A superhero rights wrongs... doesn't he...?
Hey, listen closely because this is Ant at his most honest. I’ve got a problem and it’s been festering a long time. It’s about the prettiest people with the ugliest souls. It’s going to go really simple and I hope you get it the first time. If you don’t, I pity you and the mom you fell out of, because at this stage you’re probably not worth the time. Set the pace, pick up the steps and find a new beat. Be you. Do not. Become. The many.
Fuck your obsession with being pretty and beautiful. You’re not skinny, you’re not cute, you’re not a fuckingbeauty queen. In fact, you’re forgettable, no one likes you and that’s the truth. I’m not talking about a person I’m talking about an idea. I’m talking about the way we rank onto one another the imposing image of perfection. It doesn’t exist. It will never exist. As long as we continue to live, breed and share space, there is no such thing as perfection. Beautiful is an illusion made by people who want to sell you things. The makeup does not make you any more special than anyone else. The endless workouts, the dieting, the starvation and self-ridicule; put it all away because it’s meaningless. There’s no Bowflex, Ab Cruncher, Total Gym or Fat Pill that’s going to turn you into that beautiful, blushing, plump-lipped eye candy you saw on Dateline; she’s just as ugly as you are when you wake up in the morning, stumble to your bathroom and start the daily ritual of trying to look better for somebody else.
Let’s talk about women. Let’s talk about real women. I’m not talking about that hopped up, Pantene Pro-V coated, self-masticating, strangulation of femininity that struts her airbrushed hips across the cover of the latest Victoria Secret’s catalog. I’m talking about the forgotten sum who make your life, my life, our collective lives easier. I’m talking about the woman who picks up behind you. I’m talking about the woman who feeds you, keeps your house sane, keeps you sane, and protects your children from hurt, harm and danger. I’m talking about that down-trodden soldier you forgot about two years after you married her. I’m talking about the woman who happily takes the back seat to football, to best friends, to pipe dreams and bullshit. She is only as beautiful as you make her feel.
Analyze the situation. Who is really putting up with whom? Who do you think you are for telling her who she is? I get so tired of seeing that poor woman dragged around by the elbow by some asshole who thinks he’s right all the time. Let her breathe, God damnit. You do not have to have sex with her every time she wants to go to the grocery store. You do not have to claim her and tell her where home is every day you insecure, limp-dicked, coddled piece of human fucking waste product. She is not your pet, she’s not your toy, and she’s not your friendly fuck on Friday. She’s a person with real feelings, real needs and real emotions. She’s a woman. Not a Woe Man. Fuck you for calling me sick in the head, fuck you for calling me hypocritical and fuck you for calling me a pussy for feeling that way, but I’m tired of it. There’s no such thing as a good man anymore because we’re forced to become these disgusting homages to our own masculinity while competing with other upright walking FETUSES. That’s right. Fetuses. You’re children. You’re babies. You aren’t men. If you were you wouldn’t be frowning right now. You know what you’ve done and you know why you did it.
You think they’re bitter? You think they don’t like you anymore? Hell yes they’re bitter. Hell yes they don’t like you anymore. And why? Because of you. Imagine for thirty-seven seconds that you live in a world where everyone around you is looking at you like a talking pair of breasts. Imagine for thirty-seven seconds that the only conversations you ever get in with people are purely because they’re imagining sticking their cock in you. Everyone around you is driven by the need to make you please them and give them children. They don’t mean what they say; they don’t mean what they do. It’s all an act to get you to give up the only thing they actually want. And when they get it? Suddenly you’re not worth their time. Now imagine a world where you’ve given them all what they want and suddenly no one wants to talk to you. You’re ostracized, set aside, put on a shelf in the back of the closet and ignored for the rest of your natural. Fucking. Life. That’s the feminine of America. That’s the Psuedo-American dream, fuckhead, and you helped create it.
