Sadly, I didn’t write a single one of these fantastic posts. I chose these posts because I’ve read them recently (even if they weren’t all written recently) and they represent for me the potential of blogging fulfilled – people’s insights into themselves, some of the most convincing rants ever, or just fabulous come-backs to mainstream media (and sometimes all three at once).
When I come across posts like this I marvel at the terrific writing and the fact that they’re free. If you look at these posts you’ll often find a comment from me attached and it will be pretty inane because I will be feeling slightly limited after reading something so good, but a compliment is my way of paying the author for his or her work. Mwah to the following:
I want to go on record as saying a big, mean Fuck You to every single man who has ever claimed that men are incapable of stopping themselves when pussy is on the line. Here’s why:
I have never raped anyone. I have never hurt someone because they wouldn’t put out. I have never gang raped someone. I have never died from blue balls. I have never exploded because some sideboob accidentally came into my line of sight. I have never raped anyone. Shockingly, I also think this is a pretty normal state of affairs.
This isn’t something I’m proud of. That’s because I can’t be proud of not raping people anymore than I can be proud of not shitting on myself whenever I laugh. Not being a rapist is the default fucking setting. Far as I know, most men have never raped anyone. I assume this means that rapists are a minority of men, and in a normal world you’d think that not being an evil, violent monster would make one more sympathetic to the victims of rape, who are also not evil violent monsters.
Despite the obviousness of the lesson, it is seemingly not taught or encouraged out in the real world where we all live. As young white men, you sit at the pinnacle of opportunity and privilege. All the power in the world can be yours, but as the old saying goes, with great power comes great responsibility. You may be faced with situations where causing harm is an option. You may be faced with situations where refusing to cause harm may cause you to lose face. You may be faced with a situation where you know you can easily get away with causing harm to another living being. And when the road ends here, my sweet boys, I beg you to remember my words, and the example of Hugh Thompson: It is your duty to protect those who can not protect themselves.
The second fundamental thing is this “children are okay, as long as I never have to deal with them” thing–including the resentment of people who get “more” resources because their health insurance covers their family, or because their kids get tuition breaks at the colleges where they teach, or who breastfeed in public, or whatever. Children are part of society. They are human beings. They are not exotic pets. They get to go into restaurants; they get to eat in places other than public bathrooms; they get to have bad days; they get to have their needs met, too.
Yes. Kids have certain needs that are specific to being kids. They are more dependent, they have shorter attention spans and less impulse control, they are sometimes clumsy or incompletely socialized. (Then again, so are a lot of adults.) Good parents will take this into account: if the kid starts crying, they will immediately pick it up and leave (or nurse it, which is what I always did). If the kid is being a brat, they will either put a stop to the behavior or leave until it’s under control; if they want to go to a social event, they will either inquire about bringing the kid or they will figure out a solution, whether that means not going, or leaving their partner at home, or paying a sitter. This will inevitably cause some inconvenience to those around us: you will inadvertently see the tit while the baby is being pacified (though really, if you don’t like to see breastfeeding in public, look elsewhere), or you will hear the yelling as the kid is hustled to the door, or you will not see your coupled friends as often as you’d like, if you aren’t willing to have social events that include their kids (which is fine, but then don’t get bent if the friendship inevitably cools a bit). And sometimes people are bad parents, and sometimes even good parents have bad days. Admittedly, other people are inconvenient sometimes.
I must admit, I was initially alarmed when I saw the search terms that were leading some people to me thanks to this post, but I am now embracing it, just as I have embraced the term milf (ie. mothers I’d like to fuck).
You’re missing an opportunity to stop the real misogynists, the fucking sickos, the ones who really, truly hate women just for being women. The ones whose ranks you do not belong to and never would. The ones who might hurt women you love in the future, or might have already.
‘Cause the thing is, you and the guys you hang out with may not really mean anything by it when you talk about crazy bitches and dumb sluts and heh-heh-I’d-hit-that and you just can’t reason with them and you can’t live with ‘em can’t shoot ‘em and she’s obviously only dressed like that because she wants to get laid and if they can’t stand the heat they should get out of the kitchen and if they can’t play by the rules they don’t belong here and if they can’t take a little teasing they should quit and heh heh they’re only good for fucking and cleaning and they’re not fit to be leaders and they’re too emotional to run a business and they just want to get their hands on our money and if they’d just stop overreacting and telling themselves they’re victims they’d realize they actually have all the power in this society and white men aren’t even allowed to do anything anymore and and and…
I get that you don’t really mean that shit. I get that you’re just talking out your ass.
But please listen, and please trust me on this one: you have probably, at some point in your life, engaged in that kind of talk with a man who really, truly hates women–to the extent of having beaten and/or raped at least one. And you probably didn’t know which one he was.
And that guy? Thought you were on his side.
Most Christians find that “making disciples” is fairly difficult in western culture. Certainly the direct approach is a good way to draw attention to yourself as a bit of a freak. Apparently this kind of “suffering for the Gospel” is a great sign that you are succeeding. However I never felt comfortable with this. It takes a certain personality to happily make a fool of themselves publically and from what I can tell, you end up alienating your friends.
I saw the cover of BabyTalk magazine the other day, I forget where. I saw the boobie. I was SHOCKED, I tell you. UTTERLY SHOCKED that they would put a NAKED BREAST on the cover of a magazine that CHILDREN MIGHT SEE. The should have at least put it in that opaque plastic that the Playboys are in. Don’t they know that breasts SHOULD NEVER BE SEEN? Unless, of course, they are poking up out of a tiny string bikini on the cover of FHM. Or they are selling beer or cars. Breasts are SEXUAL, people. Let’s keep them in context. No CHILD should ever be in the same frame as something so BLATANTLY SEXUAL. That’s GROSS. And SICK. And UNNATURAL.
Might I invite you to share the entirely hypothetical disappointment and despair you would no doubt feel should a gentleman, let’s call him, oh, I dunno, anonymous, decide that since you no longer allow him to play with you he will up sticks and fuck a doll instead?
And then I’m going to say something I should have said a long time ago, but have been avoiding because I didn’t want the hassle. But here it goes:It’s almost impossible to detangle a hatred of male homosexuals from a hatred of women, and, if you are a man, a self-loathing that seems almost pathological.Let’s start with the term cock-sucker, just to illustrate. Why is calling a man a cock-sucker an insult? Because sucking cock is gross? Because it’s something women do?
When I pulled another box out of the closet and saw dozens of spiral-bound notebooks, I groaned. These were my journals; I couldn’t toss them without first going through them for gems I might want to save. The letter-reading had already been torture–I wasn’t looking forward to this task.
But my old journals turned out to be a lot more interesting than the letters; for one thing, they were all written by me, rather than by others, and I find myself endlessly fascinating. I always expected that one day, in my old age, I’d read the journals–well, I’m not exactly in old age yet, but I am old enough to look back and see how terribly young I was.
Looking through my blog lists now I realise that I have many more favourites than just 10, so I’ll do this again soon and include others.