My Dear Closet Streaker ~ Genetic disorder !

I couldn’t live up more after knowing such response which really knocks off ! Streaker  very finely placed and to the point, Independent News Coverage supports the voice of the people and specially when it comes to this, we’ll nail it ! U bet . Continue Reading and Comments Critics are most welcome !

A loving response to the following article:http://www.pakistantoday.com.pk/2013/04/12/comment/columns/thank-you-dear-muslimaat/

Definition of ‘Streaker’: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Streaking

Klinefelter Syndrome: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Klinefelter_syndrome

Dear closet streaker, I want to thank you from deepest and most private recesses of my heart for writing the following article:http://www.pakistantoday.com.pk/2013/04/12/comment/columns/thank-you-dear-muslimaat/ .  You really took those self-righteous Muslim ladies to task.  Even though your article was redundant and superfluous, and added no substance to what had already been said in the impassioned plea FEMEN’s spokesperson made to her fellow women to liberate themselves, and was featured in Huffington Post, there was no stopping you.  Perhaps seeing those bare-chested FEMEN feminists awakened the inner ‘streaker’ in you, and though you couldn’t live up to Huffington Post’s standards, you churned out some spectacular tabloid trash.

‘Streaker’; this is the word which tickles your fancy.  I know it and you know it, too.  Because, you love to flaunt.  Not only with your pen.  Not only with wanton rapine of Dictionary.com every time you write something, but there is more.  My dear closet streaker, I winked when I wrote “…there is more.”

I hate to be repetitive, but I want your unflinching attention.  What is this ‘more’ I talk of?  Is it your Pectoralis Major?  Is it your Gluteus Maximus?  A little clenching, a little shaking and it results in sheer brilliance.  Only, if it weren’t for your hairy chest.  Damn Genetics!

Our chest-baring FEMEN sisters be praised, they’ve done what you always wanted to do.  But, oh the hairy chest.  I’m your well-wisher, and I can’t see you so miserable and seething that you want every (Muslim) woman to bare her chest as a punishment, as a projection, of your lack of performance and your lack of initiative.  There is an easier solution; it is called the Brazilian wax.

My dear closet streaker, this is from one heart to another.  From one man to another…  Can I call you a ‘man’?  Or do I have to consult the most authoritative lexicons for a more ‘gender neutral’ term?  I’m in the doldrums here.  I don’t know what to call you.

So as not to hurt your sentiments and sensitivities, allow me to put it this way: for a person whom Providence and Genetics has chosen biologically to be a ‘man’, there come instances in life he most wishes he had ‘Klinefelter  Syndrome’.

To the untrained eye, ‘Klinefelter Syndrome’ is an aberrance, a horrible one.  A man wouldn’t want his worst enemy with this syndrome.  Imagine, what it could do to stories of gallantry; defeated by an opponent with woman-like mammaries.  But to you my friend this is what you wished the tooth fairy did to you, when you were a little boy with undescended testes.  Clearly, I’m working with the assumption of you knowing even back then what greatness awaited you.  A ‘Cultural Critic’ ready by a few, ignored by many.

Klinefelter Syndrome!  Disproportionately large amount of fat and fibrous tissue hanging in front of your taut Pectoralis muscles; you could’ve lived a different reality.  Your life taking a more radical and fulfilling course.

Not only would you have been a ‘Cultural Critic’ slamming away at your keyboard, you could’ve posed in your chuddies and taken photos of yourself, with an endearing message to the world: “My body is mine, so are my mammaries.”   Believe you me, it could’ve been sensational.  The Pakistani Amina Tyler, the male feminist who put himself in grave danger to stand up for women’s rights and liberation.

The shock, the paralyzing horror those backward, freedom hating, hijab clad “Muslimaat” would have found themselves in.  You, my dear closet streaker, could’ve been a cultural ICON.  Alas, some things are not meant to be.

As I near the conclusion of this heartfelt epistle, I can’t help my emotions from welling up. Before I finally bid you farewell, I’d like to draw your attention to some articles presenting a case for academic feminists, with well-established credentials, who are not partial to either Islamic customs or hijab.  What they have to say about FEMEN:http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2013/04/10/mideast-feminists-against-femen_n_3052175.html?utm_hp_ref=world

http://jezebel.com/5993775/muslim-women-shockingly-not-grateful-for-topless-european-ladies-trying-to-save-them

http://internationalboulevard.com/europe/115-france/194-the-fast-food-feminism-of-the-topless-femen

 Perhaps you could bring yourself down from your ivory tower, and commit the offence of going through these articles.  But smugness does not speak the language of reason.  Or, does it?

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