Category Archives: Gender

UPDATE III (7/4/022): NEW COLUMN: Should Deranged, Moronic Females Really Be Procreating?

Abortion, Argument, Conservatism, Constitution, COVID-19, Crime, Gender, Government, libertarianism, Morality, Paleoconservatism, Sex, Taxation

New column is, “Should Deranged, Moronic Females Really Be Procreating?” It’s featured on WND.COM and was the feature article on The Unz Review.


The ethical elegance of the libertarian argument was voiced before in this space:

However much one disdains abortion, one can’t get away from the matter of self-ownership. You simply have no right to take custody of an adult’s body. An adult woman, however loathsome, either owns herself and everything inside her or doesn’t. You can’t “own” yourself with the exception of your uterus or in conjunction with other busybodies.

Thus, theoretically, “Women have the right to screw and scrape out their insides to their heart’s content.” With a proviso: Americans who oppose abortion must be similarly respected in their rights of self-ownership. Taxpayers who oppose the procedure ought to have an equal right to dispense of what is theirs—their property—in accordance with the dictates of their conscience.

Trojans, Trivora or termination: An American woman has the right to purchase contraception, abortifacients and abortions, provided … she pays for them. For like herself, America is packed with many other sovereign individuals, some of whom do not approve of these products and procedures.

So, while adult women ought to be able to terminate their pregnancies—always to the exclusion of late-term infanticide—what America’s manifestly silly sex does not have the right to do is to rope conscientious objectors into supplying them with or paying for their reproductive choices. The rights of self-ownership and freedom of conscience ought to apply on both sides of the abortion debate.

Late-term abortion, generally, must always be outlawed. (I realize, dear reader, that I owe you argument, not assertion, which, alas, is what I’ve provided.) One could argue that, Dobbs v. Jackson Women’s Health Organization, the deciding case brought before the SCOTUS, did concern late-term abortion, with the state of Mississippi banning abortion after 15 weeks, pursuant to which, “The Jackson clinic and one of its doctors sued Mississippi officials in federal court, saying the state’s law was unconstitutional. A federal district court and the Fifth Circuit Court of Appeals ruled in favor of the clinic, blocking Mississippi’s law. But the state appealed to the Supreme Court, which put the case on its docket.” …

… MORE. New column is, “Should Deranged, Moronic Females Really Be Procreating?” It’s on WND.COM and The Unz Review.

Abelard Lindsey writes: “This article makes clear that conservatives can be as off in la-la land as the liberal-left.”

Writes @Lisalazuli on GETTR: “@ILANAMercer, “You tackled the abortion issue very bravely, this is the most sane [sic] opinion I’ve heard.”

Matriarchy In The Sky–And In All Manner Of In-Your-Face Grotesquery

Affirmative Action, Business, COVID-19, Etiquette, Feminism, Free Markets, Gender, Ilana Mercer, Private Property, Race

Commenting on ‘The End of the All-Male, All-White Cockpit,’ Fox News personality Tucker Carlson beseeched, June 3, 2022: “What’s color to do with competence?” Sir, do check the aggregate accident statistics as to who are the best, safest pilots, sir! Correlation’s not causation, BUT:

Via ScienceDirect: “… female pilots employed by major airlines had a significantly greater likelihood of pilot-error incidents than their male colleagues.” Then the excuse-making weasel words begin—concealing with bafflegab that if you fly with a female you’re more risk. Female pilots yield a higher error/accident rate but, say the Fake Science propagators, this is only because they are younger and less experienced. What you the passenger MUST DO is not be such a bigot and forget about these confounding variables when you fly. Ya hear me, sexist? SEE? The desired outcome is that you fly with a less able pilot, ceteris paribus. Noble cause.

Or, as our reader put it:

“It states in the beginning that females had a higher accident rate, then it states they are about the same as males. SO WHICH IS IT??? Pretty much.”

I wonder. Does anyone get the life-and-death difference between a “pilot” trained at an affirmative-action, feel-good girlie flight school and a veteran of the Air Force? Remember Capt. Chesley B. “Sully” Sullenberger, III of the famed “Unable; we’ll be in the Hudson”? That was “Manliness (Not A Miracle) On The Hudson.”

Patronize the private airline industry nascent. Viva the free market and all the magnificent military trained man pilots ousted from the cartel of the commercial industry to fly private jets. This is what I’ll be exploring, as I think my life is worth it: “Flying private is cheaper than you think — here are 6 airlines to consider for your next flight.”  As illustrated in this 2002 tract—“Whose Property Is It Anyway?”—too many aspects of the airline industry, airports included, have been federalized (by The Shrub, aka Bush). Covid, and the cartel that has attached to it, has completed the demise of the industry.

In the vain of in-your-face female awfulness, Lena Dunham err, DungHam, resurfaced, “posing poolside in a bikini.” Says she, I “forgot how important it is to wear a bikini.

