The Anatomy of a Men’s Rights Activist

Illustration by Nick Gazin

He is a good guy, much to his detriment. Women, after all, don’t want good guys. This is due, of course, to the inherent lack of goodness they possess. They are single-minded, status obsessed, and materialistic. They want men with fancy cars and big dicks—men who don’t understand them the way our man can, the way he would, if only they’d look his way. They don’t look his way, however, because they’re too busy vainly looking at themselves in mirrored surfaces or at the big dicks of their inferior boyfriends.

They don’t want him, so why does he want them? The answer is simple: he wants what he deserves. And he deserves them. Because he is a good guy—again, much to his detriment. I mean, do you know how many goddamned times he’s been put in the friend zone? Do you have any concept of how emasculating it is to comfort a woman you know could be one in a series of the loves of your life as she cries over another man? For the sheer psychic anguish of this emasculation, he at least deserves a handjob. But he doesn’t get a handjob. He gets nothing. And he’s tired of it.

He is, indeed, tired; tired of being persecuted for the fact that he was born into a world of privilege, one he cannot change, because, Jesus Fucking Christ, he’s only one man, and what can one man do? Nothing, especially when he’s constantly surrounded by harpies incessantly yammering that he’s the problem. A man can’t concentrate in the midst of all this yammering. And anyway, he’s not the problem! He’s the solution, for fuck’s sake! Why won’t anyone listen to him? Is it because they’re scared of the truth? That’s probably it. Fucking cowards. Sheeple. Wake the fuck up, he thinks to himself, shaking his head as he hate-reads a Jezebel article.

Yeah, he has a fedora, but who gives a shit? Why are people always making fun of it? His head just looks good in hats. I mean, if it didn’t, he wouldn’t wear hats, but it does, so he does. The same goes for his chin beard. Some faces just look better with hair on them. Whenever he shaves, he looks like a little boy. But with a chin beard, he looks like the man that he is; the man no one could argue he is not.

He doesn’t have a lot of followers on Twitter, but that isn’t why he tweets. He doesn’t tweet for attention. OK, maybe he does tweet for attention, but not personal attention. His identity doesn’t matter—that’s why his handle is just a string of random letters and numbers, why his avatar is an illustration. He’s altruistic enough to understand his personal insignificance. He tweets to bring attention to the cause.

He tweets to stand up for what is right, what is true. He tweets the things he’s tired of men like him being told they cannot say. Which is that [insert woman’s name here] is a cunt who needs to shut the fuck up, immediately. He tweets this directly at the cunt in question, because it is imperative for her to know she is a cunt. Really, he’s doing her a service. No one else is willing to tell it like it is.

He types, all day, into the endless void that is the internet. It is a void not unlike the void that exists between the thighs of his objects of desire, those unattainable cunts he constantly tries to outwit, outsmart, capture, crush.

The cunts of these cunts—they are the holy grails of his bitterness and resentment. Were he to win one, he would immediately fill it with high-octane, over-caffeinated energy drinks, fuel he’d use to post more blog entries about how, actually, just as many women commit domestic violence as men but the media refuses to acknowledge it and how rape culture is a myth perpetrated by the unrapable (i.e. fat chicks) and how, not only does something called the Glass Cellar fucking exist, it’s even worse than the Glass Ceiling, and how custody discrimination is making an entire generation of helpless children pawns in a game they’re too innocent to realize they’re playing, suffering under the dreadful rule of their selfish mothers, and so on, and so on. These blog entries are invariably accompanied by stock photos of smiling, non-threatening men and women interacting with each other in a pleasant, respectful manner. They do not sync up to the content they are being partnered with.

When he is not creating his own content, he is sharing the content of others, or discussing content others have shared. He and his brethren commune on Reddit, commiserating about the struggle on message boards with names like The Red Pill (a “discussion of sexual strategy in a culture increasingly lacking a positive identity for men”) and The Pussy Pass (which “document(s) women getting off lightly due to their vaginal impairment”).

He has, indeed, taken the Red Pill; while his embrace of dime store philosophy has been liberating, it’s also served to make him upset, upset enough to type and type and type until his wrists hurt. His eyes are open now, and cannot be shut. He has entered the truest form of existence. He sees all, knows all. It is a tremendous burden, holding such knowledge and power. Sometimes, in his darkest hours, he wishes his eyes never opened. Those feelings dissipate, however, when he types about important things, valid things, with his fellow Redditers. They are the only ones who understand him.

It makes sense that he’d take the Red Pill. The Matrix, of course, is his favorite movie. The stark realities that film presented, the way in which it perfectly illuminated the “illusion of ignorance” that most people inhabit—Ayn Rand herself couldn’t have written it better. Ayn Rand was a woman, sure, but she also hated women, and boy could she write, so he still loves her. It sucks that she wasn’t also hot, but you can’t win ‘em all.

He will, without a tinge of irony, mansplain feminism to a biological female. Feminism is equality, he says, which is something he desperately wants. He’s tired of women running the show. He’s tired of being vilified for his sex. He’s tired of being misunderstood. He’s tired, period.

He will go on to say that women have no reason to be scared when they walk alone at night. If they are, they’re being irrational. And anyway, if they do end up getting raped, there’s nothing they can do about it. Rape happens all the time in the animal kingdom, and we’re animals. It’s natural. When men rape, which is something they do far less than you think they do, they do it solely because of their animalistic urges, which makes rape inevitable, inescapable. It is a necessary fact of life, like childbirth.

He has something to say about what he’s reading right now. And, by God, he’s going to fucking say it, because I don’t have the right to tell him otherwise.

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