Oct 09 2013

iPad-using train passengers neglect to notice crazed gunman, get called out by SF Chronicle

It’s great to be alive in the Teensies! First of all, 9 out of 10 people are allergic to bread all of a sudden, so I get the whole basket to myself at restaurants. Second? Yeah, I’m trying to think of a second great thing, but I can’t, so I’ll just skip straight to the third great thing, which is my discovery that keeping a mini iPad in the bathroom has solved once and for all the problem of stale reading material in what has historically been an 18-Month-Old New Yorker Zone.

The mini iPad in the john is quite the breath of fresh air. Pre-digital-age, I might have been reading for the 217th time the same old 80,000-word article about daft British egg collectors. But this morning, instead of dragging a listless eye over sentences like “These are Lord Emsworth’s cuckoos, behold their speckled majesty” and idly pondering the pathogen population of the superannuated periodical in my hand, I enjoyed curling the spinster lip at a SF Chronicle story about some dude who flashed a gun on a San Francisco train but went unnoticed by commuters on iPhones.

And when I say “enjoyed” I of course mean “despaired of.” Because not only did the dude flash a gun, he wound up shooting a guy in the head. This was terrible. What’s also terrible is that the Chronicle piece uses this murder as a springboard for a trend piece on how device-users are a sign of the apocalypse. Instead of eschewing yet another entirely preventable instance of gun violence, the article focuses on the un-germane supposition that “the other passengers were so absorbed in their phones and tablets they didn’t notice the gunman until he randomly shot and killed a university student.” Apparently, security footage — which has not even been publicly released at this point, although this has not stopped news outlets from interpreting it anyway — suggests that the tech-obsessed commuters suffered from “collective inattention.” As in, the murder itself — eh, whaddya gonna do, but a train full of passengers who declined to “notice” the gunman before he shot a dude? Crazy! I mean, the world is such a safe, non-threatening place that the first thing every aunt does when she gets on a train is fix her gaze on all the dudes who of course are never creepy at all!

Look, I don’t know about you, but whenever I’m on the subway and out of the corner of my eye I catch a glimpse of some lunatic waving a pistol around, the last thing I’m gonna do is flippin notice him. I don’t make eye contact. I don’t sidle over and strike up a conversation about “Breaking Bad.” I don’t even heroically karate-chop him to the floor or die trying. Nope, what I usually do is, I keep my head down and blend into the woodwork while surreptitiously texting everyone in my contacts to call the cavalry. Then I hope like crud that he doesn’t blow a gasket before I scram at the next stop. To a security camera this behavior might read as “engrossed by Facebook,” when in fact I would actually be engrossed by not getting mass murdered.

Whether the passengers in this case were of a similar mind is of course conjecture. For all I know, since guns are so ubiquitous these days, everybody saw the pistol but just didn’t give a shit — just another dude on a train with a gun, no big whoop. Either way, the Chronicle doesn’t waste an opportunity to impugn them for being “oblivious.” Before iPads, apparently nobody ever read stuff on trains.

Now, you might think that, as a citizen of the free world, you have the right to be oblivious. You might feel entitled to the simple expectation that few if any homicidal maniacs are gonna gun you down while you check your Twitter feed on the train. But you would be wrong, because in a country where everybody and their dog is packin’ heat, and firearm homicides occur at the rate of 30 per day, you gotta look alive, girl! It’s 2013, the NRA is handing out mandatory free guns on every street corner, and it’s every aunt for herself. If you get croaked while checking your email in public, it’s your own flippin fault for letting your guard down in a war zone.

So remember: don’t leave home without your flak jacket and flamethrower, and leave those oblivion-causing iPads in the bathroom.

Oct 07 2013

The story of twerking

I have been misinformed. Previously it was considered settled fact here at Spinster HQ that twerking was an appropriation of an American lap dance move. However, it has come to my attention, via PRI’s The World, that the twerk is in fact an appropriation of a banned-for-being-too-sexy dance move from Ivory Coast, where it is called the “mapouka.” “Mapouka” apparently translates as “butt dance,” a contingency over which I am fairly verklempt. It is itself the appropriation of an older traditional ceremonial dance. But the story of twerking just gets better:

[T]here was a twerking song that preceded the mapouka. It was recorded in Congo when it was still Zaire. The dance was the kwassa-kwassa. When it came out, it was so shocking that onlookers would ask in French, “what is that?” or C’est quoi ça? And thus was born the kwassa-kwassa.

