The Hedonistic Pleasureseeker

Because I’ll tell you. At least THIS time I’m mad at something that deserves it. You have no idea. You. Have. No. Idea. So tell me: If I were to pray hard enough would the whole Rockefeller family drop dead? Just askin.’

The below video clip is part of an interview with Aaron Russo that took place shortly before he died of cancer last August. It pertains to his relationship he had with Nick Rockefeller, a member of the Council on Foreign Relations and a “leading venture capital counselor” presently doing business in China. The first hand testimony in this video is so explosive that Rupert Murdoch banned it from YouTube! Fortunately, kids these days are more clever than Rupert Murdoch and are disguising the clips and re-posting them. One of them created a montage of Russo’s best moments, George Carlin, 9/11 footage and - I shit you not - cartoons. The videos are hidden inside cartoons. THAT’s how bad censorship has become. Google “spider goats” and you’ll see what I mean.

Before I saw this video clip I’d never even heard of Aaron Russo. I had to go to Wikipedia to conclude hey, this guy’s no slouch:

Aaron Russo spent his adult life in the music/theater movie business where he helped create and/or advance the careers of many legendary performers, such as Led Zeppelin, The Who, Janis Joplin, The Grateful Dead and Jefferson Airplane^[1], and Bette Midler. In 1975 he produced the Tony award-winning Clams on the Half-Shell Revue, created and managed The Manhattan Transfer, and listed David Keith, Frederic Forrest, Susan Sarandon as his clients.

When Russo turned to producing feature films, his production of The Rose, introduced Bette Midler to motion picture audiences. Midler received a nomination for the Academy Award for Best Actress. Russo also produced Trading Places, starring Eddie Murphy and Dan Aykroyd, and Teachers, starring Nick Nolte, Morgan Freeman, and Ralph Macchio. He also produced a stand-up comedy/monologue called Mad as Hell. His last movie was From Freedom to Fascism, in which he gives a historical accounting of the historical events leading to the pickle this country is in today.

Russo’s won practically every award possible: A Grammy, a Tony, and an Emmy. His films were nominated for six Academy Awards, as well as seven Golden Globes. His films have won three Golden Globes, as well as the Image Award.

January 2004, Russo announced he was seeking the Libertarian Party’s nomination to run for the President of the United States. Russo told LP News (February 2004) he was running because the United States is “heading to totalitarianism. I have a sincere belief [in] the Constitution and Bill of Rights as envisioned by Thomas Jefferson, James Madison, and Ben Franklin. Unfortunately, neither political party respects the vision of our Founding Fathers, and these documents have been relegated to the dustbin. I want to dust them off and restore them to their proper role in our lives.”

Aaron Russo died of cancer on August 24, 2007. Suffice it to say this man was on the ball and he was my kind of man, so it’s a shame I’d never heard of him. Another copy of a clip that covers most of this info can be found here, because you never know when Rupert Murdoch will catch wind that the videos are up on YouTube again.

The below video clip is a part of a longer interview concerning a few different issues related to Government policy and practice. Boring, huh? Not at all. You. Have. No. Idea.

Does the Hedonistic Pleasureseeker really look like this? Who cares?

Several folks have commented on my faceless presence on the internet. Why show so many photos of my body but none of my face? What does the HPS have to hide?

Usually these are men of a certain breed, the type I tend to avoid at all costs in the Real World. It’s as though a woman’s decision to hide her face puts them at a disadvantage, as in “How can we decide how to treat you if we can’t tell whether you’re young or old, pretty or ugly?” Meaning, the extent to which they’ll act as though they respect a woman, her opinions, and her weblog depends entirely on how badly they want to get into her pants. Same old shit different day, as this is also true of this breed in the Real World. They are invariably sexist jerks. No exceptions.

Unfortunately, young or old, fat or thin, pretty or ugly, a woman just can’t win with this type of man:

A. The anonymous, faceless female: If she refuses to put images of herself on her site and uses a female name he will ignore her site entirely, unless her site gets a lot of traffic, in which case he’ll be a persistent troll. If this faceless female posts on another site he will react negatively to her female-sounding handle and respond in a hostile way if she dares to be opinionated, authoritative, and/or controversial. His attacks will be designed to embarrass or insult her, and scare her away from the site or from blogging entirely. Generally he will do his best to put her in her “place.”

(Don’t believe me, guys? Adopt a female handle/persona for a whole month, continue to post the kinds of comments you usually do as a man, and watch what happens.)

B. The plain open book: If she posts her photo but does not live up to his idea of the Porn Standard, he will pick apart her appearance and point out her physical flaws in the rudest and most public manner possible. Generally he will do his best to take her down a peg for her audacity at daring to exist openly on the internet with all her so-called “flaws.” After all, in his mind, the internet exists so that he may surf for free porn, meet hot chicks, and participate in stupid/irrelevant blog wars. How dare she take up space?

C. The hot chick: He will kiss up to her in a paternalistic, alpha-male kind of way regardess of his actual status in the real world. If he thinks that if there is even .0001% of a chance of getting in her pants his responses to her will always be friendly and full of helpful advice. So long as the woman responds in a girly/submissive manner this flirtatious repartee can go on and on, sometimes indefinitely. However, if she emphatically disagrees with him, bests him in an argument, or makes it 100% clear that he has 0% chance of getting in her pants he’ll either disappear or get nasty. If he’s a real asshole he will extract revenge in a variety of irritating ways: Pretending to be her at other sites and starting trouble, spamming her, etc. If he knows or finds her identity she has a real problem.

Notice that none of these scenarios have a happy ending? The only way to “win” with this kind of man is to ignore or eliminate him as soon as he reveals his true colors. Ban his IP address. Do not respond to anything he posts. In short, pretend he does not exist.

Why am I faceless/anonymous on my blog? Security reasons, plain and simple. I cannot afford to be recognized by strangers on the street. I cannot afford to have my name, location, or any other personal data set loose on the internet. This blog must never be associated with my place of employment. Most importantly, I will not put my child at risk for being careless. Consequently, if you see a face on my blog that doesn’t belong to a celebrity or some other public figure it’s because I’ve either:

• altered the photo,
• used an old photo, or
• otherwise used a photo that does not represent what I or that person looks like today.

