It’s been a bit over six years since I got polar-beared on Frankford Avenue in Black Kensington.
Since then, I haven’t set foot in the bad parts of Northeast Philadelphia (although I have visited the Temple campus, which is certainly a bit Badlandish). More importantly, I haven’t believed for a second since then that racially motivated black-on-white violence is not a very real and very serious problem. Being jumped by two hoodlums for peaceably riding a bicycle down a major thoroughfare and called “whitey” isn’t exactly amenable to explanations other than seething racial hatred. It doesn’t matter that one of the hood rats was, in the neighborhood parlance (I suppose), “half-breed.” Dude still waylaid me and called me “whitey” while throwing punches at me. I was lucky to escape without suffering any physical harm; I don’t know whether these guys just wanted to scare me or wanted to seriously fuck me up, but I do know that they stood down right away after I shouted “POLICE!” at the top of my lungs, despite having stood their ground while I screamily called the mulatto a motherfucker in front of annoyed witnesses in a nearby house. I reckon I put at least a bit of a scare into the asshats.
The attack lasted twenty or thirty seconds, including the prep time, during which the darker-skinned dude crouched in front of a minivan and I dismounted to avoid being knocked over by this crouching hoodlum. After it ended, I rode at full-throttle speed into Northern Liberties. The trip was a blur from Venango to a few blocks south of Girard, my only focus on the area a second or two ahead of me and immediately on my periphery.
I seriously considered filing a police report, but decided against it because I knew that the average Philadelphia cop would ask me what the hell I was doing riding a bike through the Badlands at night and that I didn’t have a reason strong enough to shut down a tangential interrogation or lecture about Whitey’s activities in the hood. I had been on the way back from a trip to the Mid-Northeast to reposition my car, which I’d parked on Bustleton Avenue (subsequently referred to as “Bustelton” in a warning ticket from a dumbass cop who had probably been called out by dipshit neighbors to assert their private control over public parking areas in their neighborhood; it’s no accident that Parking Wars has a Philadelphia franchise). I really didn’t want the trouble of explaining why I was parking on streets in the Northeast instead of near my apartment in Center City (the cost, duh; parking was free and without posted restrictions on Bustleton) or what brought my cracker ass into Black Kensington, since it was actually my Danelaw-Ashkenazi heritage that gave me the idea that a slightly elevated risk of mugging (underestimated in retrospect) was acceptable for a Sunday night bike ride down a major thoroughfare in a ghetto neighborhood. After all, it was my city too, and I would never have jumped a Kensington youth for peaceably riding his bike down lower Chestnut. It wasn’t until afterwards that I thought better of trying to take back the night.
What I had encountered was an honest-to-God culture of racial violence. I have no idea of what grievances my attackers may have had against white cops or whether those grievances were legitimate or bogus, but it doesn’t fucking matter. They were probably too pussy to take out their anger on any cops that had personally wronged them or their buddies, or on Philadelphia cops in general, who, practically to a man and a woman, are either badass Northeast Irish or tight as shit with badass Northeast Irish. One does not simply polar-bear the Northeast Irish; it is much easier and safer to polar-bear a completely innocent bougie, low-cracker-content white who, by the way, generally got along well, if not cordially, with his black neighbors of goodwill.
The men who attacked me were patently evil and dangerous. Their kind is legion in America’s ghettos; a single-digit minority of the population acting out on their stewing bigotry is enough to seriously fuck a neighborhood up. In the time since I was polar-beared, I’ve seriously contemplated eugenics and targeted vigilante violence, including homicide, as reasonable responses to the worst cases. Maybe I should be ashamed of these thoughts, but they’re inevitable, and they’re certainly less pernicious than the thoughts that lead to stray whites being beaten, maimed and killed without provocation solely on account of their race.
At no point, however, have I felt an inclination to blame racist culture alone for my being polar-beared. Right away, I knew that I had been too ballsy for my own good, that, regardless of the execrable evil of the men who had attacked me or the propriety of defeating their ilk through targeted force or the corruption and bigotry of Philadelphia cops who would rather blame Whitey for his own troubles in the ghetto than go police up the miscreants, as a practical matter I ought not go bicycling in the gnarlier parts of the Badlands again. There might be other, more thorough ways to weaken or defeat the ghetto culture of racial violence, but the best thing I could personally do to abate it was to stay the hell away from places where I was likely to get polar-beared again. After all, learning to recognize threats and avoid them is an important part of growing up.
