illustration by Bob AulI used to say that feminism was dead, that it was fine for my mother but we were all equal now. Then I met you. You slept around, and when I found out about it, you said we weren't married, and besides, you have a powerful male drive for sexual variety. "What about me?" I asked. "You're a woman," you said. "You don't need variety." When I told you that you could go to hell, you called me for a week straight, promising you'd changed. When that didn't work, you spread the word among our friends at church that I had slept around behind your back. I haven't said a thing to anyone, but I'll say this: one of the several women you're sleeping with told me not long ago that she has a sexually transmitted disease. Now the "Alan Keyes for President" bumper sticker on your car won't be your only symbol of hypocrisy.
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