Archive for the 'Dear god what about the men?' Category

Dude wins by default, plus Open Thread!

Why no post today? I’m trapped — temporarily, I hope — in an alternate universe where it is considered bad form to write blogs when there are other, more tedious things to do (such as evading jury duty, taking care of a sick horse, or spending hours on the phone trying, with a pesky history of cancer, to get some goddam health insurance).

Fortunately, the recent pile of comments in the moderation queue has been liberated at last. For the most part there were no anxious emails demanding to know what had happened to them; I commend you on your patience and restraint. I award each and every one of you a Certificate of Ectoplasm!

Certificate of Ectoplasm

Meanwhile, you know how from time to time I cannot resist sharing the juvenile sputters of the occasional would-be dude commenter? Well, here’s some fan mail from a flounder whose dickish remarks on this amusing old post I was recently obliged to run through the PooPoop-U-Lator*, on accounta he’s a moron. He did not like that I ran his comment through the PooPoop-U-Lator, so he wrote this:

congratulations jill you’ve earned a place for this lot along side fox news for me. more then happy to ramble on, regurgitating the same tired thoughts back and forth between those with the same mindset, but no time to hear responses that don’t stroke your pathetic ego. go ahead run me through whatyouhearwhensomeone otherthenyour sheepleiscommenting-u-later. It just proves me right and you unable to form a coherent retort.

p.s. Thank you jill.
I enjoy that you scrambled my comment, it means I win by default.

Sometimes you almost feel sorry for them.

Anyway, because the last one was so popular, let’s have another open thread, what.

____________________
* The PooPoop-U-Lator replaces user-selected words or letters with any user-selected word, thus hilaritizing any bit of text. For example, if I enpoopulate dude’s comment, replacing “I” and “me” with “I’m a stupid prick”, it becomes much more useful:

congratulations jill you’ve earned a place for this lot along side fox news for I’m a stupid prick. more then happy to ramble on, regurgitating the same tired thoughts back and forth between those with the same mindset, but no time to hear responses that don’t stroke your pathetic ego. go ahead run I’m a stupid prick through whatyouhearwhensomeoneotherthenyoursheepleiscommenting-u-later. I’m a stupid prickt just proves I’m a stupid prick right and you unable to form a coherent retort.

p.s. Thank you jill.
I’m a stupid prick enjoy that you scrambled my comment, it means I’m a stupid prick win by default.

Sensitive dudes are sorry about everything, now let’s make sweet, sweet love.

This sensitive dude wants to procreate with your Divine Feminine

No time to post today (like all spinster aunts, I’ve got to sit around and watch the Decorah eagles sit around), but if you feel like curling a lip, emitting a cold, mirthless laugh, and/or shuddering at unmitigated skeeviocity, check out this ridiculous vid from the “Oh come on, it’s gotta be a parody” Department.

You know the Sensitive Dudes? They’re the New Age version of Nice Guys, dudes who act all “we understand you, O Mighty Sky-Woman of the Sun” so they can whip off a piece, right?

So in this video, a bunch of sensitive dudes who “honor the spirituality of the divine feminine” and “the intuitive sense you have to heal our planet” and “your deep connection to the earth” apologize on behalf of their “gender.” Although they haven’t personally done anything bad themselves, they acknowledge that burning witches at the stake and prostituting women and raping them and impoverishing them over the ages may have driven a wedge in between us. They’re real sorry. Now let’s all move forward together toward a “new era of procreation.”

You will experience an exceptional ick-spasm when they start “honoring the beauty and integrity of your body” and explaining that “the grip of lust” and the “unconscious masculine” — you gotta love that it’s unconscious — makes men act like assholes. Naturally this part is illustrated by images of prostituted women.

Clearly, this sincere apology erases millennia of misogynist atrocities. Women may now feel free to look the other way on that male privilege dealio, allowing uninterrupted dudely access to the Healing Moonglow of the Poontang.

Anyway, gotta motor. Enjoy the heebie-jeebies!

_____________________
Thanks (I think) to Copykat for sending it in.

Sensitive Dude foto: still from the video.

Spinster aunt reads comment on Dawkins website, wrinkles lip

Liberal dudes (and that boobquake chick) just love celebrity biologist Richard Dawkins. Even some Internet feminists may be said not to vomit blood at the mention of his name. Because no greater proponent of atheism than yours truly ever camera-stalked a Rio Grand turkey in the Texas Hill Country, even the Spinster Library contains a couple of Dawkins’ popular, well-written books. They are enjoyable if one is charmed by that mellifluous English public school manner of expression, and if human penis-based arguments against godbagism typically convey buoyancy to your ocean-going vessel.

As an added precaution, the Great Council of the Dieri would also keep a stockpile of boys’ foreskins in constant readiness, because of their homeopathic power to produce rain.*

Despite his admirable enthusiasm for some of the richer morsels of history’s bounty, Dawkins is, as I have always maintained, no feminist. This is a disappointment but hardly surprising, since rare indeed is the intellectual Western motherfucker who is not enamored of the glorious myth that he and his ilk, in their educated and progressive magnanimity, have liberated their women.

It’s a disappointment, not just because it blows whenever a superstar brainiac turns out to be a knob about the global humanitarian crisis of patriarchal oppression, but also because of this: if otherwise rational, right-thinking, internationally worshiped dudes of Dawkins’ stature can remain deluded about the tyranny of male privilege, the chance in hell that feminist revolution might be said to stand is like unto that of a snowball. Particularly when women themselves, in the shape of self-described “equity feminists,” saunter through the town square declaring that patriarchal oppression in America does not exist. Even more particularly when the Dawkinses openly admire the  self-described feminists’ declarations.

The specific Dawkins-approved, self-described feminist to whom I allude is, of course, the notorious Christina Hoff Sommers, professional turncoat and author of several “Dudes Rule!”-themed books, such as the hatespeechy Who Stole Feminism, and that modern MRA classic The War Against Boys: How Misguided Feminism Is Harming Our Young Men.

