Misogynists like Tom are the parasites of our generation

Tom lives by the sword, and he’s going to die by the sword


Remember when you watched that video on Facebook about the mouse in the bottom of a McDonald’s coffee? Disgusted and enraged, you swore you’d never return. Yet two weeks down the line, here you are.

That’s how Tom felt about women when he got dumped by his first and only girlfriend. It was bad enough that mummy refused to devote her entire life to wiping his arse, but when Frankie ended it, that’s when the real nature of womankind hit home.

But, unlike our relenting acceptance of fast food gastronomy, forgiveness never came to Tom. Now in “adulthood”, his burning hatred for those who wronged him now only kindles brighter inside of him.

For Tom, there can never be a tomorrow where masculine chastisement has a platform.

It's not a life worth living

Tom wakes every morning from a nightmare where women get paid the same amount as him, where even his boss owns a vagina. Moaning into a sorry breakfast of cereal with cow’s milk, still resenting his mother for denying him his birthright’s quota of breastmilk and undoubtedly stifling his male superiority, Tom settles down for a day of self-righteousness and trolling women on the internet.

He’ll leave no stone on the internet unturned, no feminist website unexplored, no prisoners taken. Tom sits glued to his screen, sifting back and forth from one post to another, making sure that all foes are vanquished, his say ultimate, his burning desire to defeat those ‘silly cows’  well and truly satisfied. Rationality doesn’t apply to Tom, the power of persistence is far more endearing.

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If I say it enough times, it will become a universal truth

Tom starts his daily routine of countering the scourge of feminism, one anonymous comment at a time.

His first hit of the day:  A woman challenging sexual objectification.

“If you’ve got a penis you must be a fucking arsehole!” Tom exclaims, unaware of the paradox.

He quickly gets to work, contemplation is not a word that computes in Tom’s diction.  Supported by his advanced knowledge in the social sciences, his thesis on the workings of the female brain laid out in the comments section before him, Tom is ready to put feminism in “her” rightful place. With a derogatory end note thrown in, Tom sits back in his recliner chair, struggling to contain the grin spreading from cheek-to-cheek.

“That’ll show them.”

Tom spends his morning this way, extruding years of carefully acquired knowledge through the workings of a contraption designed and honed by man. Occasionally it is necessary to throw in some anti-semitism, and a degree of political extremism to add to his melting pot of sensibility.

Having spiced things up enough for one morning, hunger calls, and Tom takes leave of his station.

Shit someone has finally realised!

“If only I had a woman to make me a sandwich,” thinks Tom as the clock strikes one: “That’s just about all they’re good for.”

Cursing his shortage of female connections and lacking an aptitude for anything but being a crusader against the “militants”, Tom heads to his local convenience store.

Having purchased his food from a girl who should really learn to restrain her sexual urges – made obvious by her cheeky smile as she utters “have a nice day sir,” – Tom returns home, chuffed at the advances clearly warranted by his patriarchal status.

Of course she was up for it, what female isn’t?

The recipe for "sandwich" looked too complicated

The recipe for “sandwich” looked too complicated

The afternoon draws on. Sustained by an educational supplement of Louis Theroux documentaries and the latest edition of Private Eye, Tom is confident that his daily quota for controversy is nearly fulfilled.

A quick Google briefing on the term “masculine privilege” – thrown at him in an earlier debate – stokes Tom’s engine, and he’s once again ready to fight his corner.

It’s time to get back to work.

Tom’s the kind of guy who has an unassailable knowledge of statistics. He even did his own research into the behavioural patterns of men and women, which clearly showed the positive correlation between women and a tendency to cheat.

He’s the Michael Foucault of his generation, a Freudian amongst fools. Without Tom, we wouldn’t understand the inherent link between feminism and its direct repercussions upon the nucleus of family structures. Without Tom, we wouldn’t be able to comprehend that divorce rates are directly linked to women’s sexual liberation, and their intolerable infiltration into the work environment.

Without Tom, the realities between fact and fiction would be irrefutable.

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Who is Tom?

He is, sadly, one of many.

Tom is the man that puts women down whenever and wherever the opportunity presents itself. Tom is not here to hear reason, he is here to berate you, to belittle you, to ridicule your position until it no longer is deemed threatening.

Tom is the last remnants of a dying breed, the martyr to patriarchy, a cockroach that refuses to die, no matter how hard he is stamped on. Tom is an irrational, chauvinistic spouter of bullshit, wasting away in front of his laptop.

He represents intolerance, an irresistible need to cling to masculine authority for fear of the unknown, or worse still, progress. Tom is forever mindful to remind you that he is a champion of equal rights, but so help you, should those rights ever encroach on his sense of hegemony.

It’s a scary time for the Toms of the world. He lives in a changing dynamic, where men no longer provide for women, think for women, in many circumstances they no longer even represent the key to reproduction, the essence of sexual gratification.

Tom is certainly not the first of his kind, nor is he the beginning to an end. But he has fallen into disrepute, a subject of hilarity, the waste product of liberality.

Women don’t begrudge men, much to the contrary in fact

But they do pity Tom. And one day, Tom will fall upon the sword he flails with.