Archive for the 'Patriarchy, my patriarchy' Category

Little Niggling Instances of the Redoubtable Efficacy of Patriarchal Oppression, Part I

Published by Jill on November 22, 2011. 41 Comments

Certainly nothing will delight you more than to be apprised of a few instances of patriarchal oppression noted in and around Spinster HQ over the last 48 hours (I originally wrote “24 hours” but I forgot to finish the post yesterday). Two are from real life, and two originated on PBS. I’ll do the PBS ones later; this here post will stick with the real life episodes. Because they are personally anecdotal in nature and contain many first person pronouns, you may wish to skip them. I know I would.

Real Life Episode #1

As you may recall, I have recently come into a buttload of feral donkeys. I am the world’s foremost expert on everything except feral donkeys, so I email a reputable donkey rescue. I ask whether they can recommend any local donkey clubs or wild burro support groups or Central Texas donksperts who can help me with my new donks.

The reply to my query comes from the chieftain of the rescue organization, a chap calling himself “Burro man.” Because patriarchy is our social order, Burro man responds, not with anything remotely resembling an answer to my simple question, but with a useless mansplaination on how to train donkeys. As if I had asked “will you please explain in six sentences or less how to train donkeys?” Because it is totally possible to explain donkey training in six sentences or less.

Burro man’s donkey training method, incidentally, is to corner the animal in a pen with a section of portable panel. Boy, I can hardly wait to get out there and try to put the squeeze on a terrified, 500-pound feral donkey with an 80-pound piece of steel tube fencing. Nobody’ll get hurt at all.

Thanks a bundle, Burro man.

Real Life Episode #2

I invite a recommended fencing contractor over to give me an estimate (so I can fence in the aforementioned donkeys). Instead of the fun conversation about fence post diameters and brace configurations I had so joyfully anticipated, the discourse immediately takes a most unpleasant turn. I am dismayed to perceive that Mr McFence is one of those white dude megabores who blabs nonstop, not about fences, but about himself. And about his even more megaboring family.

With the result that I can now assert without fear of contradiction that I rank as the world’s Number 1 expert on this McFence numbskull. If Alfred A. Knopf called and said, “Hey Twisty, how’s about you ghost-write McFence’s autobiography?” they’d have the finished manuscript on their desk in less than a week. If I took a test and the essay question was “McFence’s views on corruption and the radical Muslim agenda in the Obama presidency may be said to precisely mimic those of Fox News pundits. Discuss,” I would totally ace that test. If the amount of McFence’s daughter’s annual salary was the answer on Final Jeopardy, I would totally win the big money. I know where McFence was born, the name of his church, and the names, occupations, and geographic locations of each of his forty-seven adult children (who were expertly raised by the sainted wife who really wears the pants in the family).

Oblivious to signs of my increasingly excruciating boredom, such as my grimace, my pulsating obstreperal lobe, or my repeated attempts to discuss fencing, Mr McFence will not rest until he has revealed more tedious details of his personal life. I would spare you, but then you wouldn’t know the true extent of my pain. So: he is 67 years old, he recently lost 40 pounds, he’s a Tea Partyer, his family are holy rollers, he wants to move to Alaska, he’s “part Cherokee,” and (like all Central Texas contractors) his favorite client and best friend in the whole world is Willie Nelson, especially now that Willie has fired all the “druggies” and has accountants who pay up promptly.

It’s as though he’s been cribbing from a list entitled “The Main Things Spinster Aunts Couldn’t Care Less About.”

You are undoubtedly familiar with the version of this guy who lives in your town, so I hardly need mention that during the course of our encounter, McFence runs out of A material early on, and is obliged to recycle most of his monologue three and four times. Maybe he thinks I won’t notice because I’m just a dumb donkey farmer.

At first it is unclear to me why my presence is required at all, since he is so determined never to let me speak. I eventually catch on that my role during the delivery of this epic soliloquy is to nod each time I am informed that that he’d been a Marine sniper “in Nam” where his best buddy sniped “over 300 kills” and “the V-C” had a bounty on his head.

