Archive for the 'Chick Shit' Category


Happy VD!

So I know it’s a made-up holiday, but fuck it: Let’s celebrate! How, you ask? By reading awesome love stories, like the following, by my hero, Dan Savage:

[Dear Dan,]

Recently, I celebrated my first year of marriage to the most amazing man. When we first began dating, he told me that he enjoys open sexuality and wants swinging to be part of any partnership he’s in. I regard myself as free-spirited and agreed to explore this with him. We delayed experimentation because I had a stressful job and I wanted to spend my limited free time with him instead of exploring our sexuality with multiple partners. My work situation changed, and we have since had about a dozen experiences in the past year. I have discovered that these situations are not a turn-on for me—in fact, they are a turnoff. I feel resentful after these episodes, and I don’t feel like having sex for days. We have discussed this at length, and we have been seeing a counselor. Recently, we had a civil discussion wherein we discussed the possibility of him having these sexual experiences without me, since I do not find them compelling. This idea appealed to him. He proposed going to a sex party alone that very night.

Ever since then, I have been crushed by the prospect of my husband having a sex life outside of our relationship. Since we met, his sexuality has had an outward trajectory, rather than being relationship centered. Having a healthy sexual relationship with him is enough for me. He makes a good point that he has been straight about his desire for this lifestyle since day one, but I am still frustrated and horrified that my husband needs to have sex outside of our marriage. I can’t help but feel hurt that I alone am not enough for him.

I’d appreciate your straight, honest feedback on this.

Sex Best One On One

Straight, honest feedback: You are an idiot. Your husband informed you in advance about the “outward trajectory” of his sexuality; you knew going in that your husband could never be satisfied in a marriage that didn’t involve “open sexuality” and swinging. Don’t come crying to me now because the man you married wants to actually have sex with other people. You knew that before you married him, SBOOO, because he fucking told you so.

You’re unlikely to encounter a marriage counselor who’ll take your husband’s side (nonmonogamy? boo!) over yours (monogamy? yay!), SBOOO, so I’m going to aggressively come to his defense: You’re never going to convince your husband that one-on-one ought to be enough for him. Sorry. You’re also going to have a hard time convincing him that you didn’t deceive him in the run-up to this marriage. When he told you that monogamy was a deal breaker, SBOOO, you replied that you were “free-spirited” and willing to “explore.” But, alas, circumstances beyond your control prevented you from embarking on any explorations until after the wedding, and only then—only after he married you—did you discover that your husband’s sexual interests both frustrated and horrified.

How convenient.

Because if you’d been a little less stressed at work, SBOOO, maybe you could’ve made time for a little swinging before the wedding. Then you might’ve learned that nonmonogamy wasn’t for you and been able to give this amazing man that information before he married your ass. Oh, but your work schedule didn’t allow for premarital explorations, and now this amazing man has to decide whether to go through the hell of a divorce—knowing full well that he will be seen as the bad guy by all your relatives and friends, and 99.99 percent of marriage counselors—or give in to your emotional, sexual, and financial blackmail.

Want more evidence that you weren’t negotiating with your husband in good faith before the wedding, SBOOO? How about this: You aren’t negotiating with him in good faith now. So you recently had “a civil discussion” with him about the possibility of his going to sex parties alone—how many uncivil discussions have you had?—but then you were crushed when he wanted to take you up on this proposed compromise. So once again he wants to fuck around, once again you agree to his fucking around in principle, once again he proposes fucking around in earnest, and once again you lose your shit—only this time you go boohooing to an advice columnist and not a marriage counselor.

Sorry, SBOOO, you picked the wrong columnist. You want and always wanted a monogamous commitment. Free spirit, my ass. You are—surprise!—sexually incompatible. Divorce. Get it over with.


Oh, Ewww

Ick.  Ick.  Ickkkkkyyyyyy.

Nadya Suleman (the octuplets’ mom) on her VIRGINITY:

“Most mothers have had sex. But not me. My entire life, I’ve wanted children, but I’ve never wanted to deal with a husband, or boyfriend, or any one who would make sexual demands of me. When you love children the way I do, there’s no time for the distractions of domestic partnership. A man would only get in the way and I’ve got babies to hold. No man has ever sullied my life-oven with his flesh sword, and no man ever will.

Anyone have any idea why she got divorced?

Seriously, though, her kids should be checked for sex abuse. She sounds sexually traumatized and fixated on children, which is a dangerous combo (right, Michael Jackson?)


