Monthly Archive for December, 2010

The future is sort of now

Turkey flashmob
Turkey flashmob surrounds the canine compound at Spinster HQ. Cottonmouth County, October 2010.

You could have knocked me and Phil, my secretary, over with a feather when we heard some guy on the radio freak out about the repeal of Don’t Ask Don’t Tell. It was the fact of the repeal, not the radio guy freakout (“we’re gambling with our national security over political correctness!”), that made us stop what we were doing (it was Saturday, so we were lookin’ at turkeys) and cock an attentive ear.

“Damn,” said Phil. “Didn’t see that comin’.”

It’s just so uncharacteristically progressive of the Central Junta to take such a wild plunge and throw its tacit approval behind the whimsical notion that homos are somewhat human enough to join the warrior class. So uncharacteristically progressive is this plunge that my suspicions are 99.7% confirmed: There’s been a breach in the spacetime warpmatter horizon-continuum.

Yeah, I’m pretty sure that a famous non-heterosexual spinster aunt from the future, Holly Clitoris, recently came back through a dark energy vortex-hole. She bought a bean-and-cheese with guacamole at a taco stand in South Austin, which set off a chain of events that altered our old universe into the kind of universe in which social policy reflects the idea that gays should sometimes be mistaken for people.

In Holly Clitoris’ time, being gay is such a non-event that “gay culture” is just culture, and straight people only have one TV channel.

A lil bit of twerking and lifting

Patriarchy blamers are world renowned for their (professed) eschewment of cable television, so it is possible that you have not heard of the most misogynist TV show ever conceived. As an award-nominated professional bearer of bad news, I am here to correct this situation.

The history of women’s degradation is long and colorful, but this “Bridalplasty” show takes the wedding cake. Once it has taken the wedding cake, it smushes it in the face of the last little shred of simple human dignity to which the sex class has been desperately clinging for the past 8000 years.

Wait, did I say “Bridalplasty”?

I’m afraid so, and yup, it’s exactly the gross-out you think it is. The hideous mutant clone of “Bridezillas” and “The Swan,” “Bridalplasty” is a tour de force of exploitation megalotainment such as the world has never known. The laughably sicko “plot”? Says the website: “Brides-to-be compete in challenges to earn plastic-surgery procedures in a quest to win their ultimate dream wedding.”

Is there anything about that sentence that fails to induce dry heaves?

Still, you almost have to admire the show’s creators for managing to clabber together into a single pulsating, inspissated lump of banality not one, not two, but three really top-tier femininity behaviors: catfighting, weddings, and self-mutilation. A typical scene depicts one contestant visiting another in her hospital bed as she convalesces from a nosejob; their conversation is about forming an “alliance” to thwart the evil bitch Jessica (“You better sleep with one eye open, bitch, ‘cuz I’m after you.”). Promos include a conventionally pretty contestant stabbing at her own head with pointed fingers, declaiming “I want this butt-face fixed!” Of the humiliating “challenges” let me say this: brides-to-be are given two glasses of sparkling wine and instructed to determine which one cost only $3.98; apparently this test reveals whether they possess sufficient taste to pull off a classy wedding reception. So it’s classist on top of everything else. Awesome! The prize for guessing correctly is a surgery to implant cadaver meat in their lips or some shit.

The lobe-blowing thing is that the show’s audience can drink in all this misogyny week after week and not take to the streets demanding immediate liberation from patriarchal tyranny.

Or can they? Has “Bridalplasty’s” corporate-sponsored hate and scorn finally pushed devoted E! channel viewers too far? A glance at the E! discussion board reveals this glittering jewel of feminist outrage:

“Personally I think this is a disgustingly misogynistic show! The very idea that a woman is incapable of being a ‘perfect bride’ without undergoing radical, dangerous surgery to be more aesthetically pleasing to the general public is obscene.”

