That Rosetta Dude’s Shirt | Obnoxious Conversations with Marxist Feminists – #ShirtGate & Individualism.

Those covered arms signify something else also: a contradiction. Identity feminism has shamed this man into so hating his body he feels bound to cover it up. In performing that act, identity bound feminism has become the Kardashian sized butt of the joke it became when it put the collective gender - with all the stereotyping of both genders that entails - above individuality, and individual expression of thought, action, and in the case of that shirt, sexuality. Which also undresses the  thin cloth of this feminism to show the skeleton beneath: Marxism marching, often topless no less, into the new Progressivism.

Last week mankind, represented on our small online screens by a genius, happy, brimming-with-kickass-life band of scientists in ESA Mission Control, women and men at the peak of their careers and their success, did something humans have never done before. They powered a small landing craft from the Rosetta probe onto the surface of a comet 500 million kilometres away in space, speeding at 60,000 kms/hr around the sun.

A day after that all social media could concern itself with was a lead scientist’s SHIRT. A SHIRT featuring women in various states of dress you would see on any Saturday night around town, and wearing more than Kim Kardashian seems to wear most of the time (without a squeak from feminism.) A SHIRT, as it turns out, hobby hand-made by Elly Prizeman, friend, given to him as a birthday present, and which he was wearing as a favour, 'to be sweet'. And regarding Elly, be wary of pigeon-holing anyone on appearances, but a shallow assessment of her picture leads me to believe she may well be every bit the fun loving individual(ist) her scientist friend used to be, and hardly an oppressed slave of patriarchy ... decide for yourself: 

A pox on the wretch behind every Tritter account whom took part in the vicious destruction of the shirt wearer at the time of his greatest achievement, for what a mighty, historical achievement it was. 

Mrs H, who if she were to write her life story, titled, I think, a Career Woman Before her Time – as she was before my time - and if I think about it, the same more remarkably applies to her mother also, would relegate every identity bound feminist account I’ve seen on Twitter over this sorry instance to insignificance, though not with that arrogant scorn typifying those accounts - and by the by, the white-knight male accounts are worse than the women - but rather, with sadness in the knowledge of wrong historical turns and consequent sorry futures for all of us, because we all have a vested interest in a reasoned, individualistic feminism. But a sign of her wisdom is that social media is so abhorrent to her, she won’t go on. I wonder how many feminists of her generation, individualists, classical liberals, look at modern Marxist feminism, and despair, especially at that current assault to overthrow right to remain silent as well as reversing the burden of proof, two pillars of freedom that have made the Free West the pinnacle of civilisation reached (albeit on steep decline under a hubris of debt, central banking, crony command capitalism - which is not capitalism - and, in a word, statism). As with every thinking person, I am of course a feminist, of the school of individualism, and I am beyond despair about our society, indeed, have resigned myself to it's coming capitulation.

However, I'm not as wise as Mrs H, so last week I stupidly entered the fray, again, with the toxic gender politick meme to express my anger. And it is regarding that encounter, I pen this final word, because I will simply start blocking these infantile accounts from this point. To the respondents and their pompous inquiries of if I understand the issues behind women in science represented by that SHIRT; hell yes I do, read on, and  bugger off with your arrogance thanks; more significantly, I understand where identity politics leads better than you do. I’m a reader of history.

Regarding the poor sod scientist involved, he went from parking a dishwasher sized human made artifact on a freaking comet, to crying over the bullying he received because of his SHIRT. He went from this: 

To this:

It’s significant his name already slips my mind, because that’s the level identity politics works on; to cower all individuals into a homogenous collective, a boring Borg. He looked to me on the night – and watching his initial interview, I knew he was about to be destroyed before the first tweet went up because I understand identity politics all right – … he looked to be an eccentric, innocent – in a way these beautiful unworldly nerds are - fun loving, genius individual, the type of personality that drives all of us forward and whose light, energy and intellect shines to blind the anonymous Borg shouting down his SHIRT, and I suspect he was all that, making his denouement all the more heinous given how he will sadly become a different man into his future; he will become supplicant, colourless, scared of because scarred by airhead public opinion; a drone. It was all there on the subsequent interview of a broken man - because it ends up he was an innocent thus peculiarly vulnerable to the vicious barbs hooked into him - his jacket shrouded body, arms covered, even his tattoos, so gloriously out of place two days before, seemed to embarrass him anymore, crying through his show trial and the predictable tearful retraction expected by the mindless and humourless. 

