Colombo Confessions is all about having a laugh. I’ve had the misfortune of associating with a wide cross-section of Colombo denizens. This column is a look at the lighter side of Lankans in the capital of Sri Lanka.
It’s true. After all the foot stomping, spewing of vitriol, and threats to men all around, our local Beyoncés still do go back to their Jay-Zs. Not all, of course, but there are those fake feminists who spend the vast majority of their bitter existence man-shaming men and still living off them. Classy, isn’t it?
Get an education, daffodil; and be the right royal equal you deserve to be. I do believe that Girls Run The World, but crying for attention under the veil of this faux fury puts the likes of great feminists like Mary Wollstonecraft to shame.
Get an education and get a job, Mademoiselle. That all-expense-paid trip to Italy, and Gucci handbag will only last as long your figure does, and as long as your sugar daddy remains a celebrity. A fashionista you may be, but what you really are is an amoral recessionista.
Fake loves fake, noh? No wonder they all love you on Fakebook where being a pseudo celebrity feminist is just a like, comment, and share away. Don’t think for a moment that this coterie of dysfunction is waiting to embrace you when things get tough. Keep the man-bashing to a minimum – it helps no one, and alienates even those true feminists who happen to be men.
Yes, I can’t stand the patriarchy as well. But as you drive Daddy’s Beemer around the block and go all Independent Woman a la Destiny’s Child, take a look in the mirror and know that your stance is as fake as the $ 225 foundation cream you got your sugar daddy to buy for you. Your mother was more of a feminist than you’ll ever be. She had skills. You, my dear, are on pills.
There’s honour in work, darlo. I know plenty of girls standing on their own two feet working the corporate world like they own it. Take a page off that book, girl. Learn something, apply it, and werk it like you mean it. There’s no feminism in sashaying from one party to the next living off the credit of one helpless bloke to the next. That’s just exploitation, the very same exploitation, in fact, that you blame men for.
I can hear the sizzle in your veins reading this piece. Chill out. This is just satire. Do you know what that means? Satire is using humour, irony, exaggeration, or ridicule to expose and criticise stupidity. This is freedom of expression, which as an enlightened gal like you should know, is not incompatible with dialogue. It is however incompatible with intolerance. Maybe I should apologise to you. Maybe I shouldn’t. Actually I won’t. Did my fangs dig at a nerve? You know who you are. As the saying goes, if the cap fits wear it, darling.
(Rohitha Perera is a writer, blogger, and content marketer from Colombo, Sri Lanka. He used to be an editor at a lifestyle magazine, and now works in the IT industry)
The views and opinions expressed in this column are those of the author, and do not necessarily reflect those of this publication.