Thought this was a joke

TurtleKing0505 · 2020-07-30T02:16:35+00:00

There’s no way that article isn’t satire.

filosophicalaardvark · 2020-07-30T02:32:12+00:00

According to realorsatire.com

" thoughtcatalog.com is REAL

Thought Catalog is a site for op-ed pieces. They also tend to repost — and resell — Reddit posts.

From their About page:

The more worldviews and rhetorical styles on the site, the better. We want to tell all sides of the story.

Whether or not they are vigorous with fact-checking is another — and likely, moot — question; the articles are along the lines of opinion pieces, designed mostly to be funny and fun. Well . . . except this one, which is just a boner-killer. "

alxthecomrade · 2020-07-30T06:46:34+00:00

The fact is this is a satire author and the website allowed this, thinking it was real is beyond master.

WillieOMacDickerson · 2020-07-30T03:20:18+00:00

If you like this kind of humour you might enjoy the short story that is the bottom half of this document: https://sites.google.com/view/2048-the-mongrels-tale/home

It borrows a lot from 1984 and The Hand Maid's Tale. Here's how it starts:

It was a bright cold day in April, and all the clocks in Defeat Towers read ‘wake up’. Rapist 6079 sniffled and snuffled a little in his cot before heaving himself half upright. His cell was so narrow that the opposite wall was just an arm’s length away, near enough to support him while he coughed his lungs clear, and the toilet so close to his cot he didn’t have to stand to spit. He looked up at the clock again; ‘Eat’, it said. The circular frame of the old analogue clock was still there, but long ago the hands had been removed by The Motherhood, the ruling party of Landing Strip One, after they concluded that the aggressive rising and falling of the arms was a phallic symbol of The Patriarchy’s oppression of womben. In its place was the Tell-You screen, which marked the passage of tasks rather than time. Down the hallway an early riser’s kettle was whistling as the smell of his porridge ration wafted down the hallway, but Rapist 6079 wasn’t a morning person; not bothering with a glass he took a swig of what little remained in his ration of Vanquished Whiskey as he shuffled the handful of steps across the floor of his cell and gazed out the small porthole window.

Defeat Towers was one of the few remaining examples of the old vertically constructed buildings, almost all of them had been collapsed and replaced with the glass and steel breast-like domes that now dominated the skyline of Landing Strip One. The three biggest domes, far taller than Defeat Towers, were the center of The Motherhood’s administration, each emblazoned with one of the three tenets of The Motherhood: Men Are Wrong, Logic Is Optional, Tears Equal Victory.

Rapist 6079 caught himself daydreaming, and realised he was a step behind; the Tell-You screen now read ‘shave’. This was the most important part of the morning routine. The Motherhood didn’t care if you ate but all outward signs of masculinity had to be removed before a Mongrel left his cell. Having only a small circular mirror to work with was hard enough, but the outline image of Harvey Epstein acid etched into the glass made it even more difficult. Epstein, the evil mastermind behind The Patriarchy, the dark shadowy force The Motherhood existed to oppose, was the definition of Gendercrime. He was the archetypal rapist, the debauched defiler of womben; all Gendercrimes were subsumed in his example, and he was out there somewhere planning the one thing The Motherhood feared the most: The Uprising. When Rapist 6079 looked straight into the mirror it was Epstein’s eyes that filled his sockets, when he ran the razor across his face it was as if he was tracing the line of Epstein’s jaw; As The Motherhood intended Rapist 6079 had to look through and beyond the image just to catch a glimpse of himself.

“Get dressed” commanded the Tell-You screen. In Defeat Towers the uniform was a set of gender disguising overalls. Rapist 6079’s had once been bright fluorescent red but over the years they had faded to a sickly washed out orange, and where once he had filled them out with a barrel chest and powerful arms they now drooped; sagging from the straps across his shoulders they seemed to hover around his frame. The Motherhood had never seen fit to replace them, but his Genderguilt was renewed annually when he was given a fresh new patch for the front and back with his number and the word ‘Rapist’ in big black letters, and told to stitch it on.

