Y’all, clearly when you start talking about the Patriarchy’s prostate, the Patriarchy fights back. You hit it where it hurts and it hits you where it hurts, right in the car.
Well, the Patriarchy might be able to live without its prostate, but I cannot live without my car.
I left work early, cried all the way to Sarcastro’s house, pulled myself together enough to drink the last of his liquor, and decided on the way home to renounce my patriarchy-hating ways. After all, the Patriarchy has 3 billion, give or take a few, prostates and I have but one car. And you all know that I need my car, for both practical and emotional reasons.
I know when the deck is stacked against me.
So, I’m done.
From here on out, the Patriarchy rules, especially its magnificent penises and its love for pre-born humans.
Resistance is futile.
Well then the patriarchy damn well better use its superior manliness skills to fix or replace your car. Especially if it wants clean clothes, dishes or groceries. Just speaking for the matriarchy.