Archive for the 'Bloodsport' Category

Fairy tale Sunday

Published by Twisty on January 15, 2012. 194 Comments

Have you heard about the recent breast implant scare in Europe and South America? It goes like this:

A French manufacturer (Poly Implant Prosthese, or “PIP”) gets busted for making their sexbags with cut-rate industrial grade silicone and (some allege) a fuel additive. The bags are distributed globally into the innocent chests of over 300,000 women. Naturally, these cheap-ass implants are rupture-prone. Depending on the agenda of the organization doing the reporting, the rupture rate is between 1% and 7%.

In the wake of this revelation there emerges a big furor over whether governments will endorse recommendations to remove the PIPs, who will pay for the removals, whether patients should get free replacements, and which patients would qualify for which services. In the UK, for example, although they’re not recommending removal across the board, the NHS says it will remove the chest units for free, but it won’t replace ‘em. Etc.

Here is the story of a UK woman who needed big boobs, so she took out a loan and got some PIPs installed. Five years of suffering later, she finds out the PIPs have been recalled, but the installer, Harley Medical Group, won’t pay. Suck it, lady, that’s what you get for being fatuous and vain.

Mang, this kind of thing makes my lobe sprout tumors.

As Marianne Møllmann of Amnesty International notes in her essay on the subject of the PIP scare,

[I]t is an intervention which is carried out solely to satisfy stereotyped notions of what a women could or should be, and which has:
1. no discernible health benefits;
2. a negative impact on women’s sexual health; and
3. permanent effects on women’s health more generally.

But oh snap! Møllmann isn’t talking about breast implants. She’s talking about female genital mutilation. In her essay she observes the similarities between FGM and breast enbiggenment surgery (what I’ll call FBM, female breast mutilation). She even remarks that, apart from the fact that “the former makes us queasy and the second doesn’t,” they’re the same flippin thing. Like most people, however, she stops short of calling FBM a human rights violation, although to most Westerners, FGM clearly is.

But really, what’s the diff? The two practices occupy overlapping points in the oppression continuum. They are both the result of misogynist social conditioning, they are both carried out on victims who have little or no personal autonomy, they are both justified by the notion that conformity to a patriarchal ideal will improve their chances of success. Either they are both a human rights violation, or neither is.

Much is made of the notion that FGM is practiced 1) in unsanitary conditions 2) on children who have not consented, and for those two reasons it supposedly differs wildly from elective procedures performed in clinics on empowerful Western women who are jumbo-izing their boobs “for themselves.” But I assert that even adult women who ostensibly agree to breast mutilation cannot have arrived at that choice from a position of full human agency. I assert this because no woman anywhere enjoys full human agency.

300,000 women in this PIP debacle alone. It’s a fucking bloodbath! The sequence of events leading to this moment are tragic, macabre, and horrific in the extreme. Consider:

300,000 women aren’t dumb. But instead of getting an invitation to life’s rich pageant, since the cradle they have done nothing but absorb messages that illuminate their many defects. As a matter of survival they have been forced to embrace femininity as their prime directive. Land a dude and beget the son and heir, etc.

Now adults, these women perceive that, as members of the sex class, their prospects with dudes — and in fact their value as human beings — depend entirely on the degree to which they succeed in appeasing the dominant class. They grasp that greater rewards accrue to women who display sexual availability than do to women who make no effort to submissively self-pornulate. They further observe that they belong to a culture wherein large breasts are fetishized. They surmise that they will achieve higher status, and in turn be happy and loved, if they conform as closely as possible to the fetishized ideal.

So 300,000 women study themselves in the mirror. They note in scrupulous detail their numerous cosmetic departures from the beauty standard. They decide that they are defective enough to warrant self-mutilation. They submit to extremely gross, painful, invasive, potentially life-ending surgery wherein leaky baggies filled with a substance normally used as mattress gel are implanted into healthy tissue. Their reward? Now they can send the message the oppressor longs to hear: “You win. I am a sack of meat. Fill me up with your fluids, your garbage, your mattress gel, and your disdain.”

And they live happily ever after.

Posted in Bloodsport, Lobe-blowing and The Beauty Ultimatum. Bite me, Chad.

