I am not a strident misandrist, just a mild-mannered one….and this is interesting and something you can’t see but my misogynistic spell check puts a squiggly red line under this word that means MAN-HATER as though it shouldn’t exist even after I checked the spelling. WTF? Yes, I am going to go there and point it out, with my gnarly witch’s finger in yo face, Mr. Man: There’s a few eloquent and sexy words in the thesaurus for a misogynist, like retro 70s Norman Lear sitcom term “chauvinist” and “chauvinistic pig” (sounds delicious, like a French-fusion luau!)  and the definition in the dictionary is  “a woman hater, prolly because she deserves it .” I had to google up the word “misandrist” because I had always thought man-hater was “misanthrope” which does means “the hatred of men” but specifically in the collective sense of the word “men” (Sweet motherfucking Sowpods, why is our language so impoverished?), as in ALL the peeps; peen, vag, peen/vag combo, double peen, vag with a side of peen, gender fluidity united!  But! The word that would be to hate men exclusively barely even exists! You have to find it on Yahoo Answers and even then you get a bunch of confused answers. So the word ‘misandrist” was suggested by the only the very few scholarly non-fapping interwebbers and it means, according to the dictionary from my beloved MacBook launchpad: “a man hater, by a woman, as in her brand of feminism is just poorly disguised misandry.”  Really.  So, simply put, a misandrist is a dumb bitch man-hater with a skewed belief system and a misogynist is the man who rightfully gets to hate her.

I’m definitely not a misanthrope, you know this to be a true fact if you follow this blog, I enjoy the foibles and follies of modern hoi poloi, but, as you also know, I don’t suffer a fool, particularly with one with a peen. However, most of my depredation of humankind has been that I am mean about other women (her eyes are too close together! I don’t think she can make scalloped potatoes as good as mine!) because I’m biologically competitive, for what? Sperm, apparently. I didn’t make this up, there are studies about this “catty” behaviour, women have to put each other down for some survival of the fittest to see who gets their eggs fertilized by Dirk Diggler for the greater good of keeping humanity bumbling along on the assembly line. Women are our own worst enemies, with each other and ourselves, which this is why, by the way, photoshop exists. We, the bitches of market research, made it happen as consumers of both dick and cellulite cream. We pointed out our perceived flaws out to the men and by doing so, gave them the power to judge. Whereas if we played our cards right, and said nothing while we ate everything, they wouldn’t give shit what we looked like at we’d all be happy, laughing and hanging out at the Dairy Queen. Misogyny is rampant amongst us all, not just men. That’s a hard pill to swallow, especially if you’re like me and you have a daughter you need to guide into the world so she doesn’t get dick- swatted by the wayside. Thank the goddesses of yonic power (surprise, spellcheck hates that one too!) she is smarter than me. She is the new generation of feminism who doesn’t do duck-face selfies and best of all, they stick together and don’t let dudes get away with anything.

I’m ashamed about all that fellow female-bashing skulduggery in my past now that I am enlightened by modern girl power (and all my eggs are spent and fried so it’s not my place to snark). Presently, I have zero ovum to give, so this sperm fishing is just a sport for me, for what? Trophy, apparently. And a side order of sausage, just for snacks. I can swallow that, quite easily. It’s actually empowering to be an old bat who gives herself permission not to care, nobody really tells that the world is your oyster when you stop giving a shit, especially not those Madison Avenue tricksters who put the fear in you that your natural aging process needs to be nipped in the bud. Oh,wait a minute, you say, what about the Dove Real Beauty campaign that celebrates women of all shapes, sizes, cultures, and age? Sorry, sister, that’s just a bunch of men selling us soap, feeding the women what they told them in a focus group the crap they want to hear. Don’t kid yourself, the people who run Unilever are all largely a bunch of dudes blithely taking your money in typical white corpordick  fashion while bamboozling you to believe the guntification of your muffin top and your wretched, sun splotched face is “beautiful” because deep down you don’t buy at it all, ummm, which is why you’re still sucking it in with $49 Spanx and smoothing it out with $300 Botox.

And while I  don’t *hate* the menfolk, per se,  I do sometimes think: What a waste of space. They always get in the way and ruin everything. Their constant need to butt-in in traffic, just so they can get to the red light first, is a metaphor for how they navigate their way through life: Me first, move bitch, coming through. Then they die sooner. And reincarnate faster, and the cycle continues except the next life, they come back as women and make fools of us all. Again. It’s amazing.

