The Boardroom Bitches

There are a few things women adore quoting until it’s not convenient. “Ginger Rogers did everything Fred Astaire did, backwards and in high heels.” Another favourite is the idea that “behind every great man is a great woman.” Women just love to brag about how easily they manipulate men but don’t let that concept interfere with their brutal theory of Patriarchy.

Honesty just isn’t convenient sometimes. If you consider it both briefly and in depth, it is much more pleasing to control events from the background while letting men place themselves at public risk. According to women, they have historically pulled the strings of men while men took all the responsibility for the consequences of those actions. If you look closely at a woman’s blank face when the shit hits the fan you will usually find a subtle half hidden smile behind a look of innocence while she feigns shock and disdain. Like a child with her hollow, practiced eyes asking “Who? Me?”

So, Ms. Rogers, what about your uncanny ability to do everything backwards? Women have demanded the right to enter the classic domain of men: the workplace.

Feminists insist that we are capable of doing everything a man can do and we can do it better. When we don’t do it better it’s because men had the environment rigged to our disadvantage. Where did those high heels go? Remember dear Woxan, you can do everything backwards and in your sleep. Don’t like the crude jokes? Don’t like kissing ass to get ahead? Don’t like being ordered around like a toddler? So then, at what point did you find evidence that men never navigated the same odorous oceans just to put lard in you larder and a new SIM card in your iPhone?

Alice Schwarzer debated with Esther Vilar, and made her case for the oppressive life of the housewife. If the husband comes home exhausted and drained, worried about his career not going anywhere, she then has the onerous task of having to give him courage again, saying “Oh Darling! But you are so brave!”

To Schwarzer, and her feminist posse, this expectation stands out as a subtle abuse of the female psyche. Oddly, when a woman asserts her workplace is asking too much of her, she totters back on her high heels as society grinds to a halt. With a smirk on her powdered face she claps her hands as the government raids their coffers to bail her out. Then of course, the entire workplace is forced to change to support her emotional needs.

So how have women improved our workplace? Sure, they can do it all but they can’t do it without crying, hugging, bullying each other, or suing their workmates until “sensitivity training” became an industry unto itself. Feminists have proudly developed and grown a wide range of employment sectors based solely on catering to their emotional workplace requirements while simultaneously claiming they can do everything a man can do. That is some fancy footwork indeed, and I agree it is quite backwards.

Of course, the argument goes that making the workplace a blubbering emotional roller coaster with the occasional twist of sociopathic bling has somehow improved productivity. Recently I watched a battery of these gynaecological wonders ejecting their target male out of a position of management. They were busy self-congratulating when I asked the awkward question:

“What are you going to do if they replace him with a woman?”

A sudden, fearful silence resulted. Ahhh, they hadn’t planned that far ahead.

I don’t claim to be the voice of reason here, I only pay attention to the circus because it’s highly entertaining. Despite cries of unfair stereotyping, we women are the first to admit amongst ourselves that working for men is a much easier task. Women are high maintenance, trust me.

I have no doubt that women aspire to be seen as compassionate, life giving, creative, and nurturing by virtue of their nature. We care a great deal about how we are viewed. However, there is a big difference to how you are perceived and how you really are. If you believe what Schwarzer said, then that means being supportive of others, including your life partner, is a lot of hard work for women. Thus, it’s not our nature after all is it?

Feminists thrive on presenting women as the helpless child. They cheerlead their own methods of making life easier for women by blaming it all on men because, with infantile ineptitude, they believe all of our flaws stem from an outside source.

To believe the droll quotes they are so fond of, you must forget that men are controlled by the women in their lives. Only then can we see that feminists are hiding behind their myth of “Patriarchy” to explain their own shortcomings. They can’t work in the same building with a man unless the man has completed a “sensitivity” training course on how women expect him to behave. Women don’t want to learn how to use wit and savvy to stand their ground when it’s more convenient to eliminate all social challenges. Why have a sense of humour when it’s so much easier to just get someone else fired?

Women ask for your indulgence and special attention, but indulgence usually comes at a cost. Sometimes that price tag reflects the value, but sometimes it would have been better spent in a condom dispenser. A woman claiming she can handle the workplace is often as deceiving as her assertion that she is on the pill while strategically forgetting to take her daily dose. While feminists struggle to expand ownership of their sexuality they insist on punishing those who view them sexually. While they insist they are tough enough to stand high-heel to workboot, they want the workplace to adapt to their feminine needs.