Sommers thinks American feminists should put a sock in it and take it easy. Why? Because Americans have got patriarchy licked. Women are officially free. La di da da, free. She invents an enemy of American women’s freedom: “gender feminists,” mythical creatures who hate men but for some reason nevertheless maintain that men and women are “essentially the same.”

“Gender feminists” are probably more accurately described as “feminists who think Sommers is full of shit.”

So anyway, some commenter on the Richard Dawkins fanboy site suggested that Dawkins take a gander at one of Sommers’ antifeminist lectures. Here is the link to the lecture. Its gist is that “eccentric gender feminists” have staged a coup and taken over the women’s movement. Whereupon the eccentrics instituted a disinformation campaign, spreading foul lies about — I kid you not — ancient Roman emperors, while leaving a trail of bloodied, quivering equity feminists and the men they love in their wake. Sommers even takes a couple of shots at Eve Ensler for — get this — failing to sufficiently praise dudes in the Vagina Monologues.

This excerpt from Sommers’ lecture states her premise.

[I]n 1994 [...] I published a book entitled Who Stole Feminism? The book was strongly feminist, but it rejected the idea that American women were oppressed. For the most part, feminism had succeeded, I said. By the nineties, I argued, American women were among the freest and most liberated in the world. It was no longer reasonable to say that as a group women were far worse off than men. Yes, there were still inequities, but to speak of American society as a “patriarchy” or to refer to American women as second class citizens was frankly absurd.

Hey, Christina Hoff Sommers, what about that pesky 75 cents-on-the-dollar pay disparity, or the fact that only 15% of American political offices are held by women? Sommers, it turns out, isn’t even sure that these “factoids” are true (given the opposition’s proven propensity for lying about ancient Roman history), but even if they are, they can be easily explained by that handy psuedoscience mainstay, evolutionary psychology. You see, men and women are neither physically nor cognitively “the same,” therefore it is irrational to expect men and women to excel equally. Men are simply hardwired to win more political campaigns than women. Apparently men are also hardwired to make more money than women. So feminists should accept their biological destiny, “tone down the rhetoric against men,” and bask in our sexism-free utopia.

No advanced blamer requires a refutation of that ludicrous argument, so we’ll just press on to Sommers’ views on the “eccentric” idea that some menacing entity called “patriarchy” goes around victimizing women.

The dominant philosophy of today’s women’s movement is not equity feminism–but “victim feminism.” “Victim” feminists don’t want to hear about the ways in which women have succeeded. They want to focus on and often invent new ways and perspectives in which women can be regarded as oppressed and subordinated to men.

A few words on this women-as-victims stuff:

Largely because of the success of the funfeminist movement, which argues that women do too have agency, dammit! (as long as their choiciness stays perfectly aligned with male interests), to view women as victims has become passé and unpopular. Women aren’t victims anymore now that we can own property, vote, and have the right to pole-dance in our boyfriends’ apartments. Furthermore, the argument goes, if we traipse about the countryside exaggerating the sorry plight of women (when in fact the plight of women, though admittedly not quite as awesome as men’s, is at least not as sorry as it was), we’re just buying into that unattractive, unempowerfulized, hysterical “victim mentality.” We freely choose to wear 6-inch heels, and if we author this choice, we cannot therefore be victims of it. If we don’t think we are victims, we won’t be victims.

You know; only sick people take pills; therefore, if I don’t take pills, I won’t be sick.

What this argument fails to consider, regardless of a few funfeminists’ purported choice to choose choices, is that, hourly, billions of women worldwide suffer everything from discrimination to murder exclusively because of their sex. Women cannot choose the “I’m-not-a-victim” choice. Not even the funfeminists can choose it, not really, because when stuff like “you cannot rape me” or “my appearance is meaningless” or “the state cannot interfere with the contents of my own personal uterus” is not on the menu of choices, no real agency exists. But apparently, claiming that patriarchy victimizes women is just whiney.

So why in the world would scores of radical feminists, both Internetian (rhymes with “Venetian”) and regular, devote their public lives to exposing the violence perpetrated by the dominant culture if there were nothing to expose? What possible motivation could we have for supposedly “inventing new ways in which women can be regarded as oppressed”?

Sommers offers a helpful explanation: “There are a lot of homely women in women’s studies. Preaching these anti-male, anti-sex sermons is a way for them to compensate for various heartaches–they’re just mad at the beautiful girls.”**

Meanwhile, upon reading the Sommers speech, Dawkins was moved to comment: “Thank you for this. I have now read the lecture you recommend, and it is indeed excellent.”

The anointed one has spoken.
______________________
* Dawkins, Richard. Unweaving the Rainbow. Mariner Books, 2000. p.182.

** Sommers has denied ever making this remark.

Thanks, Stella Tex.

Spinster aunt mutters in Yiddish

If you are anti-IBTP-on-Facebook — and no spinster aunt can blame you for that — you have been spared the recent grim ennui of a painful exchange between a dude named Alexander who fancies himself feministically enlightened, and a blamer named Ana who does not entirely concur with Alexander’s self-assessment. It’s a classic Clueless-Dude Time-Drain. Hell, you already know what went down even if you didn’t read it. You’ve probably seen 2583 of these feminist vs. feminist-dude splitsplats.

This one was especially funny, though, because of the unintentionally ironic caption the dude Alexander gave his feministical little Jezebel link. “If you were wondering whether men hate you [...]” was how he put it. I’m not even kidding. He couldn’t seem to grasp why some blamers might have a problem with a man strolling in and telling a bunch of women that men hate them.

Look, just to be clear: when a man hangs around the feminists, it’s weird enough, but when he announces “men hate you,” it strikes rather a different — some might say “menacing” — note than when, say, an award-nominated spinster aunt says it it. You’re not one of the girls, dude.

Just sayin’.

But really, it’s comical, the predictability with which dudes who fancy themselves feministically enlightened just can’t seem to shut the fuck up when they are found to be duding the joint up a little too hardcore. They all appear to have been issued the same script. The script goes like this:

Blamer: Points out that the dude himself is at this moment exercising the very male privilege he has just derided in somebody else.