I regret to say that this commenter’s future as a patriarchy blamer is not, perhaps, so bright as it initially appears. She knows what “misogyny” means, and she gets that plastic surgery is an extreme form of it, but doesn’t seem to grasp the inherent misogyny in the concepts of either bride-dom or feminine perfection. Sadly, although a few other detractors add their rancor to the comments, their unanimous refrain suggest that beauty, dudely validation, and marriage remain undisputed life goals:

“These women [don't need surgery; they] were obviously proposed to because their husbands think that they are [already] beautiful.”

That is, they’ve got it made in the shade; their dudes have pre-approved their degree of conformity to the patriarchal beauty mandate or they never would have popped the question in the first place.

Unsurprisingly, most of the remaining comments are quite the little tiptoe down Self-Loathing Lane:

There is nothing wrong with wanting to enter marriage a lil more perfect/ sexier than you did when you were just a “girlfriend”….what better gift to give urself and hubby than to be than a (better) “trophy wife”, even if it takes a lil bit of twerking and lifting.

The E! channel, for those saintly readers who don’t own televisions, is also responsible for such life-affirming programming as “The Girls Next Door,” a reality show about the enpornulated women who make a living draping themselves like silk bathrobes over septuagenarian perv Hugh Hefner’s living corpse, and “True Hollywood Story,” which produces incisive documentaries revealing such “insider secrets” as Katy Perry’s having once eaten at Taco Bell, and interviews with prostituted women who have been used by Charlie Sheen.

Yeah, it burns.

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Photo nicked from the “Bridalplasty” website.

Of knees and blood diamonds

No post today; the spinster knee must spend some time burning in the icy purgatorial fires of an MRI tube, the nearest one of which with an available appointment is all the way the heck in midtown Austin (midtown Austin is spitting distance from Cottonmouth County, but only if the spitter is 55 miles tall). Thus is today a Day of Travel and Knee Agony, rather than of Blogging and Lobe Agony.

But I cannot put off a moment longer the heartfelt expression of my aversion to the 10 minutes of jewelry store TV commercials that seem to bookend each 5-minute segment of all my favorite shows.

By “favorite shows” I mean the gruesome displays of megatheocorporatocracy-affirming propaganda at which I am compelled to stare, slack-jawed in mesmerized horror, while the aforementioned knee takes a load off on a pile of comfy pillows. For the last couple of days the incredulous spinster eyes could not be pried from reruns of a British show called “Top Gear.” “Top Gear” features 3 jokey middle-aged automobile-worshiping dude-brat bros chasing around gorgeous European countryside in Porsches and Bugatti Veyrons. The captivating thing about “Top Gear” is the astonishing degree to which the world — a man’s world — is these dudes’ oyster. “Hey, let’s have a minivan race from Rome to Minsk!” And off they go. Not an iota of estrogen for miles. The equation: smart-alecky English dudes with arrested development + cars (- women) = total freedom.

But I digress.

The jewelry store commercials advertise diamond jewelry for women. The jewelry chains are different but their ads share two common threads. The first common thread is that the jewelry is cloying and butt-ugly. Seriously. Why would anyone voluntarily suspend this monstrosity from a chain around her personal neck?

The second common thread is the image of the under-35-year-old woman overwhelmed with joy and surprise. She is overwhelmed because, against all odds, she is the recipient of diamonds! Everything about her body language says “I am so grateful that you, the dude who porks me, has decided that I am worth diamonds. I am your slave eternally.” My favorite (and by “favorite” I mean “least favorite”) example portrays one particularly verklempt girl opening her little velvet box with disbelieving hands and whimpering over and over, as though in some sort of fit, “Oh my gosh. Oh my gosh.”

Yes, the big moment has finally arrived, the moment she was trained for and has awaited since the cradle: some dude has chucked a rock at her. According to the Global Accords Governing Fair Use of Women, she is now putty in his hands. Once she puts the diamond on she will never take it off, signaling to the world that she is a dude’s highly valued property. Men are traditionally expected to spend 3 months salary on it.

She does not, however, ask to see the diamond’s certificate of origin, because it means little or nothing in her young life if the symbol of her enslavement to the culture of domination was ever used to fund death squads in Sierra Leone.