Might we dare to ask ourselves if they are serving the greater good or just fucking with us?

If women want to dance in the boardroom they don’t need high heels, they don’t need a fluffer for their crying pillows, and they don’t need a donut shaped conch to pass from bitch to bitch; they need to get a backbone and stop expecting to be treated like vulnerable children playing at being grown-ups.

In the dystopian boardroom of the Woxan world everyone joins the circle and holds hands. They take a moment to affirm the beauty of their inner spiritual selves. “Repeat after me,” their metronome leader conducts, “I am divine. People like me. I radiate perfection and bring a unique light to the world around me.” This mantra fills the room in a self-reverent chant until it reaches a crescendo and shudders to a quiet sigh.

The clock ticks, but they have learned that time robs. That clock on the wall is an evil man-device used by “the Patriarchy” to control the creative energy of the female. The circle collapses because they seat their royal behinds and whip out a tit. Those with present offspring suckle the infant served to their laps by male attendants. These men display the appropriate reverence for this basic life-giving task and acknowledge their inability to produce the required mammalian bodily fluids while averting their eyes in shame.

Before reviewing the quarterly stats the Woxen take a moment to complete any unfinished tasks that might disrupt their ability to multi-task. Once the phone calls are completed and their make-up repaired in ever-handy compact mirrors stashed within purses, it is announced that business is hovering at a happy medium somewhere between “good” and “fulfilling.” In celebration they pass around a tray full of unfertilized eggs and ceremoniously hurl them at a new male intern who dutifully steps forward to receive their blessings. The ritual is complete, the roses hit the stage and the lights dim. The meeting is proclaimed to be a success for the mere fact that it happened.

Surely I jest? I wish it were the case. While the modern Woxan waxes poetic and moans about the growing “Peter Pan” epidemic, the concern is that young men are spending their time playing video games while women buckle down and do the hard work of shopping. Men are simply slacking off with their duty to marry a woman who will strip them of their dreams and laden them with guilt for not placing her materialistic goals above his own happiness.

Feminism has staked its claim: It wants women to have greater access to more stuff. It wants to improve the purchasing power of women under the guise that owning shit makes you happy. In order to accomplish this, women didn’t tackle the job of competing for resources, they have simply demanded the resources lay themselves at their pedicured feet. Women haven’t gotten bored of pleasing men, they got bored of waiting for men to please them.

We now live in a world in which if you take the time to actually ask a man what his dreams are he will probably speak to you of his fractured sleeping pattern. He has long since forgotten what it means to have a dream.

It’s time for us to meet in a different boardroom. We need to stop being in the business of shutting down dreams for the sake of trying to dance backwards and sideways in six inch stilettos.

My dream keeps me awake at night. How well do you sleep?

Also posted on avoiceformen.com

The Pulpit Of Poon

How do I love thee? Let me count the dead things.

When Elizabeth Barrett Browning penned the words “… if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death,” I’m pretty sure she didn’t intend that you should kill things for her. I can see how that might have been misinterpreted given that courtship is more like Goddess worship and we all know that divine beings love dead things. As a classic poem capturing the nature of love, only the last line, taken out of context, describes the rites and expectations of romantic culture.

The problem in a dinner date isn’t about who is going to pay for it, I believe the real issue is that you didn’t go out and kill the fucking thing yourself to lay it at her feet. Now that independent women can buy their own food the ante has been raised. The purchase of slaughter by proxy has lost its value and the standards of worship have increased.

The consumerism of modern dating is conspicuous. A woman requires evidence that you have resources and are willing to expend large sums of them, preferably on items with no intrinsic value — with which to decorate her person as proof that you will honor no other Gods before her. It’s a pantheon out there with other Deities who may steal your worship away, and she is a jealous God.

There are two divine battles being waged; acquiring the adoration of numerous worshippers whilst making sure they follow her covenant of rules, and the battle to defeat other rivals who might offer a better harvest. Hence the importance of rule number one: Worship no other Gods before me or, as the Highlander would say: “There can be only One.”

So here I sit in meditation, preparing myself to approach her altar. Cold sweat trickles down my side and over my belly as I run through the checklist of my offering. Mistakes can be deadly. I’ve learned the rules of approach so well I can recite them by heart. Avert your eyes; It is foolish to stare directly into the sun for too long and her beauty will overwhelm me if I try.