Dude: Gets defensive [he is feministically enlightened, and no woman is gonna tell him otherwise]. Implies, by dint of hilarious and supercilious walk-on-eggshells-cuz-this-chick-is-touchy language, that blamer is overreacting and misunderstands him.

Spinster Aunt: Steps in and tells the guy to go back to feminist school.

Dude: Counters with a display of vast feminist knowledge, perhaps stating [as dude Alexander did] that Jill’s ideas are not original; he happens to know that Andrea Dworkin thought this stuff up already.

Spinster Aunt: Mutters “Oy vey,” and repairs to the barn to shovel horseshit of a more pleasant kind.

Blamer: [now joined by more blamers] tells dude what time it is, i.e. that merely by persisting as a dude with a dudely perspective in a dude-free feminist forum he is, in fact, an exemplar of the abhorred oppressor.

Dude: Makes disingenuous apologies because of course he never meant to step on any toes or annoy anyone in any way, but doesn’t cop to exercising privilege except in an abstract, generalized, all-men-do-it sort of way.

Blamers: Get cheesed off because dude can’t take a hint.

Dude: Gets cheesed off because blamers won’t appreciate what a learned and magnanimous fellow he is.

[This will continue until I come in for lunch. There'll be 20 or 30 replies in the pile-on, and I'll be obliged to pull the plug. Then I'll do a blog post about it, and 75% of the time the dude will email me to outline all the ways in which I am wrong about him.] The end.

It has been said about 173,942 times — including on the aforementioned Facebook thread — that feminist ally dudes who genuinely want to advance the cause can best do so by minding their own fucking beeswax. Theirs, after all, is the beeswax that most thoroughly and systematically jams women up.

There’s quite a bit of dudely beeswax that needs minding, too. Dudes might quit using porn, for example. They could quit sticking their dicks in people with lower status than them (both literally and figuratively). They could get vasectomies, or clean their own toilets, or read a bunch of feminist theory, or explain to all their buds the ways in which their boo-yah mores are violent and oppressive. If they are sensitive artistes, they could even quit mooching off their girlfriends. They could combine all this useful, proactive, pro-feminist, anti-domination behavior with — to echo a cry that has risen in many a parched feminist throat — shutting the fuck up and getting the fuck out of our way.

Hahaha! Hoooo-boy! That’s a hot one. I have to say, the notion that more than a handful of men would ever do any of that stuff makes me throw back my head and laugh, as the poet said, a hollow, mirthless laugh.

But back to the point, which is this: I’ve pretty much had it with these supposedly well-meaning dudes who try to exercise their nascent feminist chops on my personal patriarchy-blaming blog. Patriarchy blamers in general, and I in particular, in no way require the “feminist” male perspective on anything, ever. See the FAQ for more information.

So I am revising, somewhat, the blogular comment policy. I end up doing this every year or so, when the dudeliness starts getting out of hand and wearying me, which it always does because I am never enough of a hardass.

The revision is this: This blog is goin’ dudeless. If you are commenting as a dude, don’t do it here. I don’t ever want to have to read fingernail/chalkboard crap like this again:

“So let me get this straight, you are blaming the porn industry and men in general for the poor decision made by this woman? It is pretty sexist for you to assume this woman was incapable of make [sic] her own decisions. I’m pretty sure that no one was holding a gun to her head telling her to get breast enlargement or die. I really don’t understand why any women get breast enhancement. They don’t look good, except sometimes while wearing a bra. They don’t feel good. And if the woman decides to have children, breast feeding is not an option. Of the maybe 20 guys I have talked to on the matter, none of them would marry a woman who had fake breasts.” — some random asshole with a Hotmail account.

As always, dudes are welcome to both spectate and contemplate the ideas discussed in this blog and in other feminist work. But from now on, I’m inviting them to do us the courtesy of shutting the fuck up. Of course, I’ll grandmother in those guys who’ve been around for years and have shown themselves capable of human decency.

New dudes can bypass the sex restriction by going incognito. I got no problem with that as long as they complete the prerequisites, never use the personal pronoun “I,” and knock it off already with the fucking tiresome-ass male viewpoint and supercilious tone. Good luck with that, though, because you know as well as I do that sooner or later they always start mansplaining or yakking about dudesex. If we can tell they’re dudes, they’re out.

As far as IBTP on Facebook goes, effective immediately dudes are invited to stop posting status updates on the wall (“Wall”. Really? Facebook is stupid). Blamers, even on Facebook, are not interested in dude-directed discourse. For now the Facebook comments will remain open to all comers, and we’ll see how it goes.

The purpose of all this is not to censor men or punish men or hate men or do anything to men at all (although if that’s what they want to think, it’s no skin off my nose). Rather, it’s to keep the blogular discourse as free as possible from the contamination of male privilege.

End transmission.

Boy story

Advanced patriarchy blamers have already strapped into their handydyke utility belt of blaming techniques the Bechdel Test. But a little refresher can’t hurt, so check out the vid.

The Bechdel test dates back to the 80’s and Alison Bechdel’s iconic comic Dykes to Watch Out For. The test aims the Blistering Beacon of Blame at the infrequency with which female characters in film are represented as fully realized human beings.

To pass the test, a film (or, if you like, any other sort of arty or infotainment-y work*) has to have at least two female characters, the characters have to have names, and they have to have a conversation about something other than dudes.

These criteria are always burbling in the back of the my lobe as I ingest media from the various screens in my life. Constant scanning for representations of female characters that even vaguely nod at the truth makes the act of consuming entertainment absolutely exhausting. You more or less expect women to be characterized as dude accessories in pre-feminist movies, but the scarcity of more recently produced shows that pass the test continues to boggle the spinster mind. The other day during an episode of “Star Trek Voyager” I did the butt-dance when Janeway and Torres had a discussion about a warp core breach. Of course, they do that on every episode. I personally think the Bechdel test ought to exclude Janeway-Torres warp core breach discussions.

