I want to share with you one of the funniest feminist posts I’ve ever read, although the humor this anguished feminist infuses in her post is entirely accidental. The whole thing reminds me of nothing so much as the Oscar Wilde’s quotation about The Old Curiosity Shop: “One must have a heart of stone to read the death of little Nell without laughing.”
Unlike Dickens, the post to which I refer is not literature but — Oh. My. God. — it did make me laugh. Self-described “comedy writer” Eirene Donohoe confesses through a veil of tears that she is still unable to recover from Hillary’s loss. If she’s a comedy writer, this post is the tears of a clown.
The post opens with Donohoe describing her valiant efforts to live her life as if nothing has changed since that fatal day in November. Then, overcome by emotion, Donohoe finally admits that she can no longer pretend that life is still normal or, indeed, that her life or the lives of any women in America still matter:
I’m a comedy writer, but suddenly I was thinking up stories about post-apocalyptic worlds where women revolt and take over the planet. I started thinking about writing a song. Something that captured everything I was feeling. A love song, a fight song. Something to show the world that I was still with Her.
I am her. The words flashed through my head. And suddenly, there on the 101 freeway, I was down the hole again. Tears streaming, sobs choking, heart breaking. The realization hitting me. I am Her.
Yes, this young comedy writer in Los Angeles, with her three-year-old child, is identical to a 69-year-old woman who has built an entire career based upon her willingness to stand by her husband, a man repeatedly and credibly accused of raping and otherwise sexually assaulting women. Moreover, Donohoe’s woes aside, if one looks back over Hillary’s career, one can see that, up until her tenure as Secretary of State, she accomplished nothing other than being her husband’s wife — and, moreover, a wife who strongly felt he and the rest of the Democrat party owed her for her unswerving fealty to covering up his (and her) financial and sexual peccadilloes.