Monthly Archive for July, 2007

Butt-swat Preservation Society goes to bat for jailed teen boys

Published by Twisty on July 29, 2007. 184 Comments

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When superfluous quotation marks meet a public can of Austin: Hearts and Paws dog training facility, Leander TX.

I laughed the hollow, mirthless laugh of an obstreperally-blocked spinster aunt when I read this story about the two butt-slappin’ 7th-graders in McMinnville, Oregon whose ‘horseplay’ — that is, an avocation leading them to cavort through the halls spanking female students — has landed them in juvy, facing felony sex charges. The responsible adults in their lives are now scrambling to determine whether their actions were criminal or just a matter of boys-will-be-boys engaging in “a common form of greeting.”

I laughed because these boys are precisely the product of their culture. Do these outraged parents and attorneys and sociologists and radio jocks and sexperts really expect that boys will not initiate attempts to dominate girls as early in their lives as possible? Do they imagine that misogyny is a figment? Do they delude themselves that the attempt by these boys to join their elders in satisfying, lifetime careers of culturally-approved sex-based harassment was merely an anomaly, an aberration?

Apparently not everyone does. As the father of one of the jailed ‘McMinnville Two’ whined, “We’d all be in jail if everyone got arrested for this kind of stuff.” Too true, Mr. Redneck, too true. Everybody hates women; why, it would be insane to criminalize patriarchy. Which is essentially the argument in favor of defining the efforts of pubescent boys to forcibly dominate pubescent girls as ‘horseplay.’ How can it be antisocial when all of society condones it? Quoth a dudely editorialist in the Salem StatesmanJournal: “[T]o criminalize [...] brutish behavior is irrational and counterproductive.”

Blowhards variously use the words ‘irrational’ and ‘insane’ to describe this case, but what is really nuts is that anyone should expect anything but criminal behavior from kids raised to revere a culture of domination.

As usual, the real nub of the controversy, although nobody is acknowledging it, is not over whether a couple of 13-year-old boys facing 10 years in the hoosegow for butt-swatting is an “overreaction.” It’s whether female humans have a legal right to personal bodily sovereignty. Incredibly, in 2007, the jury’s still out on that one.

[Thanks, Lisa]

Posted in Men Hate You and Sexploitation. Bite me, Chad.

Still undead

Published by Twisty on July 27, 2007. 55 Comments

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Today’s unrelated photo is of the Uptown Sports Club, abandoned circa 1849. East 6th and Waller, Austin, July 2007.

Yesterday’s post, wherein the entity known as Twisty emerged from the nebulous mists of the corporeal world to rejoin the Internet after an unauthorized hiatus, elicited surprisingly copious commentaries, considering that the post was merely a brief and dull acknowledgment that my recent essay deficit is attributable to nothing more exciting than a sort of blogger’s cramp. I was about to respond to a few of these comments when I realized “why bury this brief remission of my blogaphasia in the discussion section when I can turn it into a satisfyingly pedantic post?”

So here’s the pedantic post.

First, I must defend the stinkhorn mushroom. Although I used the photo, in a moment of unbridled puerility, to illustrate an essay on a patriarchal practice one dudely (and deleted) commenter calculated as the heart’s desire of “75% of the girls I date,”* and then left the photo at the top of the blog for two weeks while I sat around watching the Food Channel, it was never my intention that the reader should attach any kind of lasting misogynist significance to the innocent and spectacular fungus. In fact, as the country’s foremost authority on preternatural growths, I consider this stinkhorn to be one of the seven wonders of the excrescential world. It is my enduring hope that everyone reading this will have the remarkable good fortune to amble through some fetid undergrowth one fine summer’s day and be personally astonished by the stinky and majestic hot pink splendor of a freshly-fruited M. elegans.

