In the past I’ve described Jante Law, a Scandinavian cultural norm that aims for true equality. Efforts to show off, brag, or display value in Jante Law-affected societies cause revulsion and public shaming. Disagreeing with acquaintances are frowned upon. Heated debates are unacceptable.
The result is a comical avoidance of generalizing, giving strong opinions, or attributing personal success to hard work instead of good fortune or being raised by the “village.” No one is stupid, just disadvantaged. No one is lazy, just lacking in educational opportunities. Running game is a delicate concern because you have to show value without showing value while simultaneously not offending the girl and her pro-equality and ultra-liberal views
The Jante Law virus—when applied in the realm of gender equality—is increasingly infecting America as women consolidate their power over men. Things I saw in Denmark a couple years ago are more noticeable in the States, and I predict that in ten years we’ll develop a ‘roided Jante Law that is even too extreme for Scandinavians, mostly due to the militant and aggressive nature of our empowered females.
There are ten rules of Jante Law immortalized by a popular Danish author. It’s not hard to share examples of how it’s being applied to American men, with arguments you can easily find on women sites…
1. Don’t think you’re anything special.
“Men are essentially sperm donors. Soon, technology will make them superfluous. Society doesn’t need them, and limiting their masculinity through new laws so they can’t hurt people would eradicate all crime and mass shootings. The world may very well be a better place without men.”
2. Don’t think you’re as good as us.
“Women excel in clerical office jobs while men flounder. It’s obvious women can communicate clearer and make for better team players. They are also very skilled at managing men to make sure they stay on task with whatever engineering or programming tasks they have to finish.”
3. Don’t think you’re smarter than us.
“Men have become intellectually lazy. They don’t even have the focus and commitment to attend universities anymore. The proof is in high enrollment rates for women. Their brain is becoming increasingly facile and better suited for the virtual world of video games.”
4. Don’t convince yourself that you’re better than us.
“Besides being physically stronger than women, you hold no advantage. Evolution has stopped at the neck and given female brains all of your strengths and none of the weaknesses. It is therefore a tragedy that more women are not CEOs when they’re obviously qualified. Quotas should be enacted to correct this.”
5. Don’t think you know more than us.
“In the past we used to allow our brains to atrophy at home by cooking and cleaning like a common slave, but now we read a lot of books. Eat Pray Love, 50 Shades Of Gray, and whatever that wonderful black superwoman Oprah tells us to read are enriching our minds and filling our souls. We don’t need to major in psychology to understand the human condition better than you to be more successful in life.”
6. Don’t think you are more important than us.
“You’ve been important for long enough. To squash the artificial superiority that has for some reason existed since the dawn of time, policies and laws must keep you down so the natural order of your inferiority and unimportance are allowed to freely flourish in society. Women must be given a head start to handle the patriarchal influence you’ve polluted our world with.”
7. Don’t think you are good at anything.
“You’ve failed to become a man who earns high wages, and now women are stepping up to fill that role. Important cultural commentators have predicted The End Of Men thanks to your inaction and laziness. The fact that women can so easily out-earn you is testament to your failure, and now these accomplished women have no choice but to entertain themselves with a string of bad boy lovers to experience the excitement that you utterly fail to provide.”
8. Don’t laugh at us.
“We are not fat—we have healthy body weight. We don’t have attitude—we are independent with strong and passionate opinions. We are not slutty—we are exploring our sexuality. Our tattoos are not trashy—they’re unique and a reflection of our individuality. We are not spinsters or cougars—we are confident women who know what we want and can easily get it while you have to travel to poor countries to sleep with dirty sluts who have herpes.”
9. Don’t think anyone cares about you.
“It doesn’t matter if little boys are floundering in public schools, if men are committing suicide at high rates, if men are being locked up for one of a thousand crimes, or if Middle East war veterans are coming back without limbs or a sound mind. It doesn’t matter if you can’t find work and are pushed to the margins of society. As long as homosexuals can marry in wonderful ceremonies with beautiful flowers and single mothers get money from the state to help them be independent, society is functioning as it should, and you better open your wallet and pay taxes to ensure this progress continues.”
10. Don’t think you can teach us anything.
“There’s nothing you know that we don’t. Just because you built civilization and all the gadgets we use, absolutely nothing you say will make a difference in our thought. By the way, even if you agree to everything we say, we still won’t put out for you, but we appreciate the support. Maybe you can also tell all the misogynists to man up and see the error of their ways and accept that equality is the true way to societal happiness.”
There exists some hypocrisies with Jante Law in that it’s applied more strictly with males, but the Danes seem almost genuine with their aim of gender equality, no matter the grotesque creation of an androgynous society where it can be hard to tell the difference between men and woman and straights and gays. In America, however, the borrowed ideas of Jante Law will only have one purpose: to put men down and give justification for programs, laws, and re-education that make men second-class citizens in a country that they built. It’s happening as we speak.
Read Next: What Manning Up Really Means
Patricia woke up not when her body was ready to wake but when her smartphone, which she lays to bed beside her every night, vibrated and chimed with a text message from Madison reminding her of the lunch they would have later that Saturday afternoon. Her eyes began adjusting to light coming from her phone’s screen instead of the sun, to Facebook and Instagram updates of the amazing experiences her friends had the night before. She was more than excited when she noticed four new messages on Facebook, but quickly realized they were from losers. She let out a “lame” under her morning breath before getting out of bed, phone in hand.
She didn’t want to eat a large breakfast since she knew she would be having a fattening lunch later in the day with Madison at the new restaurant that was the buzz of all the local blogs—blogs she was now catching up on after preparing a small meal of two toaster pastries, banana, probiotic yogurt, and three pieces of artisanal dark chocolate. There on the center of her kitchen table was the biography of Steve Jobs, and if you look closely you can see a fine layer of dust on the cover. She received it as a gift, and though she read the first 16 pages with enthusiasm, she got distracted with something else and never picked it up again. She felt no loss for failing to read the book because her extensive blog reading and magazine browsing must surely surpass the depth and wisdom contained in the autobiography of only one man. A book, unlike her favorite blogs, also didn’t allow her to leave witty comments that other people could give her recognition for in the form of upvotes.
She arrived on time to lunch and greeted her friend Madison with “You look amazing!” The two other standard greetings she uses are “You look great!” and “Oh my god where did you get that—it’s so cute!” where the that would usually be an article of clothing or piece of cosmetic jewelry. There were two seatings that took place; first their bodies, on a square table besides the open kitchen that draws attention from patrons whenever a little fireball erupts from the grill area, and the other seating was for their phones, which they both placed to the right of their appetizer plate and silver utensils.