Let us not forget, however, that the Bechdel test only measures whether two female characters have a few lines of human dialogue. It doesn’t gauge whether the female characters in question are generally representative of female humanity, so it can’t really be used to award any feminist points. There may have been, for example, a few seconds here and there in “Sex and the City” where the women chit-chat about getting Brazilians instead of about getting laid, but the show’s overall unmitigated heteronormative misogyny pretty much cancels out any brief flirtation with the notion that women are human.

I don’t know if you have young nieces and therefore were compelled to see “Toy Story 3″ in a theater with about 4792 other kids, but I do and I was. (“Toy Story 3″ sort of borderline passes the Bechdel test on a sort of technicality, but definitely flunks it in spirit; there is one brief scene where two women, one of whom is named “Mom,” discuss giving toys away to charity). I won’t bore you with “Toy Story 3’s” yawn-o plot details, but it will not bowl you over to hear that the hero toy is a dude, the sidekick toy is a dude, most of the supporting character toys are dudes, and the kid who owns the toys is a dude. Oh, and one of the two or three female characters is a Barbie, and she is an airhead. Business as usual.

But check this out. Yesterday, while shoveling a buttload of horse manure into my Gator, I listened to a recent “Fresh Air” podcast wherein Terry Gross interviews two Hollywood dudes who had something to do with making “Toy Story 3.” The Hollywood dudes start talking about “getting to the emotional truth of the characters.” I have, with my usual painstaking attention to detail, transcribed the portion of the interview in which they reveal how they went about getting to the “emotional truth” of a Ken doll character.

Hollywood Dude #1: I don’t know if you had any Ken dolls when you were growing up; I certainly didn’t. But my friends’ little sisters did and we made endless fun of Ken. Ken’s just a-a-a whipping boy [...] We thought, well what does it feel like to be a guy who’s a girl’s toy? You’re a guy, but you’re only played with by little girls. And then further, he’s just an accessory to Barbie. You know he doesn’t carry equal weight to, with Barbie, he’s really no more important than a pair of shoes or a belt or a purse to her, and we knew that he would have to have a complex.

Hollywood Dude #2: Yeah, no, I mean, that’s one of the things that’s such a pleasure working on a film like this is that you go, OK, what, you know, what are gonna be the issues of a character like Ken, like what’s gonna be the thing that like keeps him awake at night, you know, and, so, you know, immediately you come into the fact that maybe he’s a little bit insecure about the fact that-that-that he’s-he’s, you know, a girl’s toy and maybe he’s in denial of that.”

Immediately one is struck by the empathy shown poor Ken by the Hollywood dudes. Through his degraded status as a “whipping boy” toy whose lot in life is to be “only” played with by little girls, Ken accrues pathos. The subtext — that little girls are low prestige toy owners and confer shame upon any “male” toy forced to associate with them — reveals that the Hollywood dudes have thoroughly assimilated the message that female children are of lower status than male children, and actually do have cooties.

Another hilarious facet of Hollywood dudes’ remarks is their cogent assessment of the condition of existing solely as an accessory. It is obvious to them that relegating a sentient being to the role of one-dimensional second banana degrades that sentient being, which sentient being would then logically suffer psychological damage as a result (Ken’s “complex”). Yet it eludes them that this is precisely the condition they have imposed on the female characters in their own film, much less that it’s the condition overwhelmingly imposed on female characters in most other films, as well as the condition imposed on all actual live women. Does Mrs Potato Head lie awake at night pondering the horror of existing only as an afterthought to, and entirely in terms of, Mr Potato Head? Not in “Toy Story 3!”

In other words, the Hollywood dudes have perfectly illustrated the point of view of the entitled default human: men are men, and women are toys.

__________________________
* Is it just me, or does even Terry Gross seem to interview way more dudes than dudesses?

[YouTube link courtesy of Veganrampage]

Spinster aunt wastes time

Of the many time-wasting hobbies in which spinster aunts are known to indulge, one of the most beloved is the close reading — or megamicronalysis, to use the clinical term — of some passage of text or other.

Why the close reading? Why not para-sailing? Why not chemical engineering?

Because spinster aunts used to be English majors, and old habits die hard.

Not an English major? Don’t know or care what the heck I’m talking about? Fantastic! A close reading is when a total nerd takes a chunk of text and gives it the Everlovin Eye of Scrutiny. By which I mean, she whips out her language-loupe and inspects the text-chunk, line by line, word by word, letter by letter, with assiduous concentration on tone, point of view, verb tense, style, connotation, imagery, symbolism, syntax, literary device, motif, theme, punctuation, density, negative space, texture, aroma, atomic weight, or what have you. These attributes — atomic weight et al — form the subtext. A subtext contains layers of meaning that cannot be conveyed by the text’s superficies alone. In fact, the meaning of a subtext’s layers often exists solely in the mind of the total nerd. That’s what’s so marvelous about it.

Subtexts and all their perilous possibilities are irresistible to English majors.

Once a text has been flayed open and every aspect of its shimmering sub-substance lies exposed and quivering in the 60-watt light of the English major’s second-hand desk lamp, the close reading is complete. At this point it is customary to write a long, tedious paper that maybe two people in the world will ever read, in which the English major not only reveals the results of her megamicronalysis, but craftily uses her findings as evidence supporting whatever brilliant and obscure argument she’s making about the text.

Why make a brilliant argument about text at all? Why not do something useful like go down-the-coast and cap that fucking oil leak?

Indeed, it is a question for the ages. One hypothesis: the English major has deduced that English words strung together in certain sequences can express certain ideas, almost as though they were a kind of language. Furthermore, she has realized that her strings of words can express ideas about somebody else’s strings of words, and that these ideas are just too fuckin replete with philosophic value not to synthesize into a long, tedious paper that ultimately draws weighty conclusions about the human condition. Also — brace yourself — close readings can be performed on other close readings, creating string upon string upon string of words expressing this, that, and the other thing, ad infinitum, until the whole of human genius has been explicated, turning the very cosmos itself into an open if slightly long and tedious book!