Thus spake Debbie Downer

Published by Twisty on December 26, 2011. 73 Comments

Though the life of a spinster aunt is mostly fluffy and carefree, there are certain unpleasant situations wherein the Auntly Directive explicitly calls for taking the wind out of people’s sails.

Sail de-winding has gotten a bad rap, as it has been embraced as bloodsport over the years by various do-gooders and buttinskis. Remember “tough love”?

“I hate to take the wind out of your sails, Son, but your Marilyn Manson marijuana lifestyle frightens your mother, so we’re having you arrested.”

Sail de-winding has also been wielded for the greater good — though to little avail — by dudely scientists and professional skeptics:

“I hate to take the wind out of your sails, my godly friend, but there is no scientific evidence whatsoever to support the hypothesis that when you die your disembodied consciousness will float up to the clouds to be reunited with your loved ones. Also, you’re stupid.”

It has been complained about in various Nick Lowe songs, too.

But let’s be clear: it’s spinster aunts who invented the practice of foisting truth on overstimulated people who don’t want to hear it.

That’s right. Our specialized lobes can detect a self-destructive folly at 200 yards. When our peeps’ sails have wind in them, and we perceive that this wind is perhaps a bit gusty for this time of year, and that it is composed not of wholesome breezes but of farts and sordid delusion, we cannot hold our tongue.

I recall the time my pal Solange Pettigrew called to cut me in on an exciting business proposition. This frabjous business, she effluviated in breathless tones, was going to liberate her from the daily grind and transport her to a world of more or less incessant travel to exotic lands. It could do the same for me. She explained that all I had to do was buy my own personalized ‘travel website’ from her, whereupon hordes of internet travelers would flock to it and I would make a fortune. In her mind’s eye she had already purchased a steamer trunk full of hula skirts and was getting her groove back with a hunky cabana boy. I had never seen her so happy. Clearly I needed to step in.

So I protruded the spinster proboscis and immediately detected in her sails the whiff of a wind most foul. But how? This woman has a master’s degree in common sense from Stanford, for chrissake. She couldn’t be that obliv–

Oh, but she was. Solange Pettigrew had in fact gone grossly agog. So forthwith onto my auntly shoulders fell the stinky task of informing the poor sap that this travel website deal was no gilded Jetway out of meaningless corporate drudgery, but was actually a Ponzi scheme.

Did I want to be the one who brought her life’s young dream crashing down like the housing market upon her dewy brow? Certainly not. I’d rather have been given a root canal by a sweaty dentist. But according to the Spinster Code, failure to place these person-to-person calls on the clue phone is not an option. Sail de-winding is the only ethical course.

Which brings me to my chum Sukey, who is an inveterate bargain hunter. One of her endearing qualities is that when she finds a hot deal, she cannot rest until she has alerted her entire acquaintance to the bonanza. I often get this call from Sukey:

“Get down to $aver$ immediately! Wahoo is only 99 cents a pound!”

Let us all feast like kings on wahoo, right? Wrong. I’m the one who says, “Wahoo for 99 cents? Where’d it come from, the dumpster behind Whole Foods?”

While driving around yesterday Sukey stumbled across some women on the side of the road selling “1200-thread-count Egyptian cotton king sheet sets” out of a beat-up Econoline van for 20 bucks a hit. Sukey bought a set on the spot and galloped home at breakneck speed to call everyone up. She couldn’t bear for her friends to spend another hellish night needlessly tossing and turning on nasty burlap from Bed Bath and Beyond when we could be nestled in luxury coziness from the banks of the river Nile.

“Wait a second,” I said, my wind-in-sails detector heating up. “1200 thread-count Egyptian cotton king sheet sets for 20 bucks? Yeah, and I’m Herman Cain’s baby mama.”

I hated to do it, but my hands, I tell you, were tied.

“Sukey,” I said, “read the label. Read it, and weep.”

Whereupon it was discovered that the sheets had been made in China by indentured wage slaves. Furthermore they were not cotton of Egyptian or any other origin, but microfiber, and most likely weren’t 1200 threads per inch, either.

Sukey wept.

Hey, I’m just doing my job.

