Monthly Archive for June, 2006

Buttloads of Oral Sex

Published by Twisty on June 23, 2006. 147 Comments

Al Gore

Stingray dragged me to Al Gore’s globalwarmingumentary. It’s all the stuff you already know, so it’s not exactly a nail-biter, but it’s useful to see all the charts and numbers and footage of fractured glaciers crashing into the sea gathered together in a single spot for convenient one-stop blaming.

Interspersed with grainy cinéma vérité of lonely traveling activist Al, a 15″ Powerbook girding his loins, thinking deep thoughts as he stares solemnly through windows of limousines and chartered aircraft, are satellite photos of hurricanes and a nostalgic look back at the 2000 presidential election featuring hanging chads and Katherine Harris in her trademark patriarchy-blowing clown makeup. But mostly the film is Gore speaking before a huge screen from which glints an incessant cavalcade of graphs heralding the doom of the biosphere at the hand of fat lazy American oil gluttony.

It is a myth, quoth Al Gore, that the major climatological brains of our age regard global warming as controversial. The controversy is entirely a manufactured product of corporatocratic assholery. One of the aforementioned graphs compares, over a given period, the number of peer-reviewed scientific papers disputing the evidence of global warming (0) to the number of media reports casting doubt on the science (600-something, I think). Imagine. The news media, complicit in corporate disinformation campaigns. Well I never.

Well, funny story, the very day after I saw the film, I happened to hear ‘All Things Considered’ on National Public Radio, and danged if there wasn’t a blurb on the “feud over global warming.” Correspondent Richard Harris reported on a National Academy of Sciences panel. The panel was convened at the behest of Congress to examine a study suggesting that earth temperatures are hotting up well beyond what they’ve ever hotted up to before. I won’t go into the details of Harris’ report, which you can listen to for yourself, except to remark that the hyperbolic language he uses is precisely the sort of borderline prevarication to which Gore alludes in his lecture. Suggesting that there is acrimonious debate among experts over basic facts, calling it a “feud,” reporting that the official smart scientists are now “looking askance” at certain data that “some” use to support crazy claims about climate change, even taking it upon himself to redefine the word ‘plausible’ as ‘ doesn’t meet scientific standards of certainty’—it is as though Harris has calculated to encrapulate the discourse and weaken the case for global warming.

NPR. Ever since they got that Bushite pit boss, you’ve really gotta keep your eye on’em.

Posted in Patriarchy, my patriarchy. Bite me, Chad.

Comment of the Week

Published by Twisty on June 21, 2006. 162 Comments

Remain calm. This post is a lament on commentarian sloppiness. It is not about blow jobs. At least not much. If I mention them here it is only to give my example comment some context. If you have something to say about blow jobs, send it to Penthouse.

Recently I wrote an essay in which I seditiously suggested, like I do in every other essay I write, that the dominant culture imposes inequities on human beings according to their sex. I used heterosexual fellatio to illustrate this sweepingly radical notion. This essay generated a pestilence of asinine responses, both here and on other blogs. Behold a randomly selected sample, the gist of which has been nearly universal among my fearsome cocksucking detractors (I have kept the typo intact for that authentic commentarian flava):

Um, who kneels these days? I prefer a comfy chair with the patriarch standing at attention before me. Why should’t I be comfortable? Like frisee, keep the bjs off your plate if you don’t care for them, but don’t outlaw them for the rest of us!

Let us now go where no blog post has gone before: to the stream-of-consciousness musings with which I was afflicted after having read this sample comment and its many identical brethren, published here for the first time ever on the World Wide Web:

First I experienced revulsion, which is understandable since the remark commences with ‘um’. Wherefore this mania for beginning a written sentence with preverbal grunts? It is grueling enough slogging through 16,723 comments saying ‘Where do you get off expressing an opinion on your own blog, you prudey asexual?” without having to endure 5th grade speech viruses ironically affected by adults engaged in a limp effort to convey condescension.

I then experienced amazement that a woman could, in 2006, take pride in publicly announcing that she happily sucks off someone she refers to as ‘the patriarch.”

