Monthly Archive for August, 2009

Atomic penetrators, and more!

Published by Jill on August 25, 2009. 61 Comments
Drunk chick interviews snake assassin as he changes his socks

Drunk chick interviews snake assassin as he changes his socks

It’s Tuesday, and that means it’s time for another installment of Unrelated Spinster Pronouncements.

1. Poor pit vipers. My last post on the Western diamondback rattler revealed that, herpetologically speaking, many of us have something of a gaping void where our common sense and interspecies empathy ought to be. Although I am no snakespert, it is generally acknowledged that a snake’s deepest desire to get the fuck away from humans; given the opportunity to exit your midst, any sane snake will take it. Only when a specimen, such as the diamondback on my porch, is cornered does it resort to self-defense. And even then, there seems to be some reluctance to part with the venom. My rattlesnake rattled like mad, but it never even tried to strike, even though I was but a few feet away and prodding it with a broom.

You can just beetle off, have a marg, and the snake’ll be gone when you get back.

Because of the dread “related videos” feature on YouTube, I found myself watching a portion of a vid wherein some drunk chick named Diane goes around interviewing male snake-hatin’ sickfucks at a “rattlesnake roundup.”

A rattlesnake roundup, in case you have never heard of this sickfuck shit, is a ritual gathering where a bunch of bloodthirsty barbarians catch a bunch of snakes, throw’em into pits, and invite the paying public to enjoy animal cruelty, American-style. The roundup-goers gleefully observe the slaughter and thereafter purchase rattlesnakeskin underwear, rattlesnake meat burritos, rattlesnake fang funnel cake, and rattlesnakeskin assault weapon holsters. Bring the kids! In the aforementioned video one of the macho snake assassins tells Diane, “God has blessed me with a talent.” For rousting innocent rattlesnakes out of their natural habitat, chucking them into death camps, and making F-150 seat covers out of them, apparently.

2. The endless capacity for self-delusion (e.g. slaughtering sentient beings for entertainment is a God-given talent, above) with which patriarchy has imbued the American dude is striking, as in this comment I found in the blog’s moderation queue. I laugh and laugh.

“Men have always been known for their chivalry,” asserts the commenter (affiliated, apparently, with this nutty website).

Well, men have always told everybody about their chivalry, at least.

“If [men] are treated well by women,” the comment continues, “they get treated better in return. If women want to be taken good care of by their men, they need to respect and treat their men with dignity.”

In other words, kiss my ass, bitch, or I’ll make your life a living hell.

The internet fucking cracks me up. Why the fuck would anybody bother to leave these idiotic remarks on a radical heartwarming funky savage death blog?

3. On NPR yesterday I heard some blowhard Pentagon dude allude, I kid you not, to a “thirty-thousand pound penetrator.” His tone was reverent. He appeared to be unaware that his phrasery stood alone at the apex of ridiculousness.

“Penetrator” is apparently what bombs are called down in the old War Room, which Room has always been, as you know, Penetrator Central. The USA, led by handsome, saintly Barack Obama, is, in its benevolence, contemplating penetrating Iran with a bunch of these thirty-thousand pound penetrators. Supposedly all this penetration will prevent Iranian scientists from figuring out how to make atomic penetrators of their own with which to penetrate us.

You know how politicos revere history, pretending that they study it so “we” can avoid the mistakes of the past and glide bloodlessly into a glorious future of peace among the snakes and the women? Bullshit. Men study history so they can avoid the mistakes of the losers and the defeated and the surrendered prison bitches of yore; they only do it so they can figure out how to be King of the Penetrators themselves.

Posted in Blogulation, Bloodsport, Dear god what about the men?, Heartwarming Nature Crap, Lobe-blowing, Oppression Culture and The Entertainment Industrial Complex. Bite me, Chad.

Spinster aunt’s adopted hometown lives up to reptilian moniker

Published by Jill on August 23, 2009. 48 Comments

Spinster aunts, at midnight after a half a bot of rosé, are often inclined to sluice out to the back porch, wearing attractive headlamps, to find Western diamondback rattlesnakes hanging out by the door. The serpents wait like patience on a statue, apparently imagining that mice or hunks of filet mignon are about to come flying out of the house.

The situation is perturbing in the extreme, since the Western diamondback is, according to Texas Snakes, a Field Guide, responsible for “the majority of serious envenomations and most of the fatalities” incurred by snake-encountering Texans. Its status as the most frakkin dangerous snake in the state results from its vigorously high self-esteem, giant fangs, and gargantuan venom capacity.

I gazed about me, giving the air a hopeful sniff. Nope, just my luck. Why the snake-handling Pentecostals should have chosen this of all moments to make themselves scarce, I’ll never know.

