Wednesday, December 10, 2008
User bissikrima had a short and not-so-sweet statement:
"dirty feminist cunts ! FUCK YOURSELVES !!!!!!!"
CaptainGrunyard took an--shall we say--academic standpoint:
"keep blogging you imbecile, change the world through blogs full of brainless, pointless, baseless, unrealistic theory."
ChupacabraYetiElmo wanted to share his (or her) thoughts on the real reason for this video, an offer some lovely advice along the way:
"Truth is>> These cunts can't get any attention, so they go around blogging and vlogging and spewing enmity cunt mislogic. Please go sign up for selective service so America can send your ass off to a sand dune. Then CNN and FOX can do a news special in which you all climb on chairs when a scorpion wants to crawl in your cold dark clammy rotten fish smelling cave. Make sure you take an eggbeater along so you can shove it up your twat and twirl some logic in your abominated brain."
kingblabar opted for an elaborate description of his passionate cyber sex fantasies:
"First of all, i straight up want to tit fuck the milk out of the broads tatholes. While the ugly whorebag lingering off to the left can make herself usefull for a change by fingering my asshole while i cum on the other sluts face/eyeballs. Next, im going to fold my half flacid manhood into her slopped vag while i squeeze out a hot steamy triumph all over the ugly bitched fat face
keep up the good work...
ps bitches aint shit but hos and tricks"
While hellofromebaums summed his position up on the matter pretty clearly:
That's right,ladies. Gotta love that penis.
Saturday, December 6, 2008
Monday, December 1, 2008
Meet Misogyny's latest BFF, the YouTube bloggers; a community of cunt-hatin' creepers circulating now in cyberspace. But this post will concentrate on two nifty guys who, i believe, deserve recognition for the astounding amount of time and dedication they've put into attacking feminism using video technology. (Cause if you're gonna be an asshole, well, you better do it in style). So without further ade, introducing...
The Editorialist-- The middle aged man who probably splits his time between creating kiddie porn rings online and making YouTube videos expressing his hatred for Feministing.com while sitting in his mother's dimly lit basement wearing dark shades. Ed here uses his smarts and mountains of free time (unemployment has its benefits) to make carefully crafted, thoroughly researched rebuttals to the "Friday Feminist Fuck Yous" that the Feministing.com bloggers post each week, (humorously) tackling a recent sexist issue. Only Ed decided it would be even more hilarious to respond to these lesbo cunt-rags with a video of his own. And boy do the guys love it. His adoring 200 subscribers watch religiously and happily participate in the bitch-bashing with "lols" and their own two cents which involves some vague, pseudo intellectual history lesson, a false statistic, or a hardcore porn link.
Best video: "If Women are oppressed, why aren't they dead are in jail?" --Good point, Ed. If we really had it tough, we'd either be 6 feet under or the Bitch of some chick known only as MooMoo. This is a particularly touching piece, where Ed begins to question the legitimacy of feminism by encouraging us to ask a black how he knows he is oppressed. To which Eddie boy claims is an obvious fact, compared with "gender oppression"--an evil feminist creation that is "indoctrinated" into the simple minds of innocent little girls by the liberal media and middle-class white women. He credits this brilliant insight to the fact that he--hold on to your mouses for this one--talked to a black woman who said that her race--not gender, was the source of her oppression. And I'm sure he thinks the fives minutes of BET he caught on the tube (while Army Wives was on commercial) gave him mad street cred, and proved his racial tolerance. Oh Ed, you ol' softie. You just hate to see the racial inequalities of your fellow sistas and brothas trumped by this imaginary sexism don't you? Thanks for sticking up for your people, Ed. Word.
The Amazing Atheist--A younger, tubby (but equally creepy) version of the Editorialist who took a break from his usual business of zealously denouncing religion using violent hand gestures and colorful language, to zealously denouncing feminism using violent hand gestures and colorful language. Amazing really does live up to his name with these online works of art, an opinion no doubt shared by the 31, 070 subscribers to his channel, and the 588 videos he's whipped up in just over two years! This particular video is set inside an anonymous garage which I'm sure is filled with at least a dozen dead bodies, four cats, a torture chamber, animae posters, and an underage Korean girl.
Despite Ed's disdain for feminism in general, A.A seemed to be perfectly down with the cause until something traumatic happens: He finds that US laws may or may not prevent simulated rape as porn. You see, Atheist was helping his pornstar friend who is, by the way is perfect by "his standards" (which means anything more than Vaseline and a towel is pretty damned hot) come up with ideas for her Adult Website. And simulated rape (along with his other ideas: covering herself in pig's blood and holding a meat clever, and role playing a mental patient, while letting doctors molest her on the examining table) was shot down.
