America has been invaded but not by a foreign force. No, this invasion is much more insidious. America has been invaded and subverted from within. A female army of obnoxious, humorless, censorious, scolds and shrews has slithered out from beneath various rocks to occupy, moderate and control all thought, speech and behavior public and private.

The foot soldiers in this army are called cat ladies. They run the churches, schools, drama groups, choirs, orchestras, garden clubs, book clubs, libraries, town boards and fire and police departments — everything. As a result, America has been feminized. It is all yin and no yang. It is plagued with an epidemic of feigned cuteness, pretend niceness and all too genuine incompetence. Kamala Harris (a woman noted for nothing but her ability to advance in politics by pleasing powerful, California-Democrat men from her knees) is the clueless, incoherent leader of the cat ladies. The late Jewess Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsberg is their patron saint.

The genus “Femina felina Americana” is not new. It first appeared in the early 19^th century when female social reformers harangued men about money, marriage and meat. Then came the abolitionists led by Harriet Beecher Stowe. Her novel Uncle Tom’s Cabin played a crucial role in inciting Northern hatred of all things Southern thereby fueling The Civil War aka The War of Northern Aggression. Ironically, before writing her novel, Harriet had never been to the South or seen a planation. But, in classic cat lady style, her ignorance didn’t stop Harriet from holding forth on a subject of which she knew nothing. The Scottish cat lady Fanny Wright was a racial reformer of even more spectacular stupidity. Neshoba, her mixed-race utopian commune, collapsed under the weight of the first winter snow and the tug of racial reality. Our Fanny then skedaddled back to Europe where she was kept by a much older man – the Marquis de Lafayette. Funny how often these proto-feminist heroines managed to find Sugar Daddys.

Those harridans were followed by the temperance hags whose leader Carry Nation smashed up perfectly good saloons with hatchets thus giving us the term “old battle axe.” Then the singularly charmless Margaret Sanger emerged in the 20^th century to lead the birth control movement called Planned Parenthood. Like her British counterpart Marie Stopes, Sanger had a failed marriage. Sanger also failed to look after her own children while having many affairs with powerful men and dabbling in spiritualism. I suspect she attended seances to contact her offspring who died from neglect. Welp… that’s one form of birth control, I guess.

Franklin Roosevelt, one of America’s most disastrous presidents, compounded his sins by foisting his repugnant, loudmouth wife Eleanor on an unsuspecting public. Due to polio, FDR was practically a helpless invalid from 1935 on so Eleanor served as Madam President for almost 10 years. At the same time, she used her newspaper columns and radio programs to explain to America just how wrong it was about just about everything. By the way, Ellie was a secret lesbian. But then, cripple though he was, FDR managed to jump the bones of his secretary and cousin so…

In the late 1960s, “second wave” feminism reared its decidedly Jewish head and created the current generation of aging, childless, single, obese, blue haired, tattooed, pierced and miserable creatures called cat ladies. The Jewish comedian Lenny Bruce brilliantly observed, “There is nothing sadder than an aging hipster.” Man was he right. These gals are not happy campers. They cut a pathetic figure in their self-consciously ethnic attire accessorized with clunky earrings made by indigenous jewelers and carrying a hemp tote bag emblazoned with the sayings of Maya Angelou, Harriet Tubman or Cher. They are obviously disappointed by life, furious about the mistakes they made (especially the tattoos and piercings) and determined to take their misery out on everyone else – especially men. Their regret fuels the unhinged, petulant rage they display whenever they don’t get their way. You can see their hilarious and horrifying fury in full flow at any protest du jour.

With no children or men in their lives, these sad singletons had no outlet for their natural nurturing instinct. But they did have excess leisure time to run around with their pink hair on fire proselytizing for every harebrained do-gooder fad that came their way. Queer rights. Animal rights. Trans rights. Plant rights. Free abortions. Free Palestine. Free any negro currently incarcerated for anything anywhere.

They sat on their substantial backsides gorging on Cheetos and chardonnay while having their substantial egos stroked by female TV chat show hosts who validated their every imagined slight, social justice mania or hypochondriacal concern. And because they were neither as intelligent or well educated as they believed, they fell for every health and beauty scam advertised while complaining that it was men who obsessed about women’s bodies.