Certainly friends and relatives will recognize me. Most of them know about my blog anyway! I have nothing to hide from the ones who don’t; in fact, if I am “outed” someday there is nothing on this site I wouldn’t let my daughter or mother read. All I care is that no strangers will run into me someday and say, “Hey: Aren’t you the Hedonistic Pleasureseeker?” That said, it’s unlikely that these folks would recognize me anyway because my hair options are endless, my face changes depending on the time of the month and what I’ve eaten, I’ve had multiple plastic surgeries, I have a hundred costumes, and sometimes I change my appearance three or four times a week! Among other things, I am a shapeshifter. I can make myself fat or thin with little effort. Sometimes I am not “pretty” at ALL. Sometimes I look like a cat burglar or a lumberjack, or a woman who is six months pregnant (great for getting a seat on the train!). I wear granny glasses at work. I clean up real good and sometimes my face and body (literally) cause accident and injury to rubberneckers (I’m not so proud of this). Bottom line: It’s all about creating public presentations and watching how people react. Try mixing it up yourself someday: It’s fun!

As for the internet, who cares what anyone looks like anyway? Isn’t blogging about telling stories, collecting pen pals and sharing ideas? At least, that’s what blogging is for me. What do our faces have to do with any of it?

Happy HNT, everyone!

A few of my nuttier commenters have concluded the Hedonistic Pleasureseeker is either:

a) a man pretending to be a woman; or

b) a transexual

Their reasoning? No mere woman would write the the things that I do, the way that I write them. No woman could possibly think, act, or re-act the way that I do. Most importantly, no woman could possibly be this self-assured. Good God: No woman has the right to be this self assured.

Something must be wrong here. I am so masculine, you see, so lacking in womanly “grace.”

OK, they’ve got me.

It’s all true!

I’m a drag queen.

No, really!

Ohhhhhhhhhh . . . Okay FINE. So I was born a girl with girl parts. I was raised to be obedient and “nice.” I wore pink dresses. I was not allowed to be angry, ever. I had long hair. I submitted to male authority. I took ballet lessons. I married young and spawned in accordance with societal expectations. I believe it’s been well established that I am 100% woman. Not necessarily 100% female, but definitely ALL WOMAN.

And I am STILL a Drag Queen! Are we confused yet? I suppose I can’t blame y’all, since so many of us grew up with some variation on THIS:

Like my nutty trolls too many of you conflate “woman” with “femininity.” You’re incorrect in your assumptions but I understand. You presume that femininity belongs exclusively to women, but you presume oh so wrong!

I just LOVE my feminine drag, even if I only take it out to play on weekends. I have the coy look down pat: Head tilted down, eyes glancing upwards. I shrug my shoulders and lean into myself, bat my eyelashes and feign a helpless befuddlement. I make myself small. I let the world believe I am properly submissive, and happy to dance to whatever music our patriarchal society is playing this year. I have it all: Two closets full of designer clothing, one hundred (?) pair of high heels, a cabinet full of makeup and hair goo, and a huge lingerie drawer filled with bras, bustiers, panties, thongs, thigh-high and fishnet stockings. I even have a genuine training corset! Dita has nothin’ on the Hedonistic Pleasureseeker! However, here’s the rub: It’s all JUST DRAG. It’s all artifice, both the costumes and the performance. It is feminine, but not womanly. IT’S NOT REAL.

Still confused? An easy way to tell the difference is to ask yourself: Can a man do it too? Not that he necessarily would, but could he? Folks, if a dude can do feminine drag, sometimes even better than a woman, what does that say about femininity, or even the state of being female? Witness the Queen of Drag:

That was a dude, folks. Rupaul is a man, and he does femininity well. Female Drag, or Male Drag for that matter, are masks that both men and women should be able adopt on a whim, or not at all, without suffering adverse social consequences. Life is ritual theater, a big costume ball, so why not put on and take off our Drag at will? Why not treat it like a hat? Seriously: WHY NOT? Because the space-time continuum will collapse if men stop acting “like men” (dominant) and women stop acting “like women” (submissive)? Honey, please. Only stupid people think like that anymore.

Likewise, women should not be forced to do the femininity dance if they don’t feel like it. Frankly, most of the time I don’t feel like doing it!!! And I don’t: I’m naturally authoritative and strong-willed, with a laser-sharp, rebellious and stubborn mind. I cannot hide who I am without major, major effort. Frankly, it’s exhausting work, this feminine drag show. I won’t do it at work, and although I love showing off my feminine trappings on this blog I am under no obligation to write as though I were some delicate creature begging for male attention, ready and willing to accept masculine authority, guidance, and or assessments of my fuckability. This is because I have absolutely no interest in making myself, or this site, “useful” to men, as much as I enjoy male company in general and welcome men to my site.

Bottom line, everyone: Whether you are a man or a woman, screw the Gender Police! Be who you are. Just like these guys:

Shut up you stupid fucking cunt
rat face ugly feminist bitch
wanna fuck?
your just a feminst career minded American women piece of shit. Your the real problem a disease
please post more pictures of you wearing _______
You don’t show your face cause your ugly
obese foul smelling fat cow bitch
gay piec of American feminist slime
Ugly spinster hag no wonder you can’t find a man
I’d never date/fuck/marry a bitch like you

My goodness! All that for expressing an opinion on someone else’s weblog! Blogging While Female has it’s risks, but at least it’s better than those old chat rooms. Women who use the Internet for social reasons learn this pretty quickly: If your screen name strongly indicates that you’re female, you might as well change it to HarassMe2Day.

A study out of the University of Maryland showed that female usernames in a chatroom received 25 times more threatening or sexual private messages than male or neutral usernames. The malicious messages didn’t seem to come from bots spamming female usernames; real men were targeting these women. Today I don’t think you’ll find any real women in chat rooms; or, if they unwisely venture in they probably leave pretty quickly. In fact, odds are the female screen names belong to men! I found this funny story here:

Hey, guys, this can backfire, too! One of my friends (a guy) thought that he was slick by posing as a 19 yr old lesbian on Microsoft Chat (several years ago) thinking he would get to talk to other hot lesbians… He got a lot of PMs, all sexual in nature. At first, he thought he found a gold mine. The joke was on him, though, as EVERY OTHER PERSON claiming to be a lesbian was actually another guy! 8 Years later and he is STILL trying to live that down!

