Archive for the 'Lobe-blowing' Category

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Atomic penetrators, and more!

Published by Jill on August 25, 2009. 61 Comments
Drunk chick interviews snake assassin as he changes his socks

Drunk chick interviews snake assassin as he changes his socks

It’s Tuesday, and that means it’s time for another installment of Unrelated Spinster Pronouncements.

1. Poor pit vipers. My last post on the Western diamondback rattler revealed that, herpetologically speaking, many of us have something of a gaping void where our common sense and interspecies empathy ought to be. Although I am no snakespert, it is generally acknowledged that a snake’s deepest desire to get the fuck away from humans; given the opportunity to exit your midst, any sane snake will take it. Only when a specimen, such as the diamondback on my porch, is cornered does it resort to self-defense. And even then, there seems to be some reluctance to part with the venom. My rattlesnake rattled like mad, but it never even tried to strike, even though I was but a few feet away and prodding it with a broom.

You can just beetle off, have a marg, and the snake’ll be gone when you get back.

Because of the dread “related videos” feature on YouTube, I found myself watching a portion of a vid wherein some drunk chick named Diane goes around interviewing male snake-hatin’ sickfucks at a “rattlesnake roundup.”

A rattlesnake roundup, in case you have never heard of this sickfuck shit, is a ritual gathering where a bunch of bloodthirsty barbarians catch a bunch of snakes, throw’em into pits, and invite the paying public to enjoy animal cruelty, American-style. The roundup-goers gleefully observe the slaughter and thereafter purchase rattlesnakeskin underwear, rattlesnake meat burritos, rattlesnake fang funnel cake, and rattlesnakeskin assault weapon holsters. Bring the kids! In the aforementioned video one of the macho snake assassins tells Diane, “God has blessed me with a talent.” For rousting innocent rattlesnakes out of their natural habitat, chucking them into death camps, and making F-150 seat covers out of them, apparently.

2. The endless capacity for self-delusion (e.g. slaughtering sentient beings for entertainment is a God-given talent, above) with which patriarchy has imbued the American dude is striking, as in this comment I found in the blog’s moderation queue. I laugh and laugh.

“Men have always been known for their chivalry,” asserts the commenter (affiliated, apparently, with this nutty website).

Well, men have always told everybody about their chivalry, at least.

“If [men] are treated well by women,” the comment continues, “they get treated better in return. If women want to be taken good care of by their men, they need to respect and treat their men with dignity.”

In other words, kiss my ass, bitch, or I’ll make your life a living hell.

The internet fucking cracks me up. Why the fuck would anybody bother to leave these idiotic remarks on a radical heartwarming funky savage death blog?

3. On NPR yesterday I heard some blowhard Pentagon dude allude, I kid you not, to a “thirty-thousand pound penetrator.” His tone was reverent. He appeared to be unaware that his phrasery stood alone at the apex of ridiculousness.

“Penetrator” is apparently what bombs are called down in the old War Room, which Room has always been, as you know, Penetrator Central. The USA, led by handsome, saintly Barack Obama, is, in its benevolence, contemplating penetrating Iran with a bunch of these thirty-thousand pound penetrators. Supposedly all this penetration will prevent Iranian scientists from figuring out how to make atomic penetrators of their own with which to penetrate us.

You know how politicos revere history, pretending that they study it so “we” can avoid the mistakes of the past and glide bloodlessly into a glorious future of peace among the snakes and the women? Bullshit. Men study history so they can avoid the mistakes of the losers and the defeated and the surrendered prison bitches of yore; they only do it so they can figure out how to be King of the Penetrators themselves.

Posted in Blogulation, Bloodsport, Dear god what about the men?, Heartwarming Nature Crap, Lobe-blowing, Oppression Culture and The Entertainment Industrial Complex. Bite me, Chad.

Spinster aunt has an appointment in town, so this is all the post you get

Published by Twisty on May 27, 2009. 25 Comments

Brown recluse spider
Venomous sicariid (male) enjoying its last heartwarming moments in the Spinster Araneae Compound. May 2009.

U.S. Ambassador Susan Rice said Tuesday that North Korea is “trying to test whether they can intimidate the international community” with an underground nuclear test and launching of short-range missiles.

