Tag Archives: women

Women Are Grossbuckets

30 Aug

The picture of femininity is a floral-smelling, powdered twit (that’s “twit”) twirling her parasol and, with a lilting giggle, snorting morphine to abate the painful rib bruises caused by her whalebone corset. However the reality of women isn’t that divine, and in fact, once held to scrutiny, the fairer sex comes off looking pretty gross. This is not a relative statement, I’m not saying that women are grosser than men; indeed, both genders are fucking disgusting when you come to ponder it. However, women are grosser than, say, hedgehogs. And frankly, they shouldn’t be.

Most Women Have An Operating Rotation of One to Three Bras

Whenever you spot a busty woman wobbling down the street, consider the strong possibility that her underthings have a day or two of boob funk on them. Bras are goddamned expensive and they fight a losing battle against gravity every time they’re worn. By the time a lady has squirreled away enough cash for a new bra, an old one will have gone useless (except in making catapults), so she never gets above some pitiful quantity for her entire adult life. Even the lesser-bosomed walking among us, while they may have five or even seven bras, they likely cling to two or three “comfy bras” that get worn out like irregular socks. Wearing the same bra may be better than wearing the same genital undies two days in a row, but the bra is essentially skin tight, it’s snug against the pores, and no woman can claim her bra hasn’t gotten a bit whiffy after too many wears. I feel for you, big titted women of the world, but if I wear my comfortable t-shirt with the ripped collar and stain of unknown origin down the front for more than a six-hour stretch you act like I’ve farted in an elevator, so don’t start.

Women Discuss Their Poop. A Lot.

A fellow on the internet suggested that the recent movie Bridesmaids was, contrary to popular belief, geared towards men. He disregarded the fact that the plot is about a maid of honor’s jealousy at her best friend’s impending marriage and instead focused on one scene where Maya Rudolph is forced, due to a sequence of hilarious circumstance, to poop in the middle of the road while wearing a potential wedding dress. “It’s a shit joke!” he opined, “No woman would enjoy a joke about shit.” I wondered if he had met any actual women or if he was merely hypothesizing based on episodes of The Brady Bunch, because anyone who has spent a reasonable amount of time with a lady knows that, once she’s comfortable, she won’t shut up about her endocrine system for a fucking second. And it’s not just a bathroom itinerary, mind you, but a detailed description of the size, shape, consistency, and odor of the particular waste in question. Get two or more ladies in a room with cocktails and they’ll start spinning copy for a laxative commercial. On the other hand, I have a friend that I’ve known since nursery school, and we never talk about poop. That’s real camaraderie, women, a friendship that has existed thirty-plus years without either of us delving into anything more meaningful than what’s happening in sports at the moment. My friend could be dying from an obstructed bowel and I wouldn’t know until he was in the casket. And I love him for it.

Those Cute Little Toes Are Encrusted in Crap

Next time you see some fine honey wearing open-toed shoes or outright flip-flops on hot city streets, consider the fact that when she gets home and kicks off those strappy numbers to cool her tootsies, the soles of her feet and any part that was exposed to the sooty air are smeared with the filth of ten-thousand public urination scofflaws. It amazes me, really, that so many women stroll around with their naked feet centimeters above dried vomit and rat droppings, yet they have the nerve to paint their toenails. That’s like hanging a Rembrandt oil painting on a garbage can. What you need to do is wrap those dogs in latex or at least a pair of fucking socks. Because if you come around me with those tire treads looking for a foot rub or your blackened raisin toes suckled, you might wind up losing your hooves at the ankle.

An old joke I heard sums up this diatribe pretty well: why do women wear makeup and perfume? Because they’re ugly and they smell bad. ‘Nuff said.

The One Day of the Year You’re Supposed to Give a Shit

14 Feb

Today is Valentine’s Day, a predominantly Western holiday which celebrates the expulsion of vampire cupids from Rome by St. Theodore Valentine in 1133. This deed was heralded by Romans, and so Theodore was martyred, that being the highest Roman honor of the time. Today, Valentine’s Day rituals bear little resemblance to the celebrations of a thousand years ago: in in the thirteenth century, Valentine’s Day was honored with an annual “boar hunt,” for which males would strip themselves bare, lather themselves with lard, and have sex with their mistresses.

