Monthly Archive for March, 2009

Page 2 of 3

Spinster aunt talks about the weather

Published by Twisty on March 13, 2009. 51 Comments
Fig. 13a

Fig. 13a

Cottonmouth County, home of Spinster HQ, is the droughtiest county in the droughtiest state in the country. I know, because, like all spinster aunts, I am an expert climatologist, and also because I consulted the U.S. Drought Monitor. If I may direct your attention to Fig. 13a? Observe the section of the map that looks like dried blood on a bullet wound. That’s Cottonmouth County.

Thanks, global warming!

There hasn’t dripped a drop of rain around here since about 1947. Even the rocks are beginning to wilt. All along the highways, instead of wildflowers, are signs reading “Burn Ban in Effect. This Includes Lighting Farts.” * Everything is dead or dying, which, I grant you, is a bonanza for vultures, but for most everybody else the drought is pretty inconvenient. It’s pointless, for example, to plant food in a drought, which condition has obvious consequences for both food planters and people who eat food. It is also inconvenient for livestock who eat food. A spinster aunt can’t tootle down County Road 666 for half a mile without seeing at least one skeletal cow planted in the dust with four in the air. I expect the wild herbivores are similarly feeling the pinch.

Meanwhile, bone-dry perma-winds have been howling through El Rancho Deluxe at 20 to 40 MPH for two weeks straight. Whenever I leave the bunkhouse I have to wear goggles to keep my eyes from being ripped from my skull. I pick my way around the landscape clinging from tree to tree, brachiating on foot like some mutant earthbound gibbon.

To prevent the pruneo-dessication of my person I’ve been forced to have water trucked in by price-gouging drought profiteers. The water driver is a guy named Keith who, irritatingly, always accepts what I intend to be a strictly disingenuous offer of coffee. While my water pumps into the cistern he stands around slurping and raconteuring about the good old days in the Navy when he was a real ass-kicker. Unless I want to see ex-ass-kicker Keith every week, I have to be fairly frugal with showers and the laundry. So a certain aroma hovers.

But overarchingly, I’ve been pretty much living in a state of panic that some crazed armadillo hunter’s insufficiently stubbed-out Marlboro will float over here on a dirt devil and El Rancho Deluxe will go up in a blaze of deluxeness like some crap Hollywood special effect.

How dry is it? Two nights ago I was awakened by what could only have been an army of hydrophobic claw-footed aliens parachuting onto my hot tin roof from a giant pulsating mothership hovering directly overhead. I surmised that the aliens were allergic to water, and had journeyed to the Texas Hill Country from a recently flooded planet 4,307 light years away in search of the parched conditions that could sustain their species. I supported this hypothesis with the direct observation of two instances of thunder and one instance of lightning. As you know, mothershippal pulsations always generate thunder and lightning.

But the origin of the roof racket turned out to be even more alien than an alien invasion. It was, of all things, rain. Like all the other spinster aunts in Cottonmouth County, I tested this wild hypothesis by leaping into my wellies and hot-footing it dramatically out into the anhydrous dust that used to be my hay field, twirling with outstretched arms and singing my number one jam, “Africa” by Toto (including the keyboard “flute” solo, because damn those are some hott lixx).

Sure enough, I became damp. Hypothesis confirmed.

The precipitation continues today. Please join me for celebrational cocktails on the Lido Deck at 4 PM.

Drizzle at the Spinster HQ Climatology Lab: God is crying because He hates feminism.

Drizzle at the Spinster HQ Climatology Lab: God is crying because He hates feminism.


___________________
* Remember, during W’s first term, how he was always hanging around his Texas ranch “clearing brush”? Ranchers fucking hate brush. Almost as much as they love fetuses. Brush is anything that grows where the rancher wants to plant genetically modified hybrid grass to feed genetically modified hybrid cattle. The product of brush-clearing is a huge pile of wood. Ranchers always burn this pile, sending gallons of nasty hydrocarbon globules into the atmosphere, rather than going to the expense and trouble of turning it into mulch, thus incurring pollution and increasing the likelihood of wildfires. Nice.

Posted in Easy Persiflage, El Rancho Deluxe and Not Altogether Depressing. Bite me, Chad.

Every sperm is sacred

Published by Twisty on March 11, 2009. 72 Comments

Dudes continue uninterrupted exercise of divine right to annex uteruses as political tools, almost as if International Women’s Day had no impact whatsoever!