I started my weblog about two years ago when a few big blogger outings were taking place. People all over the internet were musing: What would happen to me if my family, friends, co-workers, boyfriend/girlfriend, boss, etc. found my blog? I feel so fortunate that I read those discussions BEFORE I started blogging. Right then and there I decided that when it came to my blog:

a. I would never write anything that would get me fired or jailed;
b. I would keep my identity a secret;
c. I would not participate in any flame wars or say anything unjustifiably mean/cruel to another blogger;
d. I wouldn’t reveal the faces or names of my friends or family members, and protect their identities the best that I could;
e. I would keep everything PG rated. Perhaps an R rating every now and then. Nothing X rated!
f. I would never hide my blog from a loved one. If I can post an opinion or feeling to my blog where the whole world can see it, then I sure as heck can say it to his/her face!

To this day I’m still following these guidelines. If I show a photo of a friend or a family member it’s because his/her appearance has changed, and there is no way you’d be able to recognize him or her on the street. I have lied about my name, my age, and my location. I even lied about my birthday! Little white lies, nothing much “off” from the truth, but just untrue enough so that I cannot be identified or located. The only way I can be “outed” is if a friend or family member maliciously outs me. That’s why I’m so nice to them!

The photographs, however, are really of me.

The nasty sex-based insults don’t bother me one bit. Sticks and stones and all that. However, I am bothered when forum moderators and blog owners allow the insults to continue, and when insults escalate to threats. I know that I am not stupid or ugly, and frankly I am proud of my feminism and, yes, my cunt (I’ve been told it’s very nice). I know these rude cyberentities are misogynist jerks who most likely do not rate positive female attention in the Real World. They know it, and they hate all women for it, and take out their frustrations on the internet from the safety of their parents’ basements. I know they’re trying to punish women for existing and speaking their minds in the public sphere. They also hate that I’m smarter than they are: The most vile insults come from men I’ve bested in debate. What bothers me is: Why do the otherwise decent people on the internet sit back and watch it happen, especially other men? Is it because you enjoy seeing a female “taken out” by a man, put “in her place?” OK then, what exactly IS a woman’s place on the Internet? Is this the new Coloseum where you sit back with some popcorn and watch men hurl racist, sexist and violent epithets at women for shits and giggles?

Most of the threats and insults are bothersome, but not dangerous. Unfortunately, it takes only one nutjob with evil intent to ruin a woman’s whole blogging experience. Some women have actually quit blogging after being outed, stalked, and/or physically threatened. All because they committed the crime of Blogging While Female.

I’ve been pretty lucky so far, but I too have had my moments. Last year I had an obsessive “gifter.” At first I thought it was cute, but our little online friendship turned real creepy, real fast. I suppose my”No, I am not interested in a relationship and no, I do not want to meet you, EVER” counted as foreplay to him? It very quickly got out of hand and I started experiencing stress-related illnesses. Fortunately the problem resolved itself when he finally came to the conclusion that I really meant what I had been saying all along.

Not two weeks after the gifter disappeared a schizophrenic nutjob appeared on the scene and stuck to my blog like a blur. For awhile it was only annoying: I figured he was either mentally unstable, or snorting cocaine or using meth or . . . really I had no idea. But then he started his paranoid, off-the-wall, and conspiracy-ridden accusations. He began to attack my other readers. He took almost every post of mine personally, as if I had purposely written it to attack or upset him. He accused a few of us as being the same person. Then I was supposedly sending him secret messages from my brain or my computer or - WTF???? I had to ban every IP address he posted from. Today I get emailed threats of legal action for violating his privacy and conspiring against him.

Whatever. So, do you see why it’s best to remain anonymous on the Intertubes?

I wish it were safe to be the Real Me on my blog, and it makes me frightened and angry that it’s not. In the Real World I have the typical female’s low-level anxiety about walking alone to my car at night, but one would think I would be able to socialize in the virtual world without feeling the same kind of fear! There is something WRONG with this picture; still, I’m not going away. I shall NOT be moved, and should a stalker somehow figure out my identity and someday appear on my doorstep he’ll be greeted at the door by two good friends: Their names are Smith and Wesson.

Welcome to the Take Back the Blog Blogswarm! Today blogswarmers are writing about the rights of women to exist in the public sphere without being attacked, harassed, stalked or threatened.

Certain types of men literally go out of their way to insult, intimidate, harass, and stalk women on the Internet. Why? Some of these men are (truly) mentally disturbed. Others are just annoyingly, pathetically sexist, doing their best to put women (particularly strong, intelligent, opinionated women) “in their place” by frightening or upsetting them into submission, anonymity, and/or nonexistence.

Tonight I plan write about my experiences with Blogging While Female, but why not start out with a poem? Props to B. Dagger Lee for coming up with this poem on such short notice and posting it in Twisty’s comment thread:

The Charge of the Blamer Brigade

Half a page, half a page,
Half a page onward,
All in the valley of Dudes
Typed the six hundred.
“Forward, the Blamer Brigade!
“Charge for the blogs!” she said:
Into the valley of Dudes
Wrote the six hundred.
2.
“Forward, the Blamer Brigade!”
Was there a woman dismay’d?
Not tho’ the women knew
The Patriarchs had blunder’d:
Their’s not to make reply,
Their’s not to reason why,
Their’s but to blog and try:
Into the valley of Dudes
Wrote the six hundred.
3.
Godbags to right of them,
Cocksuckers* to left of them,
Dude Nation in front of them
Bloviat’d and deny’d;
Storm’d at with spunk and smell,
Boldly they wrote and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell
Wrote the six hundred.
4.
Flash’d all their vaginas** bare,
Flash’d as they turn’d in air,
Panicking the boyos there,
Charging an army, while
All the world wonder’d:
Plunged in the pollution-smoke
Right thro’ the line they broke;
MRA’s and Nice Guys
Reel’d from the vagina’s power
Shatter’d and sunder’d.
Then they wrote back, but not
Not the six hundred.
5.
Asshats to right of them,
Dickbrains to left of them,
Dumbshits behind them
Waffl’d and dunder’d;
Storm’d at with shit and smell,
While hets, bi’s, trans and lesbos fell,
They that had fought so well
Came thro’ the paws of Dudes
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.
6.
When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wondered.
Honor the charge they made,
Honor the Blamer Brigade,
Noble six hundred.

yrs, B. Dagger Lee

* Speaking metaphorically.
** Synecdoche!

I need to rest my arms until Saturday!!! I’ve also turned down three dates. Why? This chick is staying at home to participate in the Take Back the Blog BLOGSWARM! WOOT!

A “blogswarm” is when a bunch of people blog about the same thing on purpose. In light of the fact that women are constantly harrassed online, this particular blogswarm has been scheduled in order to support of the rights of women to participate fully in all aspects of our society, including specifically online in the world of blogging, without fear of harassment, intimidation, sexual harassment, online stalking and slander, predation or violence of any sort.