Next, blamer Orange wanted to know about the seven habits of highly effective dragonflies. There was nothing in the post about dragonflies (the fly pictured was a robber fly, which belongs to the order Diptera, but except to the eyes of love I suppose one airborne bug is much like another), but I will not let that deter me from typing a bunch of words that say nothing in particular about a subject with which I am only glancingly familiar and which interests few. Quoth Orange:

A couple weeks ago, the Chicago skies darkened near Lake Michigan and a rainstorm threatened. I gazed out my window and beheld a dozen or so dragonflies buzzing around in the vicinity. Normally, I see dragonflies only if I’m right by the lake, and usually not many of them. This mini-swarm of pre-storm dragonflies, I’d never seen anything like it. I realize this is not the Great Lakes Entomology Extension here, but maybe you can explain the doings of dragonflies.

Also, when I see two of them hovering, ass end to ass end, are they doing the insectual heterosexual deed?

Although I am the world’s foremost non-authority on dragonflies, I cannot admit to any speculations relating to the tempest-pursuant onset of teeming odonate hordes on the shores of Lake Michigan. I will tell you this, however. Dragonflies hatch in water, spend a year or so molting, and then (depending on the species and the temperature) emerge in the summer. They eat mosquitoes, are not necessarily, as adults, directly dependent on bodies of water, and can be quite the jet-setters. In other words, perhaps what Orange observed was the result of a change in the micro-habitat of the species in question what caused’em to move into the neighborhood. Or maybe they just thought it was dusk; dragonflies are crepuscular.

As for the second part of Orange’s question, her conjecture is accurate, but the description is a tad misleading. When dragonflies do the nasty, they effect more of a head-to-toe thing. It’s called the wheel position, but it looks more like a flat tire.

Next, blamer therealUK was interested in how I get close-ups of insects. I use this absurd thing:

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Next, it was suggested by several blamers that compiling a dictionary of blamisms (e.g. pornulation, megatheocorporatocracy, etc) might get me over the writer’s block hump. What alarmed me about this — aside from the pain induced by the thought of doing all that work — was a collateral suggestion that implicated me in the proliferation of the derogatory epithet asshat. I would like to disavow any connection with the derogatory epithet asshat. I am not now, nor have I ever been, a member of the Asshatians (rhymes with ‘Dalmatians’). Searching this blog for the word will confirm that I have never used it, ever. I say this to preemptively assuage those tragically marginalized denizens of the radical feminist blogosphere who, because of their genetic makeup, are compelled by their very nature to wear hats on their asses and who therefore can do naught but take vituperative vengeance on flippant spinster aunts who use the term pejoratively.

UPDATE: Orange points out that, contrary to what I have stated here, there was too something in yesterday’s post about dragonflies. And she is right. I mentioned a dragonfly field guide, big as life. Sorry, Orange. I blame … something. I can’t remember what, exactly.
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* This intellectual giant also declaimed that I “really villainize Anal Sex To [sic] much,” that “most of the women” he knows “watch copious amounts of pornography.” He objected to some “false assumption” that “no woman actually wants sex enough to be a porn star.” Like dudes so relish doing, he then went on to graphically describe the ’sex’ acts he performs on his girlfriend. Another guy opined that I shouldn’t point my feminist claw at men’s misogyny because it not all men are “msygonistic” and my radical position can only “anger” them. He added, “I am not msygonistic but I definitely get turned on by being dominant.” No really, he said that. And then he went on to graphically describe sex with his girlfriend.

One thing is certain in the untamed, cutthroat world of feminist blogging: posts about turdpie dude behavior are guaranteed to elicit turdpie dude behavior, in the shape of turdpie dudes waxing lyrical on the subject of a) how much women love turdpie dudesex and b) how pissed off they get whenever anyone suggests otherwise.

Posted in Austin, Blogulation and Easy Persiflage. Bite me, Chad.