Pissed that his simulated rape fantasises will not come true, A.A heads to the garage, sets up his cam, and goes on a 19 minute rant about how feminism is destroying personal freedoms (because if we want to shoot bestiality and brutal sexual abuse in our downtime, then so be it!). But before you get all up and arms, Atheist isn't directing this to all man-hating feminists. No, just those "crazy bitches" who want to go after pornography and--god forbid--prostitution. He claims that not only should prostitutes be held in the highest regard but that many of the early feminists were, indeed hookers. That's right suckers, Susan B. Anthony might have seemed conservative and intellectual, but when she took of that red shawl and those bloomers, honey, things really got down and dirty.
But no big, Atheist. I get you, man. I too would be angry if my only means for getting laid with through the promise of financial exchange with a herpes-infected transvestite....
Honestly though, seeing these videos and its cock--i mean, cult-like following really made me realize how much weight feminism still carries. Even now, in a society bathed in the facade of "female empowerment" and the bogus propaganda of "progress" there's still a reluctance and fear of anything that rejects the patriarchal system that's been in place so long its almost a human template for existence. We've never really known a world where women weren't below, behind, beneath a man and even now the idea of real equality--of bringing the female object to life-- for some people, still feels uncomfortable and unnatural and unsafe.
And while i know the extremists only represent a small portion, the basic ideology of sexism is still more universal. I hear it in mundane conversations every day, the whistles and "hey girl"s of the men on street corner, the inane pop culture of bride fantasies and Botox and Playboy. Sexism is still the thread of America, the bare bones foundation on which everything we know is built. And to break the foundation and introduce a new cultural makeup where the Bitch doesn't make the sandwich is enough to make you scared shitless. So middle aged weirdos rant on their webcams in dark corners, start parody websites and cult clubs to white-knuckle any power they can.
They latch on to their beloved patriarchy even at the expense of their mothers and daughters and sisters, even at the expense of themselves. But why care so much after all? What the hell are you so afraid of?
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Yes, even feminists make jokes-- (when we aren't, you know, burning their brassieres, counting arm pit hairs, or playing bullseye with pictures of penises in their spare time)--and here are some of them i dug up from a site (appropriately) titled, Feminist Jokes.
They vary from har-de-har-hars to definite knee-slappers, but here are some of my favorites. A drum roll please?:
1.) Q: Why do men like BMWs?
A: They can spell it.
2.) Q: Why do men name their penises?
A: Because they don't like the idea of having a stranger make 99% of their decisions.
3.) Q: What's a man's idea of helping with the housework?
A: Lifting his legs so that you can vacuum.
4.) Q: Whats the difference between a man and E.T.?
A: ET phoned home.
5.) Q: Why is psychoanalysis a lot quicker for men than for women?
A: When it's time to go back to his childhood, he's already there.
6.) Q: What did God say after he created man?
A: "I can do better than this" and he made woman.
7.) Q: What's the difference between a bar and a clitoris?
A: Most men have no trouble finding a bar.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Sunday, October 12, 2008
The Rules state that every gal is allowed to have one "girl-crush" without attaining lesbo status. That way, you can swoon publicy and never worry about your peers inching away from you in the locker room, un-inviting you to sleep overs, nick-naming you Ellen Degeneres, or voting you Most Likely to Be A Female Athletic Director.
Therefore, i choose Agathe--thrift shopper, fashion blogger, photographer extraordinaire--as my top pick. All her die hard fans know the psychotic breaks we had once her first blog inexplicably ended a few months ago: We couldnt eat, we couldnt sleep, we walked around in neon-colored crocs and sweatshirts with company logos on them! We mourned, man. We mourned.
And just when we thought we'd never see Agathe (or Melvin--her gigantic pet pig) again, i stumbled upon the link to the NEW Style Bytes blog.
Apparently, she'd been doing it as sort of an underground thing, perhaps thinking she was safe from the nuts (i.e,, me) who begun to develop a cult-like following to her site.
Think again, Agathe. You can blog, but you can't hide:
Sunday, October 5, 2008
He also had to explain the difficult, and philosophically abstract concepts that only intellects of unimaginable standards could comprehend: Like whether or not her "chicken of the sea" tuna was chicken or fish. A conversation during which Nick paused so long you knew he was contemplating divorce before a montage of ass-slapping ran through his mind, no doubt making him reconsider.
