another in an ongoing series of personal stories which prove that people who say they want ‘outside the box’ thinking usually do not. and that people prefer problems to solutions. others in the series can be found here and scroll down past this piece
I have been called a misogynist many, many times, almost always by shrill, half-witted feminuts and SNAGs.
My standard response is to look at my accuser, when possible, and say, with no emotion whatsoever, “Misogyny is good for the economy.”
That’s just enough of a non-sequeter to render them speechless. ‘What the fuck does that mean?’ I hear them asking themselves. ‘Is it really good for the economy? If it’s good for the economy, is it a good thing?’
All but the most clever and/or militant are usually disarmed, but I’ve had some battle royales with the clever militant anti-misogynists. They are usually disarmed when I explain that I am, in fact, a misanthrope, not a misogynist.
One memorable encounter with the ‘load-up-the-sperm-banks and-get-out-the-guns we-don’t-need-your-kind-anymore diesel dykes
was back in late 1993. I was getting my drink on at a bizarre East Van watering hole known as the WISE Club
(no, no, that’s not the MENSA clubhouse – Wales Ireland Scotland England). In reality, The WISE is (or at least was at the time) a second living room for a hodge-podge of East Van’s strangest characters – communists, anarchists, drug fiends, drunks, intellectual perverts, sexual perverts, tool-belt lesbians, actors, posers, artists, artistes and numerous other weary-of-the-world weirdos).
My good friend, the bar’s manager, Stalin , a born trouble maker and womanizer, with a wicked sense of humour
sent a round of drinks over to a table full of diesels seated next to my table, and claimed that I had bought the round. Stalin and I had kept the torch of the fabled Rhino Party of Canada burning when the federal government, and the Montreal Rhinos, had tried to extinguish it months earlier. I had recruited a comical stripper named Blondie Butler to be the Party’s new leader,
and our shenanigans in the recently concluded election were the subject of much laughter at the club. Miserable lesbians, however, don’t laugh much, and they sure as fuck don’t laugh at anything that could be considered misogynistic. To such creatures, every breath I take is an act of misogyny.
The dykes looked at their drinks and then eyed me suspiciously. They grudgingly thanked me for my largesse. I looked at Stalin. He was grinning. Game on? Okay, why the fuck not?
Stalin grinned and took up a seat at my table for the show. Being a smart guy, he parked himself as far away from the battlefield as he could get and still be within reach of his pint.
We danced around each other for a couple minutes, sniffing each other’s asses like dogs. I grew bored. Stalin smiled at me and silently urged me to get on with it. I decided to serve.
I asked what they thought of the then-current battle over a woman’s ‘right’ to join the boys on the frontlines of war zones.
Without exception, without hesitation, they all gave two thumbs up to GI Jane.
It’s such a moronic argument that I will say only this on the issue – there is nothing progressive about campaigning for a woman’s ‘right’ to travel to strange foreign lands and kill people they don’t know, for reasons they don’t understand.
If you wanna argue in the contrary, you’re a fucking retard, a mental case, or a monster.
For my stand, I was repeatedly called a misogynist, and a number of other nasty things, many of which were, and still are, true. The battle raged on for a half hour or so, during which I was derided for not doing enough for the emancipation of the oppressed felines of the world.
I pleaded guilty, with the explanation that I had, for at least a decade at that point, been busy working for the greater good in a number of other areas of interest.
That was not good enough for the miserable cunts. Every asshole activist in the world thinks their cause is more important than everyone else’s cause.
The more hatred they spewed, the harder I laughed. The harder I laughed, the more hatred they spewed.Stalin was getting his money’s worth.
I grew tired. I got up and moved a safe distance away from the table – I didn’t want to have to pummel one or more of them in mortal combat, should I be attacked for what I was about to say.
Taking a cue from Tom Waits’ brilliant line – ‘Ah, there’s nothing wrong with her that a hundred bucks wouldn’t fix’ – I grinned and said, “Girls, girls, girls, there’s nothing wrong with you that a long day of shopping and a good hard fuck wouldn’t cure.”
Fortunately for all, fisticuffs did not ensue. I was, in fact, disappointed when my barb was pretty much ignored – I suppose they’d heard it before.
I took refuge at the table of a guy who was running an arthouse cinema in the ‘hood. I asked him if I could rent his theatre for one night. He asked what I wanted to do, “I’m gonna advertise a night of lesbian erotica.” He had no objections. “Them, when the place is full, I’m gonna lock the doors and treat them to an hour-long compilation of money-shots.”
I packed up and fucked off down to the Number 5 Orange to see Blondie Butler’s new show.
All of which makes me a dead-on misogynist, right? Right?
In the winter of 2012 I was asked by the UN for ideas about a campaign they were running, in conjunction with a local women’s rights group, to curb / put an end to wife beating.
At the time, the local women’s handball team was on one Hell o a run (they would win the Euro Champions League later in the year)
They were regularly selling out the Moraca Sports Complex,
and their games were followed religiously on TV.
My suggestion was to serve up a little guerrilla theatre.
“Sit Milo (Prime Minister)
court side, with his wife. for a game At halftime, get him to start yelling at her. Have him raise his hand, as if he’s going to hit her. Have her run out onto the court. Have him chase, catch and beat her. Get the cops to drag him off her, beat him and drag him away.”
The entire population of Montenegro would have heard about the drama within ten minutes.
“After ten minutes, have Milo and his wife re-appear on the court, with the cops, and say, “If you think its unacceptable to beat your wife in public, what makes you think it’s okay to beat her at home?” Etc. etc.
I did not hear back from the organizers of the campaign, who, I later found out, chose to take out a couple billboards and hold a one day conference, which, I’m sure, was overrun by hundreds of Montenegrin government and EU bureaucrats.
Had they bothered to ask my opinion of their unimaginative, thoroughly useless ideas, I’d have told them to, at least, print the same thing on the billboards and on the coffee mug SWAG they wouLd give to conference attendees – HAVE YOU STOPPED BEATING YOUR WIFE?