At the beginning of every year, I take the time to run through my calendar and highlight some of the holidays that mean the most to me. There's always the obvious ones: Christmas, Easter, Thanksgiving, Indigenous People's Day (so I have time to figure out the most appropriate way to explain to my niece and nephew that Indigenous People's Day is the day that Columbus landed in America and proceeded to brutally slaughter thousands of Native American's), and finally, International Women's Day.
Typically, these are all days of celebration. It's a time to come together with loved one's and enjoy the day. But this year...well, this year, things went terribly wrong.
Before I start, I'd like to preface this by saying it's been over seven months since I've last relapsed on being a douchebag.
I realize what I've said may disgust some of you reading this right now. Just know that I'm allowed to use the slur "douchebag." You can find comfort in knowing that I am, in fact, white.
...but let's not get stuck on a construct of letters that form a word. Let's get back to the story:
By living clean of my douchebag tendencies, I've managed to finally check my ego on days like International Women's Day. Before, a day like I.W.D. would force me into making some sort of sexist, misogynistic joke, but I've changed.
This time around I've made it my goal to congratulate the women around me for all of their hard work. We need to normalize the idea that women are far more than pieces of meat with two fat mommy milkers and three penis garages. From the knowledge we've acquired through extensive scientific research, it end's up women are human beings too...
You may be wondering why I've chosen to retroactively write about a holiday that was on March 8th. It pains me to admit this, but I've once again found myself in a Malibu rehab center. This time, it's not for drugs or sex addiction. This time, I've checked into rehab after succumbing to my douchebag addictions once again. If you care to stay, I'd like to explain how I got myself here...
On March 8th, 2021, I started International Women's Day doing what any straight white male should be doing: listening and learning. I learned about what women of past generations had to put up with and the things they continue to deal with today. I paired this with scrolling through Twitter to read numerous Kid Rock-esque tweets of women referring to themselves as badasses.
It felt good to expand my horizon and learn about others. I was so inspired that I decided to apply the things I learned to my actual life. I did so by taking the advice of one particular tweet that appeared on my timeline:
Unfortunately, I had no way to guess what would happen next. The answer I received was nothing short of devastating:
Almost immediately, I took the issue to my boss, explaining that my female coworker should be making 80 cents to my dollar, not the other way around. For Christ's sake, doesn't she have better things to focus on other than her career? Shouldn't she be debating whether or not the friends she and her husband (the likely breadwinner) are having over for dinner are worth using "the good plates" on? You know, women jobs like that?
If it wasn't for the testosterone boosting vitamin regimen my bro-shaman, Joe Rogan, got me on, I would have felt like half the man I am. I mean, my T levels are so strong right now that Pontius Pilate could use that T to securely hold the second crucifixion of Jesus if he so chose to. Thank God for that, or else the fragile concept - that is my manhood - would have been destroyed.
All these progressive workplaces have safe spaces nowadays, but what about for people like me? I don't see them worrying about my mental health. Why doesn't anyone ever ask how I feel (no homo)?
You couldn't possibly understand what I've gone through until you walk a mile in my Chelsea boots. Maybe if someone would have taken the time to understand the headspace I was in after discovering I was making less than a living penis hangar, perhaps I wouldn't have had this relapse.
It wasn't long until I found myself blacked out off Ciroc and Red Bull's later that night trying to impress the hostess at the local Chili's, who I've been grooming for years now. With "golf guy" being my entire personality, I had no choice but to burn out of the parking lot in my leased Dodge Charger to impress her. This only lead to me immediately getting pulled over, leaving me with no choice but to hand the cop my lawyer's business card.
And yes, of course, that worked. But that's not the person I want to be anymore. We all saw what happened to Johnny Damon. All it takes is one libtard cop to ignore your pleas that you, too, support Trump before you finally get that DUI.
What does it really matter...I lost my job after holding a grudge against my female colleague and making her cry on multiple occasions.…whatever. What do I care? China’s going to take our jobs any day now, and honestly, they deserve it. American’s have turned into the WNBA players of the world; Always complaining about how we deserve more...For what? Being below average at our jobs?
Who cares. I’m ready to move onto a more masculine field of work anyhow; A field like economics. After relapsing, I got back into the habit of wearing precut sleeveless hoodies. It was then that I had the realization that economic professionals had the “Rational Choice Theory” completely wrong. If it were any what true, then explain why precut sleeveless hoodies are a thing….
From here on out, I plan on putting together a persuasive paper as to why this theory is inaccurate. Well, actually...cutting the sleeves would have been a job for your non-existent stay-at-home wife...But with the stay-at-home wife now a dying breed, maybe it is a rational purchase....Well that really fucks things up...Goddamnit, I gotta go get my job back.