Finally, after a hour and a half and many failed attempts, I manage to steer his attention toward a topic that is more fascinating than his mass-murdering Army buddy by many orders of magnitude: cedar posts and wire mesh. After the stunning revelation that McFence’s LDL cholesterol is down from 188 to 130, and before suffering for the 3rd time the gripping information that his son works as a landscaper on the coast, I actually pry an estimate out of him. He is silent for about 34 seconds while he does the cipherin’ in his head. He’s so quiet I begin to wonder if his astonishing profusion of empty babbling has in fact ruptured a vocal cord. But it is not to be. Horribly, he gets a second wind. McFence goes on to tell me how honest he is, how he’s just plain folks, how the good lord is looking out for him, and — don’t pretend you didn’t see this coming –

“I treat my wetbacks like family.”

Ohhhhh yeah.

It was a most painful way to learn this lesson, but believe me, I will never again leave the house without packing my Mr T in Your Pocket Talking Keychain. The most excellent device ever invented, Mr T in Your Pocket is used to advise dipshits to shut their piehole with your choice of 6 of the beloved A-Teamer’s most colorful catchphrases, including “Don’t make me mad, grrrr!”, the succinct “Shut up, fool!”, and of course the iconic “Quitcho jibba jabba!”

Incidentally, Mr T in Your Pocket is identical to Radical Feminist in Your Pocket, except that Radical Feminist in Your Pocket does not actually exist, probably because in it “Don’t gimme no backtalk, sucka!” has been replaced by the rather more romantic phrase “Please remain still while I saw off your racist mansplaining pencil-dick with the rusty machete they issue all humorless hairy feminists in Women’s Studies, fool!”

Next time: Little Niggling Instances of the Redoubtable Efficacy of Patriarchal Oppression, Part II: Shit I Saw on PBS.

Posted in Knobjectivism, Lobe-blowing, Patriarchy, my patriarchy and The Argument Against Human Reproduction. Bite me, Chad.

Brit royals pay homage to unidentified cartoon

Published by Jill on May 22, 2011. 23 Comments

Origin unknown. Sent in by Tidy.

Posted in Mass Media, Patriarchy, my patriarchy and Ways in Which the Internet Is a Hoot. Bite me, Chad.

Spinster aunt rips off dudely comedy-joke from Internet

Published by Jill on June 27, 2010. 24 Comments

From PunditKitchen [ http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lm2JI7sGwYI/TBfHRL7Fa_I/AAAAAAAAJ7M/BgU9vMPB53g/s1600/Terminator.jpg ]

[From PunditKitchen via jobsanger.]

Posted in Not Altogether Depressing and Patriarchy, my patriarchy. Bite me, Chad.

Spinster aunt differentiates between “graphic violence” and “feminism”

Published by Jill on October 14, 2009. 88 Comments

Hey! Roger Ebert!

A Hollywood movie with a plot device involving a female assault victim “turning the tables in an extended sequence of graphic violence” is not a “feminist revenge picture.” It’s merely a revenge picture.

Posted in Patriarchy, my patriarchy and The Entertainment Industrial Complex. Bite me, Chad.

Breaking: patriarchy is actually real

Published by Jill on September 29, 2009. 128 Comments

Blamer maidden writes:

While I understand Jill’s position on the badness of a member of the sex class performing a submissive role in the bedroom (or dungeon, as the case may be), I haven’t been able to find her opinion on the opposite situation: dominant women. Could somebody point me to the appropriate posts and/or comments? Or perhaps she herself could clarify.

She herself could clarify! With pleasure.

What maidden refers to as “the opposite situation” isn’t opposite at all. Any practice that furthers the interests of patriarchal oppression, regardless of the sex, gender, race, diet, type of refrigerator, underwear, or political affiliation of the practitioner, is crappy and antifeminist. This includes sexay domination practiced by women; these behaviors are dictated by male fetish. As are all feminine behaviors.

