A brief letter to people who think "misandry" is a thing.

I cobbled together some comments I wrote in a debate because I wanted to save them somewhere, together, for future reference, because the way the argument went I was able to formulate a particular idea in words that I had been previously incapable of expressing. I promise I will return to more clever and amusing posts right quickly, but for now please come and jump down the rabbit-hole with me:

"Hating" men and "misandry" are two different things. "Hating" men (I put it in quotations for reasons I will address later) is a thing that tiny and weird subsets of feminists do in the creepy corners of the internet (I have never personally met anyone like this so I'm almost convinced they don't exist and they're just some straw feminists set up by people determined to take feminism down), or it's a personal vendetta, for instance: I hate Bradley Cooper. I hate this guy in an English class I took once. I hate men who shout at me in public, etc. etc. It's not an actual, institutional or structural thing, like the term "misandry" implies. Most of what people consider "misandry" is actually misogyny, in that it's a part of the patriarchy, for instance: men who don't get custody of their children in a divorce are being negatively affected by the patriarchy, because in the patriarchy, women are assumed to be caretakers. There was never a powerful institution of women that decided women are caretakers and men breadwinners: that was all men, all the time, so if you want to blame someone, you know where to look. 

The point isn't really whether or not some women hate men (let's say that they do, although I will insist that I have never met any of these women and that it would be really really really difficult to hate men in a society that prioritizes male stories and makes them the default hero in video games, movies, TV, history, books, and actively makes women into pretty objects in video games, movies, TV, history, books, advertisements, art so you'd basically have to live in some female commune and indulge in exactly no art or media whatsoever because while it's very easy to avoid women in history or fiction, it's impossible to avoid men without specifically trying to. Seriously, try. It's called the Bechdel test: Name any famous movie with NO named male characters who speak to each other for more than 30 seconds about something other than a woman, and I will give you exactly twenty movies with NO named female characters who speak to each other for more than thirty seconds about something other than a man. Twenty movies, and I could actually probably do more and I don't even watch that many movies.), the point is whether or not discrimination against men is an institutional, structural, cultural, traditional, societal problem that affects men's livelihoods, autonomy, or weight in society, which it absolutely is not, and if it is (see the men who don't get custody of their children) then it's actually a product of the patriarchy, and therefore misogyny, because it's rooted in preconceived notions of a woman's place in the world (as primarily child-bearers). Again: both women and men suffer at the hands of the patriarchy. The term "misandry" gives structural and institutional weight to a problem that is individual and personal, and however unfortunate it may be if a random woman hates you for having a penis (and again, never met anyone like this and I run in some pretty hardcore feminist circles), it's not a problem worthy of a title because it just isn't prevalent enough, because it's not a large-scale problem. Women don't have enough power for it to be a large-scale problem, therefore it is not institutional, and any notion of it being institutional is a fantasy of men who feel victimized, but who are just being over-sensitive to the knowledge that they have privilege, which is admittedly a hard concept to wrap your head around.

The word "misandry" itself dilutes the problem, and I'm trying to illustrate that point.... that while anger toward you because you're a man is definitely possible, your interpretation of hate from a woman "because you're male" is near impossible because it's near impossible in this culture to hate men for being men because they ARE the culture, every single facet of it. So while a woman might resent your opinion, she almost certainly doesn't hate you for who you are, because we, as women, can not help but identify with men, constantly, because that's all we're given. Hence the Bechdel argument: if all you do is identify with male heroes, if men are always the heroes, and the villains, and the fully-formed characters with feelings and thoughts, you can't hate them because they're you. Not so with female representation, therefore not so in our culture. There's a big difference between resenting someone for their position in life and hating them for their autonomy or existence. It's also near impossible to dismiss men based on who they are, for the same reasons discussed. But it is extremely possible to be angry and to ridicule them... but for their position, out of resentment. Not for who they are.