Peckish asilid of the week

Published by Twisty on July 26, 2007. 59 Comments

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I am not dead. Or even, aside from a bit of irregularity, sick. Since I freely admit to falling a bit short of meeting either of the aforementioned conditions, you may wonder why no blaming in over a week. Well, I’ll tell you. I do not have, at the moment (or, some would say, ever), anything of consequence to add to the discourse. In other words, I’ve come down with writer’s block.

In fact, if I think about one more rape case, one more teen porn movie, one more pink power drill, one more ‘humanist’ dude commenter — let alone spend the morning writing about it — my obstreperal lobe will burst into flames. As you know, this would take out everything and everyone within a 23 mile radius of the Twisty Compound, and all the Cool Whip in the world won’t fix that. The lobe to which I allude is an alien implant, and highly unstable. It has been smoldering for 6 months, baffling specialists.

If only it would stop raining. Crapulently, thanks to the megaglobalwarmingocracy, such a contingency is remote. Nevertheless I hold out some small hope that vitamin D production might one day recommence in the Twisty protoplasm. And on the spectacular day when the sun once again condescends to emit its toxic radiation upon the Hill Country, my friends, so speedy a mad dash to the kiddie pool by a spinster aunt carrying a Thermos of margaritas and a dragonfly field guide will seldom have been witnessed by Central Texans regardless of race, creed, or color.

Anyway, please accept this robber fly, seen here sating its bloodlust with a bee, as a small token of my undeadness.

Posted in Announcements, Austin and Varmint Center. Bite me, Chad.

Anal is the new ‘third base’

Published by Twisty on July 15, 2007. 286 Comments

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The magical world of Texas fungi provides this charmingly innappropriate illustration: a stinkhorn mushroom. The spore mass contained in the black goo smells like, well, ass. Note that the stinkhorn’s order is Phallales. Mutinus elegans, Blanco County, TX, July 2007. Don’t eat this one, Alice!

Whenever I write about how much men hate you, somebody — usually a dude, but sometimes a Mrs Nigel — always chirps up, “That’s no way to win men over to your nutty Twistolution!”

And they are right. Dudes won’t support feminism unless there’s something in it for them. In my case, they seem anxious that I behave solicitously toward them, to reassure them that radical feminists don’t really want to substantively diminish their social status.

My advocacy for women’s entitlement to domination-free lives may sometimes look good on paper to liberal ‘feminist’ dudes, but they loudly demur when it comes time for them to acknowledge that they oppress women whether they like it or not, by virtue of their participation — whether it is a voluntary participation matters not a whit — in male dominant culture. When I explain why their position is untenable, that oppression is experienced by the oppressed as hate, it is interpreted as my crossing the boundaries of feminine propriety. This makes’em mad. And they get mean, e.g. “I don’t hate women, you stupid bitch!”

These glittering examples of Western manhood appear not to grasp the irony of responding with hate to a men-hate-you argument. The justification for their subsequent personal attacks (one fellow human recently expressed his happy anticipation of my rapidly impending obituary) seems to be that I am just not obsequious enough. Insufficient obsequiosity apparently invalidates any argument made by a feminist, however shimmeringly astute it may otherwise be. As a cause, the fight against the oppression of half the human population is only supportable if it is presented with a solicitous head-tilt, a pert giggle, and an invitation to fuck you in the ass.

But hate you men do, however often certain of them wish you dead from cancer for saying so without first offering to bend over.

Sometimes I am enjoined to use a less emotionally-charged word than hate, or to recompose the statement to read “some men hate you”. Evidently the truth is too painful for these delicate sensitivos. They should, in that case, avoid at all costs this article. This riveting piece — on, coincidentally, bending over — written from the default human point of view, summarizes the metrosexual mania for anal het sex, wink-wink. As evidence in support of the men-hate-you argument, this article couldn’t be any more repellently potent; it is not the isolated ramblings of some midnight teen tubesock blogger, but in fact appears in the mainstream men’s magazine Details. You know, if I’d sat up all night with a tub of Cool Whip, a six-pack of Tab, and an 8-ball, I couldn’t have contrived a more definitive expression of our culture’s merry glorification of misogyny.