The video is by Les Tueuses du Mapouka, or “Mapouka killer-ladies”. Unfortunately, I cannot get behind this video. Although it documents some pretty world-class butt-dancing, like all graphic representations of women in any media anywhere, it does so from the Male Gaze point of view. It’s got those lo-fi, porny crotch-zooms, and you never once see the dancers’ faces. That goddam Male Gaze is deadly. Through its relentless enpornulational entitlement, it has ruined the butt-dance for everyone.

Oct 06 2013

Pink road rage

Just saw a news bite about AAA, the ubiquitous roadside assistance company, painting an unspecified number of its tow trucks pink. For “awareness.”

Pink tow trucks. Fix-a-Flat for the Cure?

According to ABC News “Good Morning, America,” a grateful breast cancer “survivor”/ AAA employee remarked, “It’s comforting to know that the company I work for understands what I am going through and would support awareness initiatives in such a visible way.”

I suspect that this employee was a little confused, albeit understandably so. She, like many a middle class American, has been expertly brainwashed by Komen and Avon and Estee Lauder to mistake pink marketing for “caring.” What the AAA employee really meant was “It’s depressing to know that the company I work for understands that painting their tow trucks pink will get them noticed by ABC News, and would exploit my disease to get free national advertising.”

In case you missed it yesterday, I’m gonna plug Breast Cancer Action again. You know why? They don’t take donations from companies that profit from or cause cancer. As you might imagine, that makes their corporate money pool pretty tiny.

Tangentially, it will not surprise anyone to hear that the first comment on the ABC News article was posted by a cheesed-off dude. He was cheesed because a chick disease is getting all the attention on TV, as opposed to the cancer that afflicts “a gland up a guy’s butt,” which disease, he asserts woundedly, doesn’t even have a ribbon. Also, patriarchy doesn’t exist, and there’s no such thing as rape culture. His comment got a bunch of “Amen, bro”s from readers who recognize “the institutionalize demonization of men in our culture.” So it would seem that Komen hasn’t mesmerized everybody; the misogynist MRA dudes have still got it goin on!

Oct 05 2013

The pink menace 2013

whitehousepinkribbonOctober? Already? I suspected as much when I saw a TV commercial for one of those bottled “energy shots.” Everyone was wearing a pink shirt; they were hawking a new pink flavor. Then I read some random article in the Houston Chronicle, and noticed that suddenly it has a pink ribbon on its banner.

Pink, pink, pink. It began to gurgle up from my spleen, that festering clump of fuchsia bile that gags the spinster craw every October, the month when “breast cancer awareness” metastasizes, spewing its foul Pepto-hued marketing spores over the countryside like a giant exploding tumor. Time for my annual anti-pink rant.

If you’re new to IBTP, here’s my whole breast cancer weltanshaaung in a nutshell: several years ago I was diagnosed with a pretty advanced case. I endured a couple years of humiliating, expensive, barbaric treatments, including the amputation of all organs, tissues, and glands associated with reproduction (they chopped off some other stuff, too, just for the hell of it). During this period I was introduced to the Cancer Industrial Complex in no uncertain terms. I came to resent the way misogynist outfits like Komen and Avon, with their positive-attitude survivor-nazis and sleazy, hypocritical corporate sponsors, had turned my life-threatening disease into a marketing juggernaut, a juggernaut with a white, middle-middle class face, a “shop for the cure” message, and no interest whatsoever in preventing cancer.

Well, I lived. Mostly. You can read all about my nauseating cancersploits, as well as elaborations on my jaundiced views on Komen et al, here. The book that opened my eyes to this shit was Pink Ribbons, Inc: Breast Cancer and the Politics of Philanthropy, by Samantha King. You can watch the trailer for the 2011 film “Pink Ribbons Inc” right here.

Anyway, the gist of my anti-Komenite argument is that all these thons and pretty-pink branding campaigns benefit corporate interests way more than they do women. That’s because Komen et al are entirely focused, not on preventing cancer, but on normalizing cancer. The giant corporate entities that align themselves with Komen line their pockets with loot from pink awareness editions of their cheap crap products. The mammoth cancer industry — drug companies, hospitals, manufacturers of pink dyes, etc — and its corporate leeches have nothing to gain and everything to lose should breast cancer actually be eliminated.

Let’s break it down. The aforementioned energy drink company, for example, donates a nickel every time some hapless sleep-deprived shopper buys the product. Most people don’t give a crap beyond the “donate” part, so they probably don’t know or care that the beneficiary is a charity called Living Beyond Breast Cancer, a non-profit assisting patients in navigating the eddying cesspools of the treatment industry. I don’t know much about them, but let’s just assume for now that they actually provide useful services.