Here’s the hard part: this applies to teh wimminz, too. I learned to err on the side of cost in guessing at the cost-benefit analysis of nighttime quasi-recreational bicycling in the ghetto, so I reckon it might be salutary for young ladies to err similarly on the side of cost in their own cost-benefit analyses of slumming with rapey frat boys and college athletes, getting stumbling drunk in public, being atavistic-slutty with strange men, and so forth. Yes, these are all lawful behaviors, more or less, but not everything that is lawful is advisable. Sure, you’re allowed to do that, but there are times when it’s a bloody good idea to check your privilege. Otherwise, it might get checked on your naive ass, and trust me, it won’t be as pleasant in that case.
My argument here is not that the world is a dangerous and unfair place, but that certain, specific parts of it are dangerous and unfair, and that those who needlessly venture into these dark precincts are either naive or reckless. It is blameworthy to be naive and reckless, so women who purposely go slumming around rapists absolutely deserve some of the blame.
This isn’t victim-blaming in the usual pejorative sense. The point is not to absolve the aggressor of responsibility, but to smack enough sense into the victim that she stops putting herself in needless danger by getting incompetently sloppy in public and voluntarily associating with bad men, or otherwise accepts her share of responsibility when she predictably comes to harm in her unnecessarily compromised state. Nothing about this assignment of partial responsibility to rape victims who behaved foolishly diminishes the seriousness of rape as a crime. To the contrary, it recognizes that precisely because rape is a serious crime, women should take commonsense precautions to avoid it.
Bizarrely, this line of reasoning has come to be regarded as politically incorrect. The PC police who pronounce it anathema would have few objections to an argument that the man who gets blacked-out drunk in mob gambling dens has himself to blame, and not structural mafia theft culture, for having wads of cash stolen from his wallet every weekend. The existence of mafia theft culture in this case is immaterial. Maybe it exists, and if so, it’s wrong, but dude was a moron to go slumming with the wiseguys in the first place, let alone go full Rob Ford in their joint. A few disingenuous feminists scheming to sound consistent might argue that the only people with real agency in this situation are the wiseguy thieves, but most would have no qualms about calling the victim a dumbass and averring that he ought to keep better company for his own good. The only people they are averse to empowering with equivalent common sense are callow young women.
It’s a fine testimony to their motivations and character. You have to hand it to them and admit that take-back-the-night feminism is some real dope-ass shit for innocent young things of the female perspective.
As the managers’ T-shirts said when I interviewed at a Jack-in-the-Box in El Monte, “I must confess, I love a hot mess.” But I peddle vague, expansive terminology, phrases that refer to much stickier things than a hamburger smothered in pepper jack and canned jalapenos. I might well have consented to be sexually harassed (at a bare minimum, please) in the walk-in cooler by either of these ladies had they hired me instead of intermittently humiliating me by way of grandiosely determining that I, a Hersheypark food service alumnus, was not fit to be a fry cook in their restaurant. That, too, would have been a hot mess, even though realistically I would have immediately proposed alternate, lower-liability venues for this beautiful fraternization. Of all the horrible forms of structural oppression that we’re tendentiously told exist, it’s just my luck that none of these is structural sexual quid pro quo against balding, fat line employees (I prefer “differently follicularized” and “festively plump.”) I take that back: there may well be such a culture, but it’s nigh certainly confined to managers amorphous and insane enough that I’ll pass, not just on them but also on the job.
Incidentally, there was a time in college when I could have gotten laid on the spot by an adoring young woman, but that was one form of refuge whose full price was clearly marked on the muumuu, and my suitor and her pint-sized Indiana Jones sidekick came up tilt in their effort to seal the deal by stopping by the student union one Sunday afternoon in the run-up to spring finals for several minutes of powerfully awkward staring. The other three victims of this theater of the absurd, including Indiana’s romantic intermediary on my end, are today all married with children, so maybe I was resisting assimilation into my true tribe. In that case, all I can say is that many are called, but few answer. It goes for holier vocations, too, and once again, I’m not apologizing for my reluctance to answer that call in a world that is also populated by whores who are way more sane and fly than that.
What I meant to say was that Rahab was a holy and devout woman of God in spite of her profession, and also she had great tits.
Hey now, don’t blame me. There’s worse in the Bible.