And I'm primarily using entertainment as an example because the Bechdel test is an easily digestible nugget, but the culture that favors men is in every facet of life; history, art, social interaction, so we are more than the entertainment we consume: unfortunately everything else is tainted as well.

Unravelling Shakespeare- directed by Isaac Byrne and Jamie Watkins

This is a rough transposition of a monologue I wrote and performed (interspersed with Lady Macbeth's Act 1 Scene 5 speech from Shakespeare's Macbeth) in Times Square to some perfect strangers as a part of World Theatre Day. If you want to see me kind of perform the monologue, or something sort of like it because I did it in one take from memory to keep the spirit of the live performance, you can do so here.

The raven himself is hoarse 

That croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan

Under my battlements.

I’ve always been told that my body is inherently shameful. Whether I cover it up or expose it, it’s always the first and last judgement people will make of me, and if something were to happen to my body, if anyone were to mistreat it or brutalize me in some way, the thing people would ask each other is "...and what would you do if she were your daughter, or sister, or girlfriend, or mother, or wife?" As if my humanity weren't enough to make an act against me disgraceful. As if my value will always be measured by my relationship to a man.

Come, you spirits

That tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here,

And fill me from the crown to the toe top-full

Of direst cruelty!

And if I ever want to be cruel, or strong, or brutal, or powerful, or violent, it must be in a way that’s specifically female, or in other words, specifically superficial. My anger and violence is not the anger and violence of historical revolutions; it's the violence of a cat-fight. I need to be a sexy femme fatale or an older woman bitter about my fading beauty, or a spurned lover… otherwise I’m testing nature.

...make thick my blood;

Stop up the access and passage to remorse,

That no compunctious visitings of nature

Shake my fell purpose, nor keep peace between

The effect and it! Come to my woman's breasts,

And take my milk for gall, you murdering ministers,

Wherever in your sightless substances

You wait on nature's mischief!

But we were taught everything we know… there’s no such thing as human nature. And if there is, it’s some fantastic bit of arrogance to claim that you know what it is, and it happens to be at my deficit. Then you can wink at me and tell me to, nudge-nudge, smile or make you a sandwich because since I know that you know that I know it's insulting, that somehow makes it okay. And it's okay that my history isn't the history of the violent, bloody, glorious revolutions that changed the world, no matter how many women gave their lives or their homes or their dignity for that same freedom. Our history, women’s history, is a secondary subset of Real History, an annotation. And when I'm rightfully angry about that, it's okay to dismiss me as militant or unattractive or bitter. And it's okay, because I know it's hard to realize your place in life might not be what you thought it was, that everything you've ever known might be skewed by some ugly truth, that it's easier to live your life without thinking of these problems and problems exactly like it. And it's okay because while today is built on yesterday, the builders of tomorrow haven’t been decided yet, and they're not going to be the sort of people who ignore problems because they're hard to think about.

Come, thick night,

And pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell,

That my keen knife see not the wound it makes,

Nor heaven peep through the blanket of the dark,

To cry 'Hold, hold!'

So, yes I do know my place. And it's in the current revolution. 

...The raven himself is hoarse

That croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan

Under my battlements. Come, you spirits

That tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here,

And fill me from the crown to the toe top-full

Of direst cruelty! make thick my blood;

Stop up the access and passage to remorse,

That no compunctious visitings of nature

Shake my fell purpose, nor keep peace between

The effect and it! Come to my woman's breasts,

And take my milk for gall, you murdering ministers,
Wherever in your sightless substances

You wait on nature's mischief! Come, thick night,

And pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell,

That my keen knife see not the wound it makes,

Nor heaven peep through the blanket of the dark,

To cry 'Hold, hold!'

Speak French? Dans tes rêves.