Enter – Oprah Winfrey. She came on the scene in the 1990s. Her Jewish handlers did a brilliant job of marketing this fat, no-talent, dimwit as an “Everywoman” who shared every woman’s pain. Oprah was perfect for this role because she had weight and relationship problems and she wasn’t very bright — just like her audience. So she was relatable and non-threatening. Plus, she was black which gave White women a chance to virtue signal that they weren’t racist. (Soon after Oprah appeared, Barack Obama rode that same White guilt train into The Oval Office.)

All the chat shows consist of cat ladies sitting on sofas clutching each other’s hands as they weep together and play a game of “Can you top my misery?” This is just a TV version of the newspaper advice columns written by “Sob Sisters” and “Agony Aunts.” Hillary Clinton’s handlers knew who her voting block was so they ran presidential campaign commercials that mimicked this scenario. She was featured sitting on a sofa in a cozy living room set with a fire crackling in the background. You could smell the bread baking. And with legs curled casually beneath her she purred, “Let’s have a chat?” Yeah, a chat. See, running the country is just one big coffee klatsch between us girls. We don’t need those nasty men no way, no how. (Please observe that when the Left says, “Let’s chat” or “It’s time for a national conversation” they mean, “Shut up! I’ll do the talking.”)

Since Hillary’s campaign, we have seen an ever-increasing feminization of American political discourse. Now, it is all about feelings. Consider – at its heart, the Harris presidential campaign was an attack on Trump for not being “nice” and daring to challenge Kamala’s obvious right to the presidency because she was black and a woman. Worse — Trump dared to be unashamedly male and to bristle with testosterone.

Social media, especially Facebook, is the “Hall of Lies” where cat ladies stroke each other. But I promise you that if every woman had to be truthful on Facebook for one day, this female fantasy world would crumble. As it is, in “Facebookland” every woman is assured by her thousands of Facebook girlfriends that she looks beautiful in her latest outfit or facelift. Every day is a good hair day. Every woman’s child is a genius and gorgeous. Every performance given is virtuoso. And no woman’s butt ever looks big in any dress. Ever. This bubble of hysterical happiness is fueled with Oxycodone, Ozempic and Ouzo. Yes, Madam definitely enjoys a tipple or two or three.

In the universe of cat ladies every woman and child (Men need not apply) wins a participation medal for every act in daily life no matter how banal. Eating breakfast and having a bowel movement garners fulsome praise and multiple smile emojis. (Where would cat ladies be without cutesy-wutesy emojis?) The lowest common denominator is the highest standard. Criticism (at least outspoken) is forbidden. Meanwhile, in private, these cat ladies can be as catty as anyone. To paraphrase Oscar Wilde, “Women only call each other sister when they have called each other a lot of other things first.”

Horrible to report — this pseudo-saccharin sorority of psycho-sexual misfits has a strangle hold on education. And, you guessed it, academic achievement has nose-dived. I have been told by two female College Deans at two different universities to “go easy” on my students since “The students don’t respond well to criticism.” Hmnnn… would you want to be treated by a surgeon who had been pampered that way in med school?

This removal of masculinity from American life has also undermined government at federal, state and local level. Don’t believe me? Listen to a speech by any of the women in Congress of either party. Research the many, many black, female Mayors, Fire Chiefs and Police Chiefs that pollute the American landscape. Watch these cretins address the press while sporting outrageous ‘hood rat hair weaves and enameled fingernails longer than an eagle’s talons. (I wonder how they complete certain bodily functions without slicing their nether regions to bloody bits!)

Ask yourself how many bodies these morbidly obese couch potatoes have carried out of a burning apartment and down a ladder or how many violent criminals they have disarmed and wrestled to the ground. But as these Affirmative Action airheads struggle to complete a simple declarative sentence in comprehensible English you are not allowed to laugh or even notice. Yet, there they sit. Entrenched by DEI. Shielded from criticism by the cat ladies. Even if fired, these nitwits will get a Golden Parachute sweeter than any you can ever hope of receiving.