Well, color me intimidated, Susan. Whenever crazy dictators start blowing up Hiroshima-class nukes just for the hell of it, it is a matter of policy with me to take to my bed with a wedge of triple cream Brie and pull the blanket up over my quavering lobe. That is, after I inventory the household stores of life-saving duct-tape, plastic sheeting, and flame-thrower fuel.

Also intimidating is the long, dead arm of justice in California. Little can be added to the discourse condemning the heterocentric hate now carved in the California state constitution, but I’ll say this: Repellent hatebags voted in that anti-gay initiative, and repellent authority figure hatebags upheld it. Well, what goes around comes around, Repellent Californian Hatebags. Sooner or later your bags will pop like fermented bottles of Odwalla Superfood, and you will die of something, but not before your kid comes out in a big pile of rainbow bumperstickers, birkenstocks, and mustachioed girlfriends who are all going to Michigan together in a Subaru.

Meanwhile, here’s hoping a family of brown recluse spiders moves into your liquor cabinets. Fucking knobs.

Posted in Heartwarming Nature Crap, Lobe-blowing, Oppression Culture and Politics. Bite me, Chad.

Texas state rep needs reprogramming

Published by Twisty on April 13, 2009. 72 Comments

Texas State Rep. Betty Brown, racist tool

Texas State Rep. Betty Brown, racist tool

Not all Texans, I regret to say, are easygoing, progressive thinkers. State Representative Betty Brown, for example, is a tool.

Betty Brown just can’t wrap her brain around the fact that some certified 100% Texans have Asian names. This is because her brain has the philosophical sophistication of a Thomas Kinkade painting. Texans should have names like “Betty” or “Brown,” good, solid American names she can spell and pronounce. Asian names freak her out. People with these wacked-out foreign monikers should “make [them] more accessible.” Or so she told Ramey Ko, a representative of the Organization of Chinese Americans giving testimony at the Lege on voter ID legislation.

Ramey Ko. That’s one crazy fucking inaccessible name.

“Rather than everyone here having to learn Chinese — I understand it’s a rather difficult language — do you think that it would behoove you and your citizens to adopt a name that we could deal with more readily here?” Brown said.

Ko’s “citizens” should make an effort to grasp how “difficult” their language is, and what an inconvenience they present to the real Americans here who are trying to run good, old-fashioned, discriminatory Caucasian elections. They should lose those bizarro names and get ones that Betty Brown can feel more comfortable with. Because, seriously, it’s bad enough that she has to put up with all these damned Spanish people speaking Mexican.

If it’s hard to imagine a white lady with pink lipstick and helmet hair uttering anything more bigoted and condescending than that, you don’t know Betty Brown!

Brown later told Ko: “Can’t you see that this is something that would make it a lot easier for you and the people who are poll workers if you could adopt a name just for identification purposes that’s easier for Americans to deal with?”

Listen, Ko, you and your kind are trouble. Can’t you see that if you just knuckle under to honky bigotry everyone will be happy?

[Xie xie, B.R.]

Posted in Austin, Lobe-blowing and Politics. Bite me, Chad.

Internet gasbag dedicated to ending discrimination against honkys

Published by Twisty on April 11, 2009. 51 Comments

Things are really hoppin here at Spinster HQ, and there is absolutely zero time for blogging today. For example, I have to slouch in the lime green recliner with a cup of Fair Trade half-caf and contemplate whether to adopt a Great Pyrenees from a rescue. There are some bluebonnets that need photographing. And that’s not all. I have to bait a bunch of mouse traps in the VIP quarters down at the bunkhouse; my sibling Tidy informs me that she’s punting the visiting Faster family matriarch my way, and the joint is fucking infested.

Did I tell you that I took my car in to the shop to remedy a clunking AC fan, and they actually extracted a mouse corpse from it? That’ll be $120, please, thanks for choosing Austin Rip-Off Car Repair!

Oh, and I can’t miss this: my zany mare Maypearl, who pulled a butt muscle last week, is getting a massage this afternoon.

A massage for a horse? Are you effing kidding me?

Nope. Maypearl’s trainer Cristina is a California flower child, and doesn’t hold with the centuries-old cowboy’s “give’er some Bute* and lope it out!” method of equine physical therapy. Cristina has put her foot down. If Maypearl does not receive a 3-hour massage toot sweet it’s animal cruelty and I’m going to hell.