Then maybe somebody could explain to me how it’s possible for a woman to participate in any (heterosexual) sexual activity without subjecting herself to fulfilling a dude-centric fantasy of some kind.

It isn’t. Sorry.*

Is it down to a choice between lesbianism and asexuality?

Not even lesbians and asexuals are 100% patriarchy-free. Its ubiquity, see, is what makes patriarchy the dominant paradigm. The invisible, indefeasible pervasiveness of the culture of domination is the key concept of this blog. Sadly, I fear that many readers are reluctant to fully embrace the horrific truth that patriarchy isn’t just some abstract academic conceit. The don’t wanna face that they themselves, as members of an honest-to-fuck sex class, are well and truly screwed.

This reluctance is completely understandable. The enormity of domination culture is physically sickening when confronted for the first time. It is physically sickening when confronted for the 435,647th time, too.
______________________
* Yes, I know. You have a deeply fulfilling sex life with your Nigel. That’s nice. Please refrain from describing it in detail in the comments section. Also, consider this: whether he likes it or not, when Nigel hoists up his Dockers and saunters out of your dungeon into the public square, he’s enjoying the privileged status he has had the pleasure of internalizing all his life. You are not.

Posted in Lobe-blowing, Oppression Culture and Patriarchy, my patriarchy. Bite me, Chad.

CrotchWatch ‘09

Published by Jill on September 17, 2009. 102 Comments

Today Spinster HQ kicks off our much-anticipated new feature, CrotchWatch ‘09. Through CrotchWatch ‘09 we’ll keep careful tabs on global genitalia. Because the state of being female is a medical condition, we’ll start with NetDoctor.

NetDoctor is a UK-based health tip website. It contains “all you need to know about the prevention, treatment and management of more than 500 diseases and conditions.”

That’s a fuckton of diseases and conditions!

Today’s post represents an effort to quell the incessant clamor for an in-depth analysis of NetDoctor Dr David Delvin MB BS LRCP MRCS DObst RCOG DCH FPA Cert MRCGP Dip Ven MFFPRCOG’s views on hetero women’s sexuality. His views are important because they appear on “more than 800 radio and TV programmes” as well as on the Internet, and because Dr David Delvin MB BS LRCP MRCS DObst RCOG DCH FPA Cert MRCGP Dip Ven MFFPRCOG is not just a dude, he’s a dude with pink skin, white hair, a stethoscope around his neck, and a serious alphabetical APU (authoritay-pile-up) appended to his name.

But on to CrotchWatch, and Dr David Delvin MB BS LRCP MRCS DObst RCOG DCH FPA Cert MRCGP Dip Ven MFFPRCOG’s pronouncements on the health problems associated with the dimensions of women’s junk.

Worries about vaginal and vulval size are extremely common among women. This is scarcely surprising, because a woman’s feelings about her own vagina and vulva are central to her sexuality.

I’m sure we’d all like to congratulate him on not using the word “junk,” and on grasping the difference between “vulva” and “vagina,” but this is clearly a misstatement of the facts. What Dr David Delvin MB BS LRCP MRCS DObst RCOG DCH FPA Cert MRCGP Dip Ven MFFPRCOG really means is, a woman’s crotchal insecurities are scarcely surprising because Porn Nation’s feelings about her own vagina and vulva are central to her sexuality. But this mistake is understandable. The difference between “woman” and “porn” is negligible. And anyway, the doctor is correct in identifying women’s “feelings” as a medical matter.

But what of this “size” stuff? Well, Dr David Delvin MB BS LRCP MRCS DObst RCOG DCH FPA Cert MRCGP Dip Ven MFFPRCOG postulates that the post-partum vagina really can be “too big,” pointing out that a vacuous vadge is prone to “fanny-farting” as well as the dreaded bath-water vacuum effect. News you can use!

Speaking of pornography, here are Dr David Delvin MB BS LRCP MRCS DObst RCOG DCH FPA Cert MRCGP Dip Ven MFFPRCOG’s remarks on that zesty topic.

There has always been a difference between men and women where porn is concerned.

