Tag Archives: Feminism

Gender Studies Major Seeking Employment

My IQ is 99.

My height is five-foot-three.

My GPA was 1.8

When I earned my PhD.

I’m not a total nincompoop,

Just a little slow.

If you ever need a nincompee

I’m free. Just let me know!

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Dear Womxn…

The title’s not a typo

But a movement that began

Because the words “women” and “woman”

Include the words “men” and “man.”

I support those of all genders

Whether pronounceable or not

But there are a few more words

Of which ye womxn haven’t thought:

Mandatory, mandate

Manuscript and mandolin,

Manufacture, mandril,

Manhole, manager, mansion,

Manitoba, manometric,

And we haven’t seen

Manservant, mend, mental, and menstruate,

Manhandle, mangosteen,

Plus Truman, human, lumen,

Mandrake and manipulate,

Manifest, manageable,

Mannerly and mandarinate,

Mandatory, mandragora,

Manchineels and manticore,

Manicure, manifest, manubriums,

And over 1,600 more.

The point that I am making

Is that “man” shows up a lot;

It’s just a common phoneme,

Not a patriarchal plot.

So don’t mention Womxn to me

Or their mantras, manifestos,

Or other such manure.

Now excuse me, I’m making pesto.

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False-Rape Culture

The marriage rate is going down

And many tears are falling.

The good men left and left behind

Some eyes bloodshot from bawling.

Men no longer mentor

Any women that they pay

Because they fear the power

Of what said women might say

And smart men will no longer talk

To strangers in a skirt

‘Cause they’re one false “j’accuse” away

From sleeping in the dirt.

Cats think that this circumstance

Is surely heavensent:

They live with 30-something women

Whose exes pay the rent.

Meanwhile the men rebuild themselves

From fighters into monks

And leave the chasing women

To the inner-city punks.

The West now walks on eggshells.

There is no doubt about it:

The feminists have made their beds

And now they lie about it.

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Yep, Still Single…

Cancer is better than feminists.

Of this I am convinced.

I know people who beat cancer

And haven’t heard from it since.

But fate is not so happy

For those who’ve contracted feminism

For between them and common sense

Is a nigh-incurable schism.

Cancer kills quickly and painfully.

Feminism’s mostly the same

Except it lacks social stigma

And casts a whole lot more blame.

Feminists ask for equality

While cancer makes all of us equal.

Cancer terminates us while feminism

Makes an all-female terminator sequel.

And if you find you’re a feminist

Whether long-term or out of the blue

You have to live with yourself. With cancer

That’s something you don’t have to do.

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It Would Be Called “231,” Since Women Only Get 77 Soldiers On The Hundred

It’s an age of all-female remakes

Like Ghost Busters and Oceans 8.

My faithful readers probably think

This is a trend I’d hate.

Instead I think the opposite;

It’s something I’m totally for

And here are some beloved movies

To remake if they make more:

How about “The Godmother?”

“Lady of the Rings?”

“The Good, the Less Good, and the Strong Independent Woman

“Concerned Less With Appearance Than Other Things?”

How ’bout all-female “Fight Club”

Or “Saving Private Ryan?”

How about a “Hacksaw Ridge”

That no one has to die in?

I jest, I jest (At least I hope).

But I pray that in 2019

The all-female “300” reboot

Hits the Imax screen.

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A Feminist Unicorn

She is a shining unicorn

Cloaked in righteous fire.

To her all that’s unequal

Is an injustice dire.

A gynocentric unity

Is all she needs for bliss

And society might like her

If she didn’t look like this:

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The Absolutely True Diary of a Trans-Whale

I’ve always admired blue whales,

The largest animals ever

Who traverse the world routinely

And are beautiful, noble, and clever.

And so I became a blue whale

But a good choice, alas, ’tis not been.

I’m surrounded by feminist bloggers

Who just wish they could grow baleen.

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They Probably Met Online

Sharp and cold’s the flashing rain

Upon my black umbrella

Which I relinquish happily

Unto my new love, Stella.

Now her springtime golden tress

Is dry as my nervous mouth

For my journey takes me northward

While she vacantly looks south.

I stammer “what’s your number?”

As an adolescent might,

And I’ll never forget her eyes,

Dark blue just like the night.

“First you give me this thing,”

She says towards my umbrella,

“Then follow me for blocks

“Like I’m some sort of Cinderella?

“I won’t give you my number

“And I beg you, leave me be!”

Then she closed my umbrella

And thrust it into me.

And in that painful moment,

Twice breathless made am I

For my heart says “Dude, she saw you!”

Though my gut tells me to cry.

Thus as my tears join eagerly

The gutter’s growing moat

I wish her path be free of puddles

For I cannot lay down my coat.

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Here’s Where “All The Good Men” Are Going

They said I could dance if I wanted,

But I didn’t pay them no mind.

I said my friends don’t dance

And since they don’t dance

I’ll happily respond in kind.

They said I could wink if I wanted,

Use my privilege as a white male,

But if the non-dancers

Spew their postmodern cancers

Then I’ll probably end up in jail.

The jail guys dance if they wanna.

They’ll dance with convict behinds,

And since they’re “oppressed”

They don’t second guess

To ask if their partner minds.

So thanks but no thanks to the dancing.

I’ll enjoy my private gloom

‘Cause I don’t want the event

Of past-tense non-consent

To be my freedom’s doom.

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The History Of Feminism

Once there was an open sky,

Then the humans came on by.

They said “freedoms a pain in the ass,”

And thus were born kings and the ceiling of glass.

This order remained for centuries

Until the women said “ah jeez.”

They got mad and up they spoke

Until, at last, the ceiling broke.

Somewhere then along the line

When everything was going fine

The newly freed hankered for more

And so they made a new glass floor.

They made the men upon it stand

While together chicks did band

And told the men “call us lovely and dear

“And say we’re perfect, BUT BE SINCERE!”

And so the men did as they were tasked

And said the things the women asked,

But alas, that wasn’t good enough.

And so was born the third-wave stuff.

And now the men stand on a cracked glass floor.

One misstep and they’ll step no more.

This poem’s moral must be stressed:

Women are still the ones oppressed.

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