I’ll post pictures.

Meanwhile, you know that Amy Alkon person from yesterday, the one whose views on human copulation and eating fried dough intersect? Well, I was sitting down to write about not writing today, and lard help me, her website was still open in my browser. As you know, the imp of the perverse afflicts me from time to time. So of course I read Alkon’s latest blog post, knowing full well that it would be like unto 47 toothpicks jabbing me in the corneas. As it turned out, it was more like 48 toothpicks.

The Alkon! It’s indescribable. She is outraged over racial discrimination. Discrimination against white dudes, that is.

What’s got her lipstick in a smear is this: back in 2003, 77 applicants took a promotion-qualifying test at the New Haven, Connecticut fire department. 19 African-American firefighters were among the hopefuls. None of the 19 scored high enough to win a promotion, so New Haven threw out the test. Naturally the high-scoring-yet-unpromoted white guys filed suit against the city. “Racial discrimination!” was their embittered cry. The District Court judge said, no, since nobody was promoted, there was no harm. Now the Supremes are on the case.

So Alkon does what any deluded self-promoting misogynist right-wing gasbag would do: she sides with the white dudes and backs herself up by quoting Martin Luther King!

It’s always hilarious when racists defend the Master Race against “reverse discrimination,” and simultaneously attempt to present themselves as non-racists, by trotting out Martin Luther King on judging people not “by the color of their skin by by the content of their character.” It appears to elude these patriarchy-denying chumps that, when the social order privileges a ruling class over a subordinate one based on skin color, there can be no such thing as true discrimination against the ruling class. That’s what makes them the ruling class, dumbshit! Discrimination, like all putrefied shit, can only flow in both directions if the classes in question are of equal status, which, obviously, they fucking well aren’t.

“I’m with him,” says Alkon. She means that she and Martin Luther King are two hearts that beat as one. Yeah, she’s with him, because when King said “I have a dream” what he actually meant was not “End racism,” but “Reward the deserving white guys who skunked the stupid black guys on the test.”

Look, if none — not a single one — of the black guys scored high enough for a promotion, something ain’t right. Something that looks suspiciously like racism. Maybe the test was fucked up. Maybe the white dudes cheated. Or maybe, you know, the black dudes, as members of an oppressed class, were marginalized from the git-go. Ya think?

_____________________
* Bute is horse aspirin.

Posted in Lobe-blowing and Women hate you. Bite me, Chad.

A couple of stinky stains declare love for patriarchy, MRA-style

Published by Twisty on April 10, 2009. 64 Comments

Somebody just sent me an email with this subject line:

“Newsflash: Dr. Helen (Instapundit’s spouse) is retarded.”

I.

OK. Even though Liberal Dude role model Jon Stewart delights legions of adolescent boys when he uses it, spinster aunts consider the word ‘retarded’ — once a medical diagnosis used clinically to debase a class of people, and now an insult used pejoratively to ridicule that class of people and to annoy everyone else — to be more or less a slur.*

Instead of relying on bigoted schoolboy epithets to indicate our disdain for the dipshit antifeminist views of dipshit antifeminists, we advocate exercising the flaccid portions of our vast and glistening lobes to compose a more sophisticated and poetical zingerology.

Dr Helen is a stinky stain.

II.

It is not often that we endorse the concept of reason according to just prejudice. However, research conducted at our Department of Sobriquet Studies has conclusively determined that one is in fact wholly justified, a priori, in dismissing as irrelevant, unenlightened, or asinine any opinion proceeding from the mouth, pen, or IP address of anyone calling him/herself “Dr First-name-only.”

III.

Dr Helen, a “forensic psychologist” who plays a talk show host on amateur internet TV, has a funny video up at a funny right-wing website. The video commences with pompous TV news report intro music. That’s funny right off the bat.

Dr Helen’s topic is also a howler: “Gotcha Pregnancies & Men’s Rights.” You know this “gotcha pregnancy” phenomenon? It threatens the very atomic structure of the universe. Here’s how it works: devious women lie to their dudes about using birth control in order to get pregnant without dudely consent. Then they have the unmitigated gall to ask for child support. Men shouldn’t have to pay when the fruit of their loins is obtained fraudulently by deceitful bitches. It’s an affront to Truth & Beauty.

