Monthly Archive for February, 2009

Page 3 of 3

Sure, eight is enough, but lighten up already, raging ethics debatists!

When PhysioProf said in an off-topic comment on a previous post — a post which, though it contains words, is fairly devoid of philosophic value, hence, one assumes, PP’s inclination to suggest a more tantalizing tangent — “Hey, TF, what’s your take on the fucking octuplets?” I said to myself, “Twisty,” I said, “what is your take on those fucking octuplets?”

I used that cuss word because PhysioProf’s pottymouth is contagious. Blamers like TwissB give me shit for using “fucking” as an adjective, averring that it is unseemly for a radical feminist to resort to expletives describing dudely actions that degrade women, but goddammit, TwissB, I’m only sub-human. In the post-patriarchal utopia, there will be no dirty words degrading women, because women will be human then.

But I digress.

I have consulted myself, and here is my much-anticipated take on the fucking octuplets.

All this shit about whether it is “ethical” for poor, single women to have litters of babies is a red herring. What’s really going on here is “Hey, let’s rip on this mentally ill woman because she has appropriated her personal uterus to flout social convention!”

Before this goes any further, let me briefly recap the official Twisty position on human reproduction of any kind. It is this: there can be no justification, under the present conditions of an already unsustainable human population, looming catastrophic climate change, peak oil, inequitable access to resources, caste systems, religious delusions, and all other aspects of the megatheocorporatocracy, for having any kids at all.

It would be nice if people listened to me, but they don’t, so you can count on women, whose reproductive functions are owned by both the state and whatever cultural conditioning they happen to have internalized, to have babies all the time. Likewise, you can count on this:

Whether it’s one kid or eight, once the placenta is buried (or eaten — yipes!) women are reviled. They get isolated in nuclear family situations. They suffer postpartum depression. Child-rearing is unpaid, low-status work. They can’t advance in the workplace. They are denigrated as “soccer moms” or MILFs. It’s a crap deal.

But I digress again. The conditions under which a woman may become pregnant and undergo childbirth are rigidly monitored by the megatheocorporatocracy; these conditions are entirely rooted in keeping a firm hand on the sex class. You must be married to a man, have money and religion, and submit to medical authority. Also, you may only spawn one or at the most two babies at a time, and you must stop spawning when you’ve reached your community’s ick-saturation point — any more than three or four, for example, begins to make you look weird. The slightest deviation is aberrant — for instance, if you’re a pregnant teen slut, or you want to bring an “abnormal” fetus to term, or you want an abortion, or you have a glass of wine while pregnant, or you want to eat your placenta with fava beans and a nice chianti, or you’re a single woman seeking in vitro, or you’re on the dole, or you’re queer, or you already have 6 kids, or you have no money, or you’re a single woman with 6 kids and no money having wine and octuplets — bada-boom! The cold claw of community censure claps you upside the head, and people write blog posts on whether you should be allowed to mingle in polite society.

On PP’s blog, a commenter suggested that the octuplet mother, as punishment for having an abnormal number of babies simultaneously, be barred from enjoying any of the bling lavished upon her by fascinated citizens; it should all go to pay back society for the incredible strain her aberration has placed on it, and she should “never see a dime of it.”

The acceptable conditions for motherhood are disingenuous bullshit. If you’re going to allow single births, what’s the diff if some woman has octuplets?

But she can’t afford eight babies! She’s got six kids already! She’s irresponsible! She’s crazy!

Big whoop. Irresponsible crazy poor women with six kids have babies all the time. The only difference is, nobody’s deathly concerned about their health, or putting themon TV all day long.

Spinster aunt just can’t let it go

Naturally you are following with unprecedented interest the shocking story of Mungo’s sudden decline, so here is the current state of affairs down at the Spinster HQ computer lab:

Total disarray! But the outlook, according to the Magic Eight Ball, is good.

Sure, I’m no board-certified geek, but I am a spinster aunt, which is just as good. By which I mean, I have a philips (sp?) head screwdriver. Over the years I’ve given Mungo a couple of video card transplants. I’ve performed open DVD-drive surgery to resect an impacted disc. I’ve reset its PMU and changed out its PRAM battery. I’ve reenergized its di-lithium crystals and massaged its obstreperal lobe. Thus it was for me it but the work of an instant to harvest the SATA drives from Mungo’s cold dead corpse. The drives now await transplantation into their new host bodies, which are currently being flown in by emergency airlift.

