Maggie's Farm

When I was a lad, me and the gang would often spend our days on the vacant lot across the street. It involved dirt clods, sticks, forts, every toy we had, and all sorts of goings on occurred there. The alliances and games and rules were always in flux. Nothing was planned, everything was possible, the directed play was emergent and always evolving. After all, there was no way to know if our current game was any good except by changing it. Nobody set the rules, we changed them. Calvinball!

One day the neighbor girl (our age or a little older) showed up, and seeing our fun and enthusiasm, started bulling her way into our games. Started laying down a whole bunch of rules and regulations. We could see she was eager and friendly, and we knew she had a good heart and all, but she wrecked it. She didn't know or care to know how it was done. She wanted it done her way. It was chalk on a blackboard, a needle scratch across a record. We sorta tried to accommodate her, but it was no use, we didn't have the heart for it. That day we learned about the Bossy Girl. That's what we called her. It came unbidden to our lips.

The old vacant lot was never the same again. We took our play elsewhere, out of sight and reach of the bossy girl.

Remember that, metoo'istas and sjws. The more you tighten your grip, the more us men will slip through your fingers, and find better things to do elsewhere, that don't involve you.

Ah. Re: the progressive socialist democratic people's republic of UWM:

That's one of Alinsky's rules: Make them live by their own rules, because they can't possibly. That's a dangerous one, though, because it encourages them to keep doubling down. They have to break down and give up before they break you first.