To help endorse the view that males are supreme beings, Dr Helen interviews someone named Amy Alkon, a woman whose professional expertise in the field of sneaky bitches tricking innocent dudes into knocking them up flows from her brilliant career as an AdviceGoddess (Alkon’s bio lists “evolutionary psychology” as one of her fave raves; need I say more?).

The interview is funny because it depicts two women of average intellect demonstrating their Patriarchy2K-compliance by vilifying other women, by crying through pinkulated lips “what about the men?!” and by invoking a phony “phenomenon” as phony evidence that male privilege is just and natural.

Wait. I guess that’s not so funny.

Behold a short transcription. It was all I was able to get before the Pajama TV player went on the fritz. Although I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t pretty relieved when the browser crashed, so painful to my lobes was watching even 37 seconds of these two tools.

Dr Helen: What do you think about women getting pregnant accidentally on purpose?

Amy Alkon: I think this is just horrible. I mean it’s just so amazing. If you’re a woman it’s totally your responsibility to take care of birth control.

Dr Helen: Don’t you think men should be responsible for birth control at all?

Amy Alkon: Well yes, but you know I think that’s sort of like asking a donut baker to be responsible for whether or not I gain weight.

Dr Helen, trying out the cable TV pundit shit-disturber gambit with an endearing feminine coyness, wonders if the vast hordes of unscrupulous whores who trick men into impregnating them should be held criminally negligent. The AdviceGoddess, though she would hesitate to chuck’em in the hoosegow, nevertheless thinks it is so amazing that these “bilkers” feel entitled to child support.**

Allow me to translate: As a woman you are a member of the sex class and don’t you forget it. Your purpose, as ordained by the Global Accords Governing Fair Use of Women, is as a receptacle for male incontinence. Sex class duties entail making life as comfortable and uncomplicated as possible for men. This extends to complying with their wishes at all times, especially when it comes to the contents of your personal uterus.

For extra credit, you might post videos on the internet declaring your full support for your own oppression.

According to syndicated misogynist Amy Alkon, who takes the rather eccentric view that submitting to the heteronormal peen-pronging imperative is like eating donuts, it is irrelevant that you are highly unlikely to become pregnant unless some dude — an autonomous member of the privileged class — has enjoyed using you for your natural purpose. Remember, the dude’s natural purpose — which always supersedes yours in terms of philosophic value — is to ejaculate and then biff off to a football game, not to concern himself in any way with the method by which he obtains, or the consequences of, his gratification. Unless he feels like it.

IV.

As a spinster aunt, I am one of the world’s leading experts on the causes of male angst, and I know how men can liberate themselves from the scourge of global female oppression. The method follows a rather intricate and convoluted logic, which may account for its failure to have caught on, but I’ll try, for the sake of beleaguered dudes the world over, to put it in layman’s terms: men wishing to thwart the evil schemes of even the most determined sperm-swindling pregnancy tricksters can simply decline to force-feed their donuts to any women. Et voilà!

Now that — like all imaginary absurdities — would be funny, like when the grizzled cowboy asks the grizzled drill sergeant if these Hello Kitty jeans make his butt look big. Dudes must prong. Bearing the consequences of male penetration behavior is strictly girly shit.

______________________
* Other words that may be similarly turned into insults: gay, feminist, and blogger. And gay feminist blogger. As in “Chad isn’t going to Gazonga’s Topless Sports Bar and Foie Gras Grill with us; he’s such a gay feminist blogger.”

** A commenter on Dr Helen’s blog describes child support as “a profitable incentive for deceit.” Churn’em out and rake it in, ladies! Everybody knows that men have a proven track record of stepping up and providing the mothers of their unwanted children with a life of luxury. Thanks to a steady child-based income, most of these lying sluts live on the French Riviera and have chauffeurs. That’s probably why the US Department of Health and Human Services doesn’t bother dedicating a whole department to child support enforcement.

Oh, wait. Yes they do.

Posted in Dear god what about the men?, Lobe-blowing and Women hate you. Bite me, Chad.

That’s some catch, that Catch 22

Published by Twisty on April 1, 2009. 64 Comments

You think “enemy combatants” are the only people who can be denied access to an attorney and thrown in prison without having been convicted of any crime? Wrong-o. In Delta County, Michigan, USA, they’re doing it to homeless single mothers.

