Saturday, I was having lunch at a sidewalk café when a family walked by. Their four-year-old boy tripped and fell on the sidewalk. His mother rushed to him, hugged him, and asked a million times if he was alright. The kid then teared up and started wailing as if he’d been shot six times. The proper parental response, of course, is to do nothing. The boy learns to shake it off and doesn’t grow up to be a Taylor Swift fan (like Jim Comey).
I’ve seen this play a thousand times. The kid is fine, then Mom gushes all over him, and the kid figures he’s supposed to scream, cry, and demand to be taken to a university safe space. These are the boys who will grow up to get Social Justice degrees, dye their hair blue, and be triggered by sidewalks the rest of their lives.
One of the great benefits of being universally disliked—especially by members of the fairer sex—is that I can pretty much say whatever I want. Most women already loathe me, some for good reason, but mostly because I don’t give a happy nappy if I offend them as long as I’m speaking truth. I’m just trying to save America. So, Karens, be outraged—because this article is about how much I hate the feminization of our culture.
Boys shouldn’t cry. It’s unnatural to expect kindergarteners to sit still at a desk. They’re supposed to be running around like wild Indians, shooting spitballs, and pretending they’re Vikings assaulting the coasts of Northumbria. There’s never a reason for a boy to be forced to talk about his feelings to a school counselor. He should have a BB gun by seven, his first shotgun by eleven, and kill his first wild animal shortly thereafter.
The surest way to lose our Republic—indeed all of Western civilization—is to feminize boys. Women already provide the world with more than enough fembot irrationality and unhinged emotion (see Elizabeth Warren). The world needs strength, logic, and reasoning to counter the strange cognitive effects of estrogen.
I could not have had a more loving father, who told me he loved me every day, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t swat my raw backside with his leather belt. The graver the offense, the more swats. (I deserved many more than I got.) There’s never been a man, dead or alive, I respected more than my old man—and because of that respect, I remember every life lesson he ever taught me. No boy is going to respect a weak, emasculated man wearing Crocs and a “Vote for Tim Walz” T-shirt who shares housecleaning duties with his wife.
I was recently at the Virginia–Florida State game with a number of fellas, and we were all talking about how our teachers disciplined us with rulers, paddles, cane poles, and other instruments of corporal punishment. Often, the executioner made a ceremony of the lashing. We were all laughing about it. No one was seeing a psychiatrist over “trauma.” No one was mad at their parents.
The only guy from those days I feel sorry for was Keith Carter. Mr. Drake (7th grade) had holes in his paddle and was an accomplished gaoler and hangman. He even had a catchy name for his paddle—Sweet Justice. My backside met Sweet Justice multiple times. I never knew that Mr. Drake offered an alternative punishment—running laps around the track. It made no difference, because no self-respecting 7th-grade boy would choose the sissy way out of what was his due. But Keith did. None of us could believe it. He was ostracized. No man wants to be in a foxhole with Boy George. The last I heard, he’d become a sales clerk at Versace on Rodeo Drive.
Remember when policemen all looked like Sergeant Rock? Hell, remember when boys read Sgt. Rock comic books? Been to Starbucks lately and seen grown men wearing Scooby-Doo pajamas ordering an Iced White Mocha with Sweet Cream Foam and Caramel Drizzle? It’s bad enough we have women cops patrolling the beat, but when they’re 5’3” and weigh 170 pounds, it’s not exactly comforting. Remember when Daryl Gates ran the L.A. Police Department? Athletic, manly cops with batons and an attitude! Gee, I wonder why L.A. was so clean and crime-free back then?
How about some good old-fashioned child labor, like back when boys sold matches on New York City sidewalks? I vote for less school and teacher-union mediocrity and more backbreaking hard work in the hot sun.
What about women preachers? I think many women can be—and are—extraordinary Christians, but I don’t want to listen to them blather from the pulpit. The Episcopal Church has become so feminized that it’s hard to distinguish the men ministers from the female ones. I want a big strappin’ hoss—preferably a war hero who stormed an Afghan bunker with a hand grenade in his teeth, an M16 in one hand, and an 18-inch Bowie knife in the other. I want to hear unpopular, bold biblical truths, not watered-down social-justice gruel from a Sarah Lawrence gender-studies major.
All of this leads me to how pleased I was to hear Pete Hegseth’s Quantico speech to senior military leaders. The military exists to kill our enemies and break their stuff. It’s not a gay nightclub or a fat-positivity affirmation center. There should be no safe spaces or puppy-petting rooms. It’s a place to train men to be Spartan warriors.
The number-one job of men is to provide for and protect women. Any country that expects women to fight its battles is not a civilized country. Perhaps the greatest virtues of the so-called “toxic male” are discipline and self-control. I’ve had a number of women throw a flowerpot or frying pan at me for no other reason than twitching an eyebrow the wrong way. Y’all have no self-control (see Elizabeth Warren again). No war can be won without men acting coolly under pressure. No warrior wants to be in a foxhole with Richard Simmons or Elton John.
Men set examples for their sons as well as the rest of society. Any military man should be expected to be trim and physically fit. In all areas of life, discipline is the key to kicking ass. It also demonstrates respect—for oneself as well as for the organization one serves.
My dad taught me to wear a coat and tie when flying: “Son, wherever you go, you are a representative of the Commonwealth of Virginia and our family.” Being fit, trim, and well-dressed also shows respect for others, because nobody wants to look at a fat, slovenly blob of blubber. The military has the most difficult job in the world, and if high-ranking officers can’t stop eating Twinkies, they likely lack the greatest ingredient of success—discipline. If you don’t have the discipline to stop putting Little Debbie snack cakes in your mouth, you likely don’t have the discipline to lead men into battle. How can one expect troops to be fit and lean if their superiors can’t lead by example? None of this should be news to anyone—but for the woke generation raised by single mothers and/or emasculated Tinker Bells, it apparently is.
Women need men. Sons need men to teach them manly values. Daughters need men to show them what a good man is. Culture needs men—and most of all, our country needs manly leadership.
I hope I’ve been a good example to my son. Three incidents come to mind that make me proud. When he was nine, he was pitching in a 12-year-old baseball league. He beaned their star pitcher—a big twelve-year-old who could really throw the heat. The boy cried like a little girl. Coleman gave him an incredulous look that said, “Are you really that much of a pus#y?” When Coleman got up to bat, the big kid beaned him with his fastball. Coleman just trotted down to first base like he’d been hit by a feather.
Another time we went duck hunting. Coleman was about twelve. I told him to dress warmly, but he dressed like it was a day at Miami Beach. It was six degrees, and we had to break through the ice. His teeth were literally chattering. He was miserable, but he never complained or suggested we stop. Men don’t whine.
Not long ago, as a grown man, someone disrespected his sister. He walked into the creep’s office, locked the door, and gave him a good thrashing. Later he called me and in explaining his actions, he quoted Edmund Burke, “the surest way for evil to triumph is for good men to do nothing.”
Boys need fathers who don’t wear Scooby-Doo pajamas into Starbucks—and our country needs boys raised by strong men.
