Why I don’t like Feminist/Sensitive Men

So, since I blathered on regarding why Feminists aren’t my cup of tea, in the interest of equality, I will offer Feminist/Sensitive men the same courtesy.

Enough with the “feelings”. If I want to discuss feelings, I’ll call my sister.

The fact that you care more about my uterus and its “rights” than I do is kinda gross.

You don’t open doors for me out of fear of offending my independent sensibilities; I’m offended that you think I want to heave open my own door. Some of them are heavy and since I’m partial to heels, I’m always slightly off-balance.

When watching a sad movie, I need to be able to cry on your shoulder and not the other way around. Men should only cry in public when drunk and melancholy. Or while watching Remember Me by Lizzie Palmer. If that doesn’t make you at least teary-eyed, you must be a heartless bastard.

Reciting poetry is not good foreplay. It isn’t even bad foreplay.

Your political stances don’t wash. You rant and rave at injustices for women in America, yet you want to have conversations and dialogue with people who actually DO subjugate women, treat them like chattel and stone them to death for things like, oh, walking on the street alone.

There is no need to constantly validate my feelings. I already know they are valid. As should you, so please stop asking me to validate yours.

I don’t feel all empowered when you expect me to pump my own gas. Be a man and pump it for me. Show some respect…..it could mess up my manicure. Plus, it’s stinky.

Be an alpha male once in a while and make a decision. I’m not George W. Bush and, thus, feel no compelling urge to be the “decider” all the time.

Those icky little socialist beards.

Cheney is sexy. Alan Alda is not.