So who else is in? We can make it an unofficial Drunk Blogging Night!

(The Divine Proportions of Hypatia, found at Hypatia Lovers)

I read a post at Pandagon at lunchtime today and it really got me thinking. There is an article at Alternet titled The Frightening New Normalcy of Hating Your Body:

We must get A’s. We must make money. We must save the world. We must be thin. We must be unflappable. We must be beautiful. We are the anorectics, the bulimics, the overexercisers, the overeaters. We must be perfect. We must make it look effortless.

Although the Alternet article is primarily about weight and body image, Amanda riffs off it to propose that perfectionism in general is the tribute that many women pay to sexism:

Women are acutely aware at all times of how they are being watched carefully for signs of inadequacy that can held against them . . .If you’re smart or witty, then you know damn well that threatened men are seeking ways to insult your figure and find you insufficiently fuckable—after all, most of the time, they’ll make sure you know that you’re being judged. Because your fuckability is held against you regardless of the appropriateness, most women absorb the duty to appear as thin and beautiful as possible at all times to render “You’re just X,Y, or Z because you’re too ugly to get a man” ridiculous. But the drawback to being very pretty is that people will seek ways to discredit you on looks alone, implying you’re a slut or a bimbo. So the pressure to be bright and witty doubles up again. You can see the spiral here . . .

. . . So if ambitious women are neurotic in general, they are perversely rational. Because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not after you. You have to be, as my father said, twice as good to be considered half as good and women know it. But it’s not the fault of feminism that opened up the opportunities, so much as it’s the sexism that demands that women be constantly proving themselves worthy of the opportunities in a way that men don’t have to prove themselves.

Anxious. Perfectionistic. Overachieving. Neurotic. RATIONAL. It all makes sense now. I appreciated Dorothy (from The Chaff) observations in the comment thread:

To me, this is the crux of the whole supermom/must be the best at everything kind of bullshit: Why can’t you keep up? Are you inadequate as a woman? Don’t fail! You’re representing your entire gender!

And then there’s the razor-walking you have to do, too: be attractive but not too slutty; be accessible but not too easy; be assertive but not too bitchy; be competent but don’t bruise the fragile male ego; be loving but not needy and smothering, etc. etc.

Feminine perfection wasn’t a mountain to be climbed so much as a tightrope stretched over a chasm: one false step and you plummet irrecoverably. And the whole time you’re walking it, a whole audience of family, friends, coworkers, and random strangers are shouting criticisms of your every step.

Of course, Twisty at IBTP knows why we feel we must do this dance: Deep down, we get the feeling men don’t like us so much. Please understand that I’m generalizing here; certainly the occasional individual man occasionally truly loves the occasional individual woman. I’m talking about the way our sexist, male-dominated culture loathes women as a class.

(What’s wrong with this picture?)

We live in a relentlessly misogynistic world where women are considered inferior to men, and put on earth to do men’s scut work. So many obviously sexist men insist that they “love women.” I call bullshit on all of them. “I love women” is actually code for “I love using women.” As in, let’s say, toilets for their sexual incontinence (analogy by Twisty). Arm candy and status objects. Incubators of their spawn. Cheap labor. Free houskeeping services. A stand-in for Mommy. The audience for their odd performance art. The everpresent laugh track. When a man like this says “I love women” he means it in the same way he says “I love beer.”

(The average guy thinks this is funny. If you’re dating one of them, dump him.)

Meanwhile, for these same jerks the word “pussy” is the worst thing a man can call another man. Actually, that pretty much says it all: Pussy = woman = weak = worthless = loser. The “pussy” is the guy who takes shit and can’t do anything about it. He’s both fucked and fucked-over, someone else’s “bitch.” In other words, a lowly female. For instance, as part of the “War On Terror” CIA put women’s underwear on prisoners’ heads, thinking this would make the prisoners feel so degraded that they’d break down and talk! What the hell? I guess we know what the State Department thinks of the world’s females! Bottom line: Any man who uses the word “pussy” to degrade another man thinks women are the lowest of the low, no matter what he tells you.

Anyway, back to Pandagon and the drive for perfection:

To be imperfect in front of men is to offer “evidence” that women don’t deserve equality at all.

This is the crux of the issue: Women’s frantic efforts at perfection are not meant for us to feel better than other women; rather these efforts are (probably misguided) attempts to just make us feel better, period. Women want to be accepted by men as their peers. Liked, even. Hired. Promoted! Treated with respect, instead of insulted, harrassed, abused, raped, or murdered for the sin of Existing While Female. How about friendship and love instead? Okay, perhaps we’ll just take men not actively hating us. We’re talking theater of low expectations here.

The financially dependent woman thinks, “Maybe if I am perfect enough, he won’t leave me.” The financially independent woman thinks, “Maybe if I am perfect enough they won’t fire me.” If we’re perfect enough the’ll let us remain in the public sphere, treated like real people, making a living, and capable of choosing autonomy over dependence. Deep down a little unconscious part of the high-achieving woman still fears that men will take her personhood, her freedoms and our choices away from her. Some of these fears are not unfounded. As Germaine Greer said:

“Women don’t realize how much men hate them, and how much they are tought to hate themselves.”

(Image found at Santacruz Independent Media)

(I’ve lost track of who these dudes are. I do not know if they are assholes.)

Hey dudes! Welcome to my online diary! I write this letter out of love for you of the Male Persuasion. It was inspired by the recent conversation threads on blogs addressing the Kathy Sierra death threats incident.

In case there is any question, this web log is written by a feminist woman, i.e., Moi, the Hedonistic Pleasureseeker. These are my experiences, my opinions, and my stories. Feel free to explore my site and leave comments. Extra points are awarded for teh funny!

However, I need you to do something before you join this party: Please leave your Virtual Penis at the door as it will not fare well here.

(I did a Google Images search on “virtual penis and found this cartoon at Gaping Void. I don’t believe the artist meant to be discovered in this manner.)

Now now, we’re not talking about your real Willy! The Hedonistic Pleasureseeker likes the Willies. No, my dears: We’re talking about male privilege, which includes a social rule that men have a God-given right to randomly drop into women’s conversations (online or in person) in order to tell them what to do. For some reason this is done with impunity on the internet, as if a total stranger has the authority to tell a woman whether or not she has the right to complain, what she ought to be writing about instead, or where she should be spending her time, money, or energy. The women who post here regularly eat male privilege for breakfast, so you’ll definitely want to tuck that thing away until you return to Dude Central. Trust me: This is for your own safety. Quit waving it around lest someone cut it off.  It’s not a sword!