Faced with an inconvenient paucity of deluded Christians, it was clear that I was on my own. So I enjoined the 3 1/2-foot specimen to move along by menacing it with a broom. I believe I also yelled, “Hey. Git along, now.”

The Western diamondback rattlesnake just laughed and cranked up the rattling to eleven.

I then got the bright idea of turning a water hose on it. When this tactic merely induced the snake to slither a few feet thither, then to coil up against a drainpipe from which tactically advantageous position it adamantly refused to budge, I gave up and went to bed. It appears that reptiles, unlike cats and forest fires, like water.

Speaking of brooms, have you seen that repellent TV commercial where the smiling blonde hottie dances around her sparkling kitchen making love to her Swiffer mop, while her old mop, cast in the role of jilted lover, mopes around stalking her? Women and their romantic, intimate relationships with cleaning supplies!

Excuse me, I’ve got a hot date with an old dishrag.

Posted in El Rancho Deluxe, Heartwarming Nature Crap, Pre-recorded Twisty and The megatheocorporatocracy. Bite me, Chad.

Redneck Mother sends incredibly a propos Onion link to spinster aunt

Published by Jill on August 16, 2009. 83 Comments


Advocacy Group Decries PETA’s Inhumane Treatment Of Women

Posted in Mass Media and Sexploitation. Bite me, Chad.

Another amateur pornographer deludes self he’s an artiste

Published by Jill on August 16, 2009. 64 Comments

This amateur pornographer, known on the website Deviantart.com as “Pelicanh,” snaps photos of naked ladies, stands back, basks in it, and calls it art. Furthermore, he puts it on the World Wide Web and gets thousands of hits a day. Furthermore, he is eager to demonstrate to his followers his superiority in the field of female genital identification (though he obviously can make no claims in the ellipsis or the ALL CAPS or the insertion-of-too-many-letters-in-the-word-way departments). To wit:

“Anyone taking even a casual stroll through my gallery will see a lot of pussy photos. Let’s just call them what they are, OK? NO….they are NOT photos of “vaginas” – learn your anatomy, people.

I’d LOVE it if there was a sweet and endearing name for them, ya know. “Pussy” sounds pretty “Playboy-ish” to me but it is the best I can do because it ISN’T a vagina photo and that sounds waaaaayyy too medical to me anyway. There are at least a billion names for that part of a woman’s anatomy but that’s not what this journal is about. SO – get over it, I’m gonna call it a pussy.”

Well, sure, you’re a pornographer. This means you think “pussy” is “anatomy.” But even if you didn’t, obviously you’d have to call it “pussy,” since degrading women and telling them to “get over it” is one of the Inalienable Rights of Man.

However, were you not a wart on the corn-hole of Dude Nation, you might know the difference between a pejorative slur and actual nomenclature, or possibly even that vagina is not a “medical” term. It might also dawn on you that a “sweet, endearing name for them” would be useful only to you and your efforts to distract their owners, through some kind of phony sympathetic display, from the fact that you are a dehumanizing, exploitative prick. “That part of a woman’s anatomy” has already got a name, pencil-dick.

Anyway, this Pelican guy, in an essay titled, apparently without irony, “Pussies – Art or Porn!!??”, reveals that his life’s most cherished dream is to release nude models from their self-imposed prison of vulvular self-doubt. See, he has taken a poll on the subject. He is “saddened” to find that nude models invariably aver that they consider to be ugly the body part to which he alludes as “pussy.” Their views on the matter have apparently induced in these models a certain reluctance to flip him the wide open beaver on demand.

Unacceptable! Pelicanh vows magnanimously to take matters into his own hands, to educate these tragically deluded women on the subject of the “beauty” of their “pussies,” presumably for the betterment of all womankind, but in reality so he can persuade more of them to give it up for the camera.

I set myself a small mission to MAKE people look at them, accept them, see the beauty.

Make people look at pussy! What a noble mission! Because men usually experience such difficulty looking at pictures of naked women on the internet. Pelicanh has undoubtedly secured himself a spot on the short list for the Nobel Peace Prize for his dedicated work in this field.

A vulva, according to Pelicanh, can be one of two things:

1. Beautiful art, or
2. Porn.

It doesn’t occur to old Pelicanh that a vulva might have aspirations that rise above being photographed by some perv for public display on his perv web page, where viewers are “made” to look at “beauty.” Aspirations, for example, that do not involve complicity in dudely “art” projects, dudely perceptions of “beauty,” or perpetual availability for pornsick voyeurism. A vulva might want to just hang around. Hit the links. Go to a museum. Menstruate. Enjoy a taco. Chillax on the chaise with a marg and a copy of I Had Trouble in Getting to Solla Sollew.

The “It’s beautiful so it’s art, not porn” argument always hilarifies me. Haw!

