Archive for the 'Keep your bias off my gender' Category

Spinster aunt has a past

A propos of asexuality, which, devoted readers will recall, was discussed on this blog as recently as 2005, is the revelation — currently taking the nation by storm! — that Tim Gunn hasn’t had sex in 29 years.

Who the hell is Tim Gunn, you ask?

To answer that question, I must reveal something horrible about myself. But I want you to know that I have navel-gazed my way down the noble path of self-help, and of 12-step platitudes, and have graciously decided to forgive myself for it. Besides, my lawyers have advised me that it’s unlikely I’ll have to do hard time. So what is it already?

I used to watch “Project Runway.”

“Project Runway” is a horrible reality show hosted by supermodel Heidi Klum wherein aspiring fashion designers compete for the opportunity to pimp their line at New York Fashion Week. They all live together, sewing ugly clothes and backstabbing each other as they present a new look for the judges each week. Of course everything about the show endorses femininity, so watching it is like little knives shooting out of the TV into my eyes.

Tim Gunn is the “style guru” who mentors the designers. His prim but lovable ass is the reason I watched this stupid show.

Aside from virginal 40’s film star Loretta Young, Tim Gunn has possibly the most correct posture I have ever seen on a human being. I marvel at his relaxed yet anal-retentive bearing. His internal organs must be marvelously well aligned. His suit is meticulously tailored, his skin cells buffed and radiant, his albino hair just so. When he lovingly enunciates every syllable — “holler at your boy” — a tear springs to my eye. He is truly a freak of nature, the whitest dude on the planet. I’m only human, dammit! I can’t look away!

Anyway, Tim Gunn says he hasn’t done it in 29 years because he hasn’t felt like it, but don’t worry about him, his life is perfectly fine and he feels perfectly fine. He’s fine. Despite his fineness, today there appear in major newspapers pieces on whether or not it is “weird” to feel fine about not fucking everything that moves.

USA Today plays it for laughs — that zany homo! I suspect this is because there isn’t any real data to support the view that Tim Gunn is crazy. USA Today’s expert hasn’t ever heard of anything like his decades-long “dry spell” but agrees that if Gunn is happy, what’s the big whoop? Lack of data, however, doesn’t stop the LA Times from trying to pump up anxiety over some anti-American sexual deviance requiring the intervention of experts. Their shrink diagnoses Gunn as mentally ill because

“It’s not a natural sort of decision, nor is it biological or physiological — we are not wired that way,”

If she were treating him for this “illness,” she says, she would get to the bottom of his debilitating trust issues, for Man Must Boink!

But naturally the burning question is, what does all this mean for straight people?

Good news, heteros!

Gunn’s refreshing honesty nonetheless might come as a relief to many, especially for the 15% to 20% of American couples who are reportedly in “no-sex relationships.”

So I guess one out of five straight people is mentally ill, wired wrong, and unnatural. Or maybe it just dawned on them, as their pubescent hormones began to evaporate into the aether, that sex is overrated, has nothing to do with good health, is annoying or sort of ludicrous, and they’d rather read a book about mushrooms.

In closing, I’d like to thank my supporters for supporting me as I self-accept myself and courageously salute my bravery in fessing up to my “Project Runway” past. I rock.

Spinster aunt remembers something from the 90s

It’s true that spinsterdom has been keeping me pretty well preoccupied with matters unrelated, except in a general weltanschauung-y sense, to this patriarchy-blaming blog, but I did happen to notice that one blamer recently commented thusly:

Well, I keep reading about how not all women have breasts or uteri, and not all women have XX chromosomes, and how womanhood can be defined as “feeling like a woman”, which makes me think I have no idea what a woman is. And if I don’t know what a woman is, what do phrases like “women’s oppression” even mean? The oppression of who?

Then somebody responded with a comment about conflations and pipe dreams and Shania Twain. I didn’t know what that comment meant, but I appreciated that it was trippy. One is sometimes burdened with a sense of regret when considering that, uproarious good fun though patriarchy blaming is, it often lacks that certain psychedelic je ne sais quoi.