Oh, Awright, About The Octuplets’ Mom

I wasn’t sure if I wanted to blog about this, mostly because I think this crazy bitch has been talked about to death, but, hell, isn’t the whole point of blogging that you get to talk about things you find interesting, to the exclusion of what anyone else thinks?  (unless you’re working for Arianna Huffington, of course)

So, I’ve been following this ethical debate, not because I’m a mom myself, but rather as it reflects a belief inherent in our society. More on that later, as I just want to get this out of the way:

She’s nuts. Really. Did you see the interview? She wants to have her own child army because she felt out of control of her surroundings as a child? And she admits that this is the reason she now wants to control the lives of as many children as possible? So, it’s revenge for having to have been a child once herself? Jesus Christ, could she be any more cuckoo en la cabeza???

Attention whores aside, this raises the questions of what is important to us as Americans. Make no mistake, this woman’s situation is uniquely American. There is absolutely no way that, in any other country, a licensed physician would have consented to do this for an unemployed woman living at home with her parents (and, might I add, without said parents’ approval). And by “this” I mean implant sooooo many fetuses in her. And not just the exorbitant amount done at the same time, I’m talking the whole shebang. 14 kids. No job, no prospects (that’s right, lady, in spite of your adorable view that people out there are clamoring to pay social workers a ton of money, it just ain’t the case), no father, and a great big case of crazy. And why? Because the rest of the world tends to look at cases in context.

While my furren friends really seem to be impressed (to the point of near obsession) with our system of government, I tend to get shocked stares when I mention what “individual freedom” actually implies, when taken as far as we do. Talking with my Brazilian friends about the seriously tough question of how best to institute their own form of affirmative action (given that over 90% of the population boasts some African blood, it’s a really interesting question of what defines race), we started talking about freedom in general and its implications. When I brought up the question of female circumcision and whether it should be allowed, or of whether or not it’s Constitutional to force a Christian Scientist to seek medical help for their dying child, they seemed so certain about the answer. They were universally wrong, in the eyes of the Supreme Court, though.

If you’d rather, and who wouldn’t, let’s make fun of the French for a while. When they recently banned the wearing of any religious wear in schools, I was appalled. Debating this over lunch a while back with one of my French friends (who, incidentally, even I consider a bed-wetting liberal hippie type), I began to sympathize with the plight of that government. Dealing with multiple reports of the gang-raping of women who were walking into Muslim neighborhoods with skirts above their knees or their arms bared (meaning, of course, that they are whores), among other forms of race rioting, the government felt it had to act in the interest of the majority of its people and try to forcibly assimilate a culture that didn’t want to be assimilated. When I shot back that this ban on headscarves and the like would only mean more home-schooling for the children in question, which would alienate them further, he asked what we would do (at which point I shut up, partially because I was upset that he’d responded at all to what I had perceived to be a pretty damned good argument, but mostly because I was stymied and hungry). Anyway, the point is that, when looked at as an individual case, the good of the whole was deemed more imperiled than the rights of the few. (Whew!)

I have to say, though, that what makes me angrier at this dumb broad than anything is her timing.  Right when our country deperately needs to pull together and get our economy moving, along comes this chick and her admission that she and her poor kids are taking disability and food stamps from the government. Well, that’s just great. Never mind that the most efficient way to stimulate the economy (according to real economists, even!) is food stamps.  Now all the GOP has to do in order to divide our nation once again on the wisdom of said economists is trot out this Willie-Horton-with-a-litter-o-chilluns and point.   The conspiracy theorist in me would like to think she’s a right-wing plant (what better poster child to use against welfare and food stamps?), but I think the truth is, like Joe the Plumber, she’s just an ignorant tool.  Which is why we should revamp education, right?

Rant over. Back to fart jokes.


Your Love Is Still Not Better Than Chocolate

So it appears hormones are responsible for kissing feeling so good. Which is nice. But…

This is not the first research to analyse the physical effects of kissing. In 2007 British scientists measured the brain and heart activity sparked by passionate kissing, but found it was less intense that the stimulation produced by eating chocolate.

Romantic love has also been shown to have a close link to neurological activity, with scans showing that it has similar effect to cocaine on our brains.

So, wait, are we supposed to become fat-assed drug addicts if we’re single, just to fill the void? Cause if there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s a fat cokehead.

Exhibit A


We Get It: Rachel’s Not Getting Married

Awright, this isn’t the kind of blog I usually write, nor one I particularly want to write, but I think someone has to say it:

That’s enough, Jennifer Aniston.

