Only there is no punchline. They just get drunk together and drunkenly debate their common nemesis. Because you see, both Marxism and radical feminism have found that they share a common disdain for a certain kind: the reformists. The reformists get in the way of the revolution! They do not want to change the system, they just want the system to accommodate differences instead of doing away with it altogether. And I feel their pain, I do. But since I hardly drink, their conversation at the bar mostly eludes me.
I mean, stuff like this sounds comforting:
The practice of femininity impedes the revolution.
Until oh, no. I realize it doesn’t. Because there is not one practice of femininity. It might be tempting to believe so because as I have said times and times again, we tend to view the world through the lens of our own cultural landscape. Like this:
That’s right. Femininity is not a natural expression of femaleness. It is not an hereditary, hormone-based fascination for fashion, submissiveness, mani-peddies, baby-soft skin, or catfighting. It is not a fun-loving lifestyle choice. Femininity is a rigid system of behaviors imposed on us by the Global Accords Governing the Fair Use of Women as a means to control, subjugate, and marginalize us, entirely at our expense, for the benefit of the male-controlled megatheocorporatocracy.
Oh mani-peddies. Yes. That is femininity. It was the first thing that came to mind when I thought of the word. Except it wasn’t. Actually, the first thing that came to mind when I thought of the word was denied femininity. Policed femininity. The kind that is refused to transwomen, for instance. Or the kind that is denied to sex workers. Or to women living in fundamentalist environments of any kind. But then I am reminded of this:
Because, let’s face it; the truth about femininity is so repellent, so foul, so depraved, that we don’t want to know it. We’d rather believe the funfeminists when they insist that it’s empowerfulizing to be pink and girlie or stilettoey and porny. It’s so much easier to go with the flow and comfy up with the familiar old gender stereotypes than it is to come to grips with the fact that our woman-hating world order enforces femininity with a rigorous system of hollow, joyless rewards and uncompromising, murderous punishments, and that the enforcement of feminine behavior is a global humanitarian crisis.
Oh noes. I am a funfeminist! I celebrate my femininity throwing confetti mixed with pubic hair, perhaps? I don’t know. But I do believe there is some fun, at least for some women (because you see, unlike those two having their drunkenly conversation at the bar, I do not believe in universal absolutes) in being porny and stilettoey. And because the experiences of those women should be as valid and important as those of the women who find the opposite empowering.
But what do I know, right? It turns out that I am one of those who impedes the revolution.
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