Mate, Spawn, And Die
illustration by Alexandria Heather
Valentine’s Day. Ah, what a holiday. Fake cut-out hearts with frilled edges. Red roses with the thorns cut off. Boxes of chocolates, sugar-filled and fattening – what a gift for your neurotically underweight lover! Valentine’s Day is mating season, a thinly-veiled lie that hides the urge to copulate. A mating ritual passed down through the ages like a genetic disease. How CUTE. How SENSITIVE. How CARING. How can you stand it without getting physically ill?
Traditionally, on this “holiday,” males give gifts to females to show that they care about the women to whom they’ve attached themselves. News flash, ladies: They don’t. As a general rule, men are scum. Look at any group of men on the street. Men, look at yourselves: Fat, balding, acne-ridden, and smelly. You shout at any human with a vagina who walks by. Do you actually think that any female would want your stinking, diseased member inside her? Look at your penis. A small, pathetically weak and disgusting-looking lump of flesh, hair, and spent fluids. Yet this ugly thing runs your life. If you’re so horny, jack off. Genetic traits that come from YOU deserve to be spent on your sheets.
Most of you will end up as sad, undersexed losers. But a few of you will get smart. You’ll lift weights, shave off your body hair, and dress in the height of fashion. You’ll adopt behaviors that will make you more attractive to women. Maybe you’ll become a sensitive-artist type. You’ll write bad poetry, show false emotions, and pretend to be interested in “women’s issues.” As an added bonus, you’ll have a socially acceptable excuse for being a complete prick: “Sure he’s moody and irrational, but all sensitive artists are…” Maybe you’ll become a rock ‘n’ roller. Or a writer. Or a drug dealer. Or a scientist – hey, some women fall for those smart, geeky types.
Or maybe you’ll lack even the barest emotions necessary for these things and go for the greatest aphrodisiac known to man: POWER. You’ll claw your way to the top. Screw over everyone around you. You’ll have the best car, the best suit, the best house. More money. More possessions. More power. More. More. More. You’ll have become the male ideal in this society: Rich, dumb, and handsome. And to you, women will be just one more possession. One more trophy to show the world just what a huge cock you have.
And there won’t be any shortage of trophies, will there? Women starve themselves, shave their hair off, and lather on makeup just to look attractive to men. Some have learned to be good at it. Women, you’ve learned that if you have an attractive body and withhold sex JUST ENOUGH, you can get a man to do exactly what you want him to do. He’ll buy you clothes, take you to dinner, and put you on a pedestal, as long as you let him do the horizontal maneuver on you. Become intelligent? Have an opinion? Get a brain? WHY? What’s in it for you? You can get your man to do all of this for you, and more. And so you abuse yourself, act manipulative, and let men do painful sexual acts to you. Then you wonder why you have no friends, your boyfriend doesn’t respect you, and your life is shallow, meaningless and futile.
And, sadly enough, some of you call yourselves feminists. You talk about “Empowerment,” although the only power you’ll get is the power to degrade yourself. You’ll talk about the “Sexual Revolution,” although its only effect is to view EVERYONE as a piece of meat. You’ll talk about “Sexual Freedom,” as though having intercourse is a radical act. It’s not as if your parents had sex, is it? Dogs have sex. Birds have sex. Even sea slugs have sex, and they look prettier doing it. In fact, most of the population of this planet, human and animal, will have sex before they die. How fucking radical. How revolutionary. How “Empowering.” And just what kind of male do these Camille Paglia-worshipping “feminists” want? No wimps here, nosiree bob. Strong men. Rich men. Powerful men. In short, the kind of man who will FUCK YOU OVER. You’re not radical. You’ve swallowed every patriarchal ideal, hook, line, and sinker.
But hey, it could be worse. You can’t all be in the sexual elite. Most of you – male AND female – don’t have the looks or the power to get laid. Even though you want to. Desperately. You still primp and preen; you still try to play power games; but whatever it is that makes you attractive to the opposite sex – and YOU’LL never know – you don’t have. And that you DO know. Your desperation drips from every pore. People will smell it on you like bad B.O. They may even like you, but they’ll NEVER fuck you. Eventually you’ll snap – maybe act psychotic at parties, maybe become a misogynist, maybe even write long rants in magazines.
Or maybe you’ll just drop out of the sexual rat-race altogether. Stay at home and do nothing. Marry the first person who finds you worth looking at. Settle down and lead the most boring life imaginable. When you’re 40 or 50, maybe you’ll wake from your slumber, realize your life is going nowhere, and act like a fool trying to relive a childhood that you never had. You won’t succeed, of course. But don’t worry, you’ll still have your 2.5 children, bringing you flowers on Valentine’s Day. Then they’ll grow up even less intelligent than you, and the cycle continues.
My, isn’t love grand! Such a plethora of lifestyles to choose from! How I love February 14th! Now let’s all sit back, exchange cards with people who will never understand us, and drink a toast – to the Bobbitts, the true symbol of American romance.