You got dumped a while back.  For a smokin’ hottie with a heart of gold, a litter of kids, and a drawer full of sex toys.  I know, I know, how were you supposed to compete?

And now all anyone ever asks about/talks about/writes about is how you’re DYING to have a man and a baby of your very own.  You claim it’s unfair, and I feel you on that.  It’s got to suck to be unable to leave the house alone ever, lest the photogs catch you for that week’s installment of “Brangie and Family Frolic in the Sun; The Jen Stands Alone”.  So, yeah, I felt bad for you in that sense.

Plus, you seem nice enough.  You’re certainly a master of appealing to most American women in that middle-of-the-road non-threatening way I find simultaneously odious and fascinating.  So you’ve got that going for you.

But, come ON, now. You’re following up The Breakup and He’s Just Not That Into You with Baster???

Doing one of these would be funny and ironic, taking the piss out of those who thatsenoughjohnmayerclaim you’re a sad sack old maid. Two would mean your agent kind of hates you. But a movie about artificial insemination hot on the heels of your 40th birthday, when you’ve just been making the rounds saying you’re definitely not feeling the heat to have children, but are open to it someday? Really?

Now it all fits, though. You’re dating a well-known whore of a man-child whose sole purpose has to be to break your heart publicly (Why else would anyone go out with that douche? It ain’t musical talent, I’ll tell you that). And now you’re feeding the headlines you claim to hate, all so you can do more interviews about how sad you still aren’t, bask in female compassion, and spark yet more heated discussions on Jezebel about ZOMG how unfair it is that womyn in today’s society are only defined by who’s going or coming out of our vaginas!!1! (I’m paraphrasing, but that’s the gist)

So, yeah, I’m onto you. I get that a whole nation’s outpouring of sympathy has got to be almost narcotic. But it’s time to stop. It’s getting pathetic, this constant seeking-while-refusing said sympathy. There are actual miserable people in the world (I think your ex has either met or adopted most of them–bahZING!! I’ll be here all week! Try the veal!).


Hillary Sometimes Forgets She Ran For President?

Not. Bloody. Likely.

During her first town meeting as SoS, Ms. Clinton joked to her besotten crowd:

You know I ran for President…?” The audience broke out in laughter. She added, chuckling, “I sometimes totally forget that.

Uh huh.

She then continued:

It was like a blur it went by so fast.
So no, America, it was not and interminable primary season!  Far from it!  It was too short!  See, if she’d just had some more time to win the delegates over to her side…oh, forget it.  She already has.*

*just like she’s forgotten ol’ whatshername with the blue dress.


Spanish Women Don’t Get Fat Either

OK, this isn’t entirely true. In fact, according to the Spanish government, they’re also in the midst of an obesity epidemic, which I find adorable. It’s rather like when I lived through a “drought” in Louisiana, which, as far as I can tell, just meant the banana trees were wilting a bit. So, yes, there are heavy people here, but, really, nobody does fat on the same scale (wokka wokka!) as the Americans.

I read a really interesting (and mind-bogglingly thorough) book about the U.S. surge in ass size called Fat Land that made a lot of interesting points. Sure, class contributes (ever see a nice outdoor park in a poor neighborhood in the States?), the lobbying of farmers forced to produce corn with nowhere to sell it contributes (hello, omnipresent corn syrup! and your progeny, Type II Diabetes!), as does the lack of money for cafeterias in public schools, the marketing of junk food to children, enormous portion sizes, and TV/video-game-based lifestyles. The one thing I found most illuminating in the book (OK, the farmer part was really interesting also) was the different manner in which weight in treated in the U.S., as opposed to the rest of the world. Namely, Americans see weight as a social issue, and the rest of the world sees it as medical.

I saw this reflected in a not-so-good book I read while at my parents’ in Sydney (they’re Bryson fans, I’m a Sedaris fan, and nary the twain shall meet), called French Women Don’t Get Fat. While largely touting recipes for watercress soup in boring-to-too-flowery language, I did see the mentality that Fat Land mentioned reflected therein, most notably when the author comes home from living the the States for a few months to a father who hugs her, then tells her she “looks like a sack of potatoes” before getting a doctor to prescribe her the aforementioned watercress soup.

Sure, the French may be nastier about it (insert your favorite joke about snotty Frenchmen here), but the same thing happens here. One of my officemates just returned from a trip to Mexico to exclamations of, “Look how fat you got! You really like those chilaquiles, eh?” Nacho cool-o It wasn’t meant as an insult–or really even as a judgment one way or the other–but merely as a statement of fact and nothing more.