Their menu browsing was interrupted with snippets of their Friday night, each girl teasing with small details that would be explained more fully after ordering. Every minute one would ask the other, “What are you getting?” and the other would invariably respond, “I don’t know, what are you getting?” followed by a detail such as, “Did you see Josh recently? He lost a lot of weight!” The girl who did not see Josh pulled out her phone to find a recent photo of him on Facebook that confirmed his improved appearance.
Madison noticed there was a typo in the menu. She followed her gut instinct, which was to take a picture and then tweet it to her two favorite foodie blogs and the restaurant’s Twitter account with the text “Still working out the kinks?” She expected her discovery to get many responses but three minutes later, after their meals were ordered, there were no retweets or replies and she was surprised, because the typo was obvious and this was supposed to be a serious restaurant, opened by a chef of a famous food truck that sold Mexican cupcakes with avocado sprinkles that were locally sourced. It wasn’t uncommon to hear people using their entire lunch hour just to wait in line and buy a few cupcakes as part of the combo special that came with a bag of nachos and pumpkin salsa.
It’s around this time that the full recap of the Friday night would be expected, two continuous stories with a start and end, but it resembled more a staccato, bits and pieces that I was hard-pressed to connect to the whole. Madison was more enamored with the place settings than the story of Patricia getting into an argument with a guy at the bar who asked her for a “female opinion” on something fashion related. Madison took two photos of the table layout, selected the one she liked most, applied a retro filter to make it look more distinguished, added seven different hashtags that were various spellings of the restaurant, and then uploaded it to Instagram. It took a little longer than she liked to upload and she said “Come on” twice while Patricia browsed through her phone so she wouldn’t appear to have nothing to do while waiting for her friend to finish with her art hobby.
Patricia didn’t feel like taking photos at the moment. Instead she launched an app that would blast a status update to all her social networks. She sent the following: “Having an awesome time with Madison at the new place!” Indeed, they were having an awesome time, mostly because they could share it in real time with the entire world.
The food arrived, presented beautifully on large plates with squigglies of unknown sauce going outward like heat rays a child would leave on a drawing of the sun. Both phones were out now, taking pictures from different angles. It took a few minutes for each of them to get their shots just right since the lighting was less than optimal, but post-production app filters were up to the task and produced beautiful photos that they girls couldn’t upload fast enough.
Patricia uploaded just two photos of her dish, a Cobb salad, with the colorful ingredients arrayed beside each other like bags of spices in the Indian market she buys naan bread from. Madison, coming to the realization that this day would be special, created an album with the date and uploaded four photos of her Angus burger on brioche bun that was topped so high a horse wouldn’t be able to take a bite. She ate it not unlike Patricia’s salad, picking at the vegetable ingredients until she decreased its height enough where she could replace the top bun and finish it off in the normal style of eating a burger, exclaiming “This is so good” a total of six times.
Dessert was shared between them, a large piece of chocolate cake, and Patricia got the creative idea of taking a picture of Madison when a spoonful of cake was approaching her mouth. It would have been a better photo, in my opinion, if Madison removed her oversized sunglasses, but she partied hard the night before and didn’t want people to see her sagging eyes, which would suggest she’s upset or not having fun, when the truth is that she was having—like I already mentioned—an awesome time. After the cake was finished, there was a full seven minutes of conversation when neither operated their phones, but glances were stolen at their respective devices, and with no new notifications in such a prolonged period of time, Patricia thought that she lost signal and compulsively turned on the screen. The signal was full strength. Three more minutes went by before she got a like on the status update she sent earlier, but it was from Cody, who was really creepy the other month when he displayed skepticism that free birth control should be a basic human right for women.
The most passionate part of their lunch date was when the check came and they debated how much tip should be left. The service was acceptable, but at one point Madison had no water and she had to flag the waiter to come, going so far as twisting her torso in an unnatural position to locate where the waiter could possibly be. It seemed unnecessarily difficult, she argued, and convinced Patricia to levy a 5% tip penalty from the standard 20%. (Later that night, Madison went on Yelp and left a 3 out of 5 star review, citing the poor water service and menu error as reasons that the restaurant “still had a ways to go.” She added a joke, hoping it would get “Funny” likes, but she only got two “Useful” likes instead.)
They left the restaurant and—I don’t know who came up with the idea first—agreed to take a picture in front of the main entrance. It was their luck that the name of the restaurant could easily be seen. Patricia asked a male passerby to snap the photo. He was more than happy to do so, but Madison began to get anxious because what if Patricia forgets to upload the photo? She didn’t want the opportunity to pass because she may never come back to this restaurant again after the poor service, so she asked the man to take the same photo with her phone. The man happily obliged. He hung around an extra twenty seconds longer than necessary and then thankfully went away without bothering the girls. He wasn’t good-looking.
It was time to walk off the meal by checking out the Old Town shopping center a half-mile away. Only three pictures were taken along the way and they considered buying a cupcake at a classic bakeshop but the line was too long and cupcakes are no longer in with the important foodie crowd that they considered themselves a part of. The Old Town was capably designed, they agreed, with a second level patio that oversaw a small fountain in the center of the complex. There wasn’t much else that I saw, but Patricia and Madison must’ve been moved because they excitedly took out their phones and got ready for picture taking on the patio that oversaw the little fountain. They believed that this moment must be captured with a camera sensor to not only be appreciated by their friends and beta orbiters, but also so they would never forget this special day for as long as they lived.
Patricia stood on the edge of the patio so Madison could take several shots (with Patricia’s phone, of course). Patricia examined each resulting image as soon as they were taken and grimaced each time, as if she was expecting a photo with an entirely different person than herself. After eight photos, she was finally pleased with one and then the process repeated with Madison, and then repeated again with both of them together thanks to the help of another male passerby, who was even more eager than the first. An extra “Thank you so much” was said to get him to buzz off. Not long after, in front of a Chinese restaurant, they stumbled on a display of an oversized Coca-Cola bottle, the classic bottle that can no longer be found in stores, and a handful of more pictures were taken beside it with exaggerated facial expressions.
From the beginning of their lunch date until the end, a total of 52 photos were taken. Sixteen of those photos would be uploaded to various sites to garner a total of 48 likes, comments, and retweets, including a comment from the restaurant, apologizing for the menu typo. Not a bad haul for a Saturday afternoon, Madison thought proudly. She realized that through her effort and ingenuity hundreds of people—no, thousands—would not have to endure an unprofessional typo in a restaurant menu.
