Commy Skanks v Facist Prudes

Veni, vidi, risi:

Anyway, I went home a little depressed last night after reading a lot of these back-and-forths, feeling like it can’t possibly be productive to attack each other and to act like we’re players on various feminist teams battling it out for who’s the most feminist, and whose feminism is the best. And when I read this Stranger thread (which is also chock full of, “But things are way worse for men!”) I felt like punching my computer screen, because, for the love of God, it isn’t a fight between the kinky girls and the dowdy, sex-hating feminists. And when I read through some of the other threads on feminist blogs that were full of “whose feminism is the most feminist?” challenges, I felt like screaming.

I do so love feminist women. They can’t even get together and hate men without it turning into a shrieking, hair-pulling catfight.

On courage and manhood

Zapata King takes another shot, but again goes awry:

So, what Vox considers courageous, I would merely label as

1. acts of pushing around physically weaker men,
2. acts of pushing around physically weaker women, and
3. the drawing together of men who would feel at home in a strip club

Since almost no one has read this entire blog, let alone all the columns, we shall excuse his apparent ignorance of various posts from the past and merely correct his inaccuracies. Courage is not manhood, as any child or woman can exhibit courage but they are incapable of manhood. I would say that courage involves facing once’s fears, whereas manhood involves accepting responsibility for oneself as well as for the well-being of others without complaint. But to his points:

Point 1 is almost irrelevant given my martial arts background. I have pushed around larger and physically stronger men in acts that required no courage and little effort, whereas it has required quite a bit courage to even face a smaller, physically weaker (although admittedly not much weaker) man whose skills were such that a complete ass-kicking was all but inevitable.

Point 2 is both silly and redundant. There isn’t a woman in the world as strong as I am – the women’s world record bench is 11 pounds less than my current max – and any woman who can bench over 225 moves like a turtle on qualudes. It would take as much courage to swat a puppy on the nose.

Point 3 is equally silly. Sure, there are men here who would feel at home in a strip club, and there are plenty who would not. I’m not a strip club guy myself, never having seen the point of window shopping. But apparently unlike Zapata King, I am capable of entering one without my knees knocking in fear.

Courage is an individual concept. An action that requires courage on the part of one is trivial to another. By way of example, we went to the pool to get out of the heat the other day, and I was surprised to see the teenager who does the craziest flips off the 1.5 meter diving board twice climbing down from the 10-meter platform, as he was afraid of jumping off it. Meanwhile, it doesn’t bother me to jump off the high platform, but I have to grit my teeth to make myself do a simple front flip off the 1.5-meter board.

I don’t think I could summon up the courage to go headfirst off the high platform, but my friend, a former US national team diver, would do it without blinking. Does she possess more courage? Or does she simply know what she’s doing?

It’s impossible to judge a man’s courage by his actions without first knowing what he fears. His manhood or the lack of it, on the other hand, should be more readily apparent to all.

Another air power failure

NP sends a link to give me the chance to say “I told you so”:

Israel’s new chief of staff, an air force general, believed that most of Israel’s future operations would be conducted from the air. Military leaders were convinced that with superior communications and air power they did not even need new U.S. “bunker buster” munitions to root out terror leaders in underground hideaways.

Today, this vision of air power as a panacea has been shattered.

Lt. Gen. Dan Halutz and his advisers have been stunned by the failure of Israel’s air war against Hizbullah, which has shrugged massive air bombings on its headquarters in Beirut to maintain the rocket war against the Jewish state. “Air power is not the answer here,” a senior officer said. ‘You have to go from one Hizbullah [weapons] bunker to another. Some of these bunkers are seven meters deep and can’t be destroyed by aircraft, even if you could find them.”

From time to time I wonder why people continue to try arguing with me. Seriously, how many metaphorical heads do I have to hand people before they start thinking that, at the very least, neither history nor the odds are on their side?

This isn’t to say that I’m always correct, I’m not, but I think it’s safe to say that based on the evidence right here on this blog, we’re on the high side of 90 percent and the skulls stacking up are beginning to approach Genghis-Khan-before-a-once-resistant-city levels.

