Monthly Archive for February, 2007

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Pervwatch ‘07

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Dude checking out internet porn. Hotel San Jose, Austin. February 2007. You can count on me to watch the voyeurs!

Let us now consider a wanker who got canned for consummating his relationship with internet porn while at work. Of course dudes pornulate at work all the time, and doubtless a certain percentage get canned for it, but what makes this chappie somewhat remarkable is that he’s suing his former employer, IBM, claiming that he’s an internet porn addict and that this affliction should be recognized under the Americans with Disabilities Act.

My blaming time is limited today, so I can’t plumb the hilarity-depths of this vulgar absurdity to the degree it deserves, but I invite you to contemplate this tableau: thousands of internet porn addicts, their incontinent depravity happily re-designated as a “disability,” enjoying ADA-mandated broadband wanking stations in all public buildings. Also, because these unfortunates must jerk off using imagery of degraded women in order to live, the law mandates the production of porn, recasting pornographers as medical suppliers and porn actors as comfort women.

[Thanks Shannon]

Jerkbag legislation of the day

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Creepy penis-woman graphic swiped from CBS News website

One of the kookiest things I’ve read all day is this blurb from the AP/CBS News.

But first, check out the creepy-ass graphic: the oddly penisesque silhouetted woman, the “girl” symbol aligned over her torso with red sniper’s cross-hairs aimed right at her state-owned uterus, that weird, flapping dick-shaped dingus looming like the Big Stick of Patriarchy in the background. Seriously, what the fuck?

Anyway, the news blurb is about some proposed legislation in Tennessee that would — get this — issue death certificates to aborted blastocysts. Which logic, I must say with some admiration, is almost Texan in its legislative perspicacity; consider that the bill proposes death certificates for cell clumps prior to issuing them birth certificates.

As will surprise no inhabitant of Tennessee, the bill is sponsored by lunatic/state representative Stacey Campfield, whose nutjob antics are well-known to our friend egalia at Tennessee Guerilla Women. This link is well worth a click, and not just to see the photo of Campfield assuming the position as he is subdued and handcuffed by cops.

Campfield argues that issuing death certificates to clots of cells will allow the state to count the number of abortions performed. He is undeterred by the fact that the Office of Vital Records is already in possession of this number [cite].

Could it be that Campfield’s heart’s desire is to use the death certificate ruse to collect information on the women who are having the parasitic cells removed? So that he can initiate and maintain a Tennessee Registry of Murderous Whores? So that when Jesus comes to get him he can smile and point to the list and say, “see how many filthy sluts’ lives I’ve ruined for you?”

I bet he wishes more women would douche with Lysol.

[Thanks, Kimberly and Lisa]

The wait is over: mother’s job description formally elucidated by garment industry

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Reader Asheesh sends along the above excellent footnote to our recent discussion on the nature of motherhood. Photo uploaded at Snabbstart.com.

It has often brought a disconsolate sniffle to the Twisty schnoz that clothes, which should be undemanding and sympathetic and, above all, on your side, always come to you infested with these authoritarian commands sewn into them. The commands are themselves meaningless, but I have detected their broader purpose as the Voice of Patriarchy.

First, the labels physically lacerate the back of your neck. This is the hair shirt of American capitalism, a constant reminder that you, a worthless drone, must suffer the consequences of your cheap insignificance in the form of your dependence on cheap crap from China and your willing acquiescence to manipulation manufactured by a megatheocorporatocracy indifferent to your suffering. If you try to remove these antagonizing labels, even carefully, with your X-Acto knife, you will rip open a seam and destroy the garment.

Second, the instructions on the tags are subliminal messages from the Ministry of Women’s Perpetual Busywork, intended to afflict the launderer with feelings of gnawing insecurity, inadequacy, and anxiety. Note the incomprehensibility of the instructions.

“MACHINE WASH WARM, INSIDE OUT, WITH LIKE COLORS. USE MEDIUM IRON.” “HAND WASH COLD FAN WITH GOOSE QUILLS ON VERANDA TO DRY.” “DRY CLEAN ONLY USING THAT REALLY EXPENSIVE ENVIRONMENTALLY FRIENDLY CLEANERS.”