I had my first dream in French last night, but it absolutely does not count, and I will tell you why. First of all, it wasn't creative... I wasn't fashioning French sentences in my mind, I was just repeating phrases that I know by heart, because (second of all) I dreamed entirely in lyrics to Jacques Brel songs. Now, you might argue that that in itself is an accomplishment that I should be proud of, and I would agree with you. Everyone should dream in Jacques Brel songs; but it's an emotional and trying experience, for sure, riddled with references that you only understand in the most tangential of ways because asking your French husband to explain them is a lot like asking an Italian to explain the meaning of a word, in that it starts out with "Well, there's no way to directly explain it, I will have to give you some history..." and ends with "...and that's how Marc Antony lost his standing with the Roman army. Wait, what were we talking about?"
So I found myself on a deserted white beach, wearing the dress that the woman is wearing in that poster on the subway of a mosaic of two people dancing, on a beach, with a stupid poem about "butter sammiches" or something next to it. God, why is subway poetry so stupid? That entire poem is basically like, "I love you like I love food, in that I don't actually love you but I devour you when I want to but when I'm not hungry I could care less. Also, sometimes I hate you, like when you're the gross bread-and-butter pickles and I'm expecting the sour ones. Basically, I'm so glad we both understand that this relationship is purely sexual, which we both were totally aware of before I started this poem." It's spelled 'sandwiches', subway poem. Fuck. You.
Anyway, I'm wearing that mosaic dress, or what I assume the dress would look like in real life, because it's the only good thing about that poster. There is not a weirdly out-of-proportion dog dancing at my feet, because if a dog were really that size it would in fact be a rat, which is not a good image to put in the minds of your subway commuters, MTA. I really hope you've seen this poster, reader, otherwise this is all annoying gibberish to you. Suffice to say, I'm on a beach wearing a white dress and I come upon Jacques Brel, because why not?
He's wearing a full suit and he's intense and disheveled and sweaty because I've not ever seen him any other way and it's my dream, although I can't imagine any other way to be while you're on a beach in a suit. Like, imagine yourself on a beach, in a suit, and you'd probably seem a little unhinged as well. OH HELLO THERE. YES IT IS A BIT WARM TODAY, ISN'T IT? ALMOST LIKE THE SCORCHED DRY EARTH OF MEN'S SOULS, OR THE BELLIES OF A PROSTITUTE AND HER JOHN PRESSED TOGETHER IN THE HEATED DESPERATION OF FALSE INTIMACY. AND THE SAND IN MY SHOES PINCHES LIKE THE THOUSAND TINY INDIGNITIES OF DAILY LIFE IN THIS COLD, BOURGEOIS SOCIETY. NO I DO NOT KNOW WHY I AM WEARING A SUIT, WHY DO ANY OF US DO ANYTHING...?
And, thusly, I have just uncovered Jacques Brel's writing technique. You are welcome, world!
Anyway, Jacques Brel is really energetically upset about something (surprise, surprise, Mr. Brel) and he's gesturing for me to come with him and speaking in French. Note: this dream is happening in my mind, so while I comprehend the fact that he's speaking French, it's probably more like he's going "uhn-uhn-uhn-jwa-wa-wee-woo", which is what French sounds like to me. So... he's speaking "French".)  Jacques Brel leads me down the beach, gesturing emphatically, until we reach a big, sealed glass box, and inside the box, playing a game of freaking Canasta, is Julien and my mind's interpretation of Miche, who I've never seen, but who is Jacques Brel's wife, and incidentally also my sister Claire. Don't trust him, Claire, he leaves you for a chorus girl!
This is where the song lyrics come in, and while I would like to lie and say that the particular lyrics my brain chose to spew at me somehow fit the situation perfectly in a poetic sort of way, they absolutely did not, as Jacques Brel walked up to the glass case, put his hands to the glass and said "Dans le port d'Amsterdam y a des marins qui mangent sur des nappes trop blanches des poissons ruisselants," or basically, "In Amsterdam there are sailors who eat wet fish." He's just repeating the lyrics that happen to get stuck in my head for rhythmic or stylistic reasons, but Claire-Miche can hear him and leaves her game of Canasta to put her hands against the glass as well. I'm suddenly grasped by the emotional desperation of the moment, and I turn to Julien, but... he can't hear me.