Who woulda thunk that here the Twain would meet?

Unfortunately I was unable to find the magazine cover to which I allude in the post, but here's Shania on the cover of Maxim (June 2003) in essentially the same capacity.

Shania Twain, though. I don’t know jack about her, except that she was on the cover, dressed in tuxedo hotpants, of a dykeygirl magazine that was for some reason a fixture in my downstairs bathroom for several years in the 90’s. One is sometimes burdened with a sense of regret when considering that, of the precious few memories one has managed to retain from the colorful, impetuous, funfeminist era when one played in an indie rock band under the moniker Spitzie West, one of them is used up by this trivial Shania Twain magazine cover detail.

Spitzie West was my stripper name.

Which leads me to my larger point:

A woman is anyone perceived by anyone else (including herself) to be a member of the sex class.

That is, woman is a made-up figment. A pastiche, if you will, of dudely fantasy. An archetype in pscyhosocial folklore invented as a means to illuminate, support, or catalyze the action-man exploits of the dude protagonist. For example, the cover photo of Shania Twain in tuxedo hotpants wasn’t meant to represent the truth about a human being, it was meant to re-tell a myth for and about heterosexual men (that woman = sex).

Hey, this’ll be fun. Let’s say some right-thinking activists from my home planet Obstreperon finally showed up and neutralized all the dudes by shifting them en masse into another dimension (Don’t worry! They wouldn’t be dead — mostly only imprisoned, probed, and used in alien experiments). Would “woman” still exist in the absence of its defining characteristic? Hell no. We’d all just be people. Strolling around alone after dark, having a couple of cocktails, wearing clothes and shit, pretty much without incident. Getting PhDs in astrophysics, directing films, being firefighters, pretty much without incident. You grasp the gist.

_______________________
Photo swiped from here.

Spinster aunt has cute niece

Niece #2

Now that I Blame the Patriarchy has become the I Heart Transgender Rights blog, it is my duty as an absentee spinster aunt to encourage those readers who have questions about transgenderism to kindly do their own fucking research on their own fucking time. As opposed to infesting the comments with questions like “why should we call a MtF a woman?”.

The situation is analogous to when dudes infiltrate the blog to demand that feminists teach feminism to them. It’s tiresome, right, because the dudes don’t really want to know, they just want to bait you, right? Well, in a similar vein, it is our blogular position that the existence of a culturally sanctioned oppression of transgendered persons, including sanctions practiced by certain subsets of feminists, is, like the oppression of the sex class, to be considered settled fact. Advanced Blamerism will henceforth include the appreciation of this settled fact. Hence, blamers may no longer expect me, or anybody else conducting discourse under IBTP’s auspices, to explain transgenderism, or to assuage prejudice-based fears, or to defend transitude against transphobic “arguments.” Demands for these explanations and arguments and assuagements will be met with the usual sneers, and — I suppose it is inevitable — the occasional brief but explosive little flamewar.

Do they still call them “flamewars”? It’s been so long since I’ve used the Internet.

In closing, I repeat, for the eleventieth time and for your blaming pleasure, a couple of articles from the Savage Death Island Constitution:

Femininity, the practice of femininity, and the fetishization of femininity degrades all women, regardless of the gender assignment of the practitioner or fetishizer.

Stereotyping is a tool of the patriarchy.

Gender will be eliminated by the revolución.

The wieldment of male privilege is prohibited.

Now, let’s all just fucking get the fuck along. Jesus fucking Christ.

Spinster aunt gets translucent

EMERGENCY MOBILE PHONE UPDATE: the Andrea Dworkin post to which I allude in this post was misattributed to Renee Martin. It was actually written by Daisy Deadhead. I Blame the Patriarchy regrets the error.

Well, it’s happened again. There’s a goddam “trans debate” thing roiling in the comments of yesterday’s post. My blogging chops are obviously rustier than I thought; back in the day I would have nipped the whole thing in the bud with one of my snappy little aphorisms and a couple of judicious deletions. That’s what I get for going on sabbatical. Use it or lose it, right?

