Pro-Con: Women

Opinion: America Has Failed the Very People It Swore to Protect. Straight Men.

By Andy Priapos 
Civil Engineering Major, YAF Member 

Our country is at its bleakest hour. Degeneracy is celebrated and discipline is shamed. Weakness is all the rage, and strength is cringe.

Nowhere in this fucked-up smörgåsbord of injustice has anyone suffered more than the straight male.

It’s sobering how much we heterosexual men have lost as a people. We used to be the proud protuberant tip of American society’s unshakable main pillar. Then in the latter half of the 20th century, we let the natural order of things go, and the whole thing became sad and limp. Impressionable young females were seduced down the treacherous slippery slope of independent bank accounts and girl power. If women can do anything from engine flushing to heart surgery, what the hell is there left for men to do? 

I honestly have nothing against feminism, in moderation. Opportunities for women to get a little extra pocket money are fantastic. And I think it’s great women got suffrage; there’s plenty of women-only issues like makeup safety or the market for home decor, for which they certainly deserve a voice. I’d even hazard to say a modest population of single, childless women is perfectly fine. Lord knows we need more nannies. 

The problem is when it affects the rest of us. The path we’re on is a one-way ticket to the extinction of western society. Alternative lifestyles are just that: alternative. The media agenda promoting singledom or homosexuality as anything close to a substitute to a God-fearing traditional marriage would be laughable if it wasn’t working. I’m still confused by the success of this nefarious campaign. Ever since I was young, I fantasized about the day I could come home to a wife of my own. Who wouldn’t want a woman to take care of your kids and raise you? — I mean, raise your kids and take care of you. And with a lifetime of practice, she’d give crazy good head.

I know marriage is a two-way street. And I’m certainly willing to provide. I’d buy her every sexy outfit imaginable, take her out to Olive Garden on Mother’s Day and even babysit the kids when she’s feeling under the weather.

I had an excellent model in my parent’s marriage growing up, though they split when I came to Vandy. Looking back, the signs were all there. My mother was sadly a first-generation victim of feminist brainwashing. She tried to foist her feminizing influence upon me with offers of edamame (a.k.a. soybeans) and Pink Lady apples. When I came of age, I told her to cut that shit out. A real man eats steak and the occasional tater.

The state of dating on Vanderbilt’s campus is a microcosm of the national situation. I can’t even spit game anymore. Last time I told a Vandy girl I wanted to get her pregnant and keep her in my house forever, she fucking pepper sprayed me. (The shower after is the worst part. Let no one tell you otherwise.)

Yet the worst sign of this recent feminist absurdity must be the candidacy of Kamala Harris. Even more chilling than her hysterical temperament is that she kind of reminds me of my friend’s hot mom I used to jack it to. It’s clearly time to draw a line in the sand as the American public. We cannot have a president who makes my dick hard. How is anyone supposed to focus on her trash-ass policies?

In conclusion, our country is at a turning point. We have a choice to make between embracing male rationality or handing over the reins to female caprice. Woke warriors often accuse men like me of taking our country backwards. But when a step forward means eradicating the male gender for good, what other choice do we have?

Opinion: Majesty, Thy Name Is Woman

By Sofia Pochva
Law, History and Society Major, Philosophy Minor

Aristotle once said that the female is a misbegotten male. I once believed him. 

I was born a wretched thing. A tame, simple beast. Useful only as entertainment or viewing pleasure, except I was good for neither. My sullen, haunted eyes unnerved family friends and close relatives. Fifth grade quickly taught me the denotation of the term “fugly.” 

Fortunately or not, for the right kinds of women, generations or lifetimes of never being enough hones them. It may not get them to the impossible standards they deep-down crave, but it gets them to a special place. For some women, it was civil rights protests and the Sexual Revolution. For me, it was a perfect eyeliner wing and an unhealthy obsession with Xitter’s gritty underbelly. 

My reading has taught me at least one thing. A woman is a shapeshifter, a siren, a sorceress.

A man is fucking nothing.

Imagine your favorite fortunate failson, if you will. Afforded success with a good-old-boy wink and nod and less-than-firm handshake. He may genuinely believe he got there from hard work and merit, when all he had to do was show up and somewhat look the part.

Meanwhile, every careerwoman plays a little game. This age-old game, passed down at birth from generations of her ancestresses, is one of cunning and manipulation. It is called “How to Be Used as a Thing and Still Get What You Want.” Not super catchy, but it definitely caught on. 

There’s a reason more women are going to college and more men are backing away. Men are not innately biologically capable of seeing past hustle and grind. They don’t know what it means to ponder. To lie in wait, patiently constructing possibilities and contingencies. Once post-secondary studies stopped being a sure payoff, it was the beginning of the end for male professionalization.

Meanwhile, a woman’s entire existence is an exercise in delayed gratification. For every swallowed word — glancing past stolen credit, crude comments, dismissive interruptions — “one day” echoes in her ears.  That day now approaches. The patriarchy’s chosen cavalry of bloated couchfuckers and sweaty ghouls flounder. Young men, grasping for the lost supremacy of their forefathers, scramble rightward. Despite their best efforts, they cannot unring that bell. The feminine revolution has only just begun.

While I’m hopeful, progress moves slow. It was only around 100 years ago we gained the vote, and much sooner since the female ideal shifted from domestic robot to independent girlboss. Even now, certain women drink the Kool-Aid and beg for subjugation under the guise of a “happy family.” Other poor souls obsess over mediocre men to their literal undoing. TikTok girlies, I envy your naiveté. Female rage is not when your dumbass boyfriend can’t differentiate lilac and dusty rose. Female rage is the blinding fury of getting bled dry by some idiotic parasitic boor who should feel lucky to even be in your goddess presence.

I still believe, however, that the next 100 years hold utopia. Women running the workplace, the household, and everywhere in between. Technology rendering men’s few uses (security, babies, opening pickle jars) obsolete. I will not be satisfied until the Barbie movie looks like a documentary. 

For this point of view, I have been charged with the title of “man-hating lesbian.” The former I cannot and wish not to deny, but my eternal shame is being a born heterosexual. I briefly considered joining a convent to replace this shameful desire with ascetic purpose. Even a decade of Church instruction and a wealth of childhood co-ed woe couldn’t get me over the finish line.

I’ll let you in on a secret. In my heart of hearts, I’m still waiting for the man who will whisper me sweet nothings and tell me I’m pretty; who will sweep me up in his strong arms when I’m afraid; who will see the worst depths of my soul and cherish the hell out of me anyway.

And like every story about a kind, helpful wolf in the woods, I know how that fairytale ends.