“I am so flooded with awe that I cannot move”

There is some sentiment that the atrocious William Giraldi piece discussed yesterday was “satire.” Any maybe it was so intended, but this really doesn’t make it less sexist or poorly written. (I’d also read this before giving a charitable interpretation. The best part of the “gelid wilds of Alaksa” line is that a primary complaint in his infamous attack on Alix Ohlin was that her descriptions were redundant. Leaving aside the fact that “white teeth” isn’t a redundancy, apparently it’s OK to use an actually redundant adjective as long as it’s pompous enough.)

Anyway, Giraldi has at least inspired an example of successful satire:

When my employer called me into his office and granted me paternity leave on the birth of my first child, I had no idea what I was in for. Most of my male coworkers had already left the office at this point, having impregnated willing strangers in order to take twelve weeks’ paid time off in exchange for eighteen years of financial and personal responsibility.

“It’s twelve weeks’ time off,” Daniel shouted when he learned he’d successfully created a child with the head of the mechanics department. “I’m going to finally finish my heli-skiing novel!”

I simply wasn’t prepared for what all of this free time would do to me. I had planned, of course, to participate actively as a member of the household and as my wife’s partner — grease the dryer, dust the teakettle, rearrange the cat, and so on — but then, shortly after I walked in the door, I was tragically trapped under something heavy and have been unable to move from this spot in the living room. No one can move this burden from me, save the pure-hearted seventh son of a seventh son, and I do not believe that such a person exists.

[…]

I wonder what my son’s name is. Perhaps it is Jonathant.

How I wish I were capable of providing my son with the same kind of loving, careful attention as my wife is. But how can I compete? Her hands are made of dish scrubbers and teddy bears. Mine have been duct taped to these bottles of Hennessey and Old Crow, and I am too drunk to remember the difference between the wall and the floor. My wife has a diaper genie built into the back of her right calf. I have been forced by an evil wizard to watch the entire series run of Sons of Anarchy, through no fault of my own. Were I to lift my eyes from the Shakespearean machinations of a Californian biker and drug-smuggling family that loves as fiercely as they drug-smuggle for even a moment, I would surely turn to stone, and what good would I be to my child, or possibly children, then?

See the difference? And really do read the whole etc.