Whups! Looks like I missed International Women’s Day. I was preoccupied with extensive preparations for my “Dancing with the Stars” pre-season gala. No doubt you were, too.

Unlike International Men’s Day — which runs year round (including during International Women’s Day) in an effort to promote patriarchy, marriage, religion, compulsory pregnancy, poverty, global warming, pole-dancing, and violence — International Women’s Day is a poorly advertised 24-hour period when it’s marginally more acceptable than usual for media to acknowledge women who sound off about the global humanitarian crisis afflicting the vaginatariat.

But the next day it’s right back to business as usual, as the first three items in the Twisty Inbox attest.

– In New Jersey two gubernatorial candidates are arguing over which one of them decided to become an anti-abortionite first. That’s right, it’s news when two dudes fuss over the inception date of their support of the state colonization of women’s uteruses. Why? Because the longer a dude politician fœtophiliac has fought for the rights of men to use women, the more lovable he is to his “socially conservative” (i.e. misogynist) constituency.

“I’ve hated women longer than Dude X has! Vote for me!”

“Not true! I’ve hated women since Day 1!”

“Oh yeah? Well, I’ve been tripping old ladies on escalators since 1983!”

“Oh yeah? Well, I’ve been ogling 9-year-old girls on playgrounds since 1978!” Etc.

– Fran Ellers, a pro-choice woman making a “passionate plea” to a Kentucky legislative panel, was obliged to “respectfully oppose” a bill that would impose one of those asinine ultrasound/ cute-beating-baby-heart/ 24-hour-waiting-period dealios that are all the rage right now.

Way to go Fran Ellers, but I focus here on the word “respectfully.” The constraints of patriarchal convention required that, prior to making the wild suggestion that women are human, Ellers essentially had to suck it up and curtsey before the great wisdom of the dudely tribunal and offer deferrential “respect” to the insane idea that women are meatsock fetubators.

Happily the anti-abortionite bill died in committee, but the necessity of pretending to pay homage to that outrageous, barbaric viewpoint — hell, it’s not even a viewpoint, it’s the actual practice of oppression — sorely chaps the Twisty hide. Yet obeisance to this “with all due respect” social nicety is precisely what all women are required to do by the de facto owners of their uteruses if we expect to get a word in. If I ever tried to testify at one of those things I’d probably get hauled off in chains.

Not that it matters one way or another in the long run. One of the dudes who voted against the ultrasound bill claims that his opponents are blocking his bills in other committees, ostensibly in retribution for his pro-abortion ways. Thus, as is justified by global accords governing the fair use of women, uteruses remain the sole property of dudes to squabble over and hold hostage and infest however they see fit.

– Of course you have heard of this particularly mind-blowing case of medieval wankery. I allude to the recent rampage of Catholic Archbishop Sobrinho, Grande Mucky-Muck of the Brazilian Coalition for the Torture of Little Girls. Sobrinho first tried to block the abortion of a pair of fetuses infesting a 9-year-old girl. When that failed, he went on an excommunication spree, kicking out of his moron church anyone who had anything to do with the abortion. He booted the girl’s mother, the girl’s doctors, the doctor’s dogs, and the horses they rode in on.

He did not, however, excommunicate the 9-year-old’s stepfather who, it turns out, is the dickmunch perv who raped the kid in the first place.

Like all Catholic mucky-mucks, Archbishop Sobrinho worships an invisible magic dude who tells him that aborting parasitic growths is way, way worse than raping little kids and then forcing them to bring twin fetuses to term even though the little kids are physically too small to do it. This invisible magic dude will welcome the dickmunch child rapist into his billowing cumulus-cloud arms for eternal bliss, but everyone who advocated for the innocent little kid is going straight to hell. It’s comical, except that it isn’t.

The Catholic dude defends his views by comparing women’s bodily sovereignty to the Holocaust. No shit! Thus is a 9-year-old rape victim who gets a life-saving abortion like unto a Nazi.

Another dude, the president of Brazil, gets a piece of the action by condemning the Vatican.

I don’t personally see what the big whoop is with getting kicked out of an organization that loves pedophile rapists and hates 9-year-old girls. If some priesty barbarian patriarchyist excommunicated my ass from a crummy club like that, I’d rent out Tuscany for the weekend and throw a Butt-Dance Festival.

