Men Who Read Margaret Atwood.

One understands that in the era of what “men” will look back upon as the Henpecking Dark Ages after they inevitably reclaim their power upon finally making The Handmaiden’s Tale a reality that, in the now, it’s very important to come across as “feministic.” For self-preservation purposes more than a genuine belief in the merits of women beyond their mouths when they’re not talking. Of course, what greater emblem, literary or otherwise, of said adjective is there than Margaret Atwood? She, the grand creator of dystopian realities generally involving more pronounced instances of female subjugation, has become quite “accessible” all of the sudden to the average “bloke,” particularly the kind bearing a blanco skin tone.

He wants everyone around him to know that he “gets it.” He gets it so much that he wants to make sure you see he gets it by carrying around a large hardcover book with him throughout town so that everyone everywhere can comprehend just how “with it” he is. Though if he was actually with it, he might consider buying a fucking “man” bag so as not to be forced to carry such a cumbersome tome. But then, that would defeat the entire purpose of reading Margaret Atwood, wouldn’t it? If it was concealed within a glorified purse. How would anyone know what a “man” just minding his own business with no intent of reading for mere show was reading if he couldn’t demonstrate it with a handsome and large edition?

“We should all be feminists,” sure. But we should not all read Margaret Atwood to fucking prove it.

 

 

 

 

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