Previously, on I Blame the Patriarchy

I announced that IBTP is going dudeless. The Blametariat threw me a parade. Then somebody wondered if the dude-ban includes transwomen or not. A little red light flashed on my Patri-O-Meter, but because I am dull-witted I ignored it. All I said was that the ban only includes persons who post as dudes. And sure enough, another poster took advantage of my inattention to opine, “well, transwomen are men after all.” Whereupon the kimchi taco I had for lunch began to form a wad of napalm in the pit of my stomach. “NOOOOOOOOOO,” I wrote, even as I sensed the crushing futility of my appeal, “I’m putting my foot down, we’re not having this horrible stupid argument again!” That’s all it took. It was on.

So today I am going to — albeit briefly and somewhat abstractly, because as much as I’d like to bloot out a New Yorker-sized article on gender politics, my assistant Phil (who, by the way, is a trans man) says I gotta motor in about 15 — I’m going to splain a couple things and link a couple things and then it’s on to some nice heartwarming nature crap.

There are three aspects of this “debate” that particularly chap the spinster hide. One is that it is even considered a debate. Is there anything more demeaning than a bunch of people with higher status than you sitting around debating the degree to which they find you human? I don’t think so.

The second is the main anti-trans “argument.” It goes:

Unless you were born a woman, how can you really know what women’s oppression means? You benefited from male privilege once; how can we trust you? You mock us with your femininity. You’re not authentic.

This argument is phobic and dumb. It proceeds from, among other things like fear and internalized misogyny, the premise that there exists a standard or authentic “woman’s experience” of oppression that derives entirely from childhood indoctrination and imbues the experiencer with some kinda moral authority. The premise is false. An experience of womanhood is not the experience of womanhood. For example:

Some women have a little privilege. Some women have a shit-ton of privilege. Some women have a shit-ton of privilege and then lose it. Some women have zippo privilege and then get some later. Some women only ever have zippo, period. Some women are atheists, have short brown hair, drive red Fords, have scars where their boobs used to be, eat only vegetables and shave their mustaches.

Thus we see that there are many manifestations of womanity, both in terms of privilege and otherwise, each topped with its own unique little dollop of oppression. Of the gazillion factors that comprise female awareness, the condition of having been born female is but e pluribus unum. How do your personal woman-factors compare to, I dunno, mine? How about to Nadya Suleman (“Octomom”)? Sakineh Mohammadi Ashtiani? Susan Boyle? Candida Royalle? Aung San Suu Kyi? Aileen Wuornos? Carolin Berger (“Sexy Cora”)? My assistant Phil?

Not only is there no “standard” women’s experience of oppression, but a primary experience of womanhood is in fact inessential to the understanding of oppression. It is not necessary, in order for the oppressed to unite behind the common cause of liberation, that every oppressed person should share the background experiences of every other oppressed person. It is not only not necessary; it is not possible. The imposition of such jingoistic strictures precludes all possibility of revolution.

Oppression is oppression. Race, ethnicity, religion, pigmentation, sex, gender, health, education, class, caste, age, weight, ableness, mental health, marital status, employment status, diet, IQ, internet access — any combination of these or a thousand other arbitrary markers may be used by the powerful to justify oppression, but the net result is always the same: discrimination, disenfranchisement, degradation, dehumanization. It’s the Four Ds! The Four Ds make all oppressed persons identical enough.

My third point strikes a somewhat different and theoretical note. It has long been the contention of all expert spinster aunts that the notion of gender is itself a fiction promoted by the usual hegemonic patriarchal forces as an instrument of oppression. A person can only be “trans” if there are rigidly enforced gender roles from which and to which one might transition. Obviously, post-revolutionary society will not be burdened by tiresome gender constructs at all; nobody will have to become anything because everyone will just be whatever they are. Meanwhile, we gotta stop slapping the Four Ds on anyone who fails to fit the stupid misogynist gender binary.

