Radical Feminism and the problem of selective outrage.
Some years back as closing time crept up about half-a-dozen of us were still hanging out at the local dive. An unyielding feminist bartender ruled the roost. She had a notoriously low tolerance for shots at her “ism” whether cheap or dead accurate. Only one other woman, just as wary of patriarchal domination, was on hand. A lone man unknown to us sat at the end. Brazenly hazarding strange waters, he told this joke: “A couple of cave men were sitting around drinking cactus juice after dinner. One says to the other: “My wife’s back there doing the dishes, I’m thinking of teaching her to talk; how much harm could it do?” Our eyes darted back and forth. Mr. T would have pitied the fool who laughed right away. When the victims of male oppression busted loose first, yuks aloud were granted the full nod.