So, what clueless cretin wants to make the case that Lebanon and Iran are two entirely different matters and that US air power will suffice to knock out Iran’s nuclear capability and/or its current regime? Because – sigh – I know you’re out there….

Right, they’re just too doggone nice

That’s the problem. If this book didn’t exist, I’d have to straw-invent it:

There is a book making the rounds in America. It’s called “Why Men Marry Bitches”, by Sherry Argov. I work at the library and we bought quite a few copies in both English and Spanish, and it is being reserved by a lot of women who can’t wait to read it. The revues on, by women of course, are 100% positive! You’d think that it would be an insightful, self help book for men, warning them of their tendancy toward marrying women who start out nice, but later prove to be, well, bitches, but it is not. The authoress states that in order to get a man to the altar, you have to be a bitch. She describes the best ways to manipulate men and make of yourself, a challenge….

I say, if you see this book on a woman’s bookshelf or next to her bed, hot foot it the heck out of there!

This aligns rather nicely with a personal theory of mine, which is that people usually worry most about that which should least concern them. For example, the jerk always worries about being too nice, whereas the nice guy is constantly concerned that he’s being too much of a jerk. The cutthroat rich guy is always afraid of leaving money on the table while the less-affluent, more easy-going guy tends to fear ripping people off.

I don’t think it’s completely reliable, but applying it on a regular basis might help some people view their actions and motivations in a more objective light.

And naturally, I second the recommendation regarding the book and its readers made by Miss Carnivorous. If a woman is trying to manipulate you to the altar, then you can either ensure that her manipulations amount to nothing in the end or resign yourself to Gamma Hell.

If you don’t say it, then it’s your fault

From Christianity Today:

The words husband and hint don’t belong in the same sentence. I maintain there’s a perfectly good explanation for why guys are clueless. It’s because wives like to hint around at what they mean; then they wonder why their husbands aren’t responding.

Take last Thanksgiving, for instance. Jeanette and I had a houseful of guests, some of whom were watching football in the family room. Being a good host, I figured I’d watch it with them. Just then, from the kitchen, Jeanette said, and I quote, “Ron.” She used that tone that means I’d messed up—without specifying the infraction.

“Should I feed the fire?” I asked. That wasn’t it. “Do you want me to help you get the dishes out?” Not that, either. “Is it time for me to take drink orders?” Wrong again. Finally, I hit on it. “You don’t want me to watch football while other guests visit in the living room, do you?” Bingo! At last I’d guessed correctly. But it would have been less frustrating if Jeanette had just said, “I don’t think you should watch football while the other guests entertain themselves in another room.” If she’d uttered those words, I would have caught on. Honest.

I absolutely hate this sort of thing, not because it’s a marriage issue but because it can be a massive problem in business. (Although I don’t see the point of that stupid guessing game, it would make as much sense to start in with charades while you’re at it.) I can’t tell you how many times I’ve listened to some clueless executive or manager – usually a man, by the way – express some vague notion about the desirability of an event coming to pass. At no point does he explicitly tell the person he’s secretly thinking will be responsible for making it happen to actually do anything, he merely rambles on about how wonderful things will be once the task is accomplished.

Weeks later, wonder of wonders, he is both furious and mystified that not only is the task incomplete, but the people he’d thought were working on it haven’t even begun to do anything. Of course, it’s always their fault, the incompetent bastards. Why can’t they follow a simple order?

I once showed a good friend he was doing this by asking the guy I knew he thought he had just given orders to what his action items were. My friend was shocked when the guy correctly replied “nothing” and said that he was going to keep doing what he’d been doing before. So, when making a request or issuing an order, three elements should always be there:

1. A specific address, by name, directed at the individual.
2. A precise and comprehensive request or order. If you want three boxes moved from the south office to the east office, you must accurately describe all of the necessary elements involved in the task. “You know, someone should do something with all that stuff back there sometime” does not begin to suffice.
3. Ask them when they expect to begin and request an estimated time of completion. This gives you a means of holding them accountable. If it has to be done by a certain date, let them know, and if possible, keep a day or two in pocket.