Patricia had a date that evening to prepare for. It was a casual date with a man she met on OK Cupid, and though she was reluctant to go since she wasn’t horny (she was getting serviced twice a week by Brody, her ex-boyfriend), she had nothing else to do. She arrived 17 minutes late to be greeted by a man who seemed slightly less attractive than his rock climbing photos suggested. She felt cheated that he uploaded the best version of himself, and while he may be able to say the same of her, since it was obvious her photos were from a younger time when the stress of her studies didn’t allow for the dining experiences she has become a connoisseur of, he was just proud to get a date out of messaging god knows how many women.
He ordered a gimlet while she ordered a mojito that came in a unique glass. She took a picture of her drink and then left her phone on the table while her date put his away. The sun was starting to fade from its peak intensity, signifying the arrival of evening, and so the texts began pouring into her phone. She was polite, only catching a quick glimpse of who was contacting her when her phone’s screen would light for three seconds before fading back to black. Her date soldiered on with his life story, talking about his recent experience in the Peurvian mountains where he took ayahuasca and achieved spiritual enlightenment. He also remarked how he accumulated a vocabulary of 1,000 words in Quechua to learn important Andean wisdom from wise elders that has never been published in English. His story, however, could not compete with her phone. She responded to his prattle with a series of uh huhs while becoming more curious about the contents of her six unread text messages.
The anticipation reached a boiling point, not unlike when she was a young girl on her birthday and wrapped presents were shoved in front of her upon the ceremonial blowing out of the candles. Look, another pretty doll that she could play with for hours without worrying about anything else in the world, quieting her for such long periods that her parents would periodically get a feeling of panic that she wasn’t in the house. “I just have to check something real quick, sorry,” she said, then turned on her screen and scanned through the text messages that were waiting for her. One was from Brody, which was a pleasant surprise, since he didn’t usually contact her until Sunday evening. She decided to only answer the most important text message, the one sent by Madison, who asked how the date was going. She replied: “He’s so boring.. what time are we going to the club tonight? I want to wear my slutty dress.” She smiled as she typed this out with her thumbs, a smile that her date could not elicit from her no matter how hard he tried.
He suggested another round of drinks but she said she was tired and that she needed to get some rest from a hard week of work at the office. He was disappointed but not surprised, and when the check came he was pleased that she made a sincere offer to pay, but she actually had no money in her purse. He paid the bill and got a pleasant hug with Patricia’s breasts pressing slightly against him, completely unaware that his Monday evening “How was the rest of your weekend?” text would go unanswered. I could easily argue that the date was a waste of time for both, but Patricia didn’t see it that way. She got a free cocktail, a cool photo, and a fleeting string of conversation for her friends that would last at least 15 seconds and display how valued she was in the dating game, immediately followed by a comment about how there are no exciting men anymore, only boring ones who think doing hippie drugs, learning dying languages, or climbing mountains make them interesting.
Back at home, Patricia put on her favorite Nicki Minaj party mix and began getting ready for the club. She dressed in her Vegas outfit, the skimpy black top and skirt paired with heavy makeup and heels so high and uncomfortable that a full half-hour of the night would be spent complaining about them to anyone who would listen. While she didn’t look as good as two years ago, you couldn’t tell by increased amount of attention she was getting from men, even when she went out in sweatpants.
She stood in front of her bathroom’s mirror to take some self shots. This took a while to get right. The secret to a good self shot, she understood, was making it look completely natural as if the act of taking a photo next to the toilet bowl was a spontaneous event that came in a rare moment of artistic inspiration, when in actuality she has done this over a thousand times. I was impressed at how skilled she was at striking a pose that was the prettiest she could possibly look in spaces that rarely exceeded 84 square feet, with fluorescent lighting that would have easily highlighted her developing second chin had it not been for a precise 20 degree up-tilt of her head that didn’t decrease the brilliance of her blue eyes like a 25 degree tilt would. After fifteen minutes in the bathroom getting it just right, she raced out the door and mentally braced herself for all the idiots who would make unwanted sexual comments about her body, thinking she dressed that way to get attention instead of to feel confident about herself and who she was as a woman.
She and her crew, four strong, assembled at a lounge. There was such a flurry of ensuing activity that I had trouble keeping up with them. Guys were coming out from behind bushes, it seemed, to put in their attempt, and even Patricia began to feel threatened by the street harassment as she raced with her girls from one club to another, easily skipping the line for peasants and straight into the VIP where rich men with bottles of vodka and sometimes whiskey were waiting to pour whatever they wanted. Numbers were given to the cute and confident men and a couple of them were able to get up close to Patricia and sneak in brief kisses on her glossy lips. During all this the girls maintained death grips on their phones, usually in their left hands so they could party with their right. It would have been too risky to put their phones in their purse because the bass from the speakers would make it impossible to feel the little vibration of a “Where are you?!” text from a friend or a booty call text that would almost always start with the sentence “You out tonight?”
The fact that the girls were dancing with their phone didn’t reduce the fluidity of their gyrations or the rhythmic grinding on men’s crotches, and when a screen lit up from a new notification, even a minor one like an acquaintance not heard of in months being tagged in a photo, the dancing would stop for ten seconds and then commence again as if the interruption didn’t happen. The night wasn’t all joy, sadly, because Patricia forgot to recharge her phone midday, and now her battery level had sunk down to a perilous 14%. She couldn’t take any more photos with flash, which in the dark club essentially meant no more photography. Her night was on the verge of being ruined because her friends could record the exciting moments happening while she could only spectate.
In spite of the battery problem, which killed her phone not long after because of the irresistible urge to take just a few more group shots, the night was a raging success. Between the four girls, 266 photos were taken. Sixty-two would be uploaded, garnering 1,158 likes, comments, and so on, mostly from men. The girls gave out their number a total of 13 times, and 6 men were kissed. Patricia stumbled home alone and the first thing she did was plug in her dead phone into its charger. She patiently waited beside it to boot and then enjoyed the explosion of backlogged messages and notifications that came in all at once. They soothed her soul and validated her self-image as a popular girl in a big city.
She put her phone on silent then fell asleep, waking seven hours later. The first thing she did when she opened her eyes was reach for her phone, which lay beside her like it does every night, and already there was a text from one of the guys she met the night before. Who was it? She didn’t remember, and it didn’t much matter, because the photos, the texts, the likes, and the pleasant notification chime gave her more happiness than these men could provide for her. If you asked Patricia to forever give up her smartphone in order to meet the love of her life, the one in a billion man who would satisfy her both physically and emotionally for as long as she lived, and who would serve her like a queen until his last days, it wouldn’t take her even ten seconds to respond with a decision.
Three days later, the best self shot she uploaded had amassed 102 likes. It was a new record.
