These FUCKING JEANS made me a feminist



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Of late there has been a rising call for awareness of women’s issues, of a need for feminism that is greater than ever. Normally I dismiss this as the irrational hysterics that characterise a woman’s behavior, crocodile tears about problems that I was pretty sure we had solved in the 80’s sometime. But recently a friend let me borrow her jeans, and just by wearing this one article of women’s clothing for a few days, this one fucking pair of jeans, I have a completely reformed perspective. Feminism is necessary in today’s world, and I am proud, (if surprised) to call myself an ally now.

First, you may not know this, but women’s jeans apparently aren’t made out of denim at all—it’s some unholy lycra spandex denim hybrid. How are we to expect women to excel in academia when from an early age they are told lies about textiles and material sciences?

Whatever they are made out of, these jeans make my legs look skinny and reveal the most nuanced contours of my genitalia to anybody who glances below my waist. I am a modest guy, so I am torn—do I bask in the sexuality that I now exude, or do I walk in shame, my manhood displayed for all to judge?

The most ridiculous aspect of these horrible jeans is that anything that goes in its pocket is ejected immediately afterward. So far, I have lost my keys, my flask and a twenty dollar bill while wearing these stupid things. In fact, whilst urinating recently, my phone jumped out of my pocket and nearly fell in the toilet. There I would have been, returning to my friends with a pee soaked phone, looking like a fool—I had previously assumed that the frequent phone toilet dunkings of the women I know were simply signs of their incompetence to rule the world, but how would I have guessed that their jeans are literally built to undermine their political credibility?

And this is just a pair of jeans! Who knows what ridiculous trials women’s deodorant or diet soda are putting them through? If this were my life, I too would be a simmering cauldron of resentment, an irrational harpy waiting in trees ready to strike the next innocent that came by, my available intellectual resources sapped by the comic obstructions placed in my path by forces of this male dominated world, made a clown by the very physical reality that I exist in.

Ladies, next time you go hide in the bathroom to cry uncontrollably over an imagined slight, know that this allys’ spirit is crying there with you, because I realize that if my pants were not so comfortable, my pockets not so deep and accommodating, my genitalia not so safely hidden within its cavernous folds, that if the entire world were not built for my convenience, that I too would be a complete wreck, barely stable enough to get out of bed and perform the most basic human functions on a daily basis, and not the glorious specimen of human accomplishment and personal development that I am today.

Ladies, my penthouse is in the quarter. If it’s all the same to you, we’ll just hang out naked while we discuss the radical agenda.