Twas the night before Christmas, at keyboard and mouse
Not a critic was typing. There’s no troll in the house.
No stalking, nor hunting, no sock puppets dare,
in hopes that this article would just disappear.
Princesses were haughty and smug in their beds,
having visions of wonderland where unicorns are bred.
Believing Bubba’s in the basement, getting high on his crap,
Had just heard that Ackbar shouted, quote “it’s a trap!”
When out of any proof of the wage gap’s errata,
Another feminist rages that even “lies” can still matter.
Away with the logic, and in with the trash,
“Twenty three percent difference”, well, I made up the facts.
And everything’s “rape” as long as I say it’s so.
I’ll make you a felon, cause I’m un-comfort-able!
When even if you’re drunk, your wandering eyes fear
You’re guilty as I please, now, “buy me a beer”.
With a little old raging, and personal attack,
I knew in a moment that the troll had come back.
We’d miss her huge ego, if she left the scene,
And sock puppets would be few and far in between.
Now, Bash him, Now Smash him!
Now, Conquering Vixen!
You Comment is stupid
says, me! Feminism!
To the end of Patriarchy,
Before I “hit the wall”.
Now bash away! Bash Away!
Bash away All!
She believes we’re the boors that all women decry.
Cause they walk down the street, how dare we say “hi”.
So off to the campus to protest anew,
Their hate for us boys, and hate us they do.
And on with the shaming, if you ask for some proof
Of their constant bellying aching, you’ll never find truth.
I must be a virgin, with a belly big and round,
Down in mama’s basement is where I’ll be found.
At best they’ll infer from just twenty words,
You’re entirely wrong and a cowardly nerd.
Though you render their “logic” flat on its back,
They’ll repeat it ad nauseam, with a parrot attack.
Her lies – how she recycles, they’re simple but scary!
Her half-truths atrocious though the delivery does vary.
Her insults are childish: we are talking seven-year-old.
But we are the problem, or so we’ve been told.
Her anger is boiling, as you look underneath,
The façade of bravado, hides no inner peace.
It’s the argument faced, not the person you parry.
But grudges she bears, so posters be wary.
Perhaps chubby or plump… maybe poor health,
She’ll make fun of others, and not see herself.
In a blink of an eye her posts are deleted,
Does she even know that she was defeated?
So few of her words remain in the works.
She’ll still show up daily, to call us all jerks.
And lifting a finger (just the one in the middle)
She posts her opinion and contributes little.
No windmills were slain in her efforts, “Quixote”.
…Nothing noteworthy: not even remotely.
But I heard her exclaim, two nights ‘afore Stephen,
“Happy Christmas to all, and to all, I can’t even…”