It’s Time to Get Hard
If soft=bad and women=soft, then women=bad
Some people think the meaning of life is about love and family, and to each of them I say: fuck you, you weak ass bitch. You wanna stop and smell the flowers? I say grow up, pansy. The meaning of life is about weapons manufacturing, creating value for shareholders, and shooting defenseless near-extinct animals I tracked with cutting edge technology and a team of 25 guides on the plains. Soft=bad. OKAY???
I used to be like those softies: big tits, round ass, a habit of purchasing jars of slime with names like “baby axolotl cloud dough” and “bunny snow cone” to squelch and pop in my hands during Zoom meetings with my camera and microphone strategically muted. Now I’m harder than an 85-year-old financier’s dick after swallowing a bottle of Cialis, dying from a heart attack and developing rigor mortis. I got a double-mastectomy to install breast-shaped machine guns on my chest like a fembot. Why? Because I overheard a boomer complaining about how soft my generation is and I realized my decision to relax and enjoy my life was DESTROYING THE FABRIC OF AMERICAN SOCIETY! AAAAHHHHHH!
At the same time that I was doing dumb shit like “going outside for a breath of fresh air,” “baking cookies for a small treat,” and “knitting a sweater to give as a gift,” three-year-olds in foreign countries were memorizing advanced calculus problems and evolving past the need for both parental love and novelty. Instead of taking naps in cozy cribs, they were learning to get by on only four hours of sleep per day in a cold, steel chamber, so that they could be better posed to spread communist shit like universal healthcare around the world, while also surpassing us in manufacturing capabilities. WE HAVE TO STOP THESE FOREIGN BABIES!!!
What kind of red-blooded American would I be if I let them take over? When I learned about those babies, I knew it was time to drink a six-pack and instigate regime change in a foreign nation on the cusp of democratizing. First, I sat down to write an apology letter to my hard AF elders, but then I remembered writing is for the weak. When I want to get a message to someone, I stand up in my open-plan office and shout it at the top of my lungs, to better promote knowledge sharing and collaboration.
“I’M DONE WITH THIS SOFT FUCKING BULLSHIT,” I screamed at my colleagues. I ripped off my shirt to put some war paint on my machine gun tits. One of my colleagues said, “I’m calling HR,” and I said, “That’s the softest shit you could ever do. When I was a child, we didn’t have HR. WE HARASSED PEOPLE AND THEY LIKED IT.”
“We’re the same age,” my colleague said, so I shoved her out of my way. Communicating with words = soft = bad.
Then I went to go play football without a helmet, cause I’m hard as fuck, not a weak bitch with a soft cranium like I used to be. I hate pussy so much, I got a sex change to become a man. Unfortunately, I realized that this kind of thing is frowned upon by some of the tough guy community so I quickly changed back. I paid for both of these procedures with cash cause I’m a capitalist, bitch.
I needed to find one of these wise gurus who is a leader in anti-softness like Bill Maher so I could tell him in person (the best way) about what I learned on this journey (so much). But when I broke into his studio, he just called for security, which kind of surprised me. I thought from his complaining about the woke youth that he wanted to collaborate mano a (wo)mano with hardos like me.
I said, “wait, no, give me an excel spreadsheet or a weapon I’m ready to GET HARD.” And one of his associates (someone I went to high school with) said, “I wouldn’t do that. She writes poems and needs a calculator to do basic addition.”
When his associate said that, I was reminded of another man with great ideas: Lawrence Summers. While he was the president of Harvard, Mr. Summers said women may be confronting “issues of intrinsic aptitude” when trying to do hard stuff. While I can’t speak for other women, I certainly felt that I was hitting the upper bounds of my own skill set.
“I don’t get it. Do you want me here or not?” I pressed a button to retract my machine-gun-tits, maybe that was too hard, even for this crowd.
“Please go home,” Bill Maher said to me.
So I did. I went back home, where the heart is, where my slime and my knitting was waiting for me. I did the only thing I know how to do. I wrote a poem. It goes like this:
I am soft (yes it’s true)
But at least I’m not a whiny brat (like you)
Then I put it in a cream-colored envelope embossed with my monogram and postmarked it, leaving a blank space to add the name of the next “thought leader” who wants to use soft as an insult.
What I learned on my quest to be less soft is that getting hard is easy. But staying hard? Sometimes, you do need a woman for that.
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