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Click here to meet THE GREAT DESTROYER OF WORLDS. No, but really. He wants to talk to you!
SUBMIT TO THE DARK LORD.
With one easy payment of 1 million trillion your couch goes to college dollars.
Please send to the moon or my Jeep or my dog.
“Women stick their necks out to say that something is fucked-up, hurtful, oppressive, scary: Misogynist. They do this knowing full well that there will be social consequences. Remarkably, we’re all familiar with the idea that the women who do this are bitches/ugly/humorless/scolds/delusional (“you see sexism everywhere”)/hysterical/oversensitive/insensitive/etc. We know that we take on most of the risk, in this conversation. We know that we have to be very careful in terms of what we say, and to whom; that we will be expected to choose our targets and our words very carefully, seem “understanding,” seem “empathetic,” make all the right allowances, be oh so very polite. We labor over our words, swallow our anger, push through our fear (and most women who bring themselves to make these kinds of statements are very afraid of reprisal; we know it happens, in overt and subtle ways, pretty much every time), construct these carefully tortured and worked-out sentences; we work at this shit. And then, after all that work, some dude makes a joke about how we need some dick — not even a joke he’s had to work on, really; that line’s been around forever — and everybody laughs, and it’s over. We get no apology. We get no consideration. We get no hearing. We get nothing. What this exchange ultimately proves to women, every time it’s played out, is that no matter how hard we work, we will never matter. We will never be heard. It’s just the same fucking thing, every day, like a punch to the gut: You think you can change shit? You think I care how you feel? You think I care what you think? No. Never. You think it fucking matters that you don’t like what I do to you? It doesn’t. I’m gonna fucking do what I want to you. Sit the fuck down, shut the fuck up, and take it. Or else I’m gonna tell everyone what a bitch you are, that you won’t play my game. My very special game, that I designed. And here are the rules for the game: You Lose.”
“Walking down the street — 3am, staring at my feet. Keep the bitchface on so they’ll leave you alone. We shouldn’t have to live in constant fear just cause some dumbfuck can’t handle his beer. Show them who has the power here. ‘Cause they can yell and they can leer, but you’re the stronger one, dear. They won’t ever shut us up — they can try but they’ll fail. ‘Cause there’s strength in numbers, and there’s more of us than them. Tell all your girlfriends and we’ll fuck their shit up. We’ve got your backs if you have ours — we’ll have those motherfuckers seeing stars. Consenting culture, grrrlz — it’s kind of a thing. You can keep your curls and your diamond rings. We don’t care if you’re waiting for your white knight. Give an enthusiastic YES! Or put up a fucking fight. Show the boys we aren’t to be used, ‘cause we’re all well-versed on what it’s like to be abused. You don’t have to give up anything, just don’t be an asshole — it’s kind of a thing.”
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