Balls Are The New Vagina

For all my talk of punching ladies in the twat, it should be noted that I'm a raging feminist.
And no fellas, that doesn't make me a lesbian.
Being a feminist in today's society is defined (by me) as "a woman who is amazed that women, who are more disciplined, more perceptive, more passionate, more intelligent and oh yeah, WE HAVE THE ABILITY TO GESTATE OTHER HUMAN BEINGS don't run this planet and everything on it."
I mean it, I'm amazed almost every single day that we aren't in charge. So when the opportunity arises for me to deal with a man who treats all women as subordinate (car salesmen, IT guys, old white men, auto repairmen, Armenian guys, jewelers, personal trainers, electricians, the idiots who wear orange vests at Home Depot, tire salesmen, prepubescent Jewish boys, etc) it's the equivalent of an athlete who has been training 6 days a week, 3 hours a day for 2 years just to go play in a softball league at the Y.
It's just not a fair fight for these numb nuts.
For example, the last time I bought a car the guy in that tiny hot room made the mistake of taking his little pen out and making the little diagram on the paper to show me what my payment would be.
"Oh wow, gee mister, you're really smart! You just added all those numbers! And so strong! Do you work out?"
So after he walked across the room to pick up his little pen and paper, stormed out, and sent his manager in, the manager said to me "I'm starting to understand why your husband sent you here alone to buy."
But getting to deal with an actual misogynist is such a gift. I mean, usually, I'm just reading online news where a man has an opinion about abortion (No, you don't get one. Okay, you can have one, but no one should care what it is) or listening to some fucktard on CNN muse about the inequality of pay for women (did plantation owners ever have totally awesome thoughts about emancipation?) and there is not one guilty male around that I can punch. 

Which reminds me, my car is almost out of warranty.
Beware, jack offs, I aim low.

Time Out, Mama.

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Carry On, You Fucktard.

I know what you're thinking.
"It's not my fault they changed the rules."
"It's 50 bucks."
"I might want to change my shoes mid-flight."
Or maybe you've got a stash of pork rinds in there and you just know you're gonna get hungry.

While I understand all of it (except the pork rinds) we really need to stick together on this.
So, since no one else seems willing to tell you, I guess it's my job.
Check your fucking suitcase, you ass monkey. It's not a carry on. You know how I know?
Because you CAN'T CARRY IT! If the wheels on that behemoth broke, you'd be shit outta luck.
Dear god, what has happened to us as a society? When given the choice between spending 50 bucks or becoming human cholesterol, clogging the arteries of every aisle, bathroom, and checkpoint, most of you defiantly chose the latter.
It's a sad fact that the vast majority of mouth breathers will happily cram every piece of their shit in a bag the size of a twin bed and then stand slack jawed as some poor flight attendant tells them that "No, shockingly, your 315 pound, three square foot box won't fit under your seat. You'll have to check it."  This will be after you've inconvenienced every poor soul who forked over the money, and now you'll get stuck with paying for your shit-box anyway.
And yes, the airlines should have the common fucking decency to just bury the charge in the ticket price like they used to and let us all fool ourselves into thinking its for free. But let's face it, people who work for he airlines were hardly the forward thinkers of their generation, now were they? Going to work at a shitty diner in the sky was most likely never the dream of our valedictorians.
Therefore, I'm afraid we're going to have to handle this problem from the ground up.
So, while we're still here on the ground allow me to reiterate..."If your carry on bag is neither a purse nor an iPad, I'm going to punch you in the vagina and steal your neckpillow, fuckface."