Posted in Compulsory pregnancy, Godbagism and Men Hate You. Bite me, Chad.

Field notes from the Equine Behavioral Studies Dept.

Published by Twisty on March 7, 2009. 100 Comments
Stella, genius

Stella, genius

My young grey mare Maypearl looks like a benevolent little porcelain unicorn, but she has fearsome intellective powers, which powers she unfortunately inclines toward the service of evil. Her practical jokes include bucking me off, terrorizing the other mares, throwing her rubber feed pan in the air, kicking down stall boards, and, the latest addition to her repertoire: refusing to be caught.

Yesterday when I went to get her, I was relieved when she came sauntering right up to the gate. I held out the halter. She accommodatingly stuck her nose right in. It wasn’t until I reached around to buckle it that I espied the red glint in her eye. I made haste, but it was too late; young Mape had executed an exquisite pirouette at the last possible moment and was galloping off, bucking and chuckling, before I even knew I’d been suckered.

As I jumped up and down on the halter that for the umpteenth time that week contained no gray mare, it began to dawn on me that Maypearl’s imp of the perverse had gone unchecked for far too long. Her idle genius had become a torment to all. She needed a little more stimulation in her life. OK, a lot more.

Toward this end I decided to teach her how to play catch, since she is obviously the sort of horse who can appreciate pure sport.

I’m big on operant conditioning to teach critters to do things they wouldn’t ordinarily think of doing on their own in a million years. Say I want the horse to “count” to 5 with her right front leg. I assume a neutral posture and wait around until she inadvertently performs the first part of the behavior — say, she stomps her foot to shake off a fly. The second she moves that leg — it doesn’t matter why she moves it, just that she moves it period — I make a little clicking noise. The noise “marks” the moment that the horse displays the desired behavior, and — this is the key part — signals that I will be producing a handful of food forthwith as a reward.

This noise/reward dealio motivates the animal to reproduce the precise marked behavior in future. The horse will be counting like mad in no time.

By stringing together incremental behaviors, I can get complex ones. I become a vending machine, wherein the coin of the realm is the desired behavior, and the reward is a handful of organic flax flakes. After the first phase of the behavior is 100% down, I add a new criterion, then another, until the horse is dancing the lambada on the head of a pin.

As an organic hippie dippie new age spinster aunt, I am fond of operant conditioning because it involves no force, no fear, no negative reinforcement of any kind. The only consequence of not doing it “right” is no handful of organic flax flakes. The horse can walk away any time she wants, game over.

Yesterday’s episode: I entered the paddock containing Maypearl and produced a soccer ball. Maypearl, who acutely perceived that I carried no halter, consented to wander over and eyeball the unfamiliar object. The moment she looked at the ball I made the noise that tells her she did something right, and she got a handful of organic flax flakes. Repeat. In a minute or two, Maypearl was associating the ball with the flakes.

So I upped the ante; now she had to take a step toward the soccer ball to get the flakes, which she figured out once I started rewarding her for inadvertently shifting her weight toward it. Then she had to bonk the soccer ball with her nose, then she had to roll it a foot, then two feet, etc, you get the picture, until we’re rolling it back and forth. It is enjoyable for both parties. It also draws a crowd, because horse people don’t train like this, and they come over to laugh at me, but they’re always amazed that a horse can be taught to toss you a soccer ball in 20 minutes flat.

This is no big whoop; you can teach any animal or human pretty much anything you want if you reward them with sufficient whatever-it-is-they-value: organic flax flakes, Porsches, bacon. I have a golden retriever who will do my taxes for a Cheeto.

Back in the paddock, my old mare Stella was loafing under a tree. I confess I had not fully appreciated Stella as a thinker prior to this episode. I had used operant conditioning to teach her not to kick me in the face when I clean her hind feet, but that’s as far as I’d taken it. She had certainly never seen a soccer ball before.

Anyway, I noticed that Stella had been observing with keen interest Maypearl and these strange soccer ball proceedings. Before long an interesting thing happened. After studying us for about 20 minutes, Stella strolled purposefully onto the field, pinned her ears at Maypearl to get her out of the way, bonked the ball with her nose for the first time in her life, and presented herself forthwith for her handful of flakes. Zounds! I said. Operant conditioning-by-proxy!

I don’t know if you have to be a horse person to understand how remarkable this is.

Probably you do.

Posted in Varmint Center. Bite me, Chad.