But look out! It turns out that Living Beyond Breast Cancer is funded, among many others, by Komen, Avon, Myriad Genetic, Novartis, practically every other drug company you can name, Cancer Treament Centers of America, L’oreal, and an entity called — and no, I’m not making this up — “boobies rule !!!”

Let’s break down the breakdown. Komen is a breast cancer brand name, devoted solely to attention-diverting “awareness,” that corporations use to sell pink shit. Novartis is the pharmaceutical company that charged me $40,000 for a cancer drug that drained all the estrogen from my body and turned me into a creaky old bearded crone. Myriad Genetic is the company that charged me $4000 for a single test; they get away with that price tag because they have actually patented the gene that caused my disease.* Cancer Treatment Centers of America is a chain of clinics who advertise heavily on primetime TV and whose entire revenue stream depends on the perpetuation of cancer. Avon and L’Oreal are cosmetics companies that sell carcinogenic femininity-compliance supplies.

In other words, these are all entities who profit ginormously from a steady stream of cancer patients (or, in the case of Avon and L’Oreal, from actually causing cancer).

“But Twisty,” you say, “at least they’re funding this ostensibly benevolent organization.” Well, yeah, but it’s a charity that basically resigns to the inevitability of cancer. Living Beyond Breast Cancer looks good on a corporate resume, and in no way interferes with their revenue streams. In fact, through programs such as pharmaceuticals “education” and free advertising for new or “breakthrough” drug therapies, Living Beyond Breast Cancer can even increase their sponsors’ bottom lines.

By the way, I have no idea what “boobies rule !!!” is, but clearly it belongs to that juvenile, offensive, porn-informed save-the-tatas! faction who think that breast cancer is about tits rather than death.

Anyway, because breast cancer has been successfully marketed as a politically-neutral, warm-fuzzy cause, the aforementioned energy drink company can use the glowing pink ribbon association to burnish its corporate image even as it rakes in the dough off shoppers who confuse buying shit with philanthropy.

Breast cancer patients may indeed benefit short-term from such services as Living Beyond Breast Cancer provides. But what they really needed was for all this bullshit cure-based cancer money — the dough raised by pink-visored walkathoners and purchasers of pink caffeine drinks — to have gone into prevention, so they wouldn’t have had to get fucking cancer in the first place. Because, let me tell you: even if it “cures” you, which of course it never completely does, cancer treatment is torture. Actual, physical, months-long torture. Not to mention, it bankrupts you.

I mean, look what cancer did to Walter White.

If you wanna help giant corporations make money off the backs of cancer patients, by all means go Walk, or Drink Caffeine Shots, or Lick Yogurt Lids for the “Cure.” If you wanna read about celebrity breast cancers, or check out photos of philanthropic socialites wearing pink dresses at galas, or view clickbait on some backyard grilling tips to add to your pointless cancer-prevention regimen, thank the lard for the enpinkened Houston Chronicle. But if you actually want to help prevent cancer, check out Breast Cancer Action, the San Francisco-based feminist social justice advocacy group whose mission is — not to endlessly treat existing cancers with barbaric drugs, surgeries, and radiation — but to end the breast cancer epidemic once and for all. Their motto is Think Before You Pink. They’re the official breast cancer charity of Savage Death Island.

* I had really good insurance at the time, but, surprise, it covered neither the Novartis drug nor the genetic test. I was only able to afford that shit through the generosity of my family.

Pink ribbon at the White House pic: still from Pink Ribbons, Inc trailer.

Oct 02 2013

You wanna live fancy mansion francey? You better work, bitch.

Britney gives her homegirl the boot.

Britney gives her homegirl the boot.

The comments yesterday wandered into Reclamation of Degrading Epithets territory when I noted that, since my return to blogging, the dudebro sociopaths who read IBTP have, as if by magic, returned to their regularly scheduled threat-dispensing. The threat they love most is rape, and the word they love most, I report with a resigned snort, is “cunt.” The word they love second-most is “bitch.”

Said blamer Morag:

“About all that hate-mail: so much for the reclamation of the word ‘cunt.’ Remember Inga Muscio’s book with that very same title? Well, she tried. Even the ubiquitous ‘bitch’ still has some residual subjugating power depending on who is using it, and how. Reclaiming hateful words hacks at the branches, not at the roots.

