Dirty Harry Sums It Up

-This post is dedicated to Clint Eastwood. Badass incarnate.

This clip is from the 1976 film The Enforcer, starring Clint Eastwood as Detective Harry Callahan. It is simply prophetic, and indicative of just how long these kinds of issues have existed in the cultural mainstream.

This is why. This is why people like me believe certain unpopular things. This is why services like policing, soldiering, firefighting, roughnecking, and the like, are best left to males. This is why affirmative action is an abjectly failed policy. This is why “women in the military” is a very unfunny joke. This is why mixed sex workplaces will never fully work.

It’s not because of us being old and outdated and prejudicial in our views. It is because we know certain truths. We know that most (and in these cases I do mean the vast majority) women simply are not built for these kinds of things. We know that men are heavily attracted to women, and therefore distracted by them, and in potentially stressful and hazardous occupations, that this can be fatal. We know that women simply are not as physically capable as men (seriously, it’s not even close), and as such are not suited to do these things in great number. Yes, there are some exceptionally strong women (mostly named Helga), but they are just that: exceptional. We know that if it weren’t for forced quotas, these occupations would likely sort themselves out. We also know that at the end of the day, we will be the ones saddled with extra responsibility and extra blame for failures we may not be directly responsible for, all while having no way to mitigate them.

I know this male chauvinistic talk rubs many the wrong way, and is simply verboten in polite (and God forbid mixed-sex) company. However, it does still stand in quite a bit of factual basis. Calling those of us who acknowledge this sexist will never change this, though it may force us underground. Despite that, truth is truth, and it gives not one damn how you feel about it.

There is, however, a flip side to this coin. Perhaps our facts are, in fact, fiction. Perhaps it is we who are the relativists. Perhaps we really are Neanderthals stuck in the past. Perhaps we have been left behind, and are just trying to make sad, pathetic excuses for our lack of accomplishment in modernity. Perhaps we are, in truth, wrong.

What if women really are men 2.0? What if all those gender-based quotas are not artificial cheat codes for the fairer sex, but in fact are simply reinforcements of natural law? What if it really is true that we are a nation of strong, independent, liberated, and infinitely superior women, who are finally and fully freed from the need of any male reliance, but still like some of us anyhow? What if they really can do everything that we can, but at 10 times the output, speed, and efficiency, in high heels and cocktail dresses, blindfolded, with one delicate looking but hulkingly powerful arm tied behind their backs? What if they can be Mother and Father all at once, without breaking a sweat, and always with a smile? What if they really are Goddesses, who simply act demurely sometimes and keep us males around just to feel good? What if the Feminists are right? What if men are to women as fish are to bikes?

If this is true, and we are truly equal (but women are more equal), then perhaps it is not society that is messed up…perhaps it is us. Perhaps we don’t need to work. Perhaps being stay-at-home dads, minimum wage sliders, absentee members of society, and ghosts of baby daddies long since forgotten is simply us making way for our replacements. Perhaps we are a line of Iphone 1s which has somehow not been shuttered and is long overdue for replacement. Perhaps we are Model Ts in a world of Ferraris. Perhaps our time has expired as serving any other function than simply being expendable hood ornaments on cars; making things look nicer, but not really necessary.

Moreover, maybe, above it all, I was wrong. Maybe all that I’ve said and done and written is simply an illusion; madness brought on in attempting to rationalize a second-rate existence which only could suit any functional end if I had been born with a uterus instead. Maybe I am simply an outdated remnant of a time long forgotten; a meaningless holdover from an old, evil, repressive era, powerless to reinstate those sins long since vanquished. Maybe I should never even have existed, and maybe my own mother (God bless her soul) would have made the better choice if she had gone to a clinic and had my fetus extracted, instead of bothering to bring me to term. At least then such a second rate, spiritually void, physically inferior, meaningless life would never have had to come to be, and would never have had to disappear.

We get it. We live in a linear culture. When the new, 2017 comes out, the 2016 model will start really losing value. When things get old, they are discarded. When cars become clunkers, they are eventually scrapped or rust away. When the end is reached, not all tools used to achieve it are necessary anymore.

Some of us want to be more than fancy hood ornaments on old cars. Some of us would rather that we served as fenders, steering columns, or even exhaust pipes. At least then we’d be useful. Instead, it seems we impede progress by our very existence, let alone our philosophy. It seems that we are not only useless, but in many cases, if we aren’t shiny and polished enough, just plain unwanted.

Since we are no longer needed, we will go our separate ways. Some of us will, alone or in groups, seek to destroy, maim, and murder the society which has rejected us and called us purposeless. Some of us will eke out a life in a world we aren’t meant to exist in, always longing for something more, and never being able to name what; drifting and unfulfilled; on the shelf gathering dust and rust. Some of us will lustfully polish ourselves off and adorn the hoods of many sleek, new automobiles, taking pride in our finely lustrous, yet functionally empty stations. Others will mawkishly pine for eras long gone, remembering their old tasks fondly as they lack for new ones.

But most tragically of all, some of us will examine our new stations and diminished status, and decide that the emptiness is not worth it; that serving no functional purpose is akin to dying yet still feeling the pain of living; in this view, life is a disease only curable by death. We will examine our heralded age-old legacy; our forefathers’ fights and perseverance, and take note of our notable lack thereof. We will, seeing that we are an outdated, misunderstood, hated, and discarded line of product, initiate our own recall. To us, it is better to not have been born, and it is better to foreshorten our duration, than it is to continue to exist as a second-rate, perennially inferior product. We serve no useful purpose (other than to be exploited and thrown away), therefore it is time we moved on and saved the world some carbon and organic matter. In this distraught, displaced group lie millions of dead, or soon to be dead, bodies, of men who simply got tired of living as defective women, and envied the status of aborted babies.

As for you, dear Reader, you may find a need to look to other sources of authorship for your hungry mind to devour, because the day is fast approaching when this writer may just decide to put down his pen for good, and go the way of the dodo, typewriter, and cassette player. Simply put, if I am truly just an inferior woman; if I have no unique role, and if my line of thought is simply an echo from the bad old days, then I am quite willing to take my chances and go meet my Maker early. Perhaps the afterlife is preferable to the present twilight morass. Perhaps, at that point, I can finally have peace.

Or, perhaps the Maker is available to sort out who is right and who is wrong on this side of the gun barrel. I surely hope so.

(NOTE: This is a very dark post that cover serious subject matter. I do not endorse suicide or self harm, nor do I actually have intentions of either. If you know someone who is struggling with thoughts of these things, or worse, there is a national suicide hotline at:   1-800-273-8255. I promise there will be happier posts after this one. Also, I will be working on a book sometime in the distant future, as there is a lot of other stuff that for some reason has not been covered. Until then, Peace.)



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