The impossibility of fulfilling these divers and nonsensical laundry requirements is symbolic of the insane futility of housework in general. What the heck does “like colors” even mean? Hue? Saturation? Who, except a goth kid, has load-quantities of clothes of “like” colors? And what high moral purpose is served by turning a thing inside-out? It merely adds an extra inside-out-turning step now and and another right-side-out step when it emerges from “tumble-dry-medium.”

For chrissake, if you actually followed the instructions on every piece of clothing, you’d do nothing but hover slavishly over the Maytag, individually washing each scrap of your drudge’s trousseau, day in and day out, your life a ceaseless ablutionary blur of All-Tempa-Cheer and polyester dryer lint.

I spit in the eye of “DRY CLEAN ONLY’.

Sunday golden retriever/drought blogging

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Something about this picture reminds me of the cover of “Abbey Road.”

Here are Bert and Zippy at El Rancho Deluxe, the Faster family country seat. Bert and Zippy are pictured enjoying their second-favorite activity, which is running like hell. Their first-favorite activity is sniffing crotches.

Bert has his hole-digging thing, of course, but that’s more of a sideline. My brilliant hypothesis is that the oftener I take him out to El Rancho Deluxe, the oftener he doesn’t dig another ankle-spraining hole in my back yard.

Normally, where you see Bert poised in mid-gallop, there would be a swift and cheerfully burbling river, up to about his neck. But thanks to global warming or Monsanto or pornography or whatever, there’s a huge drought in Texas, and the river is down to a dribble.

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At least what’s left of it is a nice color.

UK housewives: “Deep-throat to save the marriage!”

From the UK, here’s the self-improvement book the male-dominated publishing industry knows all hetero young married girls have been waiting for: Babyproofing Your Marriage. Written in “snappy language” that modern wives can relate to, it offers “helpful tips” for the harried homemaker who is trying like hell to model herself after the character in the cultural narrative with whom she is obliged (since there is only one available) to identify: Wife-mother.

Wife-mother is erroneously believed by the Babyproofing authors to be an actual human “driven by instinct and love.” Au contraire, snappy sexpert authors! Wife-mother is an idealized construct driven by the megatheocorporatocracy.

As a result of marketing, housewifery is commonly thought to be a better gig now than it was in June Cleaver’s day. Ha. The truth, as is suggested by the existence of the marriage manual under discussion, is that the slave-drudge created by the capitalism-friendly intersection of the nuclear family’s social insularity with what Betty Friedan called “the sexual sell” is still alive and ill and deriving her identity from the ceaseless performance of traditional wife-and-mother behaviors.

Heck, there’s no time like the present for a little Betty Friedan digression. In 1963, when The Feminine Mystique was published, Friedan had already identified wife-mother — the “Balanced Homemaker” — as a product of marketing and corporate manipulation. The term “Balanced Homemaker” comes directly from advertising. The Balanced Homemaker’s most desirable attributes sound suspiciously like those of today’s MILFs. “She has some outside interests, or has held a job before turning exclusively to homemaking; she ‘readily accepts’ the help mechanical appliances can give — but ‘does not expect them to do the impossible’ because she needs to use her own executive ability ‘in managing a well-run household.’” [1]

In 1963 the megatheocorporatocracy had identified “the major unfulfilled need of the modern housewife” as the need to be creative. What began as boxed cake mix through which “the woman can prove herself as a wife and mother, not only by baking, but by spending more time with her family” [2] morphed into domestic perfection industries. Wife-mothers have Martha Stewart and Oprah on one side selling the ideology, and Wal-Mart and Home Depot on the other side selling the raw materials. Quoth Friedan: “Thesis: I’m a housewife. Antithesis: I hate drudgery. Synthesis: I’m creative!”

