Behold the antidote to my two consecutive posts ripping on asshole women: Molly Ivins, vintage 1991, ripping on Camille Paglia. As bloggers who are too lazy to write an actual analysis always say, go read the whole thing.
Far less forgivable is Paglia’s consistent confusion of feminism with yuppies. What does she think she’s doing? Paglia holds feminists responsible for the bizarre blight created by John T. Molloy, author of Dress for Success, which caused a blessedly brief crop of young women, all apparently aspiring to be executive vice-presidents, to appear in the corporate halls wearing those awful sand-colored baggy suits with little floppy bow ties around their necks.
Ha! I’d forgotten about those baggy suits and floppy bow ties. In 1976 you couldn’t swing a dead cat down at corporate without smacking some Little Lord Fauntleroy-lookin’ secretary in the kisser.
And John T. Molloy! Remember his 2003 classic Why Men Marry Some Women and Not Others: The Fascinating Research That Can Land You the Husband of Your Dreams? No? That’s probably because you’ve already found your Mr Right, but remember: there are plenty of desperate bachelorettes on the verge of aging out of eligibility who need to know how to “increase [their] chances of marrying by up to 60 percent.” Molloy suggests a “straightforward plan for any marriage-minded woman willing to change her habits.” Stop watching melodramas on Lifetime and get your ass to a sports bar before you’re too old and fat to ever snag a guy who hangs out in sports bars!
You can tell, from his sound matrimonial tips, that John T Molloy is really interested in helping women stop being losers. That’s why he wrote a new, improved version of his 70’s how-to-express-your-loyalty-to-patriarchy-through-gabardine manual. It contains 26 pages on the subject of “the jacket” alone. Apparently if you don’t wear this power garment whenever you appear in public, everyone you encounter will automatically assume you’re a hooker. News you can use!
Meanwhile, there can be no doubt that my horse Maypearl’s impending professional massage — you’ll recall she was suffering from butt pain — has consumed your thoughts for many hours. Your anxious wait is over. The results are in. It turns out that young Mape’s butt isn’t the real problem after all.
As the equine massage therapist explained, digging her thumbs into Mape’s scapula, she has knots in her shoulders, which in turn makes knots in her back, which in turn makes knots in her rump. The head-bone’s connected to the butt-bone, as the poet said. To get it all sorted out, Mape will apparently require weekly professional thumbings for the foreseeable future.
I promised pictures, but preventing the Mape from kicking the shit out of the massage therapist kept me pretty occupied. All the photos came out as blurry streaks of white fur in a swirling vortex of obstreperation.
[Thanks to Belle O’Cosity for the Ivins link]