Sobbing, hormonal weakness is evidently the new tough
By Timothy Gordon
On June 2 at Kathy Griffin's confounding "apology presser," where the feminist comic said sorry, sort of, for mock-beheading President Trump, viewers across America saw on feminism's pale, aging visage either a crocodile's or a clown's tears. One is not confident that even Griffin herself knows the difference between the two any longer. And to be fair, depending on the moment you picked throughout the turbid, 40-minute debacle, any one of Griffin's tears might have been either of the two sorts, what with the room being so thick with her multifarious emotions. No matter whether her tears were phony or real, Griffin's story providess an unusually clear angle by which one may apprise feminism's mangled but not inscrutable physiognomy.
A caveat: Among comics of the first rank, untoward publicity stunts like Griffin's often fail and are semi-excusable on the merit of the comic's past greatness. But among those never-arrived, reality-TV, politics-as-usual hangers-on like Griffin, who have spent half a lifetime drinking in the back waters of the Los Angeles River, no such excuse appears on the comic's behalf. As with all too many West Coast comics, Griffin stinks of a decades-long ontological yearning for the celebrity she mocks. This is yet another pock-mark of self-contradiction in her routine. It is just another symptom of Griffin's sanctimony before that which she claims to be an article of her scorn.
Griffin's schizophrenic bandying was directly caused by her feminism. Tweet
Self-contradiction goes along with the Griffin aura, of course. In addition to a general sense of the elegiac, perhaps with a view to her career, Griffin's face also expressed whimsy, uncut malice, profound confusion, absurdity and a certain witless determination. In turn, these emotions passed over her countenance, as she dithered between insincere apology, deluded accusation and frequently an embarrassingly misled comedy routine. Only her feminist lawyer Lisa Bloom laughed and applauded. Indeed, only a feminist could applaud Griffin's speech: The subject of her mock-beheading had somehow victimized her.
Although most Americans watched in quiet horror as this D-list poseur embarrassed herself at the podium, they gathered what only a feminist would miss entirely: Griffin's schizophrenic bandying was directly caused by her feminism. Like a surprisingly broad range of issues in the moral life of America today, the puzzling behavior of Griffinesque women in public has in most cases been pre-determined by our culture's now endemic feminism.
In a span of seconds, Griffin jumped from defiant, one-line anthems like "he picked on the wrong redhead" and "I'm not afraid of Donald Trump" to a tear-soaked "he broke me, he broke me." Such rapid, aggressor-turned-victim about-faces prove that feminism is deeply, woefully misled. Faster than Pac-Man, feminism encourages the hunter to turn into the hunted in a blink of the eye. It's stranger stuff than fiction, but then again so is feminism.
For years now, the rapid, feminist, aggressor-turned-victim has worked out more effectively than it did for Griffin, which is probably why Griffin looked so shocked after her presser. A secret revealed by Griffin's fell mouth, the 1960s left circumscribed feminism with not only the male virtue (i.e., toughness) it sought to commandeer, but also male vice (i.e., foulness). Dare I count my chickens, but the American public seems to be growing tired of it.
No matter how unruly the mob, women acting macho and men in dresses will always strike an honest viewer as perverse. Nature's proof: The "tough" chick will eventually burst into tears, as Griffin did within 10 minutes of her first tough talk, and the guy in the dress will inevitably belch like a guy.
Rather than cutting their loss and admitting the proof, the media elites on the cultural Left simply descend one step further down the rabbit hole by completely redefining toughness, as Griffin's defenders have over the last few days. They have indulged in frantic, desperate, wimpy, girlish tears like Griffin's. Sobbing, hormonal weakness is evidently the new tough.
Truth, beauty and goodness remaining what they are, my American prayer is that people remember that anyone can be foul but not everyone can be tough. They will see that feminism has sacralized maleness — virtue, vice and all in between — and adopted it as the new female standard. Never mind that feminism seems to hate men; it has deified maleness.
Thus, harsh critics of feminism are the champions in earnest of women everywhere.
As I've written before, the feminist physiognomy of the sexual revolution is that of "thin skin, with a strong stomach," a masquerade ball of the hypersensitive-macabre couplet (e.g., popular advocacy for literal adult "safe spaces" and "sensitivity alerts" with literal adult coloring books ... where for "consolation" you can literally watch copies of vile filth like The Vagina Monologues). When the culture goes off the Christianity rails, it goes way off and things get real weird real fast.
The 'tough' chick will eventually burst into tears, as Griffin did within 10 minutes of her first tough talk, and the guy in the dress will inevitably belch like a guy. Tweet
More to the point, my hope against hope — absent a mass American conversion to Catholicism — remains that Americans will tire of pandering to the Left and ask them to explain why they enjoy the NBA, but not the WNBA. We all know why. It's time to return to saying it.
Neither Griffin's feminism nor that of her lawyer did her any favors — publicly inviting her to assail the president of the United States for being a white man so audacious as to take offense to being decapitated in effigy.
This is too rich even for American popular culture, even with its thin skin and strong stomach.
Timothy J. Gordon, Ph.L., J.D., M.A., studied graduate philosophy at "the Greg" in Rome. He also holds degrees in literature, history and law. He has lectured on or instructed Logic, Church History, Ethics and Constitutional Law. He lives with his wife and four daughters in Central California. His book Why America Will Perish Without Rome will be released in late 2017.