No one can properly anticipate another’s desires on a reliable basis and no one can read minds. If you’re frustrated that people don’t seem to listen to you or appear to regularly ignore your requests, the chances are very high that you have a communications problem.

An ideal divider

Men who have wondered how to reduce their risk of further divorce finally have an answer:

Once, couples put their children’s needs first. Today, significant numbers are less willing to do so. Asked, “Should a couple stay together for the sake of the children,” 81 percent of today’s women say no, a jump from 51 percent in 1962.

This is an almost perfect identification point. If you’re involved with a woman, be sure to have one of her female friends ask her that question. If she answers no, then don’t even think about marrying her, since it’s clear that she puts herself ahead of her children. If she’s willing to do that, let’s just say that her concern for abiding by any commitment to you will rank somewhere around the level of her interest in Zambian water table levels.

And note, never ask anyone a significant question about relationships yourself if you want an honest answer. It’s like asking people if they’d vote for a gay, black woman president. No one is going to publicly confess that they’d never vote for Condoleeza Rice one, but that doesn’t mean they would actually consider doing so for a second.

Adventures in Literature I

Every so often, I find myself curious about a piece of formerly popular fiction that I had, during the height of its popularity, assiduously avoided. I don’t know if my tendency to avoid bestsellers stems from a perverse instinct to avoid following the crowd or an instinctive understanding that anything that appeals to a large number of people is likely to be underwhelming, if not unpleasantly odiferous.

For example, I had not read a single Stephen King novel until I found myself ensconced in a hotel room for a weekend with no other reading material about eleven years ago, and while I found that he was clever enough with a plot, I also felt he badly needed an editor to weedwhack about forty percent of his overstuffed prose. I didn’t start reading Harry Potter until the fourth one was out – same deal there, actually, it’s telling to compare the size of the first book with the size of the fifth one – and I will probably continue to avoid Dan Brown for at least another decade or two.

I’d downloaded a bunch of novels written by authors whose names begin with “A” some months ago, and with no other knowledge than a) her big fat books were very popular some years ago, and b) a memory of a friend’s fond recounting of the scene in which Daryl Hannah gets banged in the movie, I decided to read Jean Auel’s “Clan of the Cave Bear”. Although, come to think of it, b) may have actually been “Quest for Fire” and not involved Miss Hannah at all. Anyhow.

It wasn’t entirely awful. It wasn’t great, but it wasn’t the grunting Anita K. Hamilton-style sexfest with Neanderthals in the place of vampires and werewolves that I was expecting. It was actually an occasionally touching tale of a lonely outsider doing her best to fit into a place she didn’t belong, and the construction of Neanderthal society was more fully fleshed out and credible than most alien constructions I’ve read. There were, however, more than a few signs of problems to come, the most notable of which is that “Clan of the Cave Bear” is the most overtly Nazi book since Mein Kampf. While “feminazi” is usually little more than a jibe, it is a literal description of the worldview in this book, even if it is apparently an unconscious one. (The author seems to have realized this later and threw in a sympathetic black character in a feeble attempt at some sort of balance two books later.)

After finishing “Clan of the Cave Bear”, I managed to slog through two and one-quarter more books before finally abandoning Mrs. Auel with a snort and a roll of the eyes. I’m not sure which I found more tiresome, Ayla’s discovery of the theory of relativity or her accidental creation of the game of chess. Or perhaps it was that dreadful Jondolar – the original Sensitive Progressive, who will stick around for an entire year living in the same cave as the love of his life and watching her get pounded to shrieking orgasms every other night by the aforementioned non-Aryan rival – uttering what appear to be the only four words in his vocabulary for the ten thousandth time: “Ayla, you’re so amazing!”

(This varied occasionally. Sometimes it was “Ayla, do you know how amazing you are?” Or, “Ayla, you’re so beautiful” and its variant, “Ayla, do you know how beautiful you are?”)