It has always been incumbent on the wife-mother to engage in a perpetual process of “improving” her marriage and family life. This process requires her to embrace bullshit ideologies and buy crap in the service of male culture. It did so in the 50s and it does today. The only difference is that the 21st century housewife is additionally obliged to emulate pornographic ideals and feel empowered by her unpaid job as babysitter/housekeeper/whore. She’s June Cleaver with a Brazilian wax.

So what does the megatheocorporatocratic wife-mother construct have to do with a marriage manual on how to keep your hubby happy even though your id is completely subsumed by the interests of your neurotic kids? I posit that the authors are capitalizing on the housewife’s culturally-inflicted creative void in two ways. One, by profiting materially from the sale of a meaningless book based on the bogus premise that women’s inadequacy is at the root of all marriage problems, and two, by suggesting as a cure that women direct creative use of their ‘executive abilities’ toward sucking more cock.

That’s right. June Cleaver with a Brazilian meets Linda Lovelace. An excerpt from an author “interview” on the book’s website:

The book is full of helpful tips – one of the most notorious being the ‘Five Minute Fix’ – how did you first come across this useful tactic?

Well, it’s not as if we invented it! We just realized that, as sex acts go, this one was totally undervalued by women. It wasn’t until we became overworked, time-starved mums that we saw the obvious benefits. You don’t have to take your clothes off, the time you spend on it is minimal, and your husband thinks you are a Goddess! When we mentioned the idea at one of our men’s focus groups and got a gob smacked, “Good God, that would transform my marriage” reaction, we knew we were on to something.

In other words: It wasn’t until we realized that we could service our pouty, pesky johns in just five minutes that the funk-filled bratwurst began to look like a good idea!
_____________________________
1. Friedan, Betty. The Feminine Mystique. Norton. 2001. p. 210.
2. Ibid. p. 212

[Thanks, Lara]

Wal-Mart: supporting a pharmacist’s right to choose

Yesterday NARAL sent out an action alert. It told the following miserable tale: A woman named Tashina Byrd went to a Springfield, Ohio Wal-Mart to get a dose of Plan B, and was dee-nied. The pharmacist, according to the Akron Beacon Journal, “shook his head and laughed.” NARAL quite reasonably wishes to curb derisive pharmacal (look it up) mirth, and appeals to supporters to help put the kibosh on Wal-Mart’s asinine “conscientious objector” policy. Here is their form letter to Wal-Mart CEO H. Lee Scott.*

The Wal-Mart/Plan B story so far:

In March 2006, under pressure from groups who find compulsory pregnancy distasteful — and because they saw the writing on the wall when the Massachusetts pharmacy board forced them to carry it in that state — Wal-Mart finally knuckled under and agreed to stock Plan B in all its stores. But they promised no one that they would actually sell the stuff; apparently Wal-Mart pharmacists must still take a loyalty oath to the Fraternal Godbag Order of Male Uterus Proprietors, and “conscientious objectors” are free to cut loose with the hearty guffaws whenever women wish to purchase this completely legal, FDA-approved, over-the-counter product. The filthy slut should’ve thought about pregnancy before the condom broke or she forgot to take the Pill or she got raped, is pretty much their motto.

For it is a proven pharmacalogical fact that heathen women are both solely responsible for pregnancy yet willfully insensible of its potentiality until the sun shines in their wanton eyes the next morning.

The Wal-Mart pharmacist, an enlightened genius named Brent Beams (who remains at large, roaming the countryside, sniggering at Plan B customers even as he dangles the drug just out of their reach), did not offer the Beacon Journal an explanation for the unconcealed glee with which he refused Byrd’s legal and reasonable request, but he did intone some mystical incantations about “preserving life, and I do not believe in ending life, and life begins at conception.” He knows when “life begins” because mesmerizing leaders of the cult of a dead Jew from the Roman Empire hip-mo-tized his laughing ass.