I allude to the egregious tale of Edwina Nowlin, who earlier this month was jailed for being poor. Behold a summary of the case, which I filched from the ACLU’s press release and legal brief. Recall that I am a spinster aunt, not a lawyer, so if my taking poetic license with some of the finer legal points chaps your hide, kindly kiss my entire monkey butt.

It’s like this. Nowlin’s teenage son is in juvenile detention. The court, skipping the nuisance of assessing Nowlin’s financial situation beforehand, has ordered her to cough up $104 per month to reimburse the state for imprisoning her kid. But Nowlin hasn’t got a pot to piss in. She lost her house after being laid off. She’s scrapping by on occasional part-time gigs and crashing on friends’ couches. Like all Americans, she’s already $17,000 in debt, and whatever wages she earns are being garnished. All this, while trying to support another teenage son.

When she can’t produce the dough, the judge holds Nowlin in contempt. Sentence: 30 days.

The 30-day sentence is fixed, by the way. Even if she had paid the $104 on Day 1, the judgment would have kept Nowlin imprisoned for the full month. Thus does Nowlin’s civil contempt sentence morph seamlessly and unconstitutionally into a criminal one. At which juncture Nowlin requests the court-appointed lawyer to which all persons accused of crimes are entitled. But apparently the judge has never heard of the Sixth Amendment right to counsel. Nowlin is dee-nied.

A few days later, they let her out of jail long enough to pick up a paycheck from one of her odd jobs. The check is for $178.53, more than enough to cover her son’s bill at juvy. Things are looking up. But wait! The Delta County Sheriff makes Nowlin sign the check over to the jail to cover her own “room and board”! Plus 22 bucks for a drug test and booking fee!

To recap: Nowlin’s got to pay $104 a month for her son’s imprisonment, but since she’s in jail for being poor she couldn’t earn the money even if she had a job, which she doesn’t, so next month she’ll be in contempt again, beginning the cycle anew. The situation is ludicrous. It’s as though a civil rights-era black-and-white courtroom drama crash-landed into a Dickens novel.* A white-haired, pink-faced judge in a pale linen suit, a sheriff in Ray-Bans and beer-gut, one child jailed, a second left motherless, a beleaguered pauper doomed to languish in debtor’s prison with no hope of release, the untenable and insane condition that a destitute person must finance her own incarceration.

I’m a spinster aunt, not a mentalist, so I will never know precisely what caused this judge’s justice lobes to malfunction to such an astonishing degree, but it would not be pushing the limits of reason too far to speculate that a lifelong immersion in unexamined patriarchal privilege has caused a toxic buildup of the chemical compound assholamine. Studies conducted at the Twisty Institute for the Study of Lobal Instability have shown that this compound is found exclusively in the lobes of people who have power over other people. Assholamine produces quite the buzz.

In any event, there can be little doubt that this Voice of Authority, drawing on his** professional familiarity with the Global Accords Governing the Fair Use of Women, seeks, with his ruling, to appease the gods/ restore the natural order/ satisfy public demand for the state control of the sex class. He punishes Nowlin for daring to exist in a condition of poverty while demonstrating, through the son in juvy, an unconscionable inadequacy as a mother.

It blows all available lobes in rapid succession to contemplate that people in positions of power are capable of justifying this kind of bogus shit, but you see it over and over again: Americans hate poor people, especially if those poor people are single women with kids. Impoverished single women with kids in juvy are a special kind of abomination. That’s your patriarchy at work.

UPDATE: Happily I am informed that the ACLU got Nowlin sprung yesterday. But damn, somebody needs to get that judge off the bench and into some sort of grim state institution for the incarceration of persons too mean to roam free.

_____________________
* This post at 2 Political Junkies also makes the observation that Nowlin’s situation is Dickensian. I read that post before I wrote mine, so it is possible that I cribbed the allusion, although I didn’t realize it at the time. Which I reveal now in the interest of transparency in the blogular process, attribution, and good manners.

** Yes, I am perfectly aware that patriarchy can similarly infect women judges, but we’ll just assume that this one’s a dude so I don’t have to keep typing “he/she.”

Posted in Lobe-blowing, Patriarchy, my patriarchy and The Spinster's Finger on the Pulse of Yesterday. Bite me, Chad.