You know what I want? I want a real woman. I don’t want some other guy’s idea of a real woman. I don’t want some other man’s masturbatory fantasy of what a woman should be. I want a woman who talks bad when she’s angry, a woman who fights back with words and envy when I do stupid things that make her wish she never met me. I want a woman who drinks on Saturday and forces me into a pew on Sunday. I want a woman who wears baggy pants, her hat on backwards and still looks pretty in handcuffs. I want a woman who knows what it means to wear a light coat of lipstick instead of walking around looking like a doped up clown who puts her makeup on with a handgun. I want a woman who wakes up, decides what she’s going to do with her day and does it. I want a woman who likes sports, chick flicks and Groucho Marx. A woman with a real mind, who’s smarter than me and can teach me how to be the man I’m supposed to be. I want a woman whose not afraid to tell me I’m being a child, whose not afraid to make me watch the kids while she does something she enjoys. I want a woman with the sense to tell me when we’re not vibing right instead of running off half-cocked looking for another asshole to fill her life. I want a woman brave enough to tell me to hit the fucking bricks, not a tramp that some other guy has dirtied up and left half crazy. I want a woman who shares the apron with the man of her choice. I want a woman who has already decided if she wants to be a career woman or a mom or both. I want a woman who was strong enough to resist peer pressure and didn’t sleep with every creeping cock from her Highschool in Texas. She gets mad, she gets happy, she has bad days and good. She has a few bad habits but a smile that forgives. She ain’t butch, she’s beautiful. She’s not girly, she’s universal. She’s that woman on the phone when you call a help desk for assistance, but at the same time she hangs with the guys and has her own friends to chill with. She knows how to mock you with a joke or two and can take one herself without crying and mewling. She’s a feminine Tom Boy with a list of favorites. From movies to food to outings and cars. From sports to flowers to beads and charms. In other words, folks, a real woman with her own ideals, her own principles, her own morals and mind. They aren’t hard to find, the problem is that we’ve buried them in the images of the society we created. They’re down so deep that even their kids come out messed up. Little girls are trained by moms to catch a man with hips instead of the words from her lips. It has to stop. It has. To stop.
Grown men end up crying when their daughters become a mirror image of the bimbo they bagged six years ago. What they fail to realize is she became that way because of a guy just like them who treated her ass like candy. Sure its round, its sexy, she’s a curvy Goddess. But, dude? What’s her favorite color? What’s her favorite show? Hell, whats her middle name? You don’t know, do you?
So you’re a pussy if you don’t bang her while she’s on the rebound? Wrong. You’re a pussy for not being there when she needed you. You’re a pussy for calling a weakling a pussy. Not everything wearing a pussy’s as weak as you assume. You’re a dick because you are what you eat. If all you do is swallow your own Macho Bravado and act like you don’t need her, you might as well masturbate. You don’t need a gigantic cock to please a woman, just the balls to stand by her like she stands by you.
Ugly begets ugly. We created this beast. There is no perfection, there is no excellence and there is no such thing as a world without conflict. Stop sugar-coating your own shortcomings by making other people (yes, ladies. People!) feel like the problem is them. If your daddy was a man he’d have led by example. From here on I pledge to be the real image of a man. If I ever have a son, I don’t want him to be like me. I was an honest to God chauvinist because I learned it from Poppa. I watched my dad beat my mom and it came out of me too. I never hit a woman like he did, I never will, but the rest of the behavior was quite in tact. I yelled, I raged, I raised my voice in anger. I made a woman feel like my problems were her fault and for what its worth I apologize. I promise to God I’ll never do it again. Life’s too short to be just like the rest of the ‘him’s. Call it a Mangina, call it a guilty conscience, whatever you will, but the fact still remains that we’re creating for ourselves a world that one day will likely have no real women in it. Be she short, tall, plump, petite, ugly or cute, she deserves more than what you give her. She is the lesser man. She was made smaller than us because her job is different. She’s a natural caretaker, she’s gentle and kind. She has a soft hand because ours are rough. She provides just as much as we do; only she provides the intangibles.
So about the ugly people with the prettiest minds. Take off the makeup and do your best to slow down. You’re not a tramp, a harlet, a slut or a dupe. Whatever he said that made you that mad, just let it go, Sweetheart. Stop doing what we do and looking for perfection. The people who peddle it are ugly on the inside and they’ll make you just as ugly as they are if you let them. There is no perfect. So he’s an Adonis, so he’s got the body of a Greek God. Where’s his head at? If the only one he works with is in his pants, you don’t need him. In forty years when that no longer works the only thing he’ll have to keep you halfway happy is a heart. A lot of them don’t have one.
Guys. Stop seeking perfection. You’re only making a good girl go bad. Think about it. You did it. She does everything she can to be perfect for you and all you do is raise the bar. She realizes there is no pleasing you so she becomes bitter, she becomes mean and hard. In essence, she becomes a man. You throw at her such a need to be female that she loses the ‘Fe’ and just becomes male. Sooner or later you’re just dating a petite line-backer in a dress and all she wants to do is tear your head off and spike it in the end zone. Stop. The fucking. Madness.
