For years and years I've been deeply wounded in my most sacred feelings and my reason has been outraged by my partner, Samantha's, writing against the righteous cause of man's superiority to women. But though my feelings have been rasped and almost bleeding from the unjust wounds I've kept still and let her go on with other headstrong and blinded females, and argue and deny man's sole and indefeasible right to oversee and order the affairs of the universe, especially the weak, helpless female sect, the justice of which, it seems to me, an infant babe might see without spectacles. 

I have curbed my wounded spirit and my mighty intellect with almost giant strength, never letting them have free play in public print to dispute and overthrow those erroneous doctrines. My reason for this course has been twofold. First, owing to a woman's weakness of intellect and soft nature, a woman's mind gets ruffled up easily, affecting her cooking. Too much strain can make a female forget to be prompt with meals, not noticing when supplies are running low. I've feared the consequences if I unleashed my arguments in print. Second, I believed Samantha's mistaken ideas were due to a lack of good horse sense, not inherent depravity. 

However, the time has come for me to take my rightful place in literature, to offer myself as a hungry victim to Duty, and die with my manly principles enfolded around me. Female wimmen are rising up everywhere, claiming to be equal to men, demanding citizenship and rights. But how can they be citizens when they have always been legally and politically considered inferior? Female suffrage threatens to engulf our noble Ship of State, and it is up to a strong-minded man to steer the feminist tide back into its narrow, safe channels. 

I decided not to tell Samantha about my book against Female Suffrage until it was written and published. But the day I began my work, the aroma of her cooking softened my feelings. I felt I should prepare her for the impact my book would have on her and the world. Despite her erroneous beliefs, Samantha had been a kind companion. So, as the delicious odors filled the air, I broached the subject to her. 

I asked, "What do you think, Samantha, about my project of destroying female suffrage? What do you think of my writing this book?"I said the words and paused for a reply. The kitchen wuz clean and cozy, the cheerful fire blazed; Samantha sot with smooth hair and serene face in a new gingham dress and white apron, choppin' some cabbage and celery for a salad; all wuz peace and happiness.

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