Women, war and the world
We have had the war on terror, the war on poverty, the war on racism, the war on drugs, the war on Islam, the war on piracy, the war on war, and finally, fledgling but fierce, the war on Express Tribune blogs.
These are all proxy wars, phony wars, smokescreen wars which obscure the real conflict, much like a rant from Real Madrid coach Jose Mourinho diverts our attention from his team's failings after he's lost a match.
There is a real war to be fought. The big war. The only war.
The war to usher in eternal peace for humankind.
The war to bring about a cloudless world.
The war to end all wars.
Let us wake up and smell the body odour. The war I speak of is the War on Men.
For at least the last three thousand years, excluding the odd matriarchal backwater such as my grandmother's old house in Lahore or the evening scheduling on Star World, men have had the run of the place. And we have made war everywhere we have gone.
It isn't Muslims these days who happen to be doing all sorts of naughty stuff with bombs, it's Muslim men.
It isn't American women who invaded forty-plus countries in the last century, it was American men.
It wasn't German women who turned on the gas taps in the showers at Auschwitz, it was German men.
I realise some women were involved in the above examples, but they, like Margaret Thatcher, Indira Gandhi, and now Hilary Clinton with her unfortunate shoulder pads, were women aping men. Also, none of them gave the impression they'd ever had a satisfying sex life: clearly the men had dozed off prematurely to dream, naturally, of cannons.
History and fake-history is littered with the kill-thirsty idiocies of men. A bloody battle full of death and agony was fought over one woman, Helen of Troy.
Couldn't they all have written her poems and let her choose?
The Crusades saw religions take each other on with the sword. Couldn't they have sat down with a nice cuppa and some freshly baked brownies and debated the merits of all sides, cried a little, and at the end of the day had a nice good hug?
Women of the world, unite.
For too long you have sat back with liberal naiveté, with motherly tolerance, with sighs and stoicism and feminist seminars and thought, “Well, they do look nice in a uniform.”
It's time to call a spade a shovel and bury the buggers. Men ruin everything, because everything is a fight, everything is a war. Men stink up all they touch with rotten hopes of decaying corpses: land, art, the solar system, sex, language, and even facial hair.
The choice is with the peaceful gender, and gynophiles such as myself who are right behind you - no pun intended loves, as you will hopefully have a bayonet rearing out from your shoulder-strapped rifle.
The choice is this: to carry on with nuanced geopolitical analysis, five-year plans, childcare-in-the-workplace reform, cultural relativism, and “Oh, what a nice man that Anderson Cooper is.”
Or, get armed and fight the only just war in history.
Let three billion sausages burn. Let infinite flowers bloom.
Women of the world, you are your only hope.
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