Any girl stuck in a bathroom stall with the dry heaves after hours of hard drinking will either drown in a pool of her own vomit or emerge a revisionist. For in that sacred refuge where girls go to tighten the thong on their Spongebob Halloween “costume”, their gossip teaches you that women are what they are because of other women.
Of course, little Matilda is taught to repeat words like ‘patriarchy”, and she’ll grow up believing its men objectifying women or that the onus of sexual harassment isn’t on the G-string sticking up past her Levis like a tapeworm—it’s on those boors we call Men that can’t control their sexual impulses because our precious democracy teaches her good and well her right to wear whatever she wishes.
Last night was a lesson in female psychology.
Feminism tells us that the social construction of gender is orchestrated by the ‘patriarchate’ and that little Matilda is an insufferable cocktease because of it, but no one is going to convince me the reason why she’s managed to infiltrate Spongebob with her corrosive femininity is because she’s been socially engineered by men to bag men.
No, the reason why she’s compelled to give a sea sponge not only cleavage but leather thigh highs and a glitter thong is because she’s engineered to upstage women. It’s a fucking sea sponge.
The alibi being Halloween, millions are poured into the motion for making anything sexy: cats, frogs, angels, bees, robots, sea sponges, clowns, and anal crud. The last one is there in case the reader is an Asperger ‘s brat with the attention span of hot garbage and didn’t make it past the first sentence.
That being said, they show up in droves with size 8’s squeezed in to size 2’s, their flesh bulging out through the netting a pulse away from gangrene. They can barely walk and are clearly uncomfortable, but they’re in the bathroom in shrieks over how cute so and so looks in her outfit and how fatter she is compared to so and so.
It’s a curious mix of self-deprecation and worship with women showcasing their own flaws automatically mingled in with devotion for sisterhood, a frenzied obsession in front of the mirror plucking, primping, fluffing, squeezing, and teasing only to go back out into the throng and, quite literally, return minutes later to start the whole ritual again.
Feminists are quick to tell us women do this for men, but we independent ones do our own thinking and this is the revised view from a broad:
There wasn’t a single woman out there wearing a goofy outfit like the giant Teletubby guy or his friend the toaster, and if you pay attention you notice the majority of women swarm around other women—not men.
If you’re hot, you’ll be crawling with chicks rubbing and tugging on you, playing with your hair with their eyes searching the crowd for other hot women. The men leer from the wall or else stand around trying to desperately camouflage insecurity with indifference but no matter how drunk, he still has more respect for a woman than Sheila the sexy Bin Laden rubbing her pussy on you assuming it’s okay because she’s a woman.
A woman’s life is, therefore, infested with women. Their underworld is a surrealism of contradictory nonsense, and because it is so little girls grow up to believe they can slut with impunity or have male work without having male work habits.
This is the eerie fog blanketing that ritual they have for fusing admiration with hate. It wasn’t a man who sent Lolo Ferrari—that surgery addicted celebrity whore with the humongous tits—to her grave. It was her mother who raised her to feel like a worthless, ugly child worthy of her love simultaneously. That’s fucking insanity.
A woman outraged that some man stuck his thumb in an orifice she’s carefully broadcast with lace is fucking insanity.
Women adamant that I have a right to my own body, yet lobbying for congress to pass laws forcing pap smears on girls as young as eleven is fucking insanity.
Women adamant about equal work for equal pay, yet steering clear from working “dirty” jobs in favor of clerical work is fucking insanity—at the end of the day, feminists would rather eat carpet than clean it.
People love bashing men as the last word on female exploitation, but something tells me Svengali has tits: millions of women are living quite comfortably off other women.
Of course, little Matilda is taught to repeat words like ‘patriarchy”, and she’ll grow up believing its men objectifying women or that the onus of sexual harassment isn’t on the G-string sticking up past her Levis like a tapeworm—it’s on those boors we call Men that can’t control their sexual impulses because our precious democracy teaches her good and well her right to wear whatever she wishes.
Last night was a lesson in female psychology.
Feminism tells us that the social construction of gender is orchestrated by the ‘patriarchate’ and that little Matilda is an insufferable cocktease because of it, but no one is going to convince me the reason why she’s managed to infiltrate Spongebob with her corrosive femininity is because she’s been socially engineered by men to bag men.
No, the reason why she’s compelled to give a sea sponge not only cleavage but leather thigh highs and a glitter thong is because she’s engineered to upstage women. It’s a fucking sea sponge.
The alibi being Halloween, millions are poured into the motion for making anything sexy: cats, frogs, angels, bees, robots, sea sponges, clowns, and anal crud. The last one is there in case the reader is an Asperger ‘s brat with the attention span of hot garbage and didn’t make it past the first sentence.
That being said, they show up in droves with size 8’s squeezed in to size 2’s, their flesh bulging out through the netting a pulse away from gangrene. They can barely walk and are clearly uncomfortable, but they’re in the bathroom in shrieks over how cute so and so looks in her outfit and how fatter she is compared to so and so.
It’s a curious mix of self-deprecation and worship with women showcasing their own flaws automatically mingled in with devotion for sisterhood, a frenzied obsession in front of the mirror plucking, primping, fluffing, squeezing, and teasing only to go back out into the throng and, quite literally, return minutes later to start the whole ritual again.
Feminists are quick to tell us women do this for men, but we independent ones do our own thinking and this is the revised view from a broad:
There wasn’t a single woman out there wearing a goofy outfit like the giant Teletubby guy or his friend the toaster, and if you pay attention you notice the majority of women swarm around other women—not men.
If you’re hot, you’ll be crawling with chicks rubbing and tugging on you, playing with your hair with their eyes searching the crowd for other hot women. The men leer from the wall or else stand around trying to desperately camouflage insecurity with indifference but no matter how drunk, he still has more respect for a woman than Sheila the sexy Bin Laden rubbing her pussy on you assuming it’s okay because she’s a woman.
A woman’s life is, therefore, infested with women. Their underworld is a surrealism of contradictory nonsense, and because it is so little girls grow up to believe they can slut with impunity or have male work without having male work habits.
This is the eerie fog blanketing that ritual they have for fusing admiration with hate. It wasn’t a man who sent Lolo Ferrari—that surgery addicted celebrity whore with the humongous tits—to her grave. It was her mother who raised her to feel like a worthless, ugly child worthy of her love simultaneously. That’s fucking insanity.
A woman outraged that some man stuck his thumb in an orifice she’s carefully broadcast with lace is fucking insanity.
Women adamant that I have a right to my own body, yet lobbying for congress to pass laws forcing pap smears on girls as young as eleven is fucking insanity.
Women adamant about equal work for equal pay, yet steering clear from working “dirty” jobs in favor of clerical work is fucking insanity—at the end of the day, feminists would rather eat carpet than clean it.
People love bashing men as the last word on female exploitation, but something tells me Svengali has tits: millions of women are living quite comfortably off other women.
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