It seems fantastic, by which I mean unbelievable, that trained pharmacists should (a) be at liberty to inflict their ghost-worshiping fantasies on regular people, and (b) be unaware that Plan B does not “end life” or abort anything, not humans or babies or fetuses or blastodermic vesicles or anything. It is so fantastic that it can’t be true; these are professionals who must know that Plan B merely prevents an ovary from releasing an egg. Plan B may also prevent a fertilized egg — not a human, baby, fetus, or blastodermic vesicle, but a clot of inconsequential cooties** — from infesting the uterine wall in the first place, which is of course an event that spontaneously occurs in millions of uteruses a day whether the megatheocorporatocracy installs godbag pharmacists in their retail churches or not. So the only explanation for Brent Breams’ ghoulish behavior toward Byrd is plain old Christian meanness.

A familiar tale. I swear, I just can’t get over how these egg-worshipin’ Jesusians gotta be so mean.

The current status on Plan B (which, I must reiterate in case anyone is confused, is not RU-486. Plan B prevents pregnancy. RU-486 aborts opportunistic growths.) is this: because the contents of a woman’s personal uterus are not her own business, and because stigmatizing sexually active women is the National Pastime, Plan B is kept behind the counter. As of December 2006 it became available without a prescription to women and men over 18, who must show ID to the pharmacist. Plan B can be wangled by girls 17 and under only with a prescription, because their extra-special uteruses are still wholly owned by the state and regulated by the medical establishment.

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Meanwhile, permit me to nitpick about the content (that’s the content, not the intent) of the action alert. Here’s the text of NARAL email:

You won’t believe what happened to me when I went with my boyfriend to Wal-Mart to buy Plan B® – the “morning-after” pill – after our condom broke.

The pharmacist laughed in our faces and told us, “We have it on hand, but there’s no one here who can dispense it.”

My name is Tashina Byrd, and this happened to me at my local Wal-Mart in Springfield, Ohio.

It can be embarrassing to share a private, personal experience like this, but I don’t want other women to be subjected to the humiliation and anger I felt when the pharmacist laughed at me.

That’s why I’m asking for your help today. I recently sent a letter to Wal-Mart CEO H. Lee Scott, Jr., urging him to change company policy to guarantee that pharmacies fill requests for Plan B® without delay, just like they do for any other over-the-counter medicine. Click here to send your letter to Wal-Mart today.

You’ve already proven that together we can make Wal-Mart do what’s right for women. Last year, because of pressure from pro-choice activists like you, Wal-Mart reversed its discriminatory policy against stocking Plan B®. Now, it’s time to ensure that they not only stock it but also sell it without delay or inconvenience.

In the end, I was lucky. I found another pharmacy that stocked Plan B® and was willing to sell it to me. But what would happen to a woman who lives in a rural area – where Wal-Mart is often the only pharmacy – where the nearest drugstore could be 60 miles away or more? What if the second pharmacy refused, too?

Access to emergency contraception shouldn’t require multiple pharmacy visits. To ensure other women don’t have an experience similar to mine, join me in urging Wal-Mart to change its policy today!

Sincerely,
Tashina Byrd

Although purportedly Byrd’s own first person plea, the thing was obviously written by a professional NARAL copywriter. It may seem a minor point, but O how I wish they’d just let these women tell it like it is their own selfs. Nobody gives a shit about that slicked-up PR crap. Because what’s all this baloney about Byrd justifying her EC requirements with the broken condom, and then the crap about feeling “embarrassment” at telling the world about this gross injustice? Whoever the real woman may be, this Tashina Byrd character they’ve created is just too palatably respectable, abashed and apologetic.

Yes, yes, I understand why NARAL does it this way, I’m just saying that the method contains concessions to patriarchal control with which I remain uncomfortable. It will be a bright sunshiny day here at the Twisty bungalow when we can get away with “I got drunk and forgot all about birth control and I still want my fucking Plan B, goddammit, and I shouldn’t have to beg some brainwashed nutjob for it. And while you’re at it, how’s about some medical marijuana?”

** My own eggs, incidentally, were recently thrown out with the garbage at a local pathology lab. Astonishingly, egg enthusiast Brent Beams didn’t show up with Jesus and the cops and Governor Rick Perry to protest.