Only enter her presence in a state of purity; anoint myself in pleasant oils before entering the temple and think only clean thoughts because she is omnipotent and reads minds. Not only are my thoughts bare before her, she knows them better than I do. If I break a rule, I’m smote. If it’s a bad day she’ll have the whole tribe wiped out. I shall keep no false idols (titty pics) and shall never worship at the shrine of a lesser divinity. I will offer regular sacrifices of the approved sort, preferably flowers which have been severed from their life giving stems so that they may sit and decay on her kitchen table. This is an important ritual, as it reminds us not only that beauty exists to serve her but that she enjoys watching life wither away before her eyes.

The flowers should accurately represent her own perfection and remind us that, whilst they rot in a vase she survives, immortal, to throw their corpses in the trash. She is not a God to be fucked with.

Why am I enduring such uncertainty and cowering to please such a cruel being? How can such a malevolent, narcissistic creature be called a loving god? Certainly these queries have been made, but the questioner is quickly brim-stoned and cast from the sight of others. These outcasts now find their numbers growing because she is such a wrathful and vengeful god and we are mere humans. They have left the Temple of Twat, abandoned the Altar of Arse, shunned the Shrine of Snatch, and have formed the Coven of Cloven Foot Soldiers called the MHRM.

I scratched out the following words in a moment of inspiration. It’s simple as poems should be and proposes a change to the meaningless sacrificial rituals of servitude to which we’ve become so accustomed. This is my soliloquy to the value of life over death.

 Please Don’t Bring Me Dead Things Anymore

A fire burned smouldering embers
Of lost amour; your sweet whispers
As you placed dead things at my door
Like the mouse my cat left so
Lovingly in the old shoe on my porch.

I felt guilty.
I thought I should put it in a jar.
That’s what one is supposed to do with
Such things.

Those blossoms that once dripped dew
And offered their beauty to
The morning light.
Now severed and decaying on my stoop
Because you thought me pretty.

I waited until you left before
I cremated them.
The embers glowed greedily for
Pretty things.

I wiped off the rot from their stems residing
On the tips of my fingers.
At least it wasn’t a mouse.
Perhaps the next one will bring me
A plant.

published on avoiceformen.com

 

 

I am woxan!

I’ve yet to decide if my arrival as a female MRA is due to finding men adorable and long suffering or finding other women insufferably fraudulent. I think it’s somewhere between the two.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve met some women I’ve loved and I’ve met some men I’ve hated, it’s just that I discovered, at some point, that it’s not because of their gender it’s because they are individuals with unique characteristics that I liked or loathed. People are people. They aren’t just a sign on the zodiac and they aren’t just their gender. Feminism disagrees and they want to taint half the species. It’s impossible to embrace feminism, if you’re an honest person, because feminism relies on you believing what amounts to an intellectual field of cow patties.

In 1991 I encountered Gloria Steinem’s scribblings, and Naomi Wolf’s The Beauty Myth. Steinem adeptly explained a thing called Patriarchy. Wolf dealt with anorexia, mass media images that forced a debilitating, self-loathing, sense of inadequacy on the average girl, and she talked about Barbie.

I was never a huge Barbie fan. I preferred dollhouses where I could be God to a miniature world, solving house problems where there were no stairs to the third floor by having them fly as if in an invisible elevator. In my dollhouse world anything could happen. Barbie seemed large and grotesquely clumsy. Smaller was better. In fact, when my best friend and I played dollhouse we always fought over who got to play the baby because small and vulnerable was the best thing to be in our little world.

It’s not like the baby got the best speaking parts, it was just preferable to be the thing that got the most attention. Barbie presumably got attention because she had big boobs, perfect teeth, and designer clothing. That was stupid. Dollhouse kids got attention just because they were small and cried; much more in our realm of experience. As to Patriarchy, one thing I’m sure of in our miniature Patriarchal imitation world is that neither of us fought to be the dad.

The only other ongoing debate I had with my seven year old girl friend was over who was the smallest when we were born. Our fertile imaginations got quite microscopic. I think I won but I’m pretty sure she’d insist that she had won.

I can’t say why she wanted to be so bloody small but, for me, it was likely due to getting the crap beat out of me by kids of both genders on a fairly regular basis. I thought being small would both make them less likely to find me and would encourage those watching to step in and help me out a little more. Everyone fawned over little people.

