Feminism is like most modern politics a giant fraud.
It is a surrogate for real politics, which involves achieving aims. Not a constant struggle, but an achievement of something that you slowly make better.
Feminism instead is eternal jihad because it takes a paradox, breaks it in half, and points the opposite ends at each other. The result is like a see-saw floating in space: as soon as you reach one extreme, the thing flips and you’re at the opposite end heading back from whence you came.
If feminism is politics for women, the rules were written by a pimp.
The basic ideal behind feminism is easy to guess, because it’s the same ideal behind every modern political agenda: equality. In this case, equality for women.
Who defines equality? Well, that’s the other side of the paradox — they imply it’s a blank slate, but they really mean (wink wink) that the newly equal get everything the old equal got, with none of the work load. This is exactly the same as every other modern philosophy that pits a group — men, women, blacks, whites, poor, rich, Jews, Muslims, New Agers, homosexuals, potheads — against everyone else.
“We want our equal rights,” they say.
That sounds good, so everyone else rubberstamps it.
But it’s never enough because it’s a paradoxical viewpoint. You want equality which cannot be defined, so it must be compensated, but in turn that creates greater inequality.
Every bit of wealth or power you transfer from the favored group comes at a cost. That cost is either the penalty to people who aren’t with the political agenda, and so are not the new elite, or the cost to society at large when you make functional systems dysfunctional for political reasons.
Either way, like the Soviet state or post-Revolutionary France, you slaughter a working thing for a mythical illusion — how come militant atheists aren’t all over this? — and then because things are worse, you demand more of that good ol’ equality. Put it in this fat vein right here.
Feminism falls right into this trap. How do you become equal to a man? You get the same stuff: the same roles, the same behaviors, the same entitlements, the same privilege, and the same expectations.
In doing so, you’ve cut out any need for the male to take into account your needs. You are, after all, now expected to be just like him, so if he’s fine with the situation, you should be too because you’re “equal.”
Guess we should have defined that term before the revolution. Oh well.
Now we consider how women and men interact: dating, friends and family. How do these change?
This is where what the MensRights/Pick-Up-Artists of the world are on to something called “Game,” which is a smarmy word for the politics of sex, which is basically the politics of interpersonal power. Game means keeping the upper hand and getting what you want.
As said above, the rules of feminism were written as if by a pimp. Feminism destroys female Game by making it into male Game. Women and men are both trying to negotiate from a position of authority; this reduces the transaction to a very short-term prospect, since either loses if they commit to anything more than the immediate dinner-for-diddlin’ trade.
This is unbalanced because as we’ve already seen, sex is interchangeable. The man now has zero obligation to stick around, and in fact has a fairly big disincentive, since his modern woman has been around the block a few times. He loses if he commits, so the only ones who commit are losers.
Women have lost any special role they once had. They are now like coworkers, video games, cars and apartments: when you get bored with one, move on. Even more, since they are all of low value since they hand out the sex for free, take what you want and then move on quickly.
As time goes on, the woman and man may want a relationship — but to the man, that’s now a transaction too. While the good times roll, you can be a couple. When that’s over, you remember how little it anchors you — you’re penis #642 down that soft tunnel, another passing visitor — and you move on.
The result is neurotic women who give up all their sex, wear themselves out on child rearing, and then spend the rest of their lives alone, surrounded by photographs of what might have been. Somewhere, a pimp laughs, filling the night with his cynical sarcastic guffaws, as the city grinds on.