But the worst result of Americas retreat from sexual sanity is how the benign “Soccer Moms” of yesteryear have morphed into the “Castrating Cat Lady Moms” of today. I see them in the supermarket with their sissified, soy boy sons. These boys never had a chance. Mom has fed them nothing but crap since the cradle and as a result they are sporting man boobs at age nine. They have obviously never thrown or kicked a ball. Dad has flown the coop and left Junior in the clutches of a woman with serious man issues. You bet Junior might pretend to be a girl to avoid mommy’s rage and maybe even win her approval. Cue: hormone “therapy” followed by cross dressing and eventually genital mutilation. If you think this sounds melodramatic, you haven’t been watching the family dynamics around gender reassignment surgery for minors. It’s the mothers who, in effect, wield the scalpel.

Not as horrific but still emblematic of the disease and just downright annoying is the glut of female sportscasters who know nothing about sports — “The team that scores the most runs will win this game. Back to the studio.” And the inane news babes – “The candidate with the most votes will win this election. Back to the studio.” (Hand to heart, I have actually heard both of those quips.)

Older readers may recognize that I am making many of the same points about the American female as those made by Philip Wylie in his brilliantly venomous diatribe A Generation of Vipers (1943). So not only have cat ladies been with us for far too long but they have been identified and dissected by a brave few male anthropologists — your humble reporter among them.

But wait. Put down that vial of hemlock. Mother Nature always has the last word and laugh. As Shakespeare put it, “The lady doth protest too much, methinks.” Indeed. As much as the cat ladies claim to despise traditional female roles and values their behavior suggests otherwise. Case in point — at a recent country music camp yours truly attended, there were more than the minimum daily requirement of lesbians present. Several of these “Sapphic Sadies” sported beards. Yet hirsute though they were, they were anxious to learn the most traditional form of country music – ballads derived from Celtic songs that were derived from medieval madrigals. These achingly romantic songs speak of knights in armor, fair maidens, courtly love and chivalry i.e. every little girl’s dream.

In publishing, the leading genre is romance novels. These books are churned out to formulas that suit various education levels. They are written to templates that specify settings, professions, names, locales, periods and levels of eroticism. But the plots are always “damsel in distress” or “Cinderella.” There is even a sub-genre of romance novel – Amish Romance. The covers of these books feature impossibly good-looking models dressed in Amish drag making goo-goo eyes at each other over a butter churn. This proves that women yearn not only for love with a man but love with a man in a traditional societal context. Never mind that in reality the Amish are the least attractive and least romantic society on earth – with the exception of the Satmar Jews. And all this literary tripe is catnip to cat ladies. One look at the cat ladies who control publishing will make all things literary abundantly clear.

In film and television, romantic-comedies (rom-coms) are the leading genre. I blush to confess that I have been prominently featured in several of these treacly abominations. As a result, I am regularly recognized and asked for selfies and autographs by uber-masculine Lesbyterians. They squeal that they and their mothers watch the films together over and over and they cry every time. Note to the curious: These films are all modern-day versions of Cinderella. (Anyone else see a pattern here?)

I can attest that the America I left in 1990 was not riddled with autism and gender dysphoria. But the America to which I returned in 2021 had become a nightmare world where women hated men and men were too beaten down and bored to care. (Think of that Incel nonsense.) Call me paranoid but I’m ready to believe the conspiracy theory that “they” have been putting something in the water or food or vaccines. Somehow or other this country’s mojo has been messed with.

Still I sense that men and women have some species memory of how things ought to be. Even those suffering from gender dysphoria hunger for the natural order. Note that they aren’t trying to do away with male and female roles just to switch places. Meanwhile, they vicariously slake their hunger for romance and adventure with books, movies and computer games. I believe that hunger can be stoked back to a healthy, happy generative heat if we can clear our minds and bodies of the poisons and filth that modern Jewified culture has placed there.

I believe that within every odious cat lady there is a Sleeping Beauty. I believe that within every soy boy there is a Prince Charming. Now all we have to do is get these two crazy kids together and let nature take its course. You may think I’ve been watching too many rom-coms myself. But it is an awful truth that we must have a rebirth of Adam and Eve or we must perish.

Jack Antonio resides in rural America. He is the author of Boy Outa Brooklyn — a murder memoir. It is available on Amazon as a paperback and e-book and from all major e-book distributors. Or visit Jack’s blog at https://boyoutabrooklyn.com/blog/

Attack of the Cat Ladies was originally published in issue 127 of Heritage and Destiny magazine 40 Birkett Drive Preston PR2 6HE England – www.heritageanddestiny.com