To be or not to bikini. I never thought of it this way. But if you say so, Lena. So, I posed in my bathroom, with my 30-year-old swimsuit, bought in Cape Town. But that’s as far as I’ll go with this outfit and this particular existential search for meaning.

And, thank you, role model Lena. I feel like a woman, now. At least I’ll say it: It is utter peacockery that moves women to pose, not authenticity, said here in “hedonism, not heroism:

To get naked for the world to see is immodest, not heroic. Displaying “saggy tummies” and “stretch marks” does not a hero make. Narcissism, self-adoration, bad taste, or just being comfortable in your own skin: these are not heroic, although they’ve been cast as such.

And here, in “Skanks in the Sky“:

Women are generally far more narcissistic and exhibitionistic than males are and habitually ho-up for travel and work. There is sexy and there is skanky.

We are nature’s worst peacocks, moved by vanity, not by the need to attract a mate, which is what moves the Real Peacock.

The celeb world responded to Lena Dunham with, “Just stunning.”  The old man said (about Lena, not ilana), “More like breathtaking.”

The lead image on this post comes via Max Denken of Gab. No need for words, but in case you mince yours or use euphemisms; I offer the correct crawler—as in the apt chyron beneath an image: Polina Gagarina, Russia’s most famous singer, chaste, gorgeous, natural; vs America’s  slumdog culture’s offering: Lizzo. This mountain of flesh is seen mounting a jet. Let’s hope Lizzo will not be piloting the thing.

The Feminized Society Is Silly, Loose, Libertine, Institutionally Rotten & Ungrateful

Affirmative Action, Culture, Feminism, Gender, Individualism Vs. Collectivism, Intellectualism, Intelligence, Left-Liberalism And Progressivisim, Logic, Science

The better responses on Facebook to this indubitably crass indictment of the feminized society harped on the mistake of collectivism in reasoning.

In aggregate, however, this seemingly obnoxious statement attributed to one Bob Wallace (?) is still largely true. For, from the fact that vast individual differences exist between people—and that there are many magnificent women—it doesn’t follow that one cannot make accurate aggregate statements about groups of individuals.

This is, very plainly, the basis of science: deductions about the aggregate characteristics of representative samples. Maybe not the most comprehensive definition, but you get my gist.

A priceless excerpt from Norah Vincent’s book comes to mind. Its title is self explanatory: Self-Made Man: My year Disguised as a Man.

Vincent, a lesbian in her regular life, describes dating women while disguised as Ned:

“I listened to [the women] talk literally for hours about the most minute, mind-numbing details of their personal lives; men they were still in love with; men they had divorced, roommates and co-worker they hated…. Listening to them was like undergoing a slow frontal lobotomy. I sat there stunned by the social ineptitude of people to whom it never seemed to occur that no one, much less a first date, would have any interest in enduring this ordeal …”

Seconded in my article, “The Silly Sex?”:

Over the last five decades women, who make up roughly 50 percent of the world’s population, have claimed only 2 percent of the Nobel Prizes in the sciences. In literature, women have claimed only 8 percent. No woman has won a Nobel in economics. During that period Jews, who comprise less than 0.5 percent the world’s population, have claimed 32 percent of the Nobel Prizes for medicine, 32 percent for physics, 39 percent for economics and 29 percent of all science awards.

UPDATE: A man’s work: Corralling logs with a boom boat. How can one fail to be impressed by the strength, skill, calm and staying power this job takes? To do all this competently and single-handedly? Mike Row’s show is genius in what it shows.

The MeToo ingrates should take note, too. Ukrainian men between the ages of 18 and 60 are currently prohibited from leaving the country. Drafted. This is what men have been doing stoically and dutifully for centuries: defending the women folk. (Who gets drafted is another matter. Read “Support The Drafts.…”)

FRED REED: Shere Khan: Another Kind of Woman

America, Asia, FRED REED, Gender, GUNS, Relationships

‘Those self-defense karate classes for women are worse than a joke because they …just piss the guy off. But five rounds to the center of mass will make almost anybody lose his erection.’


Years ago I went in winter annually to Denver to visit friends and get in a week or two of skiing on the Front Range. I was a tolerable blue-slope skier but no more. Sometimes on weekdays we went to the Loveland slopes, utterly empty of people, chill blue sky stretching forever, long, easy runs in the cold, absolute silence except for the hissing of the skis. You could almost believe the world was a good place.

One year we went in the evening to Boulder to visit Donna Duvall and Jim Graves, who had been editors at Soldier of Fortune magazine years before when I had been on staff. We were sitting around a big kitchen table and remembering the crazy times when the doorbell rang. In came Shere Khan, as we later called her. I forget who had invited her.

She was tall, maybe five-nine, slender, of a slightly olive complexion with high cheekbones and long, straight black hair. She was not conventionally pretty, but…attractive. She turned out to be quiet, though sociable enough, and had a direct, unwavering gaze that was not hostile, not challenging, but just…well, she was looking.