On the subject of the subjugating power of the word “bitch”: as it happens, I have just slogged through the Britney Spears video for her new single “Work Bitch.” In this hackneyed piece she waxes dominatrixy at her all-girl leather-bikini posse, cracking her whip at them as they crawl around on all fours, leading them around on leashes etc. The lyrics, delivered in a creepy sexbot Engish accent:

“You wanna hot body? You wanna Bu-gatti? You wanna Maserati? You better work, bitch. You better work bitch. You better work bitch. Now get to work bitch. Now get to work bitch. Now get to work bitch.”


The video imagery is pretty much patriarchy encapsulated. Britney is little more than a clump of airbrushed, buff-ass assimilation perfectly aligned with dudebro fantasy. She compels her bitches to perform this leather-clad Zumba workout in order to reap the material rewards all Britney Spears fans apparently yearn for: sports cars and looking hot in a bikini. Also, in the next verse, martinis (it rhymes with “bikini”) and partying in France (it kind of rhymes with “fancy” and, I guess, “mansion”).

Emily Dickinson she’s not.

Unsurprisingly, this corny-ass video is being sold as “shocking” à la the whole Miley Cyrus twerking thing. But like most mainstream porn-informed pop culture, it’s about as shocking as the Macarena. It’s just more of the same old BDSMy misogynonormative crap, watered down for the tweens. Madonna was doing this back in the 80s, with way better songs and way better production values. And she didn’t call anyone a bitch.

Of course, Britney’s not even trying to reclaim “bitch.” She’s going for the total opposite, by using her awesome blonde celebrity to reinforce its powers as a patriarchy-replication device. When you hear some P2K-compliant hack — and you will — referring to this video as a statement of feminist empowerment wherein Spears declares her choice to choose bondagewear as a symbol of the awesomeness of earning Italian sports cars through aerobic dance, you will laugh a hollow, mirthless laugh. As ew_nc commented:

“I have spent many hours of utter frustration trying to convince people that “reclaiming” derogatory words does not take their power away. Men could care less if women’s groups call their action a “Slut Walk”, for instance. That doesn’t do one damn thing to change their attitudes or behavior. They’ll still dehumanzie us with those words whenever they feel like it.”

Sep 30 2013

This is just gross

This post concerns an article on a blow job school in Moscow. If you don’t have time to read the whole thing, here’s the executive summary:


[End of summary]

And here is a link to the final chapter in the Great Fellatio Wars of Aught-Six, which is where we left off.

Before we begin, a brief review of what we here on Savage Death Island like to call the Global Accords Governing Fair Use of Women, or, as others might put it, the Crappy Implications of Patriarchy:

The Global Accords Governing Fair Use of Women are that set of customs, institutions, behaviors, laws, taboos, and traditions by which women as a class are demarcated as sex receptacles. The accords spring from the core belief that women are essentially indistinct from sex. From that core belief emanate the various provisions justifying — to name but a few — compulsory femininity, marriage, rape, discrimination, street harassment, prostitution, pornography, anti-abortion legislation, and domestic violence.

For example, compelling this woman to die in childbirth was considered fair use by doctors in an Irish hospital in October of last year.

Here’s another preface: it is the duty of a spinster aunt to critique culturally-mandated practices that have obvious political implications for the sex class and its struggle for solidarity and liberation. But I hasten to add that you’re an adult, and insofar as women have rights in this world, you have as much a right as anyone to voluntarily permit whatever you want to be stuffed into your mouth. I do not judge you.

Although, eeew.

Because, as a result of fair use doctrines — and I’m sorry, but there’s just no getting around this — penetration of any description is dominance on some level. But penetration of a person’s face? In this society? That’s disdain cranked up to 11.*

Which brings me to the blow job school.

Omitting the many, many photos of young Russian women lined up kneeling at a creepy dildo-encrusted mirror-wall, practicing the art of dick-sucking under the watchful eye of their sexpert instructor, here is the text of the post:

Men are usually gentleman enough and would never admit to their chosen ones if they are not exactly skilled in providing oral sex. Thankfully, everything can be learned. All interested Moscow ladies who are willing to set aside about 3,500 Russian rubles (about 85 euros / $113) have the unique opportunity to attend a course called “The Art of oral sex”.

During the course, they will get three and a half hours of intense training during which they will learn how to use lips and hands to bring their partner to ecstasy that they will never forget. Also, in this school is taught how to properly put a condom and other sexual skills, along with learning all of the “important spots” on the men’s and women’s bodies.

