Monthly Archive for January, 2009

State senator claims ownership of Nebraska uteruses

Add Nebraska state senator Tony Fulton to the thick and oily list of misogynist fuckwads who thinks he knows better than you who should own and administrate your personal internal organs. Fulton is sponsoring one of those wackaloon anti-abortion bills requiring that women seeking abortions undergo an ultrasound procedure and be forced to view the resulting fetal image.

To rationalize this outrageous invasion, Fulton opines that subjecting a woman to an ultrasound will convey unto her “information about the reality inside her womb.” Fulton says that this “information” will “reduce the number of abortions.” Why? Because stupid ignorant women apparently don’t have the slightest idea what pregnancy is; they need this vital information, available only through a medical procedure, about what is really going on in their lady-ovens. If they are given the opportunity (i.e. forced) to endure a fetus-screening (“Here’s baby’s precious little beating heart, here’s his adorable little brain stem …”), they will see the error of their ways and comply with the godbag mandate to shut up and be punished for the sin of fornication by incubating to term, followed by a lifetime of child-rearing drudgery.

Of course the megatheocorporatocracy’s conspiracy against pregnant women has always sought to control them through medical procedures. As Germaine Greer points out in The Whole Woman,

Peering at the conceptus in itself has no effect whatever on its viability or pregnancy outcome, but it is now routine. The pregnant woman who refuses to present herself for her regular scans is delinquent in her duty to herself and her baby. Knowing more about her pregnancy should have empowered her, but in fact it did the opposite. Her womb is transparent to the technician, not to her. Today’s mother first meets her child on a TV monitor and cannot recognize it.”

That’s right. Nobody knows what the fuck they’re looking at when they see an ultrasound image of a fetus, but thanks to clever marketing by Medical Nation, it is widely touted as a sentimental bonding moment and has achieved the status of a cultural institution. For a woman seeking an abortion, this weepy ultrasound intervention, like most state and medical interference in private lives, is wildly inappropriate. It’s nothing but pressure to conform by shaming the woman into a culturally-mandated response. No “information” is imparted, only social cues. The only possible rationale behind any Fultonesque anti-abortion bill is to make abortion as inconvenient, shaming, and difficult as possible.

The state colonization of the American uterus must end.

Friday burlesque blogging

I was just kidding about turning I Blame the Patriarchy into an empty vessel of YouTube-itude, but that did not stop veteran blamer B. Dagger Lee from sending in the vid below. It is a strip-tease, and therefore is not “work-safe,” which is a phrase one applies, as I understand it, to web pages that do not contain the Lord’s Prayer. Not that you really need to know whether the video is work-safe; apparently all corporate and corporatesque networks block I Blame the Patriarchy as a matter of course.

Anyhow, if you would do me the favor of watching the video before reading the rest of this post I would be greatly obliged. I ask this to ensure the — I dunno — purity of your response to it (quiz follows). If you aren’t going to watch it, fine. Go have a sandwich while the rest of us enjoy some good old-fashioned entertainment, you old prude!

Quoth BDL on the subject of the video: “I think I’ve found a strip performance that subverts the patriarchy. Okay, I exaggerate, but I think it pokes at it a little.”

I don’t want to tip the taco cart in advance or anything, and I may be wrong, but I predict that old BDL is about to catch it a little. Ah well, she brings it on herself.

So, onward: What you may not know about the stripper is this: she is London lesbo performance artist Ursula Martinez. Here is her one-sheet:

She sets fire to her tits, interrogates her parents, re-defines class, blurs fiction with reality, cures homosexuals, gives birth to penises, tells autobiographical stories, deconstructs performance and sings South London suburban flamenco – from high brow to low brow, from spectacle to confessional, from live art to light entertainment, Ursula Martinez produces solo and collaborative performance for theatre, site-specific, installation, cabaret, night club, film, television…… birthdays, weddings and Barmitzvahs!