Pole dancer goes for the gold

Published by Twisty on March 6, 2009. 80 Comments

Today’s reader submission comes from blamer eb, who hips me to a petition on Facebook — currently endorsed by nearly 75,000 tools of the patriarchy — to “get pole dancing in 2012 Olympics.”

The originator of the petition, Collette Kakuk, who appears to be affiliated with a California pole dancing studio, invites Facebookians to join her in “shattering old paradigms” by lobbying to have pole dancing recognized as a “legitimate athletic sport.” Helpfully, Collette includes a definition of paradigm, so that the pole dancing enthusiasts will know what they’re shattering. She also provides a photograph of a woman in underwear and 5″ heels, fetchingly inverted on a pole, so the paradigm shatterers will know what pole dancing is. Or, as Kakuk prefers to call it, “vertical ballet.”

Objectively, competitive flailing on a vertical pole makes as much sense as competitive flailing on a horizontal one. Of course, when the uniform includes lingerie and porn shoes, I can’t imagine what paradigm Kakuk proposes to shatter. Does she labor under the misapprehension that the Olympic Committee eschews viewer titillation? Has she omitted to consider the prepubescent gymnasts in their sparkly makeup, the sweaty track & fielders in their hot pants, the ice skaters in their little-girl tutus, the beach volleyballists in their bikinis, the swimming hotties who pose for lad magazines?

The Olympic future couldn’t look rosier for vertical ballet.

Comments should be working again, sort of, but in case they aren’t, blame here.

Posted in Patriarchy, my patriarchy, Sexploitation, The Spinster's Finger on the Pulse of Today and Women hate you. Bite me, Chad.

&!(#@!!, or, the Update Announcement

Published by Twisty on March 6, 2009. 0 Comments

The blog is not just broken, it is blown to smithereens. As I have done 48,652 times since I was born, I have flown too close to the sun yet again. But despair ye not, for I have set up the Emergency Blog, which actually allows comments now, although it does not have avatars or a picture of my niece on it.

Until I fix the regular one, which unfortunately I suspect I won’t have time to do for a couple of days, what I’ll be doing is, I’ll be cross-posting here and there. If you read it here (at blog.iblamethepatriarchy.com), and want to comment, you can do it there (at emergency.iblamethepatriarchy.com). I’ll post handy hyperlinks. Parties who are interested in the archives will find them accessible only through the little slider dealio at the top of the page (where the page numbers are).

Not ideal, but blaming is a challenging business.

Comment on this post here.

Posted in Announcements. Bite me, Chad.

Oy vey

Published by Twisty on March 5, 2009. 0 Comments

Yes, I know, comments are fubar. And lard knows what else. Please bear with during these trying times. I’ll fix it somehow. I always do. Please email me if you have urgent business. Otherwise, please enjoy a taco and/or a margarita and think of poor me, sweating over a hot keyboard with only the distant dream of your continued blaming enjoyment to keep me going.

UPDATE: If you can’t contain yourself, I’ve got a temporary blog-thing with actual functional comments here

UPDATE 2: Comments now fixed, emergency blog disabled, thank you for your patronage.

Posted in Announcements. Bite me, Chad.

Spinster aunt curls lip as sexploitation reports pour in and jerks bloviate

Published by Twisty on March 5, 2009. 44 Comments

Every day cops bust up prostitution rings in “sex sting” operations. The Exploitation Ticker-tape down at Spinster HQ clatters out the reports hourly. It is reassuring to know that law enforcement, pimps, and news media are working together around the clock to bring us this riveting rape culture entertainment.

Here’s a fun one from Ohio: a woman is nabbed when she unwittingly meets an undercover pay-for-rapist. What makes this one so sin-sational is that the woman is a schoolteacher. Readers can’t resist a little spasm of schadenfreude when the story involves someone as supposedly noble and saintly as a teacher, falling from grace in the worst way imaginable.

Only in a patriarchy!

Another of today’s dispatches was slightly misdirected into the prostitution inbox; an unintelligible blurb from an unintelligible sports site called Bleacher Report prattles on, not about exploited women, but about some soccer player. Although it does have this to say in its opener:

Prostitution has always been lined [sic] a “unique” job and one of the most natural ones. Forever linked to physical love, prostitution has a new meaning.

You said it, Bleacher Report! Paying to rape disenfranchised women is love! What could be more natural than that?