I would love to delve into this at greater length, but the aforementioned time constraints compel me to put a sock in it. Fortunately, yesterday blamers Nails and AlienNumber were kind enough to link to Renee Martin’s excellent essay on Savage Death Island’s executive director Andrea Dworkin and her remarks on transgender politics. The remarks, excerpted by Martin from Woman Hating (1974), are sensible and kind and radical and a breath of fresh 70’s air. And they pretty precisely express the Savage Death Island doxa. Essentially, Dworkin’s saying that everyone has a right to exist on her/his own terms. Duh, right?

Transsexuality* is currently considered a gender disorder, that is, a person learns a gender role which contradicts his/her visible sex. It is a “disease” with a cure: a sex-change operation will change the person’s visible sex and make it consonant with the person’s felt identity.

Since we know very little about sex identity, and since psychiatrists are committed to the propagation of the cultural structure as it is, it would be premature and not very intelligent to accept the psychiatric judgement that transsexuality is caused by a faulty socialization. More probably, transsexuality is caused by a faulty society. Transsexuality can be defined as one particular formation of our general multisexuality which is unable to achieve its natural development because of extremely adverse social conditions.

There is no doubt that in the culture of male-female discreteness, transsexuality is a disaster for the individual transsexual. Every transsexual, white, black, man, woman, rich, poor, is in a state of primary emergency as a transsexual. There are 3 crucial points here.

One, every transsexual has the right to survival on his/her own terms. That means every transsexual is entitled to a sex-change operation, and it should be provided by the community as one of its functions. This is an emergency measure for an emergency condition.

Two, by changing our premises about men and women, role-playing and polarity, the social situation of transsexuals will be transformed, and transsexuals will be integrated into community, no longer persecuted and despised.

Three, community built on androgynous identity will mean the end of transsexuality as we know it. Either the transsexual will be able to expand his/her sexuality into a fluid androgyny, or, as roles disppear, the phenomenon of transsexuality will disappear and that energy will be transformed into new modes of sexual identity and behavior.

I recommend reading Martin’s essay for a bit more context. Nails has a new post on the topic too.

______________________
* In 1974, “transsexual” was what we now call “transgender”

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.

Hugs, Twisty: Woman’s sex appeal is unbearable to knob coworkers

To: Twisty Faster
From: maria m. miranda
Subject: Jezebel: woman fired for being too sexy at job
Message:
I know Jezebel covered this, but I want YOU to write about it.

Dear maria m. miranda,

Nothing gives me greater pleasure than catering to the whims of complete strangers!

Here’s my synopsis [pieced together from the original story at Village Voice and Anna North's essay on same at Jezebel]: Debrahlee Lorenzana is fired from Citibank for bankering while female. She’s suing the chumpass motherfuckers for discrimination.

Lorenzana’s story is older than a spinster’s bunions: because of the Global Accords Governing Fair Use of Women, wherein is codified the equation of “women” with “sex,” Lorenzana’s Beauty2K-compliance, which is considerable, was deemed “too distracting” for her dude coworkers “to bear.” Citibank managers criticized her for looking too sexy, for not wearing makeup, for wearing high heels, for not wearing high heels, for wearing pencil skirts, for wearing sweaters, for wearing “fitted” business suits, for not straightening her hair, etc. They also performed an office-neuter on her: omitted to give her essential training which forced her to rely on male coworkers for favors.

It was further speculated in the Jezebel comments that Lorenzana’s female colleagues experienced her as a source of acute agony and contrived to “cut her off at the knees” forthwith.

In other words, Lorenzana was hectored, harassed, and discriminated against.

And then, when the Village Voice reports on her lawsuit, they include a weird 26-photo online slideshow of the “amihotornot” variety, asking readers to more or less rate Lorenzana’s sex appeal, this in addition to the patriarchy-affirming, porn-is-great language and tone of the article generally. As of this writing, the slideshow has nearly 300 comments. I stopped reading after the first 10 or so, which all voiced the same sentiment: she ain’t all that, she should “get over” herself, she must have deep character flaws that caused her female manager to give her the axe, obviously she is looking to parlay this frivolous lawsuit into celebrity.