But instead of the tuna dialogue heightening her status of idiocy, the "TV personality" sycophants went into a bit about how this show really demonstrates how intelligent Jessica is, because she's using her savvy marketing skills to only pretend to be a bimbo. That she's so aware, in fact, of how the entertainment industry works, she's portraying this ditzy blonde cliche for the cameras because the only thing that sells better than sex is Dumb Hot Chicks who you want to sex with.
And while i applaud these journalist jokes for giving her the benefit of the doubt--they know, I know, and surely Nick knows, that there is no hidden layer of intellect behind the airhead facade. There is, in fact, no facade. Or business savvy or sneaky plot of subversion or irony or Ultimate Masterplan beyond our comprehension: The girl is just stupid.
And whenever there are genuinely stupid people in the public eye, there will always be other rather stupid people trying to promote them by convincing other stupid people that they are not that stupid.
I know. Stupid, isnt it?
And now the pseudo righty political "pundits" are taking a stab at it again, with another target: Sarah Palin. Cause when the attempts to woo feminist/women voters with a Palin-faced Rosie the Riveter, and "Palin Power" buttons failed, and the hockey-mom thing lost its puck, the GOP media came up with a better idea: To make Palin look like an undiscovered genius. And after Thursday's debate, they seemed to have convinced everyone that everything she did was somehow evident of a deliberate and very strategic plan to help Old Man River shuffle into office:
Though i'll give you this Palin, you do understand the most important part about being stupid; and that is never to correct the people who think you're smart. You're the type of gal who knows its better to stumble publically, then laugh and say you did it on purpose. Or ask someone to explain the concept of tuna to you, then claim its just good TV.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
- Make him comfortable. Have him lean back in a comfortable chair or have him lie down in the bedroom. Have a cool or warm drink ready for him.
- Arrange his pillow and offer to take off his shoes. Speak in a low, soothing, and pleasant voice.
- Listen to him. You may have a dozen important things to tell him, but the moment of his arrival is not the time...remember, his topics of conversation are more important than yours.
- Don't question him about his actions or question his judgement or integrity...remember,he is the master of the house...you have no right to question him.
The writer then adds a nice little bow to the entire piece, ending with: "A good wife always knows her place."
Of course, the class (majority of whom are women) took turns lashing out at the article, lamenting on how ridiculous and degrading they found it.
And it is.
It's just that this 50's article still isn't too far from the mindset of most women today. Sure, morons like to go on and on about "how far we've come" and how many "choices" women have; but most of these women choose to get married early, and sit on their asses for a life of laziness and luxury as a housewife. Most gals still believe in the very same marital values that this article describes, no matter how many times they'd deny it aloud. Because it's still an unconscious thing: women still fantasize about being brides in Vera Wang gowns and tieras. They still kill themselves to cook and clean and work and be Stepford soccer-mom and a fantastic sexual partner and be thin and attractive and fresh-looking and sexy all AT THE SAME TIME. As long as Kelly Ripa (and other bimbotic, celebrity mom/wifes) continue to bounce around Beverly Hills in Chanel and wonderbread babies on their arm; proving to America with a gushing smile that, yes, it is possible to Have It All--then the myth of the Perfect Wife lives on.
And we will continue to look articles in the so-called "women's magazines" with titles like, "How to Tell If He's Into You" and "The Naughty Sex He Craves" to tell us what be and how to be and what to do in order to Keep Our Man. Its just that in 1955, we had Housekeeping Monthly. And now we have Cosmopolitan.
Monday, August 18, 2008
mosquitos will kill you.
vegetables will kill you.
cell phones will blow up. give you tumors. and then kill you.
this just in!--research shows that vegetables will not kill you. However, everything else still stands.
gas prices are high
doom, doom, doom
the world's going to hell.
there's a serial killer on the loose! lock up your daughters.
breaking news--research shows that locking up your daughters may lead to suicide, STDs, and Alzheimers later in life.
Britney spears is pregnant.
I'm Katie Couric, thanks for watching."
Monday, August 4, 2008
Uhh, i don't really think Steve Colbert likes us all that much.
I also, totally, get that you have to challenge the views of these crazy "feminists" with those biting skills you learned back in Debate 101 and your acerbic wit to deliver the list of punchlines you probably have on a napkin underneath your desk. And i understand that by the look on your face, everything Ms. Valenti is saying is akin to the wamp-wamp-wamp Charlie Brown language or ebonics from those rapper guys on MTV, and that you wish--between glances at your punchlines and not-so-casual glances at her breasts--that she would just SHUT UP already, and let you say something funny because you only have an hour, damnit, to make things happen, so you're going to do a bit about the naked lady on the book cover because, hell, what other questions can you think of when never even heard of "Jessica Valenti" or all this "feminism" stuff until like, five seconds ago, when the producer told you backstage, and even then you were too busy moussing your hair into that perfect mini-pompadour shape to listen, because if you're going to out-do Mr. Stewart you've gotta have The Do, you know what I'm sayin'?