"Julien, why are you in a glass box with a dead woman, and/or my sister?"
"Julien, I'm with freaking Jacques Brel over here, look!"
"Julien, stop playing cards for like a second, ok?"
Jacques Brel turns to me in urgency, his hands still against the glass, and says "C'est dur de mourir au printemps, tu sais."
"Yes, Jacques Brel, I know it's hard to die in spring, but you actually died in October, so you don't have to worry about it."
"La valse mille temps."
"Okay, I think a valse is a dance? But we have other problems here, if you could just concentrate..."
"Les flamandes, les flamandes, les fla-- les fla-- les flamandes."
"Fuck the flamingoes, Jacques Brel! FUCK THE FLAMINGOES."
But as the images of Jacques Brel, sweaty and desperate against an imposing piece of thick glass, my sister, Miche looking longingly from the other side, and Julien, deaf to me, continuing his game of cards without ever noticing me, fade into my memory, I'm left with the very real impression of this dream: that, sometimes, with a language barrier, it's very alienating to be on the other side of the glass.
In my personal experience, Julien's family--the people who are most important to him and therefore to me-- can't understand me, and I can't understand them. He talks with his family over Skype, and I sit and smile next to him before I wander off to hide in the bedroom. They don't know me, and beyond Julien's descriptions, I don't know them. He has a whole world of communication, news, media, entertainment, that is completely beyond me. I can read and write French, and I can even speak it on a conversational level if my partner is patient and speaks slowly and doesn't have too strong of an accent... but I'm still locked out of a culture that I simply don't understand, even when I really do understand quite a lot.
The French language, like English, isn't very accommodating to an outsider: the oral part rarely sounds like what the written part looks like, and there are so many liaisons (contractions) that a sentence ten words long can sound like it's three. Practicing it can be a nightmare, especially with a populace that is less-than-willing to help you, even when their intentions are good. Basically, the French refuse to understand you if you pronounce a word even slightly off. I recall a time when I was attempting to read a French version of "Goldilocks and the Three Bears" to Julien, and he absolutely could not understand my pronunciation of the French word for "bears". The story is about a little blonde girl and three bears. There are literally no other characters, and he couldn't piece together that when I was referring to "the three ____", I was talking about god damn bears. He didn't even mean to be frustrating, and he wasn't testing me: he just absolutely could not fathom that a word I was pronouncing like "oorse" was the French word pronounced more like "orse", and after the ensuing tragedy, we can never speak of that particular fairy tale ever again. For three weeks, I asked the Hispanic workers at the restaurant I worked in the equivalent of "You can me to give the kitchen now?" in Spanish and they happily engaged with me, in my nonsense, until correcting me later when I'd built up my confidence a little bit, but with a French person I can't mispronounce one vowel in the word "bears" in a story about motherfucking bears or I might as well be screaming Pig Latin at a radiator.
But I tarry on, learning a little bit more every day, because I have the luxury of time and resources to do so... but just be prepared for an epic shitstorm if you ever suggest around me that a busboy or day worker or gardener, who more often than not pull 13, 14, 15-hour shifts with no regulation, commute for hours from the bowels of the city, and spend most of their time with the other Spanish-speaking immigrants that we take advantage of, should "Just learn English!"