Thus is the close reading, if one is of a certain lowbrow temperament, immensely satisfying to execute.

In the cut-throat world of patriarchy blaming, close readings are particularly valuable. In the parlance of people who write things about things, “teasing out” the subtexts concealed within garden-variety patriarchy-generated texts (news reportage, field guides to Texas lepidoptera, Italo Calvino short stories) can reveal realer truths about the culture of oppression that might otherwise languish in obscurity where they do no women no good no how.

A favorite self-replenishing source of patriarchy-generated text falls in the Emails Sent In By Dudes category. Say, here’s one now!

Twisty,

Despite my being a male reader of your blog (and one who doesn’t even meet the commenter criteria), I know that neither you nor any other feminist has a responsibility to explain feminism to men. I’m kind of stupid, however, so I am going to go ahead and ask you for your opinion on a recent issue, and for advice on how to proceed. Also, I know that you don’t have definitive authority to speak for feminists, let alone women, but I still seek your opinion as a person far more experienced in these matters than I. I am asking that you grant this, not as an obligation, but as a favor from one possessing wisdom to one sorely needing it. There is undoubtedly some male presumption on my part in asking this, but I would ask that you look beyond that to see that I am honestly endeavoring to do what is right.

The case I am writing in regards to is that which is reported here:

[yadda yadda yadda]*

Sincerely,
Jeremy

Jeremy is asking for something, a thing to which he seems to be aware that he is not entitled, but which a lifetime of dude-on-dudess interaction has nevertheless taught him to expect. He appeals for an exception to the Spinster Prime Directive by asking a spinster aunt to define rape for him, so that he can look smart on some other blog.

Jeremy presents his case in first person, from the point of view of an entity described as a “male reader.” This gives us important information about Jeremy. It tells us straight away that Jeremy has determined that the most basic tenet of the blog — “if you’re a dude, don’t ask me shit” — does not apply to him. We may therefore identify him as a schmuck.

Jeremy refers to “I” or “me” eleven times in this single paragraph. Nine times he refers as “you” to the Internet feminist known as Twisty. His conversational tone (“I” and “you”) suggests that Jeremy perceives a relationship between himself and Twisty. Although he sees himself as the dominant figure in the relationship, Jeremy wishes Twisty to regard it as one approximating that of sovereign/supplicant, where Twisty is the sovereign and Jeremy the supplicant. We infer this because, whereas Jeremy describes himself as “kind of stupid,” he floridly flatters Twisty as “one possessing wisdom” and “experience” who is in a position to “grant” what Jeremy wants. This gambit is transparently calculated to butter Twisty up, that she might cast a benign eye upon his heartfelt plea and do him the favor of setting aside her Internet feminist agenda by telling him what to think.

It is clear, however, that Jeremy doesn’t actually consider himself stupid. We know this because a) in the entire history of the entire Internet, there have only been like two instances of people writing stuff online who were not convinced absolutely of their own moral authority and intellectual superiority, and even these were later shown to have been hoaxes, and b) because Jeremy chucks around, albeit awkwardly, a few 50-cent phrases that he wouldn’t expect a genuinely stupid person to chuck (“definitive authority,” “honestly endeavoring”).

In fact, describing himself as “kind of stupid” and admitting up front that he is not qualified to take part in patriarchy blaming’s cutting-edge dialecticals is merely common self-deprecation, a device used to suggest a sense of humor and a bit of submissiveness where none actually exists, the better to cajole a boon out of a reluctant boon-granter.

In other words, Jeremy is a disingenuous suck-up.

The self-deprecating claim of stupidity allows Jeremy to acknowledge Twisty’s unequivocally stated lack of interest in running a school for boys, while simultaneously deploying an affect so irresistible that Twisty will have no choice but to abandon — “not out of obligation, but as a favor” — her stated mission and personal beliefs in order to cater to his whim.

Why should she do this catering? Because Jeremy is “honestly endeavoring to do what is right.” It is common knowledge that there are no worthier recipients of favors from Internet feminists than honest dudely endeavorers. For, honest though his endeavoring be, Jeremy simply cannot achieve do-rightness without Twisty’s guiding hand on the rudder of his conscience. Is this because he is too lazy to read 17 books on radical feminist theory?

Yes. Yes, it is.

If there’s one thing an English major learns from having had to write, over the course of her academic career, 73 or 74 papers on The Great Gatsby, it’s that when a first person dude claims he’s honest, he lies.

Yes, ladies, the world and the Internet are crawling with dudely entitlement; it may come disguised as the lying lies of obsequious flatterers, but when it does, the English major has it covered like a fuzzy pink seat on a toilet.

_________________________
* Here is the rest of Jeremy’s email. Feel free to address, in the comments, the “recent issue” [!] of rape-by-deceit.

But first: You know, the only reason men are so anxious to define rape all the goddam time is to keep women from getting away with having too much autonomy over their sexy selves. If I were to define rape for anyone who thinks rape requires defining it might go something like “It’s rape whenever she says it’s rape, douche.”

To summarize, a Palestinian Arab was recently convicted for Rape by Deception on the grounds that he claimed to be Jewish in order to have sex with a Jewish woman. There is some question as to whether he actually intentionally deceived her, but that wasn’t really relevant to the discussion, which quickly turned to whether or not this should be classified as rape. In the comment section to that blog post (which you may want to read for context), I attempted to make the argument that this would, indeed, count as rape, on the grounds that deceiving someone in order something they would not otherwise do is coercion, and that coerced sex is rape. In a later post I attempted to clarify this by stating that I find coercion, of any form or severity, to be the defining factor in whether an instance of sexual activity is rape, admitting that there is some degree of variability in the severity in these rape acts, which by this definition includes everything from violent rape, to statutory rape, to prostitution and pornography, to lying about one’s interest in a long term relationship.

