Meanwhile why not check out these feminist classics.
Susan Griffin
Woman and Nature The Roaring Inside Her
A Chorus of Stones
Transforming Terrorism
Eros and Everyday Life

Adrienne Rich
Of Woman Born Motherhood as Experience and Institution

Lesser known books
Gossips, Gorgons & Crones The Fates of the Earth by Jane Caputi a very witty take down of the nuclear "fathers", nuclear pornography and nuclear "theology" too.

Voices of the Sacred Feminine Conversations to Re-Shape Our World edited by Rev Karen Tate

Women are lost in a stupid and futile cause with their superiority complexes.

But Thomas Wolfe has nailed it for “Man”:

SO THIS IS MAN [Town and Country, August 1940]
In the infinite variety of common, accidental, oft-unheeded things one can see the web of life as it is spun. Whether we wake at morning in the city, or lie at night in darkness in the country towns, or walk the streets of furious noon in all the dusty, homely, and enduring lights of present time, the universe around us is the same. Evil lives forever—so does good. Man alone has knowledge of these two, and he is such a little thing. For what is man? First, a child, soft-boned, unable to support itself on its rubbery legs, that howls and laughs by turns, cries for the moon but hushes when it gets its mother’s breast; a sleeper, eater, guzzler, howler, laugher, idiot, and a chewer of its toe; a little tender thing all blubbered with its spit, a reacher into fires, a beloved fool. After that, a boy, hoarse and loud before his companions, but afraid of the dark; will beat the weaker and avoid the stronger; worships strength and savagery, loves tales of war and murder, and violence done to others; joins gangs and hates to be alone; makes heroes out of soldiers, sailors, prize fighters, football players, cowboys, gunmen, and detectives; would rather die than not out-try and out-dare his companions, wants to beat them and always to win, shows his muscle and demands that it be felt, boasts of his victories and will never own defeat. Then the youth: goes after girls, is foul behind their backs among the drugstore boys, hints at a hundred seductions, but gets pimples on his face; begins to think about his clothes, becomes a fop, greases his hair, smokes cigarettes with a dissipated air, reads novels and writes poetry on the sly. He knows hate, love, and jealousy; he is cowardly and foolish; …*

Cont.

Cont.,

…he cannot endure to be alone; he lives in a crowd, thinks with the crowd, is afraid to be marked off from his fellows by any eccentricity. He joins clubs and is afraid of ridicule; he is bored and unhappy and wretched most of the time. There is a great cavity in him; he is dull. Then the man: he is busy, he is full of plans and reasons, he has work. He gets children, buys and sells small packets of everlasting earth, intrigues against his rivals, is exultant when he cheats them. He wastes his little three score years and ten in spendthrift and inglorious living; from his cradle to his grave he scarcely sees the sun or moon or stars; he is unconscious of the immortal sea and earth; he talks of the future, and he wastes it as it comes. If he is lucky, he saves money. At the end his fat purse buys him flunkies to carry him where his shanks no longer can; he consumes rich food and golden wine that his wretched stomach has no hunger for; his weary and lifeless eyes look out upon the scenery of strange lands for which in youth his heart was panting. Then the slow death, prolonged by costly doctors, and finally the graduate undertakers, the perfumed carrion, the suave ushers with palms outspread to leftwards, the fast motor hearses, and the earth again. This is man: a writer of books, a putter-down of words, a painter of pictures, a maker of ten thousand philosophies. He grows passionate over ideas, he hurls mockery and scorn at another’s work, he finds the one way, the true way, for himself, and calls all others false—yet in the billion books upon the shelves there is not one that can tell him how to draw a single fleeting breath in peace and comfort….*

Cont.,

Cont.,

He makes histories of the universe, he directs the destiny of nations, but he does not know his own history, and he cannot direct his own destiny with dignity or wisdom for ten consecutive minutes. Here, then, is man, this moth of time, this dupe of brevity and numbered hours, this travesty of waste and sterile breath….*
Thomas Wolfe.

Dan

Feminism is just the natural progression of when once pretty girls become old, ugly, bitter and resentful, when men discard them, because they don't want to deal with their crap anymore.