Patriarchy: So strong, you could even skip a day

April 30, 2007

I was shooting hoops with Lance Patriarchy the other day, and after an hour of play I noticed he had not even broken a sweat yet, while I was a damp mess who had just saturated his second headband to the point of uselessness.

“How do you do it?” I say between exhausted gasps. “You’re bone dry.”

“Because the Patriarchy never sweats,” says Lance Patriarchy. “And these days I have even less to not sweat about.”

“Like that partial-birth abortion ban getting cleared by the Supreme Court,” I say.

“Never underestimate the power of five well-placed Catholics,” Lance Patriarchy says, shooting a three-pointer. He misses.

“Yeah, but there’s no health exemption for the woman,” I say, collecting the rebound. “What the hell’s up with that?”

“That was a fit of pique on my part,” says Lance Patriarchy, trying to guard me. “Sometimes the name-calling gets to me. ‘Rape Culture!’ ‘Rape Culture!’ All friggin’ day long. God! Ever just get the urge to lash out and crush something? I get that way sometimes.”

“Yeah, but women’s lives could be endangered,” I say, doing my killer cross-over and burning past Lance Patriarchy for a lay-up. “It’s a rare procedure, and it’s only used in less than 1 percent of all third trimester abortion. It’s the best procedure for the health of the mother in that situation.”

“Yeah, I bet NARAL is feeling really dumb now for supporting candidates that allowed Alito to get on the Supreme Court,” Lance Patriarchy says, gathering up the loose ball. “And you wonder why I don’t sweat.”

“This decision also might endanger the legality of all other methods of abortion,” I say, checking the ball back to him. “I really think you’ve been an total asshole about this.”

“What the hell do you expect from me? I’m the physical manifestation of the Patriarchy,” says Lance Patriarchy, trying to dribble past me. “This is what I do. It’s my thing. It’s like yelling at the bees for pollinating the flowers.”

“You better set this right eventually, or I’m seriously considering thinking about contemplating pondering not going to your New Year’s Eve parties any more,” I say, closely guarding him.

“Eh, it’s kind of out of my hands now,” says Lance Patriarchy, pulling up for a jumper and hitting it. “I can’t interact with the world to my detriment. Everyone else needs to fix this. I can only sit back and do nothing while you guys do it, like I did when women finally got the right to vote.”

“Where were you then?” I ask, grabbing the ball.

“Hanging out in Europe in the aftermath of World War I,” says Lance Patriarchy.   “And that was the last time I helped out the physical manifestation of War.  I come back to America when the war’s over and Susan B. Anthony’s got a whole movement all up in my grill.  Not much I could do there.”

“What’s the score?” I ask.

“I think overall I’m winning against the women of America,” says Lance Patriarchy.  “They still make like 77 cents for every dollar a man makes doing the same job.”

“No, I mean this game,” I say.

“Oh, you’re up 17-15,” says Lance Patriarchy.

Lance can’t handle my inside game.

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