The late Middle Ages was a wonderful time for misandry in literature. Morgan le Fay tried to fuck shit up on many an occasion for her brother Arthur and his Round Table of dudebros; a devout laywoman named Margery Kempe went around graciously forgiving archbishops for being wrong and recorded this for future generations. We would all do well to follow their example. But novice misandrists need look no further than Geoffrey Chaucer’s

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