Little Miss Sub-Clause
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There you are, playing about on the internet, looking at websites and blogs, sometimes engaging people in conversation in comment boxes or on twitter, being careful with what you say and how you say it, so you don’t offend anyone. You are a balanced human, who recognises that people have differing opinions and are allowed to have them, especially if they’re opinions that don’t condone the eating of babies or genocide.
You find yourself in a conversation in a comment box about, let’s say, gender politics.
You write, agreeing with the blogger’s post about modern manners in the workplace, that you think it is fair enough that women get narked when they hear the boys in the cubicles talking about tits all day, but add that you remain unoffended if a male holds a door open for you.
Suddenly, from nowhere, someone booms “WHO’S THAT TRIPPING OVER MY BRIDGE?”, or rather “What on EARTH are you? Your ideas of womanhood are laughable…frankly, there’s too little oxygen in the world for me to share with people like you.”
You aren’t sure, at first, if Miss Troll is taking the piss, because she does seem extraordinarily angry at you for something you believed to be a gently self-mocking confessional remark, so you calmly (and, in retrospect, stupidly) ask Little Miss Sub-Clause why she reacted to you thus.
Little Miss Sub-Clause unleashes the hounds of hell upon you, little goat, and regales you with THE RULES, her rules, that she has written down somewhere, in jargon fuelled hate speech, after studying far too many sociology textbooks and theses. You try, fruitlessly, to calm her down with pacifying noises and humour, but this makes her angrier. For you are the worst kind of woman (apparently). You assume it is because you allow men to hold doors open for you and do a bit of back tracking, trying to maintain face in front of the horrified (you guess) audience that is gathering to watch this clash of women. No-one else jumps to your aid, so you start to question your own morals and ideas. What are you SO wrong about?
You spend an hour defending your right to say that it’s not a problem for people to hold doors open for other people… when suddenly she announces “NO, you goddam sheep! You are so dense… it is your assumption that I would be offended by men talking about my tits in public! Sheesh… get back to the Guardian you dope!”
The problem is that her rules are unfathomable and her demographic unobtainably fine tuned: She is human, female, bi-sexual, apolitical, part-time sex worker, economics graduate, dog-not-cat lover, allergic to dogs, amputee (little toe, left foot). Her rules are based in a mix of politics with gender politics with LGBT rights with BDSM rights with disabled rights with freedom of speech (hahahahaha) and the right to wear stilettoes and you will have to guess which way she leans in any of those arguments, because you will NEVER get it right.
You leave the argument, drained and in need of a drink. It is only the next day that a bunch of last night’s observers come and find you elsewhere on the net to quietly send you messages, congratulating your courage in the face of that total nutter. They didn’t dare jump in last night, because they are terrified of her (and her supreme stalking ability).
Little Miss Sub-Clause makes a small living selling her knitted vagina brooches on Etsy and receiving paid visits from a wealthy client who requires a “passive-dominatrix-submissive” for an afternoon once a month.
Little Miss Sub-Clause hasn’t left the house since 2003.