I was at a house part last year, where a spindly “male” academic in trendy eyewear opined, apropos of nothing, that Sarah Palin should be “buried.” You know, like they do with women in Afghanistan before they stone them?
“I guess you want to bury me, too, then,” I called across the room. “I think she’s wonderful.”
All he could do, being one of those fake “males” we’re riddled with her in Toronto, was sputter, then snicker something to his fat female companion about having “struck a nerve.”
They’re used to being at the front of the class, or on stage. And they never expect one of us to be amongst them.