In this article you will find, replete with hilarious euphemisms*, men freely admitting that ‘demanding’ anal sex is not only considered perfectly OK, but is in fact a contumely devoutly to be wish’d. And ‘contumely’ is the operative word: it is agreed that conquest and subsequent humiliation is actually the object of the exercise. To wit:

“Once a guy has anal sex, he’s put on a pedestal by his peers,” [Philip] says. He claims he hasn’t had much trouble getting women to agree to it. “I only had to persuade two girls. [I asked] ‘Can I put it in your butt?’ At first they were like, ‘No, it will hurt.’ Then time after time of having sex with them they finally said okay. It hurt them the first time, but after that they always said they enjoyed it—if not a little, then a lot.”

And this:

“For most of my friends, it’s sort of a domination thing,” says John (not his real name), 30, a writer in New York. “[It's] basically getting someone in a position where they’re most vulnerable. My friends enjoy that and they tell their friends they did it. But it’s not like girls are ready for it—it’s something they do when they’re really drunk.”

It’s an escalation of porn culture. Since the excessively vaunted sexual revolution decreed that all women henceforth would be empowerfulized by their service to male sexuality — getting jizz in your wig is a big compliment! — too many women have been giving up the vagina too easily, and even blow jobs are hackneyed now that housewives are writing mundane marriage manuals on the subject. “Regular” het sex just isn’t brutal or insulting enough anymore. There’s no sport in it, no swaggering triumph, nothing to give men “a good story to tell over beers.” Anal sex may be “the new deal-breaker,” but it’s only a matter of time until blush is off that rose, too. If a ’sex’ act fails to egregiously humiliate or even harm a woman, men will keep pushing the limits until they find one that does. How long until we’re reading this in mainstream magazines?

“I only had to persuade two girls. [I asked] ‘Can I shit in your mouth and mutilate you with razor blades?’ At first they were like, ‘No, it will hurt.’ It hurt them the first time, but after that they always said they enjoyed it—if not a little, then a lot.”

Now, before you anal apologists flood my inbox with your porntastic personal anecdotes, hear this: in a patriarchy, wherein one class oppresses another for its own profit, there can be no ‘consent’ between oppressor and oppressed.

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*Rearguard action, take the service elevator, and grant a backstage pass are just a few of edgy-winky author Peter Rubin’s jollifications of women’s sexual slavery.

[Thanks to Stacy, who read about this at Feministing]

Posted in Heartwarming Nature Crap, Mass Media, Men Hate You and Sexploitation. Bite me, Chad.

From the boyhood home of Gandhi

Published by Twisty on July 7, 2007. 140 Comments

In some parts of the world it is still considered a fabulous idea for the families of teenage girls to pay for the privilege of their daughters’ legal enslavement to men’s families. Unsurprisingly, it is likewise considered a fabulous idea that, should the indentured girls fail to give satisfaction as cash-generators and spawnbots, they become fair game for abuse.

You will be disgusted to hear that this was precisely the fate of Pooja Chauhan, a young woman, living in the Indian city of Rajkot, who married for ‘love’. Because — whatever the motivation — marriage is an exceedingly rotten system, Pooja soon found herself in dutch with both husband and in-laws for her failure to incubate a male heir and to ‘bring dowry’. Reports vary, but from what I’ve been able to piece together Pooja apparently endured three or four years of mental and physical torture from devoted husband and family.

Her repeated appeals for legal redress fell on deaf ears. It’s always the way when a girl’s personal life goals don’t include incessant beatings by assholes; such a subversive sense of self-worth is at odds with what is popularly imagined to be the essential nature of women, so naturally the cops showered Pooja with indifference. Their blind eye remained turned even when, in protest, Pooja biffed off to the police station, poured kerosene on herself, and attempted to light herself on fire.

