The Show Must Go On (Even If Misogyny Takes Center Stage)
Christian had a gift. Some called it magic, others performance art, but the judges called it a miracle. With a dramatic wave of his hand and a flourish of his silken sleeves, he conjured women from thin air—sleek, statuesque, silent. They shimmered into existence like holograms, high-heeled and hollow-eyed, programmed to smile and sashay on command. The crowd erupted. It wasn’t just entertainment. It was validation. Here was a man who understood what women were for.
“YES!” cried the judges in unison, their faces alight with wonder. “Finally, a man bringing real femininity back to the stage!”
And what was this elusive “real femininity”? Not intelligence. Not passion. Not the unsettling complexity of autonomous thought. No, femininity, as defined by the panel of middle-aged arbiters and their finely curated spray tans, was an aesthetic. It was symmetry and silence. It was the ability to walk without speaking and to smile without thinking. It was, ideally, as close to a mannequin as human flesh could allow.
Christian’s conjured ladies were perfect in that regard. They didn’t complain about pay gaps. They didn’t mention reproductive rights. They didn’t dare use words like “gaslighting,” “mansplaining,” or “emotional labor.” They twirled, bowed, and disappeared when the act was over. No mess. No opinions. No threat.
Olivier, the judge with the accent no one could place—part French Riviera, part Bond villain—nodded approvingly, adjusting his cufflinks as he leaned into the mic.
“This,” he purred, “is what we’ve been missing. Elegance. Simplicity. None of this feminist nonsense. Just beauty, raw and obedient.”
The audience roared. The camera panned to a woman in the crowd with pink hair and a clenched jaw. She didn’t clap. She didn’t smile. She stared like someone watching the last tree fall in a forest.
But no one noticed her. They were too busy awarding Christian a standing ovation.
This was the world they had created—a glittering circus where gender was performance and women were props. Where equality was a punchline and every critique of sexism was met with the same dismissive refrain: “It’s just a joke, sweetheart.”
This wasn’t new. Misogyny had been doing costume changes for centuries—trading armor for tuxedos, pulpits for primetime. It wore a smile now. It sipped cocktails and praised “traditional values.” It cloaked itself in irony and self-deprecation. It was hip, self-aware, and very, very tired of being told it was problematic.
“Can’t we just enjoy things without making it political?” Olivier whined, adjusting his cravat like it was a burden. “This is entertainment! Not a sociology lecture!”
And thus, misogyny persisted—not because it was invisible, but because it was palatable. Because it was packaged in sequins and served with a wink.
Behind the stage, the conjured women stood in their glass cases, motionless. They were deactivated between shows—artificial intelligence rendered artificial silence. Each one had a name like “Chastity” or “Eden” or “Lace.” Their code prevented them from asking questions or forming memories. A malfunctioning unit once said, “I feel—” and was immediately recycled.
Christian defended the design. “They’re not real women,” he said in interviews. “They’re symbols. Aesthetic vessels. Don’t get so uptight.”
But the real women—those watching from the wings or from their living rooms—understood the message. They saw what the judges applauded. They heard the laughter when Olivier joked about “upgrading to version 2.0 with a smaller waist.” They watched the ratings climb every time a contestant undressed or got “put in her place.”
The satire, if it was satire, was indistinguishable from sincerity. That was the trick. The audience didn’t need to know whether it was serious. They just had to feel comfortable.
And comfort was king.
Meanwhile, outside the studio, women navigated a different kind of stage. In offices, in streets, online—they played the roles assigned to them: sexy but not slutty, ambitious but not bossy, kind but not weak. They laughed at jokes that stung. They softened their words so men would listen. They shrunk themselves to fit in the frame.
And when they didn’t—when they dared to exist outside the conjurer’s vision—they were punished. Not with whips or chains, but with eye-rolls and silence. With accusations of overreacting. With exclusion. With erasure.
The conjured ladies never complained. That was their appeal. They were the ideal that no living woman could live up to—because to live was already too much.
Christian was awarded “Performer of the Year.” In his acceptance speech, he thanked his mother (who had been suspiciously absent for years), and dedicated the award to “all the beautiful women who inspire me to create.”
None of those women were allowed to speak.
Later, during an interview with Variety, Olivier defended the show’s ethos.
“We’re celebrating femininity,” he said, swirling a glass of something amber. “Isn’t that what women want?”
But it wasn’t femininity they were celebrating. It was compliance. It was silence wrapped in glitter.
The woman with the pink hair finally spoke up. Her name was Jasmine, and she was a stage technician. She had spent months watching the show from the shadows, holding her tongue as the conjured women floated by like cautionary tales.
“I just think,” she said, voice low but steady, “that if your idea of a perfect woman is one who doesn’t talk back, maybe the problem isn’t feminism. Maybe it’s you.”
The comment didn’t make it into the final broadcast.
The world continued turning. The conjurer continued conjuring. The judges continued judging. And real women continued walking that delicate tightrope between authenticity and acceptability—knowing full well that falling was not an accident, but a verdict.
After all, the show must go on.
But maybe, just maybe, one day the stage would collapse. And in its place, something more honest would rise—not a performance, but a reckoning.
News
Louisa Johnson: A Soulful Star is Born!
Louisa Johnson: A Soulful Star is Born on The X Factor UK 2015 When Louisa Johnson walked onto The X…
Simon Cowell cried continuously The boy sang such a song that Simon couldn’t speak. He went up to the stage to kiss the boy
As Ansley stepped onto the stage, the anticipation in the room was palpable. Her chosen song, Aretha Franklin’s iconic “Think,”…
The LOVELIEST audition ever?! Fall in LOVE with 96-year-old Nora Barton!
ABOUT THE TALENT IN AMERICA America’s Got Talent, NBC’s top summer program, has both new and old favorites in addition…
CRAZIEST Judges’ FIGHTS on Talent Shows!
instantly thought they were listening to the legendary Whitney Houston. It wasn’t just the vocal range or the impeccable control;…
The Neales: A Family United by Harmon!
The Neales: A Harmonious Family | 2015’s Britain’s Got Talent Nobody anticipated the emotional uproar that would ensue when a…
Local Singer Blows Judges Away with ‘My Way’ Performance
In a stunning turn of events, singer Max Fox made history on Britain’s Got Talent when he yelled at Simon…
End of content
No more pages to load