As we’ll see shortly, the last few bits are a lot more topical than they should be. They aren’t the only dubious things to have been written about the one holy catholic and apostolic church by ambivalent but sincere members of the flock. Look: there are worse Catholic housekeeping matters to attend to than trying to understand why, Lord, why there are so many faggots and dorks in the priesthood instead of hot straight guys with lots of other options. Some of us are content to leave investigations of this question to the kind of people who nurse sublimated long-term crushes on priests and their office or, as was the case of the young woman who fell victim to Muumuu and Indiana that hot spring afternoon, a festering, unrequited interest in other peoples’ sex lives.
In any event, these matters of holy celibacy, in fact or in pretense, are extraneous to our current purposes, except to say something that isn’t reiterated nearly enough in the relevant circles: that nothing of the sort is compulsory. You don’t have to put on the red light, but you also don’t have to put on the red shoes, and you certainly don’t have to buy any fucking Police records.
To understand how the Catholic priesthood came to be something of a dorkfest, consider that it is one of the two surviving heirs to the Roman imperial government. Next, ask yourself whether it was the cool kids at your high school who took elective Latin and made goofy SPQR paraphernalia for extra credit, and whether anyone in fourth-year Latin was bangable. My guess is that we’re dealing with straight negatives here. This month’s Italian government inherited the brawling, backstabbing side of Roman politics, while the Church inherited the side staffed by solicitors who found late imperial law less confusing than bathhouse whores. Even if you’re by default a Berlusconian nutcase or an unfuckable dork, you have no obligation to hang out with either of these crowds.
It all comes down to a combination of introspection and self-determination. If you realize that you’re an off-putting dork and can therefore expect to attract other off-putting dorks, or that you’re too shy to mix it up with the slutty girls enough to figure out whether any of them like you, you’re on the way to rectifying your own dorkitude or shyness. In dorky-ass poli-sci terms, you’ve developed a functioning OODA Loop. An alternate high civic way of explaining this is that self-knowledge is the key to effective self-determination. I could charge money for books about this shit, and maybe I should, but book tours involve a level of social exertion that would be le hard.
It also comes down to not hanging out with losers. It’s about asking questions like, “If I’m so socially stunted and weird around chicks, why am I spending all my free time at Boy Scouts? Aren’t there coeducational organizations that are less fucked up?” (Yes.) There are hordes of stupid, meddlesome, even evil people who approach the less assertive and savvy with ulterior motives. These people are worth avoiding. Avoid them.
To apply this gloss to fraternity parties–WAAAAAH RAPE CULTURE! Fine. Let’s suppose that rape culture exists. Let’s also suppose that there’s such a thing as dumbfuck girl-starved incel culture, a culture I can certainly believe in since I lived in its deep end as a Boy Scout. So let’s ask the same question about each of these cultures: if it’s so destructive, why the hell do you have a thing to do with it? Why aren’t you running like the wind?
This is easy enough to answer vis-à-vis the BSA: it’s an organization full of minors sent there by their parents. It sucked, but it was what it was. The extent of my troop’s instruction by the BSA in the civics of self-determination was a campfire song advising us to “stay on the sunny side of life,” to wit: “Chesterfield!” “Chesterfield who?” “Chesterfield my leg so I slapped him!” Otherwise, the civic environment offered little more than crude authoritarian social controls and ad hoc rule by petty mobs of teenage boys. I wasn’t ruined by this poison; I was merely set back socially by several years. After all, to belabor the point a bit, we were abetted in our presumed inclination to respond to incipient sexual annoyances from peers (or adults? On my honor, they printed jokes about this Sanduskian yuck-yuck in Boy’s Life) with battery, but not in any inclination to tell busybodies to mind their own sex lives instead of ours.
It’s quite a different situation for young women vis-à-vis the most identifiable outposts of rape culture. For the most part, it damn well isn’t their parents who are pestering them to go to parties hosted and swarmed by guys who look totally rapey. It isn’t their parents bugging them to learn to navigate the adult world by drinking Rob Ford under the table at these soirees.
Some of these girls may have parents moronic enough to abet them in this recklessness, but most of them certainly do not. A resounding majority of their parents want them to stay the hell away from social scenes dominated by binge drinking and reptilian sexual aggression, and a huge subset of this group is frantically trying to move heaven and earth to protect their precious snowflakes from their own unadvisable drinking habits. Keep in mind that students enrolled in bachelor’s programs generally come from the broad middle class (state schools) or the upper-middle and upper classes (the Ivy League and its ilk), the latter category at Dickinson encompassing the my-parents-own-a-goddamn-steel-mill class. As one moves up through these classes, one encounters more and more helicopter parenting; the chopper traffic doesn’t abate until one breaks through into the hardcore old money at the top.
