My patron Mescaline Franklin recently asked the following, and I have answered here, in hopes that he’ll bring me another four-pack of Bittberger from that liquor store in the war zone known as Camden New Jersey:

“I was wondering if there is anymore to your theory about emasculation beginning with agriculture. No one else has brought that up. We all seem to think it just happened in the sixties, and now you’re pointing out that this feminism thing—this evil ideology—is just the end game of a process.

“What is that process?”

It’s been a while since one of my slave girls was with child. But I do recall there is an early period of pregnancy when the fetus of a boy is not yet male, when it is still the female archetype. Then that evil rapist chromosome kicks in, testosterone is released, the clitoris becomes a penis, and another evildoer is on his way out of the maternal womb to make the world a worse place to live. As a science-fiction author my basic theory on social emasculation is:

Yes Mescaline, I suspect that masculinity is an evolved state, with the masculine mind more concerned with the transcendent then is the feminine out of which it evolved. Just look at the masculine mug on the new dyke Anglican bishop. This drama was ritually played out in all primitive cultures I have studied by the men coming to take the new youth away from the women and facilitate his transformation to manhood through ritual means. Now that I have pissed off all feminists and masculinity advocates, let me sketch the seven steps to devolution from primal manhood into postmodern sissyhood.

The following chain of denaturing socialization builds one component upon the other, from the inventor of the atlatl figuring out how to get the hell out of Africa and away from those debilitating blood diseases some 40,000 years ago, down to some pasty-faced American mangina living in his mother’s basement playing video games while his father either toils away in an alienating corporate environment or starves in a cardboard box behind the dollar store.

1. Agriculture

2. Religion

3. Civilization

4. Materialism

5. Slavery

6. Politics

7. Feminism

To better illustrate these concepts permit me to use a fictional narrative device, in the persons of Jack and Jill, the prototypical masculine man and feminist woman.

Jack stands spear in hand surveying his hunting ground as his woman toils in her garden. As much as he would prefer her toiling under his loincloth it is nice to have something to eat when the Master of Animals denies him his skittish prey. Eating women’s food is not to his taste, but then again neither is starving when the stags decline to give up their flesh.

Jill stands up from poking her planting stick into the hard soil; the only soil her scrawny Jack can manage to protect for her garden since he’s terrified of those big hairy hunks out in the forest. Her stick breaks and she stands up with a curse, “This is auroch shit! I’m not strong enough and this louse isn’t doing a think but leaning on his spear.”

“What is it woman?” snarls Jack.

“You heard me asshole. We need to break ground to get this corn in or we won’t have anything to eat when your spear arm gets sore this winter. Bring that spear over here and cut me a trench to plant my seed corn while I go fill the water skin. With both of us working we’ll grow a good crop.”

“Bitch nah! This is my sacred spear; the only thing that puts meat on the spit and stands between you and those hairy bastards out in the woods.”

Jill puts her hands on her hips and declares, “Those killers would gladly slit your throat to get their hands on this soft corn-fed body after those leather berry-eating nags they’ve been humping all winter. You want me to send out an invitation, or are you going to dig me a trench?”

It was said by The Sky Elders that Jack tilled for six days and six nights to plough Jill’s garden, and in the end, was too tired to plough Jill, who was soon sneaking off to the edge of the woods with her basket of corn as soon as poor exhausted Jack was fast asleep in the hut he had built for her.

Jack had toiled all week tilling the fields behind his oxen and plough, the both of them yoked to the dastardly device that made the priests rich in their temples. At dark on the sixth night he leaves Jill in her hut as she spurns him once again, not wanting to bear yet another child to starve in this world of muddy toil.

At length he comes to the Temple of Ishtar. The sweet smell of night flowers and lamp oil beckons him as he approaches the hulking wrestler at the temple door, patting the purse at his hip. “May I have a sacred appointment with the priestess please?” asks Jack.

The wrestler heaves up off of his stool and seizes Jack by the shoulders, lifts him, and shakes him, until not only his purse but all of the loose coins hidden in his clothes fall to the ground. The brute then sets him down, dusts him off and shoves him through the door, where his next door neighbor’s daughter So-phine, awaits him so that at least an hour of his week might not be spent in miserable toil and aching idleness.

Jack and Jill and their sons Pain and Stable stood above the cracked earth of their farm plot, looking at the ground tremble beneath the oncoming hooves. The Priest King had fallen to the barbarian herdsmen whose snorting steeds raked the earth with hooves of thunder, and whose arrows darkened the sky, leaving death in their wake. The irrigation channels had been damned up by the invaders during the siege and not a weed sprouted from the desiccated earth.