And that's the whole joke, right?: pretending to hate America and Bush and all stuff, but then pose in front of a flag so everyone knows you're J.K; that you're just being ironic and totally sarcastic, because you looked up the definition of irony (or at least your assistant did) on Wikipedia and thats what it said, right? Pssh, i got you, Steve. Now if only those uptight ol' biddies could get with the program (your program, of course) and just let you make your freakin' jokes so everyone can tell you how funny you are after the show.
Monday, July 14, 2008
(click for larger)
Plastic surgery always makes me think of Thanksgiving turkeys. In fact, I'd bet a cosmetic procedure is practically identical to that of turkey preparation. I mean, in both scenarios, the subject (the turkey/girl) is sliced, diced, cut, carved, slashed, and gutted with sharp utensils and then stuffed with foreign objects. Granted, the turkey will probably be mutilated by your Aunt Agnes wearing a Christmas sweater and a fanny pack, whereas the woman will dish out a few grand to be mutilated by an uncertified lab-coat wearing nurse's assistant who will tell you "its normal, you have nothing to worry about" when you complain that your tits have turned a yellowish green color and fallen off.
But. yeah. other than that though, its basically the same.
And while being able to fill out that hot pink halter top you saw in Abercrombie will cost a pretty penny, and certainly may leave you permantly disfigured, its totally worth it, as you will reap the endless benefits of doing so:
1.) The most obvious one is simple: you will have gigantic knockers. You will now be known as "so-and-so with the big puppies" and your fuckable rate will be inceased by a whole 5 points. They will be the convo starters in every social gathering you find yourself in from then on, causing you to come up with clever nicknames for your new friends as party-lines (Laverne & Shirley, Peanut Butter & Jelly, Mary-Kate and Ashley etc.) that will just crack the guys up. OR, if you have a particularly low I.Q, and one-liners like these prove to be too challenging, you dont have to talk at all. You can do something as simple as, oh, wear a tank top. As your male conterpart will be so entranced with the XXX beach balls two centimeters from his face, no conversation will really be necessary.
2.) If you should be brutally murdered by a random sociopath, buried four feet underground in some abandoned forest in Wyoming, and are found by hikers ten years later, but cant be identified because your body is so decomposed, they identify it by tracing the serial number in the silicone. Trust me. It's happened.
3.) Besides those already mentioned, fake knockers offer an extra perk that boring ol' natural ones don't: you always have a large, inexplicable space between each one. This offers a nice little storage compartment, to fit items such as cell-phones, I-pods, and wallets, keys, whatever! Now thats what I call a built-in closet!
4.) Fights will be relatively easy to win, or at least to bear, with your new assets in place. When, say, the bitch down the street gets testy and declares a catfight, or your husband is undergoing "work-related stress" and decides to rough you up to relieve it--a blow to the chest (wherein most girls would hurt like a mother) will be virtually pain-free for you. Once you've had them for a while and they begin to form their rock-life structure, any boob-bopping will feel like punching a brick wall with your bare hands. You will bloody knuckles! You will make grown men cry! Arnold Schwarzenegger will step down and deem you the "Tit-a-nator".
And you, after getting this taste of bliss from the hands of your surgeon, will definetly be bauk .
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
But more often than not i am mentally pelted with two critical questions: 1.)How does any oxygen get to his junk while squeezed into skinny jeans 5 sizes too small? and 2.) Why does the hipster guy pride himself on participating in EVERY socio-political cause known to (wo)man EXCEPT feminism?
Honestly, they will squeeze into "I heart PETA" T-shirts and rip the rabbit fur coats off of runway models during fashion week, or dive in front of moving vechicles as a bizarre anti-war protest gimmick. They will peel through clothing at "vintage stores" and the Salvation Army so as not to contribute to the child-labor sweatshops in Tahitti. They read the Cornel West Reader and the Autobiography of Malcolm X and claim that it made them aware of their privledged socio-economic status as a corn-fed suburban white boy. They will wave the rainbow flags with the fags. They will live green. They will create T-shirt slogans like "The only Bush i trust is my own" and spend their spring breaks on voter registration commitees and raising money for some international AIDS fund while their peers are kegging-it-up for Girls Gone Wild videos. But when it comes to women's issues, they suddenly morph into Bush 2 .
But this isn't a complete conundrum, because, you see, i've deciphered the code behind their women-related apathies, and it is this: They simply feel left out.
