I’ve written before about the parallels between feminist-speak and religious language, so feminist Madeline Albright’s declaration that there is “a special place in Hell” for women who do not support other women” (as in, women who don’t vote for Presidential hopeful Hillary Clinton) was not a shock to me in that sense, but I was flummoxed by the début of this new class of mortal sin: the sin of self-gender betrayal. Sure, Jesus seemed to prefer male apostles in his inner circle but in my extensive study of scripture and Hell this particular sin had somehow escaped my notice.
Loyalty to God, humanity, the faithful, and kin are all familiar to me but loyalty to one’s gender as a divine decree? Not even in the darkest passages of the 3,237 cantos of Patriarchy (hot chicks be upon them) does one find such an edict for men to stay loyal to men as a class – as teammates, sure, but there are dudes on the other team we owe no gender-specific allegiance to beyond sportsmanship.
My harrowing of feminists knows no limits, not even the harrowing of hell, so to investigate this revelation, on late Friday afternoon I descended into hell for a quick day and a half refresher tour, and now that I’ve risen at Sunday morning daybreak, I can report with astonishment that, since the time of Dante, feminists have completely rearranged the furniture in the Inferno.
1: Not All Brimstone Lakes Are Like That
Preparing for Feminist Hell took some forethought. I guzzled a jug of holy water, checked my privilege, and donned a rainbow burka to hit all the intersectional boxes on the Feminist Hell Tourism application. I’d visited Hell 1.1 (the post-Christ version) in 1990 during a near death experience, so I was excited to see how feminism had changed things. Feminists trash each other a lot, and because the afterlife is bound by decisions made on Earth, I expected to see lots of feminist issues and foibles being flogged in a quite literal sense. I was not disappointed.
Hell is still composed of 9 circles as it was in Dante’s era but I hardly recognized the place. Feminists had been nagging demon engineers for decades for a whole new “safe space” design to both smash the satantriarchy and equalize the 77 lashes that women get for every 100 a man receives, and those clever devils delivered in ways that make Hell 1.1 look like the Super Bowl Halftime Show – the new Feminist Hell is still overly long, but caters to the ladies like never before.
The first circle, formerly called “Limbo” for the comfortable repose of Virtuous Pagans, is now known as the “Friendzone.” It is overrun with a variety of cucks, male allies, and wealthy female pop singers and actresses who claimed to be feminists but never really “got it” since they had made patriarchy work for themselves at the cost of other women. Denizens of the friendzone lead comfortable but sexless lives, forever searching for the love of their haughty and aloof feminist masters, who remain just beyond their grasp.
As I toured the Hellywood subdivision I asked Emma “HeForShe” Watson if this was the “special place” Albright has alluded to, and Emma seemed puzzled but admitted that her knowledge of Feminist Hell didn’t extend much beyond the dictionary, which in Hell has only those definitions approved by feminists (6 words are defined in all).
As I resumed my journey down, one after another of the friendzoned asked me for blowjobs, and when I demurred, they asked if I knew where they could get blowjobs. They wiggled their micropeens plaintively, so all I could do was mansplain that in Dante’s time, the second circle of Hell was for the lustful, and so perhaps they could get lucky there.
This was a bit of a mistake on my part – as a MGTOW, I’d forgotten how crazy and determined sex-starved pussy beggars can be. The friendzoned rushed the 69 foot wall surrounding the second level, crashing against it and piling up bodies to build a human mountain of broken flesh and bone in a bid for access to release in more ways than just fun. It was just like in the porno knockoff of the movie World War Z entitled Whirled Whore Zoe.
As the mêlée grew, I slipped away to the immigration center to formally continue my trip. The password I had used last time didn’t work, but my extensive knowledge of feminist theory saved me – after a few guesses, the phrase “not all feminists are like that” caused the annulus to dilate, giving me easy access to the second circle of Feminist Hell: the Objectifiers.
2: Yin and Poontang
The Second Level of Hell is divided into two safe spaces: Yin, for the sex-negative feminists, and Poontang, for the sex-positive. All the feminists had been fitted with vaginae for mouths: those of the sex-negative were continuously dripping menstrual blood, while those of the sex-positive seemed to disgorge cottage cheese, along with the occasional mangled fetus or loaf of sourdough. The two groups were locked in an eternal battle, girl-throwing dead D-cell batteries and dildos back and forth. One of the flying dildos smacked me in the chest, and it melted away into chocolate pudding: in Feminist Hell, it seems, all the dicks are limp, even the ones in intersectional colors like dead fig green.
