Oh heck. I feel like a heel, because I ain’t dead, or all that sick, even. Which leaves pure orneriness as the explanation for the recent paucity of blogular patriarchy-blaming. By which I mean, there are 237 reasons why I haven’t posted in quite a while, but none of them have to do with the decrepitude of the Twisty physique, upon which decrepitude no small percentage of the blaming public has speculated. My real life has most inconveniently intervened, and I’ve had to TCB. It’s nothing more interesting than that.
Even so, I regret leaving you blamers in the lurch like this, without a sufficiently martyred blogger under whose banner to rally, but I will definitely live to blame another day. I hope that you do, too. And thanks for giving a shit whether I live or die.
But enough of that crap. Even though I’ve tried to ignore them, I’ve had some thoughts on the early US presidential primary results, and I’m sure you have too. Take the sensitive New Hampshire white guy interviewed on NPR this morning. This sensitive white guy was deeply moved by Clinton’s 11th-hour weepy longing to lead the nation out of darkness. Based on her emotive waterworks, he called her a “mother figure,” and opined that the US government could really use the sort of doting, nurturing femaleness one would necessarily expect of a president with a vagina.
Jesus Christ on a sesame seed bun with special sauce! How many more times must we endure this mindless regurgitation of the universal (and artless) dudely notion about the mystical powers of that enigmatic ‘feminine touch’? According to this narrative, Clinton’s nothing but a martyr-drudge who will fold the nation’s laundry and wipe its crusty nose. I guess that leaves the real men free to lurk in musty, knotty-pine-paneled basements, fantasizing about hooking up with Suicide Girls.