What could it be about a vulva that makes it the universal Holy Grail of a certain species of male shutterbug? Why must these vulgar specimens insist on its unique “beauty” when, in fact, a vulva is precisely as “beautiful” as an elbow or a nostril? Why do they so vociferously declaim that they are not pornographers even though their “work” depends entirely on the gross imbalance of power between dudes and women, specifically on flattening women into 2-dimensional sex graphics?

I’ll tell you. When a dude photographer snags a beaver shot, he snags a trophy. Boo-ya. A photograph of a disembodied vulva is not, as is one of an elbow or a nostril, a politically or socially neutral concept. It is the graphic representation of the universal belief that women = sex, and a symbol of male dominance in a rape culture. And naturally it is customary, in the world of oppressive human endeavor, to imagine that beauty attends that endeavor, so that one may justify the oppression.

In the continuum of pervy sexist tools, dude photographers stand alone at the pinnacle of sleaze.

[Thanks, Windswept. I think.]

Posted in Art is my LIFE, Men Hate You, Oppression Culture, Rape Culture, Sexploitation and The Beauty Ultimatum. Bite me, Chad.

Spinster aunt watches CNN so you don’t have to

Published by Jill on August 15, 2009. 58 Comments

CNN has a “Health for Her” segment. “Health for Her” is represented by one of those Venus female symbols in the background, to differentiate it from regular health.

Today’s women’s health segment isn’t about boring old breast cancer or vaginas or about how generally unhealthy it is to be female on this planet, though. It’s about high heels.

Women sure love shoes, says CNN.

CNN reveal no secrets when they aver that, according to their women’s experts, “most” women — by which is always meant heterosexual Western women — buy shoes for style (by which is meant “pornulation”) rather than for comfort (by which is meant “humorless hairy ugly unfuckable”). Strippers, for example, or Beauty2K-Compliant women in the media, don’t wear Clark’s Comfort Walkers. Lady detectives on TV cop shows don’t chase down perps in Uggs.

But newsflash! High heels can cause health problems, warns CNN. The report claims that “most” women have no idea that their foot pain, bunions, broken ankles, osteoarthritis, and back aches are related to their sexay Manolos. Women are just that dumb. CNN, though, they got women’s backs. They interview one of the dumb women, for the edification of all.

“They hurt, but I wear’em anyway,” says the interviewee, chuckling at the hilarity inherent in her personal pain and disfigurement.

I am the only honky alive who thinks a human foot looks really fucking asinine stuffed into a pointy-toed shoe with a 5-inch stiletto heel.

Posted in Mass Media, Oppression Culture and The Beauty Ultimatum. Bite me, Chad.

Immolation

Published by Jill on August 15, 2009. 39 Comments

Who doesn’t love the Greeks? First, they invent peach melba. Then Maria Callas. Then they donate a husband and provider to tragic grieving widow Jackie Kennedy. Pretty good, right? But wait, there’s more! No sooner do they set up that hilarious light show at the Parthenon than they produce this excellent mystery woman.

The unnamed human set fire to some dickface’s peen at a nightclub, when he got shitfaced, dropped trou, and persistently waggled his junk at her. A pathetic attempt to express male entitlement in Dude Nation goes south.

Because drunken Brits have surpassed all other drunks in the World Olympics of Vulgarity, it’s always comical when one of them goes up in flames, but when he’s openly waggling the wurst in such a manner as to allow for a woman douse it with Sabucco and then flick her Bic at it, and that woman goes on to become a national hero, that’s gold, baby, gold.

For this woman’s act alone I forgive the Greeks for making all that tedious pottery of the Geometric Period.

[Thanks, Stella]

Posted in Art is my LIFE, Bloodsport and Not Altogether Depressing. Bite me, Chad.

Spinster aunt posts what amounts to a Dear Diary entry, regrettably

Published by Jill on August 10, 2009. 64 Comments

A blamer has sent in a link to the Daily Mail. I hate it when blamers send in links to the Daily Mail. Links to the Daily Mail contain a neurotoxin. The next thing I know I’m reading paragraph after asinine paragraph, each with less philosophic value than the last, until I am saved by some merciful interruption, like a puppy dashing through my lab with a dead egret, or a phone call from a telemarketer. But wait, did you know about Michael Jackson’s “secret son”?

I am especially mesmerized by a blurb describing a brand of torso-squishing underwear with “bio-crystals” that “melt” cellulite. It has UK shoppers in a panic. I bet these are really comfortable. Just the thing to slip on under your Utilikilt on a 105-degree day. All that melting cellulite will ooze out and form a crust which will attract flies and small mammalian carnivores. You’ll be the envy of the subdivision.

But wait, do they even have subdivisions in the UK?

I have now lost the original link, which of course had nothing to do with Michael Jackson’s secret son or spandex cellulite-melters, and so am forced to change the subject entirely.