And now for the quiz: does a previous apprehension of the context of this video, i.e. that Martinez is a “lesbian performance artist” with a significant body of subversive work under her garter belt, rather than a garden-variety exploited woman, in any way alter the meaning of her strip-tease? I mean, if you didn’t know anything about her artsy lesbo curriculum vitae prior to watching, would there have popped into your astute blaming head the slightest inkling that Martinez is subverting patriarchy? Does the fact that it is a comedic performance impart philosophic value sufficient to derail the patriarchally-programmed response — by which I mean prurience — to a naked woman pulling objects out of her vagina onstage? Does Martinez, in fact, poke at it a little?

My own view is that, out of context, this video is sexploitation. In context, it is sexploitation.

I’m not a big proponent of the “artist’s intent” school of art criticism.

I don’t presume to know Martinez’s intent, but supposing, as BDL does, that she aspires to a send-up of raunch culture by riffing on its beloved burlesque, she doesn’t quite succeed. Granted, there is something refreshingly — and sort of weirdly — un-pornulational about this performance, but in the end she turns her vagina into a punch line, just like a long line of misogynist pigs before her. As 20th century sexist gasbag Jean-Paul Sartre wittily opined in Being and Nothingness, “The obscenity of the female sex is that of everything that gapes open.”

Under the auspices of patriarchy, female onstage-ical nudity, comical or not, performance art or not, cannot overcome the woman-hating cultural conditions, so sweetly described by Sartre, that have been placed on it. Indeed, the lone comment (as of this writing) on Martinez’s YouTube page suggests that the viewer has been unable to distinguish between naked strip-tease performance art and pornography:

“is she a psycho, cause only a psycho woman can get naked in front of all that people [sic].”

I assert that the commenter lacks such fine discerning sensibilities because in our culture there is no difference between women, psychosis, and, of course, obscenity.

The mighty Blametariat: global threat on the march

worldmap012909.jpg
2009

worldmap2.jpg
2006

Occasionally it’s instructive to contemplate the global map in terms of the patriarchy blaming population. Behold a couple Sitemeter images. Compare and contrast! The one on the bottom is from January, 2006. The top one shows the locations of the 500 most recent (as of 15 minutes ago) blog visitors. No telling how many of them accidentally clicked on I Blame the Patriarchy looking for kiddie porn (that happens a lot for some reason).

Well, actually there is a way to tell that, but it’s labor intensive, and doing a search on pornulators is just gross.

I’m United Statesian, as are many of the Blametariat, but as we see from our visual aids, blaming is not exclusively an American pursuit. In fact, it kind of looks as though, over the past 3 years, blaming has begun to catch on in corners of the earth far flung from Rattlesnake, Texas. Even as we speak, somebody’s blaming in Sudan, in Santiago, in Shanxi.

Tehran, Wollongong, Utrecht.

Saudi Arabia, Nowy Sacz, Seoul.

Manitoba, Nova Scotia, Montréal.

Kristianstad, Pretoria, Paekakariki (I think that’s in New Zealand).

Tasmania, Togo, Ylivieska.

Kyoto, Ahmadabad, Perth.

Bangkok, Bangalore, Burnaby, Brighton, Bournemouth, Brisbane.

It’s not on this map, but I had a guy write in from McMurdo (I say “guy” because do they even let women into Antarctica?). A member of the blametariat had broken his heart, and did I have any advice? Which I took to mean, are there any radical feminist magic words that could make her love him again? Alas, I did not have such advice. Our culture of domination and submission precludes (with the obvious exception of your Nigel, of course) heterosexual relationships free of the patriarchal impediments that ultimately lead to unhappiness. Dudes who wish their girlfriends could love them with free agency, and not out of fear, self-loathing, or some sense of obligation to heteronormative dudely tradition, should a) not require that they get married; b) instead of looking for an Internet Feminist’s shoulder to cry on, go live on a mountain top in Tibet, contemplating male privilege’s contributions to a) their relationship’s demise and b) the global oppression of all women; and c) overthrow patriarchy.

That lone white dot on the eastern Mediterranean is in Palestinian Territory, Occupied Hebron, home of the Cave of the Patriarchs, where doth lie the celebrated corpse of patriarchal coot Abraham, and site of assorted dudely bloodbaths.