Kentucky Fried Feminism

I was idly chatting with a few people in a bar and offhandedly mentioned the fact that I'm a feminist in a passing joke that I assumed no one would remember or care about when a young man in the group made the decision to purposefully scoff at me, or I suppose just at feminism in general. And oh-- it was a pointed, purposeful scoff, friends. He leaned right into that scoff, and made me very much aware that he was not happy with these particular womenfolk with whom I identify myself. So since he was so adamant that I recognize that he just DISAPPROVES of feminism, I feel comfortable discussing this interaction freely, on this blog, that I hope I will regret assuming no one reads.

You should know that the guy is from Kentucky, and I will let that statement stand on its own with no further comment, because unlike certain young gentlemen from Kentucky, I try not to make generalized and insulting assumptions based on stereotypes and some personal experience skewed by my own refusal to educate myself on the history or literature of any individual or group. He might not even like fried chicken, for all I know. You, however, dear reader, can do what you like. So, I repeat, he's from Kentucky, which is located in the Southern part of the United States of America, literally right above Tennessee. Tennessee.

So being the self-destructive fool that I am, I did engage the young whippersnapper, and I asked him what the hell is wrong with feminism, but in a slightly nicer way, as I was only one deep in the nail polish remover I was drinking that evening. He responded that I should instead believe in "equalitism", by which I'm sure he actually meant the English word "equality". I'm sure of that.

And here, I'm afraid he has a point, however circuitous it may be... you see, the vast, vast majority of feminists do believe in equality, for everyone including white Christian heterosexual men, which is a fact that anyone would know by reading literally any feminist web site that isn't set up on a geocities account with two crossed rifle gifs spinning in glitter-stars above a headline that reads DEATH TO PENIS, with a little trail of vagina .imgs following your mouse around. I mean, you would know that unless your mind was somehow pickled with moonshine bourbon and sweet tea, which are things that I have seen people from Kentucky drink, more than once, just so you know. You see, even though we believe in equality for everyone, our name does not reflect that, and I will tell you why. I'm gonna do it right now, stay tuned, I just feel like I should break paragraphs because this is an important and valid point that I'm making.

Okay, so when a person believes in equality for women, we call them a FEMINIST. Or a femi-nazi, depending on your head-fat to illegal-drug-brain-marinade ratio. Equality for women gets this cutesy little name. So, what do we call a person who believes in racial equality? Like, besides a "sane person", what do we call them? Maybe like a 'civil rights activist' if you're a time traveler or something? So, two types of equality, and one gets labeled with this weirdly specific name, and the other is like... yeah why the hell wouldn't you believe in racial equality, duh? The same goes for the slightly more polarizing "gay rights activist". We don't call them "homosexualists", or something. I mean, does everything for women have to come with a cutesy name? Does it all have to be pink pens and vagina de-odorizers for us, all the damn time? Where is your penis de-odorizer? Hm?? You may think that I'm making a big deal out of nothing, but it really comes down to this fact: in order to be an activist for women's rights, you basically have to identify as a label that has historically been shit on in a big, big way by everyone. It's been made to be militant, and unattractive, and angry by the mainstream, much like the Man from Whatever-Southern-to-Midwestern-State-Starts-With-a-K's mom, who I heard had a house dropped on her in a tornado. I heard that somewhere.

I can't remember if the next part of the long, pained sigh this blog post is turning into happened later that night or a few nights later, but we were taking the subway and I found myself wordlessly apologizing to the women and minorities around us when the Man from Kentucky, shoeless and wearing a sundress as I assume all Kentuckians do constantly but did not verify by actually looking at him (why should I take a close look when I can just judge ignorantly?), complained about another busy subway ride he took in which he was tired, sat down, and then was mercilessly looked at. Looked at, by all the women standing around him, who didn't have seats. One of them even cleared her throat at him or something. Irrefutable evidence, of course, that feminism is wrong, because some women look at a young, agile man sitting down during a subway ride and feel that he might be one of the last candidates in the "those who deserve a seat on a packed train" list. And, through the majesty of mathematics we can also assume that even if these particular women did feel they, as women, deserved a seat more over a man, these some women actually amount to all women expecting an (abysmally slight) and yet unfair advantage in this completely trivial area of life, and that somehow their feeling this at him was an injustice.