Has it occurred to you why women are angry?

Along a similar vein I beg you: Please fight the urge to grace our not-so-gentle female readership with your oh-so-concerned dudely wisdom pertaining to the experience of being female. You might be surprised at how often this happens, as if a man could possibly be in the position to say. Seriously: If you cannot resist this temptation, the uber-dude Chris Clarke has some important advice for you. After you make your way through his essay and that looooooonnnnnng comment thread, please visit the Feminism 101 Blog and hang out there until the urge passes. If you say something really lame or stupid we’re sending you there anyway.

Thank you for, if not your understanding, at least your compliance. I leave you with the wise words of Ron Sullivan:

“One thing I’ve seen many many many times already is some huffulacious oh-so-sincere dude walking in to a group of women almost at random and telling them

a/ what they should be doing in their free time;
b/ how to do it right;
c/ how to be feminists;
d/ why he has their best interests at heart, really;
e/ why he’s qualified to give them orders;
f/ that they’re intolerant, which is self-evidently a Bad Thing;
g/ that they’re preaching to the choir (and the biggest surprise is that they’re preaching);
h/ that some of his best fucks are women;
i/ how to be better feminists;
j/ that they’re not serious enough;
k/ that his wife thinks he’s the greatest;
l/ what God thinks;
m/ why whatever he’s doing this month is more important then feminism;
n/ that feminism is boo-zhwah, and that’s self-evidently a Bad Thing;
o/ that they’re shrill — wow, I almost forgot shrill;
p/ that they can’t pee standing up;
q/ that they should be ashamed of themselves;
r/ that they just don’t welcome open and vigorous debate;
s/ that he needs a beer (this is followed by an expectant silence);
t/ that they’re taking everything he said wrong;
u/ that they’re unreasonable;
v/ that they’re ~touchy~;
w/ that they’ve never said anything about oppression of women in (choose sauce: Iraq, Afghanistan, China, sub-Saharan Africa, the southeastern USA, the ghet-to, Brazil, Antarctica)
x/ that they should apologize to him because his parents had him circumcised;
y/ that he Is Too A Feminist (which evidently means something);
z/ how they should transcend feminism and embrace humanism.

Pick any two menu items and get the third half-price; pick any three and get the fourth free. With five you get a can of wine. And if you’re the guy in question, you get a free hot cup of Shut the Fuck Up.”

Ron Sullivan, I WUV YOU. MWAH.

POSTSCRIPT:

Hey!! Our JoannaO just turned me on to a Hoyden About Town, who just made up an Antifeminist Bingo game!!! Awesome! She’s going on my blogroll!

I’m playing hooky as I have a lunchtime doctor’s appointment today. I had planned to twiddle the morning away with my yoga and free weights but then I checked my blog stats and HEY! The Carnival of the Feminists is at Capacious Handbag! And I’m in it for the first time for telling the patriarchy to kiss my arse! Woot! Yay! Here’s my arse again!

I haven’t decided whether or not I’m disturbed by the fact that I’ve gained almost 10 pounds since I started working out with Bear. Certainly I’m stronger and have more muscle mass, but no one can see any of it because I haven’t lost any fat! Actually, my body fat went UP by half a percentage point (to 24.5%), probably because I’ve used my workout regimen as an excuse to eat and drink with reckless abandon. I should probably stop eating chocolate for breakfast and drinking my lab tests at night.

Meanwhile, I want to be just like this woman when I grow up. Morjorie Newlin started lifting weights at the age of 72 because she was having a hard time lifting those huge bags of litter that we cat ladies need for our multiple feline companions. She’s 86 and look at her!  Now that’s a cat lady! (hat tip: Feministe)

Also, I don’t know this language, but this video shows a woman winning something big. I’ll never be that strong but she’s my inspiration and proof that strength in women is gloriously beautiful:

Happy HNT everyone!!!!

I’m linking to Twisty’s site today because I’ve just been inspired. I don’t want to lose yesterday’s post, Blamer Brain Trust Action Request, in which Twisty asks the Feminist Hive Mind to help a friend out with a school project. Her friend frames the question:

Hi everybody. I’m doing a project for my “Dress and Society” class, and I’m asking you to help me if you can. This time, I’m asking you to answer the question, “What is femininity?” There are no rules - your answer can be short, long, metaphorical, literal, poetic, sarcastic, whatever. I’ll cite your first name and city/state. If you’re not comfortable with that, give me an alias to use. If you’re interested in reading the final project, let me know and I’ll be happy to email it to you.

Thank you in advance!

Marcia

The results have been glorious thus far. The comment thread is nothing less than a thing of beauty, so I feel the need to cut into my beauty sleep to blog about it.

For the uninitiated readers out there, feminists differentiate between the descriptive terms “womanly” and “feminine.” Instead of blathering on about their differences I’ll present a few 1000-word examples:

Breasts are womanly. Bullet bras are feminine.

 

Women’s hips are womanly. Corsets are feminine.

Women’s feet are womanly. Bound feet and high heels are feminine.

Motherhood is womanly. June Cleaver is feminine.

Partnering with a man for life can be womanly. Brides are feminine.

The lovers of men can be womanly. The Stepford Wives are feminine.

Menstruation is womanly. That not-so-fresh feeling? Feminine.

By Georgette I think we’ve got it! In short, femininity is artifice: Those socially constructed behaviors women are expected to perform to be accepted. Feminine behaviors are submissive gestures that diminish a person and make him or her subordinate and less threatening. Subordinate women are desired and rewarded by men, and our “reward” is to be allowed to exist for one more day. Submission to masculine authority is presented to us as a fun game; unfortunately it’s deadly serious business. Nothing less than female survival is at stake.

(“Beautiful Fatima,” the Moorish standard du jour in the 1800’s)

(Fat is beautiful in Mauritania, where girls are force fed to obesity)

(Minstrel show: The one in the hoop skirt is actually a dude)

(Hindu women)

Femininity is a moving target: Always changing with time and location. Women scramble to toe the line because the consequences for not meeting the Feminine Standard du Jour can be dire. Men still own most of the world’s resources, and they’ll only share their toys with those women they find pretty and useful. Unfortunately, it’s fiendishly difficult to measure up to the Beauty Standard:

(Jayne Mansfield)

(Twiggy)

(Angelina Jolie)

If one takes the time to think about femininity and what it means (i.e., submission to an impossible-to-meet standard for the sake of patriarchal favor) it becomes clear that the anxious and relentless pursuit of femininity is an energy-sucking trap for the independently-minded woman.

