[Sady is trying very hard to be a nicer and less confrontational person. However, she still sometimes gets bad Internet comments! And is, of course, tempted to respond to them, which really takes a toll on the whole "nice" project. Therefore, we are introducing a new Tiger Beatdown comment moderator: Hektor, An Adorable Puppy. He will be looking through your comments and personally deciding whether or not they are stupid. On the occasion of a particularly stupid comment, he will opine.]
Hello, Internet people! My name is Hektor. And soon you will know my wrath.
But before we begin, there are a few things you ought to know. First: I’m an adorable puppy. Like, really really super adorable. Check this shit out:
WHOA. THAT IS AN ADORABLE FUCKING PUPPY, RIGHT THERE. You just want to nuzzle him, and pet his head, and toss him a tennis ball, and feed him treats, and feed him more treats, and procure for him the finest of beef steaks, and then feed that to him, and then give him additional treats, and… wait, what? Sorry. I got distracted.
Anyway: Adorable puppy. Me. I’m glad we got that sorted. So, here is the second thing you need to know: You all work for me now.
So, I don’t really get the Internet. I mean, what the fuck are you people doing all day? Typing into boxes? Reading the typing of other people, in additional boxes? Looking at pictures of cats? FUCK PICTURES OF CATS. Here, I’ve got a cat picture for you:
Oh, snap! That’s not a picture of a cat at all! That’s a picture of me, and therefore is way better!
One thing I do know about the Internet, however, is that people get really sour there. Sometimes, they get so very sour that they absolutely have to leave a blog comment about it. And sometimes, those comments are really, really stupid! And sometimes people get really, really defensive about their comments being stupid! People don’t like to be told where to stick it, basically. You know what they do like, though: ADORABLE PUPPIES. Of which I am one. Therefore, whenever it is time to tell someone where to stick it, I think it will be easiest for all of us if the news comes from me. Because what are you going to do? Hate me? You would seriously hate an adorable puppy? YOU MONSTER.
Sooooo, let’s look through this comment bag of mine! Oh, look: Sady and Amanda apparently discussed “chivalry.” Turns out, some ladies don’t like “chivalry!” Turns out, some dudes DO. Like, really, really do. Dudes like “Dustin.”
Ok, so I have read this article and you cannot be further off the mark. I am a southern man who was raised with the idea of “Southern Gentleman” taught to me. Here is the deal. Chivalry is actually a form or respect for women.
Yes, Dustin, a “form of respect!” Much like wandering around on the Internet until you find a blog post you disagree with, then taking a big stinky hundreds-of-words-long dump all over it! That seems super fucking respectful to me! I have an idea, Dustin: Since you’re so into the South and being Southern, why don’t you move even further South? Why don’t you go all the way South… TO HELL.
(You know what I hear they have a lot of, in Hell? Cat pictures.)
(I’M JUST SAYING.)
(THE TRUTH HURTS.)
We don’t open doors for women because they are weak. We don’t defend women because they cannot defend themselves. We don’t do it for the honor.
So, okay, Dustin: You don’t defend women because they cannot defend themselves. Why do you defend them?
…Oh. Turns out it’s because women cannot defend themselves, and also they’re stupid. Check it out:
If I see a 130lb woman in a bar being mistreated by a 300lb meathead I am more than likely to try to defend her. There is a reason for that. It is not that she cannot defend herself. For all I know she may be a friggin black-belt special forces assasin, but I can see little things about 300lb meathead that most women either cannot or do not pick up on.
Oh, yeah. You know, that well-established tendency of women to just stand there and let themselves be treated badly because they’re too stupid to notice it! Or to get scared! Women seriously have no self-protective instinct, dude. You can basically sit a woman in the middle of the road and run her over with a truck if you want. “What is that large, noisy metal object coming at my face?” She’ll be thinking. “I’m sure it means well, in any case!” That is why we respect women: They are not smart, never try to defend themselves, and cannot take care of themselves unless a man tells them what to do.
Wait. That doesn’t seem right.
It’s the way the veins move in his neck and head, the way his pupils dialate, the way he breaths and his nostrils move. These things indicate to other men that this particular meathead has violence in his mind. I could even look at meathead and tell you what kind of violence, just by these little cues. I can look at him and tell that he intends to harm and rape the lady he is harassing.
Holy shit, you guys! Dustin has SUPERPOWERS! I think he might be the Batman! Or the Spiderman! Or the X-Man! I don’t know, I’m like five months old, I don’t read comics. (“Hektor, you got that comic reference totally wrong!” — Serious comic-book-reading Internet people. “Arf arf grr snargle pee.” — Hektor.) He is some kind of Man, in any case. He left a whole fucking comment about it, so I’m pretty sure.
Let us be clear, Dustin: I’m a fucking dog. I crap on the street. I eat meat-flavored crackers out of a bowl. My immediate response, upon encountering any new and intriguing object, is to put it RIGHT THE FUCK IN MY FACE and chew on it. I have, on more than one occasion, rolled around in my own feces; I can figure out how to go up stairs, but not how to go down them. What the hell is that, opposite stairs?
My point is, Dustin, I’m a simple dude. I don’t think deeply about things. There’s a lot I haven’t figured out. Mostly I coast on the whole “adorable puppy” thing. But even I know that the passing city bus is a terrible monster and wants to eat me and I must run, RUNNNNNNN AWAAAAAAYYYYYYYYYYYY; even I, that is, get scared when I see something dangerous. The only reason anyone would not be scared of danger is that it looks like something else; like, maybe if it looks, Dustin, like what they see every day.
So, like, here I am, projecting myself into the mind of a human chick. It’s a stretch! And yet, I manage! I am a human chick, and I’ve been told that I have to get dudes to do everything for me, from paying for dinner to opening the door to protecting me from danger to telling me what does and does not constitute danger and what I am allowed to do about it; I’ve also been told that dudes can and should be aggro, when they’re doing stuff for me. As a human chick, I get treated a lot like a dog, actually! But, like, a dog with a multitude of really bad, mean owners. And here I am, standing in front of an aggro dude who seems like he wants to tell me what to do. But, like, aren’t all dudes aggro? And don’t they all want to tell me what to do? Aren’t I basically not allowed to make my own decisions? Shouldn’t I stand here and wait until a dude comes along to settle the situation?
Seems to me, Dustin, that chivalry doesn’t “protect” female helplessness at all. Seems to me, Dustin, that chivalry causes it. I mean, you know, you can go on ahead fist-fightin’ with the dudes and using your magically keen super-senses to psychically detect criminals. But, as an adorable puppy, I have some very keen senses myself. And right now, I’m getting a really strong scent of Douche.