Not true! Back in the Lower Paleolithic, Homo habilis chicks kicked it old skool, enjoying violent rape flicks on VHS as much as the next caveman. It wasn’t until the Mesolithic and the rise of the art critic that the female response to cinematic sex-based violence began to diverge from the established norm.

Men tend to be turned on by things they can see, while women seem to prefer the images and fantasies they have in their heads.

Which is why all blind guys are universally impotent, and all women are nuts. See how it all begins to make sense?

For this reason, women often don’t enjoy the sort of porn that men like. If the people on the screen don’t appeal to them, they don’t get turned on.

Is it possible that Today’s Woman finds the graphic representation of her own oppression less palatable than the myth of romance? I was rather under the impression that porn empowerfulizes women.

Also, women tell us they do not find sitting in front of a desktop very conducive to arousal.

Well, this is spot-on; it is a well-known fact that women have to be surrounded by piles of pink velvet laundry in order to visualize Fabio flexing his lovedong on a tropical beach.

Women can also feel uneasy and inferior about the bodily ‘perfection’ of the women in porn. This can put them off sex, rather than turn them on to it.

Pah. The Porn Beauty Standard has absolutely nothing to do with “a woman’s feelings about her own vagina and vulva being central to her sexuality.” Sometimes we just have a goddam headache, you know?

They can feel threatened by their man’s enjoyment of these images and quickly feel that if a man is enthusiastic about porn, he must be losing interest in her. We would say this is often not the case at all.

Yeah, rest easy, straight girls. Your man’s obsession with the graphic representation of rape is no reason to fret. Men can consume an infinite number of two-dimensional women while simultaneously remaining capable of keeping a 3-D version (i.e. you!) around to wash his socks.

Whether women like it or not, because porn is so available, most men are going to view it.

Suck it up, ladies. Porn’s not goin’ anywhere. And remember: while Nigel is furtively jacking off on his laptop, you can always have an affair with your Swiffer mop. But use birth control!

Posted in Mass Media, Patriarchy, my patriarchy, Sexploitation and The Beauty Ultimatum. Bite me, Chad.

Spinster aunt has no time to title post on Apollo 11

Published by Jill on July 21, 2009. 96 Comments

Any nerd, geek, dork, or other-type-genius of a certain age who suffered no pang of nostalgia this week during the wah-hoo over the 40th anniversary of the Apollo 11 mission might want to have her obstreperal lobe checked for leaks.

I offer a few unconnected remarks on the subject. The remarks are unconnected because in these grim days of round-the-clock puppy-raising and mandatory commutes to Austin, I am a blogger in name only. If you have not come to expect this sort of crappy slipshod essay from me yet, please do so from now on. It’s gonna get worse before it gets better around here, prose-wise.

Anyway, The Apostate says her blood is boiling over these blogular remarks by Paul Campos at Lawyers Guns and Money.

Agreed. If I read one more sentimental recollection of the lunar landing beginning with the word “I” and invoking a grandparent — Prez Obama is one notable perp — I’m gonna yak.

Apostate’s beef, however, is not with the painful tedium of Campos’ opening reminiscence. She is crabbed because of this paragraph:

Considered as an incredibly expensive and complex exercise in practical engineering, the Apollo program was indeed a stunning achievement. In many ways it was a paradigmatically American achievement, and specifically of American men, or rather boys as men (think of the most impressive neighborhood treehouse, times ten million). Aside from putting the Russians in their place, the most important motivation was probably the sheer desire to figure out how to actually make the thing work. And it was an intensely and peculiarly male project: I don’t recall ever seeing a single woman in that huge Houston control center, where hundreds of guys in short-sleeved white shirts and crewcuts ran the show.

That Campos goes on to observe that

“One measure of how much has changed in the last 40 years is that the very idea of a woman astronaut in the 1960s would have seemed outlandish to most Americans”

does not appease Apostate one whit. I’m down, Apostate! Campos’ tone in this summary is peculiarly male. He’s almost giddy about the good old days of dudely science, of the pissing contest with the Russians, of boys building rockets in the clubhouse. And he seems to be suggesting that women astronauts is no longer an outlandish concept.

