When it comes to performative feminism, I’m a veritable Fred Astaire. Before I stepped into the spotlight, performing feminism on the streets for coins was practically unheard of. You could find a common street urchin juggling bowling pins on any corner. When folks stopped by my pretty little slice of sidewalk, they knew they were in for a dazzling display of death-defying feminism.

I’d hula hoop atop a soapbox with RBG painted on it in period-blood red, while warning female passerby of a sneaky demon who goes by the name “Mansplaining.” My most popular act was painting my nails pink for the girls, while massaging my chest with breast cancer ribbons ’til I orgasmed on the first try, as all females do.

One remarkable evening, after my abortion act, I was beating the living personification of chivalry within an inch of his life, when I felt a hand on my shoulder. I twisted around and found myself face-to-face with David Hasselhoff. “My God!” he said. “You’ve got TALENT!” He slipped me a card with his contact information, and I read the three greatest words in the world (besides “free bathroom tampons”): America’s Got Talent.

David flew me out to Vegas for my big audition. I opened with my body hair act, in which my female assistant removed all of my body hair with wax strips. The crowd exploded with applause. She then used masking tape to reattach every single clump of hair. “All body hair is gorgeous, darling!” I shouted to the heavens. I wrapped up my audition with some silly impressions of white feminists, and dead serious impressions of the intersectional ones.

My career as a performative feminist was never the same after that performance. I won America’s Got Talent. Naturally, I bet my $1 million prize on the expansion of the wage gap and entered the 2010s as a multimillionaire. After decades in the industry, I even earned my star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame, right next to comedy legend Bill Cosby.