Scene: An indoor pool in a gym, roped into 4 individual lanes for lap swimming. Each of these lanes are occupied by 4 women doing the breast stroke or crawl in a civilized manner, one just had her hair did so she’s floating on a pool noodle, kicking her elegant legs like a mermaid, calming gentle waves soothe like a haiku poem. Then, out of nowhere, a big ugly hairy dude with goggles and fins on his feet jumps in one of the lanes, giving no consideration to the woman already occupying the lane and certainly giving zero fucks when he is “swimming” or whatever hirsute manatees do in the water, that he creates tsunami/undertow disaster combo over the entire pool, ruining the whole natural zen of the adult lane swim experience.  One lady gets water up her nose and chokes, the mermaid gets her hair ruined, and another gets flustered and loses her lap count and disappears into the drain, never to be heard from again. And the woman “sharing” a  lane with Fatfuck McNeptune writes a complaint letter to the management of said gym, stating that the lanes need to be reserved, only to fall on deaf ears because “that’s too complicated to enforce blahblahblah”  so she writes a drunken blog post rant instead, like the righteous misandrist that she is but spellcheck won’t validate. Fuckers. True story.  It might be  #firstworldproblems to you but again, a metaphor: Men ruin everything.

And they don’t even care, they just take what they want because they think they are entitled to it. Last week, I went on an OkCupid date with a seemingly innocuous forty-something dude, prolly his name was Craig, I don’t even remember. I decided to test out a theory that you shouldn’t get too wrapped up in endless text messages and that it’s best just meet right away and see if things click BECAUSE DATING IS SO MUCH FUCKING FUN. He stated he wasn’t into anything “serious” which is code for easy boning. I have weird inexplicable and magical criteria for such things but when he suggested to meet for beer first, I thought, I CAN DO THIS FOR THE SAKE OF BLOG FODDER. You’re welcome.

He was perfectly generic looking, which means it’s all about the conversation skills to tip the scale:  If he had a great personality, he would be fuckable, but if he didn’t, he’d be sent back to the ether where the buzzards fly…guess which?  YO HO! FRIEND OR FOE?

If there was a conversation, I was not part of it, he talked about 9/11 conspiracy theories, GMOs versus organic farming, metric volume versus imperial, how vaccinations work with the herd, all these hot topics WHILE RUBBING MY LEG WITH HIS FOOT. Sexy. At one point, just to make personal banter, I asked him where he grew up. You’d think I asked him if he ever fantasized about having sex with his mother; WHY DO YOU WANT TO KNOW THAT? He shot me down like that navy seal did to Bin Laden (which actually did happen, please stop watching stoner documentaries already). He quickly changed the topic back to his own mind-numbing arse-burger Ted Talks, where he blathered on while I couldn’t get a word in even if I wanted. While he was explaining the difference between a pint and half-pint of beer, he kept reaching over to stroke my hand.  Oh by the way, the real answer will surprise you! Hang on to your titties for this: Because it isn’t actually another half-pint, it’s 330 mls which is metric for who the fuck cares plus he’s wrong AND stupid as any dumb dick could ever be who was desperately trying to lose his virginity at the age of 44.

Anyway, by the end of the night I was sitting on my left hand, clutching my beer glass in my right hand, pretending it was a hand grenade, and my legs impenetrably knotted and crossed like day-old challah bread, but do you think he read the body signals? Maybe he did or maybe he didn’t but it sure as fuck didn’t stop him from sticking his tongue in my mouth while we walked to the car.

Sadly, this is the typical mentality of a man on an on-line dating site. They seem to think they are picking and choosing out of a catalogue. If you say you’re into casual sex, or being tied up, or having your butt licked, then they think they can get it, like they are ordering Grocery Gateway. One dude once told me that I needed to “own” my profile as though it was a terms of agreement contract where there is no right to change minds clause.

It bugs me that women had to endure the movie “He’s Just Not That Into You” (don’t get me wrong, I lap this rom-com shit up, it is a footnote of my imaginary thesis) and we have take all that shit to heart, because some man did us a favour and told the best kept secret ever, as if it was such a revelation that if they don’t call, they don’t care, duh. But after that dude tongue bombed me, I puckered up my face like I had just licked a butthole (sorry, I just can’t with that, who put that on the menu?  WHY? That’s what handheld showerheads are for) and he actually asked me if I wanted to fool around some more, ignoring my vomitface response entirely. I said nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo while whistling in the wind on my broomstick. Even after I hightailed it back home, but not before stopping by the licker store for some vodka to swirl and gargle on, he kept texting me for a second date! Was I sending a mixed message? I don’t think so.  But he doesn’t care. I’m just a vessel of beauty for him to stick his dick into, but thanks Dove, for the validation! I shall self-love myself with your products, I’m pretty sure Unilever owns Ben & Jerry’s, how convenient. And this fucker, he’s just postponing the ultimate shame of the inevitable fleshlight purchase from Amazon, why don’t you start manufacturing some lube to go with that?

Still,I don’t hate men entirely. I love them with my soft, downy wings and my milky breassessts and I hate them only sometimes with my vomitface, and I always hold hope for that one particular motherfucking gentleman-type sex pig with some tongue game who delivers pizza and doesn’t yell at me when I drive slow because really, what’s the rush? That red light is ominous.    *washes face with Dove and puts on $180 Elizabeth Arden face cream while dreaming of a dewy jizz facial*