A feminist might have told you that radical/crazy feminists are not actually
scotsmen feminists, but that doesn’t seem to stop the loons from calling themselves feminists.
It rustles my jimmies when a feminist proceeds to claim, with a puffed out, braless chest that feminists are working on men’s issues. No! Only the people who actually care enough about men’s issues to act are actually working on them, and this includes MHRAs, MGTOWs, and maybe, maybe a few feminists. But if a few feminists happen to work on men’s issues, all of a sudden THAT small handful represents the whole of Feminism? Cherry picking.
Imagine you have two roommates. One of them is a crazy bitch named Ulga Fucknuckle, and the other one is her (relatively) level-headed friend named Chastity Pixiedick. Fucknuckle spoons shit from her panties with a embroidery spelled “GURL” and sloshes it all over the dishes and on your face while you sleep. You wake up gargling twice processed venison and eggplant, before propelling yourself via projectile vomit to Pixiedick’s feet, where she is reading a copy of Why Jenny Can’t Lead. While you were flopping through the air like the world’s most deranged Nerf football, you catch a glimpse of the dishes you will have to clean, again. The apartment now smells of intestinal secretions and panic. “OH GOD, WHY?! Make her stop!” you howl, trying not to inhale the stench of butt fudge. Pixiedick says “I’m not like her, and I agree the place needs to be cleaner.” She then goes right back to reading and doesn’t say another word. You stare up at her in disbelief, before dragging yourself over to the sink to clean a bowl for breakfast.