The movement was born amid the sounds of the
morning wash being automatically battered and dried
in the laundry rooms of suburbia.  The last crumbs of breakfast had
been lugged away, the coffee was poured, and a scowling Miss Betty
Friedan sat with the most awesome circle of women ever
gathered under the roof of a modern ranch-type house.
Together they deliberated, as rage feathered the linings of their
bowels.  The whole day yawned before them.  Soon it would be
back and forth, back and forth to the powder room.  Coffee and
house work can have that effect.  These brave women were
trapped with a vast expanse of desolate hours stretching out to
that remote time when the kids returned from school and the
idiot traipsed in with his evening paper.  It was insanity, and
still the infernal washing machine kept vibrating in the background.
Soon the maid would be emptying it and feeding it,
emptying it and feeding it.  There would be telephones and
shopping and God knows what all.  Rosa Luxemburg had
been right ; so had -- their genitalia notwithstanding -- C. Wright
Mills and Norman O. Brown.  It was time to hoist the black flag.
Penis envy, ha!

The women began to read, and in time they began to shout.
Millions of witches had been burned in the Middle Ages, yet
here we were in the early 1960s and still no inquest had been
held.  Not even many books on the atrocity could be found.
There was much work to be done...

``Betty Friedan and the Women of the Fevered Brow''
_Public Nuisances_  R.Emmett Tyrrell