Going towards the opposite extreme, the incidence of pathological smothering gradually drops off as the parents have progressively less time to bug their children because they’re working progressively more hours managing a Jack-in-the-Box, and because their expectations for their children don’t include recruitment by Sullivan & Cromwell upon graduation from Harvard Law. (As a brief aside to insufficiently medicated upper-middles, joining the Greyhound operator pool will not turn your precious snowflake into a tragic failure at life. Give it a rest. Your embarrassment about this is your problem.)
Basically, what we have is a bunch of callow young things disregarding the wisdom of their elders: nothing new under the sun, etc. It’s the eternal standoff of Opposing Viewpoints between “Wisdom: let us attend” and “Wisdom: a virtue that can go fuck itself while I do a milkshake on the altar at the cathedral.” Okay, I overstate my case; they aren’t quite that transgressive and atavistic. That reminds me: Dennis Rader has historically been less murderous than Robert Pickton. Let’s be honest. These girls aren’t all totally and terminally out of control, but all the same they ain’t that smart. There are less ridiculous and dangerous things that they could do as a fuck-you to daddy. Some of these things might even be quite socially beneficial, considering the average bougie parent’s sense of overarching civic duty as it applies to his precious snowflake (more or less none) and expectations for his precious snowflake’s socioeconomic achievements (as unreal as the mathematics allowing a whole society to be that accomplished); just dropping out of the rat race and thoughtfully trying to be a net contributor to the commonweal would be an improvement over a career in marketing. Bottom line: getting one’s Amy Winehouse on every weekend is an awfully stupid way to flip the bird to the parental units.
Except that this seems to be only a minor motivation for these girls. They’re Millennials; they want to get along with their parents. They aren’t preening Boomers doing what they can to discomfit their parents by getting drugged up and wallowing in the mud at Woodstock and Esalen like a bunch of undersexed pigs. They aren’t eager to waste the legacy bequeathed to them by V-J Day and the Works Progress Administration by getting into brawls at Altamont or coming home from the jungle to spend the balance of their lifetimes impugning the patriotism of anyone who balked at the idea of massacring gooks on behalf of a succession of CIA client governments. They aren’t looking for that kind of discord. They consider it a pointless annoyance brought to them by a generation that won’t shut up and exit the stage until it’s carried off in pine boxes. It’s the kind of shit they have to listen to when their uncles and aunts and grandparents get drunk at family reunions, just more hot air from the same TCOT chain e-mail crowd that won’t retire and make space for them in the labor market.
The Millennials have nothing on the Boomers for self-important rebellion or bitterness. They have more cordial relationships with their parents than the Boomers had, and their parents are much less sexually conservative and judgmental than the WWII generation was in the course of raising its Boomer brats (although much, much more smothering; the tradeoff is real). If anything, they’re afraid of offending and alarming their parents, which the self-satisfied Boomer contingent most certainly was not. Then again, they probably have more to lose since they’re less likely to be the children of a guy who came back from Guadalcanal with a hundred-yard stare and an unpredictable, unexplained temper.
For the Millennial girl, then, alarming the ‘rents is usually an unintended side effect of entanglement in asshat fratbro club culture. That’s assuming that her parents are alarmed by her slumming it with bad boys per se (more properly described, in Jim Croce’s parlance, as bad people), rather than by the tangential effects that her slumming has on her duty to be a good little social climber. There seem to be quite a few parents these days who don’t particularly mind what their children do in their free time as long as they’re 100% on point in their schooling and extracurricular activities. These parents would sweat bullets if their little yuppie brats slacked off at school or even insisted on establishing a sensible work-life balance by quitting their “leadership” positions, but as long as the kiddos don’t get into serious legal trouble on the weekend (OMG criminal arrest record no job!), they can get involved in some heavy shit on the weekends without getting mom and dad too worked up. Weekends for these kids serve as a sort of temporal Las Vegas; what happens there stays there, even if one’s venereal diseases didn’t get the memo and decide to tag along for the workweek.
These people are the kind who insist that, oh no, they aren’t alcoholics, they just binge drink at trashy bars at least three nights a week and maybe drink at home the other nights. I knew the type at Dickinson; to be charitable, they were annoying. As any repeat readers will recall (I flatter myself at the thought), the Gray Lady has salaciously examined the lives of the same kind at Penn, and pronounced them dissolute.
