Looking for the Best Men

There’s a reason why Ted Cruz has a beard. He’s ready to start his second killing spree as the Zodiac Killer. He’s not going to let some razor tell him he can’t sexually subjugate women and brutalize weaker men. This person knows what I’m talking about:

Damn straight. I want my men made of meat and as violent as possible, please.

For the bearded or those who don’t live their life on Twitter–I’m in the former category–I will catch you up to speed. Gilette ran a commercial today about toxic masculinity and teaching boys to not succumb and, as expected, some people lost their minds. Some people took offense that the various scenarios within the commercial, e.g. men sexually harassing, a man man-splains and a group of boys beat the shit out of boy, were portrayed as negative.

Hey, didn’t you go to prison for accepting a bribe?

I know, I know. You want to be able to raise your son the way you want to raise him so that one day he will be sitting at his Supreme Court nomination hearing crying about a calendar, reminiscing about lifting with Squi and angry bellowing to the high heavens about how much he likes beer.

I’ll admit it’s a little hard to empathize. My experiences with advertising are all about making me my best self if I could just lose some weight; get bigger breasts; age in reverse; bring home the bacon and do all the domestic duties; make my teeth whiter and my face less ugly; lose more weight; febreeze my vagina; and disappear once I turn 35. So I don’t know what I would do if my Bic For Her pen ran some commercial saying the emphasis on a woman’s appearance and the objectification of women is a big pile of fermented shaven beard hair.

Oh, I know!

 

I’m going to write something pretty controversial for an object that has no use in the world.

Misogyny is a real thing. It’s the reason why we have yet to see a woman become president. It’s the reason why when a woman tries to run for president, we get think pieces on whether or not she’s likable enough (she never is).

This is why a country rejected and raged against an accomplished stateswoman who used a private email server and collectively shrugged at a man denigrating entire swaths of people, having close ties to mobsters, and showing a remarkable lack of knowledge and interest in about anything other than fast food hamburgers. This is why we have this:

The only thing this commercial has illuminated is that we have a long way to go in breaking free of engendered stereotypes. This person knows what I’m talking about:

Or maybe not.

A Farewell to Penis

I’ve been having difficulty writing lately, and now I’ve finally figured out why:

I possess a vagina.

It gets in the way of everything. When I’m attempting to squeeze a big thought out of my tiny woman brain, my vagina interrupts the process with demands for chocolate. When I attempt to hold a pen using my weakly woman arms, my vagina shrieks about being too fat. When I try to write a post on Speaker7, my vagina threatens to set itself on fire.

It’s no wonder the ladies get paid less, amirte fellas. Up top.

David Gilmour gets it. He sees no value in teaching the drivel excreted by ladybits in his Big Dick Writers 101 seminar.

“Women be stupid,” Gilmour laments.

That’s a slight paraphrase. What he actually said was much worse:

“I say I don’t love women writers enough to teach them, if you want women writers go down the hall. What I teach is guys. Serious heterosexual guys. F. Scott Fitzgerald, Chekhov, Tolstoy. Real guy-guys. Henry Miller. Philip Roth,” Gilmour huffs whilst sticking his enormous plumbing into the biggest glory hole one has ever seen.

I should probably amend the paraphrase to add women and gays be stupid, but Gilmour is likely the type of specimen to think the terms interchangable.

Gilmour is able to stop masturbating over his copy of Henry Miller’s Tropic of Cancer to give props to lady mouthpiece Virginia Woolf, stating “she made a mean bundt cake.” (slight paraphrasing)

O Captain! My Captain! …Shit! I’m trying to stand on a desk to salute this brilliant professor, but I’ve got my period and whole slew of laundry that needs a-washing.

By the way, what the blazing fuck is a woman writer anyway?

I’m answering my own question:

One who writes with her vagina.

This profile in misogyny made me harken back to my days of playing drums in a rock band that no one–apart from my parents and that guy at the bar–ever heard. I can’t tell you how many times I heard:

You’re one of the best female drummers.

I don’t know. . . is that a thing? Did male drummers have some sort of advantage by being able to use their penis to bang on the floor tom?

All great questions, but too taxing for my smaller, less interesting brain.

My vagina’s tired of writing anyways and is angrily demanding chocolate.