And there’s Hattie, our solitary Hawaiian blamer. Hey, Hattie!

Hawaii, I believe, is technically part of the US, but I understand Oprah owns most of it.

Of course no self-respecting, moose-murdering Alaskan would read a radical feminist blog. No dots there!

Clearly I need to publish Alaskan, Spanish, Russian, Mandarin, and several Afro-Asiatic and Semitic versions of this blog. Rosetta Stone, here I come.

See your dot on the map? Stand up and be counted. Don’t see your dot? Stand up and be counted. There may be a fellow Monstrous Woman right next door.

How’s the state of blame in your neck of the woods?

Great news!

To accommodate those blamers who just don’t like to read all that much, I’m changing the format of I Blame the Patriarchy. From now on it’s gonna be one of those blogs that just posts YouTube videos!

If you’re going to watch the video below, I’d advise doing so before you eat your organic aerosol waffle. If you’re not going to watch it, I will summarize for you:

Bush 1 tells tasteless and unoriginal feminists-are-ugly joke that brings down the house. Clinton (Bill), following the old coot at the podium, can’t contain his hilarity, and gets laughs lamenting that he could never get away with such a fucking great joke. Then he tells a joke comparing break dancers to dogs in need of worming, which — even though it doesn’t contain anything so inherently hilarious as ugly feminists — if you ask me, he doesn’t really get away with either.

Those two guys — like all white guy elites — are just like peas and carrots, peas and carrots. Clinton (Bill) has always been a loathsome pig of the first water. One of the irksome little things that used to niggle my lobe during W’s reign of terror was the constant liberal refrain “I miss Bill!”

Ann Richards is the only politician I could ever stand.

[Via Feministe and lonely island dweller Anushka]

And now the good news

Feminism, I am often told, is not some internet spinster aunt tapping away at a keyboard in rural Texas. It is a gang of vigilantes in poverty-ridden northern India, women who wear pink saris and kick actual ass. With sticks.

I allude to the Gulabi Gang, a marauding justice league that uses shame and the threat of violence to combat misogyny in their hellish corner of the world.

Two years after they gave themselves a name and an attire, the women in pink have thrashed men who have abandoned or beaten their wives and unearthed corruption in the distribution of grain to the poor.

They have also stormed a police station and attacked a policeman after they took in an untouchable man and refused to register a case.

Unfortunately, this BBC report describes the leader of the Gulabi (pink) Gang as “feisty.” At least it refrained from “plucky.” It also makes the point, approvingly, that the group is “not exactly a gang of male-bashing feminists” since “they claim they have returned 11 girls who were thrown out of their homes to their spouses because “women need men to live with”.

Which is undoubtedly true in a society where men have all the cash and all the power, and where women are literally chattel, married off as children in exchange for money, abused, and living in abject poverty. It is not un-feminist to survive any way you can under intolerable circumstances, you dumb BBC writer.

Before you complain that the Gulabi Gang is obviously just another arm of some Western pinkinfantile marketing scheme: they wear pink because all the other colors were already taken by political parties with which they have no desire to align themselves. They are totally non-partisan.

Why not take the support offered by political groups?

Because politicians always want kickbacks, duh.

[thanks, Letitia]

Spinster aunt dies a little inside

hi_heel_race.jpg
Women with a low opinion of ankles shimmy for the gold in a race event broadcast on Finnish TV. Photo originally uploaded by vestman with some rights reserved.

Will the global appetite for stiletto-racing never be sated?

Quoth a Flickr commenter, apparently without irony: “This is one of the most joyous photos I have ever seen.”

[Thanks, Maren]

First, the bad news

BatterBlaster

I’ve just found organic aerosol waffle batter, and I’m telling everyone! Just heat up the old waffle iron, point, and squirt! Try it with a glob of organic aerosol whipped cream for a virtuous-yet-space-age breakfast experience that can’t be beat. Waffle-hatas in your breakfast nook? Let’em do the whippet!

