The Bimbo, The Bitch, the Butch

Which of the women in the picture above would you want to bear and raise your children if you had to choose based solely on what you see? Ok, a gun is pointed at your head. Pick or you never conceive again.

Assuming that all four are marriageable and well within their childbearing years, who knows for sure, but there is a part of you that would say ‘Dude. The ones in the poster. Fetch one to me!’

Another factor to consider is the attire of the ladies on foot. There is another part of you that might reason that these two are religious women, Muslims specifically, and that Islamic culture extols modesty, motherhood, and home as feminine virtues. The part of you that sits atop your neck might reason that these virtues could contribute to your quality of life over the next, say, fifty years, and might contribute to the character of your grandchildren and the character of their grandchildren.

My point is that this photo is a less than subtle criticism of Islamic culture and a subtle praise of what has (sadly) become of Western culture. The dripping sex kittens are supposed to be seen as positive or better-than the traditionally clad women who might look more suited for the little house on the prairie or an episode of The Waltons than for the modern American shopping mall. The sex kittens are liberated and the traditional women are the opposite. It is a snapshot of the Western Left’s view of women, born of the Sexual Liberation movement, which was born of feminist ideology, which was born of the elevation of freedom and equality as sovereign truths, which was born of the Enlightenment, which was born of human hubris.

Broadly speaking Feminism extols three kinds of women; the bimbo, the bitch, and the butch. In a nutshell Feminism despises femininity and the home & family that woman is, by nature, inclined to make. The result has been the self-centred modern American woman that is either a sex toy, a bad-man, or a combination of the two, and always self-centred. Loads of fun or dangerous, and in marriage a ticking time bomb. No man with any sense would carry one home to meet mother, much less entrust to such a mate his life and posterity.

No, the wise man will pick a Mrs Walton any day. Tough, independent, and reliable, she always puts herself last behind you and your children, and in so doing takes her place amongst the unsung women of her tribe who make up the bedrock of society if not civilisation itself. She is the producer and cultivator of your posterity. One worthy of clocking in and out for for fifty years. One worth dying for.

And ask the old men that have had their Mrs Walton for fifty years. Her, a pillow, and a blanket is all a man really needs in the sack.