From Chapter 9, “When Sisterhood Gets Too Powerful”:
I can’t remember the moment I was labeled bitch for the first time, but it sure wasn’t in the blogosphere of 2008. It was well before the blogosphere, let alone the World Wide Web, even existed. The first time I was called a bitch, the home computer of choice was a Vic 20, capable of playing Pong and calculating to eight decimal points but not much else.
Boys called me bitch. Girls called me bitch. I remain, as always, an equal opportunity threat.
Honesty is a weapon. It threatens the dominant, it questions authority, and it upends embedded systems, even systems as relatively benign as the typical suburban high school, which is why I couldn’t get a date until I was eighteen.
Male honesty is intrepid. Female honesty is hostile.
Assertive men are admired. Assertive women are unpleasant, unattractive, unsympathetic. As Barack Obama said to Hillary Clinton: “you’re likeable enough.”
Some feminist softies tried to divert our attention with a celebration of something called the “uppity woman.” Derived, perhaps, from the legendary Laurel Thatcher Ulrich quote that “well behaved women rarely make history.” I like this idea, but not as much as I like the word BITCH. The word tears out of your mouth like a dog ripping the flesh off a bone—and not just any dog, either. A female one.
A briskly selling gift item over the winter holidays of 2007 was a nutcracker in the shape of Hillary Clinton’s pantsuited thighs. Between her legs was the fulcrum of her power, her Cunt as Destroyer. How obvious could you get?