Porn yet again

But first: Hasselhoff. I was so attracted to my revulsion to the mass-valentine Norbizness sent to all his feminist girlfriends that I thought I’d share it with all my feminist girlfriends. Click the foto for the hetero Village People love ballad.

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Sorry.

Next: blamer Amysue reports that she has been obliged to contemplate internet porn against her will. An assignment in her digital photography class requires her to submit photos to JPG magazine. JPG is an amateur photography website and sometime print periodical calling itself “The Magazine of Brave New Photography.” Exactly what makes it “brave” and “new” is unclear, as it is also, somehow, intended “for people who love imagemaking without attitude.”

Don’t ask me why anyone would want go around making pictures without ‘attitude’. Expressing a viewpoint or an inclination or a perspective or even, god forbid, a feeling, is what separates human photographers from the invertebrates. Which is not to say that, even when they do express a viewpoint, many human photographers do not remain indistinguishable from slugs.

But I digress.

JPG The Magazine of Brave New Photography solicits reader submissions in assorted categories (“Entropy,” “Loneliness,” etc); readers vote for their favorites; winners get published in the print zine and receive a hundred bucks. Don’t ask me why people are always confusing democratic process with art. I can’t think of anyone less qualified to pronounce on truth and beauty than some sweaty, anonymous electorate.

But I digress.

So Amysue checked out the JPG website and you’ll never guess what happened. One of the three main submission categories turned out to be “Beauty Redefined: Alternative pin-ups.” The category is the only one with a sponsor, and that sponsor is — you’ll never believe it! — our dear old drinking buddies Suicide Girls dot com!

Creeped out by this smutsational incursion into her academic career, Amysue dashed off an angry letter to JPG’s editor. Sadly, I think I can aver with reasonable certainty that JPG is unlikely to consider the commodification of women a principle over which one seriously contemplates parting with porn sponsor lucre.

Photography, alas, has always been the most smut-enabling of the media. Dudes are one thing, but dudes with cameras? Yipes. Even in straight-up professional photography magazines there’s always at least one naked male fantasy cliché unimaginatively rendered by some semi-erect buttmunch. Anyone who has done time among the “creative class” has met too many sleazy photographers to disagree that, among all species of artiste, they are far and away the horndoggiest. You chick musicians know what I’m talkin about.

Anyway, a click-thru of the submissions in the “Beauty Redefined” category reveals the unsurprising result that most amateur photographers “redefine beauty” as “hot babes.” Internet porn is mainstream American experience. So much so that even if we were to take JPG’s editors at their word when they call themselves “folks who shoot for love, not money” (cite), we can’t be sure they really know the difference.

Fruit report

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Stately, plump Twisty Faster came from the refrigerator, bearing a bowl of grapefruit upon which a spoon and her eyes lay crossed.

The material specialties of Texas are abundant (and often vulgar), but few Lone Star commodities can compare with the Rio Star grapefruit. It is considered the finest grapefruit in the known universe. The ruby promise of its ante meridiem delectation is often the only thing that can induce a spinster aunt to depart the Tempurpedic of a winter’s morn.

Of course, there can be little doubt that if grapefruit laborers were actually paid a decent wage, a Rio Star would cost about $37. Nobody but illegals will work for the crap the growers pay. With the big crackdown on illegal immigration, fewer slave laborers exist. Those who do are shifting over to construction work, which pays 2 or 3 times as much. Texas agriculture is on the skids. Growers are selling off their land to developers. Soon the Rio Grande Valley will be an endless mall of Baby Gaps and lap dance clubs.

Grapefruit fact of the day: Grapefruit is a cross between a mammoth Southeast Asian citrus fruit (pomelo) and an orange.

Speculative fiction

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Stingray applies liquid sunbeams to a pork tenderloin taco at the indispensable TacoDeli, which taco stand is the principal force in a spinster aunt’s being.