The reason we are now hearing about Pooja Chauhan is that, when self-immolation proved insufficiently drastic a measure, she decided to walk through town to the police commissioner’s office in her underwear. Whereupon the city of Rajkot ‘went into convulsions’, the cops finally noticed she was alive and looked into her complaint, and the in-laws were arrested.

Happy ending? Not so fast, Chet. This is 2007. No woman in this day and age goes unpunished for long.

So naturally Pooja’s up on obscenity charges. That’s right. In Rajkot you can burn yourself alive on the courthouse steps, no big whoop; if it’s a stir you want to cause, put on a sports bra and take a stroll downtown. In addition to drawing legal action for ‘indecent behaviour’, this will also cause the townsfolk — including your own parents — to assume you’ve gone nuts, whereupon a psych exam will be mandated and you will be placed in a home.

A Times of India poll titled ‘Is Pooja Chauhan victim or culprit?’ reveals that while many readers aren’t totally down with dowry-related torture, neither are they so outraged that they feel Pooja was justified in shaming the entire nation with her lady-parts. Quoth one Dinesh from Mumbai: “Probably she might have been tortured to an extent; which made her to strip down to semi-nude. But the way she chose to get justice [is] not acceptable. India is a country which worships women as a Goddess. There might be some defaulters. But it should be accepted.”

Pooja’s scenario might seem primitive to sophisticated Americans who delude themselves that women here are ‘equal’, but Western customs differ from this model only by degree, as is demonstrated by the battered women’s shelters in every American town, and the difficulty encountered when you try to get someone into one.

Violence against women is a fucking global humanitarian crisis, yo.

[Thanks, Belle O'Cosity]

Posted in Men Hate You and Sexploitation. Bite me, Chad.

I cannot resist one more spider post

Published by Twisty on July 6, 2007. 61 Comments

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Clump of harvestmen writhing in my perpetually unfinished soffit. The reader will kindly forgive the crappy picture quality; I had only my little point-and-shoot with me, having chemobrainedly omitted to throw the Big Camera Bag into the truck prior to departure. Phalangiium sp., Cottonmouth County, TX, July 2007.

Speaking of shrimp foam, the Twisty Arthropod Institute sponsored a field trip to El Rancho Deluxe yesterday (El Rancho Deluxe is the Faster family seat in Cottonmouth County, where for the past two years I have endured the unparalleled torture of building a house, which house is destined to remain in a perpetual state of it’ll-be-finished-in-two-months). The secondary purpose of this trip was to argue with a roofing contractor (a chap my architect calls a “neanderthal”) about the circumference of proposed downspouts, but the principal mission was to document the harvestmen phenomenon.

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I allude to the habit of these harvestmen — also known in the US as daddylonglegs ’spiders’ — to congregate en masse under the unpainted eaves and unfinished soffits of the future residences of spinster aunts. Viewed from afar, their convocations resemble the gunk you pull out of your shower drain. Closer inspection reveals that they are huddled masses of spindly arthropods, all languidly waving their legs around. I counted eleven clumps of 30 or 100 or so in various crannies around the house, but undoubtedly many more went undiscovered. Some individuals were white, survivors of attempted genocide by sadistic plaster-wielding drywall contractors.

I cannot get behind this anti-spiderism. It mystifies me that a drywall dude who clearly appreciates the beauty in an exquisitely smooth ceiling should fail to be down with this kind of spectacular pulsating arthropod action.

Not to unweave the rainbow overmuch — for certainly you have, since the cradle, cherished warm feelings and romantic ideas about the daddylonglegs — but as the world’s leading expert on harvestmen, I would be remiss if I didn’t debunk a few enduring myths. For one thing, harvestmen are not proper spiders. They’ve got their own order, Opiliones. And they’ve got two eyes instead of eight; the cephalothorax and abdomen, distinct segments in spiders, are fused into a single globular unit; and they don’t spin silk.

