Rebecca Traistor, Another Reason To Extend NOAFW Another Week

Actually, the title belies my thought that we need to keep up the offense against feminists all year long.

After being bitch slapped by Instapundit and given a vicious uppercut by Ann Althouse, the unfortunate Rebecca Traistor is brutally knocked out by Stacy McCain in a brilliant piece of deductive reasoning;

Having pored over Traister’s self-consciously “intellectual” essay – studded with SAT words and other such aren’t-we-so-smart advanced-placement gestures – I see exactly what Professor Althouse meant by “a silly collection of words.”

There isn’t really an argument, except between Traister and her selected strawmen, or perhaps among the screeching voices inside Rebecca’s demon-filled head. (“My name is Legion” – somewhere, a herd of swine awaits.) Her intent is to celebrate the humor of various other liberals, to whom she attributes an aptitude she conspicuously lacks herself. No one has ever accused Rebecca Traister of being intentionally funny and, if “the personal is political,” her politics is either intensely secretive or utterly empty. Careful observers of Traister’s work cannot help but notice how guarded she is about herself, seeking always to have us focus on whatever idols she reveres or scapegoats she demonizes.

There is something about Rebecca that Rebecca doesn’t like (a self-loathing she externalizes by attacks on others), and her “feminism” is less a philosophy than an attempt to distract herself and others from her own emotional desperation.

One suspects she has a history of suicidal thoughts. What sort of anti-depressants has Traister been prescribed, and in what dosage?

It doesn’t matter: She is not funny, because there is nothing funny about her own lonely and joyless existence. For this plight, she somehow irrationally blames conservative Republicans she’s never actually met and who wouldn’t even know she existed – admit it, you had never heard of her before now — if she hadn’t committed that stupid miscomprehension of “succubus.” (Can the Washington Post no longer afford to employ college graduates as editors?) At any rate, here is the conclusion of Traister’s column:

The hairy harridan of yore isn’t totally vanquished. She’s too useful for the right. Without her, it becomes clear that Republicans are fighting not some made-up monster but women themselves. Contemporary activists who have recently replaced the yellowing cartoon of feminism with a living, breathing, nuanced version of what women’s liberation means in 2012 must keep fighting with humor and zeal if they ever want to finish off the old bat.
Perhaps someday they’ll even avenge her by hoisting a banner of their foes as fogeyish, woman-hating, humorless prudes and carrying it into future battles.

Unfortunately for Traister, she can never escape her own worst enemy, whose unforgiving gaze penetrates her every time she looks in a mirror.

All I can say is well played sir.

I pored over that wretched piece of writing myself and all I got for my troubles was a massive headache and a bad case of brain freeze. What a bunch of scatological tripe the Washington Post lets flow across it’s once great pages.

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