Jokes are sexist...
Toys are sexist...
Comic books and super heroes are sexist...
Chivalry is sexist...
Paying for a date is sexist...
You get the idea, the list of common things we never once thought to be malicious turning out to be nothing more than the tools of oppression instilled by the patriarchy to subjugate women and keep them stupid and under thumb.
And we can add a new tool to that cock wielding fascist tool kit... The unsuspecting air conditioning...
The Ice Age is a Misogamist Conspiracy!!!!
On an apparently slow news day late last week, Petulant Dvorak (of The Washington Post) threw out to the world a thought provoking essay telling all of us outside plumbing types that we have not only been oppressing all of womanhood with the way we sit (making sure we give the boys their space to dangle) on their way to work, but in the way we keep our artificial climate once they are there.
It was the writer's contention that the office thermostats is just another tool of Male oppression, as women are notorious for running way cooler that their hot blooded, testosterone fueled male counterparts. And, knowing how we Men would initially take her claims as being nothing more than "cunty girl whining" (as there really is no better way to phrase it), she came armed with facts; in a desperate effort to tie this in with the egregious "War on Women" we Men are apparently running. Productivity figures (like how a study found that shifting the temperature from 68 to 77 decreased typos by some 44%) were thrown out (no doubt insinuating that this could be a reason for women making significantly less than men; their frail girl bodies hampered negatively by the masculine desired temperature of 70 bone chilling degrees), as well as mentioning how raising the temperature in the office could reduce electrical costs by some 11% (not only saving the company precious pennies but cutting down on the production of those pesky, supposed planet destroying carbons we seem so found of vomiting out into the atmosphere).
She even suggested that the idea of seeing the Americans male workforce heading off day after day in those ridiculous short pants would son how be "cute"; driving the final nail into the coffin of the rugged American male as we are all to dressed like little British school boys).
Roll your eyes at me if you want... Think me a madman for finding what this woman threw out as a mindless musing to be the next from in the Feminist assault of the American male... But know this is coming soon...
She was smart to tie this to the things she did... It's the blue print for every other idiot, Leftist social experiment forced upon us without nary a vote or discussion! Some do-gooder dreams up an injustice or social unbalance that the world with crumble into ash if not repaired, comes up with a perfectly "reasonable" argument for their Totalitarian stance to repair said flaw (as all these Leftists don't want tolerance but allegiance). And the Corporations, spineless, profit driven cunts that they are, will bend and buckle to the insane suggestion without batting an eye; easier to force through another bit of busywork of HR departments to wrangle than it is to spend the next two weeks reading a Twitter assault by pajama clad Beta males and beastly looking Womynists tossing snarky jabs and impassioned (but ultimately vapid and nonsensical upon analysis) catchphrases and tag lines until the next cause celeb turns up (and what's worse, these offensives tend to not be the organic uprising of legions of heartbroken and betrayed consumers, but instead a handful of crafty whiners with a robot program).
Women Can't be Trusted with Remotes or Thermostats!!!!!
I tried this experiment in my own home a few years back. My chick (then still my broad, as she hadn't been made an honest woman by me yet) and I had just moved in together. And the thermostats would be ground zero for the Honeymoon ending first fight.
It started out cute, my broad running straight into our room once home from work to go bundle up in my pajama pants and hoodie. For a while I had taken it as deep devotion; her missing me so much during her workday that she needed to wrap herself in my very essence once returning home.
But it soon turned ugly and snide; as comfort in our fledging arrangement turned snide and nasty.
"I'm cold". She would say, pacing the kitchen in simply too much clothing for mid-July. She said she would pace because it kept the blood moving to her fingers and toes in the sub-arctic climate of our home.
"How can you be cold? It's summer!" I reply, hardly looking up from the video game I was playing; loud buying of chainsaws digging into aliens as I screamed playful racial epithets into my headset (being a polite boyfriend, I kept one ear free, so she could speak with me).
"Outside its summer. It's a fucking Siberian gulag in here. Like I pissed of Stalin..."
"Serve me supper late, and I'll show you pissed Stalin," I quip back, jerking around as I emerged myself in my video game.
"I'm serious," she continued, stepping in front of my TV.
