It’s sweet that people are tweeting and Facebooking and blogging and actually saying things aloud in real life about the quality of their fathers and/or husbands: namely, that said father and/or husband is the BEST FATHER EVER.
I feel a little guilty posting these photos, because exposure to them will likely shatter that reverie.
Dear Wayne Nutnot,
Your “edgy” and “humorous” post about how you are a feminist but find female genitalia to be “objectively gross” is neither edgy nor humorous nor feminist. Attempting to generate laughs by degrading women is one of the oldest tricks in the book. If you’re going to do it, at least do it well enough that I’m disgusted but begrudgingly in awe of your wit. This is a hack job, and you know it. Cheap clicks.
Finishing Butters, brilliant! Because now the door is open for Starting Butters and Halfway Through Butters and all kinds of In-Progress Butters. Endless possibility! A Butter for every occasion Truly, Paula Deen is the marketing genius of our age. Or possibly our society’s fatal flaw. Personally, I’m looking forward to the Butter-Flavored Butter (Now with Extra Butter).
Forty acres and a stick of specialty butter: the American dream.
Dear Gentle Readers,
If I happen to write a post about Your Pet Topic That I’ve Never Shown the Slightest Interest In Before — unlikely, but I suppose not outside the realm of possibility — then please, leave a comment about Your Pet Topic.
This is a thing I do, where I stand up in front of groups of people and pretend to be knowledgeable about things.
If you’re in Montreal, you should come: I can be funny sometimes, and because I have a crippling fear of public speaking, there’s always the chance I will behave in some inappropriately hysterical manner. Educational AND a great schadenfreude opportunity!*
*Self deprecation aside: it will be awesome. Plus, if turnout is low, I’ll probably self-medicate by binging on poutine. And I really don’t like poutine, so please don’t drive me to that.
The heavy weight of thousands of angry tweets and continued departure of advertisers, no doubt supplemented by the back-breaking straw that was the declaration of my own departure from Facebook, led to this announcement today.
It’s long, so I’ll sum it up for you:
I know there are ways in which the internet serves this purpose, but sometimes I’d like to have an old-fashioned, in-person consciousness raising session. Have a few drinks, expose the intricate control mechanisms of the patriarchy, order a pizza, check out our vulvas with hand mirrors. You know, the usual. (You’d need to supply your own hand mirror.)
The thing about Dove is, Dove does not exist to boost your self esteem. Dove exists to get you to spend money on smelly, slimy bars and bottles of soap — oh, excuse me, “beauty bars.” You can watch their “Real Beauty” shit until the triple-action moisturizers come home to nourish the deepest layers of your skin, but you’re still stuck in a paradigm where “beauty” is your defining factor, and not, say, power. Or confidence. Or autonomy. Or intelligence. Beauty, and your ability to spend money on soap.