The autopsy revealed much deeply embedded dog hair, and also brown goo oozing from Mungo’s logic board. I fell to my knees, stretched my fists to the sky, and cried “NOOOOOOOO!” causing flocks of birds the world over to take flight.

Then I caved and ordered a new computer, also being flown in by emergency airlift. Lard help me, as much as Apple hates me, it’s another effing Mac.

I used to be an Apple cultist, looking down the Twisty honker at Microsoft’s cheezy UI, talking paperclips, and strange “.exe” viruses, but no more.

You know what? Fuck Apple. Like all bloated corporations with captive customers, Apple’s products are overpriced and increasingly unreliable. And omigod, the customer service? It sucks shit through Hefty bags. Considering the kind of grip $$$ they’ve extorted from me over the years, when I stagger into an Apple store with my 50-pound hunk of Chinese crap they should usher me into an Eames lounge chair, bring a bottle of wine and a tray of canapes, give me a neck rub, and listen with great interest as I speak of my hopes and dreams, of my childhood, of my relationship with my mother, of the coming feminist revolt. But instead they make me stand around, waiting.

On principle I refuse to browse the sparkling gewgaws.

Eventually, although not before the store has emptied of hot teen chicks buying iPod Nanos, they size me up as a middle-aged lady about whom the usual assumptions concerning computer literacy are made. So I give’em the old “I’ve had Macs on my desk, in my bag, and up my butt since they shoveled your first pair of Pampers into a landfill, so how about a little respect, you little retail mall toady” speech. This makes them hate me even more. They cop the ‘tude when I reveal that I didn’t buy their rip-off extended service plan, at which point they inform me with ill-concealed schadenfreude that I have to make an appointment with a “Genius,” the next available of which is next Monday at rush hour.

The crappiness of the service in their retail stores, however, is like eating a caviar taco on a yacht somewhere in the Aegean Sea compared to the condescension and rudeness when calling Customer Service, for which torture Apple charges like $92.86 per call for some tool to tell me — after asking moron questions like “Is it plugged in?” and “Did you restart it?”– that I need to take it in to the shop.

Back when I was a big smoker, I once took a Mac — Mungo’s G4 predecessor, Pongo — into a mom-and-pop repair shop. It smelled like rancid curry in there. Pop opened up my machine and recoiled against the wall, an arm flung across his face.

“It stinks!” he cried. “It stinks like cigarettes!”

Well, when I got that computer back it stunk like rancid curry for about 3 months.

No point to that story, really.

I want to be done with Apple once and for all, but dang it, I’m too old to learn a new platform, and they know it, the benighted geekbags. At least I have the small satisfaction of knowing that, by cleverly sending off for third-party RAM instead of ordering their ridiculously overpriced DIMMs, I kept a cool 5 bills out of their evil clutches.

Fuck Apple.

Except, you know, for the iPhone. That thing is fucking cool.

I may or may not resume blaming the patriarchy from a non-catastrophic computer situation viewpoint tomorrow.

Mungo dead at age 5

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The Twisty Mainframe, Mungo, keeled over this afternoon at El Rancho Deluxe, surrounded by family and friends. The Dual 2 GHz PPC G5 running OS 10.4.11 had been emitting an odor of burnt plastic and pitiful chirping noises for two days before its fan assembly finally erupted in a last hellish death rattle. Roaring like a DC-10 in a wind tunnel and in the throes of a hung software download, Mungo suffered a sudden, though not wholly unexpected, narcoleptic seizure. Efforts to revive it were unsuccessful. It was taken off life support at 2:36 PM.

Mungo is survived by a broken Firewire backup drive on a shelf, a 13″ PowerBook with a dead battery, an iMac without any version of Photoshop whatsoever, and an iPhone with a loose sim card that won’t connect to a goddam thing out here in Rattlesnake, TX.

A new backup drive, ordered when the odor first began a-wafting, did not, alas, arrive in time to save Mungo’s files, because spinster aunts are too cheap to spring for overnight delivery even when 5 years’ worth of data hangs in the balance.