I hate how much I love to grill. It’s not that I’m inclined to vegetarianism or that I otherwise object to the practice itself. But I’m uncomfortable with the pleasure I take in something so conventionally masculine. Looming over the coals, tongs in hand, I feel estranged from myself, recast in the role of suburban dad. At such moments, I get the sense that I’ve fallen into a societal trap, one that reaffirms gender roles I’ve spent years trying to undo. The whole business feels retrograde, a relic of some earlier, less inclusive era.
There was no reason to read further to see if this was a satirical piece as it was posted at Slate, a site not known for employing writers who possess the intellectual agility to write satire.
Upon reading it all, however, it is almost impossible to believe that someone who can travel through a social justice warrior journey of such self loathing proportions can actually enjoy anything. These aren’t people who even want to enjoy anything, as it ruins all purpose for them.
White, male and self-sufficient are all anathema to progressives, and the guilt is strong with any of them who find themselves cursed by birth with the first two self-descriptions. The poor dears are in a perpetual state of self-exorcism in an effort to blend in with the rest of the pinched and angry progressive horde. Jacob doesn’t really like grilling, Jacob likes beating up on Jacob to make himself likable to some thoroughly unpleasant people.
Everybody needs a hobby.