I wish I could say that I was surprised. I’m not, though, since I’m no stranger to the idea that the male orgasm is the single most important fucking thing on earth. Per the Global Accords, it’s a woman’s duty to subjugate herself to it in as degrading a manner as possible and call it “art.” Back in the olden days it used to be enough just to grit yer teeth and git’er done. But here in 2013, the sex stakes are at an all-time high. With the ubiquitous glistening pink pornographic standard dictating all of human sexuality, the pressure is on for women to not merely perform blow jobs, but to become professional dispensers of cutting-edge blow jobbery, experts at conveying that choking on a funk-filled bratwurst is the culmination of their life’s young dream.

Enter the blow job academy sexperts into the void between throbbing fake internet sex and regular, actual sex.

Here’s the thing: because of the Global Accords Governing Fair Use of Women, fabulous rewards, such as a gas station rose on Valentine’s Day, await those who perfect receptacling to the satisfaction of their sex consumer. Why shouldn’t women flock to a class that promises to teach’em how to excel at compliance, especially when there’s a chance at winning the approval of some dude? Take this sterling example of manly awesomeness from the comments section of the blow job school post, holding forth here on his reluctance to reciprocate:

My wife says she just needs to find a girlfriend so she can get some good action. My opinion is that positioning is more difficult for guys. A lot of way just seem hard on your neck. [sic]

Hard on his neck? The women in Moscow are expected to endure “three-and-a-half hours of intense training.” I hope the tuition fee includes transportation to the ER. Or at least a post-graduate chiropractic adjustment.

I have but one other bleak hope: that the classes at least impart the sort of blow job skillz that would obviate the dude’s compulsion to grab the woman’s head and cram it around like some kind of meaty tube sock. In a world where getting a dick in the mouth is a compulsory component of a straight girl’s sex duties, never having to endure that extra indignity might actually be worth it.


* Whether, irrespective of the misogynist political context within which it is our misfortune to abide, the taint of degradation is inherent in sex itself is not the subject of this debate; the point is moot since no human interactions can currently exist outside the inherently degrading patriarchal paradigm.

Thanks to Lisa Downing for the link.

Sep 24 2013

“Rebranding” feminism for dudes “who care that there are two genders”

Have you heard about this “rebranding feminism” contest?

I know, right? Again with the rebranding of feminism. Every so often there emerges from the fetid mists some chumpass jacknut who would take a crap on feminism by coopting it as a gimmick to help hawk thigh cream and tampons. The target? Women who sense deep down that regular feminism is a pretty good idea, but who are reluctant to admit it publicly because of the 2nd-wave taint that makes dudes hate feminists. All efforts to “rebrand” feminism involve making it more palatable to dudes. This is accomplished by repudiating feminism’s rejection of femininity.

For those who may be just joining us, allow me to reiterate that femininity is not, as women are pressured to believe, an inherited trait. It is a set of infantilizing and dude-appeasing behaviors that women are required to perform in order to designate us as members of the sex class, signal our sexual availability, and convey our degree of compliance with the patriarchal mandate.

All efforts to “rebrand” feminism involve reinstating femininity as the essential ingredient of womanly contentment.

Feminism, for example, got “rebranded” by the UK Times back in 2008 (sadly, the link is now broken and search is stuck behind a paywall, but I wrote about it here), wherein “new” feminists reassured an anxious public that the humorless hairy dykes’ reign of terror was over, and yes, you can now wear lipstick and be a feminist.

A more recent iteration of the phenomenon first blipped on the Patriarch-O-Meter a couple of days ago in the shape of some lip-curling tweets: Bitch Mag was asking what everyone thought about rebranding feminism. Not realizing that this was a reference to an organized marketing scheme newly dreamed up by some crapulent capitalist entity, I said, sure, why not? Why not rebrand feminism, if “rebranding” entails restoring it from Zooey Deschanel Mode back to the struggle for women’s liberation from patriarchal oppression? High time, too.

By “Zooey Deschanel Mode” I meant, of course, feminism’s current “brand”: a consumer-driven collection of dude-appeasing lifestyle behaviors, the flagship cause of which is the empowerful modern girl’s inalienable right to choose feminine choices. No matter what choices are chosen, choice-choosing feminism insists that its practitioners abide in a critique-free zone, immune to the jaundiced scrutiny of the humorless, hairy women’s studies cabal. Any less-than-enthusiastic analysis of the choice-choosing lifestyle is tantamount to misogyny, because they’re women, aren’t they? And they’re choosing choices, aren’t they? Isn’t that supposed to be the whole point of feminism? Who the fuck are these feminist frumps to suggest that the choice to, say, ‘project childlike vulnerability‘ is neither a feminist objective nor a high moral purpose?