It seems that feminism is one of the only politcal posses to keep the edge exclusivity still visible; to basically say, "step back, Jack Keuroac, we got this." It never discouraged the support of free-thinking men, but it did not actively depend on it. The great thing about feminism is that it is a movement that must start and end with women. It is one that decided to manifest itself straight from the core; with girlfriends and mothers and sisters and daughters, and to make point of our concerns first. Men looked up and saw a bunch of women tinkering around with picket signs and talking this nonsense about equality without ever really asking them to be apart of it. They felt obsolete and unimportant, and decided to oppose feminism, to hate it, destroy it, and reclaim their power! This is one of man's most primal instincts: reject what has rejected them.
And even the others, the hipster guys who believe they should be exempt from feminism's wrath because they dont, say, beat up on their wives. But even these men, while certainly better than those who are blatant mysogynists, are still not blameless because they don't do anything. They bite their tongues when screaming would be the more appropriate response to a culture that is raping, killing, and mutilating their sisters and daughters and mothers as a passtime. They sit down, they are passive and apathetic when they need to be angry as fuck that there are people who are groped, hit, mocked, laughed at, restrained, belittled, and denigrated on a daily basis. They believe they are informed and compassionate because they plant neighborhood trees or visit nursing homes, but never realize that you cant call yourself a humanist until you call yourself a feminist.
And no, it isn't just the fault of men. I really believe that eventually women will wake up, shake themselves out of their masochistic mindsets, and they will have to do that on their own. But in the meantime, it would nice to have a little help.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
And while i know the only reason the S.&T.C writers created Samantha is because she gave a good excuse to shoot a tacky graphic sex scene every 30 seconds, the logic behind my theories are still supported.
Because for every quasi-feminist, sex-obsessed Samantha that exists in America, there will a Charlotte, vowing to hang herself by the sheets of her JC Penny canopy bed if she isn't hitched by age 30. These women seem to flock to their appropriate piles and branch off into the two opposing camps:
Camp # 1. The Charlotte camp. --This one is usually a mix of brainwashing via housewife mother and Billy Graham television programs. Even if they aren't religious, these women believe that her body should be cherished and respected in a Holy fashion. This undoubtedly means: a.) No sex until marriage so that on your wedding night, your new-fangled hubby will be so profoundly impressed with your incredible ability to keep your legs closed, that he will never tell you that he just slept with your best friend at the bridal shower and may have a hefty case of Chlamydia. b.) No sex on the first date, because a man will be so impressed with your incredible ability to keep your legs closed (in the name of respect!) that he will never tell you that he slipped a roofie into your chardonnay at the dinner party. Or c.) No mastubation or impure thoughts, as this may lead to violation of rules one and two, not to mention the eternal damnation and shame that should face you for reaching sexual satisfaction without aid from a dilapidated penis. These are women who take Cosmopolitan quizzes that tell them if they may be too aggressive (or bitchy or apathetic or arrogant or outspoken) to get a man, (The answer, is always, "yes") they use cheesy cliches for their virginity, like, "flower petals" or "gift of virtue" and lecture hookers on the importance of letting her flower grow until the right man comes along to pick it. They are women who cannot fathom a life where a man does not control it, run it, make it, or destroy it. They are, frankly, utter morons.
Camp #2, the Samantha Camp, is, predictably, the opposite. They are wild and untamed. They are women who go up to men in the bars to set a time and a place. They say "fuck" more times than they say "making love", they are single, and they like it, because they don't have to answer to anyone (and wouldn't even so). They use men like men use women, as physical tools of sexual desire, but can only ever be sluts when they do. They make married women nervous, make them curiously question their husbands whereabouts and check pants pockets for phone numbers. They are women subjected to, "dont you ever want to get married?" questions and have to, exhaustedly, perpetually, come up with an answer. They are women who get jobs and statuses, and lives that don't revolve around a man, they learn to change their own tires and pay their own rent. They are free and absolutely, undeniably, unstoppable. And they are feminists.
The only trouble is, like the women of Sex and the City, there are still far too many who start out wanting to be Charlotte, and always end up happier as Samantha.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Apparently, Laura Bush got a wee bit tired of her prestigous First Lady duties of tea parties and shopping for badly tailored suits and thought (so she is capable of such a function? go figure.) that she would take up said invitation. "First lady Laura Bush identified herself as a 'feminist' on "This Week with George Stephanopoulos.."Ed O'Keefe writes in a 2006 article i stumbled upon. "A lot of what I do internationally does have to do with women's issues, with women's rights, with the education of women and girls," says Mrs. Bush.