P.S. This isn’t Women’s Lib. This isn’t some God damn love letter to a girl I once knew, this isn’t a bleeding heart salivatory gland gone awry, and this isn’t me searching for applause. This is me realizing my wrongs. Acceptance is the first step to recovery.
Hybrid: Out.
Fuck your obsession with being pretty and beautiful. You’re not skinny, you’re not cute, you’re not a fuckingbeauty queen. In fact, you’re forgettable, no one likes you and that’s the truth. I’m not talking about a person I’m talking about an idea. I’m talking about the way we rank onto one another the imposing image of perfection. It doesn’t exist. It will never exist. As long as we continue to live, breed and share space, there is no such thing as perfection. Beautiful is an illusion made by people who want to sell you things. The makeup does not make you any more special than anyone else. The endless workouts, the dieting, the starvation and self-ridicule; put it all away because it’s meaningless. There’s no Bowflex, Ab Cruncher, Total Gym or Fat Pill that’s going to turn you into that beautiful, blushing, plump-lipped eye candy you saw on Dateline; she’s just as ugly as you are when you wake up in the morning, stumble to your bathroom and start the daily ritual of trying to look better for somebody else.
Let’s talk about women. Let’s talk about real women. I’m not talking about that hopped up, Pantene Pro-V coated, self-masticating, strangulation of femininity that struts her airbrushed hips across the cover of the latest Victoria Secret’s catalog. I’m talking about the forgotten sum who make your life, my life, our collective lives easier. I’m talking about the woman who picks up behind you. I’m talking about the woman who feeds you, keeps your house sane, keeps you sane, and protects your children from hurt, harm and danger. I’m talking about that down-trodden soldier you forgot about two years after you married her. I’m talking about the woman who happily takes the back seat to football, to best friends, to pipe dreams and bullshit. She is only as beautiful as you make her feel.
Analyze the situation. Who is really putting up with whom? Who do you think you are for telling her who she is? I get so tired of seeing that poor woman dragged around by the elbow by some asshole who thinks he’s right all the time. Let her breathe, God damnit. You do not have to have sex with her every time she wants to go to the grocery store. You do not have to claim her and tell her where home is every day you insecure, limp-dicked, coddled piece of human fucking waste product. She is not your pet, she’s not your toy, and she’s not your friendly fuck on Friday. She’s a person with real feelings, real needs and real emotions. She’s a woman. Not a Woe Man. Fuck you for calling me sick in the head, fuck you for calling me hypocritical and fuck you for calling me a pussy for feeling that way, but I’m tired of it. There’s no such thing as a good man anymore because we’re forced to become these disgusting homages to our own masculinity while competing with other upright walking FETUSES. That’s right. Fetuses. You’re children. You’re babies. You aren’t men. If you were you wouldn’t be frowning right now. You know what you’ve done and you know why you did it.
You think they’re bitter? You think they don’t like you anymore? Hell yes they’re bitter. Hell yes they don’t like you anymore. And why? Because of you. Imagine for thirty-seven seconds that you live in a world where everyone around you is looking at you like a talking pair of breasts. Imagine for thirty-seven seconds that the only conversations you ever get in with people are purely because they’re imagining sticking their cock in you. Everyone around you is driven by the need to make you please them and give them children. They don’t mean what they say; they don’t mean what they do. It’s all an act to get you to give up the only thing they actually want. And when they get it? Suddenly you’re not worth their time. Now imagine a world where you’ve given them all what they want and suddenly no one wants to talk to you. You’re ostracized, set aside, put on a shelf in the back of the closet and ignored for the rest of your natural. Fucking. Life. That’s the feminine of America. That’s the Psuedo-American dream, fuckhead, and you helped create it.