Quoth the “adorkable” Deschanel herself, on the subject of feminism vs. her disturbingly cutesy affect:

“I’m just being myself,” says Deschanel, 33. “There is not an ounce of me that believes any of that crap [feminists] say. We can’t be feminine and be feminists and be successful? I want to be a fucking feminist and wear a fucking Peter Pan collar. So what?”

Her argument, in other words, is that she’s a feminist; therefore it follows that anything she does — however objectively antifeminist it may seem — must be a feminist act. Including, apparently, the performance of femininity. So fuck you, gnarly feminists who dare to question whether collar shape should form the basis of a revolutionary platform!

With its huggy-wuggy embrace of patriarchy-approved behavior, this kind of feminism-as-fashion-accessory gets a lot of support from the unholy alliance of liberal dudes and the megatheocorporatocracy. Both are the direct beneficiaries of women’s choiceiness. Both get appeased by and profit from women who choose choices from the menu provided by the Global Accords Governing Fair Use of Women. Dudes get girlfriends who willingly comply with the desired heteronorms, and corporations get loyal customers who reliably shell out for compliance apparatus.

rebranding_feminism_contestWhich brings me to the “feminism rebranding” to which the Bitch tweet alluded. I shit you not, it’s a feminism rebranding contest. Oxymoron much? The prize is $2000. The logo is a skinny young white chick in corporate drag, drinking a scotch and smoking a cigar like a captain of industry. The organizers — and brace yourself for a shock: they’re a bunch of advertising hacks in league with a so-called “media platform” — want to see who can give feminism the best makeover. Omitting only two offensive stereotypes (“hairy” and “bra-burning”), the contest brochure lists the key elements of feminism’s image problem: it’s “humourless, man-hating, elitist, white, privileged, dogmatic, judgmental, and over.” Entrants are challenged to change “the perception of the idea of equality” by giving “feminism some love. Make it feel meaningful and relevant to a new generation.”

Because … the notion of feminism as a revolutionary political movement representing the interests of an oppressed sex class is … what, exactly? Unmeaningful and irrelevant? It clashes with the imperative to buy Peter Pan collars? Or what? And what is this “new generation”? Suit-wearing white alcoholic smokers?

One need not speculate, it turns out. In what is one of the most tone-deaf “feminist” statements I have read in weeks — that the proposed rebrand should speak to “men who care that there are two genders” [!] — the true purpose of this absurd enterprise shines through. They merely want to logo-ize a heteronormative dude-appeasing fake feminism, because apparently some strategist somewhere has theorized that marketing to today’s savvy female consumer involves reassuring her that the products she’s buying are glittering instruments of independence and self-determination. At the cost of enmockerizing what is perhaps their only shot at true liberation, the “new generation” must remain in thrall to the Femininity Industrial Complex.

When one of the organizers admits that the goal of her rebranding contest is “to make feminism pretty,” one is hardly surprised. And if making feminism pretty emits a familiar, foul odor, your sneer-muscle will get a workout when I tell you that two of the judges turn out to have checkered pasts. That’s right. They were involved with the heinous Dove ad campaigns.

I puke on you, Feminism Rebranding Contest.

Before I go, I must acknowledge that the aforementioned litany of feminism’s character flaws, specifically the “elitist, white, privileged” part, are of course real problems. I am sanguine that they can be solved, as more and more white feminists get with the program, stop being defensive, start listening, cop to their complicity in the oppression of their WOC sisters, and cut it the fuck out. But even if I’m wrong about that, one thing is certain: these issues can definitely not be solved by turning feminism into a marketing gimmick.


Via Flavia Dzodan blogging at Red Light Politics

Illustration from the Rebranding Feminism website

Sep 22 2013

Project Unbreakable

Fortunately I Blame the Patriarchy isn’t a breaking news site. This means I can post excellent stuff that has already made the rounds on Facebook and the Huffington Post with impunity. By “excellent stuff” I mean stuff that, because it addresses issues of particular relevance to women’s liberation from oppression, deserves sustained interest, or at least more than a temporary bump on Twitter.

Today it’s Project Unbreakable. In case you haven’t heard of Project Unbreakable, Grace Brown photographs sexual assault survivors holding up signs emblazoned with quotes from their attackers. It’s really moving and makes me want to punch someone in the neck.

