Do I get to say, “go fuck yourselves, you fucking assholes”?
When I listen to Leo, I crack up—while wanting to head-butt his pretty actor face.
The guy is desperate to pass for standard-issue. Either people made his life hell as a kid, or it’s on him—“wah-wah, why am I not like them?”
Me, I hate this world. I despise it. I’d piss on it from twenty meters away through a straw. Leo doesn’t get he’s just a prop for those mangy mutts with the little smirk, all thinking one thing: does his dick come in fun-size too? “You won’t believe it, I met a midget… we talked a bit, it was cool. Then, since we were hammered, I asked him to show me his cock…”
Truth is—the real truth—he wishes he were six feet, six-three, so he could play his nice little tennis, hit a few shots at the pickleball courts, paddleboard in flip-flops, surf like an idiot, and end up lodged in a great white’s belly.
I’m not obsessed with Leo… He married a standard-issue woman, fine—but that’s just a guy thing. It’s not love, it’s a trophy: look at me, I stepped out of line, I got myself a girl with real legs and long arms. Makes me think of those rich old geezers who snag a girl the size of their granddaughter. Not even a cliché—just a dirty old reflex: “See? I can still get it up. I’m not dead yet.”
Call it survival instinct, like Ali says.
Leo’s the same… And yeah, Leo’s a dude—but they can all go fuck themselves. This world—this whole planet—was built, shaped, and wrecked by guys at least five-five, the standard size of those Roman assholes who got so big on GMO corn they’ll end up able to blow themselves just by doing crunches.
If I could drive a garbage truck, I’d roll by every morning and bellow: “Dump your men—now’s the time, last chance!”
Sometimes I just want to slap women, they’re so pathetic. They’ve totally forgotten their primal power; they started copying those lunatics too. “I wanna wear jeans, cowboy boots, hit the gym, be the boss.” Classic oppressed-person reflex: mimic your oppressor. Centuries—millennia—of submission… and then they’re graciously allowed to do almost like men, except they’ll never actually be men. That still hasn’t sunk into their little heads—and it’s not because they’re missing a pair of balls, no. It’s because imitating them already means giving up our place, our power—dragging us down, making us weaker.
We’ve turned into tranny-lite, because a tranny chooses it, owns it, figures out how to feel good in their skin. Us? We’ll never fit the suit, even tailored. We know it was never cut for us to begin with; it’s a knockoff of a man and it’ll stay that way. That’s why they snicker when a woman walks into an executive role in a pantsuit—she’s play-acting the asshole, like the asshole fifteen years ago who was taking her doggy-style in his office.
She’s never gonna pull it off. She’ll never look like the original.
goddesses, shamans. You’d barely see them beneath layers of bright cloth, draped in pearl necklaces and gold bangles—and the man, small and scrawny, like a male spider, fear in his eyes, lowering his head and tucking his little stinger away out of respect…
Because all those idiots know damn well we can snap a fucking seven-mile leash around their necks. That thought scares them—the idea we can drive them completely nuts. Look at the panic from these assholes when a woman chooses to wear the hijab—because it’s hers, not because some dumb cousin or brain-dead brother told her to. It makes them lose it. They scream and freak out—not out of pity for an “oppressed woman,” that’s PR cheap talk—but because they’ve lost power over her. They’re terrified a woman might throw up a real boundary, go instantly out of reach, stop being the easy prey of their shitty fantasies. Most of the time, you should know, guys get off on a pair of tits—or just an ass. That’s it.
It pisses them off if you don’t wear tight jeans and a braless tee, which cracks me up. If I could drive a garbage truck, I’d roll by every morning and bellow: “Dump your men—now’s the time, last chance!”
If I could roll back time, I’d shoot a scene from when women walked the earth as living demigods—goddesses, shamans. You’d barely see them beneath layers of bright cloth, draped in pearl necklaces and gold bangles—and the man, small and scrawny, like a male spider, fear in his eyes, lowering his head and tucking his little stinger away out of respect…
For fuck’s sake—we gave life. Back then, that actually meant something.
Back then, the guys were chowing down on mushrooms; they knew—felt—our superiority. Next to us, they were tiny—dwarfed by us.
Twelve thousand years later, we’re nothing—cheap lookalikes at best, whores at worst.
We staged the great councils in the belly of the earth. We painted in caves. We read dreams. There was still respect then—fear, reverence—for everything around us. Our intuition was solid gold, I’m telling you. The dumb ego slept, because we kept it in check.
One look at the first idiot who dared to leer, and a dozen devotees would rush in to cave his head in—teach him how to look properly, how to respect the sacred.
Twelve thousand years later, we’re nothing—cheap lookalikes at best, whores at worst. And for what? They poisoned the bees, butchered the trees, fouled the rain, drove off the birds… they even managed to shit up the oceans. Earth isn’t a home anymore, not even a planet—it’s a cemetery.
At some point, you just say stop.
Fuck them all. Go fuck yourselves, you shitty assholes.
Justine Wang — “the little eccentric”
Illustration by Otto Machina — Justine Wang is a fictional character from the series “After The Strong” English Adaptation of “Car Ils Hériteront de la Terre.”