One of my favorite quotes from one of my favorite plays is, “What we fear is the same! That makes us equal!” — Sam Shepard, Angel City
Many believe that hate is the opposite of love, when in fact it is fear. Fear is the seed from which hate, intolerance, and judgment grow.
The main motivator in life, that to which we react, that which fuels all of our choices and actions is the constant battle within us between the opposing forces of love and fear.
What we fear is indeed the same. Let’s turn that around and say, “What we love is the same! That makes us equal!”
We all love our families, friends, communities, pets, environment, spirituality. We fear loss: loss of control; loss of security; loss of time; loss of a loved one. Mostly, we fear what we don’t understand.
Let’s turn that around, too, and not reject what is different out of fear. Let’s try to have empathy for all of humankind. Let’s try to see that everyone fears loss and feels love as we do.
If nothing else, let’s allow people be who they are and love them for sharing this common experience.
Plant a new seed. A seed of love. We are all one.
Because “A Modest Proposal” is my favorite satire and I just couldn’t help myself…
For Preventing the Fetal Tissue of Unwanted Pregnancies in America from Being a Burden to Planned Parenthood, and For Making It Beneficial to The Public
It is a melancholy object to those who move through the cities and towns of this great nation to see the bars, malls, office buildings, and high schools crowded with sexually active females, all in distracting clothing and importuning every male who passes to satisfy their uncontrollable libidinous desires. These women, instead of being able to work for a living or complete their education, are forced to employ all their time traveling, sometimes a great distance, to and from the abortion clinic for the multiple trips required before the procedure can be completed, and for the multiple abortions that are inevitable when one acts with such reckless sexual abandon as to indulge the pleasures of the flesh outside of wedlock.
I think we all can agree that disposing of what must be a prodigious number of fetuses is a great grievance to Planned Parenthood; and, therefore, whoever could find out a fair, cheap, and easy method of making these fetuses useful, would deserve so well of the public as to have their countenance forever emblazoned on the signs of anti-choice protesters.
But my intention is far from being confined to helping Planned Parenthood solve this conundrum; it is of a much greater extent, and shall take in to benefit the whole of society. As to my own part, having never considered this important subject until the Planned Parenthood video sting operation as of late, I propose an alternative to disposing of fetal tissue through the usual state approved methods and perfectly legal donations to medical research. I shall now therefore humbly propose my own solution, which I hope will not be met with the least objection. I offer to public consideration some areas of enterprise for which fetal tissue may be used.
First, I have been assured by foodies everywhere that a fetus is a most delicious, nourishing, and wholesome food, whether fried or barbecued. I do therefore humbly propose that fetal tissue be sold to persons of fortune and gastropubs throughout the country. An entire menu of seasonal dishes can be developed along with festive holiday recipes good for any special occasion to be paired with a microbrew or fine wine. Perhaps donations to soup kitchens can also be arranged so that the homeless are allotted more resources and have the opportunity to partake in this delicacy.
Second, composting has increased in popularity over the years as our fair citizens seek to combat climate change and society attempts to reduce its carbon footprint. Adding nutrient-rich fetal material to our compost will only enhance the lushness of our gardens and plumpness of our vegetables and allow us to cut back on the purchase of hormone-laden produce from the grocery store. An overall win for the environment, it will also aid in eliminating emissions from disposal through incineration.
Third, art imitates life. Why not incorporate fetal tissue into pop art and fashion? It can adorn canvases, spice up street art by adding a little je ne sais quoi to the wheatpaste, give a new twist to performance pieces. The meat dress was so 2010. Why not wear a fetus dress to the MTV Video Music Awards this year?
I can think of no one objection that will be possibly raised against this scheme. Having been disillusioned for many years with lack of success in my visionary offerings, I am thankful to have fallen upon this proposal. As a vegetarian without a garden or cable TV, I profess, in the sincerity of my heart, that I have no other motive to promote this necessary work than the public good of my country.
As Planned Parenthood is equally as likely to diversify into these areas as it is to illegally harvest organs for profit, my only hope is that distinguished groups like the Center for Medical Progress document these endeavors with the same signature creative editing techniques that were previously employed as they continue to show the public how truly credible they are in their efforts to further the conservative agenda. Maybe a working girl can win…
“Five to one, baby. One in five. No one here gets out alive.“ – Jim Morrison
This post is a bit different than what I have traditionally written, but as a social justice advocate at heart, I was recently inspired to write this based on the misinterpretation of some statistics posted on social media. The article to which I refer in this post is the following:
We all know that I’m too pretty to do math (yes, this is an odd thing for a feminist to say, but some truths just must be accepted). Speaking of truths, math seems to be a relatively universal one, in that it is the same in every language (a la Mean Girls), 2+2 always equals 4, and 1/5 is always proportionately the same, be it 1/5, 20/100, or let’s arbitrarily choose 12/60.