You know what I want? I want a real woman. I don’t want some other guy’s idea of a real woman. I don’t want some other man’s masturbatory fantasy of what a woman should be. I want a woman who talks bad when she’s angry, a woman who fights back with words and envy when I do stupid things that make her wish she never met me. I want a woman who drinks on Saturday and forces me into a pew on Sunday. I want a woman who wears baggy pants, her hat on backwards and still looks pretty in handcuffs. I want a woman who knows what it means to wear a light coat of lipstick instead of walking around looking like a doped up clown who puts her makeup on with a handgun. I want a woman who wakes up, decides what she’s going to do with her day and does it. I want a woman who likes sports, chick flicks and Groucho Marx. A woman with a real mind, who’s smarter than me and can teach me how to be the man I’m supposed to be. I want a woman whose not afraid to tell me I’m being a child, whose not afraid to make me watch the kids while she does something she enjoys. I want a woman with the sense to tell me when we’re not vibing right instead of running off half-cocked looking for another asshole to fill her life. I want a woman brave enough to tell me to hit the fucking bricks, not a tramp that some other guy has dirtied up and left half crazy. I want a woman who shares the apron with the man of her choice. I want a woman who has already decided if she wants to be a career woman or a mom or both. I want a woman who was strong enough to resist peer pressure and didn’t sleep with every creeping cock from her Highschool in Texas. She gets mad, she gets happy, she has bad days and good. She has a few bad habits but a smile that forgives. She ain’t butch, she’s beautiful. She’s not girly, she’s universal. She’s that woman on the phone when you call a help desk for assistance, but at the same time she hangs with the guys and has her own friends to chill with. She knows how to mock you with a joke or two and can take one herself without crying and mewling. She’s a feminine Tom Boy with a list of favorites. From movies to food to outings and cars. From sports to flowers to beads and charms. In other words, folks, a real woman with her own ideals, her own principles, her own morals and mind. They aren’t hard to find, the problem is that we’ve buried them in the images of the society we created. They’re down so deep that even their kids come out messed up. Little girls are trained by moms to catch a man with hips instead of the words from her lips. It has to stop. It has. To stop.
Grown men end up crying when their daughters become a mirror image of the bimbo they bagged six years ago. What they fail to realize is she became that way because of a guy just like them who treated her ass like candy. Sure its round, its sexy, she’s a curvy Goddess. But, dude? What’s her favorite color? What’s her favorite show? Hell, whats her middle name? You don’t know, do you?
So you’re a pussy if you don’t bang her while she’s on the rebound? Wrong. You’re a pussy for not being there when she needed you. You’re a pussy for calling a weakling a pussy. Not everything wearing a pussy’s as weak as you assume. You’re a dick because you are what you eat. If all you do is swallow your own Macho Bravado and act like you don’t need her, you might as well masturbate. You don’t need a gigantic cock to please a woman, just the balls to stand by her like she stands by you.
Ugly begets ugly. We created this beast. There is no perfection, there is no excellence and there is no such thing as a world without conflict. Stop sugar-coating your own shortcomings by making other people (yes, ladies. People!) feel like the problem is them. If your daddy was a man he’d have led by example. From here on I pledge to be the real image of a man. If I ever have a son, I don’t want him to be like me. I was an honest to God chauvinist because I learned it from Poppa. I watched my dad beat my mom and it came out of me too. I never hit a woman like he did, I never will, but the rest of the behavior was quite in tact. I yelled, I raged, I raised my voice in anger. I made a woman feel like my problems were her fault and for what its worth I apologize. I promise to God I’ll never do it again. Life’s too short to be just like the rest of the ‘him’s. Call it a Mangina, call it a guilty conscience, whatever you will, but the fact still remains that we’re creating for ourselves a world that one day will likely have no real women in it. Be she short, tall, plump, petite, ugly or cute, she deserves more than what you give her. She is the lesser man. She was made smaller than us because her job is different. She’s a natural caretaker, she’s gentle and kind. She has a soft hand because ours are rough. She provides just as much as we do; only she provides the intangibles.
So about the ugly people with the prettiest minds. Take off the makeup and do your best to slow down. You’re not a tramp, a harlet, a slut or a dupe. Whatever he said that made you that mad, just let it go, Sweetheart. Stop doing what we do and looking for perfection. The people who peddle it are ugly on the inside and they’ll make you just as ugly as they are if you let them. There is no perfect. So he’s an Adonis, so he’s got the body of a Greek God. Where’s his head at? If the only one he works with is in his pants, you don’t need him. In forty years when that no longer works the only thing he’ll have to keep you halfway happy is a heart. A lot of them don’t have one.
Guys. Stop seeking perfection. You’re only making a good girl go bad. Think about it. You did it. She does everything she can to be perfect for you and all you do is raise the bar. She realizes there is no pleasing you so she becomes bitter, she becomes mean and hard. In essence, she becomes a man. You throw at her such a need to be female that she loses the ‘Fe’ and just becomes male. Sooner or later you’re just dating a petite line-backer in a dress and all she wants to do is tear your head off and spike it in the end zone. Stop. The fucking. Madness.
P.S. This isn’t Women’s Lib. This isn’t some God damn love letter to a girl I once knew, this isn’t a bleeding heart salivatory gland gone awry, and this isn’t me searching for applause. This is me realizing my wrongs. Acceptance is the first step to recovery.
Hybrid: Out.