Knight Mare

J.J. Bittermuch writes me from the fifth circle (the Wraithful) of Hell:

In Boston there’s a local publication that covers the night-life and café scene. In a recent issue, the publication printed the results of an informal survey of women asking if chivalry was dead. The general opinion was that it was not only dead but dang near starting to draw flies.

One typical comment from an interviewee was “Although [we are] independent, equal, and fabulous, we still deserve to be treated like ladies. Pay for my meal, open my door, pull out my chair, damn it.”

Fascinating. A total crock of hairy quadruped excrement, but fascinating.

Look, Lady, and I use the term loosely, most men of the last few generations grew up listening to Feminists define all men as pigs and all sex as rape. We listened while women announced that the Y-chromosome was a sexually transmitted disease. We were there while female academics proclaimed us the children of Cain. We watched while women announced that every male was, at best, an impotent sit-com daddy, and at worst, an animal.

And now you have the brass-plated chutzpah to demand that we treat you like a fairy tale princess?

Whoa.

Listen, redefine me . . . at least a little, at least once in a while . . . as Saint George rather than the Dragon, and then maybe we can talk about the shining armor.

Until then . . . well . . .

Galahad has left the building.