Then I experienced revulsion again.

Then I thought, “How can a blow job be on a plate? God help us all, the metaphor is dead!”

Then I wondered why people who have clearly omitted to read my essays insist on responding to them. This bizarre conduct absolutely mystifies me. The logical thing to do, when you haven’t read an essay, is to not comment on it. Lest you look like an ass. I know this from years of experience of not reading essays and not commenting on them. Many’s the time I’ve been asked, “Twisty, what is the recipe for success in the cutthroat world of not looking like an ass?” My answer? “Not reading essays and not commenting on them, Grasshopper. It’s a winner!”

Yet our commenter, like so many before her, has, in her haste to lead an unexamined life, not only made erroneous assumptions concerning the actual content of my post, but has elected to publish her response to this mythical content on the blog, thereby diluting the sterling quality of the discourse.

For instance (I mused), in drawing out of thin air the supposition that I desire to ‘outlaw’ her favorite pastime, she misconstrues my observations on the universal ramifications of patriarchal intrigue as some kind of official decree threatening the venerable American institution of cocksucking. She has, in other words, leapt to the conclusion that I endeavor to control her, presumably because I am a mutant who can bend people to my will just by writing stuff.

At this juncture I greatly enjoyed a reverie based on a scenario wherein I could bend people to my will just by writing stuff. Whereupon I thought, “If my magnificence was such that I actually could outlaw stuff merely by expressing an opinion on an obscure blog, would I really squander my superpower on some pedestrian hetero sex act? Hell no. I would outlaw Austin traffic, worship of dead Jews, and all supercilious parroting of the directives of the status quo.”

And then the dinner bell rang.

Posted in Easy Persiflage. Bite me, Chad.

Just Kidding!

Published by Twisty on June 17, 2006. 45 Comments

Corn-dog shrimp
The modern marvel that is corny-dog shrimp, at Moonshine on Red River

I decided I’m too good-lookin’ to ban.

While elsewhere the internet ladies do protest too much, I am constrained by the spinster aunt code to cram the Twisty craw with the world’s most hilarious food. Like I always say, anything dong-shaped that gets within ten feet of my face had better be a corny-dog shrimp. Because nothing says ‘the end is near’ like a large crustacean impaled on a stick, dunked in cakey cornmeal batter, deep-fried, and brought to you with blueberry mustard by a 19-year-old model-lookin’ chick with fat lips.

Posted in Austin and Morsel Institute. Bite me, Chad.

(Post Deleted By Moderator)

Published by Twisty on June 16, 2006. 32 Comments

That’s it. I have no choice but to ban myself from my own blog.

Posted in Patriarchy, my patriarchy. Bite me, Chad.

Gracias. Now With Zippy.

Published by Twisty on June 16, 2006. 29 Comments

Zippy
Much has been made of my golden retriever Bert, but for the last 12 years my main dog has been Zippy, part sled dog, part enforcer. She enjoys relaxing on the beach at El Rancho Deluxe and biting mailmen.

I’ve been enjoying the blow job threads so much I forgot to thank, heartfeltedly, all the blamers who recently expressed their interest in my continued existence. Finally, something we can all agree on!

As a result of my revelation that I’ll be getting more body parts amputated (on accounta I got the cancer, if you’re just joining us), I’ve been getting emails from blamers who want to send me stuff. I certainly have no objection to stuff, but seriously. Nothing would warm the Twisty cockles more than if you would all just commit some premeditated act of patriarchy-resistance (you can blame me for it, if you want), and then post your results here.

If, after burning your bra and getting elected to public office and volunteering at the abortion clinic and growing a beard, you still want me to have that special something, you can send it here: [REDACTED]. This is a friend-of-a-friend acting as a mail drop, and though he be reliable and trustworthy, it may take some time for me to actually receive the thing in question.

Note: if you hate me a lot, and think that harassing Dan is a good idea, be advised that my politics are not his. In fact, Dan is a Republican who has, hanging on his favorite wall, a framed photograph of himself shaking George W Bush’s hand in the Oval Office. No shit.