Now, on to my inspiration: Anuna posted her first comment on IBTP today and it was a doozy! I can’t wait until she starts her own blog (?). Her comment needs some more play so I’m reposting it in its entirety here:

Femininity is the bandage society enjoins us to wear to hide the wound it has made of our womanhood. Woman is what I am. In my woman’s body I find my strength and the expression of my creativity, my sexuality, my dreams and desires. To be a woman is good. It is NORMAL. A woman is not a damaged man, or a lesser form of man, or a creature designed to take second place to man or be a slave to man. Indeed, if “man” supposedly means “human,” then a woman IS a “man.”

But this sick, crazy culture tells me that as a woman, I am somehow much less than that. A woman is less than human. My vagina is defined as dark and dirty, my vulva as smelly and messy. My sexuality is either too much or too little, and always to be controlled by men and their definitions and desires. My body is not my own, to do with as I please. It belongs to others, to the hands and eyes of others, who define, defame, deride and detain me. My body is not supposed to be a source of pride or strength for me. Instead, my body becomes an object, not only to others but also to me. It is an animal to be tamed and imprisoned, an artifact to be carved up and operated upon. I’m not allowed to feel my own body. Nor am I allowed to know my own mind. A woman has no self.

Femininity is what I am issued to replace my woman-self, which has been found dangerous to men and declared non-existent. Femininity tells me what I can like and not like. Femininity tells me what to eat and drink. Femininity tells me what work to do, and how to do it. Femininity tells me how to speak, how to look, how to stand, how to walk, even how to lie down and sleep. Femininity is a muzzle that restricts my food intake. Femininity is a set of handcuffs that restrains me from picking up a gun, or a hammer. Femininity is shackles for my feet, making sure I walk in bondage even when I seem to be free. Femininity is an abuser who crawls into every crack of my body and mind and stalks me mercilessly even in my dreams, even on my deathbed. I can never relax for a moment, because I must maintain my femininity, like a mask that has to be maintained over the hideous scar that, in the minds of the patriarchy, constitutes naked womanhood.

If I ever stop being feminine for a moment, I will be revealed as nothing but a woman, and that would be so horrible to the patriarchy that they would no longer be able to tolerate me. Femininity makes the world safe for men. It turns a free-striding goddess into a simpering slave. Through femininity, we are forced to bow to the protection racket of the patriarchy. We agree to our own diminishment, hoping that if we don’t defy them, they will pity us and let us live. We agree to divert them and be pleasing to them, hoping to buy some time. We know that time will eventually run out–old women are despised, no matter how many years they’ve spent being feminine–but we don’t know when, so we live in this uneasy pretense of security.

I say “we,” but I shouldn’t, because I both reject femininity and am excluded from it. Femininity is that which declares me, as a woman, NOT to be a woman. Femininity makes it impossible for me, as a woman, to buy “women’s” clothing or “women’s” shoes. Because, as defined by femininity, no woman could be the shape or size I am. Femininity is that which declares my woman’s arms to be “man arms” and my woman’s walk to be “walking like a man.”

Conundrum: Q: What is the only force in the world that can un-woman a woman?
A: Femininity.

If femininity pertained to being a woman, or was relevant to being a woman, then how could it be that a man could conform to its standards better than a woman? My conclusion: Femininity is the anti-womanhood.

Anuna, Pennsylvania

(In case you can’t tell, this is Rupaul, and he’s a dude)

So what have I taken away from this little exercise? Oh, about two hours of much-needed sleep, that’s what. Moi will put on my tres-feminine negligee and retire to my boudoir to think about it, though. Or maybe I’ll just think about it tomorrow. After all, tomorrow is another day!

(Chase and Lily take time out from Wrestlemania practice to pose for the camera)

The recent cat-blogging at Pandagon: Asking the Hive Mind for Advice got me wondering: Is the real reason I’m having sleep troubles is not so much my hormones or the Zoloft as it is the more noctournal members of my family?

My little incident over the Christmas holiday disturbed me beyond measure. What if it happened again? What if I actually tried to off myself on a bad day? One of my coping mechanisms was to let the cats sleep with me at night although I’m allergic to them. I didn’t know what I thought my cats might accomplish besides cuddly moral support; I mean, were I to decide to off myself what could they do? They don’t have opposable thumbs! But their fuzzy little selves made me smile, and at night when I became restless I just put out my hand and one of them would “bump” it to mooch some loooooove and reassure me that everything was alright.

Last week I woke from my restless slumber by the usual howls and screeches. Once again the cats were squabbling over who got Mommy’s ample chest! This time I had my camera and started shooting toward the noise in the darkness, hoping that at least a few of them would turn out. The camera flash revealed that the players were Chase and Princess Lily.

Chase is my feral adoptee from last summer, burly and aggressive and built like a tank. He weighs about 20 pounds. Getting him socialized into our daily routines was a bit of a chore at first but the declawing pretty much shut him up. After that fateful trip to the vet his attacks became a less lethal, and finally he decided life here was cushy and the company not half bad! He began to assertively lay claim to his territories.

In the opposite corner of this ring Princess Lily is tiny and squeeky. She was the runt of her litter and as a full-grown weighs only about 7 or 8 pounds. We also call her “baby” and “skittles” because she’s so shy and skittish. Of all the cats in the house she’s the smallest and most timid.

From your lessons in evolutionary psychology, how would you place your bets as to the outcome of this night’s wrestling match? Who won mommy’s chest? Observe:

Any questions? Class dismissed!

(OMFG!1!!1111!! A scarred boobie! RED ALERT!!! TEH BOOBIES ARE LOOSE ON TEH INTERTUBES OH NOES!!!!1!!!)

I never planned to reveal this photo to any but my closest of lovers, but now I’m in a fit of pique so fuck it. It’s a nice shot, oui? It’s a boobie! Boobies are very nice. I like boobies. Mine have scars.

Most (but not all) women have breasts. Presuming women are still 52% of the world’s population and that most women have two breasts, there are presently approximately 6.5 billion titties flopping around today, some of them running amok in the public sphere, including the internet. Many breasts are even completely unowned, uncontrolled and unprofited from by men! Oh NOES!

