An Open Letter, Effed-Up Shit, Warning: Strident Feminism Ahead

Hey, gym? How long would it take you to redecorate if you hung a dick pic and a single bodybuilder complained?

This is an actual email I had to send to my gym. I don’t want to be driven back into the grasping arms of New York Sports Club or, god forbid, Crunch, but I will if it means I get to lift weights without having to stare at porn.

Also: AAARGH.

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Effed-Up Shit, Goings-On, Jesus H. Christ

New York: The City That Never Shuts the Hell Up

I travel a lot. I get stared at a lot because I am tall, and, oh yeah, fat. I’ve been stared at in a variety of foreign countries on several different continents.

Once, in Vietnam, I attracted an entire class of high school students who lined up to have their photos taken with me one at a time.

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Effed-Up Shit, To Hell In a Handbasket, You've Built a Crawl Space Under Your All-Time Low

Sorry, Humanity, we’re breaking up.

We all know, by now, that you should never read the comments.

Apparently, we can’t read the internet at all anymore, because this is an actual, non-satire, not-in-the-comments thing I just read. (Warning: will probably cause instant head explosion):

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Effed-Up Shit, My Uterus Will Cut You, Warning: Strident Feminism Ahead

It’s beginning to look a lot like eugenics!

I was in a North Carolina Rite-Aid yesterday, purchasing some products of a womanly nature. While walking down an aisle, I saw this.

Luckily, I wasn’t drinking anything at the time, or I would have done a spit-take all over the shelves and Rite-Aid probably would have made me buy the product. Although I suppose I could have brought it home and set it on fire to keep anyone else from using it.

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Effed-Up Shit, Hellhounds

First Degree Poultry Larceny

I was recently giving a presentation to colleagues, during which I noted that one of my dogs once stole a piece of fried chicken from a sleeping homeless man.

At the time, we had a long talk with him about homelessness and poverty, and how many people are a single paycheck or medical emergency away from sleeping on a park bench and having their fried chicken stolen by a dog who eats food made of humanely-raised, Montessori-educated lambs twice a day. He spent several seconds reflecting on what he’d done before wandering off to urinate on a prize-winning rose bush.

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Effed-Up Shit, New Jersey, To Hell In a Handbasket

It’s a little sting-y, and a little itchy, but mostly just dull and throbbing.

I just found out that Richie Sambora is no longer in Bon Jovi.

(I know, it happened several days ago. I’m not good at keeping up.)

I guess this it what it’s like to feel your childhood shrivel up and die.

If I find out that Little Steven had a fall-out with Bruce, I’m moving to Canada.

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An Open Letter, Effed-Up Shit, To Hell In a Handbasket

To the Asshole on 3rd Between Folsom and Howard, Thank You

Hi there! I hope you got home safely last night. By which I mean, “I hope someone sidled up to you as you walked down the street, high on friendship and Thai food, then grabbed your genitalia, followed you down the street, and lurked outside your building.” This glorious nightcap to an otherwise lovely day shouldn’t be available only to women, am I right? Let’s spread the love!

Actually, I don’t hope that at all, because unlike you, I’m not an asshole.

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Effed-Up Shit, My Uterus Will Cut You

I’m Naive, Not Stupid. There’s a Difference.

Michelle W.:

I could write a post about the nonsense in Texas, but Amy already wrote this one. Why re-invent the wheel? You should go read it.

 

Originally posted on The Oeditrix:

Gathering in the rotunda. Drop in the bucket of orange pro-choice supporters.

Gathering in the rotunda. Drop in the bucket of orange pro-choice supporters.

This morning I woke up after a surreal night with a lot on my mind. One phrase in particular was ringing in my ears: “Don’t be naive, Amy.”

Back when I quit writing for CultureMap Austin over a nasty, misogynist editorial masquerading as a news story by the Dallas staff, the business manager (then–he’s since been fired) called me up on the phone to “discuss” my decision.

What he really wanted was to cajole or shame me into reversing my position–if not publicly, at least in a private phone call. He talked in circles, but having survived grad school, I am not easily confused even by smart people talking in circles, much less idiots. While some of the details of the call have become fuzzy in my mind, one stands out. After he had failed to make his arguments look…

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Effed-Up Shit

All Your Soap Are Belong to Us

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.)

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