Those covered arms signify something else also: a contradiction. Identity feminism has shamed this man into so hating his body he feels bound to cover it up. In performing that act, identity bound feminism has become the Kardashian sized butt of the joke it became when it put the collective gender - with all the stereotyping of both genders that entails - above individuality, and individual expression of thought, action, and in the case of that shirt, sexuality. Which also undresses the  thin cloth of this feminism to show the skeleton beneath: Marxism marching, often topless no less, into the new Progressivism.

And regarding the issues of women in science, before moving this post to entertainment and refreshments, given two of the Twitter accounts badgering me were male scientists, before ending, let's get some facts into the debate on women in science, because the Truth will surprise the school of victim-hood promoted by identity politics and signed up to by these two men who are, I hope, more circumspect in their professional lives:

So finally, for your amusement, because these Left-Liberal feminist accounts have begun to bore me rigid, at about the Time of Thorny, I penned a piece into a fictional work that became a discard – too trite, not that good - but I’ll put it up here because it explained how every social media thread with Marxist feminists goes, right down to the science quips I presciently wrote in. The difference being that in real life the reconciliation written into the end of this piece cannot happen, because reason is dealing with the irrational - yes, ladies, for your benefit I just hit all the tropes. [As two thirds of my readership are US and European, the earthquake that happens in this scene, was one of the aftershock sequences following the Christchurch, New Zealand, quakes of 2010 and 2011. I don’t think I need write context in further than that.]

* * *

Five thirty. James was always running behind: his heart no more in his job than his affair. He clicked into yellowpages.co.nz, takeaways, typed in Rear-View Mirror, tabbed, typed in the suburb. The call was picked up on the second ring.

‘Q oh T?’ Gruff female voice.

‘Pardon?’

‘Queen of Thorns, bitch. It’s my nic.’

‘Bitch?’

‘Yeah, what of it?

Who are you?'

'Hey, don't try to name me, bitch; don't tag, label, or pigeon-hole me, coz I'm one radshitzy neo-Marxist feminist.’

‘Radshitzy?’

‘Radical, batshit, crazy, bitch.’

‘Riiiight; this's proving a bit of a walk on the wild side. Look, this's Rear View Mirror? Fish and chip shop?'

'Yeah.'

'Then can I make an order please, to pick up at ten to six?’

‘No.’

‘Pardon?’

‘No, you can’t make an order. We don’t take phone orders from blokes, bitch.’ A broad accent, possibly a Southlander.

‘I thought that was a joke?’

‘Do I sound like the sort of womin that would joke?’

‘Well, no. But are you saying if I was a lady …’

‘Who’s a lady?’

‘Sorry?’

‘I don’t know any ladies mate. We’re all womin down here. No ladies. No gals. No little wives. All 100% pure womin; that’s us.’

‘Okay then, so you’re saying if I was a woman, you’d take an order?’

‘A womin. Yep.’

‘That’s discrimination.’

‘Only if you’re a bloke.’ Barking laughter. ‘We don’t accept obligations from blokes, here. That’s all. Or you gonna be a sissy and make something of it? Hurt your feelings have I?'

‘Sissy. That’s sexist isn’t it?’

‘Deal with it mate. Look if you want fish and chips you can come down here and wait, like womin have been waiting on you all your life.’

‘You can’t say that, you don’t even know me.’

‘You’re a bloke?’

‘Yes. Of course.'

‘You’ve a mother?’

‘Yes.’