I suspect life would have been easier for me had I been born a girl. If I was reflecting back on a life lived as a woman during these times, the following is probably what I would have written on my death bed while surrounded by my feline friends…
As a young student in public schools, government programs pushed me into math and science. Even when I did poorly, I got decent grades that indicated I was more intelligent than my work revealed, enabling me to enroll in advanced classes. I even received extra encouragement from my female teachers while the boys were punished for not sitting still. They were put on drugs so my learning was not disturbed.
As a high school senior, ready to apply for college, I appreciated the fact that my male competition was discouraged and shamed into a life of video games, porn, or even suicide. Being favored by an educational system that was ruled by female administrators made it easy to get into college. To outcompete the boys, all I had to do was show up.
As a failing student in organic chemistry, I was thankful that I could avoid receiving a D by turning on the water works to my male professor, who was so creepy and pathetic that I doubt he has ever been laid by a beautiful woman like me in his life. I’m glad he understood my bad grade was a result of not my own lack of effort or personal failings, since I was told since kindergarten that I could be an astronaut if I wanted to, but because the organic chemists of the past didn’t bother to explain the principles of science in a way that women can understand. I ended up getting a B in the class.
As a freshly minted communications major (science ended up being too boring for me), I liked how so many corporations were willing to hire me as an HR or marketing associate. These corporations can only advance through strong communication skills, which men simply don’t have. Not only was I always on time for meetings, but I gave really good ideas while the male engineers and programmers were shy and quiet and sometimes a little rapey with how they looked at me. Even though I was only making $35,000 as an entry-level HR clerk, I loved the power I had in googling all the male applicants and tossing out their resumes if I found out they were weird or displayed a value that went against the corporate culture that women are an important part of (like being ugly). I tried my best to give preferential treatment to female applicants because we have been held down for so long.
As a party girl who has only been with 46 guys (I’m not counting the guys I made love to when I traveled), I enjoyed how I could change my mind about having sex with a guy after I had sex with him. On one morning I looked to the guy on my bed and he seemed a lot more beta than I had remembered when I was enjoying the martinis he was buying me the night before. I was no longer turned on, so it was obvious that I was raped. I called the police and made his life a living hell for violating my body without having been granted 100% full consent. He didn’t get jail time but is on a sex offender list, and had trouble getting a job last time I checked. What’s really interesting is that if I had the same quantity of drinks and drove a car, I would be held responsible for my actions and go to jail if caught, but if I decide to have sex with a guy after meeting him in a bar, I’m not held responsible at all. This is how things should be.
As an empowered woman who achieves spiritual enlightenment by opening my legs to only the sexiest and hottest men, I was very happy that the government paid for my birth control, gonorrhea antibiotics, and later, abortions. You have no idea how expensive it is to be a woman, with the cost of tampons and make-up and such. I wrote many letters to my representative in Congress to ask for my hair coloring and nail polish to be paid, since it’s a cost borne on women and not men, but shockingly I didn’t get a response. It’s true that women now make more than men, but I still think money—from somewhere—should pay for women’s health care and not that of men’s, even if our life expectancy is longer than theirs. No one can seriously think that it’s a woman’s fault that men are stupid and ride dangerous motorcycles and shoot each other. Did I tell you about the drummer I’m dating right now? He’s so hot. I let him come inside me, but he stopped responding to my texts and I’m going crazy trying to figure out why.
As a 35-year-old newly married woman, I’m a little disappointed that things didn’t work out with the drummer. I’m resentful that I had to marry a geek, the only man I could find who was willing to man up. He takes all my shit without complaint, and while you think that that would increase my love for him, the opposite occurred. I hated him more every day. The power of science and in vitro fertilization allowed us to have a child (my womb was made infertile through multiple STDs, in case you’re wondering). This was great for me because due to fem-centric American law, my husband was put in a bit of a pickle. I could have left him at any time, for any reason, while keeping the kids and most of his money—money that I helped him earn by pushing him to go to work every day in his lame job. You can almost say that he was my little hostage, and I loved watching him jump to meet my escalating set of demands.
As a divorcee of a deadbeat father, a piece of shit man, I’m satisfied that he was put in jail. My amazing lawyer, recommended to me by my divorced friend, got an alimony and child support payment that was 70% of his income. He couldn’t pay it and is now learning his lesson behind bars. The high payment is fair if you consider the years I wasted on him when he utterly failed to attend to my emotional needs as a vibrant, dynamic, and empowered woman. I made sure to remind his little brat of a son every day what a loser his father is. I even had to put the little one on medication so his unexplained anger didn’t rattle my nerves and interfere with my pilates training. Thankfully, the government gave me more money in the form of food, housing, and child care. The divorce put me in such a depressive state that I now qualify for disability payments until I die. No more office for me! And finally, after many years, the drummer has realized my worth and moved in. He’s broke right now so he can’t help with the expenses, but I have faith that one day he’ll become the man I know he’s capable of being.
As a recent breast cancer survivor, I was thankful that the disease got more research funding than just about all other diseases combined, preventing deaths of so many beautiful mothers and grandmothers. I’m also thankful to the NFL for making its male athletes wear pink in support of breast cancer and not prostate cancer, which I read only affects really old men who are going to die soon anyway. Anyone who questions breast cancer funding is obviously a sexist, misogynist, bigot, racist, right-wing conservative, and a possibly a neo-Nazi. With my free time I sent angry emails to the employers of such horrible men when I read their evil thoughts on the internet. To my knowledge, no woman has ever lost her job due to proper and just feminist views. This pleases me.
As a dead woman buried six feet under the ground, I’m appreciative of all the privilege I’ve had to live a life where women were cherished and valued above men, who finally understand their role as sperm donors and tax payers and nothing more. But even more can be done, and I pass the torch to young women today and tell them to keep up the fight for gender equality, girl power, and female happiness at all costs. Thank god I was born an American girl.
Read Next: It’s The Patriarchy’s Fault
Your average American woman doesn’t identify as a feminist, and may even refuse to call herself that due to embarrassment, but a host of feminist beliefs have been installed in her brain that not only determine her personality, but also how she interacts with the opposite sex. Without having to consciously accept feminism, she is more feminist than Betty Friedan, more feminist than Gloria Steinem.
What are the most common feminist beliefs in America? There are three:
1. Men and women are equal, but the patriarchy still favors men in all areas of life. If a woman fares poorly in something, it is due to structural imbalances in society or outright discrimination.
2. Any criticism of American women by a man makes him sexist, misogynistic, and a sex tourist. Any mistake or wrong by a woman can be traced to the fault of men.
3. A woman does not peak with her beauty. She peaks with her intellect and experience, which means that she must spend her youth educating herself with liberal arts degrees to eventually trade her labor to capitalists. In the meantime, she will become a mature human being by having sex with with any man who excites her.