Neither Steinem nor Wolf dealt with the actual issues or experiences that I could call to mind but they drew me into their literary bosoms easily because, though they couldn’t make me small, they offered me something quite awesome instead: the right to blame all my problems on other people. The only cost for this open licence to demand pity and compensation for declared unfairness was my honesty, integrity, and pride. I’m rather ashamed that it took me two or three years before I realized that cost was too great.

The Patriarchy was an interesting thing. As far as rule making goes, it was my experience that women led the field. Mom was the person I needed to please. She set the standards for behaviour and scholastic expectations and she meted out the punishment. Aside from those basic etiquette issues, it was the girls on my block and in my school that told me how to look, what to wear, how to act, what to feel, and what to be attracted to. Girls are pretty fucking hard to please. You know if you don’t please them, too, because the punishment is stiff for failure to comply; humiliation, a potential punch to the stomach, a whack with an umbrella, but the worst was social rejection: Not by one girl, but by them all, after secret meetings and much whispering.

Boys, on the other hand, were much easier to please. They liked it when I played sports, ran fast for the track team, or was willing to barrel down a whitewashed hill of virgin snow on my toboggan into the river they assured me was frozen over. They never lied about that, though they occasionally overestimated how thick the ice was. Pleasing women: An endless, thankless, difficult task. Pleasing men: A lot of fucking fun.

But these are childhood stories. By the time I encountered Steinem and Wolf I was 21 and had been through puberty plus some life experience. I’d moved out of the family home five years earlier, had already had a live in boyfriend in a relationship that led me to the book Men Who Hate Women And The Women Who Love Them, and pretty much given up on my romantic dreams of living a life full of passion and love.

I didn’t leave home because I had a bad family. They’re actually exactly what they were supposed to be. Sometimes living Leave It To Beaver is the best way to figure out what’s wrong with The Beaver. Everyone around me was studying and practising how to be someone everyone else can respect and forgot that self-respect was just as important. I suppose it’s natural for teenagers to rebel and I was born at just the right time to be a Vintage Goth. The black hair, heavy crosses made of irony, and Robert Smith with his cereal box octopus and smeared lipstick who was the hero of my disillusionment with the world.

I don’t know if you’re old enough to remember the octopus. It came in a little plastic bag covered in cereal bits near the bottom of the box and when you threw it at the wall it would slowly climb down. When it got covered in hair and/or dust bunnies you simply washed it in clear water and it was good to go again. Kind of like feminist Patriarchy Theory creates a new wave every time the old one is looking shoddy and not sticking very well.

The things that made me happy were very small. They’re still small. I collect finger puppets.

So, what’s a Woxan?

Despite the title of my article, I am not Woxan. I mock them because I’ve learned that you either laugh or you cry. The Woxan is a creature that took form while I wasn’t paying attention. After I turned away from the ideology that tried to tell me all the dads and humans with body parts I’d never have are, despite all evidence, more concerned with my destruction than busy worrying about their own lives, I just stopped paying attention. That’s near twenty years of festering cow patties.

I noticed when Feminists started calling themselves “womyn” to erase the “man” part. I noticed when The Vagina Monologues became trendy, along with saying the word “vagina” in general. I somehow missed the part where “rape culture” became a thing. And what a thing it is. A big fucking steamer. I’ve been raped and I can assure you that no one thinks it is okay. No one.

I also somehow missed the moment where it became bad to be a person who was born into a body you learned to like, bad to have all your limbs and organs functional, bad to be heterosexual, bad to be born white, and bad to have a penis. I missed when simple words like “privilege” stopped being something to be thankful and humble about and became the mark of Cain.

The thing about not being surrounded by bullshit is that you smell it really quickly and pungently when it crosses your path. I highly suspect that feminism, which is behind all these new trends, has saturated the world with their bullshit so thoroughly that what seems obvious has become nearly impossible for many people to notice. It’s not impossible… just nearly.

So here I am, a Vintage Goth, with not a hope nor a care in the world of fitting in with the mainstream patty whiffers, saying “Holy shit! Can’t you smell it?” For the women who have found careers and advantage in pretending the world doesn’t need or want men, I give you a new name. For those professional feminists, for those shameless promoters of histrionic victimhood, I give you a name free of any “y” chromosome. I call you Woxan.

I hear you roar and it’s fucking pathetic.

 

also published on avoiceformen.com