Neither is it true that harvestmen are the most venomous creatures in the animal kingdom, but that their mouths are too small to bite. Their fangs don’t emit poison at all. Like many people I know, they do emit a malodorous substance from specialized stink glands, however.

Although zoologists accept without blinking an eye that appending the word ‘man’ to the name of a bug is a perfectly reasonable thing to do, it goes without saying that female harvestmen are not called ‘mommylonglegs’ or ‘harvestwomen’. That would be absurd.

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

Garish dinner photo of the week

Published by Twisty on July 4, 2007. 34 Comments

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The foam-as-food trend, invented a few years ago by that El Bulli guy in Spain, has hit Austin at last. Or maybe it’s been here all along and I’ve eaten it 46 times but because I have chemo-brain it slipped my mind. But in any event, the other night at Zoot — an upscaly joint on Lake Austin Blvd — there appeared before me the above-pictured plate: crisp pork tenderloin, creamed spinach, and shrimp fritters. Shrimp ‘essence’ is what Zoot calls that pinkish scum you see bubbling up in the middle, and for some reason it was sort of delicious. Its resemblance to the gross stuff you skim off a simmering pot of fish stock is purely coincidental.

To make tasty shrimp scum, put a shrimp in a juicer. Combine it with gelatin. Insert the result in a whipped cream canister, and blast it onto a plate with nitrous oxide.

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

Harmless garden spider of the week

Published by Twisty on July 4, 2007. 22 Comments

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Fig. 7

Here in Austin it has been raining for 40 days and 40 nights. Some spinster aunts would simply throw in the towel and take to their beds with tubs of Cool Whip when confronted with such seratonin-depleting meteorological anomalies, but I am not one of them. No, not I. Instead I don raiment suitable for diluvian revels (a blue plastic poncho of such uncompromising doofiness that Stingray will not associate with me when I’m wearing it) and hie for the Twisty Araneae Compound.

My diligence was rewarded yesterday when I encountered this excellent, recently shed argiope exoskeleton (Fig. 7). The argiope herself (Fig. 42) — now a size larger than before — was hanging out to dry, but having little luck, on accounta the deluge.

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Fig. 42

Posted in Varmint Center. Bite me, Chad.

Kid stuff

Published by Twisty on July 2, 2007. 332 Comments

In yesterday’s brief essay I alluded to a news story about a women-only beach on the Adriatic. Almost as an afterthought I included the detail that the children as well as men are banned from this beach.

Because I just fell off the turnip truck yesterday, I had not expected this seemingly minor point to ignite a referendum on children. But naturally it did, because kids, whether by design or by unavoidable circumstance, are pretty much the exclusive purview of women, and patriarchy blamers, whatever else they may be, are women.

With opinions.

For the radical feminist, this discussion is lousy — if a facet can be said to daunt — with daunting facets. Such as:

Is it useful to demand a woman-only venue? Is it antifeminist to ban kids from a women-only venue? Is it antifeminist to expect that women have a duty to mind the young’uns at all times? Oughtn’t a woman to have considered the impending culturally- and legally- mandated dissolution of her human rights before she decided to reproduce? Is it antifeminist to argue that women-and-children are designed by nature as an indissoluble amalgam? Is there some kind of metaphysical fusion between women and their children creating a unit that is greater than the sum of its parts which, having so fused, thereafter supersedes any claim to individual sovereignty its previously (and biologically) discrete parties might subsequently make? Or is this fusion, if it exists, merely the unnatural result of relentless external patriarchal pressure? Is it an act of domination — and therefore antifeminist — to reduce kids to a class without rights or recourse upon which there operates social strictures and persecutions — such as their thralldom to one or two ‘guardians’ selected, cosmically speaking, more or less at random — that do not apply to other classes?

Or how about this: can apartheid — whether based on sex or juvenescence or skin color — adequately address, either as a temporary stopgap or as a permanent social policy, the myriad insults visited by a given oppressor upon the oppressed? This is the question that must be asked by those victims of oppression seeking immediate relief from intolerable conditions.

