Archive for December, 2008

Q. How is Fox like the Pope?

A. They’re both influential institutions endowed with the cultural and moral authority to shape the fabric of our society, and they both GET ELEANOR’S KNICKERS IN A RIGHTEOUS TWIST.

Let’s go with il Papa first, shall we: Pope wants humanity ‘saved’ from homosexuality

Usually, like most people with a limited capacity for paying attention to fucked-up bullshit, I tend to ignore the Pope. This behaviour has one distinct advantage: I save my Sanity Watchers points. Sanity Watchers is a top-notch self-preservation system invented by the estimable Kate Harding over at Shapely Prose, whereby the individual following the program must restrict themselves to a certain number of soul-destroyingly idiotic happenings per day. I find that if I go over my Sanity Watchers points allocation, which I assign based on exactly how much liquefied brain goo has passed out my ears while reading the item in question, I am left a burnt-out shell for the rest of the day, unable to give attention to even the most mild of stupidities. Usually the miscellaneous, offensive pronouncements of the Pope score a high, rather than extreme, amount of points, because, despite their reprehensible content, they are so reliable as to have become mundane. Nevertheless, there go ten of my twenty-five points for today.

(Still not as good as the time he took precious minutes of his life to remind everyone that they’re actually, really going to Hell. None of this pissweak ‘Hell is a state of mind’, ‘Hell is the absence of god’ sissy fake-Hell fluffiness. FIRE and BRIMSTONE and TORTURE and shit. I still respect him a bit for that.)

And Fox: Fox Greenlights Manhattan Werewolves Dramedy, Bitches

I know I’m supposed to be angry about this, but I just can’t muster up the outrage today. Sure, if Rupert Murdoch traded his destructive cultural influence for a teleporter and suddenly appeared in my lounge room, I’d still tape him to a post and shove a box of cereal up his nose. But … it’s television. Television is already home to the basest and most mildewy, disgusting sexism, so much so that I’ve reverted to the parentally-imposed restrictions I had when I was nine and stopped watching it. This isn’t even the show; it’s just the name of the show! Even if the actual program is as bad as its moniker, it won’t top the pond scum that’s shown every night of the week. Maybe if they made an Extreme Makeover spinoff called Surprise Vaginal Reconstructions: Nipping and Tucking Your Shame Cave, I’d get stuck into being offended by the name of a TV show. Right now, however, I’m far more disturbed by their blatant use of the word ‘dramedy’, which is not a real word. It is, in fact, so far from being a real word that the linguistic result of me closing my eyes and bashing the keyboard with my left breast would be more legitimate. fhergbqer. <——- There. Look. I told you.


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Pussycat Witchhunt

In the spirit of it being university holidays,  I’m going to see if I can re-introduce the concept of leisure into newsblogging. I could do this during semester, but who has the time? After you add together all the hours I spend polishing my silverware, tatting lace, and being a slut, there’s very little time left over to peruse the various news sources with one hand and furiously masturbate with the other. What? I’m a female Arts student, apparently it’s expected. (Oh, the calluses.)

So here is, had you not deciphered the sheepish apology in the preceding paragraph, a news story that was not only published five days ago, but is, in content, Shockingly Old: Pussycat Dolls Milk Porn for Power.

Here’s the thing. I really, really like Ariel Levy. I find her charming, clever, and unaffected; her piece on getting married to another woman is one of the things I read to myself after enduring an horrific event, like wearing a hole in my shoe, or eating slightly too much pudding. Despite this, I occasionally curse her. She is, if not solely, then majorly responsible for the trend of this article that I find leaves a shallow, satiny taste in my mouth:

Instead of waiting to be subjugated as sex objects, women are rushing to present themselves that way, objectifying not only themselves but other women.

This about the Pussycat Dolls, recall. The entire article is pervaded by this tone, rushing to blame not the corporate machine that created the Pussycat Dolls, but the gyrating, tanned Feline Faux Humanoids themselves. The concern of the author is decidedly feminist in nature, as she frets over the sexualised presentation of plasticised femmebots to girls not old enough to shimmy into glittery, padded “training bras” (I’ll do a post about them, I promise):

The message is clear: Women can do whatever they want, and what they want most is to please men. It’s a confusing message from a group of women with fame and money, marketing themselves to the barely pubescent.

Yes, thanks, some of us may have noticed over the intervening 10,000 years of human cultural evolution that depictions of women are generally engineered to present aspects of male fantasy, and concluded that marketing these images to impressionable young mites might seriously warp their conception of gender roles. Come on, though; I don’t think it counts as denying women’s agency to suggest that maybe the people responsible for this carefully constructed and ubiquitous artifice are the people who construct and perpetuate the artifice, also known as “recording companies”. I’m not saying that the Dolls themselves are oblivious puppets, because if someone offered me millions of dollars to dance around occasionally in my underwear, you’d better believe I’d rip off the old wimple and go for it.