While I absorb my organic aerosol waffle, my thoughts drift ahead, as they always do at breakfast, to dinner. There is asparagus in my fridge. A brilliant plan begins to erupt in my brain’s molten core: organic aerosol Hollandaise sauce. Why has nobody thought of this?

Because I cannot focus on anything for more than 42 seconds, my thoughts also drift back to yesterday. Yesterday I found myself on the receiving end of a few media broadcasts, all of which caused my obstreperal lobe to sort of seize up. Fortunately, owing to the merciful proto-dementia of chemo-brain, today I remember only two of them vividly enough to recap them for the blametariat.

One was an episode of “Leave It To Beaver.” The other was a story on the public radio show All Things Considered By Honky Liberal Intellectuals. Just as the horrible specter of aerosol Hollandaise dawned on me, it has dawned on climate scientist Susan Solomon, writing in Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences, that global warming is irreversible.

That’s right. Irreversible.

Quoth Solomon:

“People have imagined that if we stopped emitting carbon dioxide that the climate would go back to normal in 100 years or 200 years. What we’re showing here is that’s not right. It’s essentially an irreversible change that will last for more than a thousand years,”

Guilty! I’m one of those people who has imagined that if we stopped emitting carbon dioxide that the climate would go back to normal. But no, it turns out that in a few decades the Texas Hill Country will be permanently transformed into a fucking dustbowl.

Already Central Texas is in the middle of the worst drought in about 568 years. Everywhere you look are skeletor cattle standing on barren dirt. They just fall down and die (this has a lot to do with the stupid beef industry pressuring ranchers to plant non-native GMO hybrid grasses that fatten cattle up fast but can’t survive a drought, and it’s fucking criminal that people are just letting these animals keel over, but that’s another story, as well as an excellent argument for vegetarianism).

Everyone likes to blame global warming on those stupid urban Texans driving Hummers, but shockingly, it’s not entirely their fault. Auto emissions, not to mention emissions from organic aerosol waffle batter, are a drop in the bucket when compared to, say, Asian industrial pollution.

Well, I guess that’s it, then. So long, world as we know it.

Wait a minute. The world as we know it has been preserved on film, and, horribly, is broadcast daily on cable! The episode of “Leave It To Beaver” to which I allude above well and truly made my skin crawl, but in a totally different direction than did the NPR report. Synopsis:

Beaver is invited to a girl’s birthday party. He refuses to go. Ward and June force him to attend against his will. We know what they don’t know: that the Beave is the only boy invited to the party. Our hearts bleed for poor Beaver, being made to socialize with icky girls.

Cut to Beaver sitting in a chair looking miserable while little girls in crinolines scream hysterically. Beaver wins a prize: it’s a dolly. He couldn’t be any more horrified.

Meanwhile, back home, Wally hips Ward and June to the godawful emasculation to which they have unwittingly subjected their kid. Ward and June couldn’t be any more horrified.

Meanwhile, back at the party, Beaver sneaks away and ends up in Mr. Man’s study. Mr Man lowers his newspaper. He has been expecting Beaver. The kid is safe in here. Mr Man always hides here when there are too many women in the house. No squealing harpies would dare cross the line of demarcation into his private sanctum. Sensing that Beaver is suffering dangerously high levels of nellification, Mr Man shows Beaver his gun collection. The day is saved, the natural order restored; the masculine act of fondling weaponry has reversed Beaver’s impotence, as is made clear when he happily raises a rifle to his shoulder and goes “Pow! Pow!” Back at home, Ward makes some homophobic joke about Beaver’s having enjoyed himself at a girl-party.

I could write a doctoral thesis on this one episode. I won’t, though, because I’m not in graduate school. But Jesus in a jetpack, the whole of honky American civilization could be recreated by aliens using this one 22-minute show; it’s an effing blueprint for mid-century American patriarchy.

