Werewolves and Feminism

(The vast majority of famous writers are outrageous libtards.)

Yesterday, I read a tale with my middle schoolers called The Wive’s Story. It is written by Ursula K. Le Guin, and it’s about a female wolf who falls in love with a werewolf. However, she has no idea that he’s actually half a man until her angry sister eventually rips the poor fucker’s throat out.

One girl said, “That’s a very strange piece of writing.”

Another female said, “I really liked it.”

I nodded. “I figured you would. Ursula was a real strident feminist, and this particular work is all about girl power.”

The first girl wrinkled her nose. “I’m not a feminist. Those women in America are crazy.”

I smiled at her. “This tale also has racial overtones. Notice the color of the dude. He’s a white guy who is guilty of both oppression and cultural appropriation.”

She shook her head. “I just don’t see it.”

“Of course you do. You simply have to look harder. The evil white man tries to break into a cultural circle that is foreign to him. He does this through seduction and emotional manipulation. But his heart is full of malice, and his motivations are base and self-serving.”

She closed the book with a big bang. “Now I hate the story. Thanks a lot, Mr. Jack Woodd.”

Everybody laughed.

Later that day, another teacher used my room to teach his math class. He pulled my projection screen all the way down, and the damn thing wouldn’t go back up. Imagine a window shade. You’re only supposed to pull it down halfway. If you go all the way, it ends up getting stuck.

Needless to say, I was fit to be tied. My face remained placid, but my heart was a cauldron of burning anger.

He looked at me sheepishly. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what I’ve done wrong.”

“Not a problem. Next time, you’ll do better.”

“I have an appointment, and I fear I have to leave you with this pile of shit in your lap.”

“OK. I’ll take care of it.”

I’m not mechanically inclined, so it took me about an hour to fix the fucking thing. Eventually, I had to climb on top of a desk to jamb my fat fingers into the contraption. I finally found the lever which activated the spring. But this kind of shit happens all the time in life. Therefore, I must learn to stop overreacting. Big fucking deal, right? If it breaks, so what? It’s not like I actually own the fucking thing.

I eventually got home at 6 p.m. Rice-Boy Larry was in his room banging away on his computer.

I said, “I don’t feel like cooking tonight. Let’s go to a restaurant.”

“Where? The chicken house again?”

I nodded. “Why not? It’s right across the street.”

So we had bird and beer for dinner. Well, I had beer, and he drank Seven-Up. I stuffed a fuckload of poultry into my mouth like it was going out of style. In fact, I made a real pig of myself.

I pointed at my son to lend gravity to my words. “Get on the internet and order me a ton of sausage. I also want French bread.”

“Can I get some new headphones?”

I shrugged. “Sure. Sounds good to me.”

The total came to fifty bucks. So my items should all be delivered to my door by today or tomorrow afternoon. 

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