A feminist—a true feminist—takes these three beliefs to the government and tells them to do right through legislation. She also gathers her friends and makes complaints to media companies and advertisers to mold their behavior and products through threat of boycott and bad exposure. In this regard they’ve been successful. Politicians will do anything to get their votes, and corporations (including the media), will not share views that offend them. Of course, just about everything offends them, so the range of allowable thought gets narrower with each passing year.
Your average girl on the street is not an activist. She doesn’t protest, organize, or even write emails of complaint. She’s too busy distracting herself with Instagram, her iPhone, celebrity gossip, and the latest reality TV shows, but the three beliefs are still firmly entrenched in her brain. She thinks women are being held down, she thinks women are less fallible than men, and she thinks her value is not tied to her beauty.
If she’s not protesting or complaining, where and how do these beliefs reveal themselves? Where do they leak out from her brain and transmutate into the real world? On you. You are the primary recipient of these beliefs.
Feminist thoughts ferment in her brain for many years without her realizing it to eventually rain down like napalm on your senses in the form of words, actions, and outbursts when you approach her, have sex with her, or have a relationship with her. I don’t need to tell you that this will not be positive.
She will think you are privileged. She will think that any good in your life has been achieved merely because you have a penis, not because of your hard work. She will believe that power should be taken away from you and given to women. She believes that within your being is a rapist who would not hesitate to violate and beat a woman, and the only reason you aren’t raping her is thanks to the laws of the state. She believes your only true need on earth is to be a sperm donor, and that medical technology will eventually—god willing—make you superfluous She believes that if it wasn’t for you and your gender, the world would be at peace with no death and no suffering. She will interpret any thing you say which doesn’t portray her as perfect and moral to be sexist, chauvinistic, and in urgent need of re-education. She will attribute any behavior or quirk of yours that doesn’t turn her on to be weird and creepy. She will wonder whether you’re an anorexic apologist if you criticize the foods that she loves, such as Chipotle burritos and Starbucks frappuccinos. She will wonder if your vacation to Brazil was really a sex trip where you took advantage of poor women who live in slums. She will think you’re a slaver if you ever dare hint that you’d want the future mother of your child to stay at home.
She will dissect all your stories, analyze every word of your text messages, and prowl through the internet like a private investigator to rule out the fact that you are in all likelihood a bigot who needs to man-up from a pathological inability to handle a strong women who is experienced with sex, clerical work, and fancy restaurants. It only takes these three beliefs to lead to dozens of opinions about you that make you the enemy of womankind.
Make no mistake that this is a war against heterosexual men. This is the war of our generation. This is a war against men who are presumed guilty at birth, and whose innocence is mere purgatory until a newly devised outrage sends them to hell. You are the enemy and you will be denounced in the form of “misogynist,” “creep,” and “sexist,” and this denouncement will stay with you and affect your livelihood in ways that modern technology allow. You will be prosecuted by the fattest and ugliest cunts of the land, with no hope of appeal.
The young woman who doesn’t even think she’s a feminist is nonetheless waging war on you, her attitude and denouncements the weapon, her vagina the booty that is yours if you defeat her with your sword to choke and gag her in a way that she has been taught to like in books that have been foisted upon her as if she was a mindless automaton. Every time you thrust into a feminist who doesn’t think she’s a feminist and forgo a relationship with her, you inflict a wound. Every time you ignore her existence, you inflict a wound. Every time you make love to a foreign woman, you kill her outright.
This is a defensive war. We have been attacked, shamed, and taxed by them and now there is not much of our blood left. They demand more and more yet give us less and less, to the point where some men are deciding it’s not even worth it to have sex—not worth following their biological purpose of existence. The United States is becoming a battlefield, and it’s those who don’t pick up arms and foolishly appease the enemy and believe in its benevolence that will suffer most. All we demand is a pleasant woman who can raise our seed in a pleasant home, but that has been denied us, and we have been left floundering on a confusing search for masculinity in a society that attacks us and makes us feel ashamed for being men. We didn’t start this war, but we will finish it.
Why is it that giving choice to American girls causes them to act like they need to go on a sex bender, while the same result doesn’t happen in a place like Poland? What is restraining Polish girls from getting on the cock carousel and becoming an entitled slut?
In the past I’ve stated that Poland lacks enablers like feminism, liberalism, Jezebel, and a culture that promotes misandry and slutdom. These enablers are not the disease, but merely symptoms of the disease. There is a higher level phenomenon that enables the enablers: the elimination of traditional gender roles.
Traditional gender roles are best exemplified in modern Muslim societies where the man provides while the woman takes care of the home. A woman submits to a man’s power because, as dictated by nature, men have been given more intellect and strength than women. Traditional gender roles are opposed to the uglification, masculinization, and slutification that enablers advance in Western society today.
You won’t be feminine if you think men are the enemy instead of your provider. You won’t be feminine if you place career before family. You won’t be feminine if you have no shame for being an overweight tatted-up slut. Enablers, in effect, are creating a new breed of woman that only benefit men who profit from their labor (capitalists) while robbing value from a potential husband who wants a family and peaceful home.
If you go into a Polish club, you’ll see that the girls still have interactions with a high volume of men. They still have Facebook and iPhones and other features of American lifestyle that allows them to play the field and have choice in men. It’s not at as high of a level, but it’s prevalent enough that you will notice these things after just a couple days in the country. Nonetheless, you don’t see an equivalent decrease to their femininity (not yet, anyway). The amount of choice they experience doesn’t poison them like it does an American woman. It’s because Polish society hasn’t yet eliminated traditional gender roles. The degree of choice a woman has, combined with how traditional the gender roles are, compose the two greatest factors that determine the makeup of women in any society.
Let’s take a look at three different mixtures:
1. Zero Choice For Women + Strict Traditional Gender Roles
2. Some Choice For Women + Firm Traditional Gender Roles
3. Unlimited Choice For Women + No Traditional Gender Roles
If I were to ask you to assign a region of the world for each of the above three mixtures, could you do it?
1. Middle East
2. Eastern Europe, Southeast Asia, South America
3. Western countries, Scandinavia
The combination of female choice and traditional gender roles create the women of a society, just like how mixing different colors of paint can create a specific pigmentation. High dating choice with an absence of traditional gender roles will create a male hell where women stop acting like women (Anglosphere). On the other hand, no dating choice in a culture where gender roles are strong will have women that you have to marry in order to have sex with (Iran).
Let’s say you are a 26-year-old man who wants to easily sleep around without concern for quality or feminine traits. Where would you go? Now how about if you want girls who make for feminine girlfriends but aren’t excruciatingly hard to get into the sack? Now how about if you want a virgin who will dedicate her life to you?