This article makes a fine point, “More whites are killed by the police than blacks primarily because whites outnumber blacks in the general population by more than five to one. The country is about 63 percent white and 12 percent black.” Unfortunately, in order to explore this further, the dreaded maths need to play a role. These numbers cannot merely be taken at face value. One must analyze what these statistics mean within the context of our nation’s demographics.
As stated in the article and according to the most recent US census, whites make up ~ 60% of the population, with blacks making up ~12% (hence, the black population is ~1/5 the white population, or there are ~5x more whites than blacks in the US). FBI statistics show that in 2014, the number of recorded African-American deaths at the hands of police was 233, while the number of Caucasian deaths was 414. Looking at these statistics alone, one could say that yes, more whites than blacks are killed by police, and by sheer numbers that is not incorrect.
However, ceteris paribus (yes, I just went full on economics on your ass), there is more to these numbers than meets the eye. All things being equal (in economic/population terms, not in terms of social bias, obviously), it would stand to reason that if there were not some other underlying factor at work, the proportion of deaths of blacks and whites at the hands of police would be proportionally equal to their respective populations (5:1). Glaringly, this is not the case. Just stick with me for another minute, people. We all hate math (though oddly, much like Tigger, economics is a wonderful thing).
Based on these 2014 statistics, whites were killed at 1.77x the rate of blacks. Wouldn’t it stand to reason that if all things were indeed equal, whites would be killed at 5x the rate of blacks based on demographic proportion? Here we see statistically that blacks are ~3x more likely to be killed by police than whites (and some statistics show that black males are 21x more likely to be killed by police than white males). If we calculate the expected death rate based on the population proportion of 5:1 and baseline of 233 blacks (by a multiple of 5 per actual population proportion): blacks 233, projected whites 2,070 (conversely, using the baseline of 414 whites and dividing by 5 would put us at only 83 projected black deaths opposed to the actual 233). Hmmm…
Anecdotally, the kids in the cafeteria are consuming white milk and chocolate milk. Since the white milk is supplied at 5x the rate of the chocolate milk, one would think that the kids would be consuming 5x the amount of white milk than they are chocolate. However, in reality and for whatever reason (as the purpose of the exercise is to illustrate the indisputable disparity that exists and not the cause of said disparity, as that conversation would most likely take the rest of my natural born life), the kids are actually only consuming 1.77x the amount of white milk as they are chocolate. In other words, the chocolate milk is being consumed at a rate ~3x higher than expected based on cafeteria milk proportions. Thus, while the the quantity in units of chocolate milk being served may be less than the quantity in units of white milk, a much larger proportion of the much smaller chocolate milk population is being consumed.
I know that liberal math (otherwise known as “math”) as well as thinking critically can be confusing and scary. However, not taking everything at face value and employing these methods of analyzing data are vital to fully understanding the issues that this nation faces and the inequality that still exists, in the hopes of making this a better fucking place. Things aren’t always black and white (pun not intended), and we must work hard and work together to navigate the gray area that is our reality.
Mic drop. Just call me Moneyskirt. Perhaps economics is my true calling. Maybe a working girl can win…
I have to say that one of the best inventions that I’ve come across lately is the Period Tracker app. My best friend told me about it after downloading it for her iPhone. It allows you to do just what the name implies: keep track of that crazy bitch, Aunt Flo. The way that it works is you enter the date of the arrival of your monthly visitor. It then tracks when your next one will arrive, as well as gives insight into moods, fertility, and various PMS symptoms.
This is phenomenal! I’m generally too drunk to know what day of the week it is, let alone where I am in my menstrual cycle. I cannot express the amount of comfort I can derive from now knowing that my boobs are not tender and swollen because I am pregnant, that I’m not irritable because I’ve been sober for an entire eight hours (which, heaven forbid, may indicate a drinking problem), or that my nether regions hurt not because I blacked out and fell down on someone’s dick, but because my period is coming. This peace of mind is unparalleled.