The thing that really affected me, though, was the genuine victimization felt by this person. This man... this handsome, bright, English speaking, straight, white, American, working-to-middle class man who could literally pass as a stellar example of Hitler youth and therefore would have been incredibly at ease in exactly any time period or place in history, felt like the recipient of a small injustice because of some perceived judgement from an historically disenfranchised group. He was completely unaware of his privilege in society, and it's not totally his fault, in my opinion. To use myself as an example, I try to keep myself aware, at all times, of the way my own privilege aids me in my day-to-day life, but even I, as someone who is conscious of these issues, am constantly upbraided by my interactions with people of color, or homosexuals, or non-Christians, or non-English speakers living in America. And, I'm obviously being very unfair to this man from Kentucky, because part of the reason I'm even willing to see my own privilege is because I've experienced discrimination from both sides, and can more aptly understand that even when it's not necessarily our fault that people are at a deficit in our society for our benefit, we are still absolutely responsible.

So I hold no resentments against this man from Kentucky, or any other men from Kentucky, and neither should you. And in fact, I wish him a long and happy marriage with his sister-cousin, and I just hope the goat can move on with her life.

That's it, I'm writing a letter.

Guys, sometimes it's a real bummer being right all the time... but alas, that is my cross to bear.

So sometimes when I'm perusing the internets and I come across some blatantly offensive piece of garbage from some fat cat Yale graduate assuring the masses that they don't have to pay decent tips if their waiter or waitress works their asses off for them but just happens to be a particular type of annoying (by this gentleman's definition: "existing in any sense of the word"), well, damn it, I'm going to write a letter. And so I did. And so here it is, and I will continue to update this post if there are any further developments:

(By the way, the article was in The New York Post--I know, I know, my quest for justice knows no bounds--, and it was called some combination of "You got served!", so I've been told. All the text I could make out through my blinding white-hot rage was "I, Kyle Smith, am a Pig, Exhibit A".)

It begins:

Kyle Smith,

Since you were so generous with your advice to wait staff in general (not a specific waiter, of course, but just a kind of general attack on people who wait tables, i.e. a large portion of the working class), allow me to give you some pointers, as I've kindly noticed that you suck at your job, as well.

This entire article is a long, bitchy whine to a fictitious server that happens to encompass all the traits that annoy you about servers as individuals, instead of an open letter about the actual system that forces waiters to be slaves to the patron's discretion about tips. As if it's a server's fault that (s)he needs to be up your ass or (s)he loses money. It's absolutely clear that you would never have the guts to actually tell a server BEFORE service begins that you're going to cheat them out of their fair earnings, which would be a slightly less spineless thing to do, and might succeed in getting a server to totally leave you alone, as you seem to want.

You definitely don't have any "server friend" or whoever you supposedly had a conversation with about spitting in food or throwing a steak on the floor, because nobody actually does that. It's what comfortable, privileged little boys believe servers do because they saw it in a movie once and have never actually spoken to a server long enough to discover that a slip-up even close to that would get them fired in a second, (not even mentioning the kind of outright insolent and unsanitary behavior like throwing food around or spitting in it) because wait staff are completely disposable in this system: another reason they are vying so desperately for not only tips, but to keep their damn jobs.

This article is a testament to your being some douchebag who's never worked a real day in your life (and even if you have put in some amount of time "working" as a clerk or something somewhere, you still don't know what it means to be desperate for that job because you always had your family to swoop in and save you if things got a little too rough), here to tell us how to do our jobs and also all about your yearly romps in France, spent ordering in restaurants. Oh, and FYI, French servers leave you alone because they don't have to work for tips and they get amazing benefits from their government, and it's fucking impossible to fire a French worker in France. Not because French people are somehow inherently less annoying than Americans or whatever you're attempting to imply--you even touch on the actual problem with our system of wages for servers in this bit about the French, and then you blast right past it as it soars over your head because you'd rather just attack individual people who annoy you, while trying to just do their jobs. You're taking a disenfranchised portion of society, the labor class, and sneering at them because they don't act exactly according to your prissy, finicky needs when you're dining in THEIR workplace, and then reveling in the fact that you have some control over the wages of people paid NOTHING to grovel at your feet.

