The cowardice of one’s convictions.
“Let us take a moment to remember Phyllis Schlafly,” says the man in the tailored suit standing at the head of the long mahogany table, situated in the center of the large room at the top of the tall glass tower, a corporate palace constructed by cobbling together the most interesting pieces of architecture from better-designed buildings. He looks into the eyes of the rest of the men at the table, confirming that he has their attention.
“Phyllis was rare,” the man continues. “Phyllis was a true and exceptional champion of our straight white American patriarchy.”
The other men nod, somberly.
“I mean…for a girl.”
The room bursts into raucous, leopard seal laughter for several seconds, laughter that ricochets from wall to wall, laughter that shakes the windows. The men move on to their next agenda item.
Creative Control 