There are gaps in my intelligence on the recent Amanda Marcotte/Shakes Sis/psychotic godbag/American Political Machine episode. I am not in possession of all the facts. For instance, was there a train? My stomach clenches when I think of Amanda, bursting with young, sparkling genius, a scuffed leather suitcase in her hand, waving goodbye through a billow of steam as the train sweeps away from the station for the Edwards campaign, only to be jumped in the club car by vulgar hate-filled minions of the vile godbag Donohue turd, before anyone can bring her a martini.

I suppose now all the candidates think that if you so much as buy a feminist a taco, some creepy Catholic jihadist will spring out from the pantry and accuse you of having buttsex with aborted blaspheming blastocysts. And the New York Times will print it.

What continues to boggle the giant Twisty mind is not that religious extremists claim that their asinine beliefs are so glitteringly holy that no one may live who dares question their high moral purpose, but that they get away with it.

In the Twisty version, “Ms Marcotte Goes To Washington,” enlightened genderless aliens arrive in their organic mothership and aim a Lobotomy Beam at the brains of all woman-hating, dead-ghost-from-the-Roman-Empire-worshiping assholes; John Edwards holds a press conference announcing that he was just kidding when he said he was “offended” by Shakes’ and Amanda’s “intolerant language,” and will be henceforth be running on a platform of women’s liberation; Amanda becomes Chief of Staff; the enlightened genderless aliens throw a yacht party on their holodeck; Twisty takes ample advantage of the champagne fountain.

Porn again

Are you sitting down? Bitch Ph.D. has taken a job as Culture Editor for the Suicide Girls news blog.

Well, you know me. “Porn-is-patriarchy’s-purulent-pantheon” is my middle name. So the news wiped the feckless smirk off the Twisty visage quicker’n a slap with a flappin flounder. It was, in other words, difficult not to regard this development as something of a victory for the Dark Side.

However, this post is not — I repeat, not — a referendum on Dr B’s personal career decisions [see Note below]. Instead I wish to address a couple of the remarks the Professor made in response to the response to the announcement. Which I will get to in a moment.

But first, if you have never heard of Suicide Girls, all you are missing is a teen porn site. An enormously popular teen porn site, yes, but like all teen porn sites, it is run by men and exploits women, because it’s, you know, porn.

So what’s the big whoop? Suicide Girls is marketed, not as “traditional” porn, but as a hipster “pin-up” site. It’s a meaningless distinction that nevertheless seems to confuse people. Suicide Girls’ hipsterness — which, as a former hipster, I am sufficiently credentialed to critique — lies in the supposed transgressiveness of its supposedly “redefined” porn/beauty standard. Instead of emulating the pneumatic blonde boobness of Pamela Anderson, the chicks are gothy, punky, pierced and tattooed. They have names like “Vivisect,” “Havok,” and “Sorrow.” They are “given a voice” through site-sponsored blogs* in which they publish their apparently sought-after views on video games and awesome poetry. These blog “voices” supposedly empowerfulize them like no pornulated girls have been empowerfulized before.

Alterna-chick apologists for SG-style pornulation — who, with their keen hipster’s eye for irony, embrace the lexicon (“pin-up” vs. “centerfold”) of a quainter, Bettie Pagier porn epoch — point to the website’s purported (and invisible) “female-positive” stance as evidence that Suicide Girls models are not exploited like conventional Penthousian objets de smutte. Naturally, there are ex-Suicide Girls who, noting that the site re-pimps their photos to hardcore sites as they decline in popularity with the SG staff, and that subscribers to the decidedly un-feminist Playboy have free access to SG, see things rather differently.

As we have seen time and time again, two things happen whenever anyone “transgressively” redefines beauty (or sex, or femininity, or motherhood, or anything else popularly believed to be the purview of women). One, the transgressive redefinition only transpires when there is money to be made and flesh to exploit. Two, although it represents only a cosmetic shift in art direction, the new line of sexbot demarcation is touted and accepted as some kind of paradigmatic feminist breakthrough.

