I have a rule against taking men who claim to be feminist seriously, because it’s almost always the prelude to behavior of such giant douchebaggy proportions based solely on their privilege and their ability to get away with shit just because they’re men that you about can’t believe the universe doesn’t just fold in on itself and die of embarrassment.
The “I’m a feminist” man is like the embodied equivalent of the “I’m not a racist but…” statement. Just like you know when someone says, “I’m not a racist but…” they’re about to say something racist, the man who tells you “I am a feminist,” is, mark my words, about to pull some of the most woman-hating shit you’ll ever see.
That’s not to say that there aren’t feminist men, just that the ones who announce it usually have some agenda.
All that being said, I did squeal just a little when I read Denis Leary talking about women:
And she’s appropriate to every moment. That chapter made me wonder, despite some other remarks you make in the book, if you consider yourself a feminist.
Yes, I do.
I thought so, but I wouldn’t have gathered that from the rest of your book.
Of course not, because I’m a man. But the truth is, if you’re really looking between all those lines, and I actually come close to saying it a couple of times … It’s actually serendipitous that we’re talking about Oprah, because when you come right down to it, whether it’s my wife or Oprah or my mom, women rule the world. And we’re [men are] just sort of in it. We’re in it and we’re using the towels, and we’re trying to remember the name of the color of the towels, and we’re hoping that we get the name right. We know that you might be pissed off — that’s why I say that Jon Stewart has to become the male Oprah, you guys have your Oprah. We need to have a guy who can tell us at 11 o’clock at night what the scores are, why our girlfriend or our wife might be pissed off, and how we can make her happy and keep our penises.
Yes, it’s problematic bullshit. I don’t care. La la la. I’m not listening. I love him. Have ever since his time on MTV skulking around, cigarette in hand, ranting, ranting, ranting.
When I was a sophomore in high school, I wanted nothing more than to make out with Denis Leary, all smelling like dark earth and tobacco and leather and whiskey and, faintly, of the perfume of the girl he’d just left.
I still do.