A Rural Male Reflects On Feminist Incivility, While Calculating Windage
by Fred Reed
Maybe I'm just a country boy at heart, and lack
sophistication, and don't see things the way I should. But when I watch
one of those radical-feminist women heave onto a podium, like the
forehaunches of an under-nourished giraffe but with more hair on her
lip, and start hollering and carrying on about what slugs and bandits
men are, I start thinking of the curative powers of a shotgun full of
I recommend a 12-gauge duck gun.
It's the incivility of these feminist people that gets to me. Most of
them seem to have the manners of a guard dog , but without the utility.
(I know, I know, I'm going to get angry letters. From guard dogs.) For
pure bile, you can't beat a radical feminist. The average specimen can
turn out bad temper for hours on end, like lumber from a sawmill, and
any of it sounds like all the rest. The following, which gives the
flavor, is from Andrea Dworkin, who I gather is a sort of museum-piece
siege howitzer for feminism.
It's pretty much how they all talk. Listen:
"Men use the night to erase us...The annihilation of a woman's
personality, individuality, will, character, is prerequisite to male
sexuality, and so the night is the sacred time of male sexual
celebration, because it is dark and in the dark it is easier not to see:
not to see who she is. Male sexuality, drunk on its intrinsic contempt
for all life, but especially for women's lives, can run wild, hunt down
random victims, use the dark for cover, find in the dark solace,
How does a man respond to such a broadside? The prose could use some
lubrication, of course, and maybe a new set of plug wires, but I'm
talking about the content. My first impulse is to reassure the poor
woman: "There, there, Andrea, you're safe, nights just don't get dark
enough." My second impulse is to wonder just how much radical feminists
know about male sexuality, and what book they read it in.
I like to picture myself on a Saturday-night date in high school,
parking on a back road.
My date: "You're driving kind of funny. I reckon it was the beer."
Me: "Why, no, Sally. I'm drunk on my intrinsic contempt for all
Sally: "You're so silly. Come here."
Me: "Soon...soon. Do you mind staying here by yourself for a bit?"
Me: "I need to, uh, you know, run wild for a few minutes. Hunt down a
few random victims. Use the dark for cover. Guy stuff."
Sally: "You nuts or something?"
Me: "It's...night, Sally...the sacred time of male sexual
Sally: "You're gonna do it out there?"
OK, I understand that the radical feminist ladies are a few french
fries short of a Happy Meal. They can't help themselves. What I can't
figure is why more-or-less grown-up editors publish all this clucking
and scratching as if it made sense. And I also don't understand how the
rules got fixed so that a Dworkin can say anything at all about men and
get away with it--but men can't say anything back.
Any loon feminist can accuse men of being rapists, killers, sadists,
and Marines. These are pretty serious charges. A fellow could take
exception to them. But if I say something comparatively innocuous in
return, such as that I weary of being harried by a rat-pack of
diesel-fired tarantulas who mostly look like Rin Tin Tin's
littermates--why, they get mad. (Yes, I know, that was a three-animal
zoological-automotive metaphor. Patent applied for.)
I figure if radical-feminist ladies can talk ugly about us, then we
can talk ugly about them. And we're probably better at it, which they
might bear in mind.
What I say is, if you have pool-hall manners, you ought to expect to
play by pool-hall rules. Any guy who doesn't work for the Washington
Post knows this. Go into the wrong bar, and somebody will likely hit you
over the head with a pool cue. Nothing wrong with that. But the
assailant will grant you the right, while questioning your ability, to
smack him on the head with your cue. Symmetry. Reciprocity. Conservation
Not those feminist people. They want to swing cues. They don't want
to get swung at. I say let's treat'em equal.
It'll happen. Some day before long I'll be talking about something
sensible, like a '57 Chevy with Carter AFBs and a three-quarter Isky and
17 coats of hand-rubbed Orchard Mist lacquer that looks like Chinese
emerald carving if they'd done it right. Sure enough, some dog-biscuit
feminist is going to sniff, "Ah, yes, boys and their toys. Boys will be
boys. Intrinsic contempt for...."
And I'm going to say, "Mercy, lady, mercy. Yes, we males are a sorry
lot, sinners all, and neck deep in iniquity. The shame of it bores into
my soul. Now you go stand in the middle of Dupont Circle at high noon,
with a pair of seven-by-fifty binoculars, and look real carefully all
around, and point to one thing, with a moving part, that was invented by
a radical feminist."
Then I'll go for my duck gun.
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Copyright � 1999, Fred Reed