So I’m all, right on Sotomayor! But as refreshing as it is to see an Hispanic woman take the oath of any high office, the Supremes are still one of most penis-ridden enterprises going. At the present moment, their own website doesn’t even list old Sonia as a member. Yeah, yeah, baby steps, whatever. “Dent” in the glass ceiling, whatever.

You can’t dent glass, I realize. Tell it to this guy. Honestly, does nobody think for five seconds anymore before they butcher a hackneyed metaphor and throw it into a headline?

Crap, look at the time. I was gonna drone on and on about abortion — RU486 in Australia, the panic over whether Your Tax Dollars will pay for abortions come the new health care bills, etc, but I must hie. Meanwhile, behold the heartwarming cuteness of Fran, my yella lab puppy.

Frances

Posted in Mass Media, The Entertainment Industrial Complex and The megatheocorporatocracy. Bite me, Chad.

Spinster aunt still not dead

Published by Jill on August 5, 2009. 53 Comments

Heartwarming Hill Country Tap Water

This just in from Spinster HQ: I ain’t dead. I don’t even have a summer cold. In fact, a team of experts has measured my vim and found it sufficient.

Neither, it pleases me to report, am I (at least this time) one of those internet feminists whose real life is so fascinating or fraught with desperate obligations the non-fulfillment of which would cause a plague of locusts that the only thing I have time to write is “sorry I haven’t blogged lately, but I’ve been so busy!”

The busy-blogger is universally the Head Cheese of Ennuitown.

So if I’m not dead or vimless or busy, why haven’t I posted in about three and a half years?

Because, as is consistent with the idyllic bucolic life of a gentleman farmer, the water that comes out of my faucets is brown.

It’s not only brown, it’s thick, and it stinks, and it occasionally pulsates. Pretty much liquid gangrene. After I take a shower my hair smells like a herpetarium full of rotting toads. And eels. I’d be better off dunking the spinster physique in my fish pond. A little algae in the teeth would be preferable to the odoriferous, tinty ablutions I currently endure.

What does purulent water have to do with not posting to the blog? Well, this aquatic crappiness, combined with (a) the ongoing drought, which perfect example of Cosmic Indifference is killing all my trees and all the heartwarming furry woodland creatures that live in’em, and (b) the 45 consecutive days of 101-degree-plus heat, has completely indisposed me toward patriarchy-blaming. In sum, I’m too querulous, sulky, hot, smelly, and dessicated to blame. When I so much as think about blaming and all it entails — the endless lobe exertions, the reading of unpleasant news on the internet, the furnace-like heat radiating from the computer — I have to lie down and put ice cubes on my wrists. The only exercise I can imagine that would not cause extreme physical anguish is absolute idleness, undertaken in a recumbent position in front of a large fan. Having conducted a scientific survey I’ve determined that this heat-related peevishness afflicts the entire population of Austin and the Texas Hill Country. Everyone I meet exhibits a stinkeye and a sweat-bead mustache. To those who don’t I give a wide berth.

“Hey, did you get any rain the other day?” one of these fresh, clean delight-os will say. “We got a quarter-inch out in Spicewood!”

“Fuck you” is the standard response. Whereupon one turns away pointedly, which pointed turnaway, unless one’s rain-drunk interlocutor has volunteered to truck some non-brown water out to your place along with a few tons of dry ice for your wading pool, is not without a certain injured hauteur. The self-righteous indignation of the rainless is a badge one wears with pained pride. Of course you didn’t get any rain the other day. Getting a quarter inch of rain is like getting a call from a lawyer in New York: “Congratulations! You’re JP Morgan’s long-lost heir! The jet-powered hovercraft will be arriving momentarily to whisk you away to your private island off the coast of Spain!”

Confidential to people who got rain the other day: You don’t cavort around town saying, “Hey, I’m JP Morgan’s long-lost heir!” if you want people to continue thinking of you as someone about whose screaming death they don’t fantasize.

Meanwhile, down at the barn today I was standing ankle-deep in sweat, shooting the shit with the horsey chicks about my yella lab puppy’s inverted vulva. This wasn’t weird. Conversations about domestic animals and their endless abnormalities is a standard topic among horse people. What was weird was this: when I mentioned the vulvulo-plasty recommended by some veterinarians, one young woman in her twenties said, “Don’t they do that to girls in those weird countries?”

I was seized by a pang. I’d almost forgotten that there are people sauntering through the world who have never heard of labiaplasty, for whom FGM is an undreamed-of figment, whose prevailing sense of the non-Western world is that it’s “weird.” But these lucky people are everywhere. I have walked among them.

Posted in El Rancho Deluxe, Heartwarming Nature Crap, Oppression Culture and The Spinster's Finger on the Pulse of Today. Bite me, Chad.