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What Fresh Hell Will We See Tomorrow?

By Amanda Marcotte
Thursday, September 26, 2013 9:29 EDT
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Yesterday was quite the day for the internet coughing up terrifying descriptions of how some people believe women should be in order to obtain the precious validation of a man. You had the woman whose boyfriend tasked her to make him 300 sandwiches—the universal misogynist food symbol for the supposed inferiority of women—in exchange for an engagement ring. Then there was the incredibly racist guy inadvertently besmirching the good name of Austin with his bizarre website full of incredibly exacting demands for a girlfriend. Though, to be fair, all of his demands fell into two categories: How to Look Perfect Because That’s What I Deserve and How to Live As If You’re A Man-Placating Robot Instead of A Person. He showed zero concern about whether any hypothetical girlfriend would have things like “tastes” or “personality”. And then there was this depressing marriage guide from one of the Real Housewives that explains that in order to earn the right to have some asshole gently farting away as he shares your bed for the rest of your life—or until your tits fall and he trades you for a new model, but same thing, since women’s value is only in pleasing men—you have to be a combination of a sex toy and house servant. Seriously, these quotes are mind-bending:

I can do something that pisses him off on a Monday, but if we had sex on Sunday night, it blows over more easily. But if we haven’t done it for two days and I give him attitude? It could be a huge fight.

There’s real passionate sex and maintenance sex. You need them both for a healthy marriage. Maintenance sex keeps the wheels greased, the lines of communication open, and the fights to a minimum.

I don’t care if the woman makes more money than the man, if he’s a janitor and she’s the president. After a fourteen-hour workday, if a man comes home and there’s no dinner on the table, and his wife is on the phone, watching TV, or on the computer ignoring him, he won’t feel respected.

She has to plan her schedule on creating the illusion that her asshole is just another hole put on her body for him to fuck:

Girls don’t poop. Me, never have. Never will. It just doesn’t happen. Or, that’s what Joe thinks! We’ve been married for nine years, and he has never once seen or smelled my business. How have I pulled this off? I don’t do it when he’s around or awake. In an emergency, I have my ways of pooping so he won’t hear, smell, or see. It’s a challenge.

So this makes me wonder. How low can the bar sink? What strange new horrors will crop up tomorrow? What frightening new ways will women be expected to debase themselves in order to earn a man who allow her to name herself after him? I figured it’s time to start a prediction pool. My offerings:

  • Dog collar labeled “Property of: Male Owner”. If you’re rich, you can have that in diamonds.
  • Rising two hours before him every morning to shave everything, do your hair, do your make-up and a bunch of other mysterious beauty stuff that is the bare minimum to let his precious man eyes lay upon you. No exceptions. No, not even for childbirth.
  • Menstrual huts.
  • You may think that you’re being a proper supplicant if, like sandwich lady, you’re “stumbling into the kitchen to make Eric a sandwich while I still had on my high heels and party dress.” But not good enough. Sandwiches should be mounted on your back with a special tray and served to your man by you on all fours. When he is finished with his sandwich, you are to ask if he would like a blow job.
  • You are to exit every room he is in backwards, whether on all fours or merely two feet. Turning your back on your man instead of gazing at him worshipfully every moment you’re around him is not permitted. Do you really want to spend the rest of your life without someone around to carp about how women these days don’t know how to please a man?
  • Speak only when spoken to. No exceptions. No, not even to initiate sex. You can communicate that with hand gestures.
  • Never wear underwear or pants. He should be able to stick anything he wants in your vagina whenever he wants. No, he does not have to notify you first. You should be grateful someone is willing to lower himself to touch it.
  • I’m not saying you have to hire a hit squad to take out any man you’ve ever dated before, but you want to get married some day, don’t you?
  • If you ever happen to orgasm during sex—though you absolutely cannot expect that this is on the table—you should wash his feet afterwards in gratitude.
  • All his sexist jokes are the funniest shit you ever heard. You’d pee yourself laughing, if women peed outside of golden showers porn videos.

Now, under the circumstances, you might be asking yourself why bother with getting married in the first place, since it sounds like an endlessly regime of humiliation and debasement, all for no other end purpose than having to pretend you love your captor. “What about holding out for a man who loves and respects you?” you might be asking. Feminist twaddle that’s infected your brain! Have you noticed you’re a woman? A man can no more respect and love you than he respect and love his bowel movements. A man’s respect and love are for things like his car, his gun, and the teeth he uses to ceremoniously consume the symbol of your inferior status, the sandwich you made him. You are to serve and worship and accept this is how it is.

Now I know some of you are entertaining the treasonous idea that being single is a better option than being kicked around and forced to beg for scraps. Damn that fictional character Carrie Bradshaw! Let me tell you, this is not so. After all, as a mere woman, don’t you want a man to validate you? Isn’t having a man lower himself to letting you fuck him and make sandwiches for him such a wonder that you’ll do anything to get it? Don’t you feel so validated, having someone around to make you feel small and like you’re always begging for forgiveness for being female? Aren’t you afraid that….

Wait, where are you going? Don’t walk away from me! I’m going to call you fat on Twitter! I’m going to say no one will ever love you! Lissssssteeeeeen to meeeeeeeeeeeee! You neeeeeeeeed a man and have to do aaaaaaaaaaanything to get one. Pleeeeeeeaaaaase…….

Amanda Marcotte
Amanda Marcotte
Amanda Marcotte is a freelance journalist born and bred in Texas, but now living in the writer reserve of Brooklyn. She focuses on feminism, national politics, and pop culture, with the order shifting depending on her mood and the state of the nation.
 
 
 
 
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