Just as elected officials are obliged to recuse themselves when a conflict of interest looms, I confess I am prejudiced toward women. I was raised by two of the best, my mother and my grandmother.
Because the seven of us started life from a position that was different from our friends and neighbors, Mom and Grandma drilled Lesson No. 1 into us: We should strive to achieve only through merit, never sneaking by with the aid of a tilted field.
As a worthy principle of life, however, merit died out decades ago, giving way to manipulated gimmickry and a proliferation of sharply tilted fields.
The Day the World Died?
Early in the 1970s, when manlike women swam to the fore of American society, via the feminist movement, the effete ordained leadership determined that any American cursed enough not to have been born a middle-aged white man “merited” lifetime artificial advantages. The dawn of the Corrupted Language Era can be traced to that dark day 36 years ago.
Overnight, a surreal transformation beguiled young Americans and academic Americans.
Discreditation of heroes became a favorite American pastime. Their traditional niche atop the Pedestals of Idols was taken by a uniquely American construction, The Victim, a bizarre design covering every human lucky enough to have been conceived either as non-white or non-male. One born shorn of both curses was anointed as a Lottery Winner, which dovetails nicely into this morning’s news.
The Playpen Is Quivering
Our lockstep, lip-synching liberal friends are back in the Toy Room again, shaking their rattlers and stomping their stubby bare feet.
A gender specialist — meaning she deigned to be born a woman — at the Los Angeles Times related to her readers this morning another one of those hideous liberal fairy tales. The gender specialist wept through all 36 inches of yarn, the way (even liberal) girls tear up. Once more, lockstep liberals, you see, are trying to rewire the world into their preferred distorted configuration, roughly upside down.
Mom has been gone for 26 winters, Grandma for 27. (The lockstep libs of today would have made great publicity hash out of Mom’s case. For a period, she attended Crippled Children’s School, and you know what lockstep libs think of calling people by an accurate name.) So Mom and Grandma were spared the agony of seeing their precious principle of advancement by merit savaged by humpback thinkers in the shallow sanctuaries of silliness.
Duck. Here Come the Girls
Today’s case — which boosts women at the expense of men — is an illustration of bean-counting lockstep liberals at what passes for their best.
(As you know, most lockstep liberals choose the single life. If any of the male lockstep libs married, they would know, instinctively, that women, as a brood, hardly require a push from those of us on the weaker-sex side of the fence.)
Back in their unenlightened religious days, lockstep libs thought they had struck a deal with God — He could create the world, if he insisted, but they would run the universe. By George, that is the way it has played out.
This morning’s story is that the government-run Small Business Administration — created in the early 1950s to protect small businesses by funneling loans to them — is not showering enough loans on businesses owned by women.
Are We Going to Stand for This?
Sort of according to the gender specialist at the Times, the latest development has flushed girls in curlers of all ages out their cozy buildings, waving broomsticks, dustmops, faded housecoats, faded diet plans and a bottle of undrunk beer.
In the old days when lockstep libs foolishly believed they were only the equal of God, not his superior, they concocted several immutable rules for all mankind:
Never more than half of the world could be happy at one time. It would be unfair to the bedraggled half if more people were happy than depressed.
No child should be allowed to fail one single grade. That could hurt the heck out of his self-esteem, and the teacher’s, too.
God must agree to reserve a pristine place in Liberal Heaven and on Liberal Earth for Victims and any other non-white, non-middle-aged, non-male who feels put-upon.
Such restrictive regulations met no resistance. Well, they did. But all opponents were slaughtered, quietly, in a non-war prosecuted by an army of anti-war activists.
Back to our story. The Times’s gender specialist says that in 1994 Congress told the unwashed that by golly whillickers, wouldn’t it be just jim-dandy if the Small Business Administration established a goal “of awarding 5 percent of federal small-business contracts to female owners”?
The Times’s gender specialist indicated that all women squeeze in under the rubric “female owners,” even if they are dufusses, bilious broads, husband-beaters or (shut my mouth) Democrats. The Times’s gender specialist could not have wheedled any more weepy words out of this cause even if she had been a dumb man.
The News Is New and Bad
Last week, there was an update. The Small Business Administration, wrote Ms. Gender Specialist, proposed a speed-up rule to implement the 1994 goal. But the speed-up would only apply to certain women owners in four fairly unlikely fields.
That alone would have brought the girls in curlers and ill-fitting housecoats running into the streets.
But when the girls who have deigned to have other people raise their children got wind of the final stipulation, they started ripping out their tear-soaked curlers.
The speed-up would restrict beneficiaries to “economically disadvantaged women,” whatever that means.
What Is Your Opinion?
With the Iowa caucuses still several hours away, you probably wonder how these limitations make the jilted curler-wearing girls of the land feel.
The CEO of the U.S. Women’s Chamber of Commerce, widely praised for never getting het-up like a man would in a crisis situation, told Ms. Gender Specialist, “I am outraged at the blatant disregard for the law as Congress intended it.”
In gulping down her heated locution, I declined to ask the president of the Men’s Chamber of Commerce what he thought. The president of the Women’s Chamber might have whacked both of us on the noggin with the rolling pin she keeps stashed in her weekday purse.