It’s like when I happen to run into the occasional woman who thinks Bust is a feminist magazine. Or maybe she believes that femininity is “natural,” or that “radiant skin” is desirable. Look at her sails! Her bloomy, billowing sails, bloated with hot wind! What can I do? If I don’t take that wind outta them things she might go around the rest of her life arguing that burlesque is an empowering form of feminine self-expression.

So I cram down her neck the truth that our patriarchal social order, despite what she’s been told since the cradle, doesn’t really have her best interests at heart. I explain that she is defined in this social order solely with respect to male interests, and that she is a member of an oppressed sex class out of which she may not opt, and that her success in life is entirely a matter of the degree to which she appeases her oppressor.

She protests. She demurs. She vituperates. She calls me a sex-hating harridan prude.

And then her lobe starts to pulsate. The mascara falls from her eyes. She grasps that, yes, patriarchy is founded on oppression and suffering, that Ponzi schemes and thread-count cons are logical consequences in a world order that is itself the Mother of All Scams, and most horribly of all, that she is both complicit and a dupe in the whole set-up.

Her life is ruined, and she has me to thank for it.*

Trust no one.

_____________________
* Note: this business about her lobe beginning to pulsate and me ruining her life, it’s all a fantasy. In real life nobody ever believes me.

Debbie Downer photo nicked from Wikipedia.

Posted in Bloodsport and Oppression Culture. Bite me, Chad.

Ditwuss Award de la semaine: PETA

Published by Jill on August 24, 2011. 257 Comments

By now — since it is my custom to lollygag, dawdle, and often even dilly-dally until steamy breaking news has developed an unappealing crust on top before I set about wrinkling my lip at it — you have already heard of and perhaps even forgotten all about the irritating information that PETA intends to launch a porn site. Reportedly the site will lure porn enthusiasts with XXX naked sex ladies, then sock it to’em with explicit animal torture vids. This will supposedly encourage the ethical treatment of animals by … who, exactly? Dickheads who look at porn?

It’s pretty optimistic to imagine that dickheads who look at porn are capable of appreciating what is meant by “ethical.” So I guess the intended audience for this site is dudes who can’t bear to contemplate saving the whales without jerking off at the same time.

In fact, it has been suggested that the only possible result of the juxtaposition of human and animal exploitation on a porn site is the eroticization of animal torture. To be sure, this contingency is considerably less remote than the screwy idea that pornography, which is itself abuse, can actually stop abuse. Pornography, in fact, is the antithesis of “ethical treatment”. It relies for its existence on violence against women. As such it appeals directly to its consumer’s abusiveness. Fetishized abuse is the whole point of pornography.

On the face of it, the ethical treatment of animals sounds like a cause anyone could get behind. Unfortunately, that ship sailed for PETA long ago. They haul in $30 million a year, but they won’t spend a dime on a no-kill shelter. Crossing over to the Dark Side, they’ve all but abandoned useful discourse in order to mutate into a churlish Offensive Themes Theater troupe that seems to exist only for the sake of its softcore self. Their sexist, racist, anti-Semitic, full frontal shock campaigns — featuring Nazis, KKKlansmen, and of course copious amounts of female celebrity skin — are more juvenile, narcissistic performance art than revolution. PETA, Grande Douchebagge of the animal rights movement, has long been in the human exploitation business; this new .xxx site is merely a formality.

Knobs.

For a longer and more amusing article on the crapulence of PETA, see “Ingrid Newkirk Is The Worst Person In The World,” a January 2010 post by Jenna Sauers at Jezebel.

By the way. Carved in one of the many stones in the ancient city of Obstrepopolis, Savage Death Island, is the slogan “Go vegan, chump!”

_________________
“Ditwuss” = DTWS = “degrades the whole species”

Posted in Bloodsport and Sexploitation. Bite me, Chad.

What fresh old hell is this?

Published by Jill on July 28, 2011. 66 Comments

I thought I’d heard it all when it comes to the fine tradition of loving mothers forced by sicko patriarchal culture to inflict unspeakable sex-related tortures on their daughters for their own good, but I was wrong. I most regretfully bring you breast ironing.

When I saw the headline “Breast ironing tradition in Cameroon” I thought, “that can’t mean breast ironing.” But at the same time I knew it did mean breast ironing. Because “breast ironing” sounds like something just fucked-up enough to be a tradition: women try to stunt their teen kids’ breast growth with these hot pokers so they don’t get knocked up.