Poor Debrahlee Lorenzana. Possessing a physique and — according to the Village Voice, which lovingly devotes a whole paragraph to her five closets of designer clothes — a sense of fashion that mirror precisely the sort of physique and sense of fashion most highly prized by dicks who consume pornography and prostituted women, Lorenzana was perceived to emit porn-rays too hot for Citibank.

Here is what is irrelevant to the case:

Lorenzana’s Christian Louboutin heels
Lorenzana’s point on the sexbot continuum
Lorenzana’s aspirations to fame and fortune
That Lorenzana unlikeably tried to save herself by ratting out some women tellers for wearing hooker outfits
Whether Lorenzana chooses to emit porn rays, or whether her natural self merely happens to conform precisely to pornulated beauty ideals.

What is relevant:

That Lorenzana is being punished for porn culture.

There’s a femininity tightrope that all public women are forced to walk, and she got bounced off, into the vat of boiling misogyny below. Whenever a public woman fails to balance the following factors just right, the some dick jounces the rope, and splat she goes. To wit:

Public women should be X amount feminine, X amount motherly, X amount hot, X amount beautiful, X amount young, X amount confident, X amount helpless, X amount exotic, X amount educated, X amount intelligent (required: the last two values < the men in the office), X amount gay (the last value almost always = 0). The ratios are fluid, shifting from day to day at the whim of public sentiment, so that a woman may think she’s got it pretty well sewed up, only to wake up one fine spring morn to discover that the parade being thrown in her honor has suddenly vanished. Later she finds out it’s because she stupidly forgot she was a member of the sex class, and had dared to imagine that she would be judged on merit rather than her ability to do femininity right.

Eventually we all fall off the rope.

Hugs,
Twisty

Heartwarming marsupial of the week

Hearwarming marsupial of the week

What a darling fellow! This gentle furry woodland creature comes around every night at 8 o’clock to frolic amid the rotting kitchen waste in my compost bin, at which point our nightly staring contest commences. He growls at me, inch-long fangs dripping with disease, for as long as I care to listen (video below). I have never outlasted him.

Meanwhile, is Elena Kagan queer?

Absolutely! Straight women do not play sports! Especially not softball. If a straight chick tries to play softball, the queer girls on the team turn her gay right away.

But mang, it would totally blow your mind, the sheer vastness of the number of queer women who think they’re straight. It’s like, over a thousand!

I mention this only because the Is-She-Gay thing is causing national media to point the fickle floodlight of fear (and loathing) at spinster aunthood. Heterosexual married people secretly yearn for and covet our awesomeness. But since we are symbols of freedom from the oppression of the nuclear family, we are reviled by those who have invested their entire identities in the paradigm.

They are, by the way, fucking dipshits. And by “they” I mean “them.”

Still Life with Shatner Bobblehead and Duct Tape

Still Life with Shatner Bobblehead and Duct Tape

Oh, no.

In the picturesque Texas Hill Country, where for 2 years it did nothing but not rain, it now does nothing but rain.

Remember that Ray Bradbury story where the kid lives on a planet where it only stops raining for like 10 minutes once every 80 years or whatever, and everybody looks forward to it like mad, but the kid, whose only dream is to frolic outside unmolested by condensed atmospheric moisture, is accidentally locked in a closet by feckless playmates and misses the golden 10 minutes? It’s like that here at Spinster HQ. And, if I may say so, what the fuck? I turn my gaze skyward, hoping to catch an errant rose-gold ray of sun so that my lobe might convert it into obstreperantin or chortletic acid, but no. The sky’s just a vast expanse of dirty white wetness and it’s screwing sorely with my neurotransmitters. About the only ones left in my lobe are depressulose and stupenephrine. My yippee receptors are just flappin’ in the breeze, flappin’ in the breeze.