If voluntarily socializing with opportunistic casual rapists at keggers constitutes dissolute living, I reckon they’re guilty as charged. Except for the one chick who managed to chat up a guy she knew from class, go home with him, sober up enough to know that she wasn’t being totally stupid and vulnerable, and get him into the sack to deflower her. This chick’s basic line of thinking was, “Hey, I may get into a bad spot, raped or something, if I stick around here and show a bunch of alcoholic bros that I’m simultaneously sexually receptive and straight-up drunk. Maybe I should get this dude alone in a room with me, away from the bros, take off the damn beer goggles, and talk to him about it so we both know we’re ready to do the deed.”
FWB Doge say, very safesex, much personal responsibility, so adulthood, wow! One of the disturbing buried ledes in the New York Times piece about Penn hookup culture was that this girl’s friends were envious of her for having such an intimate and comfortable first coital experience, since the norm in their crowd was something between 1970’s-style gay bathhouse sex and gray rape. These women expected to be deflowered by total or near strangers in dubious circumstances, just like their friends were.
Rape culture? Looks like it. But notice that it arose in a party culture that aggregates women who are looking to get recklessly drunk around rough men who are usually at best their casual acquaintances. Suggesting that one of these fellows might slip roofies into a girl’s drink is like suggesting that a little Gypsy brat sidling up to me as I exit the Moscow Metro is angling to steal my wallet. One oughtn’t take the chance that any of these assholes has an honorable intent. The most obvious reason why there’s a rape culture at keggers for stumbling drunks is that these parties concentrate large numbers of foolish, vulnerable, and progressively incapacitated young women around comparably large numbers of unscrupulous young men, many of them already steeped in the wretchedness of “bro culture.” No homo, if the girls were present but reasonably sober or not there at all, these guys wouldn’t be raping each other. The reason they’ve gotten into the practice of forcing themselves on incompetent and unwilling women is that they’ve figured out how to attract a large, readily available pool of attractive victims and encourage these victims to let down their guard even though they have every reason to keep their guard fully up.
Falling-down-drunk parties produce a rape culture in quite the same way that a widespread practice of entering into contracts while shitfaced would produce a structural defraud-idiotic-drunks culture. Sure, the sober parties to these contracts would still be civilly and criminally liable for fraud, but no one would tell the victims that they’re poor innocents whose violation was unimaginable. People have a duty to themselves not to enter into contracts unless they’re fully competent, and everyone knows it. The cons certainly know it; they don’t want to do business with the competent and engaged because they’re fucking hard sells, in bad cases a totally lost cause.
If this advice applies to not getting robbed by confidence artists, shouldn’t it also apply to not getting raped by thugs?
What say you? Patriarchy? Look: we’re dealing with grown women who play with fire and then complain that they got burned. Like the flame that burns the candle, the candle feeds the flame. You might just find it hard to handle, and you might just have concern trolls speaking on your behalf as a poor victim of rape culture. If I sound callous, realize that I never wished rape, alcoholism, binge drinking, or anything of the sort on them. They chose that destructive lifestyle for themselves, and it’s not my fucking fault as a man that they did so. He that liveth by the sword shall be stucketh. I’m not the kind of guy who puts on parties where impressionable young women get shitfaced; those of you who don’t know me have no idea how square I can be.
It sure as hell isn’t the patriarchy sucking women into dangerous party scenes when the pressure comes from female peers. That’s a case of women who don’t think for themselves taking orders from other women who don’t think for themselves. Maybe we should call it metapatriarchy. Plenty of examples can be found of slimy men giving impressionable women awful ideas. But these awful ideas have no influence over the herd when individual women learn to make their own fucking decisions. People who complain about the patriarchy somehow forcing women to socialize with dangerous men are making excuses for immature women who refuse to unplug from the hivemind and think for themselves. If they thought for themselves, they might decide not to cast their lot with a bunch of impressionable alcoholics who can’t reliably fend for themselves.
