The Trouble With Men Is That They

I Once Asked A Young Dissertation Writer Whether Her Suddenly Grayed Hair Was Due To Ill Health Or Personal Tragedy; She Answered: “it Was The Footnotes”.

The Demon Got Up. The Demon Said Fool. To Think You Can Eat Their Food And Not Talk To Them. To Think You Can Take Their Money And Not Be Afraid Of Them. To Think You Can Depend On Their Company And Not Suffer From Them.

Leaning Her Silly, Beautiful, Drunken Head On My Shoulder, She Said, "oh, Esther, I Don't Want To Be A Feminist. I Don't Enjoy It. It's No Fun." "i Know," I Said. "i Don't Either." People Think You Decide To Be A "radical," For God's Sake, Like Deciding To Be A Librarian Or A Ship's Chandler. You "make Up Your Mind," You "commit Yourself" (sounds Like A Mental Hospital, Doesn't It?). I Said Don't Worry, We Could Be Buried Together And Have Engraved On Our Tombstone The Awful Truth, Which Some Day Somebody Will Understand: We Wuz Pushed.

As My Mother Once Said: The Boys Throw Stones At The Frog In Jest. But The Frogs Die In Earnest.

To Act In A Way Both Sexist And Racist, To Maintain One's Class Privilege, It Is Only Necessary To Act In The Customary, Ordinary, Usual, Even Polite Manner.