Part 1
Misogyny, when practiced by men, is sometimes very funny, though at one time it was nothing short of painful due to burning embers.
Misogyny, when practiced by women is simply retarded. Sorry wrong choice of words. Misogyny when practiced by the weaker sex is simply retarded.
In 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.
The 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.
But then sometimes, out of nowhere, she makes a statement like,
“I'm not a feminist!”
“Why not say that a little louder? I don't think the guys at the end of the bar heard you,” I tell her.
“I'm not a feminist!”
“You say it like it's a dirty word. I don't know which would be worse, suffering from Aids or Feminitus?”
The 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.
But, I've heard this claim during office hours, by the water cooler. Perhaps non-feminists would like to demonstrate what they mean?
They could always rescind their right to vote. We only got it 35 years ago. I'm not attached to it.
I'm 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 happened before.
I'll 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.
If it's true that clothes can attract the man, then it's doubly true that clothes have been used to break the woman.
In light of this, perhaps the non-feminists could dress for the part. The moderate non-feminist could slip into a pair of Parasuco jeans.
The orthodox non-feminist could relocate inside a whalebone corset pulled tight enough to restrict breathing.
The 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.
And 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.
But for old times sake, make it sound like a telegraph:
Dear 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!
Part 2
I for one, would like to know, where was I when the collective female conscience underwent a collective lobotomy?
We 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 Pepsi commercial.
During 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.
The 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 time.
No wonder, young women of all ages, began wearing lingerie on the outside and paying attention to Madonna.
Thank 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.
The 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, Kill, Pussycat, Kill, Kill, Kill.
Author
Afsaneh Bahrami 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.
