the aisle, bumping into everyone in sight as he obliviously made his way to his seat. And it went on for so long that the flight attendant had to tell him three times to turn his phone off so we could get the fuck on the road (in the sky, whatever).
Now, I know this is a fairly egregious example, but it’s not as if it’s not representative of the way the average male American behaves, and I could give you several milder examples of similar behavior that I witnessed on the same day. The airport terminal was a cacophony of affectedly gruff male voices talking about sports and business, and the “masculinity” of the whole thing was sickening. And there were very, very few women present to dilute the cesspool of aftershave and arrogance. So, my foul mood and my unwilling captivity in the same room and plane with a bunch of suits caused me to come to the realization that the accusations my many MRA readers have leveled at me have some merit. I really do hate most men, because I hate what masculinity and maleness mean and the kinds of behaviors they produce.
I’ll be getting into the details of what that all means in future posts.
To be continued…