Pain exclaimed, “Pops, this sucks. What a raw deal. What do you want me to do?”

As Jack tried to think of a spirit-lifting response, Stable cut him off, “Do? Are you stupid douche bag? We need to join the winners—later Pops. Look at these badasses—they’re the shit! Hey My Lord, I’ll hold that horse for you.”

As the chariots rolled up and the dark eyes of his Master’s scarred and bearded conqueror regarded him he cleared his throat to offer his allegiance, but was beaten to his submission by Jill, “Oh My Lord, I make the best lentil soup in the valley, still have all my teeth, and have yearned to have the breath driven from me panting in your iron embrace!”

Their new Lord signaled for his men to escort Jill to the seraglio wagon even as Stable took a knee. His new Master then declared, “Your woman and obedient son shall serve me as you and your runt toil upon the land growing grain to feed my horses.”

Jack rode his pony proudly and gently with his lance resting across the stallion’s shoulders as Jill toiled along behind him, her dog dragging a litter with the babies and food in it, and her dragging the tepee hides, buffalo blankets and poles behind her, her paleface pots and pans and other trade goods hanging from her sagging shoulders.

The dog whined in complaint as they headed uphill toward the overlook, and she followed in kind, “Jack, this is buffalo shit! You have a perfectly good horse there. Why not let him haul this load while you walk with me, hand-in-hand, like lovers again.”

“Are you stupid woman? This war pony needs to be fresh for battle. What if the Crows come—you expect me to fight on foot? Besides, how am I ever going to steal a horse for your dimwitted brother, so that he can go steal a wife of his own and stop coming over to eat out of our kettle, if old Swift Knife here has a sore rump from hauling all of your stuff?”

“You are the horses rump Husband! You sleep in this tepee too. This is fundamentally unfair. You are stronger than me, and you should be hauling our goods!”

“Our goods? Woman, if you appeal to my father for a divorce and he grants it, you keep it all, and all I have is Swift Knife and my weapons. It is your stuff—all of your fancy paleface junk—so you haul it.”

Jack and Jill made the rise and looked down into the Purple Plum Valley where they planned on camping for the week, only to see it ruined, defiled by some pale corpse of a white man strapped to a big piece of tree being dragged around by a stupid clod of a horse and digging up the ground, while his pretty straw-haired wife sat in a butt hammock and sewed.

Jill dropped her load and screeched, “I knew this was a shit deal! Look at that, that’s a man. Look at how strong he is; digging up the ground that you would have me beak with my fingers—which you complain are too rough and use as leverage to have my little sister sent under your sleeping blanket. Why can’t you be a man like that? Look how nice her things are. I’m about done being a fucking Indian you know!”

Jack was now in a rage. “Strong, strong—a whipped dog more like! Why aren’t I a man like that? I’ll show you why!”

Jack went thundering down into the dug up valley on Swift Knife with his lance leveled at the stupid paleface chest with Jill’s voice pleading in the background, “No, don’t! We should trade with them. You’ll get blood all over the nice white blankets!”

The paleface unstrapped himself and ran like a woman caught alone under the Raider Moon only to be run through screeching like a an old crone in mourning.

Later in the day Jack sat while the world spun and he drank the white man’s fire water. His wife Jill was making nice with the soft-skinned white woman that he had every intention of bedding down with tonight. Then, on the edge of the valley, he saw them there, more pale-faced horse soldiers than a drunken warrior could count. What was worse is they had ten Crow scouts with them to sniff him out from under whatever rock he might find to hide. And Jill was not supportive at all, “You horse’s ass, I told you this was a bad idea!”

“Free, free, free at last Baby! Look at that—the wide green road out of Perdition and beyond to Jubilee!”

Boy Jack got no response from his wife Jill, and turned to see her looking longingly back over her shoulder, cradling her little brown son in her arms. He knew she was a woman and would be having doubts so he comforted her. “Baby, we got the road free and clear before us. Canada is but six weeks away!”

Jill looked back at him with tears in her eyes, but one step from going off of Master White’s property. “I’m sorry Baby, I cain’t! Back there we got the bunkhouse, and I’m on good terms up in the Big House—get the best food for Little Man here. It’s dangerous out there. Master says they’re poor white cutthroats ranging all about to bring a fugitive down.”