Begging for more examples? Well, certainly! Here ya go: I work at a university, and I tend to eat with mostly students. Teenage-to-early-twenty-something girls are the QUEENS of body talk, constantly wondering if they look too fat in their jeans, if they are too fat in general, or if that guy over there is noticing how much they’re eating. In that sense, eating in the cafeteria here has been sort of like eating in a cafeteria on another planet. I sit and listen to the girls talk about an upcoming beach vacation they’re taking. No talk of tans to cover cellulite, no freakouts about eating a big lunch a week before being seen in a bikini, no obligatory back-and-forth pumping the other up while cutting yourself down (“I’d kill for your tits.” “No, seriously, my tits are nothing compared to your legs. My legs are lumpy messes.”).

This may sound normal to most readers (with phalli), but to the women out there, I will be one million dollars this sounds bizarre. This is because, in spite of all the attention female-based media pays to body image issues, believe me, women talk about it amongst themselves much, much more. It’s subtle, but it’s definitely always there. And, since being here, I’ve been struck by the deafening silence where once was a constant stream of self-effacing comments.

I suppose I noticed the sudden silence because I was engaged in lots of weight-based conversations during my pregnancy. My grad student at the time (a voracious eater who will never even grow into a size 2–it is worth noting that none of the other girls here say anything envious about this fact, or really talk about it at all) told me all the time that she’d noticed I hadn’t gained much weight. I’d tell her I was eating plenty (obviously; we were at lunch at the time, which is a 3-course affair here), but maybe walking around the city was burning it off. She’d just shrug, say that was normal for some people, and start asking me about day trips I planned on taking with Luna once she was born (“You have to go to Toledo! Oh, and Sevilla!” The Spanish are obsessed with internal travel, and never ever ever miss and opportunity to promote it to foreigners).

The same thing happened after I gave birth. I’m currently about 15-20 lbs. lighter than I was That'll do, Pazpre-pregnancy in spite of not setting foot in a gym since we left Louisiana (a fact I’ve strategically hidden from friends in the States, for fear of my life). Here, my sudden shrinkage has evinced several comments, though they are always said with the same tone people use when they notice Luna’s constantly runny nose. They just notice it, in the hopes of being helpful, and then move on.

This is not to say that the Spanish are immune to tabloid talk about celebrity bodies. As I speak, the cover of one of the local gossip magazines (there are maybe 100) highlights the best bikini-clad asses in celebrity-dom. What they don’t show, however, is a “worst” for every “best,” or an exhaustive list of what foods to eat or not eat in order to achieve said ass. Instead, Paz Vega and her ilk are treated like pieces of fine art: They are admired, but not thought of as models to which everyone should aspire. Paz looks like Paz, so you don’t have to (if you will).

I’m not sure how to start extricating the stigma about weight talk from our culture or our vernacular, but I’m fairly sure it’ll be a process. In the meantime, I’m going to see if I can keep Luna away from all that silliness. With any luck, she’ll continue to react to me complaining about the cottage cheese on my ass the same way a dog looks at the TV (head cocked to the side, expression of bemusement playing upon her wee lips, wondering when I’ll get around to feeding her).



I know I’ve already “hated on” (as the kids say) David Denby’s idiotic book, Snark, but he was just on NPR defending it, and I feel that something he said in his book’s defense really needs to be noted.

In the interest of full disclosure, I should note that this account was written by another loyal Wonkette reader:

He stammers through not knowing [the author of the piece on Chelsea Clinton, whom he'd claimed was female] was a dude before going on to say that [Wonkette] is, “mostly written by women… and reflects the nasty, mean nature of snark” or words to that effect.

(I’ve gotten into the habit of saying “douche” in a particularly low-voiced, diaphragm-based way when I think the situation/outfit/person merits it, and this is how I’ve chosen to transcribe it. It’s not perfect, but I think it works.)They can't throw spirals either.

So, let me get this straight, Denby: You think that snark is factless, immoral, and mean. And that a site which you insist is mostly written by women (NB: Wonkette has only one female associate editor) evinces this perfectly. And, when confronted by your own factual error, you reiterate that you’re really right about this site being nasty, snarky…oh, and also that it’s written by women.

Have I covered it there? Anything else I should add? E-fucking-GADS, man, what a colosally DOOOOOSH-y thing to say. Is your ex-wife currently living in a house you pay for while she’s banging your best friend or something? And what in holy hell was going through your mind when you made that argument on NPR? Yikes, did you think their not-so-secret feminist base, bowing to your obvious knowledge of all things female and intellectual, would then run out and buy your stinking corpse of a book?