Laura, honey. Sweetie. Sugar plum. You are not a feminist. You cannot serve the cookies and serve the cause. You cannot wear the apron and wear the pants. You cannot be June Cleaver and Gloria Steinem. People will laugh at you. Most importantly, i will laugh at you. This is the truth.
I can't imagine what catastrophe occured to make Laura decide to identify herself as a feminist. She broke a nail? Ann Taylor ran out of slingbacks in her size? She got into an argument with Bush? Ha!
Imagine this, seriously:
BUSH: Laura? Laura?!! How many times have i told you to handwash mah boxers!
LAURA: But, honey, we have people to do that for us, so i just figured our staff would--
BUSH: No! No staff! How many times have i told you, if you aint-a-workin, yur-a-washin?
LAURA: But i'm the First Lady, for godsakes!
BUSH: Exactly! What doya think that means? It means you aint got no job but ta' tend to my underrgarments. Thats what all the first ladies arre 'supposed to do! Nancy did it, my mama did it, Hillary did it! Now yur gonna do it! Ya hear me? Oh, and dont ya say God's name in vain! Ya know how much i hate that!
LAURA: George, honey, don't yell at me! I feel belittled!
BUSH: Dont be a-callin be George, from now on its "King George"...and what the hells 'belittle' mean? You been readin' again?! Stop usin' all them fancy words woman!
LAURA: I will not! And i will not take this abuse! I have been reading books, and they tell me that i'm special, and that i dont have to be married to someone who treats me like dirt! I'm becoming a feminist, you hear me! A feminist!!
BUSH: Oh, shut up and go get me a sandwich, woman.
LAURA: Sigh. Okay, honey. But then i'm becoming a feminist.
Reactions to Laura's political rebirth were somewhat mixed. Feministing ranted, "Hey Laura, if you’re really a feminist then why not tell hubby to stop rolling back women’s rights?" and "I'm sorry, but feminism just isn't for everybody."
Danelle Morton wrote a great piece about it, but kind of got off balance with: "I'm for Big Tent Feminism. Everyone welcome. ...it places [the movement] back in the middle of things instead of remaining a small-scale interest of a few elite intellectuals."
This brings me around to my point: Feminism is not, and should not be, an Open Tent. Or a blanket invitation. There are basic rules, minimum requirements for anyone who dare bear the "F"-word: 1.) you cannot be, or be married to G. Bush. 2.) You must be pro-choice. 3.) You must believe in social, financial, educational, and political equalities for men and women. 4.) You may not be a housewife.
The last one will surely step on toes. But i dont believe any woman who calls herself a feminist and chooses to simply be married with children for her fullt-time job. To accept it as her identity. To live and die as Mrs. (fill and the blank). Elizabeth Wurtzel's Bitch nailed this home: "...Feminism demanded certain rights, and every woman who continues to live in a man's shadow is an affront to what few gains were made. It's not that a woman should be a self-sufficient person; it's that she must." and "Women who go out and make their own way in the world...are more important...women who get manicures all day are less important than women who write legal briefs."
Now, this doesn't necessarily mean i believe in Closed Tent feminism (if there is such a term), because i want it to grow and be adknowledged and relatable. But if we start to blur the lines that distinguish us as a movement, if we start to "accept" any and every ol' body, if we make one exception and then another and then another, what are we left with? The answer is: Nothing. We would be a bunch of women with mixed-up views and foggy intentions that are so unclear and uncertain, we'd forget what we were trying to do in the first place.
At some point you have to put up the velvet rope to this secret little club of ours. And what better person to start with than Mrs. Bush herself?
I was running errands a few afternoons ago, as is my custom, when three very conspicuous young men were huddled around a bench near a parking lot. A place i've come to realize that (besides jail) is the 24-hour hotspot for deliquents, ex-cons, and criminal offenders when they aren't in women's nylon stockings holding up pizza delivery guys. I was walking by, when one of them decided to get my attention with this curteous, ever-so-charming remark:
I. The Approach. This is the first step, and the most important step toward in the guide-to-getting-laid. The goal here is to be noticed by your target (i.e,, an unexpecting girl on her way to the post office) using whatever tactic necessary. Wave an arm, scream, dance, walk up to her, appear from behind a dumpster waving a condom. Don't waste time with silly anecdotes like, "what's your name?" or "how are you today?" The less talking the better. Besides, once you have your target in the desired location (bed, sofa, or any flat surface in a horizontal position) it won't matter if her name is "I Eat Large Bugs", since the only oral interaction you are striving for will take place below the waist. Be blunt, foward, and aggressive!