That’s a hot one. How many women astronauts can he name, I wonder?

That the entirety of this week’s “I was wee lad watching the lunar landing with my grandpa” memoirpalooza is likewise peculiarly male is not lost on Susan Niebur, blogging at Women in Planetary Science (“Women make up half the bodies in the solar system. Why not half the scientists?”). She is “bothered” that dudes talking about Apollo invariably say things like “I remember every time an Apollo mission would take place that, like a lot of little boys, I’d gather in front of the TV for hours and hours and hours with my little brother.”

“What was it like to be a little girl at the time?” Niebur muses. “Was it the same kind of experience, or was there really a difference?”

In 1969, the difference between being a little boy and a little girl was like the difference between being a little boy and a little girl in 2009, except that in 1969, it was still believed by a stalwart few that feminism might fix some of that shit.

In 1969 some of us “little girls” didn’t yet realize that identifying with Captain Kirk instead of the green alien belly dancer chick was a crime against the binary gender mandate. We watched Apollo 11 on TV (I can’t remember who I watched it with, you’ll be happy to know, or whether, upon viewing the spectacle, they pronounced unto me any trenchant remarks concerning the magnificence of the human race) and thought, “cool.” But soon enough we figured out what time it was. Dudes were astronauts, women raised babies. Any ideas we had of chasing around the universe in space ships died a smelly, pirulent death. We would grow up to write patriarchy-blaming blogs and read nostalgic “when I was a boy” crap about Apollo on the internet.

It turns out that there were four women engineers working on Apollo 11, but apparently Walter Cronkite was too choked up about the magnificence of mankind’s giant leap to interview them. There’s a book about them, though. The Women of Apollo, it’s called, The Stories of Judith Cohen, Ann Dickson, Ann Maybury, and Bobbie Johnson, Four Remarkable Women Who Helped Put the First Man on the Moon. The book is crappy and written for children. Children who, apparently, need to be shown how women can help men do cool shit.

After pondering all this, it was with some delight that I watched a sensational “documentary” on TruTV (originally produced by Fox, naturally) explaining that the Apollo lunar landings were all a hoax. This show is great. It presents about 468 pieces of tantalizingly plausible anti-scientific evidence demonstrating that the moon missions were faked: doctored photos, inconsistencies and lack of verisimilitude in the video, how come there’s no blast crater under the LEM, etc. There are science guys saying, “It had to be fake because the challenges were just fucking insurmountable, otherwise the Russians would have done it, too.” And of course the obligatory roster of mysterious untimely deaths of people who knew too much, and an invocation of Area 51. Then there’s a guy from NASA who just keeps saying “no, the conspiracy theorists are wrong because they’re just wrong.”

Hahahaha. I laughed and laughed.

As cool as moon landings used to be, and as integral to my childhood narrative, it would totally lube my lobe if it turned out that the “intensely and peculiarly male” Apollo project really was a hoax. Just so I could say nyah nyah.

One last thing. How come the Americans were “astronauts” and the Russians were “cosmonauts”?

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

Spinster aunt suffers bilious post-Mother’s Day aftermath

Published by Twisty on May 11, 2009. 39 Comments

Mother's Day 2009

Mother’s Day Brunch Buffet ‘09: How weak are the University of Texas Golf Club mimosas? I had to give the kid like 4 of’em before she would consent to pose with cherry-eyes. Photo by Tidy Faster.

Another Mother’s Day come and gone. It seems like only yesterday.

It will cause no one’s world to come crashing down around them when I aver that Mother’s Day is like a poke in the lobe with a prickly probe. It’s insipid and sentimental and highlights like no other fake holiday the line of demarcation between the Judeo-Christian heterosexes.

O, Mother dear! We love you so much we can only express it through this Hallmark card! Oh, and where are our clean socks?

And it practically goes without saying that any event involving a mandatory brunch buffet deserves the stink-eye.