In the safety of the control room a guard turned a key to simultaneously release the electronic locks of all the cells on the floor. As his door slid open Rapist 6079 stepped into the breach and waited for the order to begin the slow march down to the factory.

While the cells were small the hallway was broad and high, big enough to accommodate the guards in their Physical Equivalence Neural Interfacing Suits, a hulking contrivance of steel struts and gears connected by wires to the mind-reading helmet on the head of a Womban guard. It made her as fast as Usain Bolt, as strong as Arnold Schwarzenegger and as ugly as Sylvester Stallone. One of them had already stomped into the hallway.

‘Line up, Mongrels!’

Rapist 6079 stepped forward, as did every other Mongrel, to form two long opposing lines; there were hundreds to his left and hundreds to his right.

‘Mongrels, turn!’

With military precision they spun on their heels to face the stairwell at the end of the hall.

‘Mongrels, march!’

They moved as commanded, but it was more of a shuffle than a march, and they immediately bunched up as the Mongrels in front bottlenecked at the stairs.

As they trudged the words of the Prophetesses resounded along the corridor. Multitudes of different womben had been recorded pronouncing the teachings of the mental giants who were the ideological birthers of The Motherhood. Some voices were louder, some softer, suggesting one voice was closer while others were further away. Often one quote started before the other had finished, implying the urgency of individuals each yearning to be heard. This effect created the overall impression of a crowd of angry women on either side of the hallway.

‘Women have the capacity for understanding and compassion, men are just incapable of it’ pronounced one voice, confident but with a warble to her voice suggestive of a matriarchal age. A younger voice, with a hint of Southern drawl, spoke up, ‘To call a man an animal is to flatter him; he’s a machine, a walking dildo’. She was quickly replaced by the voice of a young girl, so young it was easy to imagine her clutching her teddy bear while she spat, ‘I want to see a man beaten to a bloody pulp with a high heel shoved in his mouth, like an apple in the mouth of a pig.’ An Asian accented voice spoke over the end of the young girl’s sentence, stating ‘Man is a hating rather than a loving animal’ and she in turn was spoken over by a voice with the clipped consonants and rounded vowels of a champion public speaker, ‘The male is an incomplete female, a walking abortion. To be male is to be deficient, emotionally limited; maleness is a deficiency disease and males are emotional cripples.’ A gravelly voice with Ebonic rhythms stated, ‘Every man, deep down, knows he's a worthless piece of shit’ before another cool clinical voice blandly stated, ‘I hope it hurts every time a woman laughs at your tiny excuse for a penis.’ Then the recording started over again on a continuous loop. By the time Rapist 6079 reached the stairs he had heard it dozens of times, leaving him with a feeling of being pecked by a flock of vultures too impatient to wait for their meal to die.

Waiting for the Mongrels at the bottom of the stairs was the Workhouse, an enormous basement room with conveyor belts snaking around the concrete pillars that supported the ceiling, each one feeding the chopping and slicing machines that the Mongrels were there to operate. ‘Men are wrong’, was written in large bold letters on one wall, ‘Logic is optional’ on another, ‘Tears equal victory’ on the third, but on the fourth wall was an enormous portrait photograph of The Superior Mother, the leader of The Motherhood. Her short cropped hair had been dyed a harsh crimson-purple and pinched upwards into spikes, opening up her face and accentuating her cool blue eyes. Her cheeks were plump enough to fill out any wrinkles, making her age hard to determine, but her expression was unambiguously admonishing, unmistakably scornful, smugly uncaring.

Title	Thought this was a joke
Author	BroadAzaaza52
Upvotes	18
Comments	13
Date	July 30, 2020 2:14 AM UTC (6 years ago)
Subreddit	Posted in /r/MensRights
Original Link	https://old.reddit.com/r/MensRights/comments/i0drx8/thought_this_was_a_joke/
Archive Link	https://theredarchive.com/r/MensRights/thought-this-was-a-joke.846721 https://theredarchive.com/post/846721

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