Just checking in to see how my “indictment” is going.
I see I have been voted off Savage Death Island. Brilliant.
Oh, looky. I’m likened to Don Imus! Ha! Good one.
And several demands for a public apology, as though I were some elected official who has trodden upon Roe v Wade in a pair of Louboutin stilettos on her way to sell a truckload of Moldovan teenagers to a sex slaver. Omigod, Twisty said “cuntalina,” she’ll probably be advocating labiaplasty next!
Ah, but wait. You know? I think I ought to clarify something. Just for the hell of it.
This is what I want to clarify: Twisty didn’t say it. I did. Twisty Faster is a work of fiction. She is a figment of the imagination of me, a real person named Jill. Twisty’s lobe is currently blown and is dripping grotesquely from the rafters down at the bunkhouse, so I, Jill, Twisty’s accommodating ghost writer, will be sitting in for her today.
Jill is a much better name than Twisty, isn’t it? When I was inventing the internet feminist I thought about letting her be Jill, too, but in the end I decided it would be too confusing if we were both named the same thing, and unlike Twisty I am Jill-centric, so I kept “Jill” for myself and gave her the goofy sobriquet. She pretends it’s cool, but has never forgiven me.
But I digress.
As I was saying — “I”, for the moment, being this Jill person of whom you are now suddenly and perhaps uncomfortably aware — Twisty and I have much in common. We are both geniuses, for example. We’re both spinster aunts. We like tacos. We both have obstreperal lobes. We’re world-famous concert violinists. We both think patriarchy sucks shit through Hefty bags. We’re both incredibly good-looking.
But alas, there the similarities end. Twisty is an alien from the planet Obstreperon. She is a superhero and pretty exclusively an internet feminist and is not real.
I, on the other hand, am an actual person. Happily, I’m no Platonic ideal. I’m not a paragon either, or an ideologue, or a charismatic cult leader, or a figment living only inside the mind of whatever philosopher-computer happens to type in my URL. I’m just some chump writer, chumping along like anybody else.
In fact, it turns out that I, Jill, have facets. Fortunately, not all of them are endearing. One of my best unendearing facets is that I drool on my pillow when I sleep. Another is a growing impatience with the rigidity with which Twisty is expected to conduct herself.
The heart bleeds for poor old Twisty; she’s constantly on the verge of being sabotaged by her crappy human ghost-writer. Twisty, a staunch dogmatist, probably wouldn’t use the word “cuntalina” to describe some antifeminist knob unless I, Jill, had had it up to here with that relentless, sanctimonious, supercilious Metrical Formula of Internet Feminist Conformity and Propriety, and had given in to the urge to let fly a deeply satisfying misdemeanor, yup, on purpose, because it blows my lobe, this impossible effort to continually accommodate every little stultifying molecule of the feminist archetype.
Another of my unendearing facets is poor impulse control. For which foible Twisty now suffers. Poor, noble Twisty, dripping from the rafters on accounta her imperfectly humble ghost writer.
So, before Twisty’s lobe regenerates and she comes back here throwing her big syllables around, let me, Jill, say the thing I came out to say: I’m damned glad you guys are taking this feminism thing seriously. Really. Nothing could be more heartwarming, except, possibly, certain heartwarming nature crap, than that there exist women who are able to grasp that “cuntalina” is an antifeminist slur.
But seriously, get off my fucking case already with this hypervigilant radfem hall monitor shit. The policey, self-righteous, gotcha bullshit around here generally is chapping my entire hide. When and if I commit some egregious ideological error that threatens the very fabric of the cosmos I’ll make Twisty fucking cop to it, as you fucking well know if you’ve been reading this blog for more than five minutes. But this cuntalina uproar is fucking absurd. Jayzus in a jetpack.
In conclusion: I’m not your fucking enemy, my dear asses, but if you like to think otherwise, I invite you to demand explanations and nominate Twisty for Misogynist of the Year to your heart’s content on some other fucking blog. The BDSMers hate Twisty, too, and will be happy to join you there.
Oh, and one last thing: to the blamer who thinks it’s OK to not like kids because kidness is a temporary condition: Your head’s up your ass, girlfriend, and I mean it in the kindest possible way. “Kids” are a class of people around the discrimination, domination, indoctrination, and abuse of whom entire cultures, industries, pathologies, and oppressive social systems flourish. Youth is temporary for the individual, yes, but a youth class persists; there is a constant supply of replacement children to keep this class well-stocked with hapless victims. Furthermore, the damage inflicted by expertly administered adult oppression techniques hardly vanishes the moment a kid turns 18.
But thanks for saying this: “I don’t know why Twisty used the term “cuntalina” but I gave her the benefit of the doubt.”
That was nice.