“Sex therapist” to women: Just close your eyes and think of England

Published by Twisty on February 28, 2009. 108 Comments

The blamer will kindly excuse me for today’s lack of megatwistanalysis, but there’s a minor crisis down at the Spinster HQ Ornithology Department. A certain sidekick — I’m not naming names, but it starts with an S and ends with a “ray” — left the back door open last night and this morning I’ve got a wild tufted titmouse thrashing around loose in the lab. It’s proving to be a helluva project getting it back out.

Yeah, I said “tufted titmouse.”

While I wave nets, throw open windows, and dodge droppings, the unnamed sidekick is down in the bunkhouse luxuriating in what I believe is referred to by certain BBC-America shows depicting the good old feudal days in merrye olde England as “a bit of a lie-down,” so it would appear that I’m on my own. As luck would have it, it’s the bird-catcher’s day off.

Anyone who is thinking “Just wake that unnamed sidekick’s ass up!” does not grasp that the unnamed sidekick, once jostled out of her nightly coma, takes between 2 to 3 hours to arrive at full consciousness. You’ve never seen anything like it. I’d need to inject about a quart of adrenaline directly into her eye just to get the lid to flutter.

But I digress.

The point of today’s post is a link to an article posted in the “Life & Style” section of the Sydney Morning Herald. It is entitled “Women should say yes, yes, yes more.”

Rape cheerleader and “sex therapist” Bettina Arndt got a bunch of presumably straight couples to keep sex diaries, cribbed from them, and wrote a book concluding that hetero relationships can’t take the strain of “low” female libidos, and that women should just suck it up for the sake of the marriage. Stop depriving the patriarch of his right to a receptacle and your marriage will bloom like Hamlet’s sins!

Wondering who funded this asinine piece of crap book? The World Association of Wife Rapists.

Arndt really feels for the poor, confused, blue-balled dudes. In the wake of the “liberation” of women, now that we have been “[given] the right to say ‘no’ to sex” — I know, you’re already laughing a hollow, mirthless laugh — they just aren’t getting their wives to submit to joyless pronging all that much anymore.

This revolting bit of antifeminist patriarchy-denying rape culture reportage contains this astonishing concept:

Arndt said low-libido partners, which are mostly women, needed to put sex on the “to-do list”, even if they didn’t feel like doing it.

“The notion that women have to want sex to enjoy it has been a really misguided idea that has caused havoc in relationships over the last 40 years.”

With the right approach from a loving partner, if women were willing to be receptive “and allow themselves to relax … they would enjoy it”, she said.”

I’m just going to run this by you again, in case your eyes (or whatever sensory organ you use to read this blog) clamped shut in disbelief when you read it the first time:

“The notion that women have to want sex to enjoy it has been a really misguided idea.”

Because women, whose libidos universally deviate so drastically from the norm, secretly yearn to be raped!

!

You see that clot of iridescent silver slime dripping down the outside of your window? Don’t be alarmed. It’s only a wayward hunk of the obstreperal lobe that just auto-ejected itself from my brain into space and is now re-entering the atmosphere in a million demoralized pieces. Which is too bad, because I sort of needed that lobe to help me catch this goddam bird.

[Thanks, Big Momma Les]

Posted in Dear god what about the men?, Lobe-blowing, Mass Media, The Spinster's Finger on the Pulse of Today and Women hate you. Bite me, Chad.

Thursday vagina blogging: open sesame

Published by Twisty on February 5, 2009. 90 Comments

Vaginismus!

That’s right, I said “vaginismus.” It’s that thing where your vagina says “no way, Jose,” and clamps shut, deflecting all comers. According to one quaintly heteronormative phallocentric UK psych site, “vaginismus occurs when the vagina is unable to relax and permit the penetration of the penis during intercourse.”* Other, more progressive sources cite tampons, specula, and fingers as objects that are commonly crammed into “normal” women, but are dee-nied by the vaginas of wackjobs suffering this vaginismus dealio.

Wackjobs? You betcha: the involuntary clampola is thought to be the symptom of a psychiatric disorder resulting from “fear of pain,” “traumatic sexual assault,” “strict religious upbringing,” “traumatic pelvic exam,” or — my personal favorite — “disgust,” rather than from any known medical condition. It’s PTSD of the ladyparts. Penetration ranges from impossible to unbearable to super painful. Other symptoms include nausea and vomiting at the mere thought of penetration.

