Thoughts from the ammo line

Ammo Grrrll stands and delivers Psychotic Ninnies, Circa 1975. She writes:

Last Friday I referred to the Psychotic Ninny Wing of the feminist movement. In the beginning they were a relatively small part of the legitimate push for equality and expanded opportunities for women. But they always existed. In a meeting I attended in 1970, a certifiably insane woman waxed rhapsodic about how “when we hang all the men they will emit sperm and we can collect that and reproduce without men.” The logistics of that scenario alone were daunting and the image tough to erase. I thought, “Holy crap! I will sit here quietly and hope her spaceship picks her up soon!”

I’m about to describe another incident which was an early precursor to the hoaxes, disgusting “rape culture” slander and tedious anti-male bigotry on campus today. Since virtually every legal equality has already been won, and the saner feminists have retired from the field, victorious, the lunatic fringe has more influence in a smaller pond.

It is ever thus in every “social justice” movement. The more obvious it becomes that virtually all impediments to success have been removed, the more furious the professional “victims” become that nothing much has changed in their lives. And the more resentful of others whose life decisions and discipline have catapulted them to success.

Individual success is anathema to a victim class. It does not inspire; it refutes the linchpin of their victimhood: that the deck is permanently stacked against them all. Those who profit from their professional victim status cling to it like a Titanic survivor to a piece of driftwood. Michelle Obama springs to mind: an obscenely-rich professional vacationer and Food Scold who claims to be dissed at Target and unwelcome at museums in the racist country that elected her unqualified, incompetent husband. Twice.

On the particular day I would like to discuss, my friend and I wheeled our toddlers toward Castro Street and decided to stop in to a women’s coffeehouse for a cup of herbal tea. Though The Full Moon called itself a coffeehouse for women, it was only for the right kind.

We quickly became aware that all the other women were what Robin Williams called “women in comfortable shoes” and what I called “The Hairy Armpit Crew.” Now, I am completely neutral on whatever people’s personal preferences are for body hair. I’m told that some men even find it appealing. Whatever. But in the early ’70s, not shaving your legs or armpits became a STATEMENT, a furry I.D. Badge for being at minimum a radical feminist.

My friend and I were clearly breeders, our Strollers of Shame advertising our cavorting with the enemy. The hostility could be cut with a knife. We got our tea and sat down. Within minutes, a large unhappy woman with the mandatory bushy armpits and a crewcut approached us and asked about our babies. “Are those boys?” she fairly spat. Both toddlers had longish curls and were – in my utterly unbiased opinion – extraordinarily good-looking.

We admitted that they were boys. She then ordered us to leave because – and who could forget such a statement even 40 years later? – “some of the women are feeling rape vibes.”

I’m pretty sure there must have been a time in my life when I was more enraged, but I can’t think of when it might have been.

My friend, of a less combative nature, immediately got up and fled, expecting I was behind her. I stayed put. Cursed with a slavish devotion to Logic, I said, “If you had to ASK if these were boys, those vibes must have been pretty weak. I paid for this tea. If you want me gone, you’d best call the cops. I am going to finish my tea with my beautiful boy and if you touch one hair on his head, you will find yourself in court. After you come out of your coma.”

It was a ludicrous threat; the woman was twice my size and I had a baby with me, never an asset in a donnybrook. But, being a very small person, I was forced to learn at an early age that bullies are always caught off guard when you fight back. She looked into my eyes, and wisely chose to stomp back to her coven. Like Mean Girls everywhere, they resumed looking daggers at me.

It’s not easy to drink Red Zinger when you’re shaking like a leaf. But I dragged it out as long as I could. And left, with as much dignity as could be mustered by a person on the verge of stroking out. When I was a few feet from the door, I yelled, “If you hate men so much, how come you are trying so hard to look like one?” Mind you, I was a card-carrying left-wing Democrat at the time. But you don’t associate my 18-month-old baby boy with the worst crime after murder and expect me to just take it and slink away.

I do not know if that den of discrimination is still there; I suspect not. Most establishments don’t last for 40 years. But anti-male bigotry lives on and thrives. Now it is backed up by the giant truncheon of the state. On campus, at the highest reaches of multi-culti government, The Psychotic Ninnies and their pet eunuchs rule. It is long past time to fight back.

Trigger warning: Run! Or grab your Teddy Bear or Play-Doh. Here are the scary boy babies who invaded the Safe Space for Psychotic Ninnies.