My guess is you prefer the second option. The reason why Eastern Europe, Southeast Asia, and South America are so popular for Western men is that it offers a middle ground where you can have fun casual sex or find a pleasant girlfriend or wife without being the most interesting man in the world with game that rates in the top two percentile. Notice how many Western men who venture into Eastern Europe have increasing difficulty as they cross Poland and enter Ukraine and then Russia, where gender roles are stronger and you need additional knowledge or skill to navigate the waters. We can stray from our culture quite a ways until the learning curve becomes steep.
Feminism is a rightful boogeyman because it’s a mechanism for removing traditional gender roles while increasing dating choice for women. In fact, if there was a perfect poison for destroying women, eliminating the family unit, and lowering fertility rates, feminism would be like cyanide Sometimes I can’t help but admire how effective this ideology has been in changing female behavior at great detriment to men, but as they say, you can’t put toothpaste back into the tube. This is why I advise men to go to places where there is still some toothpaste left to squeeze out.
There is an interesting failure of feminism that is worth mentioning: its inability to eliminate slut guilt, a mental process that I believe is genetically hardwired into the female brain and can not be wholly defeated. It’s so ingrained that even feminists attack sluts, though under the guise of other reasons. As slutty as the girl you fucked the other night is, she will still do her best to rationalize away her sluttiness or even verbally declare to you that she “doesn’t usually do this.” This is a reason why slut shaming will be a powerful way to affect the behavior of women for the rest of time.
When you meet a girl who values unlimited choice and comments about “sexism” or “misogyny,” two code words that suggest gender roles have been eliminated, you’re dealing with a slut who would make for a horrible wife. She still feels slut guilt, but her behavior will still be more slutty than the world average. You can safely ejaculate inside her without asking if she’s on the pill because she will not keep the baby. She does not want the unlimited choice party to end.
Increasing choice and reducing traditional gender roles are two factors that are rapidly destroying women. There will be further degradation going into the 22nd century with the annihilation of the family unit and rise of government co-parenting, where women will be raised via handbooks created in university programs that are approved by feminist and homosexual thought leaders. Unfortunately, things will not get better within our lifetime, but with this knowledge at hand, all you have to do is identity the type of women you want and then board an airplane to visit the country that has them.
Choice in dating removes the necessity of personal effort. When a man knows that he has choice in the dating market, he will begin to expect more sex while putting in less effort. When I’m in a city that is generally “easy,” I go out later, approach less, and don’t take much time to prepare for a chance at getting laid. I just walk out the door because I know my existence is likely to be good enough. In this type of scenario, the marginal cost of banging an 8 instead of a 7 is not worth a change in my routine.
In the United States, women have more choice in men than their counterparts in any other nation. An American 7 is approached via day, night, and internet 100 times more than girls in Eastern Europe. Not only is she approached more, but she is approached by more desperate men who put her on a pedestal much higher than anywhere else.
As I’ve detailed in the past, choice creates an environment where only the tightest game will be rewarded. Not only will a man in this environment have to approach a lot, but he will have to do so with skill so high that his own father would have died a virgin if forced to do the same.
Choice acts as a “feeder” to create a girl who flakes, overeats, sleeps around, cockblocks, and becomes masculine. Choice feeders include night clubs, Facebook, OK Cupid, game, the iPhone, and any other technology or environment that allows men to approach women in order to get sex.
When I was in Poland recently, I walked around a shopping mall and saw many beautiful girls. I thought to myself, “Even if I bring 50 American guys in this mall right now to approach nonstop for a month, the girls wouldn’t sour. They would be slow to gain weight, lose their femininity, or become rude. Why is that?”
There are two reasons:
1. In Poland, a girl sees an approach as a random encounter with a man. In the United States, a girl sees an approach as a gender issue, rape by the patriarchy, or a means by which women are somehow being objectified. There are factors in Polish culture that prevent the girls from seeing an approach in those terms, while in America we have cultural “enablers” that tell the girl to behave like a trashy sailor or go to battle when interacting with a male.
2. If a Polish girl, after being approached 1000 times on a vacation to Washington DC, goes back home and becomes fat, slutty, and masculine, the approaches would stop. But if she remained in America, men would continue approaching her because of how low their standards have become, a problem that is due to demographics and cultural persecution of masculinity.
“Enablers” are institutions, movements, or memes that tell a woman to embrace the negative features that result from her having a lot of mating choice. Enablers that exist in the culture include feminism, liberalism, anti-fat shaming, anti-slut shaming, divorce laws, and misandry representations in the media.
Feeders and enablers work together to create a death spiral:
Women feel the immediate effect of the feeders in the form of approaches while men feel the immediate effect of the enablers in the form of uglier, bitchy girls who are not relationship material.
Now let’s take a look at Poland:
In Poland, notice how there are less feeders and a complete absence of enablers. In fact, there exists disablers in the form of family pressure to marry along with a strong fat and slut shaming culture to prevent uglification. In fact, the disablers promote beautification.
When an American girl turns 21 and begins to hit the clubs in stride, unburdened by her college social circle, she is unsure how exactly to take being approached so much. It may initially seem neat to her, but then she goes onto Jezebel to read how game is stupid and how even nice guys are evil. She reads advice columns telling her that she can have it all while playing the field in her twenties and even early thirties. She reads a news report about how important Slut Walks are in empowering women. She hears Obama saying how it’s unfair that woman make less than men. And finally she sees a book in Barnes & Noble about how men have turned into little kids that need to man up.
Her mind is unable to resist these influences since they come in the form of a nonstop assault that happens to confirm with what she’s learned about men in her university elective courses. Enabling now takes place. She will begin to see men approaching her as inferiors and as a nuisance, treating them with disdain and disrespect. The uglification process begins soon after, giving her faux self-esteem and confidence in being ugly and masculine. When she hits 25, she is stronger and more empowered than men her age.
She stays single and sleeps with the men who can keep her turned on for a couple hours without saying a bad line. These men are not as handsome as those who approached her when she was 18 and 19, before she began shopping at Lane Bryant, but the marginal cost of being skinny would only get her a guy one point higher. The result is a fat girl who mildly hates men, never reproduces, and has well over 50 sexual partners by the time her body gives up releasing eggs.
I call it a death spiral because every additional set of approaches causes the erosion of habits and beliefs that were meant to preserve her appearance and femininity. She can slack off because the guys keep coming and the greatest media influences in her life tell her to embrace the fat. They even put out flawed studies that tell her being fat is healthy. In countries with a death spiral dating market, you will see increasingly overweight and useless women who still believe they deserve Mr. Perfect.