I usually stop reading a book when I realize that I have begun actively rooting for the protagonist to die. I was so depressed when Jondolar couldn’t even successfully wander off in despair to get eaten by a cave lion without getting saved by the amazing, beautiful Ayla, thanks to her timely invention of the Maxim gun, that I knew I wasn’t going to get far into “The Plains of Passage”. I made it with them to the Big Water on sheer literary momentum, but there I left them. I think they’ll be okay, though, since he’s always stimulating her “hard little node” and she is the only woman on the Neolithic planet amazingly deep enough to take the fullness of his gargantuan “manhood”. Perhaps it is a mark of my own shortcomings, but I had no idea that women seek to be appreciated for their depth….

Anyhow, I now understand the reason for Mrs. Auel’s literary success. The books are nothing more than romance novels, disguised by virtue of their length and paleontological trappings. What I found particularly revealing is what books like these reveal about the average reader’s psyche, namely, that the fantasies of women are every bit as shallow and embarrassing as those revealed by books favored by men. Men harbor adolescent dreams of saving the world, killing hosts of bad guys and racking up a sexual conquest or seven, women, on the other hand, apparently dream of being lauded to the skies for every word and deed, being ardently pursued by the most handsome man and still being able to get it on with another, albeit lesser admirer without being held responsible for it and losing the primary devotee.

Seriously, most of the popular women’s novels I’ve read in the last five years feature a woman torn between two admirers and somehow getting to have both of them without any cost to herself. But whereas Auel’s protagonist can only dally with the secondary devotee for a time before eventually being forced to choose between them, Hamilton’s, appearing some twenty years later, is miraculously able to retain the continuing affections of both. It’s an interesting psycho-literary evolution and one that any writer with a desire to write bestsellers should definitely note.

By the way, I have a theory to explain Mrs. Auel’s motivation in writing these books. I see them as being an anguished woman’s cry for help, as they are all dedicated to her husband and feature pages upon pages drawing attention to where the Center of Ayla’s womanly Pleasures can be found. Sadly, after 25 years, Mrs. Auel has announced that two more books are required to complete the series, so it would appear that despite the impressive book sales, her undertaking has been unsuccessful.

To read a hilarious and, as far as I can tell, accurate description of the movie, check this out. It serves as a fair summary of the book as well, which to be honest, isn’t quite that bad.

I know I’m shocked

I mean, we all know the British government issues licenses to kill:

No police officers will face criminal charges over the death of Jean Charles de Menezes, the Crown Prosecution Service said yesterday. He was shot dead at Stockwell Underground station, south London, last July by anti-terrorist officers who mistakenly feared that he was a suicide bomber….

“In order to prosecute those officers, we would have to prove, beyond reasonable doubt, that they did not honestly and genuinely hold those beliefs. In fact, the evidence supports their claim that they genuinely believed that Mr de Menezes was a suicide bomber and therefore, as we cannot disprove that claim, we cannot prosecute them for murder or any other related offence.”

If I ever wanted to start a career as a hit man, the first thing I’d do is join the police force. You could probably nail three or four people for profit, then retire early claiming post-traumatic stress disorder and collect a disability pension.

What an entirely predictable joke. By this logic, until the UK police possesses retroactive mind-reading technology, the British public is completely fair game so long as the cop can think up an excuse.

This is so fake

I wonder what they’ll turn out to be selling. It stinks of viral marketing:

It’s a personal message for everyone to read. Thanks goes out to my husband who chipped in on the price tag. Golly gee honey, I would’ve never been able to tell the world about your exploits with my best friend without your contribution! Gotta love joint bank accounts. Oh, sorry Steve, I had to splurge on the lights, too. Some people work late, like you. And they’re always driving home when it’s dark. Burning that midnight oil, Steve-o. Just like you.

So for the next two weeks, starting with today, I will exact revenge on my whoring husband. And who knows what a disparaged woman with lots of resources at her disposal might do?!

It’s always interesting to see how difficult it is to convincingly write in a false voice. A good fiction writer can do it at times, but most people can’t. Anger, in particular, is difficult to write persuasively. I was sure that this whole thing was a fake after watching the video, as the two people clearly appeared to be actors and I don’t know how any private investigator would manage to get that near-upskirt shot at the restaurant without them noticing, but even the text of the purported billboard rang false.

UPDATE – apparently my BS detector is in good working order.