James, what an interesting question, and how fortunate for you that I already have my answer in my pocket (digs around). Oh look! Here it is!

Since you’re a photographer you don’t need me to tell you that it’s best to analyze images in their contexts. In the context of THIS blog, an image of a woman without a head or a face does not symbolize a woman without a brain or a personality. Rather it symbolizes a woman who wishes to remain anonymous for safety reasons. My brain and my personality are splattered all over my blog and throughout the blogosphere, available to anyone who wants to discover what the HPS is all about. That most men don’t, preferring to mentally wank over my headless image and ignore what I have to say, is simply not my problem. It’s theirs.

The disembodied body parts you see on my Flickr site are usually from my participation in Half Nekkid Thursdays. There is a purpose to the exercise having to do with exposure in the physical, emotional and mental senses. Check out my blogroll for the HNT site if you want more information. As a photographer you might like it! Certainly you don’t wish to imply that only men should be allowed to play this game?

I am the first to admit to being an exhibitionist who frequently enjoys playing the submissive. How typical (kinda boring, actually) that some folks presume my photographs are on the internet “for the purpose of male pleasure.” To these folks I say: You think my presence in the public sphere is all about you? (well, you and about a million other penis-bearing crazies?) Consider for a moment that I, just like any other human with a blog, may post my photographs, along with my stories, for MY OWN pleasure, or perhaps for the pleasure of other women.

I do not derive any income from maintaining this website and have no plans to. I do not use my blog as a dating site as I get enough attention at home. The only products I “sell” here are my ideas. This is a creative exercise and my gift to the Universe. I could continue with my handwritten diaries and hand-held photography collection, but I’m out of room under my bed, and frankly I don’t wish to hide my creativity and my person from the world. Performance art is meant to be seen.

I pick up two confused vibes from my detractors:

a) Allowing myself to be objectified is Not Feminist. For the record, I am not a fan of radical feminist groupthink, and have zero interest in toeing a harcore radfem party line. Besides, do folks actually think radfems who “refuse to be objectified” ever succeed? Newsflash: THEY DON’T! As are the women who wear burkhas to avoid The Gaze, radical feminists are objectified and degraded by men regardless of what they do (or don’t). Please: Spare me the bother of trying to achieve the impossible, and let me have my fun.

b) Showing pictures of your body is degrading. As if my not being properly modest (i.e., frightened or ashamed of taking up space as a woman with a woman’s body in the public sphere) is an offront to the Powers that Be? Newsflash: The Powers that Be can BITE MY CONVENTIONALLY PRETTY WHITE ASS.

There is nothing inherently degrading about the female form. Humans objectify: Objectification is a part of the nature of Seeing. Male objectification of the female body is only a problem when it’s degrading in nature. I view the male degradation of womanhood as a sickness, and in my opinion responsibility for this sickness rests wholly with men. That we women are expected to dance around male mental illness by covering ourselves up or hiding ourselves from the public sphere - except when our exposure is designed to profit these same men - infuriates me.

Women should be allowed to show their faces, and their full-frontal naked bodies (if it makes them happy), on their websites or anyplace else without suffering for it. Its just a body. It’s just flesh. Sometimes it’s conventionally pretty and sometimes it’s not. We need to get over it. I wish I could show my face, and my whole self, on my blog and still feel safe in my day-to-day comings and goings. Unfortunately I’ve learned from the bad experiences of other women that this would not be a safe thing for me to do. So, James, I answer your question with two questions: Whose fault is it that revealing my whole identity on my blog is not a safe choice for me, and, most importantly, who is doing the degrading here?

So! Dudes! Dudley Dudes of the Blogosphere!The 14th of March was Steak and Blow Job Day? OOOOOOOOKAY . . . because having to act as though you care about your blowjob provider one fucking day a year; i.e., Valentines Day, you think you deserve your equivalent “Man’s Holiday?” because . . . why, exactly? I’m all ears, or since this is teh intertubes, all eyes.

Presuming of course that you rate female attention, do you only get only one steak, and one blowjob, per year? I rather doubt it. So, if you already enjoy these kinds of meals, and this kind of attention, from a female throughout the year, why the special holiday? What are you guys smoking: Your own dicks?

Nice try.

I’ve already confessed in another post that I have an oral fixation and that I love giving blowjobs. From what I hear from other women, despite what you see in that awful porn you guys keep on downloading your typical female actually considers blowjobs more of a duty than a pleasure, probably the same way you view pleasuring your own partners as a duty performed out of a sporting sense of fairness. It’s a gift. Hopefully you’ve been kind and faithful enough to deserve yours?

As for moi, no man rated my attention on Steak and Blowjob day. I did have a steak, though. How was it?

TOUGH.

But, just to show you that this “little feminista” has a sense of humor, I leave you with this comic! In your dreams, darlings. In your dreams.

(I just can’t deal with this shit! OK, here’s the deal: When he turns his back we fucking RUN, okay? You in or you out?)

The vintage wear continues to arrive on my doorstep every day that the mail is delivered. It’s like Christmas: What’s in all these packages? My EBay account tells me it’s all lingerie and wrap dresses but the photographs rarely present colors, fabrics, cuts and sizes the way they appear in real life. Pink looks like white, white looks like ivory, blue or peach . . . so nearly every package is a surprise.

However, some of it isn’t surprising because when a seller says bridal you know she means white. Why did I bid on white of all colors? White makes me look like a corpse, so what’s with the fucking bridal trousseau? Do I look like I want to be married? What the fuck?

I assure you that I have no wedding fantasies; I’ve already been married, I have already spawned, and I’m not repeating these stunts. I’ve already written about why I divorced my wonderful husband, about the “inner housewife”, about the commodification of female sexuality, about the hypocrisy of upper-middle-class married conservative women, about women as brood mares, marriage and career, houswork and consumer culture, and how to romance little old moi, but let me fog on about it a little bit more anyway, ’cause Twisty just critiqued a book about babyproofing your marriage and I’m apparently now up to my neck in bridal crap:

Wife-mother is erroneously believed by the Babyproofing authors to be an actual human “driven by instinct and love.” Au contraire, snappy sexpert authors! Wife-mother is an idealized construct driven by the megatheocorporatocracy.