Caught between the two groups I found the shade of Laci Green – time is eternal in hell, twisting around on itself in ways that make even living feminists permanent residents. She was too sexually titillating to join the sex-negatives but too hateful of penis to join the positives. Her mouth was an anus and shit came gushing out with every word she spoke. Her gelatinous limbs had been broken into impossible angles and I paused to speak to her during a cease-fire in the battle: the loudspeakers announced in feminist scream-song a shoe sale at the local DSW. (It turns out all the shoes were amazing but mismatched in both color and heel size.)
Laci was whimpering softly to herself but seemed grateful that someone was paying attention to her. I didn’t know…I didn’t know she gurgled out, then brightened up like the Laci of her old MTV/YouTube days. I like men but they need to stop objectifying me! she managed between perky sobs as she adjusted her glasses and cleavage. She did manage to say that the “special place” was nowhere nearby, so I tried to take my leave. Laci grabbed me for a kiss but I slapped her cum-stained lips away: sorry, Laci – no means no.
Shoes, she moaned as I walked away. Bring me shoooooooes!
As I reached the maw that served as the gate to the old third circle (Gluttony), I glanced back at Laci. Smoky-eyed clown-haired feminists both positive and negative were romping all over her body in the raunchiest stripper gear. The carnal lust of old, in feminist hands, had become a grass hut of pain.
3: The Feast of Ashes
The icy rain and slush of the old circle of Gluttony was now a burnt-out wasteland – the new name, “Fat Acceptance,” had caused this level to be so overrun by the obese that it had spontaneously combusted when someone dropped a joint of skankweed to chow down on Taco Bell. The air smelled of BBQ and pork rinds and the ashes were slowly knitting themselves back into bodies in one of the weirdest and dullest CGI scenes you can imagine. The greasy ground seemed to crawl like a mass of fire ants. I made my way to the platinum vault door to the fourth level, the old Greed, when I happened on the half-burned shade of Roxanne Gay. I’ve been a Bad Feminist, she wailed, and I need to be punished. After I took pity on her by spitting into her mouth, she seemed certain that the “special place” was lower down still.
It was only then that I remembered that all feminists are liars and they were most likely trying to trap me in an even more wretched level of Hell – the special place might have easily been in circle one. Still, the only way out of old Hell 1.1 was at the center, so my itinerary could only take me deeper.
As I passed into the old Greed circle, I heard and felt the ground shaking – Roxanne had lifted herself out of the ashes, fully restored. My prophylactic drink of holy water must have transferred some Goodness in my spittal! Great, now she would be chasing me out of hell. My leisurely tour suddenly became urgent.
4: Lean in to hell
The hoarders and prodigals of the old circle of Greed have been replaced by naked feminist office workers and Patreon users. Air conditioning blasts at arctic levels in their faces and asses, and they vajazzle their pubic and anal pleasure portals with razor-sharp jewels of every rainbow hue. Their lower bodies have grown so ponderous with gemstones they can barely carry their mattresses from office to office to continue to try to climb the corporate ladder.
At the very bottom, covered in shit-encrusted diamonds, I found the shade of the original “mattress girl” herself, Emma Sulkowicz. She texted me “luff you berry much – I need some Auggie time in my butthole” but I told her to put down the cellphone and tell me what she knew about the “special place.” No luck, so I passed on as she started screeching “RAPE” over and over again.
5: The Models of Duluth
Unlike the old Anger, the entrance to the new fifth circle of hell was well hidden. Feminist women seemed to be entering it with ease, and once on the other side they tossed gold coins and jewels in massive amounts back into Lean In but still the entrance to level five was obscured for me. As I walked along the wall, the flow of money seemed to diminish from a torrent to a trickle, and finally ceased completely. Only once the money completely stopped did I see it – the tiny men’s entrance to the Domestic Violence Shelter of Hell, the new circle 5.
The few gay men inside were very helpful despite the constant booming sound coming through the walls – the massive feminist shelter on the other side. These ultra-violent women were doomed to slam into each other for all eternity. I paused to put my ear to the wall, curious for some clue if this was the special place but the guys pulled me away – the impact of the crashing bodies would’ve shattered my skull, and that takes eons to heal in hell. Milo Yiannopoulus personally led me to the entrance to the old circle six, Heresy, which was now guarded by two enormously muscled demons wearing “Black Lives Matter” t-shirts. Milo distracted the guards long enough to allow me to slip by, as Milo giggled “oh, Jesus Christ!” in the distance behind me. The door had just closed when I heard Roxanne frantically pounding on it. She had almost caught me.