The point is that it’s a bit unfair, within a system of cultural currency where women are at their most venerated and profitable when skinny, nude, and lascivious, to blame women who choose to be skinny, nude, and lascivious. I want to see someone cutting through the moral panic bullshit and flinging the dart at the right target, the one with “A&M RECORDS: YOU MUST BE THIS SASSY TO RIDE” written on it. I don’t hate the Pussycat Dolls; in fact, I’m quite proud of them for taking commercial advantage of their exceptionally writhe-suited physiques. It’s what they’ve got, it’s what they’re obviously very good at, and given the expansive niche for it in popular culture, someone’s got to do the job.

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Good morning, splinternets!

I woke this morning to a joyous text message on my shiny bright pink Vodafone mobile. Up until now I’d assumed that the heinous colour was the worst thing about my telephone, excepting all routine atrocities committed by multinationals before they breakfast upon deep fried proletarian orphans of a morning. Turns out that if I’d toddled over to Vodafone yesterday to buy my vaginaphone, they wouldn’t have let me have it.

Now, the most obvious concern here is that there are some crucial scientific discoveries being totally ignored. Evolutionary psychology, the ancient art of using men in white coats to reinforce hierarchies, has helpfully informed the wimminz: the reason you gals like pink is that ancient female hunter-gatherers were attuned to look for pink berries in the forest. I think, given the clearly deterministic implications of this Barbie-flavoured research, denying “jobless” women their magenta birthright is a clear violation of the rights instilled in them by their fluffy pink souls. It is atrocious that fully-formed, pink-fixated halflings like these housewives aren’t allowed to express what merely comes naturally: wasting their husband’s hard-earned cash yapping to their bored friends on shiny pink luxuries. I’m sure there are bonbons involved, and neglected tots.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to find a way to scientifically justify eating pie for breakfast every day until I die.

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Debut. With List.

Hi, blogorantosnoternets! This is a new feminist blog! Brand new! Allow me to use an emotional selling proposition, and tell you that if you read this blog, your likelihood of attaining sainthood in any major religion will probably decrease markedly. Instead of some kind of “real post” with “paragraphs” and associated structures that only English teachers really use, and even then only when they’re applying for a job to be an English teacher, here’s a list of some stuff about me and my blag.

1. Vagina. Vagina vagina vagina. This may seem excessive to some, but – shall we say that I have a favourite ‘v’ word that is not ‘vestibule’, and also, go to hell? (Although ‘vestibule’ is my favourite euphemism for my favourite ‘v’ word.) Sometimes I like to string multiple anatomical terms and swears into long strings and use them in common conversation! Vaginasnorting elbowfuckers! Consider this the part where I absolve myself of any responsibility when, and I’m sure it will happen, someone gets fired for leaving up an entry of mine titled, ‘Fuck the cocks and the buttcamel they shitgalloped in on. Vagina.’

2. I am Australian. Thus, my blogdoodle will probably contain many references to weird Australian political stuff that international readers may not understand. Most of this issue can be solved by firing up the YouTube engine and watching some recent sessions of Question Time in the Australian parliament (lower house, then upper). I would join you, but if I watch one, I enter a trancelike state and begin drooling, the flow of which is only stemmed momentarily by more Question Time. Periods when Parliament is in session, and this disgusting but hypnotising display is shown on television, are difficult for me.

3. I am queer. I will probably write about queer things. Some of my other areas of Special Feminist Interest are childbirth, motherhood, and childcare, and the construction of identities of which ‘femininity’ is a part, which necessarily includes my own identity. I also enjoy writing hard-hitting and not necessarily feminist waffle about anything leftist, including complaints about fellow leftists who view soap as a bourgeois construct. I like the phrase ‘bourgeois construct’. And soap. And I vote.

4. If there were a sliding scale between ‘sex-positive’ and ‘anti-porn’, or ‘sex-negative’ or ‘crabby old bitch’, as those three terms are frequently synonimised, I would whip out my hedge trimmer and hack it up into tiny little pieces. Then I would take each tiny piece,  set it on fire, bury it at a crossroads, and ritually disembowel a large quiche on top of it to make sure it stayed dead. Then I’d write a cheesy pop song called ‘Don’t Pigeonhole Me, Baby’, the lyrics to which would contain ‘hey hey hey, ooh ooh ooh, it’s always more complicated than a short and snappy descriptor can assess, ooh ooh, baby baby’, and make millions of dollars.

5. I am white, non-disabled, cisgendered, and have access to a wide range of social, medical, educational, and miscellaneous privileges that I didn’t work for and probably don’t deserve. I try hard to stay on top of recognising when and how I exercise that privilege, and sometimes I fail. If you see me failing and feel like you want to give me a kick in the pants, go on and give me a kick in the pants. (Who wants to start an anti-oppression  post-folk soft indie nerdcore band called ‘Kick in the Pants’ with me?)

6. If you have any questions, or just feel like telling me all your intimate personal problems, email me! If the question is good or the personal problem involves having 24 hours to save the world from fiery dolphin-related holocaust, I might answer it here. On my blog! Right here on my blog! Good heavens.

There you go, kids! I’ll be back soon, and I’m already bouncing with glee over which of my irrelevant personal ramblings I’m going to assault you with next. Be good for the rest of the internets while I’m gone.

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