I haven’t done a study or anything, but it seems that rape awareness — by which I mean, awareness of issues pertaining to rape that have hitherto been obscured by traditional rape culture — might be on the upswing. I don’t want to be overly optimistic, but it’s almost as if people are starting to get the message that aggressive male behaviors customarily considered normal and in keeping with the Global Accords Governing Fair Use of Women are in fact violent and oppressive. Efforts like Project Unbreakable are getting in through the chinks and deserve our sustained support.

You know, anyone who can look at a thing like Project Unbreakable and maintain that patriarchy is dead is brainwashed, delusional, and, yes, complicit in the global humanitarian crisis that is violence against women. As Jane Doe, MD reminded me recently, failure to advocate for victims of oppression is exactly the same thing as complicity with the oppressor.

Speaking of patriarchy replication device the Huffington Post, am I the only one who finds it baffling? Every time I click on it there’s a slideshow on celebrity sideboob, or celebrity underboob, or some other aspect of the celebrity boob. Except topboob, which I guess is played out.

Note: Still sidelined by my sprained twerkicep, I was obliged to type this post on an iPad while lying flat on the floor, so please excuse the brevity and uncharacteristic shortwindedness.

Sep 20 2013

Spinster aunt busts move, sprains booty

Dutch dancersIf you must know, I have been benched in a freak twerking accident.

Because it really chaps the spinster hide when perfectly reasonable behaviors are fetishexualized by the megatheopornocorporatocracy, I had planned to write a fairly epic blogular tirade about how butt-wagging is objectively an awesome pastime that, absent the ubiquitous pornsick male gaze, is in fact about as titillating as the wooden shoe dancers at Tulip Time. However, because of my grievous injury, the world will just have to wait for my incisive remarks.

[Sidebar: in case I haven’t mentioned it lately, la revolución will effectively wipe out the fetishization of women’s oppression, which in turn will end pornography, prostitution, rape, and the vilification of women who twerk. Until that happy time, twerking enthusiasts, like any women who do anything under a world order which consigns them to a sex class, will face sexobjectification and gross misogyny.

For more on how feminist revolt will fix everything that’s wrong with human society, see Shulamith Firestone.]

Anyway, before I break out the ice pack, let me just say that I’ve been getting pretty annoyed by the nattering nabobs of negativism who in recent weeks have been so tiresome on the subject of twerking. Like all dance moves performed by women, twerking has been generally promoted as the final nail in the coffin of Western civilization.

As if.

The final nail in the coffin of Western civilization is Western civilization. And Northern, Southern, and Eastern civilization, too. Known on Savage Death Island as the culture of domination, “civilization” has contained the seeds of its own destruction since waaaay before the advent of the modern twerking menace. Thse seeds have already generated untold suffering in the shape of racism, misogyny, religion, colonialism, paternalism, factory farms, capitalism, global warming, super-bacteria, homophobia, Monsanto, fashion, massive wildlife die-offs, pollution, femininity, carcinogens, NRA, nukes, Facebook, Internet porn, cable news, $699.99 iPhones, government spy agencies, sarin gas, the unecessarily crappy food at the Creek Road Cafe in Dripping Springs TX, waxy yellow buildup, and anti-twerkism. No species can survive the incessant onslaught of these combined self-imposed afflictions indefinitely.

How to survive the next millennium? Give up the fetishization of dominance. Just give it up! You know those liberal dudes who are always dragging the goddam bonobos into it, saying humans should emulate them because they resolve their differences by boinking or whatever? Well, I say it’s time to imagine a world where the humans start behaving even more highly evolvedly than the bonobos. Because we are, theoretically. More highly evolved than bonobos, I mean. I propose a policy of conflict resolution via twerk-off.

But I digress.

Twerking isn’t even shocking, by the way. It’s just a plain old squat with a pelvic thrust component.

“She’s wagging her butt, and butt-wagging is somewhat suggestive of humping, so OH MY GOD!”


I mean, we’ve pretty much seen it all at this point, haven’t we? All imaginable disgusting fetishes, vile sex crimes, and broken taboos have have already featured on either “Law & Order: Mutilated Ladies Unit,” “South Park,” or “Toddlers in Tiaras.” Compared to that shit, twerking is about as outrageous as the Peanuts dance.