Opposition from the other commenters has caused me to question my argument, however. Some have pointed out that it might tend to infantilize women, and others that it is offensive to victims of violent rape to dilute the term by including so much in the definition. Further, there are several counterexamples (such as a women lying about her sexual history to avoid scaring off potential sexual partners, or a light-skinned woman of African descent lying about her racial ancestry in order to marry into white society) that I desperately do not want to classify as rape, but would seem to follow from the system I put forward. If opposition to my arguments were universal, I would withdraw my argument, believing it be a case of an oppressor blind to oppression. However, a couple of commenters have supported my conclusion, at least one of whom I have cause to believe is female, so I am stuck.

I would very much appreciate your opinion on this matter, and am more than willing to accept that I may have been dramatically wrong in my conclusion. I understand that you may choose to use this E-mail on your blog to make example/fun of.

“Women withhold sex because men let them get away with it”

Feel like puking? Check out this crusty scab of human hatred from the Fox News website, a men’s advice column entitled “Reasons Women Withhold Sex.”

I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, “why would I feel like puking?” Or possibly, “why would anyone bother writing a men’s advice column entitled ‘Reasons Women Withhold Sex’ when the answer, so obvious to anyone with half a grip, is ‘because sex with you sucks’?”

But apparently men need to hear something other than the truth. Enter men’s advice-ist Sarah Stefanson. Rarely has so puke-a-riffic an example of the acculturation of sexist male entitlement been seen in this, or any other, galaxy.

I would call Sarah Stefanson a lousy turncoat collaborating suck-up shitbag, but I don’t want to jump to conclusions. There’s always the possibility that she was forced against her will to scrawl this feces-stain on the knickers of human achievement. Forced, perhaps, by some asshole who literally held a gun to her head, threatening to kneecap her 80-year-old grandma and foreclose on her 9-acre dirt farm, send a shipment of tainted vaccines to blind orphans in Bangladesh, and drown a sackful of kittens in a pond of toxic run-off. That has to be the scenario, because otherwise I’d be forced to contemplate that there actually exists a woman so degraded, so corrupt, so sociopathic, or so desperate that she would willingly turn out this kind of unremitting, lobe-scorching dudebro misogyny for the pitiful sum of 10 cents a word.

But I digress.

Sarah Stefanson’s hate speech addresses a dudely audience, and begins, I am sorry to say, like this:

One of the benefits of being in a long-term relationship is that you have someone that you can readily depend on for regular sex.

But uh-oh. Dude’s dependable meatsock may not be feelin’ it. She may even be “withholding” it. This suggests that the benefits of which Sarah Stefanson speaks so glowingly might be experienced by the party of the second part as unpleasantness. Hence her tips on how to manipulate your sex-woman and “get the carnal door open again” (Jaysus, 10 cents a word for that? Kill me now).

Observes Stefanson, “if there’s one area of a relationship women think they have control over, it’s sex.” But don’t buy it, men!

In the wild world of men’s advice columny, “purposefully withholding” sex is universally understood as a wholly nefarious, cruel, and mystifying method of female retribution. That’s because sex is a commodity to which men are entitled by the Global Accords Governing Fair Use of Women. Women are the sex class. If the flow of access is interrupted, the natural order is out of whack, and your sex-woman needs to be reset. But hey, chillax, bra! Stefanson’s column addresses the painful question “what can a suffering dude do when his receptacle is ‘purposefully withholding’ sex?”

In answering the question, Sarah Stefanson, with whom I begin to grow increasingly annoyed, leaves no tired old war-between-the-sexes cliché unturned. Women who “close up shop” (yes, really) are manipulative, out to prove who’s boss, cheating, or “playing games.” If they’re too tired to fuck, men are urged to poke them with sticks. If none of the tactics listed sufficiently cajoles them, “you might have to wait it out and service yourself until she comes to her senses.” But ultimately, Sarah Stefanson opines, women withhold sex “because men let them get away with it.” So man up, you spineless fairy, and take what’s yours.

Stefanson’s article is a stupid lowbrow clump of oppression-culture condensation, and doesn’t really merit a full-on paragraph-by-paragraph analysis, but it’s worth pointing out that it was filed on a major news website under “Men’s Health,” where it is accepted, uncritically and without analysis, that women are an underclass with so little agency that sexual manipulation is their only recourse.

Puke.

[Thanks, PhioGistic]

Hanging Chads of Savage Death Island bore the shit out of spinster aunt

Wow, I nip out to town for a couple of mahi tacos (diet cops, shut your yaps), stumble back to my desk, and discover that some dude named Jack has parachuted down to Savage Death Island, peered at the curious natives through a 2X magnifying glass, and pronounced (some of) us “smart.” Despite the fact that we don’t care for his “vague” antifeminist remarks. He then attempts to reinforce his superior status with an unflattering lampoon of the Blametariat, and to enlighten us with his unique male viewpoint. There’s also some other guy (“Flotsam”? “Fosdick”?) on another thread who’s really taking up some space with his unique male perspective.

Henceforth such dudes will be known as hanging chads.

These hanging chads, they really never get it. Because women generally, and radical Internet Feminists in particular, are to them some mystical, unfathomable alien species, they think we don’t understand them! It is hilarious, the predictability with which they all, without exception, every single time, enduringly and persistently, are compelled to lecture the ignorant Savage Death Islanders on the finer points of the superior dude civilization back on the mainland. Because if we just understood them, we would see how wrong we are to experience Chadly privilege as oppression.

“Don’t you see? When you attack our porn, it makes us insecure, because we love porn, wee wee wee!”

Yeah, yeah, feminism makes you insecure so you have to post insults, death threats, and boring lectures on feminist blogs. What a revelation. Knock me over with a feather. Ça alors, c’est une big surprise.

But here’s the thing.

Now, I don’t speak for all the feminists, or for the readers of this blog, but this spinster aunt doesn’t care about dudes at all. In fact, I have acute dude fatigue. The topic of Dudes In Society excites me about as much as expressing the dog’s anal sacs. Educational anecdotes concerning the Dude Experience monotonize me to the max. The rarefied and incomparable Heterosexual Male Perspective bores the living lobe lubricant out of me.