It blows my mind that shit like this — and by “shit like this” I mean pretty much every goddam thing on TV — is still being broadcast with a straight face. I’m not saying “Leave It To Beaver” should be taken off the air. I’m saying that every episode should have subtitles, like that newsflash thing at the bottom of the screen on CNN, pointing out each instance of hate speech, sexism, racism, stereotyping, misogyny, homophobia, honky dudelionormativity, and child abuse. There should also be a sound effect — say, the “blast of a trumpet”? — to accompany each infraction.

Radical Feminist Closed Captioning and Descriptive Video Service for everything! Who’s with me?

Spinster aunt really does read her email

Top o the marnin, blamers. You know how I rely on you to email me with cultural bacteria I can grow in the petrie dish of blame down in the lab, but relax. You can all stop sending me the link to the $3.8 million virginity auction. I’m hip to it. And I cannot possibly improve on Amanda’s response, which is more or less that “virginity” is a bogus construct, and that the “auction” is a hoax to advertise a Nevada brothel.

Amanda, ever the optimist, also holds out hope that the hoaxer is both meta and feminist enough to be enjoying a big hearty feminist laugh over having duped a bunch of right-wing pervs into confusing an amorphous cultural construct with an object worth millions. If Amanda’s right, it’s a pretty elegant joke, but I don’t see how it can play out unless the virgin in question makes with a gotcha! statement.

Meanwhile, you can all stop sending the link to the Monstrous Women movie trailer, too. I assure you that I have a) watched it and b) guffawed at it.

This Monstrous Women vid has been bumping around the lefty blogosphere as a joke-butt for a while, so you probably already know that it advertises an antifeminist Christian propaganda film called “The Monstrous Regiment of Women.” The film purports to “prove that feminism has in fact restricted choices for all women, brought heartache to the lives of many, and perpetuated the largest holocaust since the beginning of time.”

Indeed, the filmmakers appear to have drawn inspiration from “The First Blast of the Trumpet Against the Monstrous Regiment of Women,” a 500-year-old tract written by a godbag Scotsdude who believed that women are “weak, sick, impotent, foolish, mad, and frenetic.” The Scotsdude, Protestant reformer and professional misogynist John Knox, was absolutely apoplectic that a woman (Elizabeth I) should be sovereign of England, on accounta “God, by order of his creation, has spoiled [deprived] women of authority and dominion,” which makes “the empire of a woman [...] repugnant to nature.”*

Knox was a wackjob, all right, but the filmmakers have to dumb him down for an audience of modern homeschooled Christians. Knox meant “regiment” in the sense of a “regime,” as in “the regime of Queen Elizabeth,” but the movie uses the word in the modern sense to give the hilarious impression that a veritable army of frothing feminists swarms the countryside with swords made of IUDs and shields made of paycheck stubs to blacken the souls of our innocent daughters and foment despair in the hearts of formerly happy hausfraus.

So anyway, that’s the backstory.

If you have demurred when it comes to actually watching the video — and I wouldn’t blame you if you had, as it is difficult to maintain a healthy appetite for your fluffy morning waffle while a string of misogynist women make unenlightened wackaloon remarks about how feminists want the State to rip babies from the arms of their mommies and force the unhappy women to work in salt mines (no joke!) — I’ll give you a brief synopsis of the trailer in question.

Antifeminist propaganda always sounds more realistic when it comes softly, in a wounded tone, from the delicate mouths of demure right-wing collaborators, so the film, though it was produced and directed by dudes, features exclusively women, whose talking heads “extol femininity” and “blast feminism.”

“The problem with feminism is the cultivation of an attitude of victimization,” desiccated, pink-faced old gasbag Phyllis Schlafly is dragged out of mothballs to opine. Feminists, she declares, “get out of bed with a chip on their shoulder.” Because we have completely pulled out of our asses the insane idea that the world order is based on a system of domination and submission. We just made up this patriarchy myth because we’re all too ugly to get a man.

Hillary Clinton, says one kindly old granny, alluding to the ghastliest female abomination she can think of, had the unmitigated gall to show no interest whatsoever in baking cookies. The horror.

