You want to know how you kill a man? Not with a gun, or a knife, or a rope. Christ, that’s too quick, too honest. No. If you really want to kill a man, you do it slowly. Quietly. Respectably. You do it with a thousand tiny paper cuts, administered with a gentle smile and a whole lot of government-funded compassion.
You take away the consequences.
That’s the whole goddamn magic trick right there. The beautiful, ugly, and completely diabolical engine of the modern world. You create a system where a woman can make a series of spectacularly bad decisions – sleep with the wrong man, have a kid she can’t afford, burn down her own goddamn marriage – and there’s always a net. A quiet, respectable, taxpayer-funded net to catch her.
Food stamps. Section 8 housing. Child support, ripped straight from the paycheck of a man she probably despises, enforced by the quiet, efficient threat of jail time. And if all else fails, the quiet, clean, and completely soulless efficiency of the abortion clinic.
You take away the consequences, and what happens? You don’t create freedom; you create chaos. You create a world where women don’t have to choose wisely anymore. They don’t have to look at a man and think, “Is this a good man? Is he strong? Is he reliable? Can he build a goddamn house?” No. Why bother with the inspection when the government is already co-signing the loan on a guaranteed piece of shit?
That black woman you heard, the one talking about welfare replacing the man in the house? She wasn’t lying. That’s the beautiful, ugly, and completely honest truth they don’t teach you in their women’s studies classes. The government became the new husband. A quiet, reliable, and completely passionless provider. And who needs a real man, with all his beautiful, ugly, messy complexities, when you’ve got Uncle Sam paying the bills?
And the kids? Christ. Eighty-seven percent of the men rotting in cages were raised by single mothers. You think that’s a coincidence? You think that’s just a statistical anomaly? No. That’s the goddamn harvest. That’s the quiet, predictable result of a generation of boys raised without fathers, without the beautiful, ugly, and completely necessary presence of a man to show them how to be one. They grow up in a world run by women, and they either become quiet, castrated lapdogs, or they become wild, beautiful, and completely dangerous animals. And either way, society has no goddamn use for them.
You’re not forcing anyone to stay in a marriage, you say. No. You’re just making it so goddamn easy, so financially profitable, to leave. The old vows, “’til death do us part,” the quiet, beautiful, and completely terrifying commitment of a lifetime? That’s a joke now. It’s a goddamn thirty-day free trial with an easy opt-out clause, subsidized by the poor bastard who’s still trying to play by the old rules.
And you look around at the wreckage. Sixty-nine percent divorce rate, or whatever the hell it is today. Does anyone seem particularly broken up about it? No. People aren’t dying in the streets. Ronald McDonald House is still open. And the number of homeless women? It’s a rounding error compared to the army of broken men sleeping under bridges.
Why? Because the net is there. For her. Not for him.
And then they have the balls to talk about “equality.”
[Image contrasting traditionally male and female dominated professions]Equality. What a beautiful, ugly, and completely fraudulent word. They want the CEO jobs, the corner offices, the quiet, respectable positions of power. But you don’t see them lining up for the bricklayer jobs, the roofing jobs, the goddamn sewer-crawling jobs. No. They want equal outcomes, but they sure as hell don’t want equal effort, or equal risk, or equal goddamn calluses on their soft hands.
Equality, unless it’s in the courtroom, where a woman’s tears are worth more than a man’s goddamn testimony. Equality, unless it involves their quiet, beautiful, and completely ruthless genetic superpower: the ability to mind-fuck a man into a quiet, simmering state of perpetual apology, while he’s physically capable of squashing her like a goddamn grape but knows that if he even raises his voice, he’s the monster.
False accusations. Domestic abuse. Rape. It’s the new currency. The beautiful, quiet, and completely devastating weapon that requires no proof, only an accusation whispered in the right ear. I remember my own wife, after twenty years of quiet, respectable silence, suddenly looking at me with those cold, dead eyes and saying, “You are abusing me. Your words are abusing me.” Not a punch, not a slap. Just words. But she said it like she was reading from a script, like she was setting the stage for the courtroom scene.
And you wonder why a man walks away.
You wonder why a man like Tiger Woods fucks five different cocktail waitresses. Maybe he’s just trying to find one goddamn transaction that’s honest. Maybe he’s just trying to escape the quiet, suffocating, and completely soul-crushing performance of a life where he’s always wrong, always apologizing, always paying the goddamn bill.
You take away the consequences, and you create a world where a woman like my mother might think twice before popping out a kid just to hook a man. You create a world where a woman thinks twice before spreading her legs for five different men outside her marriage, demoralizing herself, turning her own beautiful, sacred body into a cheap goddamn commodity.
I’m not saying we rip out the whole safety net. Not entirely. But maybe, just maybe, we need to raise the goddamn floor a little. Maybe we need to remind people, gently, with a quiet, firm hand, that choices have consequences. That you are accountable for your own goddamn life.
A woman selects her man. That’s the beautiful, ugly, and completely honest truth of the biological game. Then take some goddamn responsibility for your choice. ’Til death do us part. Remember that one? Or was that just another pretty line you used to get the ring?