The American cultural elite will promote any method or policy which increases a woman’s choice while simultaneously limiting a man’s. You would think they would therefore embrace game since it gives women more choice in men, but it gives men greater relative choice, especially for the alpha male who can easily swoop up a boatload of notches via one-night stands.
The elite will therefore actively seek those methods, behaviors, and policies that give women a greater proportional amount of choice than men. It turns out that internet dating is perhaps their greatest tool, as even the most pan-cis-trans feminist with shaved head but unshaved legs has a profile. In fact, internet dating, combined with the smartphone, are the two most amazing male screening tools to ever be invented, giving even average girls more male attention that female celebrities received a generation ago. Every time you send an email blast on OK Cupid to get a few lukewarm responses, if any at all, a feminist smiles. Every time you approach a girl in a club and bang her within a few hours through the use of game, that same feminist will ask the authorities to investigate if your empowerment was actually illegal in the form of rape.
Feminist sympathizers have grouped gender behavior into two categories: choice enhancers and choice blockers. The former will increase how much choice women in a society have while the latter will decrease it, since it gives more power to men or causes them to “drop out.”
Blockers will be viciously attacked by all women (not just feminists), because they decrease a woman’s relative choice compared to men. Have you ever heard of a woman crying that a black-owned barber shop was getting shut down to be replaced with a wine and cheese bar? Never. But the second they read a story about a lonely and shy American man finding a Ukrainian wife, they lose their shit. In fact, it’s easy to predict the response of future inventions or behaviors by just asking yourself who it gives more choice to. If it gives more choice to men, there will be some group that will push for it to be criminalized, regulated, or banned outright.
As you can now see, the solution to our problems is not simply a matter of beating feminism and shutting down Facebook. There are multiple factors working simultaneously to destroy women. I predict the death spiral will impact other countries as the same feeders and enablers present in America make their way around the world.
Or will it? While I do think countries will get worse before they get better, many have a built-in cultural resistance that prevents enablers from completely taking over like they have in America. Why is it that a place like Brazil is so open to American-style feminism while a place like Ukraine is not? What is it that accelerates or limits the damaging effects of giving women choice in the dating market? These are questions I will answer in the future.
Read Next: The Number One Corrupter Of Women
What I’m about to share with you is fiction, and thank heavens for that or it would limit the thoughts of men through use of a method so subtle that even Orwell did not imagine it. I wouldn’t wish it on any enemy unless my objective was power instead of truth, dogma instead of logic.
In this fictional world, information is freely accessible through a computer network that never sleeps and never forgets. The network is born without ideology or bias, sharing the wisdom and knowledge of humanity for an audience that is eager to receive it. Information is instantly transmitted across the world to connect man in ways that are hard to imagine for those who were born when the network did not exist. For some odd reason, it favors images of cats.
In this fictional world, employment is provided by companies. These companies are formed by humans but are independent of them. They don’t laugh like a human laughs and they don’t bleed like a human bleeds, but the supreme law of the land treats them as people. They function in forms both small and large to provide commerce, products, and services to humankind, employing individuals and giving regular payments in exchange for their labor.
In this fictional world, it’s important for companies to be seen as positive in the eyes of the public. They must be seen as benevolent and charitable and moral—moral according to the current trend and style of the time as determined by those who have cultural power. If a group with a special interest decides that a behavior or action of a company is impure, their sustained yells and hollers will be heard across the land for as long as they can produce breath in their lungs. It doesn’t matter if the group is unfamiliar with the company or doesn’t even buy its products—it will wage what it sees as a just crusade against any company that is the source of a thought or action that it does accept.
In this fictional world, companies become scared of not the most powerful groups, but all groups. It becomes scared of even mild criticism that wouldn’t dent its sales. It becomes scared of the lone petitioner with zero power. The nature of bureaucracy, the desire for ever-growing profits, and the urge for humans to control what they cannot control are the best explanations I can give for why a company tries to prevent one negative word to be said of it. It’s no surprise that these companies eventually hire teams of people that attempt to establish relations with the public, to appease the groups and mute the complaints before they’re noticed.
In this fictional world, the companies decide not only to screen a worker for his ability or skill, but his past behavior and thoughts. They grab a large straw and suck in all the information available on an applicant, going so far as to hire other companies that exist solely to provide this personal data. They will even sit behind an applicant and make him log into private accounts where his thoughts and images are stored, and if you don’t believe me, I must remind you that this is mere fiction, something that exists only in my imagination. The companies want to know all the behaviors and thoughts—especially the thoughts—of the applicant in order to predict whether he will cause a problem for the company in the future, a problem which exists only in the assembled mind of the groups which demand pure thought and pure action. To assist with this screening process, companies hire women of average intelligence who studied the easiest possible subject in universities, and who are trained to see humans as resources that must serve the company before they serve themselves.
In this fictional world, the wise computer network gets tricked into working as a spy. He becomes not only a source of illumination and information but a tool of denouncement, a virtual guillotine that marks those men who had impure thoughts and dared to share it, or who acted impure and dared to display a photo that captured the act. The network, which never sleeps and never forgets, becomes a research tool for companies to exclude those men who might offend one of a thousand groups, one of 315 million people. It will dutifully record a pure thought today that will one day become impure, and the guillotine will be wheeled out from the barracks and assembled in the public square, and its blade will be sharpened and lifted fifteen feet high to be released onto the trapped neck of the sad man below, sliding down the railing, picking up speed, faster and faster, until it meets the man’s flesh and forever severs his thoughts from his body. No, that would be too messy and too bloody. The modern guillotine is merciful—it merely takes away a man’s bread.
In this fictional world, a man who had a bad thought recorded by the network will be denied employment by all companies. The thought lost a trial in which the man who created it was not allowed to attend. He will be forced underground to work in manual labor jobs or as a bartender. No government figure is involved and no law enforcement is called. He is not imprisoned and he does not receive torture, but his bread is withheld from him as long as the network exists, which is a length longer than his life. A young man, bursting with ideas, who dare go against the elite mob, will be denounced before he knows what the word denounced means, before he reads about the Bolsheviks or the French Phrygian cap. When he is denied future opportunities to make his bread, he will wonder, “Did they look for my name on the network?” Yes, young man, they did, and it’s no matter that you never committed a crime or laid your hands upon another soul. If he lived in another era, before the network existed, he could play with words to get reactions. He could pose scenarios that rushed to his mind and share them with anyone who would care to listen. Those ideas would be stored on papers hidden in a cellar, or be lifted from the public square where he mouthed them and floated up up up into the ether, never to be heard by those who weren’t present. The network, however, records the ether. An idea he shared five years ago appears on the screen as if it was just uttered, alive with color and emotion and power, and for that reason, the young man must forever pay the price of his bread for those impure thoughts, and he must certainly pay the price when thoughts that are pure today become impure tomorrow.