Posted in Easy Persiflage and Varmint Center. Bite me, Chad.

Patriarchy Defeated By Fellatio; We Can All Go Home Now

Published by Twisty on June 16, 2006. 119 Comments

I sorely underestimated the magnitude of the bang I was going to get out of all the comments in defense of blow jobs. Holy moly! What fun! Hitherto-unplumbed depths of commentarian grossness were fathomed. Hetero porn models were advocated. Quaint Freudian notions were invoked. Status quos were defended. Defensively. Some of you seized the opportunity to acquaint the group with your erotic autobiographies (don’t quit your day jobs!). Some of you even argued that blow jobs are the dudely equivalent of cunnilingus. But then someone actually used the word ‘cum’. I had to call in a haz-mat team to fumigate my office.

And that’s not the only price I paid for my critical stance on Boo-Ya Nation’s favorite pastime. One blogger has likened me to bible-thumping zipper-cunt Dawn Eden:

“Both of you need to stop delivering broad-based pronouncements on other people’s sexual practices on the basis of what you personally object to.”

I am chastened. I’d forgotten that when it comes to sex, it is the duty of the radical feminist to shut the fuck up. Sex, which, along with religion, is the new religion, is sacrosanct territory. It is anti-feminist to point out the ideological problems with certain patriarchal sexbot traditions because so many women enjoy patriarchal sexbot traditions. It is, in fact, offensive to suggest that getting off has any untoward political ramifications at all. I mean, we’re talking about getting off. It’s the feminist nirvana. Anything goes as long as someone gets off, and besides, it’s none of my beeswax.
Like Germaine Greer always says, if you wanna nail your nutsack to a breadboard and call it sex, it’s A-OK with me!

I must have been insane to question the degrading sexual theatrics that are every woman’s birthright, when the mastery of these theatrics is her invitation to life’s rich feast. It is a well-known fact that most women spring from their beds every morning singing, “O I hope I can blow some dude today!” That poor dumbass who wrote to Flea asking for help in controlling her gagging was just an anomaly.

We all know that in a patriarchy, (and by ‘patriarchy’ I mean a social order in which all women are subject, by universal agreement, to all men), on accounta the power differential, all relationships with men are inherently inequitable.

Except, it turns out, relationships wherein women suck cock! That’s when patriarchy miraculously recedes into the aether and male privilege becomes a distant memory! No woman was ever so free as the woman with a mouth full of throbbing gristle! How could I have been so blind? Less blaming and more cocksucking, that’s my new motto! Mystery solved! The struggle is over!

Posted in Patriarchy, my patriarchy. Bite me, Chad.

Judgmental Sex Pedantry

Published by Twisty on June 14, 2006. 244 Comments

Plastic santa
Today’s unrelated photo: Season’s Greetings from the aftermath of yesterday’s razing of the tar-paper shack three doors down from the Twisty Bungalow.

Flea—how I admire Flea; no erudite dildopreneur was ever so hilarious—actually gets email asking for sex advice. I can only imagine the degree to which such a thing enhances her quality of life. My envy is pronounced. I myself am never called upon to opine on intimate matters. Which is probably just as well, since my reply to every question would undoubtedly be “Dump him!”

Anyway, in response to one such email, Flea has a post up containing second-party information on how to perform a blow job without gagging.

Flame me if you will, but I posit nevertheless that no woman, since the dawn of the patriarchal co-option of human sexuality, has ever actually enjoyed this submissive sexbot drudgery. There’s a reason that deep-throating a funk-filled bratwurst makes a person retch.*

How dare I presume to impugn the sanctity of a woman’s right to the blow job? I do so mostly on accounta I will get a big bang out of the impassioned arguments defending it.

______________________

*Reason: It’s fucking gross.

Posted in Patriarchy, my patriarchy. Bite me, Chad.

Mutant

Published by Twisty on June 10, 2006. 181 Comments

Squash and green bean thing
The squash-and-green-bean thing I ate at Fino the other day. The Spinster Aunt of the New Millennium has much in common with this plate of flaccid vegetables.