‘A wife?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, there you go, as I said, like womin have no doubt been waiting on you all your life.’

‘Look I’m a little offended by this.’

‘Oh great. Womin have been downtrodden since the Big Bang, fucking sexist prick thought that up, and you’re ‘a bit offended' after three minutes on the phone. Diddums. Welcome to the revolution, bitch.’

‘Revolution?’

‘The revolutionary notion that womin are people.’

‘People?’

‘Can you hear the echo on this line?’

‘How’d we get here? We’re all individuals, aren’t we; trying to get on?’

‘Oh right, you’re gonna run the hoary old line that individualism is the antidote for sexism, racism, et al?’

‘Et al? Yes. Yes I suppose I am.’

‘Are you taking the piss?’

‘Do I sound like the sort of person who would take the piss.’

‘Yes, you’re a bloke.’

‘Christ!’

‘Don’t be mentioning that swine around here.’

‘It was an expletive. Christ, as in this is mental,’ James loosened his tie, his cheeks were flushed and he felt like he was breathing wet air, ‘Okay, perhaps I don’t want fish and chips. It’s best I start watching my weight anyway.’

‘Did you call me fat?’

‘No.’

‘Why did you say I have to watch my weight?’

‘I didn't. I said I had to watch my weight.’

‘Yeah, with the clear inference I have to watch mine, right?’

‘No. I meant nothing of the sort.’

‘I know your narrative you fat-phobic fucker.’

‘Look, I only said I have to watch my weight, because of my health. We all do.’

‘Fascist.’

‘That's not fascism; it's peer reviewed science. Too much weight is scientifically linked to a large list of diseases and ailments.’

‘Bullshit. Science has an agenda against fat womin, bitch.’

‘You’re not all there are you. Why? Why would this sentient Science have an agenda against fat women?’

‘Because the privileged white males who are Science like screwing skinny chicks. All that catwalk bullshit.’

‘You seriously believe that.’

‘I know that.’

‘Right. Well I wouldn’t possibly try reasoning with logic like that. And I didn’t ring for a feminist discourse.’

‘Intercourse?’

‘Discourse! I said discourse. You’re bending my words. You’re always bending my words!’

‘No I'm not. The words you’re giving me are bent already; all’s I’m doing is showing you the kink. And you’re verging on harassing me now. It’s not all about you, you know.’

‘What’s not all about me?’

‘This conversation. This life. The way you’re carrying on, you seem to think you’re the centre of the universe. It ain’t all about you, bitch.’

‘Please,’ James held the phone from his ear for a second, getting his composure back, wondering, in passing, if he was sexist: no, he didn’t think so. He felt like Alice having rung a fish and chip shop down the rabbit hole. ‘I rang. No. Let me start that again. I rang a fish and chip shop, you are a fish and chip shop, I rang your fish and chip shop to simply order some fish and fricking chips. Where did this conversation go so off the straight and narrow?’

‘Straight? So you don’t like dykes.’

‘Who mentioned dykes? Hey, forget it. I mean it. Forget it. Don’t worry, I’ll come.’

‘You’ll what?’

‘Down! I’ll come down and wait. Like you said. Whatever you say. I’ll do that. I.Will.Do.Whatever.You.Say.For Me.To.Do.’

'You're not sitting on your head while talking to me are you, bitch?'

'No. Why on earth would you ask that?'

'Coz this end all I can see's a sulking, privileged arse-hole on the line.'

James heard the deep rumble of rock on rock under the city, then felt the stiff little shakes, growing into windows banging on hinges, the tortured squeaking of the desks in front of him. Putting the iPhone sharply down, already the glass in the building was screaming against sashes, the bookshelf in front of him starting to lose its shape as the shakes increased their violence, reference manuals spewing onto the floor, while his mind was unconsciously going through the flight or fight permutations, though under his desk was the only realistic option if this one kept building further. But it didn’t, stopping as abruptly as it started, leaving him to the sudden serenity of the after-silence, dust flung into the air slowly settling around him. He stayed still for a further few seconds, loosening the grip of his left hand on the desk, he'd been holding on so tight, relaxing the muscles physically hurt. Putting the phone to his ear again.

