“Your Son Is A Fucking Faggot”

A few nights ago, Katie Vyktoriah started getting her son Dexter ready for a trip to Wal-Mart:

After struggling to get him dressed and get his shoes on, I had to pry an overlarge teddy bear out of Dexter’s arms, as he was set on taking him with us. This brought on tears and tantrums, which I somehow managed to calm very quickly. But when I attempted to remove my discarded lace flower headband from his head (which he’d been wearing all day), I saw him getting ready to fight, so I left him to it…

The fact that he was wearing a cute girly headband made him feel good, and he was charming all the old ladies by waving like a little pageant prince.

Dexter

Suddenly, a voice rings out:

Out of nowhere a big booming voice rang out. “THAT’S a BOY?!” The man was overly large with a bushy beard and a camouflage shirt with the arms cut off. He had tattered shorts and lace-up work boots with no laces. I could smell the fug of cigarette smoke surrounding him, and there was a definite pong of beer on him.

“Yes,” I said simply, still smiling.

With no notice, the man stepped forward, grabbed the headband off of Dexter’s head and threw it to the bottom of our shopping cart. He then cuffed Dexter around the side of his head (not hard, but that is not the point) and said with a big laugh, “You’ll thank me later, little man!”

At the same time as I stepped forward, Dexter grabbed his head where the man had smacked him and threw his other hand forward, stomping his foot and shouting, “NO!” I got between my son and this man and said very firmly, “If you touch my son again, I will cut your damn hands off.”

The guy snarled at me, looked at Dexter with disgust and said, “Your son is a f*cking fa***t.” He then started sauntering out, but not before he threw over his shoulder, “He’ll get shot for it one day.”

In a time when our sons are showered with praise for dressing like little girls, Walmart Man saunters onto the field of battle, defiant in tone, astir with conviction. He suffers no doubt as he walks the path of the righteous. His attire is plebeian, yet his virtue is regal. His actions recall the story of David; instead of one awesome enemy, however, his opponents are many and diffuse.

Artistic Rendering of Walmart Man

Vyktoriah (great stripper name by the way) is but one of millions of jezebels roaming the nation, unleashed from any masculine authority. She may have pledged her undying obedience to a man, but a master cannot obey his own slave. Her wedding vows are immaterial abstractions, when paired with the reality of a spineless husband. Like a mother who eats her own children, she arrays her son for sexual failure, for contempt in the eyes of his peers and his romantic prospects. At the meager age of two, indignity has befallen him already, as teenage girls stand by and laugh at him.

Vyktoriah has never known this failure on a regular basis. She has never known the sting of sexual rejection that any man of action faces daily. Living in America, she never had to be feminine to secure a lover.

Based on her own experience as a woman in America, she assumes the same is true for men – that her son need not be masculine to attract women. Girls strut about, their skin mired in tattoos, with profanities effortlessly rolling off their tongues. As monks would cut their hair short in their devotion to Christ or Buddha, the modern woman shaves her head in her devotion to pleasing only herself. Yet she has no shortage of suitors, who wait obediently at her beck and call.

The same is true for men, she assumes – men need not do anything to attract the opposite sex. If even women, the oppressed sex, needn’t aim to please to get what they want, then men should be even more free from sexual expectation. That he can prance about in dresses and suffer no pain for it, as girls do with their flip flops and pierced septums, is her fatal conceit. She cannot imagine that leaving her son free to embrace effeminacy will actually imprison him. From there, there is no easy escape. He is “destined to exist as a social outcast,” just as Robert Oscar Lopez was, after being raised by two lesbians.

I stood there, shaking, fists clenched, waiting for the man to disappear out the door, and then I fell apart. I was shaking so hard, holding back tears and comforting Dexter.

Not a single person said or did anything. There were several people who had witnessed the encounter, but not one of them came over to offer support or console me or my son.

She stands, shaken and angry, that no white knight sallies forth to console her after her confrontation with Walmart Man.

Not long ago, I was sitting in a stranger’s household, socializing with a group of young professionals and their families. I knew none of them. We were playing a board game, one notably bereft of aggression, and one which every nerd loves. I was alone in despising it, but I was a stranger in a strange land, with nothing better to do that evening. One player was the mother of a young boy – her, chubby, shapeless. She had only long hair to signify her status as a female. And her son was hopping about in furry hot pink slippers. Even strippers are not so gauche.

His mother remarked contentedly about his slippers, about how ‘cute’ they were as the women about cooed with approval. The males, fathers and colleagues, smiled wanly in approval. Inside, I was livid – “why does she delight in making her son look like a flaming little bitch?” In retrospect, I wish I’d said something, like “oh, he’d look right at home in the Castro in San Francisco.” This instinct, to castrate and emasculate one’s own sons is increasingly common among American mothers.

The head creative director of J. Crew did so, painting her son’s toenails pink, in an ad campaign for her company. Later, Jenna Lyons would go on to divorce the father of her son, and marry a woman. Lyons’ face is bereft of any softness or even humanity – frankly, she looks like a dead alien. Her lesbian paramour is not much of an improvement.

The response is always the same – “it looks so cuuuute on him!” Why do these mothers enjoy making their sons look like “faggots?” The old stereotype of Jewish mothers may apply – it’s to keep them from leaving home and falling in love with a woman who isn’t his mother.

There are those who would call Walmart Man a homophobe. Quite the opposite. Imagine seeing a delicious looking bowl of fruit, only to find out they were fake and made of wax. You’d feel cheated. This is precisely the fate which Walmart Man is trying to prevent – an effeminate male prancing around, coaxing faygeles into thinking he likes men when he doesn’t. After all, everyone hates a cocktease. He doesn’t want Dexter getting ‘shot’ after blue-balling a bear. Walmart Man has this little boy’s best interests at heart, more than even Dexter’s own mother.

Walmart Man has brought great honor upon himself his family. For his valor and courage, he has earned himself a hallowed position in our inaugural Hall Of Kings, an honorarium for men who fight for beauty, truth and justice.

 Read More: 7 Traits Of The Male Feminist