Though I cannot help but think that it may be unfair that we ladies have a monopoly on tracking our bodily functions. It’s bad enough that so many men suffer from period envy, wishing that they, too, could not only experience the miracle of childbirth from the stirrups instead of holding the video camera, but also feel bloated, irritable, and like their uterus is being ripped out once a month for 40 years. They also secretly want an excuse to eat more chocolate. Let’s be honest. Who doesn’t? Thus, I feel that the best way to achieve equality in the app world and marginalize gender bias is to create an equally important app for men: the Masturbation Tracker.
What I’m thinking is that this revolutionary app would allow men to enter the time and date of each instance of self-pleasure. If they choose, they could also enter details pertaining to each occurrence, such as where they were, what they thought about, and if they used any outside stimulation or techniques (like porn, or the “stranger”). The tracker would also keep a running tally of the number of sperm that the user has blown. Of course, as all vas deferens are vastly different, this part of the app would have to operate using an average, let’s say 60 million sperm per load. As I find comfort in the information garnered from the Period Tracker, men can bask in the same comfort knowing that none of those sperm have inadvertently become offspring.
Oh, what a glorious world it would be. While at happy hour on a Friday, men could compare masturbatory experiences, perhaps even crowning a new King Ejaculator each week based on whose running tally is the highest. I can just picture the conversation now.
“Hey, Bill, how many sperm did you blow this week?”
“Well, according to my Masturbation Tracker, approximately 240 million.”
“Only 240 million? Ha! I’ve got you beat. I blew 6 billion.”
“Wow, Pete! That’s a shit ton of sperm. I’m impressed! You’re this week’s Ejaculation King. Great job! Your drinks are on us tonight. You can probably use a cold beer to loosen that kung fu grip.”
In sum, we women are quite fortunate to have the Period Tracker to aid in assuaging our fears of pregnancy, alcoholism, and having been blacked out during what could have possibly been the best sex of our lives. We are also blessed in being able to get together to discuss and commiserate about our hustle and flows. Here is my modest proposal. That men also get to delight in such an important bonding experience. Call me an idealist, and do with it what thou wilt. It seems that in the world of apps, at least for now, men are the ones who need to break through the glass ceiling when it comes to tracking disgusting things that come out of the human body. Maybe a working girl can win…
I recently moved to Florida because I thought it would be fun to live in a state that is shaped like a penis. You can imagine my disappointment when I discovered that I’m surrounded by newlyweds and almost deads. Not to mention the bastion of idiots who zip-line over live alligators, stop for fast food during police chases, and fall into sinkholes. I guess that’s what I get for thinking with my vagina.
Of course, now my vagina is so full of cobwebs it’s not doing much thinking. In fact, it’s not doing much of anything at all. I pictured that upon entering the state of Florida, there would be glorious fields of ripe cock as far as the eye could see, fresh for the picking. Clearly I was mistaken. If you remember mythology, Icarus flew too close to the sun with wings made of wax, then plummeted to his death in the sea. Oh, how high he flew, and how far he fell. I equate this to my journey from hope to despair upon coming to the realization that there is a severe penis drought in this state. Like the wings of wax, my chances of getting laid are melting away. I’m fuckin’ dying over here! Only my death will come from lack of human touch at the hands of the Sunshine State. I may even combust from harboring too much pent up sexual energy. This truly is a sad state of affairs. Death by involuntary celibacy. Can you imagine? The horror.
I have devised a theory to help explain how this tragic penis shortage came to be. As I moved to Florida with its overtly phallic peninsular shoreline in hopes of finding more things of a deliciously phallic nature, perhaps others do not find this so welcoming. And by others, I mean straight men. Maybe subconsciously, straight men avoid this area because they don’t want anyone to stick anything that is shaped like the state of Florida where the sun don’t shine. My thought is that these men have headed for the islands, being subconsciously drawn to places that are shaped like breasts. In order to find Mr. Right (or hell, Mr. One Night–at this point I’m not picky), and avoid what appears to be the almost certain death that awaits me, my next move may have to be to one of these islands. While it would be a certain sacrifice to relocate to a tropical paradise, it is imperative that I do whatever it takes to ensure my survival. Finding an island with a volcanic structure in the center seems best, for this would most accurately exemplify the nipple/areola relationship. I must begin my research immediately. Suggestions are welcome. Maybe a working girl can win…
According to the 2010 Census, there are now more women than men in the United States. It’s already hard enough to find a good man in this day and age, and now I come to find out that there’s even more competition out there. China, on the other hand, is experiencing the opposite quandary. Because of the one-child policy, the men in that country now grossly outnumber the women. According to recent statistics, the ratio of men to women is 117:100, and it is projected that there will be 30 million more men than women by 2020. I at least hope this means that Chinese women have the luxury of choosing the creme de la creme when searching for a mate, as we American females have been relegated to scraping the bottom of the proverbial barrel.