The equation: woman + butt-ugly diamond jewelry from a chain store = megatheocorporatocratic dream fulfilled.

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“Oh my gosh” photo from YouTube.

Ugly-ass pendant photo from Kay Jewelers website.

Because you can’t blame on an empty stomach

When a spinster aunt is laid up with a bum knee, three consequences are inevitable.

– Slouching in the lime green recliner, watching “Snapped!” and the Cooking Channel, eating sour cream and onion potato chips and stewing about how fucked up it is to have a bum knee: these activities will become the Useful Toil she’ll not let Ambition mock.

– She will read cookbooks, yearning for the day she can stand up long enough to cook something besides peanut butter toast.

– Out of desperate ennui, she’ll start adding plugins and widgets to the sidebar of her patriarchy-blaming blog.

A neurotic behavior, the plugin-uploading nearly always obtains an imperfect, or crappy, result. The veteran blamer will have lost count of the number of times my brilliant upgrades have broken the blog. But this time it’s a plugin that fixes it so that comment excerpts appear right there on the front page. How can this can fail to delight? What possible outcome except that it will spur commenters to begin their posts with zippy opening lines rather than with dilute drabbulations involving the first person singular? This improvement should not only entice the non-comment-reader to check out your shit, it will also elevate the human species as a whole.

You need not point out that, in order for comments — zippy in nature or otherwise — to get written, it is traditional for the blogger to first post a post. I’m way ahead of you.

I give you a recipe for French lentils that I stole from Food Channel personality Ina Garten’s book How Easy Is That. The book title is dumb, but the lentils are vegan and real effin delicious, and you can take that to the bank because I am an award-nominated lentiloisseur of the first water.

Unfortunately I don’t have a photo of the lentils, but here is a picture of the peanut butter toast I had for breakfast instead, which, I can say without fear of contradiction, is extremely riveting.

Peanut butter toast

Anyway, for the lentils you need:

1 onion, whole
1 turnip, quartered
2 cloves
1 leek, chopped up (white part only)
2 carrots, chopped up (orange part only)
garlic
1 cup green French lentils
olive oil
red wine vinegar
Dijon mustard

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salt and pepper

You stick an onion with a couple of cloves (Ina says 6 cloves, but that’s just too damn many cloves) and throw it into a pot with your lentils and turnip chunks. Cover with filtered water. Simmer til done.

Meanwhile, jump the leeks, carrots, and garlic, in olive oil, in a different pan.

Meanwhile, make a mustard vinaigrette with pretty good olive oil and red wine vinegar. Drain the lentils, throw the clovey onion and turnip on the compost pile, add the leeks et al, and mix in the vinaigrette. Ina puts a pat of butter in there, too, but TV cooks are contractually obligated to put too much butter on stuff. Dazed by a romantic nostalgia for the Paris bistro where she wolfs down this dish with her beloved Nigel, Ina also lets the lentils cool to lukewarm before serving, but I was all like, “Phil! Are you mad? Stick these cold-ass lentils back in the microwave!”

It’s true that the flavors improve when the dish sits for a while, though. Ooo baybah baaay-bah, bah baybah baaay-bah.

Pop psych mag cites evolutionary evidence for female fickleness

Few pseudo-entities spook the spinster butt-boils like pseudoscience, and few pseudosciences are as a hot spork in a spinster’s obstreperal lobe like evolutionary psychology.

Evolutionary psychology rests on the shaky (often enpornulated) hypothesis that modern human social behaviors are actually species-preserving adaptations. Because evolutionary psychology, like all psuedoscience, is administered by jackasses who are heavily invested in patriarchy, the behaviors in question just happen to be the very same behaviors commonly observed to be beloved of patriarchyists. And also of sexists, misogynists, horndogs, militarists, straight people, politicians, consumers of pornography, consumers of “beauty,” racists, godbags, liberal men, Hollywoodists, homophobes, matrimonialists, and other cogs in the megatheocorporatocratic machine. Everybody who loves the current world order loves the romantic myth that it is the result of the random interaction of mindless genes, or biological “design.” Sadly, the world order is actually the result of something way more sinister: the completely arbitrary social construct of the culture of domination and submission.

