Some thoughts on women's liberation

Believe it or not, I used to call myself a feminist. How can this be? Did I change my tune? Did I have a hole in my head, or have I got one now? Did I cross over, like some Darth Vader of sexual politics, to the dark side?

No. I want the same thing I did then. I just lost some of my naivety. 

I feel it's in my interests to help women liberate themselves (from their own inhibitions and victimhood, not some spurious discrimination), because all the women I know are simply too predictable, conformist and dull. I miss women who can give me some intellectual feedback and not just the same vitriolic scorn, the pouting and sulking. I admire that women feel things. They could teach many men a thing or two about that (and have done). But I miss women who can control and use their feelings, instead of being in the grip of their feelings.

But you don't help women liberate themselves by extending a hand and talking about equality. The effects of that are almost comical. Talking to professional victims about life (or anything for that matter) is like talking to hypochondriacs about illness. How dare you even presume to enter a world where you know nothing, and they are the experts? Even if you can get a word in edgeways past 'Nobody knows the trouble I seen....' you will, at best, only get stung and scorned. You may respect them and consider them your equals, but you are mistaken. To them, you are not their equal. They look down on you from a great height, simply because you will never, never know what it's like to be a woman, a victim of biology. 

One should never be lulled into sympathy at that point. One should never make the mistake of conceding to the argument that women have it worse than men and always have, just because they're women. Confirming them in their victimhood doesn't help them (or you) at all. On the contrary, it's the very heart of their problem: A self-fulfilling prophecy by which we let them be inferior because they seem to want it so much. Contradicting them is just as hopeless.

FEMINIST DINGBAT: I can't do anything. I'm useless and worthless. I can't boil an egg without burning it.

PUSSY WHIPPED DICKHEAD JERKOFF: I think you're very clever and intelligent and able, daaarling. My egg was fine.

FEMINIST DINGBAT: Are you patronising me, you patriarchical slime? I'm only good for boiling eggs and being your servant, because that's how you see me. Don't you think I can do anything else? I could be on the board of a public company if only you'd buy me one. Buy me one! I want one! Now!

FAIRY GODMOTHER (closely resembles Vivane Whatshername-Dingbat from the EU): Give her what she wants, or we will! 

PROFESSOR PLANET (waking up): Oh Jesus Christ, what a fucking nightmare....

We've held doors and rolled out red carpets for too long. We've fought the battles, taken care of business, done the rationalising and the satirising and consequently still have to indulge females who lag way behind any postmodern or even modern intellectual development. For all intents and purposes, the world may as well still be flat.

It's not really my problem, except that they're too dull to fuck.

We'll help them best by ignoring them, leaving them to stew in their own juice. As my mother said to my father in an earlier paradigm: Iron your own fucking shirt. So I say to the pampered woman: build your own house, start your own company, fix your own wheels, dig a hole and fill it up again. If anything, it's more efficient than screaming.

Or just keep screaming. I can't hear you anyway.