A “former cadet” with a pixelated face and the name “Jane Doe” explains matter-of-factly that women in the military inevitably have crying “fits,” and that when they do, they are ridiculed and raped. Jane Doe confused me for a minute until I realized that she — or I should say, the filmmakers — isn’t taking a dudes-shouldn’t-rape-women stance — which would be inconsistent in an antifeminist film. Instead she — or rather, they — are suggesting that it is unnatural for women to be in the military in the first place, and that rape is their just punishment. Blaming weak, sick, impotent, foolish, mad, frenetic women makes much more sense than holding noble young warriors accountable for their uncontrollable eruptions of barbarism.

A delicate flower (and author of the gripping page-turner Raising Maidens of Virtue), dressed in virtuous white flowing robes, declaims that if you dress “loose,” you’re just asking for it, you godless slut. An oldie but goodie.

My favorite — this is where I made with the guffaw — is the woman who, during a stint as Satan’s handmaiden, says she was in “the abortion industry.” The business model of this industry, she says, is to “go into schools” and “get” teenage girls to be sexually active, with the stated goal that the newly ensluttified teens have “3 to 5 abortions between the ages of 13 and 18.” Performing abortions on sexy teenagers is just that lucrative. The carnivorous feminists who cooked up this baby-hating scheme are laughing all the way to the bank.

The ex-abortepreneur lady, you’ll be happy to know, is now a member of a group that shoves Jesus and compulsory pregnancy down the throats of indigent women.

You know, I am deeply heartened that somebody somewhere — OK, it’s just a couple of godbag wackjobs whose website actually contains the phrase “in regards to,” but they’re better than nothing — takes feminism seriously enough to bother making a cockumentary like this. It almost makes it seem like we’ve got some kind of movement goin’ on. Alas. Would that we were a monstrous regiment.

___________________
* UPDATE: I am gently corrected by a more scholarly blamer than myself, who suggests that the object of Knox’s antipathy was not the Protestant ER 1, but the two Catholic Queen Marys (“Bloody” and “of Scots”). Although I did read that Elizabeth, who was no Knox fan on account of his misogynist ways, did kill his career forthwith.

Sorry

I am very sorry to have read a review of a book called How to Meet a Man After Forty, but not sorry enough to refrain from foisting my review of this review on yall.

I am sorry that this book even exists. I am sorry that the author of the review wedges chunks of her own post-40 man-hunting autobiography around gushing praise for the author of the book. I am sorry that both of these women (and of course, millions more) have internalized the dominant culture’s urgent message — “Embed yourself in a nuclear family situation in your 20s, have babies, and disappear from public view” — to the extent that retrofitting themselves with a husband in middle age, when they are finally emotionally and financially stable and their lives are, by their own account, effing great, can even seem like a remotely good idea. I am sorry that a single woman over forty should consider herself a hopeless loser upon whom even her friends have “given up.” I am sorry that the message of How to Meet a Man After Forty appears to be this: getting a dude to marry your old hag ass is really, really fucking important.

Hell, it is important, if you consider it the pinnacle of human achievement to perpetuate and participate in a degrading sexist ritual and subsequent domestic arrangement the benefits of which traditionally accrue exclusively to men and their male offspring.

I do not disagree with certain of the precepts advanced in How to Meet a Man After Forty. Who, for example, can argue with the notion that nothing turns off a potential Mr Right faster than a confident, non-conforming “free spirit”? She may be “a breath of fresh air” but “he reads in her vaunted independence an adversarial attitude.”

Independence: Mr Right’s kryptonite!

The review author’s advice to overly self-actualized women?

Standing on your own two feet is great, but make a show of it and you come across as chippy or at the very least untouchable. He’s looking for The One, and seeks a woman who, if not instantly available, is easily accessible.

Be submissive. Suck up. Lower your standards. And for the lovamike quit being so goddamned adversarially independent. The author of the review — a woman with a great job, great friends, and a great “social whirl”– took it down a notch and, like magic, at the hopeless age of 42, instantly reeled in an unemployed sandal-wearing bald guy with 2 young sons, the lucky girl!