Grown women have no more cause to blame structural impediments for their failure to distance themselves from crazy-ass drunk bitches than I have to blame it for my decision, circa 2006-2010, to keep hanging out at in Manayunk with guys who lost bladder control on the couch and came home with unexplained bruises and missing teeth. One of the roommates at the crashpad where we partied was super hot, a bit trashy, and from time to time got way frisky with me, and her live-in boyfriend didn’t care, so maybe I should blame fallen Eve and the sinful nature for my decision to keep hanging out in a den of get-punched-in-the-mouth-by-the-railroad-tracks culture. Why should I admit responsibility for hanging out with these knuckleheads because it allowed me to sometimes grind on hot chicks? It’d be a total buzzkill, if I were the kind of blameshifting child that take-back-the-night activists encourage young women to be.
You may notice that I’ve spent a great deal of time focusing on the dangers of fraternity parties and none on the dangers of sexual assault by strangers on the streets. Judging from some of the take-back-the-night speechifying, women stand a high chance of being jumped by little patriarchs on immaculate college campuses and raped in the nearest hedgerow. I might as well address the likelihood that these women will be killed by falling trees.
It ain’t happening.
Perhaps I’m a bit crude with statistics, but I’m close enough. Most university campuses are well-lit, well-maintained precincts surrounded by safe, orderly neighborhoods. They tend to have long lines of sight and heavy foot traffic. There are certainly exceptions to the safe neighborhood rule of thumb (Temple, Johns Hopkins), but these often stand out like sore thumbs by being in the midst of hardcore ghettos. Even the most ghetto-ass university can be expected to field its own police force and, to an increasing extent, be riddled with CCTV cameras sending live feeds back to dispatch.
In other words, campuses are really dumb places for criminals to waylay random strangers on the street. Judging from the rhetoric about rape culture, one would expect college campuses to generally be medieval forests teeming with highwaymen. They are not. They concentrate large populations of law-abiding, responsible citizens and do a thorough job of banishing obvious interlopers beyond their gates. They put would-be assailants in the position of having to work in heavily surveilled, heavily trafficked, densely populated neighborhoods under the jurisdiction of private police forces. On most campuses, blue light panic telephones are as relevant a part of the public safety infrastructure as Amtrak “security” videos about not approaching or petting police dogs. They’re props in an overwrought morality play inspired by activist hysteria.
NB: Leering does not constitute rape culture. Obviously it can be quite uncomfortable, and men should at least try to be discreet and not wacko about it, but being ogled by a dude one finds unattractive isn’t a goddamn rape. Dispensation for women to dress whorishly in public is a basic matter of personal freedom; I have no more cause to tell callow young things not to dress like tarts than they have to tell me to lose the Dockers and aloha shirts and cut off the combover. (Hawaiian business-casual MILF game FTW, baby.) It’s another matter entirely to aggrandize passive-aggressive, coquettish little shits by telling them that they have a right to be free of unwanted sexual attention when they dress like streetwalkers in public and to insinuate that being ogled by dorks and whatnot is a form of visual rape.
Rapes committed in public areas of college campuses are one-off events, just like abductions of young children by sexually deviant strangers. The carrying-on about these threats is completely out of proportion to their incidence. The only women likely to be at a significant risk of attack by strangers on campus are utterly besotted ones walking alone at night, and it’s important to note that anyone so impaired would be in much worse danger in most townie neighborhoods.
That emergency telephone isn’t going to do you a whole lot of good when you get taken advantage of by brodouches at a kegger because you’re totally soused or pushed around in your dorm room because you chose to date a dark triad thug. These guys weren’t born yesterday. They know a safe space when they see one.
Bad things happen when you hang out with bad people. Say it again. A lot of this rape culture bullshit is just another rabble of shysters disingenuously trying to privatize their profits and socialize their losses. If people want to live dangerously and deal with the consequences like adults, fine. If people want to make stupid decisions and then ask for mulligans so that maybe they can get their shit together, I have no objections. Honesty and meekness go a long way and justify a hearty helping of public assistance in my book, if for no other reason because it means that I don’t have to listen to another insolvent fraud go full cracker about self-reliance and personal responsibility while financially destabilizing those close to him and sidling up to the public tit.
What I can’t brook are people who insist that the rest of society drop everything, submit to inflammatory indoctrination about relations between the sexes, and accept responsibility for imposing utopian across-the-board social controls, mostly on thoughtcrime, in response to a rape culture that is manifestly driven by a handful of evil subcultures, a minority of evil men, and a minority of irresponsible women. The rest of us have no responsibility to avoid offending these people by criticizing them for making terrible decisions or to restructure our own lives for their superficial benefit. Easily hurt fee-fees do not give idiotic women and their apologists a majority stake in these matters. We have no business being their white knights.