It’s “natural” and it’s so despicable that women who are caught doing it have to be imprisoned. Only in a patriarchy!

Prostitution’s “new meaning,” by the way, is not a meaning at all, but a term coined by a disgruntled player: “intellectual prostitution.” It is vastly unclear from the blurb what “intellectual prostitution” could possibly denote, particularly in the world of international futebol, but I am inclined to surmise that, whatever it is, it is a lot less like actual prostitution than, oh, say, public schools are like concentration camps.

Prostitution as a metaphor for non-humanitarian-crisis-y stuff is also big with this Florida columnist. It seems Florida State Representative Joe Gibbons charges lobbyists $500 a pop for face time, and this is exactly the same as prostitution. The columnist colorfully and with wink-wink dudely savoir-faire compares the practice of paying to talk to politicians to the practice of paying to rape women:

Head out to the sidewalk of Hollywood’s portion of Federal Highway in the wee hours of the morning, whip out $500, and ask one of the suggestively dressed young ladies what that gives you.

They call me crazy down at the Capitol whenever I point it out, but the cigars-and-single-malt circs of a corrupt politician can in no wise be compared to those of “a suggestively dressed young lady” who supports herself by submitting to violent physical abuse.

Maybe paying to rape actual women would decline in popularity if what happened to this Detroit pay-for-rapist became trendier:

A 52-year-old perv seeks out sex on the internet. His degraded urges to use a human being as a receptacle for his incontinence eventually lead him to a house where, instead of getting to rape a woman, he gets

robbed, tied up in a basement, punched in the mouth to the point where his teeth fell out and shot in the knee. The next morning, the suspects called the man’s cousin, demanding ransom.

I admit to a little spasm of schadenfreude.

Posted in Knobjectivism, Mass Media, Men Hate You, Politics and Sexploitation. Bite me, Chad.

Spinster aunt acknowledges that the blog looks different

Published by Twisty on March 4, 2009. 97 Comments

maypearl

In our continuing efforts to bring you the most enjoyable blaming experience possible, the Twisty Web Development Department has implemented a couple of changes to the blog theme and upgraded the WordPress installation. I rely on the Blametariat to complain about these changes in the comments. I will probably regret asking, but please leave feedback, particularly if you are still getting “access denied” messages, but also if the blog is displaying psychotically in your browser.

Somebody asked about the avatars. They came with the new upgrade; I suppose they are essentially harmless. If you don’t have one and are envious of those who do, you can get an account at gravatar.com. What you do is, you upload a picture which attaches itself to the email address you use for commentarianism, so the avatar shows up whenever you comment with that email address on a gravatar-enabled blog. Otherwise, the little picture next to your comment will be a randomly generated cartoon monster.

A not wholly unexpected side effect of the gravatars is the “rating.” Apparently, some bloggetarians find it necessary to use pornographic gravatars, necessitating a rating system. Because I am a pearl-clutching sex-hating humorless prude, I Blame the Patriarchy, for example, only accepts G-rated avatars. The whole concept of “X-rated” depends for its survival on porn/rape culture. Nice, huh?

OK, I admit it. This whole post is an excuse to put up a photo of my current favorite horse Maypearl, a 6-year-old Arabian unicorn archetype (only without the appendage). Maypearl is a nutjob. The other day we were tootling along, la-di-da, when suddenly she jumped over a shadow. The next day she bucked me off. I love her.

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

Spinster aunt conducts own damn survey

Published by Twisty on March 4, 2009. 76 Comments

The Twisty Institute for the Study of Heterofemininity (TISH) invites women with boyfriends, husbands, and/or fathers to answer the following questions as honestly as possible. The raw data will be tabulated, collated, analyzed, duplicated, dipilated, notated, submitted, cited, misinterpreted, misquoted, and thrown away next week.

On special occasions, or when he’s seeking your approval, does your boyfriend or husband dance provocatively in lacy satin lingerie and a pair of Christian Louboutin pumps, the price of which would shock you?

In school, were most of the assigned books written by poor women of color?

Does your boyfriend, husband, or father spend a lot of time and money on beauty?

Are some women sluts?

When you go deer hunting, does your boyfriend or husband visit the spa for an herbal wrap, a facial, and a pedi?

Is your boyfriend, husband, or father afraid to walk alone at night?

Does your boyfriend, husband, or father yearn for shiny hair with “luscious volume”?