Without marriage to normalize femininity and misogyny and unpaid domestic drudgery and all that crap, the dominant culture would crumble.

[Thanks, Nora]

Gag rule bagged for 4 years

But don’t think you’ll never see it again

I’m as pleased as six pigs that Barack has Obamanated the international gag rule that prevented federal dough from being doled out to overseas abortion providers. It’s high time that white American godbag dudes got their bible-stained paws off of global uteruses.

But Barack Obama is not the Feminist Messiah, he’s the president of the United States, which, I don’t care how gloppy and weeping-tears-of-joy you are over his election, pretty much makes him the King of World Patriarchy. By which I mean, however benevolent a dictator he is — and I’m not saying he is benevolent — he’s still a dude in charge of a dudely culture of dudely domination. So, until his administration eliminates oppression, he’s totally on the hook for blame.

Check it out, he snuck the order through on Friday night, pretty much keeping it on the DL. I get that he didn’t want to stir up a big partisan whoop-dee-doo, but he either believes women are human or he doesn’t. If he does believe women are human, I wouldn’t mind if he called a press conference during drive time and declared it openly. Ellie Smeal put him on the cover of her magazine wearing a Photoshopped “This Is What A Feminist Looks Like” T-shirt, but so far, for a “feminist,” he’s looking fairly, oh, I don’t know, dudely.

I also sniff with some disdain at the women-are-frail-damsels language the president used in his press release. To wit:

[I]t is right for us to rescind this policy and restore critical efforts to protect and empower women and promote global economic development.”

Instead of something like “It is right for us to rescind this policy because women are human beings who are entitled to personal sovereignty.”

So it is perpetuated, this national myth that “we” — meaning “we dudes” — “protect” women by meting out little bits of empowerment here and there as we see fit. You know what? Fuck “protection.” And fuck “empowerment,” too. It’s a flaccid, nearly meaningless term used to describe half-assed half-measures that placate the oppressed and their advocates in lieu of actually liberating them. Nobody who gets “protected” or “empowered” is ever allowed to forget that they enjoy their little perks at the pleasure of the oppressor.

Note also the “promote global economic development” tag. God forbid we should throw women a bone without reassuring an anxious public that there’s money in it somewhere for someone. What’s good for the goose had better be good for the gander, or why bother? Sure, women who have control over their reproductive functions have a better shot at clawing their way out of poverty, but if that’s what Obama meant — and I’m not saying it is — why didn’t he spell it out? Everybody knows who is likely to benefit the most from the promotion of “global economic development.”

Unto those of you who are about to make the “baby steps” argument concerning the language and style of Obama’s order, I say this: this godbag gag rule has already been rescinded once (by Bill Clinton), but the minute W strolled into the Oval Office it went right back on the books. So, to recap: according to official US policy, during the Reagan years women weren’t human, then we were kind of semi-human again for eight years, then for the next eight years we weren’t. Now we kind of are again. Obviously it’s just a matter of time until the next presidential buttmunch rescinds the rescindment. These aren’t “baby steps”; they don’t lead anywhere, least of all toward feminist revolt. This is just politics. You can tell it is, because Obama, a politician, says it isn’t.*

And while I’m at it, what about this zany doublespeak recently adopted by some pro-choicers?

“It is actually a great day for those who oppose abortion,” said Steven W. Sinding, a past director-general of the International Planned Parenthood Federation and population adviser to the World Bank. “This will help many of the most effective providers of family planning services to enable women to avoid unwanted pregnancies.”

Don’t misunderstand me; I’m as super-pro-birth control as the next spinster aunt, but this rhetoric about “reducing unwanted pregnancies” continues to allow the argument — nay, even promotes the argument — that abortion is bad. Which is bad. Because — I’ll say it again — what goes on in a person’s private uterus must be value-neutral if women are ever to be liberated from the sex class.

_______________
* “For too long,” [Obama] said, “international family planning assistance has been used as a political wedge issue, the subject of a back-and-forth debate that has served only to divide us. I have no desire to continue this stale and fruitless debate.”