Why does it always have to be a brunch buffet? Brunch is an aberrant, grotesquely heavy meal, and the buffet is the worst mediocre-food-delivery-system ever invented. Buffets! They’re worse than cafeterias! Not only do you have to crowd up for the grub like a waif in a Victorian orphanage, but the potential pathogen load multiplies exponentially when there are no dedicated servers dishing the crap out. Anybody might sneeze up a loogey into the vat of Chicken Core D’onbloo, and who’d be the wiser? Mysterious food items with heavy sauces hardening in chafing dishes, 10-year-old boys scooping up the crab claws with their bare hands, horrid mixtures of orange juice concentrate and warmish $5 Asti Spumante with maraschino cherries — euruhhgh. I mean it.

It is indicative of the low value placed on American motherhood that Mother’s Day is the only fake holiday where crappy, artery-clogging, self-service food, “complimentary” cheap mimosas, and a few brown-edged roses are considered the ultimate expression of filial gratitude.

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

Spinster aunt says “fuck this” and “fuck that”

Published by Twisty on April 9, 2009. 65 Comments

You can heave your sigh of relief; no BBC News chimp-biology-is-human-destiny post will be inflicted on you today. Not that every effort wasn’t made. But inexplicably, this morning’s Beeb feed was all full of non-ev-psych patriarchy stuff. The headlines all sounded like paperback bestsellers or Hollywood blockbusters. “Cyberspies infiltrate US power grid.” “How can pirates be stopped?” “Ugandan spy jailed for AIDS fraud.” Spies and pirates!

I did notice that the UK’s “top counter-terrorism officer” got sacked after he was photographed waving top-secret documents around on the street. I had a chuckle about that.

You know, the more I read about the zany antics of British politicians, the more they remind me of the Texas legislature.

The Texas lege, for those who have the misfortune of not being Texan, is widely regarded as the most ape-shit hilarious lege in the land.

But I digress.

Since the BBC couldn’t deliver the goods, I was forced to click on the next feed, the Huffington Post. Breaking news! “Hillary channels Michelle.” Apparently Clinton was spotted wearing a jaunty belt and flowery brooch, sending shockwaves throughout the galaxy. A few clicks later, it became clear that the Huffington Post employs legions of people to report with deadly seriousness — as though lives were at stake — on the personal appearance of political women. Check out this irrelevant admonishment:

When Oscar de la Renta lambasted Michelle Obama last week in Women’s Wear Daily for wearing a cardigan to meet Queen Elizabeth II – sniping, “You don’t go to Buckingham Palace in a sweater” — he betrayed a disdain for the First Lady’s sense of style that is at the heart of the fashion establishment’s criticism of her. [cite]

Fashion establishment? Mang, if I were running the feminist revolt, the first thing I’d hurl several thousand grenades at would be the Fashion Establishment. Racist, sexist, fascist, classist, consumerist, misogynist, and snobby; fashion’s just an ugly little package of old-world patriarchy wrapped up in overpriced taffeta made by indentured slaves in the Northern Mariana Islands. Who the fuck cares if Obama goes to Buckingham Palace in a sweater? Would it give the fucking Queen an aneurysm? Would it cause global warming? Would it throw the economy in the toilet? Think of the children!

Fuck that gasbag snob Oscar de la Renta, and fuck anyone who thinks his asinine occupation exhibits an iota of philosophic value. And while I’m at it, fuck the British monarchy, too.

Well, that about wraps it up. I’ve gotta go oppress some fire ants. I will be wearing what I would wear to Buckingham Palace: dirty breeches, rubber boots, and a crummy University of Texas baseball cap.

Posted in Mass Media, Patriarchy, my patriarchy and Politics. Bite me, Chad.

