By Sarika Rao ’19
All I did was look in my junk folder.
I saw all the usual emails that always go straight to spam – some website telling me how Kim Kardashian really lost her baby weight, several blonde females in revealing clothes informing me of their one-night stay in the city – but this time there was a new one. It was from email@example.com, and the subject read “TAKE THEM DOWN!!!” The email itself was just one short line: “See you tonight. -Z”
Now, I know what you’re thinking. Why would I, a STRAIGHT, white man (thought you should know), want anything to do with a website called feminist.com? Well, you’re absolutely right. I promise you I reject feminism completely. My first instinct was to delete the email, but I’ll admit, it intrigued me a little. I typed “feminist.com” into Chrome. I made a huge mistake.
All I saw on my screen was a flash of red before the vortex opened.
I was sucked head first into my Macbook and everything began to spiral out of focus. I hit the ground with surprising force, and felt cold, hard rock beneath me. My head started to ache. Before I could regain my composure, two rough, butch hands grabbed me by my shoulders and threw me into a chair. Ignoring my protests, he tied up my hands and feet and growled, “You’re not going anywhere.”
I looked around me. We were in a muggy, dimly lit cave in God-knows-where. I was beginning to forget how I had gotten there.
“Please let me go! Please, sir…I-I have a wife and kids!” I cried. (Well, no, I didn’t cry. Because I’m a man.)
“Ma’am,” replied my kidnapper.
“You called me sir. You meant ma’am,” said my abductor, trudging back into my line of vision. I realized that she was, in fact, a woman. I was understandably shocked, but I relaxed a little. I had been intimidated before, but I knew I could take a woman in a fight.
“You’re a woman?” I asked incredulously. See, this is why I have trust issues! “Then why is your hair all short?”
“That’s beside the point, punk. Do you know why you’re here?”
“Because I’ve showered in the last month, and you don’t approve?” She smelled like sweat. It was disgusting.
“Don’t be a smartass. You’re here because you disrespected us.”
That’s when they came out. All of them. Dozens upon dozens of muscular, hairy-legged, short-haired females emerged from the shadows, bringing with them a pungent stench. I began to tremble and sweat seeped from my forehead. The entire army sported identical leather jackets, with gold studs on the shoulders and “MAN-HATER” written in block letters across the chest. No skirts, no makeup. I was so horrified, I wanted to cry. (But I didn’t, because I’m a man.)
One of the feminists came forward. She spoke in a gravelly voice:
“Tomorrow, we destroy the men. But I guess you can go a little early!” She smirked and balled her hands into fists. I had no idea women could do that.
The feminists advanced toward me. I didn’t know what to do. My hands were tied.
Then, miraculously, an idea came to me: I had to fight them with the strongest and only tool at my disposal.
To this day I don’t know how it got there. I guess I always knew it would rescue me in times of trouble, like how the Sword of Gryffindor rescued Harry in the Chamber of Secrets. The rope around my wrists shattered like glass, but I wasn’t hurt. I reached into the pocket of my jeans and pulled out the glorious piece of cloth: my most prized possession. I straightened out the crumpled shirt as the feminist army continued to approach.
They stopped dead in their tracks at the sight of the word “MENINIST.”
The letters on the shirt emitted a light so powerful that the feminists covered their eyes, blinded by the unexpected weapon I had wielded. I’m sure their cries could be heard from miles away. One by one they collapsed onto the cold ground, wounded by the shirt’s sheer holiness.
The feminists’ weakened bodies were the last things I saw before I was sucked back up into the invisible tunnel. I landed in front of my computer once again, humbled by my great adventure.
So that’s my story. I have yet to encounter the gays, but I have taken down the feminists through the power of meninism. I chose the masculine path, and I emerged victorious.
And that, son, is why you always delete your junk mail.