Every morning before school, nine-year-old Terisia Techu would undergo a painful procedure. Her mother would take a burning hot pestle straight out of a fire and use it to press her breasts.

With tears in her eyes as she recalls what it was like, Terisia tells CNN that one day the pestle was so hot, it burned her, leaving a mark. Now 18, she is still traumatized.

Her mother, Grace, denies the incident. But she proudly demonstrates the method she used on her daughter for several weeks, saying the goal was to make her less desirable to boys — and stave off pregnancy.

A study found that one in four girls in Cameroon have been affected by the practice.

There is apparently some effort underway to initiate the use of sex ed, rather than red-hot pestles, to “stave off pregnancy.” I’m pretty sure that if they ironed their son’s dicks instead it would achieve the desired result.

Posted in Bloodsport and Oppression Culture. Bite me, Chad.

Obscene British patriarchy-fest inspires a few auntly words on weddings

Published by Jill on May 1, 2011. 96 Comments

Marriage is the ultimate expression of compliance with the culture of oppression. It is the bedrock of misogyny, the ideal upon which heteronormativity is based, the primary unit with which patriarchy replicates itself. Thus does the spinster aunt die a little inside whenever one of her friends or acquaintances makes with the big announcement that she’s engaged.

Royal broodmare in shuttlecock burqa

“Wwwhyyyyyy?” I always chide the cosmos. I chide with my hands clenched in the air and my face twisted into an expression of agony. Flocks of startled pigeons take flight as my anguished cry echoes into the infinite reaches of space and time. Because not only has the friend or acquaintance basically signed up for the accelerated Tool of the Patriarchy Program (which bums out anybody familiar with special inequities visited upon women who formally merge their identities with patriarchal culture), but I’m lookin’ at months of giddy wedding planning during which unholy interim I will be expected to make girly remarks about gowns and reception halls.

Failure to express sufficient giddiness always puts a strain on the relationship. I know this because I have never once managed to express sufficient giddiness. It is only with the most superhuman of efforts that I manage not to recoil in horror and disgust.

“Can’t you just be happy for me?” is the refrain.

“Sorry,” I say. “The best I can do is hope that he doesn’t beat you, cheat on you, stick you with all the diapering and toilet cleaning, and rob you blind in the divorce.”

Did you know that not being happy for people on demand is some sort of crime? It’s true! The minute you aren’t happy for somebody who is making the worst decision of her life, they absolutely have to take you off their speed-dial and snub you in social situations.

Western women are always so appalled at “third world” traditions of misogyny, but they think nothing of volunteering for duty themselves. I reiterate that Western vs “third world” misogyny is merely a matter of style, and more often than not the twain shall indeed meet. Thus did guffaws of horrification rumble around the bunkhouse when poor, shriveled Kate Middleton, this century’s quintessential Blushing Bride, sailed up to St. Patriarch’s Cathedral for her sale as a broodmare to the British monarchy, encased in a designer chadri.

______________________
Photo: BBC: “Kate Middleton’s Wedding Dress Revealed!”. This video is a hoot, containing the following commentary from the giddy presenter: “I am beside myself! This is such a fashion moment, I can’t tell you!”

Posted in Bloodsport, Oppression Culture and The megatheocorporatocracy. Bite me, Chad.

LA Times publishes article about woman; global reserves of sexist stereotypes dangerously depleted

Published by Jill on July 2, 2010. 19 Comments

In the news: a woman known as Anna Chapman is accused of being some sort of Russian spy (Russian spy? Seriously? I didn’t realize we still had those. It’s comforting to know that at least some beloved artifacts from my idyllic Cold War childhood endure).

This LA Times story, the gist of which is gripping speculation concerning Chapman’s future as a reality show celebrity or the subject of “blockbusters”, is a real breathtaking pile of asswipe antifeminist hate speech. The authors don’t seem to know, or care, who or what she is, or isn’t, beyond the assertion that she is a “sultry red-head.” This is demonstrated by the photograph accompanying the article, which is about as sexy as a yearbook picture, and is therefore worth a thousand sexist words.