Remember the Sexual Revolution? Now you have to service a bunch of men rather than just one. The Dove Campaign for Real Beauty? Size 6 is the new size 2. Bust magazine? Where to “stock up on gorgeous cotton pajamas and lingerie.” Suicide Girls? “Porn even feminists can love.

Suicide Girls, it turns out, is just niche-porn for honky scenester dudes. The women are all just as skinny, gloppy with makeup, young, hot, and clichéd as any models anywhere; they just sport a little more facial hardware, as specified by their subculture. The purported free-wheelin’ Suicide Girl vixenality, billed as an expression of the models’ empowerful “sex-positive” choices, is actually only a function of their having chosen from the limited sexuality menu determined by hetero male fantasy. As one BitchPhd commenter put it, “Sexist alterna-guys have this stupid fantasy about the perfect girl: She’s “alternative” and poetically sad inside about, well, the sadness of sad things; she’s all feisty and spunky and shit but always somehow does what alternaguy wants; and she’s all tough and fighty yet tiny and cute.”

But I digress.

The remark of Dr. B’s to which I mean to strenuously object is this:

“Whether the net effect of a hipster porn site is positive, or whether, just like mainstream porn, it’s ultimately exploitation pure and simple, is obviously an open question.”

Not to me. Pornography, as I so un-cogently argue above, is pornography, and its net effect has been shown by smarter people than me to be globally detrimental. The idea that the nature of the subculture with which a paying customer identifies — in this case, the audience of voyeuristic perv exploiters all dig punk rock — can somehow exempt porn models from the trenchant evils of commodification, strikes me as fanciful. Neither can I see that the “feminist” element, i.e. allowing the Suicide models to publish these closely monitored and censored blogs, represents any great blow for women’s sexual sovereignty.**

“I don’t think,” continues Dr. B, “that porn can be pointed to as promoting beauty ideals, though it might well be to blame for promoting fucked-up ideas about sex.”

Dr. B and I are in agreement about the fucked-up sex ideas. That’s because my argument is that in our culture “women” as a concept is indistinguishable from “sex.” We have always been the sex class, but now, thanks to the internet, sex and the male-dominant practices normalized by porn are so conflated, and those practices so universally pervasive, as to degrade women as we have never been degraded before. Because pornulated sex, with its dominant/submissive fetish, is so ubiquitous, and because beauty practices exist only to advertise sexual availability, I contend that all beauty ideals begin with porn. My case can be boiled down to one word.

Labiaplasty.

Genital amputation is merely the latest point plotted by the Twistitute for the Study of Mainstreamed Pornography on a continuum of sexual oppression that contains such venerable porn-generated beauty tortures as the Brazilian wax, hair bleach, dieting, the push-up bra, liposuction, the stiletto pump, and the boob job.

Porn, O young onions, is nothing but the graphic reproduction of prostitution. Just as male dominance has created the conditions that produce prostitution, it has created the conditions that produce porn. Under these conditions, all commercial sex is coercive and exploitative, even if women “choose” it, because women do not have agency in a patriarchy.

Note: We amicably disagree de temps en temps, but I am as fond of Dr. B as a spinster aunt can be of a internet personage she has never completely met. Once I even guest-blogged at Bitch Ph.D. I consider her a homey. I will therefore nuke without compunction comments that attack her personally (the proper place for those is on her blog, hardy har).
____________________________________
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* Which is not to say that Suicide Girls management encourages freedom of speech. Punitive action seems to be the result when models express too much “negativity.”

** Certainly someone has pointed out to these girls that you don’t have to pimp yourself on the internet to have either a blog or a “voice”. Of course, once they’ve signed the restrictive modeling contract and have resolved not to express too much “negativity,” they’re assured of quite the audience; the Suicide Girls “community” is fairly mondo, with several hundred thousand visitors a week. I regret that there is perhaps an aesthetic argument against giving teenage girls quite so wide an audience for these “voices.” Quoth SG model Niche, “I was sooooooo sick when Lorelei and I shot this… The “Pneumonia days”… But I had a blaaaast and she helped me feel hotter than I ever thought possible.” Oy vey.