In this fictional world, the most brilliant men open through mouths, ready to fire off ideas that weigh heavier than stones, ideas that will improve society for both men and women, but then he thinks of the guillotine and how his bread will be taken away if he dare says what he wants to say. His mouth opens and his larynx prepares to vibrate and make the sounds of his ideas, but then he remembers the network and he remembers his need for bread and so he shuts his mouth so fast that those around him can only hear the sound of his teeth snapping back into place. Sometimes a couple of words escape from his throat, but thankfully not enough to arouse the suspicions of those who have their hand on the rope that controls the blade that is waiting to be released onto the necks of men whose self-control is not as strong. Gradually and surely, after many years of censoring himself, the thoughts stop coming in. Ideas that once burned so hotly in his head, ready to escape onto the public forum to be discussed and analyzed, to survive on their own accord, become covered in a blanket of thick snow, smoldering the fire that was fueled by his mind. His thoughts are now controlled. His mind now tamed as he accepts the jail that his mind has been sentenced to.
In this fictional world, when a man with fresh bread looks in the mirror, he knows that his thoughts are approved, but when he puts a piece in his mouth, and his saliva begins to break it down and his tongue moves the matter into the back of his throat, he feels a pressure around his neck as if a light chain has been wrapped around it. Every day the chain gets tighter and every day it becomes harder to swallow. He looks around to other men who have even better bread than he, and he watches them chew and chew and swallow with such a discomfort on their face that they look like toddlers eating mushed greens for the very first time. The bread begins to feel, it seems, more impure in their mouths than the thoughts they were once so willing to share.
I’m afraid that my imagination has gotten the best of me. We don’t live in a fictional world where a man’s bread is rationed based on the purity of his thoughts, but a world where an idea is valued on its own merit, where a man’s personal life is his personal life and where he does not fear sharing ideas—mere ideas—without worrying if he will lose his bread, and where he can swallow that bread without feeling the presence of someone else in the room, watching him eat and watching him live, ever ready to snatch the bread away. Let’s all be thankful that we don’t live in such a fictional world.
The end game of feminism is to make it impossible for a female to do any wrong, absolving her from all responsibility for her actions, no matter how reprehensible. The fact that a human being has a vagina will soon mean that she can not make a bad decision about anything. Punishing or criticizing a woman for her life choices will be abolished.
Name one thing right now that a feminist would criticize their gender for doing. I’ll save you the mental effort: there’s nothing. There is absolutely nothing that a girl can do that would get hate from feminists. For example:
- Girl has no willpower and is 50 pounds overweight? Not her fault. She’s beautiful. Social constructs need to be changed.
- Girl sluts around with 100 guys without condoms? Not her fault. She’s empowered and strong.
- Girl is irresponsible with sex and has five abortions in her 20s? It’s her body and she can do whatever she wants. A fetus inside her is not a living entity.
- Girl is making less money than men? The patriarchy is holding her down.
- Girl gets drunk in a guy’s house and has sex with him? He took advantage of her. She was raped.
- Girl studies stupid major in college and can’t get a job? The 1% owes her a marketing manager position.
- Girl sleeps with her college professor in exchange for a better grade? She was a victim. The professor took advantage of her.
- Girl likes dating guys much younger than her? You go girl! Rob that cradle!
- Girl experiences an uncomfortable moment of any kind? She’s being harassed. Men are creeps.
- Girl travels to Italy or Spain to bang hot European men? She’s romantic.
- Wife gets slapped by husband after she pushed him first? Call the police and send him to jail.
- Wife cheated on her faithful husband? He wasn’t attending to her needs. She wasn’t happy. Give her the kids and half his money.
- Mother runs over her own kid in an accident? The SUV wasn’t safe. It’s the auto industry’s fault.
- Mother kills all of her kids? She was mentally sick. We must give her love instead of severe punishment.
On the flip side, almost anything a man does is wrong:
- Guy is nice to girl in hopes of getting sex one day? He’s dishonest. He’s the polar opposite of nice.
- Guy approaches girls in the bar in hopes of getting sex? He’s a rando creep loser.
- Guy on OK Cupid says he wants a girl who doesn’t play games? Let’s publicly mock him on Tumblr.
- Guy graduates from college in field that uses math? He’s privileged. We must create expensive programs to push girls into math while excluding boys.
- Guy makes a joke about fat girls? Hate speech.
- Guys says he doesn’t date black girls with ghetto attitude? Racist.
- Guy likes working out to have strong muscles? Narcissist.
- Guy spends his money on a fast sports car? He’s overcompensating for a small penis.
- Guy doesn’t want to date girls because he’s tired of flakes? He needs to stop being a boy and man up.
- Guy says he wants his wife to stay at home and raise the kids? Slaver.
- Guy believes in limited government without welfare? Right wing whacko.
- Guy believes hard work is eventually rewarded? Wants poor people in Africa to suffer and starve.
- Guy calls girls on the internet ugly? Whole internet comes pounding on his door.
- Guy hits on a girl on the street? Street harassment. Disturbing the peace.
- Guy travels to Ukraine to get laid? Sex tourist.
- Guy likes dating girls much younger than him? Sexual predator.
- Guy likes dating girls just a little bit younger than him? Immature and irresponsible.
- Hairy man says he likes to raw dog? Disgusting and foul.
- Promiscuous gay man spreads HIV through raw dogging? It’s okay since he’s gay. Give more taxpayer money to fund HIV research.
The most mundane male behavior is quickly attacked, while the most egregious female behavior is rewarded or ignored.
As a man, I can clearly see right and wrong behaviors within my own gender. For example, mixing Coca Cola with Johnnie Walker Black (or better) is wrong. Not lifting weights is wrong. But when it comes to feminism, and young American women in general, a man can’t criticize a single thing they are doing without experiencing insults of sexism and misogynism. How can you possibly have a reasonable argument with a feminist if the leading organization of women is not willing to concede that even a crazy mother murdering her own kids is wrong?
I feel sorry for the man who attempts to engage feminists in intellectual debate with the hope of making them see the light or to understand reality. As you can see, that was never their goal at any point in time. They don’t care about your arguments because you are a MAN. They won’t accept your judgement of them because you are a MAN. Unless you are willing to admit that there is nothing wrong a woman can do, and that most male behavior needs to be corrected with help from the state, your efforts will be in vain. You’re better off calling them ugly instead.