Why?

Because I’ve heard it all about 174.8 million times before, and hearing it again doesn’t do a fucking thing for me. It doesn’t make the world a better place, it doesn’t cut through waxy yellow build-up, it doesn’t clean toilets, and it for sure doesn’t enlighten me.

What all chads fail to grasp is that, as members of an oppressed class, we have always considered it a matter of survival and our No. 1 priority to grok the fullness of the oppressor. In fact, we’ve been grokking the oppressor’s fullness since the cradle, mostly without even realizing it. It hasn’t been too difficult, since we were all raised in the smelly nutsack of Dude Nation, and continue to be engulfed by and to marinate in dudelionormative swampwater all day, every day. If there is ever some little dudecentric point here or there that eludes us, not to worry; dudelionormative socialization protocols are in place to take us back to school and whip us into shape.

The result?

There is nothing about men that Savage Death Islanders don’t know. Nothing. We know all about your dicks and your glands and what gets you off and how you were socialized and the terrible strain of male privilege. We get all your dude-jokes. We know all your antifeminist arguments. We know all your porn-is-necessary justifications. We know how you behave when you perceive that someone of a lower caste has challenged your authori-tay. No need to explain to us that we are doing feminism wrong, because we’ve already heard it from the 495,312 dudes who thought of it before you were born. We know that you are not conscious of your own privilege. And we get that, because your invisible privilege derives from the oppression of women, you hate women.

It turns out that after a lifetime of prophylactic acquiescence to Dude Culture gavage, I no longer give a crap. I don’t give a crap if dudes like me, or if dudes like feminists, or if dudes understand basic elements of feminism, or if dudes support the feminist fucking agenda, or if dudes sincerely ask me to educate them about feminism when all they really need is a swift kick in the grill with the boot of basic human decency. I’d rather have a root canal than spend even 3 seconds trying to convince some dude that patriarchy exists and that I’m not just making it up because I’m ugly and can’t get laid. The only thing that interests me less than educating lazy-ass dudes about their male fucking privilege is explaining to fucking lazy-ass privileged dudes why I am not interested in educating them. And Jesus Christ, the ennui! The crushing, stultifying, soporific ennui! The ennui of writing “Chad, you seem like a nice enough guy, but you should really check out the Feminism 101 blog before calling me ‘irrational’ and alluding to the power of femininity.” The ennui of reading “your a bitch thats why feminism will fail.” The ennui of sifting through gibberish like “Our female ruling class & their collaborators are biggest criminals in history.”

God, the ennui! It’s like living in the goddam Twilight Zone episode where the train keeps pulling into the same station over and over and over.

Nothing wastes my time like a dude. And at age 51, I ain’t got all that much time left.

In other words, the less I see of dudes, and of the gruesome products of their corny-ass fetishes, and of their boring-ass pronouncements on my blog, the more pleasant my day will be.

Look, mang, sometimes a spinster aunt just wants to shoot the shit with interested parties about some stuff, without having to endure douchebags splurting out boring douchebag shit that means nothing to anyone except other douchebags who are trying to out-douchebag each other. She wants to shoot the shit about stuff like this:

That a world order predicated on domination’n’submission oppresses entire classes of people. That oppression is experienced by these classes of people as discrimination, violence, and hatred. That discrimination, violence and hatred are unhealthy and injurious. That a social revolution that obviates the domination’n’submission model will have the concomitant effects of liberating the oppressed classes and, it so happens, of neutralizing the arousal quotient of domination, rendering pornography obsolete.

That’s right. After the revolution, pornography will have all the allure of cleaning a lint trap. No dreaded “censorship” or “banning” required. It will resolve itself.

MRAs on parade: chumpass motherfucker declares ownership of girlfriend’s uterus

It’s always the way: some horndog dude decides to prong a woman, then ends up dissatisfied with the results. So he has a tantrum. The tantrum may take one, or a combination, of many interesting forms.

Sometimes the woman doesn’t want him around anymore, so he stalks her. Sometimes she makes him hate her so much that he emails naked pictures of her to the whole school. Sometimes she gets old or fat so he keeps her around to do his laundry but starts pronging a younger woman on the DL. Sometimes she stops putting out so he fires her from her job. Sometimes the woman interprets the pronging as rape, so he calls her a liar and tortures her with mental cruelty and courtroom drama and ends up doing no jail time.

And sometimes he makes the woman pregnant. In this case he can choose from many, many popular options. He might he murder her, beat her, abandon her, marry her, slut-shame her, or, as in today’s case, appeal to the patriarchal justice system to enforce his wishes as to what should be done with the contents of her personal uterus.

I allude to Greg Bruell, a dude who, having some time ago made the personal decision to father no further children, proceeded to prong his girlfriend anyway (as reported in Salon).

Here I interject some No.1 Science Information, information that, had Greg Bruell been apprised of it, might have prevented all of his piteous suffering. That information is this: heterosexual pronging ranks Number One in the World as the most efficacious method of all time for obtaining pregnancy. You might think Greg Bruell had been at least dimly aware of the consequences of heterosexual pronging, since he has already fathered two children. However, Greg Bruell has apparently failed to grasp the connection between his lusty throbbing and the pitter-patter of little feet. Men, who are born with the right to prong anything that moves, are not typically required to understand this kind of cause and effect, since, as I mentioned above, they can easily oil out of any untoward consequences of their actions merely by invoking any of the buttload of traditional exemptions: claiming ignorance, deceit, she asked for it, she cuckolded him, or — an oldie but goodie — that the burden of pregnancy is totally a chick problem.

Anyway, Greg Bruell claims that he and his girlfriend agreed that she would terminate her next pregnancy “without waffling.” So when she boldly asserted human agency, kept the kid, and sued him for child support, Bruell blew a wheel. His gambit for oiling out of his responsibility? He owns the uterus! The National Center for Men took up the cause, saying (according to Salon):

“When a man and woman have discussed what they want and have an agreement, I do not think she has a right to impose her change of mind.”