Or this: will the overthrow of patriarchy result in a world order that obviates the perceived need for apartheid? This is the question for intellectual spinster aunts whose obstreperal lobes are as sponges soaking in pungent vats of viscous utopian theory.

For my part, I have stated on numerous occasions (following the materialization in my personal sphere of a pair of nieces), children are an oppressed class. Their universal and legitimately reviled unruliness is not natural. It is a product of neurosis generated by patriarchy’s two main replicatory units: the nuclear family, which directly supports male dominance, and the single mother household, which indirectly supports male dominance a) by acting as an underclass dependent for its survival on paternalism and b) by incubating a ready supply of disadvantaged candidates for membership in the all-important working and military classes.

Of course kids are obstreperous hellions. They dislike oppression as much as the next guy.

It is my firm belief that although children are not born with an innate sense of propriety and obeisance to the bizarro social order currently imposed, neither is there inherent in the human species a biological imperative to behave neurotically, except when neurosis is imposed by crippling external forces. Which it is.

In other words, we may blame the patriarchy for obnoxious kids. Just as we blame it for rape, marriage, FGM, and God.

Look here. Male dominant culture so alienates women from the fully-realized default human experience that we end up arguing on honky American feminist blogs, not just the merits of some penny-ante old woman-only beach in Italy, but whether children, the only life form lower than we are, are human. Faugh.

Meanwhile, once again I am pressed for time; I would be obliged if the incorrigibly cerebral commentariat would condescend to enbiggen the discourse by addressing some of the above questions.

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

Patriarchy encapsulate de la semaine

Published by Twisty on July 1, 2007. 130 Comments

This video from MSN is precisely what would happen if you scooped, as they floated by, a few random globules of the ubiquitous patriarchal miasma we are all forced to breathe, whirled’em in a Video-Cuisinart, and posted the results on the internet.

The video opens with an commercial for a bank. A hot babe wood nymph is kissing a frog. The frog turns into a raccoon wearing a crown. The nymph keeps kissing it to gradually produce assorted incarnations of encoronated mammalianity popularly assumed to be a progression toward H. sapienly princeliness. This hilarious scenario shows how some banks fuck you over, but not this bank.

The princess-kissing-the-frog story is blowjob propaganda for toddlers. Apply your sexuality to a distasteful purpose and the kingdom — not the part where you get to go out and have adventures, but the part where you wear filmy gowns and bear the royal princes — will be yours! Just suck the dick, girls. Sex will pay off.

In the commercial the wood nymph decides, when she has kissed her way up to a portly, balding centaur, to blow it off, and flounces away, fed up. But not before she has humiliated herself several times over for nothing. This is so funny!

Next is the news story. An Italian beach has decided to ban men. Only child-free women (and dogs) are allowed. A sliver of enlightenment has apparently penetrated the obstreperal lobe of someone in charge of Italian beaches; he/she realized that women do not, contrary to Dude Nation’s relentless propaganda, enjoy being ogled, undressed in the eyes of strangers, harassed, or macked on while lounging in the sun. But of course you can’t tell the story of women’s’ struggle against oppression without footage that actually oppresses women: MSN runs footage of hot chicks in bikinis just in case the viewer has a limp grasp on the mechanics of sunbathing. Neither do they neglect the all-important male point of view. Surprise! Men are against women-only beaches!

After this is a ‘funny’ video where a driving dad verbally abuses two kids who are horsing around in the back seat of the car. This is meant to be funny because everybody’s dad has yelled this don’t-make-me-come-back-there shit in the car; it is normal for kids to be controlled, threatened, bribed, and punished/abused. In this case, the dad punishes the kids by driving through a car wash with the windows open so they get a mug-full of hot wax and soap. The culture of domination is a virtually bottomless pool of hilarious comedy jokes.

[Thanks Patti]

Posted in Mass Media. Bite me, Chad.