Would your boyfriend or husband continue to raise your kids and keep house for you if you stopped putting out?

After the presidential inauguration, when your boyfriend, husband, or father had a light lunch with the girls, did the subject of Michelle Obama’s outfit come up?

Is there a fair representation of women in authoritative positions in government, organized religion, media, or business?

When you see a professional sports event, are the athletes usually women?

Does your boyfriend, husband, or father take steps to eliminate his “feminine odor”?

Does your boyfriend, husband, or father ever try to appease you by tilting his head and giggling?

Is your boyfriend, husband, or father expected to wear makeup and heels to work?

Are the bosses at your job mostly women?

Does your boyfriend, husband, or father think it would be good to have “glowing skin”?

Does your boyfriend or husband constantly nag you to leave the seat down?

When it’s time to buy a new car, are you the one who negotiates with the salesman because you’ll get a better deal?

Does your boyfriend, husband, or father carry a can of pepper spray in his purse?

Does your husband thank you for babysitting?

When your boyfriend or husband buys a cute new bag, is he crestfallen when you fail to notice?

Do your fiance and his father eagerly look forward to planning your wedding?

For Valentine’s Day, do you give your boyfriend or husband a sexy nightie and a box of chocolates? Or, if you forget, does he feel hurt?

Has your boyfriend, husband, or father undergone breast augmentation surgery? Tummy tuck? Liposuction?

Does your boyfriend, husband, or father accept with a resigned sigh that the women in his office are usually given higher salaries and better promotions than the men?

Does your boyfriend, husband, or father wait tables at Hooters?

Are you OK with it if your boyfriend or husband gains a little weight, because curvy men turn you on?

When your boyfriend or husband would rather just cuddle, do you pick a fight?

Does your boyfriend, husband, or father clean the toilets with harsh chemicals?

Do you love the way heels make his legs look longer and sexier?

When dudes on the street whistle or make suggestive comments to your boyfriend, husband, or father, does he photograph them and send the pictures to HollaBack?

Is your boyfriend, husband, or father a primary school teacher, a nanny, a maid, or a stay-at-home mom because he finds it so gratifying to make personal sacrifices for others that he doesn’t mind the low or non-existent pay?

Do you send your boyfriend, husband, or father email forwards describing rape avoidance techniques?

Does lipstick scientifically formulated with ginkgo biloba, licorice, and tea tree oil give your boyfriend’s or husband’s lips a fuller, plumper, more kissable look?

Posted in Femininity, Junk Studies and The Beauty Ultimatum. Bite me, Chad.

“The authors conclude that feminist stereotypes appear to be inaccurate”

Published by Twisty on March 2, 2009. 115 Comments

I know. It seems implausible. But I read it on the Internet, so it must be almost true.

Today’s headline comes from this here link, which I’m promoting from the comments because, although the article was published in October of 2007, it is so rare and unexpected and seemingly anti-antifeminist it deserves another look.

The article summarizes a 2007 study wherein researchers inexplicably asked the question “Hey, what say we find out if feminists really are frigid man-hating hags?” After surveying a bunch of straight couples, they concluded that, despite the enormous popularity of myths describing feminists as the most miserable, “sexually unappealing” abominations on the planet, hetero relationships wherein feminism is somewhat embraced are “healthier” for both women and men.

Good news for straight women who are constantly plagued by fears that feminism is incompatible with heterosex.

Still, I have to wonder how many of the women identifying as “feminist” in the study were in fact the sort of feminist for whom “pole dancer” is a synonym. What I suggest is not altogether an unlikely scenario, since this species of feminist is, as we know, much more common than the feminist kind of feminist. Feminists who use their empowerfulization to reclaim femininity, you know, for themselves goddammit, would of course enjoy the reinforcingly pleasant side effect of appeasing dudes who are threatened by non-patriarchal gender roles. Which just might account for the male satisfaction with feminism found in the study.

I mention this because, in accordance with the dominant pornulated rape culture paradigm, women who really do defy traditional femininity and identify as human beings would, pretty much by definition, be sexually unappealing to today’s men of action. And by “men” I mean “male persons invested in the notion that women = sex.”

Of course, men who identify as “feminist” are subject to the narrowed eye of suspicion right off the bat.

Posted in Mass Media, Not Altogether Depressing and The Spinster's Finger on the Pulse of Yesterday. Bite me, Chad.