So, yeah, I think this asshat needs to be specTACularly canned, dragged through the streets naked, and violated in every orifice he has. And to show I’m not discriminating based on gender, I firmly believe the same should happen to the editors of one of the targets in his book, Jezebel, who still employ the idiot bitches who went on Lizz Winstead’s show, Thinking And Drinking, and, in the name of “edgy feminist humor,” said that there is no such thing as a woman being raped if she brings the guy home first, since you know she wanted it. So, truly, I am an equal opportunity wisher-of-horrible-fates. (I’m with Lizz Winstead, though: The worst part about that those flaps of skin at Jezebel is that their fan base rallied to their support. Had those things been said by anyone with a penis, I’m curious how they’d have reacted. Really, ladies, there’s nothing wrong with pointing to when one of us has done or said something really stupid. It doesn’t make you a traitor, but being an apologist for the inane remarks does make you complicit in them.)

Alright, I think I’ve exorcised the ol’ noggin demons now. *DEEP breath*


Maybe “Envy” Really Isn’t The Right Word…

Laura Bennett (of Project Runway fame; she was the awesomely stylish mother of a litter of boys who made the super-cute “100% Nuts” dress, among others, but I digress) has an interesting blog in The Daily Beast today.

Exactly How Are Men Superior?

While I’m sure it’s a good read, in and of itself (I dare not incur the wrath of a woman always so perfectly put together that I would feel impelled to call her “MISS Laura Bennett,” were I ever to meet her), it puts me in mind of a theory I had immediately after giving birth.

If brevity is the soul of wit, my description of giving birth will be hilarious: It is absolutely not a great experience. That said, the payoff is pretty amazing. Hormones, society, and necessity intertwine to make the newly-minted fruit of your loins need you in ways heretofore unimagined. If you’re the mother. If you’re the father, you are still an integral part of the daily life of the child (one would hope), but the connection is different.

I was thinking about this phenomenon this morning when my partner-in-geekdom was dropping off his toddler at the same daycare my baby attends. He reiterated his grudging acceptance of the fact that, even though he spends more time with his son than his wife does, the boy still clings to his mother as his savior, champion, and general be-all-and-end-all. And he’s not alone in feeling this way.

In this, the 200-year anniversary of Darwin’s birth, it is appropriate to blame evolution, so I will. As a multitude of pop-culture self-help books will tell us, human men have evolved to spread their seed, and human women to nurture it. We’ve all heard this tons of times, used it as excuses for bad behavior (hey, Goldie Hawn and Kurt Russell!), and rejected it as irrelevant. And it is, up to a point.

Women are not hard-wired to stay at home and cook and clean. That’s fucking ludicrous. What we have evolved into, however, are single-bodied baby-caring machines: a house in which to grow, a way into the world, and the primary food source. That last part is especially important, since it is the reason we’ve evolved all sorts of fun toys: the hormones that cause the act of breastfeeding to bond mother and baby, the ability of a newborn to only see breast-face distance, the innate desire of a newborn to look for eyes and hold their gaze. Hell, breast milk is also an antibiotic (tell me that was just an accident, Sarah Palin). This is all by way of saying that women have evolved to be able to physically create a toddler without any outside influence.

It occurred to me that this must be frustrating, to say the very least, for new dads. How unbelievably awful to be confronted with the notion that a crazed nut like Valerie Solanas may have had a point. Maybe she was right in her “research” that noted that men were going to be evolved out of the species entirely in the future, deemed as a footnote to a new matriarchal rule. To be assaulted by nagging little doubts about your own relevance as a gender while simultaneously being forced to reassure a sobbing, sleep-deprived, hormonal mess that she will eventually fit into her favorite jeans again…well, that’s just adding insult to injury.

Putting myself in a new dad’s shoes, I suddenly understood the excessive need I would feel to voice my own relevance. Really, I get it: the urge to say you are absolutely necessary to the world, if only because the species-perpetuator over there is…erm, well I bet she sucks at math.  And basketball.  And she knows absolutely dick about allen wrenches.

This is not meant to be an excuse for misogyny, but I think I finally understand its genesis. Which, for a physics geek like me, means I can wrap my mind around it and deal with it.*


*This is all by way of saying I think Freud’s a douche.  Never trust a cokehead to level with you about anything.


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