I turn around, snatch out my earbuds, oblivious as to what he wanted. Then, Boy # 2 spoke up: "YOU GOTTA MAN OR WHAT?"
Atta boy. Right to the point.
Me: Excuse me?
Boy #2: WHAT YOU TRYIN' TO DO?, CUZ I'M TRYIN' TO SEE IF WE CAN GET TOGETHER.
II. The Invitation. This second step is crucial to the completion of your quest. Here, you want to make sure you make it clear that you would like her company, but being ambiguous about your intentions at the same time. So, the phrase, "I'm tryin' to see if we can get together" could mean anything; Could we be going on a picnic? Seeing a Broadway play? Engaging in a game of Scrabble? (For best results, consider a target that is considerably less intelligent than you, so that it isn't obvious--perhaps until she sees the bottle of K-Y personal lubricant on your nightstand--that you will not, indeed, be playing Scrabble tonight).
Me (in thought): What am i trying to do?? I'm trying to get to the fucking post office, what is it look like? Why the fuck are you talking to me, anyway? Cant's you see i'm busy, you brainless pest! Huh? Can't you see that?!!
Me (speaking): Uh. Okay.
Despite my suggestion of choosing a target of less intelligence, Boy#2 and his accomplices gambled on one that in fact, does have an I.Q exceeding 80. A risky wager considering the fact that their vocabulary consists of about 6 words ("aye" and "girl" being among the favorites), so 80 might be a little far reaching.
The smallest one, Boy#3, looked like a knock-off version of Aaron Carter back when "Candy" was still a radio hit, and was making not-so-subtle gestures toward his nether regions. Unfortunately for him, i wasn't in any mood for a lolipop.
Boy #2: AYE, YOU BUSY GIRL? WHAT CHU GOT GOIN' ON TOMORROW?
III. This is called the, "Your Place or Mine?" phase, where the time and place should be decided. Always, always ALWAYS suggest her place. That way, if she goes totally Alex Forrest on you, you can collect your belongings and leave abruptly. No strings (or rabbits) attached. Oh! and make sure you create enough time in your schedule for this affair (10-15 minutes for the travel, 4-5 minutes for small talk and two minutes for the actual sex.) After you've finished, mumble something loud enough for her to hear, "I'll call you," but not loud enough to have any definitive details. Describe the sex in graphic details to your friends, and begin scouting for your next target.
Me (finally): Fuck off, i have somewhere to be.
IV. Now, be aware guys. The possibility of this happening are very rare (especially to someone as bright and as charming as these young men) but be prepared anyway. I call it, "The Revival" :If she walks away (as was the case in this scenerio) reclaim your dignity with a couple, "I didn't want that bitch anyway"..s. A few "fuckin tease" and "cunt!" or two for the road.
Okay. So let's review: Approach, Invite, Decide, and Goodbye. In Boy tongue thats: See her, get her, fuck her, leave her. Got it? Class dismissed.
Thursday, June 12, 2008
In the 70's, no one wanted to be a feminist because it was subtext for (whisper:) Birkenstock-wearing lesbian. Now, no one wants to be a feminist because it's a punchline.
Announcing to the world, (or whoever happens to be within earshot) that you are feminist yields the same reaction it would to say that you are a cross-dresser, or a Morman. You become target practice for jokes like, "What happen, 'd boyfriend dump you?" It, feminism, seems to be so glazed with the cultural caricatures, that it's not even accepted as a legitamite political belief; it just means you're pissed off about something.
That's another thing. Apparently feminism is a temporary emotional reaction to everything that goes apeshit in your life now.
Your husband leaves you for his secretary with six kids?: Become a feminist
Wake up late for work, miss your morning commute, and get fired on the spot?: Become a feminist.
Walking home alone one night and get mugged by a crack-head for three bucks?: Become a feminist.
Have a fight with your closest friend who decides to spread a rumor about you contracting Herpes from the pizza guy?: Whip her ass. Then become a feminist.
And, of course, when things start to wind down a little, go back to being a "normal girl" (you know, painting your toenails and giving casual blowjobs for a date to your sister's wedding.)
With all of the objections people have to the movement (and they always have an objection), it's almost like i feel obligated to say:
"Yes, i am a feminist. And no, I am not a lesbian or a man-hater. I don't own a pair of Birkenstocks, i bathe on a regular basis (sometimes even once a day), I'm not a terrorist, communist, international spy, ex-con, child molester, schizophrenic or misanthropist. I don't worship Satan, i do not not possess a vagina and a penis simultaneously, i am not currently hoarding 35 cats in my basement. And i occasionally (but only occasionally) have a mustache."