Here are some of the modern human social behaviors explained by evolutionary psychology as the result of natural impulses that apparently evolved around the ancestral campfire: rape, heterosexuality, shooting innocent Texas Hill Country deer with crossbows and consuming the meat at tailgate parties conducted in parking lots at football games, femininity, etc.

By invoking no less an indomitable and popular force of nature than evolution itself, evolutionary psychology confers upon itself the gravitas of scientific holy writ. And for sheer gravitas, you can’t beat the American periodical Psychology Today.* Check out this illustration accompanying a Psychology Today article on the effects of women’s menstrual cycles on their hotness:

Nothing says “take this research seriously” like photos of pornulated women gettin it on with giant plushies.

Like many articles in popular magazines, the aforementioned “The Double Life of Women” by Annie Murphy Paul** unlocks for the pornsick psychology buff the sexy mysteries of those ineffable bizarros, women. Annie Murphy Paul uses revelations facilitated by evolutionary psychology to make the (tired old) case that women are pretty much prisoners of biology, or, more specifically, of the menstrual cycle. Her apparent thesis: ovulating women are constrained by biological impulse to go to bars, wear tight dresses, and emit musical, magical laughter, whereupon they become attracted to male lantern-jawed superheroes. Non-ovulating women, on the other hand, are practically a different species. They are drab and dull and fail to effervesce or mate, and prefer pansy-ass dudes.***

Paul cites research conducted, unfortunately, by psychologists and “dating advisers,” since who else would know from this shit? One researcher dude juxtaposed menstrual cycle data with the nightly revenues of (a whopping) 18 lap dancers. Awesome.

Research dude: Hmm. I wonder where we could conduct some research on ovulating women?

Grad student dude: How about a strip club? We can totally multitask by working and abusing the sex class at the same time.

Research dude: It’s pure genius! I’ll take full credit.

In this case research dude concluded that not only do strip club clientele discern whether lap dancers are ovulating, but that pervs lavish more cash on ovulating lap dancers than they do on dull old non-ovulating ones. Paul calls this “one of the most arresting studies of male responses to female fertility cues.”

Female fertility cues! Apparently women who work in strip clubs are not, contrary to what spinster aunts have maintained through the ages, just trying to make the best of their fucked-up sex class status by working themselves through law school or a drug habit or a musician boyfriend. These hotsy-totsy babes are in fact sending their slavering clients “female fertility cues.” Furthermore, strippers who take birth control pills are “’shooting [themselves] in the foot,’ since [they'll] miss out on the bountiful tips garnered by women in estrus.” That’s right. Sexploitation isn’t about male domination, it’s about human reproduction. Human reproduction is natural. Natural is good. Therefore sexploitation is good.

And that, young onions, is how ev-psych shills for patriarchy.

Meanwhile, so strong is the ovulating human female’s instinct for total sexiness, it turns out, that its expression is involuntary and entirely automated by evolutionary design. Even if she does not wish to advertise her ovulational status, apparently the truth will out. Ovulating women sparkle, they physically morph into hotter versions of themselves, and they take “social risks.”

“It’s difficult for women to fully conceal all signs of fertility — some of them inevitably leak out. [...] We call this ‘leaky cues hypothesis’.”

Ovulating women are not in control of their cues! They simply cannot resist the primal urge to exude pornulated dudefantasy. They are hardwired for hustling! That’s why you see so many drunk women in bars, their fertility cues puddling up at their feet.

“With her tight clothes, alluring scent, and seductive waist-hip ratio, a woman in estrus is sending out a signal not unlike the chimp or the cat in heat.”