Here is a selection of the delightful metaphrasery employed in this article (some of which the authors breathlessly quote from other “news” sources). Chapman is

a “sexy antagonist”
a “red-haired beauty”
a “femme fatale”
a “Natasha”
a “secret sexpot” who “partied, shopped & schmoozed”
a “modern-day Mata Hari”
a “vivacious vixen”
a “practiced deceiver”
an “attention-seeking sensationalist bimbo”
a “beauty with a captivating tale”
a “romantic young woman”
a “billionaire or a hooker”

Because Chapman is such a red-haired sexy romantic billionaire mata vixen, her 15 minutes as a bankable piece of ass appears to be in the bag. On the subject of femmes parlaying their fataleity into fame and fortune, one interviewee was moved to recall that the woman Eliot Spitzer paid to rape now has a sex column in a newspaper. Sluts sell!

The LA Times omits to cite any evidence that Chapman is/was, in fact, a prostituted woman, but this is America, and evidence is hardly necessary. According to the authors, Chapman’s Facebook page reveals all relevant information: she is hottt, so obviously she’s a whore, which apparently renders the entire nation verklempt, and that’s all we need to know.

There are 10 other spies in the spy ring, but the LA Times doesn’t speculate about their marketing potential. A separate article reports that one of the dude spies jumped bail in Cyprus, but neglects to provide details about his sexiness, vivaciousness, wealth, hair color, or the dollar value of his “story.” Instead, the reader is forced to make do with boring minutiae such as the charges he was brought up on (failure to register as a foreign agent), and trivia regarding the diplomatic relationship between the US and Cyprus.

Thanks, PhysioProf

Posted in Bloodsport, Mass Media, Sexploitation, The Entertainment Industrial Complex, The Spinster's Finger on the Pulse of Today and The megatheocorporatocracy. Bite me, Chad.

Citizens of the Poconos, unite against slutty teen rape victims!

Published by Jill on June 9, 2010. 68 Comments

It’s heartwarming, our pretty society’s outpouring of love for little girls. Behold the sugarplum fairytale of this 13-year old Pennsylvania girl:

According to a marginally informative article in the Lehigh Valley Morning Call, Douchebag Supreme Michael J Lisk raped the girl repeatedly for over a year, made her pregnant, then furtively buried the fetus after she induced her own abortion with a “lead pencil” (a process lasting three days).

The article is lousy with rape culture and fetus-fetish language, probably pulled verbatim from the police report. Patriarchy-favorable language like this is used all the time in police reports and the media, where it is instrumental in perpetuating the normalization of violent misogyny. In this case, the lingo portrays the kid as an active participant in deviant baby-killing.

– She “threw” the plastic bag containing the fetus she had “delivered.”
– The article describes a tender birth scene wherein the rapist exhorts the girl to “push hard.”
– The girl “gave birth” to a “stillborn baby.”
– As though they ought to be considered a couple, “the two” had a long-standing “sexual relationship” from the time she was 12.

Translation: clearly this little Lolita was no innocent virgin naif.

Small wonder, then, that the comments from imperfectly educated denizens of the Pennsylvania Poconos identify the girl as a dirty slut and call for her head. They’re all worked up about this baby-killer slut they read about in the paper.

I know when I was 13, I knew what sex was and that is caused pregnacy [sic] and that we have babies in hosipitals [sic]. If we dont [sic] know anything by that age, then the education system in america [sic] is a joke. she should be charged because she knows that wasnt [sic] right, bottom line.

Well, the author is herself irrefutable evidence of at least one of her points: the “education system in america” is a joke.

[T]hose of you who think a thirteen year old doesn’t know about sex, you need to enter the real world. I am also curious to know how she knew how to give herself an abortion.

Obviously a teenage girl who knows enough to abort a fetus with a Number 2 Ticonderoga, after “having sex” with a 30-year-old perv, deserves nothing but contempt from the self-righteous townsfolk.

Why isn’t the girl being charged with anything? [...] She did the abortion herself and she put the baby in a bag and left it at the base of a tree, so she is just as guilty.

Teenage girls simply cannot usurp control of their own uteruses from 30-year-old serial rapists, goddammit, and expect to get away with it. Not on our watch! They are just as guilty as serial pedophile rapists who bury the evidence of their criminal activity to evade prosecution.

