did the collective female conscience undergo a collective lobotomy?
By Afsaneh Bahrami
November 20, 2003
when practiced by men, is sometimes very funny, though at one
time it was nothing short of painful due to burning embers.
when practiced by women is simply retarded. Sorry wrong choice
of words. Misogyny when practiced by the weaker sex is simply
a public forum, it's not a bad idea to be critical of retarded
behavior, if nothing else, then to blow off steam. Who knows,
we may even discover a thing or two about each other.
misogynist woman, she's out there at the workplace, at bars,
in the park, and she's got it going on. She's got the job,
she's got the car, she's got the clothes, she's got the
attitude, and for the most part she says intelligent things.
then sometimes, out of nowhere, she makes a statement like,
"I'm not a feminist!"
not say that a little louder? I don't think
the guys at the end of the bar heard you," I tell her.
not a feminist!"
say it like it's a dirty word. I don't know which would
be worse, suffering from Aids or Feminitus?"
woman at the bar is covering all her angles. As far as I'm
considered, whatever it takes; stiletto heels, a Bustier, buying
her own drinks; whatever it takes to ensure she gets laid.
I've heard this claim during office hours, by the water cooler.
Perhaps non-feminists would like to demonstrate what they mean?
could always rescind their right to vote. We only got it 35
years ago. I'm not attached to it.
resisting the urge to self-determinate in case the women's
movement is a booby trap. Laws designed to soften me up with
egalitarian treatment, and then when I least expect it, the
laws will be overturned. I'll be left rightless. It's
be left an emotional wreck, unable to cope with the rigors
of a misogynist culture, like I can now. I'm adjusted, some
would say skewed. It's all in the perspective.
it's true that clothes can attract the man, then it's doubly
true that clothes have been used to break the woman.
light of this, perhaps the non-feminists could dress for the
part. The moderate non-feminist could slip into a pair of Parasuco
orthodox non-feminist could relocate inside a whalebone corset
pulled tight enough to restrict breathing.
liberal non-feminist could wedge her feet into a pair of pointed,
narrow, teeny weenie granny boots. The kind of dainty shoes
that make for oversized bunions and slanted big toes.
then, in a big show of non-feminism, non-feminists of all denominations
could pull out their video cell phone and send a celebratory
text message to their respective bosses.
for old times sake, make it sound like a telegraph:
boss STOP I demand an immediate forty percent decrease in pay
STOP I'm not a feminist STOP I can't come into work today because
I'm in the gallows STOP They're going to burn me as a witch
STOP Proof, I weigh more than a duck STOP!
for one, would like to know, where was I when the collective
female conscience underwent a collective lobotomy?
made a prodigious jump from handmaidens responsible for the
fall of mankind to presidential candidates, and then something
snapped in our newfound collective female mind. Oddly enough,
it was around the same time Geraldine Ferraro appeared in a
the 1970's, en-mass women had been attending women's
study groups. It was a wonderful opportunity for women from
all cultures and creeds to come together and share their personal
stories. It wasn't long before they realized, misogyny could
very well be an international phenomenon. A lot of soul searching
took place then collective hysteria ensued.
serendipitous association of the Women's Movement with
big hairy lesbians was a minor blow, really. The queer thing
was the remarkable increase of Sasquatch sightings during this
wonder, young women of all ages, began wearing lingerie on
the outside and paying attention to Madonna.
god, the 90's arrived to deliver womankind from plastic
pumps and big hair. And even more thanks to god for bulimia,
super models and Meg Ryan in that famous deli scene. It was
so empowering...I think.
new millennium offers us the market friendly Feminist. A corporate
man's wet dream of a no nonsense, big breasted, bulging
rock solid money maker. Sort
of like Rambo after estrogen therapy and intensive derma-brasion.
Call it what you
want, Kill Bill, or Kill Inc. The box office receipts prove
she's going to be a Cash Cow.
Kill, Kill, Pussycat, Kill, Kill, Kill.
is the publisher of Aunti
Establishment Weekly. Afsaneh is a writer / performer based in Toronto. ("I
specialize in epic roles, funny faces and minor speaking parts, when I can get
them.") She can be reached telepathically at 1 800 AUNTI EST.
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