Protuberance Korner

Published by Twisty on April 7, 2009. 97 Comments

<small><strong><em>Fig. 17.b.</em></strong> Behold not one but two genera of the world's most scintillating fungus orders: earthballs. <em>Pisolithus tinctorus</em> (left) and <em>scleroderma bovista</em>. Both fungal globs are the size of your fist. The field guide describes them in terms of tennis balls: half-buried, semi-deflated, and lost for some time. Don't eat'em! You'll puke and puke, just like when you read the BBC news feed.</small>

Fig. 17.b. Behold not one but two genera of the world's most scintillating fungus orders: earthballs. Pisolithus tinctorus (left) and scleroderma bovista. Both fungal globs are the size of your fist. The field guide describes them in terms of tennis balls: half-buried, semi-deflated, and lost for some time. Don't eat'em! You'll puke and puke, just like when you read the BBC news feed.


No doubt you are deeply embarrassed for me, my having developed the unseemly habit of reading the BBC news feed, selecting a grotesque headline from the “Health” section, and dropping it at your feet like some slavering dog with a half-dead rat. And no doubt what I am about to say will raise the concern hackles of dudely readers who are always warning me for my own good to stop wasting energy on playing the blame game and learn to accept personal responsibility for all the bullshit in the world, but dang it, I Blame Firefox. The stupid BBC came pre-embedded in the bookmarks bar of my latest Firefox install. It’s the very first one on the left! It might as well be a flashing neon sign with 17 blinking arrows reading “FISH IN A BARREL! SHOOT HERE!” It’s irresistible.

“Pull yourself together, Twisty!” you’re saying. “Is your delete-finger broken or something?”

Well, yes. As a matter of fact, it is.

Which explains why, when I got back from this morning’s Fungus Safari (see Fig. 17.b), this was the nausea-inducing headline that awaited me:

“Spray for ’six times longer’ sex.”

As you know, sex is the most important fucking thing in the universe.

I wasted no time in deducing the gist of this article from the headline. Some knob, I surmised, has invented a spray-on boner, giving new meaning to the term “fucknozzle.” There was no point in imagining that the spray to which it alludes was, say, pepper spray, and that the scenario proposed incapacitating your would-be pronger long enough for you to get the job done yourself. No, in this day and age — which happily resembles, as far as horndog dudes are concerned, any day and age — sexy medical breakthroughs are universally phallocentric.

Six-times-longer sex spray is no exception. As I’d suspected, its target demographic is the dude plagued with emasculating flaccidity. Unlike our beloved Viagra, however, which fixes “erectile dysfunction,” the new spray — just aim the fucknozzle and shoot! — supposedly addresses “premature ejaculation.” This is another harrowing disorder which renders a dude incapable of demonstrating his masculine superpowers to the exacting standards of today’s strict Pornulational Code.

When is a particular ejaculation “premature”? Whenever dudeliness is compromised!

As mentioned above, sex enhancing drugs are pretty exclusively the purview of men. Nevertheless, the drugs’ benefits to women, though non-existent, are routinely exaggerated. This marketing feat is accomplished with the dominant culture’s definition of women’s sexuality in terms of men, supported by the dudely myth that fetishizes the female’s supposed burning desire for marathon doses of penetration. This BBC article on premature ejaculation, for instance, is illustrated with a photograph of a young, attractive heterosexual couple en dishabille. The woman stares at the camera with hurt, sad doe-eyes; her man, with his pathetic malfunctioning peen, cannot satisfy her desperate urge for 6 times more penetration. Soon they will break up, and he will commit suicide. Bring on the boner spray, with all speed!

PSD502 helped 90% of the men enjoy sex for up to four minutes, where they had previously only lasted for seconds.

PSD502 is an anesthetic that basically numbs out the willy, so it is unlikely that the “enjoyment” has much to do with actual physical sensation. Duration — that manliest of the manly talents — appears to be the only objective.

While men are enjoying “sex” six times longer, they are also “building confidence.” “Sex” is the dudely synonym for “penetration.” “Confidence” is the dudely synonym for “successful exercise of male privilege.”

Posted in Dear god what about the men?, El Rancho Deluxe, Heartwarming Nature Crap, Mass Media and Patriarchy, my patriarchy. Bite me, Chad.