In modern times, Valentine’s Day is little more than a Hallmark© holiday, a day where men are expected to bravely venture to perfume counters and greeting card shops in order to procure tokens of affection for their loved ones. Women play their part by silently smiling at whatever meager offerings have been cast begrudgingly at their feet. Because there is one other Valentine’s Day tradition, one which probably trumps the others, and that is for men to bitch and moan about how facile and phony they find Valentine’s Day. This either implies the great sacrifice they have made in purchasing a Whitman’s Sampler, or renders the entire event meaningless. Perhaps it accomplishes a curious combination of both.

It’s ironic that the very same men who decry the Great Corporate Sham that is Valentine’s Day will sanctify an equally meaningless and borderline racist holiday like St. Patrick’s Day almost exactly a month later. All holidays are bullshit, aren’t they? Easter, Halloween, birthdays and anniversaries, they are all just days bound by the rotation and revolution of our planet. We choose to memorialize them, make them special and frame them in ritual so we have something to look forward to, and something to reflect upon when the day is done. We certainly don’t need to do it. It’s Winter no matter what solstice holiday you recognize. But remembering how many candles were lit on the menorah might help one recall what date in December they received the phone call that Junior made varsity football. Or something.

The point is that just because Valentine’s Day is bullshit doesn’t mean you shouldn’t suck it up and celebrate without grumbling. It’s not rigorously scientific, just get some flowers and candy and take her out to dinner. Don’t mention how much more the flowers and candy cost on Valentine’s Day, don’t tell any anecdotes about what you went through to get the presents, simply smile, ask her to be your Valentine, and kiss her. You’ll earn important brownie points that you’ll need to redeem when you embarrass yourself on St. Patrick’s Day.

My Misogyny

9 Feb

It should come as little surprise to my devoted and burgeoning readership that I am a male. A white male, in fact, and I do embody all of the stereotypes and traits that implies. I have been a white male for as long as I can remember, and while there have certainly been times I wished I wasn’t a white male, by and large being a white male has served me well and I am not ashamed of it.

I do have one trait unusual to white males, or males in general: I have a lot of female friends. And not just chicks I make small talk with at work, not women I’d like to fuck but instead got stuck in the Friend Zone, but honest to goodness female friends, whose opinions and consideration I value tremendously, largely over that of my male friends. I think that this propensity of mine is derived from my mother, who had ERA meetings at my house growing up, and who is a great example of an independent, intelligent woman with her own interests and thoughts. Perhaps it also has to do with having been raised a Unitarian Universalist, where I was instructed on the great contributions made by women like Rachel Carson and Sojourner Truth. Whatever the case, I have always had a close cadre of female friends, and I’m not a homosexual.

I don’t really consider myself a feminist, though I do feel like women are equal to men in every strata. To me, it isn’t really something one should use to define one’s self. The default is that people are equal, in my mind. If you disagree, then you’re a bigot, so fuck you. Whatever you want to call me, I believe women to have all the capabilities as a man to do whatever they like, be it running a bank or playing baseball or just loafing around and watching TV. It’s not like I think women are automatically amazing or anything. Plenty of women are just as lazy as the average blog writer.

Here’s where I think my misogyny comes in: I love many of my female friends and depend on their counsel and commiseration tremendously. However, I have no patience for stupid and superficial women. I know a lot of people say that, and it’s not like one should exercise patience for a bimbo. But I really have no patience for them. None. I see a woman giving blow jobs to Corona bottles at the bar, I get disgusted. If I discover a woman has downplayed her own intelligence or personality to be more appealing to a guy, I want nothing to do with her. It’s not a matter of me being too refined or something, because I can appreciate a woman who enjoys bathroom humor. But if her interests begin and end with whatever her last boyfriend was into, I want her to go away permanently.

I have plenty of male friends who are dumb as posts. A couple of them are barely literate, to be honest. This is a trait I would never brook in a female friend. And that’s my misogyny, not that I think women are less than their male counterparts, but because I expect them to be more. And that’s a lot to put on a gender, especially one with such devotion to dieting.

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