So don't even go there.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Hypothetical Q: You meet the man/woman of your dreams. He/she is physically attractive, intelligent, funny, loving, attentive, everything you've ever wanted. The two of you share a special mushy-gushy bond that is so unreal, it seems only comparable to a PG Disney film. You get married, have three beautiful, healthy children. You buy a wonderful house with a lake view, white picket fence (cause thats what every American wants, right?) and a German Shep. named Herman. You are financially stable, you have great sex, life is amazing. But then you find out something shocking: he/she is your first cousin. You, of course, had no idea, and neither did they. Do you tell your spouse? Do you stay in the marriage? Would your feelings for that person change? (Even the sexual attraction?)
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
1.) Yes, white men can have geri curls.
2.) When you look like the unfortunate-looking love child of Slash and Keith Richards you are bound to have a successful career as a "media mogul".
I also understand that were it not for the Howard Stern Show, his current fanbase of ball-scratching Frat Boys with names "Donny" who drown their post-grad grief in an ice cold Budlight while Green Day blairs from the stereo in the background--these All-American guys would have nothing to watch. No where to go. No way of bonding with their fellow ball-scratching cavemen. No way of being entertained.
And isn't that the motive behind everything Howard-esque?
So when he features pseudo-lesbians who spend an entire ten minutes playing tonsil-hockey, he's trying to entertain you. And when he's interviewing some volleyball-titied ex-porn star with an I.Q of akin to a small hamster, he's trying to entertain you. When he pries his female celebrity guests for sex-life secrets and they make up outlandish stories about what turns them on for the sake of showbiz, both him, and her, are trying to entertain you. And of course, when he volunteers women for humiliating, dehumanizing acts (you know, like being handcuffed to a bed, legs spread-eagled, while being tickled with a feather) he's trying to--for the love of the gerri curl!-entertain you.
And he's trying to convey that message quite loud and clear.
But I hear you, Howie. I hear you.
Monday, June 9, 2008
Deep breath now. Baby steps. Think baby steps...
I don't really like trying to define 3rd-wave feminism because it always seems like i eventually hark back to the "new direction of social reform" and "modern approach" rhetoric and I end up sounding like something out of Wikipedia.
But if i had to, i'd say it started with Riot Grrrl. With Kathleen Hanna and Bikini Kill, with Heavens to Betsy, Hole, and Huggy Bear; women who were trying to make thrashing,earsplitting noise. With the Zines, the Lady Fests, the D.I.Y-mentality, with Portland Oregon and the women with short skirts, smeared lipstick and "SLUT" written across their stomachs. With the 90's.
Sociologists like to babble on about how the 3rd wave generation are the daughters of the 2nd-wave feminists who are trying, i guess, to perpetuate the movement through our own cultural means. But i don't think so. I think the majority of us don't have mothers who would claim the term "feminist" without hesitation--if at all--and that relation to the movement wasn't biologically conceived, but adopted through some life-altering realization. Like the "click" Ms. Magazine described as the housewife's moment of self-discovery.
We felt that click as girls who wandered into bookstores, stumbling upon the Second Sex and tore through the pages like hungry wolves. We were college girls who, after one Women Studies class, went home to toss all of our shit; high heels, curling irons, bras, make-up, dresses and jewelry into trash cans. Women who listened to Ani Difranco sing, "I am not a pretty girl/that is not what i do" and scratched the lyrics into binder covers and post-its we stuck inside our lockers, on our doors, above our beds. We were women who scolded our mothers for waxing her legs, for wearing lipstick, for saying, "What's wrong with wanting to be feminine?"
We were women who found our way to feminism through some inexplicable pull, and surrendered to its force because it felt it good, and strong, and honest. We're the 3rd-wave. The only few survivors after the 2nd hit; the women faced with the wreckage and smoke of a war that is only half-over and trying to rebuild an entire city from ground zero.
And still, after everything, after Roe V. Wade and the 70's and all of that yelling, we still have to wonder if it was worth it. It's the gritty, awkward aftermath that seems like nothing's changed at all; the backlashes, the terrorfied men who call us lesbos and cunts and man-haters. The hip-hop video hos, the Stepford wives paying thousands to be butchered "under the knife" if it means bigger tits and a tight face. The men and women who hear us talking, screaming, marching and try to come up with reasons for our rage, like: Because we're women scorned, because we're cat-hoarding spinters who need a man, because we're tempermental, we're difficult, we're bitches, we're PMS-ing, or, as the Stupid Girl so charmingly put it: "On the Rag."
My Rag Girls
- ► Jun 15 (4)