I can’t help but think of how nearly 30 million Chinese men are being denied a happy ending because of the increasing gender disparity that exists in their homeland. As someone who frequently speaks out against social injustice, I feel compelled to do something to help. My solution is to embark upon a goodwill mission to China and give blow jobs to all of the single men who reside there. I know that this sounds like a daunting task, and it might take quite awhile to complete, but I must do my part to bring sexual pleasure to those in the world needing it most. I can just picture them lining up on the banks of the Yellow River to receive my charitable donation. A weaker person might not be able to handle such an undertaking, but my resolve and deep empathy for the plight of the Chinese man drives me. It’s not their fault that they were born into a society that believes in population control. They did not get to choose whether or not they were born with a penis. They are merely victims of circumstance, and it brings me great joy to know that I can briefly shine a light into the lives of those who are forced to live in sexual darkness.
Of course I’d be lying if I said that my willingness to do this wasn’t at least a little bit self-serving. As I wrote in my last post, it has been difficult for me to find meaningful intimate contact in the state of Florida. Throwing myself into a project such as this will help to take my mind off of my own woes, giving me something productive and important to do as I search for the Holy Grail of breast-shaped islands where I hope to find Mr. Right (or Mr. One Night). Having said that, regardless of my motivations, the men of China need me, and I will not let them down.
I only hope that my mission will inspire others around the world to follow in my footsteps. Perhaps in doing this, I will be named U.N. Goodwill Ambassador to China. I look forward to joining the ranks of those who have come before me in giving of themselves in foreign lands in the name of helping others. These modern heroes include U.N. Goodwill Ambassador to Haiti Danny Glover and Madonna, who has selflessly cavorted with several international men of mystery (and did some good stuff in Africa, too). I will anxiously be awaiting Secretary-General Ban Ki-moon’s call. Maybe a working girl can win…
Lying out in the sun has always been one of my favorite pastimes. Even growing up in Cleveland, a city that only gets about 24 days of sun per year, I learned the finer points of being a sun goddess at a young age. Now that I live in Florida, I relish the fact that I can frequently use the state of the art pool and hot tub facility nestled behind the clubhouse at my apartment complex. I love soaking up the rays next to the sparkling blue water. Especially when it is unbearably hot. There’s something about frying like bacon and struggling to breathe that makes me feel alive.
One recent sunny day, I entered the pool area looking forward to an action packed and stimulating afternoon of worshiping that great yellow ball of fire in the sky. I couldn’t wait to inhale the fumes of the tanning oil as I became a toasted coconut, listening to my iPod, and taking intermittent dips in the pool to cool off. Clearly a very regimented routine. As I made my way to a vacant chaise longue, I passed a couple of pimply, pre-pubescent junior high school boys. I heard one of them remark, “If I wanted to see waves, I would look at the ocean.”
I do not consider myself to be obese by any means. However, I have developed a few strategic problem areas from habitually drinking my body weight. While I try to stay active and have the goal of getting back into bounce-a-quarter-off-my-ass shape once and for all, I feel that I have a healthy self-esteem. Though I didn’t exactly let the obnoxious 12-year old’s comment get to me, I did take pause, thinking that it would be nice if I could hide those problem areas while still being able to get some good sun. In fact, what I pictured in my mind’s eye as I was sacrificing my epidermis to the sun god Ra that day was a bathing suit that we women who have less than perfect bodies could proudly wear, allowing us to hide the body parts that shouldn’t see the light of day while accentuating our assets. Hence, the Reverse Bikini.
Please try to envision what I am about to describe in all of its glory. The bottom part of this innovative swimwear would come about a third of the way down the thigh, covering the saddlebags and cottage cheese thighs that so many women exhibit. Now mind you, this is not your grandmother’s bathing suit, so I’m not talking about the granny skirt variety of covering these areas. Instead, this would be more of a boy shorts underwear-style bottom made out of your standard bathing suit material. The piece would then extend up to the midsection, taming the wild muffin top with a Spanx-like ferocity, and stopping near the diaphragm.
Now here’s the kicker. As this is not granny’s swimsuit there are a couple of modifications that need to be made in order to give it a youthful feel while allowing a lady to show off the areas of which she is most proud. First, there will be a hole in the pubic region of the suit. This way one would be able to show off her own personal grooming style, whether it be Brazilian, the landing strip, a cute heart shape, or even the increasingly popular vajazzling. Let’s face it, ladies, we spend a lot of time and effort making sure things look nice down there, especially during bathing suit season, and more people really should see the fruits of our labor.
