I really feel sorry for this crank’s husband

What the heck has happened to the Washington Post?

They’ll publish anything nowadays, won’t they?

Yesterday, they opened their dreary pages to what must be the shrillest, most self-centered screed ever written outside of some gender studies major’s personal blog.

The title alone is tells you all you need to know: Thanks for not raping us, all you ‘good men.’ But it’s not enough.

But this bit of drivel isn’t written by a gender studies major; it’s by a retired college professor. Which in itself lends credence to my “bulldoze all colleges and salt the earth” idea.

Here’s how she starts her “Democracy Dies in Darkness”-worthy diatribe:

I yelled at my husband last night. Not pick-up-your-socks yell. Not how-could-you-ignore-that-red-light yell. This was real yelling. This was 30 minutes of from-the-gut yelling. Triggered by a small, thoughtless, dismissive, annoyed, patronizing comment. Really small. A micro-wave that triggered a hurricane. I blew. Hard and fast. And it terrified me. I’m still terrified by what I felt and what I said. I am almost 70 years old. I am a grandmother. Yet in that roiling moment, screaming at my husband as if he represented every clueless male on the planet (and I every angry woman of 2018), I announced that I hate all men and wish all men were dead. If one of my grandchildren yelled something that ridiculous, I’d have to stifle a laugh.

My husband of 50 years did not have to stifle a laugh. He took it dead seriously. He did not defend his remark, he did not defend men. He sat, hunched and hurt, and he listened.

Now, I’m not a man, so I can only guess at how I would react if I had just been subjected to a thirty minute scream-fest.

Although I think I wouldn’t stifle a laugh either. I’d just let it loose.

Then again, if I were a man, I think I’d have far too much self-respect to be this woman’s husband to begin with.

How must her husband feel having his wife broadcast to the world from the pages of the Washington Post that he’s an emasculated eunuch whose wife screams at him while he sits “hunched and hurt?”

Personally, I’d be furious.

If it were me, I’d be looking for a good divorce lawyer right about now.

Then again, I don’t tolerate anyone who treats me like a doormat.

Big Fur Hat over at iotwreport.com put it best last night when he wrote:

There is no way in the world I would put up with what she is describing and sit hunched and hurt.

HUNCHED AND HURT!! lolololol For 30 minutes!!

At minute three she’d be outside, awaiting the Uber driver I called with the directive to deliver her to a hospital.

And no, this does not make me a misogynist. This makes me someone who has self-worth. You have one ride on this planet, and there is no reason to spend it with an angry, homely, unreasonable shrew.

That last paragraph is the best response ever.

Why on earth would any self-respecting man or woman put up with that kind of abuse?

At least the author of this vituperative nonsense proved once and for all that men aren’t the only ones to abuse their spouses.

How in blazes did this guy put up with her for half a century?

Is she independently wealthy? Did he lose a bet?

But I digress.

Naturally this strident feminist invokes the Great Sisterhood Collective:

The gender war that has broken out in this country is flooding all our houses. It’s rising on the torrent of memories that every woman has. Those memories have come loose from the attic and the basement where we’ve stashed them. They are floating all around us and there is no place left to store them out of sight. Not just memories of sexual abuse. Memories of being dismissed, disdained, distrusted. Memories of having to endure put-downs at the office, catcalls in the parking lot, barked orders at a dinner party. And, for some reason, the most chilling memory of all, the one Christine Blasey Ford called up and that we all recognized: the laughter. The laughter of men who are bonding with each other by mocking us. When Ford testified under oath that the laughter is the sharpest memory of her high school assault, every woman within the sound of her voice could hear that laughter, had heard that laughter, somewhere, somehow.

Odd. But when I heard the clip of Ms. Ford saying “Indelible in the hippocampus is the laughter,” my reaction wasn’t to harken back to my own torment over men laughing at me.

Instead, my reaction was … well … laughter.

Because it sounded like nonsense.

Do me a favor, honey. Don’t speak for me.

Don’t lump me in with the Perpetually Angry Sisterhood.

I don’t cling to resentments like some bitter life preserver. In fact, I know of no women in my life who do.

The thing about clinging to resentments is it doesn’t harm the people who harmed you; it just harms you.

Like the tried and true AA saying, “Resentments are like eating rat poison and waiting for the other guy to die.”

Any men in my past who hurt me aren’t harmed in any way by my clinging to the feelings of anger or worthlessness. Why on earth would I want to give them that kind of power over me?

Instead, I let them go and choose to surround myself with good and decent men. Most of the women in my life have done the same. They learn from their mistakes and make better choices.

But that’s not how this wretched shrew sees it at all.

Instead, she views us women who aren’t perpetually outraged as being in denial.

No man right now understands the flood that is rushing through women’s brains, and only women in the deepest denial have evacuated their minds before the flood could reach them.

The only thing I want to evacuate from my mind is the memory of reading this self-righteous harangue.

How on earth did this woman ever find a husband willing to put up with her stunted, misandrist world view?

You’d have to be the most self-loathing wretch ever to let this shrill harridan pussy-whip you into a “hunched and hurt” lump.

Any old how.

As unhinged as this tirade is, it is thankfully brief. A hell of a lot briefer than the live, in-person tirade she subjected her husband to.

And the upshot of it is this: Men aren’t willing to change themselves for the Sisterhood. So even the “good men” aren’t that good.

And, like every good feminist, she closes her sanctimonious screed with a demand:

Pay attention people:

She said wearing her Handmaid’s Tale costume and waving a giant vagina sign…

Pay attention people: If we do not raise boys to walk humbly and care deeply, if we do not demand that men do more than just listen, we will all drown in the flood. And there is no patriarchal Noah to save us.

This kind of philippic harangue is something more suited coming from a bag lady on a subway platform than the pages of a once respected American newspaper.

But then again, after the garbage the Washington Post has published over the last two years, it’s hardly surprising.

Finally, and perhaps it’s because I’ve been watching the original Star Trek, this was the first thing that popped into my head when I read that woman’s “perspective” piece.

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