The angry mob wants that kid punished, goddammit, because if she’s old enough to “have sex,” she’s old enough to know that inducing an abortion with a pencil is “wrong.”

Well, except that she wasn’t “having sex,” she was raped, and it isn’t “wrong” — or even illegal — to have an abortion.

It is astonishing, the ease with which an angry mob can convene an ad hoc tribunal to ostracize the most damaged victims of their own diseased culture. They would deny the existence of rape culture, even if it means imprisoning a 13-year-old child for trying to exert some pitiful influence over her own body and her own future, even after she had been violated — by the serial rapist’s own admission, “countless times” — for over a year, only to endure a home-made abortion.

Yeah, a year of rapes and a three-day self-inflicted abortion. I bet that was a cakewalk.

Nobody on the planet is as despised as teenage girls.

Posted in Bloodsport, Lobe-blowing, Men Hate You, Rape Culture, The Spinster's Finger on the Pulse of Today and Women hate you. Bite me, Chad.

Rednecks vs hogs

Published by Jill on January 24, 2010. 44 Comments

Feral hog track

Do you often say to yourself, “I wonder, what does a feral hog track look like, anyway?” Look no further. Behold the goods. This track was huge enough that I have no wish to encounter the hog what made it. It probably has giant venomous fangs, spiked tail, and 6-inch claws.

Texas has more feral hogs than any other state. That’s because Texas has more rednecks than any other state. It is the fondest dream of certain of these rednecks to hunt wild hogs with pit bulls, so they make sure there are always plenty of’em roaming the countryside, terrorizing the citizenry.

I can get rid of my feral hog by calling one of these rednecks. They offer free hog removal in return for the thrill of the hunt. But then, of course, I’d have rednecks on the farm. I don’t know which is worse. It is, as Stingray said, a question for the ages.

Posted in Bloodsport, El Rancho Deluxe, Heartwarming Nature Crap and Varmint Center. Bite me, Chad.

Spinster aunt speaks out agin crapulent sickos in horse industry

Published by Jill on January 6, 2010. 62 Comments

horse-starvedStill from a YouTube vid exposing unspeakable sickosity at New Jersey Bravo Packing company. Disturbing in the extreme.

Spinster aunts are multi-faceted — which is fortunate, because otherwise our Down With Patriarchy! ways would render us friendless and alone — and one of those facets is that we have been horse-crazy since birth. Horse people are just as nutty as dog show people (Best In Show is no exaggeration), only with bigger vet bills. The ones who aren’t nutty are crooks. Only a small percentage of horse people have anything like what you might call a grip.

For years I’ve been a devoted fan of Fugly Horse of the Day. This excellent blog is authored by Fugly, one of the few with a grip. Sparing the reader the goopy glitter-butterfly sentimentality that seems to infest so many horse blogs, Fugly advocates for the species, rescues OTTBs (off-the-track Thoroughbreds), comments sensibly and humorously on the horse business, makes fun of the nuts, and exposes the crooks. Her blog is insanely popular, so an army of Fuglies nationwide can be mobilized at a moment’s notice to spy on crazy trainers, call bullshit on ignorant breeders, locate stolen horses, and rescue abandoned animals from kill-buyers at auctions. Some of her liveliest writing is on those crapulent sickos who merge “crook” and “nutty” into “sociopath.”

Behold Fugly’s declaration of war on the Bravo Meat Packing slaughterhouse in New Jersey. The slaughterhouse produces illegal horse meat for owners of exotic animals (lions, tigers, and bears, I guess) and exists with the protection of corrupt government. The horses who end up there are starved and brutalized by sociopath abusers before being turned into lunch for somebody’s pet ocelot. I am happy to report that the head sociopath recently died, hopefully in agony, but the slaughterhouse is still going full tilt.

“[Rescued mare] Buttercup was living at Bravo for close to a year and was a part of Monty’s “lean meat” experiment. To procure lean meat, a horse must start out fat and healthy and then be starved for months to a point of lean muscle tissue. Buttercup was not only starved at the Bravo kill lot, but medically neglected as well. She had gashes on her right front leg and severe cellulitis on her left back leg that were left untreated by Monty and Joe Merola for months. Consequently, Buttercup will have chronic cellulitis for the rest of her life in her left back leg. Luckily, she is still rid-able and the vet would like her to be ridden to keep the swelling down.”