Maybe all this water wouldn’t be so bad if I were a newt, but a newt I’m not.

I’ve been told that the rain stops occasionally. Having been driven mad by the incessant tappa-tappa on the window pane-a, I am dubious in the extreme that this is the case, but if it is true, for the lovagod call my ass up when it happens, so I can biff out to the nearest field and do the butt-dance without having to put on that clammy rubber hula skirt.

It goes without saying that cabin fever has begun to manifest itself in the shape of TV viewing. Here are some of the repellent results of this pursuit.

1. A television commercial advertising a vitamin pill called Centrum Ultra Men’s asserts that some things are made just for men. According to the commercial, three of those things, besides, presumably, Centrum Ultra Men’s vitamin pills, are:

• bobbleheads

• duct tape

• a third thing I can’t remember

I’m calling bullshit on Centrum Ultra Men’s vitamin pills. I have in my possession one bobblehead and four rolls of duct tape, of which fact I provide photographic evidence above. I submit that the gender binary narrative supported by Centrum Ultra Men’s vitamin pills is bogus, dated, and sexist. Obviously bobbleheads and duct tape are not made just for men, but for anyone who needs a bobblehead, or who has to tape shit together.

Take me, for example. Like most women, bobbleheads and duct tape are integral to my daily routine. In fact, when checking the Spinster Agenda this morning, just after “Pump Iron, Get Ripped” and just before “Corrupt the Youth of Today” I observed these items: “apply ducktape to blown-out sole on paddock boot” and “tabulate preliminary results of Shatner bobblehead/Cheez-Whiz experiment.”

2. Another instance of sexism on television what recently caught mine eye was a promo for a show on Comedy Misogyny Central called “Tosh.0″. In this promo, Tosh.0, a loud, 20-something duuude — or perhaps he is a bobblehead — hilariously and edgily tantalizes his teen male audience with a segment that promises to answer the burning question “can women parallel park?” Cut to footage of a car backing up crazily onto a sidewalk. Women, avers Tosh.0, can absolutely not parallel park! Watch his show! Because denigrating women with moth-eaten sexist stereotypes is freakin awesome!

By some sad coincidence, I was using the Internet this morning, and just happened to come across the very segment Tosh.0 was promoting in his commercial. The video does, I regret to say, entirely live up to the extremely diminished expectations I have been forced to adopt regarding Men Aged 18-34. Not only does young Tosh.0 mock a middle-aged woman for being “really old,” he makes racist remarks about “L.A. Asians,” and throws in a few superannuated “jokes” about how women sucker innocent men into relationships, thereby destroying men’s lives.

To recap, this is what passes for funny on a major TV network in 2010: women can’t drive, old women can’t drive, Vietnamese women can’t drive, and women, with their cunning stupidity, live to shatter the dreams of innocent men.

3. I sometimes watch CNN while I’m pumping iron and getting ripped, and believe me, an aunt could write a dissertation, a Broadway play, and several meaningful protest songs on the garish spectacle of patriarchal mores on parade every minute on that network. But I’ll just skip all that and proceed directly to the commercial that irritated me this morning.

A handsome, silver-haired guy tells the camera that even though he did “everything he was supposed to do” as far as fitness and “eating right,” he still had a heart attack. So now he takes aspirin every day.

This ad isn’t explicitly sexist (although when compared with the “feminine” version of the same commercial — middle-aged wife-and-mother is “lucky” her daughter gave her an aspirin during her heart attack — its genderedness is pretty glaring). What particularly chaps the hide is this obnoxious practice of marketing through fear of sudden death cardiac death arrest. Because, wait. You mean I can pump iron and get ripped and eat nothing but raw spinach smoothies and take Centrum Ultra Spinster’s vitamin pills, and I still might croak, unless I get my butt on an “aspirin regimen”? Sign me up!