Jack’s ears began to burn and he blurted, "I knew it bitch—you been layin’ up under Master White—don’t take no one two hours to return a pot to the main kitchen. You just can’t bear to take Little Man there away from his real daddy. That’s it, ain’t it bitch?”

Just then he heard the click of numerous rifle locks and pistol hammers, and the voice of Overseer Jackson, “Hold it right there niցցer. Get him boys. Good girl Jill.”

He could not stand to see the light of betrayal in her eyes and reached out to slap her moonstruck face only to have a heavy weight come crashing down on his head.

The coal soot from the stove hung heavy in the air as he sipped his beer from the carry away tin. Jill sat on the bench behind him, little Bobby and Baby Bree one to each knee. He was still half a gallon tin from oblivion when she started up with her nagging, “You know you spend too much money getting your beer. It’s all you care about—getting drunk!”

“No it’s not. I care about getting drunk as quick as possible. The sooner I pass out the less I have to listen to your infernal complaints! I stopped going to the bar—spend no time with The Boys any longer; do nothing but work and come home to your nagging concerns.”

“This is bullshit Jack. You know the babies need new gowns and the window needs sealed. You spend to much money on beer.”

“Look woman, I’m the man of the house, and though it is not much of a house I am its master and you shall abide by my rules. If you want to buy things for these sniveling brats use your sewing money.”

Now sniffling, she responded, “Don’t you worry you louse, I will, saving it up at Mistress Meredith’s house so your grubby paws can’t get to it. You know you are not half the man that Mister Meredith is. He permits Mrs. Meredith a say so in the spending—”

The sound of the back of his hand connecting with her rosy cheek always made her nagging go away, but not this time. She snapped, "I’ll get the coppers on you for that, you louse.”

“Try it Jill, just try it. I shared a pint with Officer Stinson on my way home. He’ll see it my way, and then there will be more slapping where that came from.”

Jill spoke with a voice full of bitterness, "And so it goes—you men run the show; conspire to keep us as slaves and house pets. But mark my words, Mrs. Meredith says that one day women will get the vote, that it won't always be men calling all the shots. Just you wait."

Jack all of a sudden felt better and opined, "It won't be in my lifetime thank God."

He then turned to little Bobby and gave him a sip of beer. "Here you go boy, a taste of the cure for things to come if your back-talking mother and Mrs. High-and-Mighty Meredith get their way."

Jack arrived home late from work and Jill was already waiting there with a scowl on her face. Before he could finish saying, "Hey Babe, what’s up?" she launched into him with venom.

“Our anniversary, that’s what’s up. You forgot our anniversary. You were supposed to have dinner ready for me—candles, roses. I worked all day—”

“I worked all day too Jill. Give me a break.”

“I’ll give you a break,” screamed Jill as she swung a fist at him and he pulled away, causing her to pitch forward on her face.

Rather than help her up, he stepped back, conscious of the fact that any fighting between them would get him in trouble. She rose up in a fury, one eye already swelling, and both eyes showing signs of deep emotional hurt. "You bastard, you let me fall. You busted my face up!”

“No, no, no Babe,” he said as he backed out the door.

She was now snarling and crying all out. “You bastard, this is our anniversary and you’re walking out on me. You drop me on my face and walk out on me!”

An hour later Jack was at TeeTee’s Bar and Grille with Mason, talking about how messed up women and the world were, when a big heavy hand came to rest on his shoulder to the right and a woman’s voice sounded to the left. He looked into the mirror ahead of him to see a big man cop and a little dyke cop behind him. “Jack Jarrett, you are under arrest for domestic battery.”

The bruising from where the cop had ‘accidentally’ shoved his head into the roof of the cruiser was still causing his head to throb as he was processed. Then, after being printed and mug shot, he was escorted, not to some barred cell, but to a safety-glassed room, like a sturdily built high school detention area—and un-cuffed. As the corrections officer shut the door behind him he looked around to find himself surrounded by a savage bunch; a half dozen big black dudes with scars and gold teeth, and as many vicious tattooed Latino guys who regarded him from dark needlepoint eyes.

Jack thought to himself, “What a bitch!” as the biggest black guy stalked over to him and loomed down in his face, like a cat that had just caught a mouse in the foyer.

That, Mescaline Franklin, is the bedtime story I intend to tell my grandson, the story of how Primal Jack devolved into Mangina Jack.

Incubus of Your Sacred Emasculation

At The End of Masculine Time