This joint needs to be shut down, so I’m joining the Fuglitariat in getting the word out. I’m not sure how much crossover there is between the horse world and patriarchy blamers, but animal suffering is animal suffering, and I’m officially declaring horse abuse as a Savage Death Island blame-motif. If you live in Jersey and give a crap about shit, call up your state lege and tell’em to quit subsidizing this horrorshow.

Horse slaughter for human consumption is illegal in the U.S. This means that unwanted horses — often failed or lame racehorses or show horses, 100,000 of’em a year — are sent to American auctions, bought by kill buyers for $50 or $100, and shipped — under abhorrent conditions in double-decker pig trucks — to Mexico for slaughter.

Go vegan!

Posted in Bloodsport and Oppression Culture. Bite me, Chad.

Spinster aunt explains comedy

Published by Jill on December 3, 2009. 154 Comments

Whenever I hear some guy say that feminists don’t have a sense of humor, I want to punch that guy in the face.

What I mean is, I want to take a bunch of tiny razors and glue’em to a glove, kind of around the knuckle area, and put on this glove and then punch him pretty hard about six times and turn his nose into pâté. I would probably dip the razors in curare first, if there was some lying around and nobody else was using it. Because here on Savage Death Island, that shit is comedy gold.

What got me thinking about comedy gold was an item in the Canadian National Post headlined “B.C. police seek serial groin-kicker after series of attacks.” The item was emailed to me like 6 weeks ago by blamer Holly Campbell. Fast and friendly service, Holly, that’s what you get here at I Blame the Patriarchy.

Anyway. According to the article, a psychotic young woman is on the loose in British Columbia.

[T]he young woman inexplicably kicked [some dude] in the groin hard enough to send one of his testicles into his abdomen.

Having read the headline, you will not be surprised to learn that she is suspected of having kicked 3 or 4 other random dudes in the cubes, apparently without provocation. If the outraged dude message boards are to be believed, she is apparently the perfect radical feminist, since she’s actively living the violent anti-testicle fantasies the rest of us only dream about.

Anyway. Don’t tell me I don’t have a sense of humor, because this shit is funny as hell. Because the dude’s nut ruptured — ow! I bet that hurt! — and “will be replaced by a prosthetic before Christmas.” Just in the time for the annual B.C. Holiday Parade of Testicles! What a gasser!

Let me just say a few words about humor. Everyone loves humor, but the fact is that jokes are attacks. That’s why dudes on the Internet are always telling women to lighten up already and join them (the dudes) in busting a gut at their (women’s) own expense. Dudes like attacking women — it’s how they express affection — but since punching them in the face with curare-dipped razor gloves — at least in public — is somewhat frowned upon by those with gentle upbringings, jokes are all they’ve got left. So fuck you if you don’t like being their joke-butt. Ha ha!

Ergo:

According to the long-established elements of comedy we’ve all assimilated from oppression culture — e.g. surprise, irony, incongruity, impropriety, et al.– that hapless dude who got biffed in the giblets is a fucking Platonic ideal of a joke-butt. What a savory little fillip of unexpected delight is the whole ball-bonker tableau. It’s got it all, comedy-wise: a little white chick running around socking it to unsuspecting dudes who are strolling down the street minding their own beeswax.

Should I explicate further? Dudes usually have nothing to fear from little white chicks, see, since they (dudes) are, by universal agreement, the class who typically mete out the sex-based violence. Conversely, everyone recognizes that women typically don’t enjoy the dudes-only luxury of gaily sauntering through the town square without the expectation of sudden, unprovoked harassment. But here’s B.C. Girl, challenging the Global Accords Governing the Fair Use of Women with a surprising, ironic, incongruous, improprietous turnabout! The underdog puts one over on the overlord! Hi-fuckin-larious!

Posted in Bloodsport, Dear god what about the men?, Private Business of the Secret Feminist Society, Rape Culture and The Spinster's Finger on the Pulse of Yesterday. Bite me, Chad.