Announcing my new heartwarming nature crap series, “Mutant Prickly Pear Paddles of the Texas Hill Country.” I expect to turn the project into a coffee table book sometime in the future, perhaps when people can afford to buy coffee tables again.
While I tootle off to Austin to buy some polyvinyl alcohol (the armadillos are thirsty!), what say you ponder this? Because nothing delights a spinster aunt more, of a bright, shiny Tuesday morn, than to stir up a cauldron of vehemence Cotonbouchaise.
Behold a condensed excerpt from the afore-linked-to recent blog post, authored by blamer Pisaquari:
One of the BIG reasons I no longer believe in, or support the idea of, sexual orientation has to do with our relationships to others’ body parts. In most cases, to have a sexual orientation, is to have fetishized genitalia (or preference, one prefers [part]). […] [U]sing genitalia as a visual marker for arousal or appeal is a fetishizing act and does not differ you in any way from another amateur pornographer.
The “another amateur pornographer” to whom Pisaquari alludes is that dude Pelicanh, whose misogynist oeuvre I scorned a while back.
Sexual orientation = fetish. The idea is somewhat problematic, no? Yet oddly compelling.