Roosh is a Whiner

I just read Roosh's latest, "If I Was Born An American Girl."  I won't reproduce it here.  Jezebel readers were shredding it the other day, much to his delight.  He loves to play the naughty boy, get all the girls riled up, then wank about it on Twitter.

But even a riled up girl like me is getting pretty bored with being outraged over Roosh.

Anyway, the theme of this "essay" is how damn easy Roosh's life would have been if he had only been born a woman.  It's one of those New Misogynists' heavy, ham-headed attempts to be satirical.  (I have come to the sad conclusion that The New Misogynists, with the exception of Delicious Tacos, are tone deaf to humor and nuance.)  

Roosh's piece takes the form of a very long and very arbitrary list. (Roosh loves compiling lists, graphs, tables, and pie charts -- so scientifical!)  Although not in any apparent order of importance, Roosh methodically numbers the privileges that young American women enjoy compared to their male peers.  Allegedly.

Note that most of this privilege is attributed to women's sexual power over men.  Obviously, he is only thinking about the tiny fraction of American women whom he considers sexually attractive.  The rest of us ugly fatties, who make on average $6000/year less than everyone else, well, we belong in forced labor camps anyway.

So basically, if Roosh had been born a conventionally beautiful young woman, he wouldn't have had to study for his organic chemistry exams; he could have aced the course by simply fucking his instructor.  This fantasy is such a standard of "school girl" porno and B movies, where Roosh and his fans get most of their sex education, that naturally Roosh serves it forth as irrefutable "evidence."  Hey, a cliche wouldn't be a cliche if it weren't a fact, right?  And resentful boners are the best!

As a college student, I never had to choose between either failing a class or exchanging sexual favors with an instructor, but had the dilemma presented itself, in most cases, I believe I would have opted to withdraw.  (Mainly because, although I used to be kind of a slut, I've always been a really lazy slut, and as any sex worker can attest, it's called sex "work" for a reason.) 

Please don't assume that the fact that my undergraduate transcripts are riddled with "Ws" is because I turned down the option of blowing my profs on a regular basis.  Honest, it never came up for negotiation (no pun intended).

OK, full disclosure:  Once a film history instructor asked me to give him a massage in his office.  Although I had no reason to believe that my grade hinged on fulfilling this rather surprising request, I dropped the class immediately out of sheer embarrassment.  And because I had no idea how to give anyone a massage.

Ah, the good ole days, before anyone had ever heard of "sexual harassment!"

God, Roosh is boring.  And whiny?  Jesu Maria!  What a tiresome child he must have been, the kind of kid who would complain for hours because his sister got the red popsicle, while he had to settle for the blue one, and who would keep repeating his grievance in a tedious, unrelenting whine, until his mother longed to toss both child and popsicle onto the shoulder of the road from a moving vehicle (and then back up, a la Dzhokhar Tsarnaev).

The fact that Roosh's mother did not succumb to the temptation represents an amazing feat of maternal self-restraint for which -- unsurprisingly -- Roosh is not in the least bit grateful.

Oh, and as long as we're talking about frozen treats here, let me share this treat of a one minute video "I'm A Nice Guy" by Scott Benson.