In the way of old friends of mottled pasts, the only kind anyone at SOF ever had, we remembered the strange places and stranger times and this adventure and that, and I chatted a bit with Shere Khan. She said that she might come through Washington so I gave her my address, more from courtesy than any expectation of her using it.

Many months later in my condo just outside of Washington in Virginia, there was a knock at the door. I opened. There was Shere Khan, in jeans, with a serious backpack and her son Cody, maybe twelve.  It took me a few seconds to remember who she was.

For a then-single guy having such a phantasm appear at the door is a positive thing, certainly in the case of Shere Khan. I invited them in. She said she wanted to stay a week or two in DC, the implicit question being could they do so at my place. They could. I put them in my second bedroom, also office, with a large mattress on the floor which they quickly inhabited. I sensed that if anything else was going to happen, it would be sometime when Cody, who seemed to be a nice kid, was asleep.

The days went by. Shere Khan turned out to be smart and good company. We went several times to the Café Asia across Wilson Boulevard from my place where the waitresses were Far Eastern types, Malays, Viets, suchlike, mostly studying computer security or wide-area networking. Asians are Asians. She mentioned almost having married Larry McCray, a blues singer I had never heard of. Sometimes she cooked, a relief from what bachelors eat.

Like many who come to DC, she wanted to go to the Smithsonian. I instructed her in Metro’s mysteries and she set off with Cody, saying, as she had before, that she wanted to see the Native American Museum, or whatever they called it. I wondered why so much interest in Indians, and then, dolt that I am, realized: She was one. Slightly brown, high cheekbones, straight black hair. As it turned out by anatomical evidence, probably pureblood.

Early on she said that she and Cody were on their way to hike the Appalachian Trail. That explained the backpack, which was not quite an expedition pack but wasn’t a bookbag either and had an experienced look. With long legs and no extra weight, she was built for the AT.

I knew somewhat of the AT because my friend Robin and I sometimes did week-long, 85-mile hauls. This was slow by trail standards, 12 miles a day. Serious trail guys, the ones who were doing the whole 2,000 miles at one swallow, tended to be built—well, like Shere Khan, and they just sailed along. Last time out, we had met Hungry Bear—the long-hauls like to take trail names—maybe twenty-five, 6’3, lean as an ax handle, and took long, long strides that made me think of an Ent going to war. Shere Khan might have kept up. Cody, not yet, but he had the right mother.

The time came for them to head out. The night before, she sat on the floor in the living room, making her pack. She knew what she was doing, everything squoze down, put in order of when it would be needed. Surprised, I noticed the butt of a pistol. It was a lady’s gun, maybe 25 caliber, seven shot. Long thin fingers might have had a hard time managing a full-size Sig or Glock. Firearms are very illegal on the AT. Why the gun, I asked. “You never know who you might run into,” she said, in the same tone she might use in wondering where she had put that spare pair of socks.

She had a point. Backpackers are decent people, but there could always be an exception. A strong man could have tied her into a bowknot. She just wasn’t designed to fend off men, especially if there were two of them.

When I went for my concealed-carry permit in Virginia, you had to take a two-night course in how to use a pistol at the NRA headquarters on Waples Mill Road. The instructress was a female FBI agent who told the women in the class, “Those self-defense karate classes for women are worse than a joke because they would just piss the guy off. But five rounds to the center of mass will make almost anybody lose his erection.”

I think Shere Khan had this figured out. Given that serious gaze, not humorless, not drab, just…serious, I thought she would use that gun. If anybody had wanted to rape her or, God help him, touch Cody, I think it would have been seven rounds in the gut, maybe drag the body out of sight in the undergrowth and, miles down the trail, throw the gun far into the woods on in impassable downslope. I don’t think it would have bothered her. There were some things you didn’t do, and she and Cody were two of them.

I never saw her again, but I got a letter thanking me for the hospitality, enclosed with a CD by Larry McRae. Which was damned good blues.

Fred will be on vacation at the beach for a couple of weeks, but will resume his scurrilous and seditious maunderings on his return.

Read Fred’s Books! Or else. We know where you sleep.


FRED REED describes himself as [previously] a “Washington police reporter, former Washington editor for Harper’s and staff writer for Soldier of Fortune magazine, Marine combat vet from Viet Nam, and former long-haul hitchhiker, part-time sociopath, who once lived in Arlington, Virginia, across the Potomac River from the Yankee Capital.”
His essays “on the collapse of America” Mr. Reed calls “wildly funny, sometimes wacky, always provocative.”
“Fred is the Hunter Thompson of the right,” seconds Thomas E. Ricks in Foreign Policy magazine. His  commentary is “well-written, pungent political incorrectness mixed with smart military commentary and libertarian impulses, topped off with a splash of Third World sunshine and tequila.”



Killer Kink

Hardboiled is back! (The exclamation point is to arouse wild enthusiasm int the reader, a boiling literary lust.) Gritty crime fiction by longtime police reporter for the Washington Times, who knows the police from nine years of riding with them. Guaranteed free of white wine and cheese, sensitivity, or social justice.