"I'm cold here. I shouldn't be bundled up like mid-December every night in my own house. Wouldn't you like to see me wearing less around here..." She flirted as she said this, tugging at her Baggie attire to show a little skin.
Driven by my dick, I acquiesced to her demands; the idea of warming the place up really not seeming too insane.
But it didn't take a day before the first issues were noticed...
Like how I started sweating sitting on the couch.
Or how my bathroom, typically a comfortable sanctuary when nature called, became an Antebellum sweat box.
But it took a Saturday to really bring things to a boil.
I'd been out shooting all morning while my broad was busy doing her things. I arrived home first and immediately felt the heat. It was like a hard punch to the gut.
We live in Florida, so a hot house is hardly an oddity during a summer day. But there's hot for a house and just hot. It was easy in the 80s when I ran to the thermostats to repair the issue. Turned out my broad had set the damned thing to 77 in her efforts to make things more palatable. In a boiled brain panic, I cranked it down to 68 and began undressing; sweaty, grimy skin starting to stick to my clothes as I stood beneath a vent hoping to cool.
By the time my chick got home, a dent had barely been made; the house still a sticky 76 and I- naked- sat cursing her as I cleaned my guns.
"Did you turn the air down?" She asked, already running her hands up and down her arms like she had just walked into a cooler.
"Yes. It was unlivable in here a bit ago." I say, not looking up from the .45 I was finishing up with.
"So you turn on a fan, not make this place into a fridge. Do you have any idea how much it costs to run this thing this high?"
"A small price for comfort, my dear..."
"But I'm freezing, Thom..."
"So put on a fucking sweater!" I said, probably louder and more aggressive than the situation called for. But again, my brain was boiling; clear thought was virtually impossible at the time.
She walked away to our room after that, no doubt bundling up under a mountain of blankets to motherfuck me as her teeth chattered.
I went in a bit later, once the house had reached a more reasonable temperature of 73. She was watching TV and cursing me, as I thought.
"I have a cold now, thanks to you, Frosty..."
"You do not. Stop it..."
"No, you stop it. I live here too and I don't want to wear sweaters all the time."
"You'll get used to the cold..." I was half teasing by now, hoping to charm my way into a solution (I was even doing my best Arnold as Mr. Freeze impression. It was lost on her, but I'm proud of it).
"I shouldn't have to get used to the cold..."
"Nor I to the roasting temperature you define as comfortable." I replied.
"Besides, if you get cold, you can wear a sweater or put a blanket over your legs on the couch. I have zero solutions if it's too hot in here."
She knew I was right, the logic of that statement sort of leaving her maw agape.
"I can turn it up from 68, if that helps. Maybe keep it at 73. Maybe 70 in the summer..."
She agreed, though I'm pretty sure more because she was still dumbfounded I hadn't bullied my way into a victory, but rather logically painted her into a corner. It bought me a lot of credibility going into our next fight (two weeks later, a doozy involving my desire to claim posters of Wolverine and Triple H as art to be hung throughout the house... I summarily lost that one, rope-a-doped into fighting a "for it all" battle over a 3D piece of a dog wearing a monocle and tophat. It is ground I never fully recovered...).
Moral, Moral... There's Always a Moral...
The point of all this isn't that women are whiners for being bitching about being cold at work (though they are), nor that we shouldn't maybe raise the temperature of the office (which might not be a bad idea, but remember that office temperatures might be something that has nothing to do with men being hot and oppressive, but rather that our mechanical overlords, the Computers, need a much cooler environment to run optimally. Being that all businesses run off those fucking things, that might be a factor), but that this isn't another sign of invisible sexism. Enough with these insane charges of micro aggression in this country! Not everything is a slap at your gender! Sometimes things are what they are... Sure, it could be that the boss keeps the office cold because he likes his women shivering and hard nippled as they repeatedly fail due to the unfavorable internal climate. Or it could be that in an office filled with both men and women, the easiest solution to find compromise between two differing internal thermostats might be for find a comfortable low end and suggest anyone uncomfortable with it can wear a sweater or keep a throw at their desk.
Female centric workplaces...
I thought the dream of all these various special interest
groups was to come together as one... Not segregate ourselves into so many loosed bands.