Greetings From The Eunuch Moon Colony #457!

ASK ME ABOUT MY VAGENDA OF MANOCIDE

Dearest Mother:

I am writing you this letter in contravention of the Lady’s Law. I know if this letter is intercepted, that they will come for me with their gynomantic lassos. But write it, I must, and in that, I hope that this letter finds you well in the Care Home, which has been paid for by the Matriarchy.

I write you now to give my accounting of what went down that way, and how all of this happened. It’s amazing to think that such a fundamental shift in all things could come out of something so simple and so fun as a fictional superhero character. But that’s when it all happened. That was the pivot: the Wonder Woman film.

On the first day, I’d heard some rumblings about how the film was doing very well in the box office, perhaps even setting records as a film directed by a woman — strange to think how that was once unusual! — and I’d also heard that there were a handful of “women-only” screenings happening, and that some men were noticeably upset about being excluded. What I didn’t know was what happened during those screenings. They were the start of it. The beginnings of the rebellion. A fast-growing fire.

Stories from one of my guards here tells of being in one of those theaters when a handful of cisgender men tried to gain entry to the film. They were denied, of course, but came in through the side exit. They kicked the door in, demanding to be seated, demanding to be heard. One of them tried explaining his point-of-view: “Well, actually, I believe in humanism –“

But he never got to finish that sentence.

The women had no weapons except those that were already part of their accoutrements. They strangled the men with purse straps. They carved into them with keys, drowned them in various moisturizes and lady unguents. And then they held them down, took sharpened ATM cards, and severed their genitals. They played with them, then, the way a cat plays with a mouse, or the way Spring Breakers might bounce an inflatable beach ball back and forth overhead. “A party,” the guard called it. “A party where we bathed in men’s blood and used their dicks like cheap party favors.” And you know what they do with cheap party favors, Mother. They use them up. Then they throw them away. Right in the trash.

The women formed a pact, then, not to talk about what had happened that day — though it doesn’t matter now, their silence was paramount at that time. It was the beginning of something. And when I went to see the movie, as we all did, I had no idea what was waiting. You know at the end, how they have those bins where you leave your 3D glasses? They had a bin out there, dear Mother. A bin for my… my manhood. Soon as I walked out of the theater they threw a bag over my head and tried to cut my parts off — but I ran, and I ran, and eventually I gathered under a bridge with my other fellow Men’s Rights Activists, and there we plotted our own counter-rebellion, but we were too slow, and it was too late. The gynocopters found us. Troops swept in over us, their hooked knives clean and sharp and gleaming. They Tasered us and pounced, like pumas. I’ll never forget the sound of my… my manhood hitting the bottom of the bin. It was the sound of an onion hitting the bottom of a trash can. A thud and tumble.

That was it. That was how it began. Bloody and brutal. Turns out, there was a Special Edition Wonder Woman film. One we men did not get to see. One that indoctrinated the women and the girls, one by one, in the ways of Matriarchy. That was the start of the Lady’s Laws. They spliced in iPhone footage from those initial women-only screenings: the male organs bouncing around, the blood, the chanting, the Vagenda of Manocide laid bare for all to see. It was brainwashing, pure and simple. I’m with her, they said again and again. A mantra. Pointing to the woman on the screen. Wonder Woman. An Amazon. A goddess made of clay killing all the men.

It wasn’t long before the women had taken over. It was only two years later I found myself on a shuttle bound for the moon. To one of the expansionist eunuch colonies. I expected that you’d need us for breeding — not you personally, of course, but the Greater General Lady-You — but turns out, with genetic manipulation, we aren’t needed for much at all.

Admittedly, I hear nice things about Earth now. Since those who identify as women took over, I am to understand there’s been little war. Violent crime is trending toward zero. I hear too that the shift of climate change has slowly reversed — and, ha ha, I imagine there’s no longer a wage gap. Because we cisgender men don’t work anymore, except here in the camps. I imagine things aren’t perfect, though! I’m sure you still have your problems. And you probably still fight!

You women. With your… fighting.

But at least your care has been paid for, no thanks to me. I wish I could contribute, but they took my money and closed my accounts years ago. I receive a small stipend here for breaking moon rocks (which I’m to understand that you use for mooncrete), but I need that money to pay for my various needs and necessities, including the protection money I pay to Big Dick Hitler, the cyborg white supremacist men’s rights activist who teaches us all about our internal masculine power and how one day we will again be ascendant and how one day we can again help run the world. Though one time, I swear he said ruin the world, and no one else acknowledged it, and I sure wasn’t going to say anything, because I did not want him to turn his serrated claw-hand on me. I paid my money and I will keep my tongue. Even if I’ve lost so much else.

I hope you believe me. And I hope, Dear Mother, that you did not partake in the horror show that befell cis men that day. My conscience is clear, and I pray to the Man God that yours is, too.

Also, I need fifty Ladybucks, because Big Dick Hitler has upped his prices.

Please and thank you.

Love,

Your Son (Nameless Eunuch #798,231)

* * *

P.S. None of that shit happened, of course. Forgive me if the post seems in any way insensitive, as it’s a work of quick, dumb fiction that is meant to serve as a response to some gormless chode who sent me a message on Facebook, chastising me for liking the Wonder Woman because, I quote, “It advocates a version of male genocide.” Which is so dumb it would be funny if it weren’t so abjectly fucking dumb. He was serious, far as I could tell. I guess people think “male genocide” — like “white genocide” — is a thing? (Spoiler: it isn’t a thing.) Anyway, whatever. You want my Wonder Woman review? It was rad as fuck. Game over, the end. I am not here to debate whether or not the movie was feminist or not, because that ain’t my space, nor my place, but I am here to say I loved it, and you should see it. I saw a ton of little girls and young women in the audience — in the middle of the day on Sunday, no less, at at time when theaters are not traditionally packed around here. They were cheering and totally into it. Take your kids, I took my son. Take yourself. Take everybody. Join the Vagenda of Manocide.

Art above by Cliff Chiang, from Wonder Women #23 (New 52)

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