And it must be treated, because what good is a vagina that can’t be penetrated? No good! In fact, there appears to be, in the vaginismus community, universal consensus that the condition’s interference with sexual intercourse, even when the sufferer can easily achieve orgasm via non-penetrative means, is a real homewrecker. While perusing these vaginismus websites, I observed some tampon and pelvic exam lip service, but it was clear what’s really at stake here: I repeatedly came across allusions to the dire importance of “consummating the marriage.” That’s right. It’s not even a real marriage until Mr takes possession of Mrs’s personal vagina with his engorged dominator.

So what’s the treatment?

Penetration. Duh.

With dilators. Yeek! Also: anti-depressants, PT, sex counselors, and booze.

Until now.

Enter Peter T. Pacik, MD, FACS. Literally.

Peter T. Pacik MD FACS cures vaginismus with Botox injected directly into the old vadge. The Botox prevents the pelvic muscles from contracting, and voilà! The natural order of the conjugal universe is restored! Best of all, the treatment is on sale! Through May 31, your Nigel can get back in the saddle without you puking for as little as $2400! That’s a $500 savings! No word on whether your pelvic muscles’ newfound inability to contract will have a negative impact on your gratification.

Wait a sec, you’re saying, here’s an idea: if sex hurts, don’t have sex.

Well sure, but unfortunately women in heterosexual relationships don’t have that option, not if they want to keep their love alive. Penetration is integral to male domination, and as such is not only the cornerstone of patriarchy but the foundation upon which any decent, normal hetero coupling is built. Hence the repellent “consummation” idea.

On Peter T. Pacik MD FACS’s plastic surgery website you can read a testimonial written by the grateful patient who was his first guinea pig. An excerpt:

[...] I had 6 injections (15 units of Botox) in Dec. 2005. I waited about 2 weeks before trying anything. The first time the pain was decreased by about 25 percent. The next time was about 50 percent. I now am at about 75 percent decreased pain, in April 2006. [...] I am not completely pain free yet, but I did not have sex as often as I should have (we are averaging about once a week since the end of December) so I think that plays a big part in overcoming vaginismus.

Thank you so much Dr. Pacik and staff. This has made my relationship with my boyfriend so much better, and I am feeling so much better about myself.

Gut-wrenching stuff. The Botoxee’s self-esteem gets a big boost once she is able to function again, albeit at diminished capacity, as her boyfriend’s receptacle. She’s still experiencing pain, but of course it’s her own damn fault for not letting her dude prong her “as often as [she] should have.”

Jesus in a jetpack! What a bunch of sadistic knobs! The doctor and his experimental vaginal injections to pry her open, the boyfriend who fucks her even though she’s in pain. It blows my mind that men routinely hurt women in what is supposedly an act of love, and that women routinely endure pain and discomfort in order to fulfill their destiny as toilets, but fuckin A, you just can’t fight that cultural conditioning.

The mere thought of penetration with a penis nauseates me, too, but I think I’ll skip Peter T Pacik and a bunch of shots up my bidness.

____________________________
* This psychnet-uk.com is a real peach. It appears to reject the notion that anything short of “actual intercourse” may be classified as sex. Orgasms achieved through clitoral stimulation are categorized as “foreplay.” Seriously! in 200-fucking-9!

[Thanks, Nauright]

Posted in Lobe-blowing and Men Hate You. Bite me, Chad.

Father of the year

Published by Twisty on December 21, 2008. 36 Comments

Blamer Sofia was kind enough to depress the crap out of me this morning by sending along this repellent bit of news from Saudi Arabia. The gist: Creep runs low on dough, marries off 8-year-old daughter to another creep (aged 58) for a consideration of $8000. Mother of 8-year-old petitions for divorce, but it’s a non-starter. Court says mother doesn’t have legal standing to initiate divorce proceedings for someone other than herself, so kid stays married. Girl can, court rules, petition on her own behalf when she reaches puberty.

So: a kid can be sold into marriage at 8, no prob, but 8 is too young to be liberated from sex slavery? And how, I’d like to know, will the court determine that she has pubesced? DNA from her first tampon? Her subscription to Teen People? Armpit inspection?