In addition, it is important to mention that there is no bathing suit “top” per se, but merely straps that extend up from the bottoms and over the shoulders in order to keep the garment firmly in place. Thus, all the goodies are out there for the world to see. For those of us who are especially proud of our breasts, being able to show them to the world without the restrictions of the bathing suit top is a good method for building self confidence. I mean, really, who’s going to notice anything else about your body when you have a great rack and it’s hanging out? And those babies deserve to breathe. Just imagine how the compliments will be flowing.
Overall, I feel that implementing the Reverse Bikini into the sun bathing world would allow a woman to showcase her strengths, both up top and down below, while deemphasizing her “opportunities.” Not to mention the fact that it provides easy access in case one happens upon Mr. Right (or Mr. One Night) while sitting poolside. I can’t wait to break out my Reverse Bikini this summer. What about you? Maybe a working girl can win…
I don’t know about you, but I am grossly disappointed in the nomenclature given to the female genitalia. We have such choice terms as tuna taco, beef curtain, bearded clam, and vertical bacon sandwich. Come on, really??? These names in no way conjure positive imagery in the cinema of one’s mind. The terms that do not necessarily have to do with juxtaposing food and hair are not much better. Some women choose to refer to their vagina as their “flower,” as if it is a delicate beauty that is to be admired. If you’ve ever looked at one in the mirror, you know that this is not the case. A long-stemmed rose is definitely NOT what stares back at you from the nether regions. Plus, putting the female genitalia on a pedestal like this makes it all the more tragic when the delicate “flower” is destroyed by an orgasm seeking missile. Finally, I would be remiss if I did not address what I consider to be the mother of all vulgarities in the English language, the “c-word.” What’s funny to me about the word cunt is that when I hear it, I don’t even think of the female genitalia. I think of Martha Stewart.
If we look at the different ways to say “penis,” there is something very different going on. Our penis slang includes such gems as the great American mandingo warrior, the one-eyed monster, trouser snake, package, tool, unit, Johnson, peter, dick, and willy. Here, it is apparent that the nicknames for the male genitalia carry with them a feeling of power or humor. Penis nicknames mainly come from animals, things you buy at the hardware store, and actual men’s names. None of these carry with them the negative connotation or disgusting imagery associated with the hairy ax wound. This doesn’t seem quite fair now, does it? There has to be a solution to this problem, and I think I might know what it is.
If I may briefly digress, I would like to share a story that my pervy seventh grade health teacher told us that holds a very special place in my heart to this day. It was the story of the Warm Fuzzies and Cold Pricklies. A long time ago, in a galaxy far far away…Oh wait, that’s not it. Ah, yes. Here it goes. Once upon a time, everyone was given a bag of Warm Fuzzies when they were born. They could then go around giving each other Warm Fuzzies, which made everyone feel good. One day, an evil witch introduced the idea of jealousy and greed into the community. She told the people that they should not give of the Warm Fuzzies so freely, or one day they would run out. The people heeded her warning, and instead began giving out the Cold Prickles that the witch had supplied. These made everyone feel very unhappy. The people thought that there was only a small supply of Warm Fuzzies left, so they started doing whatever it took in order to get their hands on them. Warm Fuzzies were like crack in that small, sad community. People were even dressing Cold Pricklies up as Warm Fuzzies in a feeble attempt to get a fix. Laws were passed to limit the giving of Warm Fuzzies and protect the dwindling supply. However, despite the law, the children had learned from a wide-hipped newcomer to give each other Warm Fuzzies whenever they felt like it. Giving happiness and warmth through Warm Fuzzies prevailed, and all was right with the world again. We all know that there is no end to the supply of Warm Fuzzies in the world, we just have to want to give them.
I like that story. And it brings us to our solution. Instead of referring to the female genitalia using the above mentioned terminology, we should instead refer to it as the “Warm Fuzzy.” What a great name! It’s cute, fun, and inviting. Much like in the story, there is, in fact, an endless supply of Warm Fuzzies in the world today. We just have to be willing to give them out. Just think of how many people would derive pleasure from free exchange of Warm Fuzzies in our society. In addition, I think that the introduction and acceptance of this new nomenclature would be empowering for women. I look forward to giving my warm fuzzy to others in order to make them feel good. In fact, if someone wanted to put their cold prickly into my Warm Fuzzy in order to melt their unhappiness away, I would not be opposed. Maybe a working girl can win…