As one of life’s givers, I’m always looking for new ways to selflessly contribute to the sum total of human happiness.
Today is my birthday. Don’t ask how old; I’ll only lie. I am announcing today that I am to have no more birthdays in the future. From now on, October 18 (in case you’re a loser and you’re reading this a day late because you don’t have Milo Alert!) will be officially recognised as World Patriarchy Day.
Feminists like to claim that there is a sinister cultural phenomenon known as the “patriarchy,” through which all men, especially if they are white, contribute to a set of values and social norms that marginalise and exclude women.
What a load of old shit. I honestly can’t believe people fall for this rubbish. So, in an attempt to redress the imbalance between fact and fantasy, World Patriarchy Day is the day on which you should feel free to express your masculinity in the most odiously toxic manner imaginable.
When you think about it, I’m doing the feminists a favour sacrificing my birthday and the usual orgy of cocaine, Dom Perignon and Ugandan rent boys and replacing it with a celebration of heterosexual manhood. For at least one day out of 365, their preposterous, feverish conspiracy theories will actually be true. Here are my suggestions.
Have a penis.
Flirt with every female member of retail staff you encounter. They tell you they hate it, but they’d die without it.
Cat-call at least five women.
Say no to new shoes.
Play video games.
Tell a woman why she’s wrong (but be sure to hold the door open for her as she leaves).
Walk around topless, even in the freezing cold (no, especially in the freezing cold).
Buy a truck.
Leave the seat up.
Don’t call her back.
If you have a girlfriend or a spouse, leave a sandwich knife, a spread, and a loaf of bread in plain sight in the kitchen. Let her work the rest out.
If you have female employees, refer to them exclusively as “darling.” All day.
Wear this shirt.
Take pictures of yourself working out and tweet them with the hashtag #WorldPatriarchyDay. (No ulterior motives here, obviously. I’m just trying to help.)
Get yourself banned from the Guardian’s comments section.
Ask if you can touch them.
Ask if they have names.
Ask her to jump up and down.
“This isn’t going to suck itself.”
As you’re driving to work, make a point of rolling down your window, then look disapprovingly at the female driver next to you. Shake your head. Pull away. Especially effective if by some miracle she has been driving perfectly competently.
Get thrown out of a Slut Walk.
Find a successful female scientist and explain basic algebra to her slowly and carefully.
Purchase the last venti pumpkin spice latte, and then pour it slowly out on the ground in front of a line of miserable, hungover secretaries.
Solve a math problem.
Write some code.
Wear cargo pants.
Violate a safe space.
When asked to pick up the check, pay 79 cents on the dollar.
Tell your wife to lose weight.
Tell her how her ass really looks in that dress.
Find opportunities to say: “Oh, it was my privilege.”
Install an actual glass ceiling.
Follow me on Twitter. If you’re already following me, make a new account and follow me again.
Walk into a Women’s Studies seminar with a copy of anything by Camille Paglia.
Over to you, shitlords!