You heard that right. The “I” in the above quotation is our old pal, antifeminist knob Mel Feit, who thinks women don’t have a right to change their minds.

Taken to its logical conclusion, this crackpot ideology would turn all women’s interactions with men into legally binding contracts permitting men to use them according to their whim. The contracts can be verbal (“She didn’t say ‘no’!”), sartorial (“she dressed like a whore so my hands were tied!), alcoholical (“if she didn’t want to have sex she shouldn’t have passed out at my party”), or body-language-ical (“she winked at me. What was I supposed to do, not rape her?”).

If for some unexplained reason you acquiesce to sex with a dude, and then, after reconsidering, change your mind three minutes later, tough shit, lady. He doesn’t have to stop, because you already said yes. It won’t be rape, because you already said yes. A yes, once given, exists in perpetuity! It’s a binding contract.

How is this possible in the tiny mind of Mel Feit? Well, according to the Global Accords Governing Fair Use of Women, women exist in a perpetual state of “yes.” This state of “yes” extends not only to sexual availability, but to compliance with male wishes in any quarter, across the board. To wit:

Bruell’s girlfriend supposedly agreed she would have an abortion if he ever knocked her up again. At that moment of yes, according to the Feit, this woman gave up her own autonomy and ceded control of her personal sovereignty to representative of the state Greg Bruell. Because she had agreed to be an occasional receptacle for his ejaculate, her uterus actually became the property of Greg Bruell. Greg Bruell thinks his ownership of the uterus should have afforded him the opportunity to force her to abort the fetus. And now that she’s defied his authority and had the kid anyway, he’s claiming she “deceived” him.

What? No!

Hey Greg Bruell: your genetic material is under your jurisdiction only as long as you keep it locked up in your gunk box. The instant you give your sticky little wad its joyous send-off, and the two of you part company, its fate becomes the purview of another host body. It is no longer your property, and you can’t say dick about what happens to it. However, it’s only fair that you should pay a fine for littering.

Don’t want women suing you for child support? Zip it up, you fucking dipshit!

Why can’t the same argument be turned around and applied to women?

Because women are an oppressed class without fully human status. The pervasiveness and normalization of rape culture strips women of the same quality of autonomy that men enjoy. Women are not always permitted to opt out of perpetual sexual availability without suffering harmful consequences.

Because, in other words, of the patriarchy.

This Mel Feit guy, in case you’ve forgotten, is the author of much virulent misogynist MRA crap. Such as these gems:

“At a certain point during arousal, we don’t have complete control over our ability to stop. To equate that with brutal, violent rape weakens the whole concept of rape.” [cite]

Because, duh, men should define rape.

“When will public discussions about sexuality recognize that, in this culture, women already make most of the decisions about sexual intercourse?” [ibid.]

Even if this were true — a fantastical contingency is almost too ludicrous to contemplate — what would be so terrible about it? Since women are forced to bear all the consequences of “sexuality”– from self-destructive beauty practices torape, pregnancy, child-rearing, and beyond, it would make the most sense if women actually did have some power in this quarter.

Only women have the extraordinary freedom to enjoy sexual intimacy free from the fear of forced parenthood. [cite]

Whaoah! That’s a hot one! Obviously, by “women with extraordinary freedom” he means “mythical creatures whose legal right to an abortion is not obstructed at every turn by puritanical godbag misogynist legislation.”

But I am a Western, privileged internet feminist, which means that all I care about is clothes, so here is my favorite:

[...] A woman has a greater freedom when she gets dressed in the morning. She can wear what she wants to wear because she can be what she wants to be. She can wear traditionally male clothing because she can do traditionally male things, work in traditionally male jobs, assume traditionally male roles and personality traits. She can cross over into a man’s world, share men’s experiences, then return to a world where no men are allowed. You might say she can choose to wear the pants in the family. She has free choice in fashion because she has free choice in life. [cite]

Mel Feit is bummed out on accounta a supposedly feminist woman in a pair of pants told him she wouldn’t fuck him because — I do not lie — he likes to wear skirts. This unspeakable tragedy has forced Mel Feit to dream up all kinds of wacky fantasies about how liberating it is to be a woman in our society, and about how selfish women are for refusing to share our magnificent skirt-freedoms with him.

Jesus in a jetpack, like anyone really gives a shit if Mel fucking Feit wears a skirt! I will personally donate all of my skirts to Mel Feit, if he will just promise to wear them to all future christenings, bar mitzvas, weddings, business meetings, and talk show tapings.

O if only I had all day to huddle at the desk and make fun of old skirt-coveting Mel Feit who can’t get laid by women in pants. But unfortunately I’ve got to sit around and watch the grass grow.

[Thanks, Ashley]

Spinster aunt is only mildly inconvenienced by having to post something to her blog

Do I have time to write a post today? Hell, no! So I’m re-publishing an excerpt from one of Helen Huntingdon’s comments on the recent ultra-controversial science post. Do I have time to link to the specific comment? Hell, no! To read the whole thing, type “Helen Huntingdon” into the new search engine (over there on the right) and see what pops up.

The other day someone told me you can’t really get to know someone without living with them. Unsurprisingly, it was a dude who said this, since he was arguing why het couples should live together (married or un-), no matter how statistically risky this is for the woman. I said that if this was true, it must be possible to identify something of value that cannot be learned any other way, so what would that be? He couldn’t come up with anything that wasn’t obviously absurdly false. I said that the assertion that to “truly know” someone you must live together is probably nothing more than cultural myth, but that this one conversation hadn’t produced evidence warranting drawing a conclusion either way.

It’s too bad I don’t have time to enlarge on this theme, but I do have time to continue the tradition of pointing out what I great post I would have written if I didn’t have to drive 20 miles to put white gunk on a horse’s eye. It would have had something to do with widely accepted but bullshit cultural myths, such as “rabbits are rodents,” or “it is possible to boost your self-esteem by losing weight.”

Name your bullshit myths below!

UPDATE: the damn search engine is suddenly not acting right. Will fix it soon.