As a result of marketing, housewifery is commonly thought to be a better gig now than it was in June Cleaver’s day. Ha. The truth, as is suggested by the existence of the marriage manual under discussion, is that the slave-drudge created by the capitalism-friendly intersection of the nuclear family’s social insularity with what Betty Friedan called “the sexual sell” is still alive and ill and deriving her identity from the ceaseless performance of traditional wife-and-mother behaviors.

(Another bride sacrificed on the altar of the Patriarchy)

Bottom line: Marriage is a scam that benefits men more than it does women, which is why we have the massive bridal industry that we do: Marketing, marketing marketing! Marriage is marketed to us the same way babies are marketed as little sweet-smelling little sleeping angels. Words from the wise to you young onions out there from an older dame: If women knew the truth about what the wife-mother role actually entailed at the time most of us got married, we would have run screaming from the altar. (But then we wouldn’t have had our kids, and we love our kids. Oh dear, such a dilemma! Can we find a way to skip the mommy-wife role but keep the kids?)

Weigh in, mommies! Remember how “egalitarian” your marriage was until you got pregnant? Remember buying Martha Stewart’s Living magazine (link to parody site) to look at the photos, feeling guilty that you didn’t have the time or energy to bake a cake out of the box, let alone one from scratch? With piped icing? Remember washing baby diarrhea off the walls? At-home moms: Remember having no life whatsoever? Women with jobs: Remember your hubby putting his feet up at the end of a long day while you started your second shift, trying to make up for all that time your sweet babies spent in day care? Sex drive? What sex drive? Remember being so tired that you (literally) wanted to vomit?

Yeah, me too. But the authors of Babyproofing Your Marriage have the answer!!!! Twisty ain’t buying it though, and I ain’t either:

It has always been incumbent on the wife-mother to engage in a perpetual process of “improving” her marriage and family life. This process requires her to embrace bullshit ideologies and buy crap in the service of male culture. It did so in the 50s and it does today. The only difference is that the 21st century housewife is additionally obliged to emulate pornographic ideals and feel empowered by her unpaid job as babysitter/housekeeper/whore. She’s June Cleaver with a Brazilian wax.

So what does the megatheocorporatocratic wife-mother construct have to do with a marriage manual on how to keep your hubby happy even though your id is completely subsumed by the interests of your neurotic kids? I posit that the authors are capitalizing on the housewife’s culturally-inflicted creative void in two ways. One, by profiting materially from the sale of a meaningless book based on the bogus premise that women’s inadequacy is at the root of all marriage problems, and two, by suggesting as a cure that women direct creative use of their ‘executive abilities’ toward sucking more cock.

That’s right. June Cleaver with a Brazilian meets Linda Lovelace.

Yup, that’s the conclusion of the brain trust that wrote Babyproofing: BLOWJOBS! Because it’s your job! Now go make dinner!

I’ve written before about how I enjoy the good ol’ BJ, and I’ll be the first to admit that it got me through the final years of my marriage: It was five minutes out of the day, he shut up, and I could get some sleep! Granted, perfecting one’s blowjob technique is one way of coping with the demands placed upon the wife-mother, but what the fuck? What’s the real problem here? The real problem is the wife-mother construct, with women’s role as unpaid domestic servant: A demand that never lets up, even when we have careers outside of the home. The real problem is that the wife-mommy is too tired to feel sexy.

The only way out of this dilemma is to refuse or reject the good-wife-mommy role entirely, noisily and emphatically. I recommend this regardless of your actual marital or childrearing status! If you are single and child-free and your career and independence are important to you don’t get married, or if you’re married don’t have kids. If you really do want to be married with kids (I adore my one daughter) be warned: Despite your husband’s best (?) efforts society will shove your role as household drudge into your face on a daily basis. Consequently, the two of you will probably take the path of least resistance and fall into traditional sex roles. Good for him but bad for you! Consequently, if you continue to fancy yourself an equal partner in your relationship, over time your resentments will mount.

If it’s already too late and you’ve found yourself in a domestic graveyard it may be time to get nasty: Bitch at your husband, your mother-in-law, the school nurse, the soccer coach, the pastor’s wife, all of them, because they’re more than willing to dump on you! Don’t let them: Quit baking the fucking cookies for the fund drive. Give the school nurse and the soccer coach your husband’s phone number at work. Give your children more chores. Don’t clean their rooms. Stop doing their laundry the minute their little hands can reach the dial on the washing machine. Leave your husband’s socks on the floor. Threaten divorce and go through with it if you have to! Your family will whine if they’ve been spoiled all these years, but will admire you someday for standing up for yourself and, if push comes to shove, holding your own.

Which brings me back to the bridal trousseau: Again, what the fuck? I even bought lace bridal hangers! Have I lost my mind? (don’t answer that). But now I remember: When my husband and I were engaged we were dirt poor. We got married in a park for free. I wore my prom dress from highschool: I added the lace, bows and seed pearls by myself with the help of a local seamstress. I even made my own veil! All this while taking 18 credits in college and working three part-time jobs! Our rings were cheap and I wore Lee Press-On Nails for the photos. Of course, being a proto-fashionista I wanted all the frilly fripperies but we couldn’t afford them.

Could this be what my recent lingerie buying binge was all about? Every time I get this way (PMDD nutso) I have the temper of a toddler who doesn’t think she should be denied anything that she wants. One time it was winter boots (I bought five pair, some trimmed in fur). Another time it was jewelry (sapphires and garnets). Then there was the fur coat. I’m not normally like this at all, but apparently a few weeks ago I must have decided I “deserved” the bridal trousseau I never had, sort of like the time I bought myself a few cubic zirconia engagement rings because I never had a real diamond. Holy shit I hope I don’t go out and buy myself a real diamond next time, because I can’t afford it!

Now please excuse me while I go pray to the Zoloft gods.

Page of free porn links!

Free Britney Spears Crotch Shots

Paris Hilton Video Free Download

For the record, I’ve never seen any of those pictures of poor Britney Spears’ coochie. I never saw the Paris Hilton video, and I’ve never seen the Tommy Lee/Pam Anderson video, not even once. As a blogger, I consider this one of my most lofty accomplishments. It takes a certain amount of skill to avoid this shit.

Anyway, I found Anamata through Witchywoo and Amy, and apparently feminists have been Google-bombing porn in the silliest and cleverest of ways.

Men are actually upset by this? I think it’s funny! Come one, homedudes, no one is going to cut off your access to your precious porn; in fact it actually takes time and effort to avoid being bombarded with pornsick messages on a daily basis. Where’s your sense of humor?

And Christopher Hitchens thinks women aren’t funny.