According to the article, the kid is still living with her mother and has no idea that she has been auctioned off like a pork belly. She has her loving father to thank for that great kindness. This sterling example of human magnanimity apparently persuaded his daughter’s middle-aged purchaser to agree, via a “verbal contract,” not to take formal possession, i.e. rape her, until she’s 18. Man, when she finds out about this, no doubt she will shower him with “World’s Best Dad” coffee mugs.

I can’t get behind marriage of any kind, but arranged marriages really add that extra little whiff of crapulence to the whole kaleidoscope of misogyny. If a kaleidoscope may be said to possess whiffs.

Posted in Lobe-blowing, Men Hate You and Sexploitation. Bite me, Chad.

Spinster aunt’s fake internet name rejected by Australian authorities

Published by Twisty on December 17, 2008. 77 Comments

While traipsing along on one of those absorbing jaunts through the comments section, a couple of articles about baby names came to my attention this morning. Blamer Orange thought this item about the Queensland government cracking down on goofy baby names isn’t particularly blamey, but I disagree. I’ll explain why in a second. Here’s the gist:

In Queensland AU there exists a government authority called the Queensland Registry of Births, Deaths and Marriages. It apparently has the power to dictate to adult humans in its jurisdiction whether or not they may sign their tax returns as “Sex Fruit” or “Fish” and “Chips.” In other words, the Registry can reject proposed names, whether it’s adults changing their old ones, or parents inflicting new ones on helpless babies, based on nothing, it appears, but a subjective sense of community orthodoxy.

I’m not saying such authorities are unique to Queensland, but they are unique to cultures of domination. Unless there are hierarchies to appease and permanent records to maintain, why give a crap about anybody’s name at all?

Human nomenclature, it turns out, is a rich tapestry of tradition, pop psychology, society’s crushing demands for conformity, parental control, and — that’s right — copyright infringement (just try to name your kid “Coca Cola” in Queensland).

Couriermail.com consulted child psychologist Paula Barrett, who concedes that “strange names” engender “social anxiety” in kids. A New Zealand nine-year-old, Talula Does The Hula, was traumatized by her jokey drag queen sobriquet to the extent that she appealed to higher authorities to change it.

I do not argue that slogging though life as Talula Does The Hula is a contumely devoutly to be wished. Au contraire. My views on this are twofold. One: in a world free of domination, nobody would be penalized for being known as Talula Does The Hula, but patriarchy requires that its communicants assimilate and accede to arbitrary standards of normalcy which are rooted in social control, thus making Talula Does The Hula an intolerable designation. Two: if, as in ours, a culture wherein names are of such importance to a person’s mental health — to the extent that “unusual or hard-to-spell names” can inflict “serious psychological damage” — the last people on earth who should be entrusted to confer them are a person’s biological parents.

Which brings me to the second article, which did not, as I had momentarily supposed, escape from the Onion. In this insane scenario, occurring in an obscure corner of the US called Holland Township, a family is upset that the local ShopRite supermarket has refused to inscribe a kid’s birthday cake with the name “Adolf Hitler Campbell.”

Adolf Hitler Campbell is a 3-year-old girl. Young Adolf has a sister named JoyceLynn Aryan Nation Campbell.

Lehighvalleylive.com invites readers to weigh in on the topic. It isn’t long in the comments before one astute reader points out that the kid in the photo has a mullet.

Most readers side with ShopRite, although one straddles the fence, opining that the Campbells are “racist biggots” [sic] unless there was “some family heritage”; having an old Aunt Adolf Hitler presumably trumps racist bigotry. There is also some talk about “parents’ rights.” That parents have inalienable rights over their offspring, including the “right to share their beliefs with their children” is not questioned, yet there is consensus that the Campbells are abusive “backwoods hooligans.”

Which brings me to my underlying thesis: the way the system is set up, where kids are in thrall to adults and everybody thinks this is perfectly natural and dandy, it is practically impossible for children not to be abused, even by parents who never lay a hand on’em. Richard Dawkins, for example, has asserted that inflicting religion on children is abuse; he’ll get no argument from me.

One wonders what the Queensland authority would have done with the Campbells. As blamer speedbudget [correction: blamer Spiders] notes, Queensland put the kibosh on “Twisty Poi,” but naming your kid “Violence” is apparently A-OK with them.

Posted in Lobe-blowing and The Spinster's Finger on the Pulse of Today. Bite me, Chad.