"Dramatization" of germs on Your Family

4. Jesus in a jetpack! Check out the huge fucking green “germs” on that member of someone’s family! It turns out that “hundreds of bacteria” could be on my kitchen hand sanitizer dispenser! I need an electronic motion-sensor model. I’ll mount it on my fence, so that when the feral hogs trot by, it’ll kill 99.9% of their swine flu.

Photo still from Lysol commercial. Note the word “Dramatization” in the lower left corner. Good thing they put that there, because otherwise I’d have been forced to conclude that the wholesome sport of basketball is now being threatened by a race of giant carnivorous paramecia.

LubeWatch ‘09

Tiny Yella Fungus
Unidentified terrestrial object, September 2009.

Fellow heartwarming nature crappists will recall that, although spinster aunts are closely related to mushrooms (in terms of a shared propensity to sprout on rotting logs), my mycological chops are not, perhaps, as finely honed as might be considered ideal. Thus I will refrain from positively identifying this appealing, orange, and minuscule (1 cm) mushroom as some gnarly species of Hygrophorus. I mean, let’s face it. It could be elf dung for all I know. Interested parties are invited to submit their theories.

Meanwhile, it has not escaped my notice that the company what manufactures K-Y has come out with a product called “arousal gel.” They make it out of “niacin” and “sensory enhancers.” It’s just for the straight ladies! According to the annoying commercial, using the stuff will cause you to have sex with a doofus dude, will make your orgasm resemble a fog horn, will mess up your hair, and will render you both mute and incapable of preventing the doofus dude from addressing an audience that has apparently gathered at the foot of your bed. The subject of his speech is your enormous satisfaction “down there.”

I Blame the Patriarchy is the world’s #1 science blog, so naturally I ran this K-Y commercial through the old Patri-O-Meter. Results:

– Heteronormativity? Check!
– Dudal interpretation of inarticulate woman’s sexual experience? Check!
– Association of woman-targeted product with romance novel clichés? Check!
Odd psuedo-science website with pink orgasm juice exploding out of Erlenmeyer flask? Check!

“The use of K-Y® Brand personal lubricants is a personal preference, much like the use of champagne, chocolate, candles, soft music, and perfume.”

Well, count me out, K-Y; spinster aunts are strictly beer, weed, and prog-rock. And dude-free.

Also, since I Blame the Patriarchy is, as I mentioned, an Internetially-acclaimed science blog, I conducted a study on the efficacy of the product. I didn’t feel like coughing up $20 bucks for a bottle, so the study consisted of Googling “KY Intense” and reading a product review on some woman’s product review blog. She had this to say:

“Just because it made me numb, doesn’t mean it will you.”

The comments on her K-Y post contained this gem:

“i have a collection of junk products like this and have no idea what the heck to do with them now because NONE of them work. god, i hate sex…”

You thought I was just kidding

Mutant prickly pear paddles of the Texas Hill Country

Announcing my new heartwarming nature crap series, “Mutant Prickly Pear Paddles of the Texas Hill Country.” I expect to turn the project into a coffee table book sometime in the future, perhaps when people can afford to buy coffee tables again.

While I tootle off to Austin to buy some polyvinyl alcohol (the armadillos are thirsty!), what say you ponder this? Because nothing delights a spinster aunt more, of a bright, shiny Tuesday morn, than to stir up a cauldron of vehemence Cotonbouchaise.

Behold a condensed excerpt from the afore-linked-to recent blog post, authored by blamer Pisaquari:

One of the BIG reasons I no longer believe in, or support the idea of, sexual orientation has to do with our relationships to others’ body parts. In most cases, to have a sexual orientation, is to have fetishized genitalia (or preference, one prefers [part]). [...] [U]sing genitalia as a visual marker for arousal or appeal is a fetishizing act and does not differ you in any way from another amateur pornographer.

The “another amateur pornographer” to whom Pisaquari alludes is that dude Pelicanh, whose misogynist oeuvre I scorned a while back.

Sexual orientation = fetish. The idea is somewhat problematic, no? Yet oddly compelling.