Rebecca Traister’s Idiocy: Too Late for National Offend a Feminist Week? UPDATE: She Keeps Losing Arguments With the Voices in Her Head
Posted on | May 14, 2012 | 24 Comments
Instpundit brutally pimp-slaps a Washington Post columnist who evidently doesn’t understand that a succubus, by definition, cannot be “sex-averse.” Alas, National Offend a Feminist Week ends on Mother’s Day, and I didn’t see Rebecca Traister’s column (linked at Althouse) until the annual festival of patriarchal oppression had elapsed.
If only there were some good reason to bend the rules . . .
UPDATE: Who am I kidding, huh?
There may be other work to be done today — work for which I might actually get paid — but even if nobody hits my tip jar, this verbose bimbo is gonna get smacked around so bad, she’ll wish she’d never even thought about writing that witless screed. Just give me a few minutes to skim through and find the proper angle of attack. While you’re repeatedly hitting the “refresh” button in eager anticipation of the forthcoming viciously misogynistic updates, however . . .
UPDATE II: While you’re waiting for me to unleash the hounds of patriarchal hell on Rebecca Traister, let’s point out that embittered humorless feminists are not a stereotype. They’re the unspeakably grim reality that is Michelle Goldberg on MSNBC:
Donald Douglas at American Power: “I’ve written about Michelle Goldberg many times. I was literally sickened when I read her book a few years back, which is a global manifesto for infanticide.”
UPDATE III: Still locking in coordinates for the targeted barrage. While you wait — and c’mon, $5 or $10 — I’ll provide you the guaranteed antidote to Viagra, Michelle Goldberg and Rebecca Traister in a 2008 “Blogging Heads TV” colloquy:
In their spare time, Goldberg and Traister probably volunteer at the local abortion clinic, taking turns plunging knives through the hearts of any infants who manage to survive the procedure.
Meanwhile, ask yourself: Why can’t Michelle Goldberg or Rebecca Traister ever find anything to say about a case in which police are accused of ignoring pedophile sex-traffickers?
UPDATE V: Having pored over Traister’s self-consciously “intellectual” essay – studded with SAT words and other such aren’t-we-so-smart advanced-placement gestures – I see exactly what Professor Althouse meant by “a silly collection of words.”
There isn’t really an argument, except between Traister and her selected strawmen, or perhaps among the screeching voices inside Rebecca’s demon-filled head. (“My name is Legion” – somewhere, a herd of swine awaits.) Her intent is to celebrate the humor of various other liberals, to whom she attributes an aptitude she conspicuously lacks herself. No one has ever accused Rebecca Traister of being intentionally funny and, if “the personal is political,” her politics is either intensely secretive or utterly empty. Careful observers of Traister’s work cannot help but notice how guarded she is about herself, seeking always to have us focus on whatever idols she reveres or scapegoats she demonizes.
There is something about Rebecca that Rebecca doesn’t like (a self-loathing she externalizes by attacks on others), and her “feminism” is less a philosophy than an attempt to distract herself and others from her own emotional desperation.
One suspects she has a history of suicidal thoughts. What sort of anti-depressants has Traister been prescribed, and in what dosage?
It doesn’t matter: She is not funny, because there is nothing funny about her own lonely and joyless existence. For this plight, she somehow irrationally blames conservative Republicans she’s never actually met and who wouldn’t even know she existed – admit it, you had never heard of her before now — if she hadn’t committed that stupid miscomprehension of “succubus.” (Can the Washington Post no longer afford to employ college graduates as editors?) At any rate, here is the conclusion of Traister’s column:
The hairy harridan of yore isn’t totally vanquished. She’s too useful for the right. Without her, it becomes clear that Republicans are fighting not some made-up monster but women themselves. Contemporary activists who have recently replaced the yellowing cartoon of feminism with a living, breathing, nuanced version of what women’s liberation means in 2012 must keep fighting with humor and zeal if they ever want to finish off the old bat.
Perhaps someday they’ll even avenge her by hoisting a banner of their foes as fogeyish, woman-hating, humorless prudes and carrying it into future battles.
Unfortunately for Traister, she can never escape her own worst enemy, whose unforgiving gaze penetrates her every time she looks in a mirror.