Opening Your Can of Whoop Ass

There are a lot of containers that, once opened or broken or dumped out, cannot be resealed or refilled with their original contents. Think of a tooth paste tube, a piñata, or an aerosol can. Release the contents and there is no going back. Sometimes, the containers are fragile – batter or abuse them too much, and they lose their integrity and ability to hold anything anymore. With other containers, the contents may be such that there is no possible way of getting it back into the container once released – it’s all over the place.

The worst containers of stuff are those figurative cans of whoop ass. Not only can you not re-contain said whoop ass, but it is toxic, toxic stuff. The worst can of whoop ass out there is one that sits on every woman’s shelf in the pantry and is that which we call society or culture (aka Patriarchy). Patriarchy is a nasty little container full of toxic shit, and everyone is really, really careful to guard the can and prevent it from coming to harm.

Because once a woman damages or opens that can, something monumental happens.

She sees the actual contents of the can. She realizes that the list of ingredients has nothing to do with what is inside, and what is inside is poison. Whoop ass is dangerous shit, and once a woman opens that can and whoop ass leaks out, she can’t put it back in. She can’t return to that state of ‘can-protection’ that previously ruled her life.

Many believe that knowing the contents of the can is worse than relentlessly protecting the can. And it can seem that way. Once the contents spill, you see it and understand it for what it is, and you realize that there is no way to clean it up. You can try to get away from it, and succeed in some small ways, but you can’t un-see the whoop ass and return to your tiny, limited world of can protection.

Many women, however, admit that they always hated that damned can looming on the pantry shelf. They’d always asked themselves why the can was so special anyways. It was processed, unappetizing. They’d always cooked fresh food, and doesn’t the can have an expiry date anyways…? But men always insisted on the can being there, and many women, their families, their friends, most of them had their own cans and didn’t approve of can-criticism. And it remained a centrepiece. Those who questioned can-care did the minimum, kicked it around a bit, and some finally opened it as a brave, defiant, and curious act.

I opened the can, myself, once I found the right tool. And although I don’t personally celebrate Christmas, it is my holiday wish that in every stocking of every celebrant in the world might be found the tool needed to open their can.

Seasons greetings to can-protectors and can-openers alike.

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Feminism, atheism and other stuff

Posted on December 23, 2015, in Anti-Feminism, Feminism, Male Privilege and tagged , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Comments Off on Opening Your Can of Whoop Ass.

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