The results are in! One four-thousand-dollar-genetic-test-that-insurance-won’t-cover later, it turns out that I am a mutant. I have the BRCA2 mutation, one of two mutations known to predispose people to breast cancer. These mutations are known in the biz as ‘deleterious’. That’s because they tend to delete you.

It is quite an exclusive little mutation. I share it with less than 1% of the general human population, and some Ashkenazi Jews, and only 10% of the breast cancerous. Lucky me!

“At least now you know why you got cancer so young!” suggested my health care professional, amiably. She repeated the sentiment a few more times during the debriefing. She is a very nice lady, but in this case somewhat overestimated the extent of my hankering to finger a specific culprit in this casting-of-the-ominous-shadow over my carefree youth. I don’t really give a crap how I got it. I am much more interested in just getting rid of it.

Easier said than done, my young onions. Easier said than done. Because the BRCA2 mutation suggests “an increased risk” (vile, oft-repeated words meaning nothing and everything) of not only a recurrence of breast cancer, but of ovarian (!) and even pancreatic (!!) cancers as well, in August I will undergo what can only be described as a sex change operation. All estrogen must go! By which I mean that I will be saying sayonara to the old uterus, tubes, ovaries, and uniboob. Of course this barbaric prophylaxis in no way guarantees anything. Except, naturally, my rekindled interest in pharmaceutical painkillers.

“You’re still the same person you were yesterday,” remarked my oncologist*, alluding to the fact that I was born with this—pardon my hokiness—ticking time-bomb, and have been as one with it all along. But I’m not the same person I was yesterday. As a matter of fact, I’m now the Bizarro Twisty. Yesterday I was a happy-go-lucky chump who gorged on rich food and loud rock’n'roll. Today I’m a cancerous decaffeinated vegetarian nonsmoking estrogenless square about to have an alarming percentage of my person amputated.

Although—and don’t tell anybody—I’m kinda jazzed about losing the boob. I don’t mean the surgery itself of course; that’s gonna suck shit through hefty bags. I mean that it’s been very odd sporting around town with just a single. One feels unbalanced. Lopsided. Preposterous. I don’t believe I’m capitulating to any inherently patriarchal aesthetic when I say that asymmetry, while desirable in Japanese flower arrangements, is conclusively unnerving when it comes to gazongas.

Other aspects of booblessness appeal to me as well, such as the prospect of chucking all those smush’em sports bras once and for all. Although I suspect that the novelty of going topless at my sister’s WASP-ass country club pool and giving the golden-haired bikini trophy wives a jolt will, sadly, wear off sooner or later.

____________________________
*My oncologist, by the way, is just hilarious.

Her: So, how’ve you been?
Me: Well, I sprained my knee and my ankle and I can barely—
Her: Unfortunately I can’t make you less clumsy.

Posted in Crazy sexy cancer and Morsel Institute. Bite me, Chad.

Fish Story

Published by Twisty on June 9, 2006. 22 Comments

Big fish
The big fish in my small pond. I believe it is a great white shark.

I drop out of society for a couple of days and what happens? The US military offs some famous terrorist, and W is all up in my face saying they killed the dude because when American nutbags kill Iraqi nutbags it’s called “justice,” but keep your shirt on, America; don’t expect an end to the glorious war any time soon, because the dumb insurgents are unlikely to view this blessed dead terrorist event the way God does.

In other words, 86ing this moron godbag will pretty much have the effect of re-enbloodulating the bloodbath. Go USA!

If the peacenik aliens who loosed the first amoeba or rotifer or whatever it was into the primordial ooze are ever gonna beam all these war-crazy jagoffs away into a black hole, now would be a good time.

I never should have left my pond. In fact, I’m going back there right now.

Posted in Patriarchy, my patriarchy. Bite me, Chad.

To Whomever Is Missing Two Cows Near Rattlesnake, TX

Published by Twisty on June 6, 2006. 71 Comments

Brown cow
Mystery Cow #1 (not pictured: Mystery Cow #2)

I have your cows, man.

Posted in El Rancho Deluxe and Varmint Center. Bite me, Chad.