Dear Men Who Very Obviously Hate Women: Do Yourselves A Favor And Just Admit It!
The idea that overt and unambiguous racism is preferable to subtler forms of prejudice is not a terribly uncommon one among Black people. Of course, like Tyga’s music and soft chicken wings, all racism is really bad. But if given the choice between clear racism and concealed and/or confusing racism, many of us (myself included) would choose the clarity. I also consider it to be, well, more honorable. As a person clearly stating that they don’t fuck with you and your kind under any circumstances is quite a bit more honest and respect worthy than one who weasels and dog whistles around it. I can also imagine that it’s quite liberating for the racist. Which is why I’ve always believed more racists should embrace their racism, like how my dog right now is embracing an empty suitcase that he believes is attracted to him.
Seriously, think about how much easier life would be for them if that happened. Instead of regurgitating some bullshit about why a Black family moving into your neighborhood upsets you, imagine the freedom felt when exclaiming “I just don’t want to inhale any nigger air on my deck.” Think of the unshackling power of a politician coming out and saying “I just really, really, really don’t want Black people to vote” when questioned about voter ID laws. Of course, there are some very obvious social incentives for staying in the racism closet. But doesn’t a clear conscience supersede that? Plus, it’s not like people don’t already know that a racist is a racist. Everyone who knows Jack already knows not to invite Jack over to watch the NBA Finals. Imagine how much more sleep Jack would get at night if he changed his wifi network to “Coon Free Zone”?
Anyway, if you happen to be a man who carries a very obvious animus towards women and you happen to be reading this, I believe you should do the same thing! Instead of doing things like pursuing very public PhDs in Social Media Rape Apologia — and leaving everyone confused about why you’ve decided to cape so hard for that cause — why not just come out and embrace the misogyny? Lift your head, bare your chest, and exclaim to the universe that you’re just not that into things like “women having agency” and “women feeling safe” and “women possessing thoughts that are not the thoughts I happen to possess” and “women working at Home Depot.” Stop using “females” as a substitute for “bitches” and just come out and let your bitch spouting flag fly. And while that flag is flapping in the wind — naked and free — admit that while you do enjoy “fucking bitches” (and very much wish to continue to do that), you “don’t really fuck with bitches all like that.” Instead of tuning your bat signal to a specific frequency that only lets you know when and where a man is being criticized by a woman or accused of something by a woman so you can rush to blindly defend him, just say “I don’t care about — or even know about — what he did. I just don’t want bitches to win.”
Of course, like with racists, I’m aware there are quite a few incentives to attempt to conceal your hate. I imagine it may be more difficult to sleep with, marry, have children with, garner support from, eat food cooked by, accept car loan cosigns from, “borrow” Netflix passwords off of, and go to movies and shit with women if you make it plain that you hate them. But alas, doing this will help you identify yourselves to your sisters-in-arms — women who kinda, sorta hate women too. Which will now give them the confidence and the freedom to freely admit that they kinda, sorta hate women instead of leaving everyone confused about why they feel the need to do so much to support and defend men accused of doing shitty-ass shit to women. And then you can live happy ever after, and do things like “go to R. Kelly concerts in 2016” and “eat cheese dogs from Sheetz” together.
I know what I’m suggesting is difficult and counter-intuitive. But I’m just going to need you to trust me. And then, when you’re done trusting me and you’re ready to be free, come upstairs from your aunt’s basement, because your Pop Tarts are getting cold.