Eye bleach needed by the bucket
I spar (and now grapple) on a regular basis. I know how it feels to face an opponent who is bigger, stronger, and tougher than me. I know what it is like to be beaten to a bloody pulp by someone with vastly greater skill and precision than me. I know what it means to be taken to the ground and find myself nearly as helpless as a newborn child under the smothering weight of someone much more experience and talent than me.
I know, understand, and accept both the fear and the joy of battle. It ignites a primal urge in a man that civilisation and its influences have worked very hard to suppress and breed out of us- but which can never be truly removed. The song of war calls out to each of us men in the most primal way possible, one that such porkers cannot and will never understand.
And I am not even particularly good at fighting. I just enjoy it- which I imagine suggests something a bit unhealthy about me.
If any one of those Jizzabels were ever put into a fighting situation with someone like me, it would be like putting a tethered goat into an enclosure with a starving tiger. The woman in question would not have the first clue what hit her.
There would be no honour in such a contest, of course. There is no honour to be found in beating up on a weaker opponent who is so obviously and totally outclassed from the first moment that she steps onto the field of combat. It would not even be fun to watch.
But it would teach the woman in question an abject lesson as to her own limitations, that is for sure.
If they truly wanted to "SMASH THE PATRIARKEEEEE!!!!", then good for them. Let's stick them in a platoon-sized formation and drop them off in the middle of the Levant and let them have a go at fighting ISIS. Or, let's parachute them right into the middle of the latest round of protests in Iran.
Best of all, let's make them do an amphibious landing on the coast of Saudi Arabia and then execute a forced march to Riyadh to make King Salman give women the right to vote and walk in public unveiled and without a chaperone.
That last one should be particularly hilarious to watch. You bring the snacks, I'll supply the beer, we can watch the revolution live on my HDTV.
Watching that video makes one realise that this particularly nasty mental and moral cancer of feminism has taken root quite firmly among Western urban women of my generation and those a few years younger; it will be some time yet before the aptly named "Generation Zyklon" comes along and decides to torch the entire rotten edifice of feminism and "privilege theory" down to the ground as it so richly deserves.
This has made a large portion of Western women basically impossible to date. This would be fine if they were at least good-looking women of loose virtue who insist on parroting whatever horseshit it is that feminists believe these days. Unfortunately, they are not. Many of the young women who believe in this nonsense are ugly and deeply unattractive both without and within.
A correction will take place sooner or later. It is inevitable. But I wonder how many more women will fall for the trap of feminism, and its odious gospel of avoiding personal responsibility in favour of screeching about "oppression" and "privilege" and "patriarchy", before its well-deserved end finally comes.
In the meantime, though, there is at least one good thing to be said about "feminist fight club": it gets those lard-asses off the couch and gets them some form of exercise.
Even if that exercise is very hard on the eyes and essentially consists of a bunch of fat ugly irritating abusive lesbians- but, again, I repeat myself- putting on their very best impressions of sumo wrestlers, and failing miserably.