You're an absolute fucking troll with no real life experience and I sincerely hope that people stop feeding you, literally. In every eating establishment you enter. I hope you take this little note on how to do YOUR job correctly without being such a princess, since you're obviously the one who needs the help, not servers. I hope you realize the image you've created for yourself; that of a spoiled, fat little pig lavishing in the service of others and squealing about how it's not up to some secret standard that is entirely specific to you and your dining experience.

Enjoy the benefits of cheaper food that comes from the minuscule wages of the staff, and I hope you feel good about yourself while stiffing them on the portion of their salary that relies on the kindness of strangers. Yeah, it's not a gift that you're giving them; it's part of their salary that the social contract demands you pay if you're a decent human being. If only someone would pay YOU less for doing a shitty job, then maybe we wouldn't have articles like this piece of garbage cluttering up our news.

Sara Florence Fellini

Kyle kindly responded to me, attempting to deflect his obvious ignorance with politesse, all while bemoaning "these people" who just don't understand comedy like he does:

Thanks for reading. I'm a little surprised to see people getting upset about a comedy riff that is exaggerated for effect. (At the Post, we call them "rants," as in, "Could you do a rant on people who block subway doors?") The whole point of a rant is that it's unreasonable. "I went to the restaurant, had some minor quibbles about a few things and left an 18 percent tip" is not a comic rant. I don't think anyone takes Louis C.K. too seriously when he does a routine about hating his own children (even if you don't find him funny). He exaggerates and people who are mildly frustrated with their children get a laugh out of it. Judging by the more than seven thousand Facebook likes my rant generated, I'd say most people took it in the spirit in which it was intended. 

I've been a busboy myself and my mom helped pay my way through college by waiting tables, so I'm not unaware of what it's like to be on your feet all day. My piece was mostly an exaggerated portrayal of a specific type of overly obsequious waiter, based on a few I've encountered, but I have tipped them normally because obviously they're just doing their job and it's the system. (Which is why I bring up France, where there is a different system). I threw in the 11 percent thing not because that's how much I tip (again: No one wants to hear about my ordinary restaurant experience because it isn't funny) but because otherwise I couldn't think of a suitably comic/curmudgeonly way to close the piece (which originally ended with the preceding sentence). 11 seemed a weirdly specific, miserly number that struck me as funny. 

In other words, the whole thing is just a joke.

Kyle

And I retorted:

While I and other readers may not be specifically familiar with the Post's "rants", don't think that the style isn't immediately apparent as self-congratulating and masturbatory, a writing technique I'm sure your Yale educators are very proud of you implementing, at the expense of the working class.  

The difference between Louis C.K.'s rants and yours is that there aren't thousands of child abusers liking his posts on facebook in actual support of child abuse. Meanwhile, I will guarantee you that the people loving YOUR article aren't wait staff or kitchen laborers, but the disconnected privileged class who thinks their tipping waiters is a "gift" because they don't fully understand the economics of the restaurant business. That's the difference between an effectual and talented satirist and a blow-hard using insulting language to garner page views.  

Which again brings us to your "11% tip" thing... because while the whole thing is just a joke to YOU, it's NOT a joke to the servers who actually bring in those 11% tips, some of whom are supporting families or spouses (or sending a child to college) on those wages, and working their asses off to do it. There are people that should be made the butt of a joke, and these people aren't it. I'm glad that you just threw it in because you "couldn't think of" anything else. Again, I'm sure you make Yale proud by throwing the least amount of thought and effort into your published work as possible.... and the next time an energetic waiter gets an 11% tip after their patron was bolstered by this article with a false feeling of self-righteousness, he can thank you, as I'm sure he will. 

Sara

Kyle did not respond again. I hope to continue this discussion on comedy in the 21st century in a subsequent post, please stay tuned.