6: Infernalized Misogyny
I barely remember the mad, confused dash through the sparsely populated sixth circle of hell, the old “Heresy,” now renamed “Internalized Misogyny” or “Infernalize Misogyny” – the signs were inconsistent, like both hell and feminism alike. Heretical feminists like Camille Paglia and Christina Hoff Sommers waved as I ran by. Reams of fact-checked research were being continually cranked out at one side of this level, and burned away on the other. A small town of Libertarian iFeminists marked the passage to the old level 7, Violence. Cathy Young, dressed as a microaggression, guarded the door, and I barely had time ask about the special place. She checked my privilege with her forked tongue, pointed through the door, and started screaming “fuck off, MRA scum.”
The lower trimester of feminist hell, the 7th, 8th and 9th circles, are almost too disturbing to describe. Every dumpster from every abortion provider winds up here in the old level 7, formerly “Violence,” now called “Planned Parenthood.” The smell of powder, diapers and rotting flesh is overpowering. With every step I had to try to avoid treading on the crushed face of a stillborn kid. I will speak no more of this except to note that the shade of Andy Warhol found be weeping in a fetal position. Without a word, he helped me to my feet and, his arm around my shoulder, he led me to the Veteran Administration’s doors that marked the entrance to the old 8th circle, Fraud.
8: Gender Studies
The old level 8, formerly Fraud, is now “Gender Studies.” A loud, unending scream of “Guilty” follows every man who goes there. At this point I lost all hope of succeeding in my quest, abandoning the idea that I could find the special place. If suicide were possible in Hell, I would have hung myself, but even the sweet temptation of death was denied me. Only Andy, still half-carrying me, kept me going through the 10 Annexes of gender until we reached the bullet hole that marks the passage into the lowest level of Feminist Hell.
“I can go no farther.” Andy mouthed over the screams. I gave him a quizzical look, and he smiled. “Maybe someday I will. You will understand why soon enough.” I gave him one final hug; he turned away and headed back the way we had come as I passed into the area formerly known as Treachery.
In the old Hell 1.1 there were 4 Rounds of Treachery. In Feminist Hell they are CPS (an amalgam of Child Protective Services and the Crown Prosecution Service), Family Court, Child Support, and Alimony. In the distance, I could see the towering figure of Lucifer at the center of hell. As MGTOW I could avoid the 4 Rounds completely, and I thought that I would have it pretty easy until the mists started to clear and the demon I formerly knew as Lucifer came into focus.
It was her, the shade of the feminist once known as Valerie Solanas, who tried to murder Andy Warhol. Oh, Andy, I thought. No one deserves this.
I continued walking toward Solanas. I had no real choice – in Dante’s time the way out of hell was to climb down the fur on Satan’s legs into Purgatory – and I had had quite enough of feminism for one research trip.
As I grew closer. I saw what I first thought were tiny spiders crawling all over her naked body. As I got closer I saw the spiders were not insects at all – they were women. Human women. Human women voters! I had found the special place in hell. It was real, and the most sexist ending for women imaginable – they had to work a dirty, dangerous, and pointless job in service to a woman, just like all men do.
The voters were terrified. They used frayed, rusty climbing gear to scamper all over Solanas, carefully using machetes to hack away all traces of Solanas’s body hair. Every few minutes a woman would fall to her ruin, her body broken on the rocks below, to wait an eon to be healthy enough to resume her depilating duties.
I approached Solanas, dodging the falling bodies. Her legs were smooth as glass – a harlot’s legs. There was no hair to climb down, and no way out. I sank to my knees, defeated. In the background I could hear the maniacal laughter of Chanty Binx and Gloria Steinem, and the tyrannosaurus footfalls of Roxanne Gay closing the distance.
After what seemed like forever, a voice boomed out a question: “What will you tell them? The men – what will you tell them?”
I could barely muster a whisper. “I will tell them the truth.”
Screams came at me from all sides. Roxanne was close. “There is no place in Feminist Hell for the truth! Leave us!”
The ground around me started to shake as the legs of Solanas, once clamped shut, began to spread slightly. A long string to a tampon emerged from her vulva. I grabbed the string and rappelled down her thigh gap. The warm, pine smell of Purgatory engulfed me as I passed by her cankles.
The tampon fell out as my feet reached the forest floor and her thighs slapped shut. The size of an Airbus, the tampon missed me by less than 10 meters when it landed with a sploosh. Looking up, I could barely see Roxanne’s body was crushed between Solanas’s thighs.
I was out. I was done with feminism.
The author gratefully acknowledges the inspiration of both Dante and the team of Larry Niven and Jerry Pournelle for their books entitled Inferno.