You know how I know? I decided to check it out personally, so I’ve been twerking up a storm for the past couple of days. I’m here to tell you that it’s a) pretty fun, and b) one of the silliest things I’ve ever done. Check out this how-to-twerk video and do a little butt-dance yourself. I recommend it (with caveat, below) because you, and anyone watching you, will bust out laughing or my name isn’t Twisty Faster.

There is only one dangerous thing about twerking. Which brings me to the reason I can’t write a post today.

Two days ago, insufficiently appreciative of the limitations of my atrophied twerking muscle, I accidentally blew it out during a particularly excellent hip-thrust, and keeled over forthwith. “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up” was my sad refrain. With the result that my ass is now sprained, and sitting in my blogging chair causes excruciating pain. So if, like me, you are a blamer of a certain age, I suggest flexing your twerkiceps with a couple of surya namaskars prior to your first twerk, and keep your Life Alert button at the ready.

Photo: Tulip Time Parade, Holland, Michigan. May 2010. By Jilroy Frosting Psmith.

Sep 16 2013

Courtroom drama “Silk” hits the usual misogynist notes

Once, just once, it would be great if a TV crime drama could feature a woman in a recurring lead role who doesn’t either

a) eventually end up in a scene where a maniacal predator chains her up by the wrists in a dungeon or

b) accidentally get pregnant, sensibly determine that having a kid would alter her career trajectory for the worse, but abruptly cancel the abortion appointment after catching a glimpse of her glowing and fecund self in a mirror and cupping her magical abdomen with lily white hands to reel with wonder over the miracle of life.

The aforementioned aggravating phenomenon has blipped on the Spinster HQ radar again because of “Silk,” a recently aired Brit courtroom drama on PBS that adheres to most of the accepted rules for packaging compulsory pregnancy as female empowerment and selling it as entertainment.

“Silk’s” heroine, Martha, is a bewiggened barrister bucking for a big promotion in her cutthroat London law firm. In contrast to her foil — a womanizing, ethically challenged male rival — Martha is down-to-earth, overworked, and unimpeachably principled. Also, she’s an awesome barrister. Just when things couldn’t look worse, she relies purely on chutzpah and wits to win her tough cases. You go girl. But then, uh oh. Sure enough. Unbeknownst to Martha, one of her skeevy clients has been sneaking around her apartment nicking her hosiery (black stockings! I would have thought that in 2013, the only women still suffering those torture devices would be — well, nobody. And they say patriarchy is dead). The skeevy stalker sets the stage for some excellent TV lady-fear in an upcoming episode.

As an added plot device, the writers throw in an accidental pregnancy. As we have seen, rare is the TV lady of childbearing years who makes it to her series finale without getting knocked up; the contents of uteruses (and the genetic provenance of said contents) never fail to fascinate audiences. Thus we know that, from the minute Martha eyeballs the home pregnancy test, even though she will initially plan to have an abortion, it’s inevitable that instead she’ll wind up cupping the magical abdomen and keeping the fetus. The pregnancy device highlights Martha’s feminine vulnerability to her deranged predator, underscores her selfless feminine devotion to humankind, and sends a patriarchy-affirming message: abortion is the selfish choice.

Oh, and guess who the father is. That’s right. The womanizing, ethically challenged dude, who is currently sleeping with his hot blonde pupil.

My prediction for this series: violence will be visited upon poor pregnant Martha. I bet there’ll be one of those nailbiting bogeyman scenes — possibly in a dungeon with wrist chains — where the skeev leaps from the shadows and the Martha character gives the camera what it craves: a snootful of TV lady-fear. Suspenseful scrimmage will ensue. At some point Martha, her clothes ripped to reveal a tantalizing swatch of lingerie, will be down on the floor, bleeding from a photogenic cut on her forehead, making desperate, sobby, lady-fear noises, either scooching backward on her butt, or worming toward a weapon that’s just beyond the reach of her slightly bloody hand. The episode will conclude with a last-minute rescue by either the womanizing baby daddy or the law firm’s loyal clerk (the Brits say “clark.” Adorable!).

I dare this “Silk” show to prove me wrong. It won’t, though. I can’t even conceive of a universe where a TV lady would go unpunished for her promiscuity. She could never just have the abortion and go on to live a fulfilling, stalker-free life with neither man nor baby, concerning herself instead with stuff of a non-maternal nature. Even more unthinkable: that she would have a rudimentary pre-existing grasp of modern birth control techniques, and therefore wouldn’t get pregnant in the first place, thus leaving her character free to explore the vast array of non-uterus-related adventures that all male characters have pursued since the dawn of story-telling.

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