‘Are you,' coughing to clear his throat, '... are you there still?’

Nothing, though he could hear ragged breathing on the other end.

‘Are you alright? You're not hurt?’

‘Yep … Kate Shepard, I didn’t know where that one was going,’ getting her breath back, ‘Even the power’s still on. You?’

‘Yes. Yes, fine. A little spooked still, but fine.’

‘Not had one that big for a while, I thought they were waning at last. Bout a 5.4 I reckon.’

James looked down at his feet, considering. ‘Depends how deep; with all that noise I’m wondering if that was shallower than five k. Did you get the noise.’

‘Don’t know. Can never hear bugger all over my heart trying to burst from ma’ribcage.'  The prickliness had left her voice. 'I'd almost rather bed a bloke than these fucking shakes.’

James couldn’t help himself, laughing into the mouthpiece; a chortling rasp coming from the other side. There was an uncomfortable silence; James didn’t know whether to quietly hang up the phone, or what to do.

‘So, anyway bitch. It’s your lucky day; what do yer want?’’

‘You’re taking an order from me?’

‘What can I say; the earth moved. A womin can change her mind can’t she?’

‘I suspect only if you say so.’

‘You’re learning.’

‘Great.' James had to stop for a second as a siren on the street below sounded, stopped. 'Then two battered … um,’ He was wondering if gurnard was a better choice in the circumstances.

‘Yes? Two battered what mate? We’re a fish and chippy; we do a lot of shit that’s battered.’

‘Two battered … sole, thanks, and a scoop of chips please.’

'No sole in today. I've a nice catch of cod; fresh in an hour ago?'

'Cod, right. Of course you have. That's fine. Thank you.'

Before leaving his desk, James tried to ring Sal, but she wasn’t picking up. Thursday afternoon she did the grocery shop, and, looking at his watch, five forty five, she was more likely than not in her car, which was good, for she probably wouldn’t have felt it.

Outside Links:

1. Kiwi Wit also makes good points regarding the SHIRT, and these TwitterAccounts without spines.

2. Post from Elly Prizeman, Matt Taylor's friend who made the shirt for his birthday: CONTEXT.

Quote: "I really am just a nobody who is lucky enough to have an awesome friend who was just being sweet."

3. Interesting Piece: Real Feminism Leaves Science in the Dirt. I don't agree with all of it, though interesting to note Elly Prizeman's shirt making business is taking off:

This is not a guy accustomed to Obama’s progressive outrage mob. He’s not an American tuned to the moral sensitivities of the Fluke brigade or the Brendan Eich lynch divsion. Feminists in media exploited this fact. They saw an easy target before he even knew what hit him. There was an interesting consensus on social media that if Taylor is going to don a shirt that bold that he should have the balls to stand up and defend it and there is truth to that. But to him it was no big deal. This was no different than our NASA’s Mohawk Guy meme but feminists found that guy cute and essentric, so he got a pass. Not only are progressives gleefully sicking mobs on all facets of American culture, but apparently they’ve developed a Hubris for what proper attire in Europe is now as well. For the past 40 years the feminist credo has been centered around transforming America into a more liberated and open sexual culture like Europe. Well, here was a liberated European Rocket Scientist displaying his fondness for sexuality, and they crucified him for it.

Suddenly an activist culture railing against the social norms of how women are supposed to look had fangs out for someone defying social norms of how a scientist should look. This intolerable shirt-against-humanity, clad with images of illustrated women in super hero spandex and seductively brandishing laser blasters conjured memories of Aeon Flux or Trinity in the Matrix, or Lady Gaga, Katy Perry, Madonna and Beyoncé – All feminist icons.

4. Worthwhile spending eight minutes of your time to view this clip by Jessica Leese - Why Attacking Dr. Matt Taylor and #shirtgate Belittles Feminism.