It will amuse the patriarchy blamer to note that Paul here reprises one of her earlier remarks, wherein she alluded to the “genitalia of female chimps” which “swell and turn a dramatic shade of pink”. It is a fact — documented by the Spinstitute for the Study of EvPsych Clichés — that no author contriving an antifeminist paean to evolutionary psychology can ever resist comparing sexxed-up women to the dramatically pink butts of chimpanzees. The yowling feline trope, tired and moldy though it is, is a pure bonus track.

So, to recap: women are completely at the mercy of the menstrual cycle, which makes them awesome sexbots one day, and spineless mice the next.

But isn’t this just a reiteration of the hysterical women stereotype? Not at all, says one of the kindly dude researchers.

“The traditional and rather patronizing male view was that women are fickle, that their preferences are random and arbitrary. Now it turns out that what looks like fickleness is actually deeply adaptive and is shared with the females of most animal species.”

OK, let’s get this out of the way first: does Dude even realize that ‘most animal species’ are either arthropods or nematodes, depending on which geek you’re talking to? Together they number in the millions. As in, millions of species. Here at Spinster HQ we were unable to locate any research on, for example, the fickleness of female flatworms. Maybe they like to sport around in spandex when it’s that time of the month, but published studies omit to mention it. So this guy, in his attempt to science-ize an enormously detrimental sexist stereotype, grossly mischaracterizes the scope of the planet’s animalian diversity to further his own anthrocentric worldview.

And also, do not speak to me, dude, of “the rather patronizing male view.” How fucking patronizing is it to argue that ‘fickleness’ is a fucking adaptation shared by all females everywhere? That women’s behavior is, in fact, irrational, only now this irrationality has scientifically proven reasons? This dude is killin’ me!

Oh, and you’ll love this: the helpful suggestion that women can keep themselves out of harm’s way by not “drinking too much at a bar or party at that time of the month.” I’m not even kidding. Dudes cannot resist violating fertile females, so lock yourself away from life’s rich pageant when you’re ovulating or you’re just askin’ for it.

Thus we see that evolutionary psychology attempts to rationalize the worst aspects of humanity by asserting, essentially, this:

Boys will be boys.

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* I found my copy of Psychology Today in the checkout lane at Whole Foods. Pop psychology is apparently a good fit with $27 apples and biohealthy yeast-o-matic colon-cleansing pills. The instances of heteronormative dudecentricity exhibited by this magazine cover are too numerous to list. Help me out!

** Paul, Annie Murphy. “The Double Life of Women.” Psychology Today Dec. 2010: 72-79. Print.

***Naturally, because evolutionary psychology cannot satisfactorily explain homosexuality, no mention is made of the randy double lives of ovulating lesbians, even though they are women. After a fashion.

Photo: Miller, Greg. “The Double Life of Women.” Psychology Today Dec. 2010: 77. Detail. Print.

Imminent post looms on horizon, is in cards and forthcoming presently pretty soon in near future!

That’s right, I’m putting the final flourishes on the first draft of a new essay right now. Using wry sardonic wit, a jaundiced eye, and other patriarchy-blaming techniques, the post will convey one spinster aunt’s unassailable opinions on the crappiness of evolutionary psychology. It probably won’t be as good as some other posts I’ve written, but then again, it will almost certainly be better than others. My secretary Phil gives it two-and-a-half stars, if that means anything to you.

Why stars? I asked. Why not something more germane to patriarchy blaming? They use forks on Epicurious. They use computer mice at MacWorld. I suggested to Phil that the tiny icon representing the measure of excellence on a patriarchy-blaming blog should be something more along the lines of rusty knives of castration, or rape convictions.

” ‘I give that post two-and-a-half senate bills guaranteeing a woman’s right to safe and legal abortion.’ See how much more blametarian that sounds?”

“Whatever,” said Phil. “You need another Vicodin?”

Which brings me to, yes I’m supposed to be on hiatus, but I’ve got a few spare post-writing minutes on my hands on accounta I performed an unscheduled dismount from my horse the other day and sort of tore up my knee. It turns out my Rx is unremitting lounging, mixed with Vicodin and intermittent ice pack applications, for a few days.

Well, back to the salt mines!