In the company of old, misogynist men

I like to consider myself a guy's girl. When in the company of men, I can hold my own; discussions about sports, boating, or tawdry sex do not bother me - in fact, I revel in the latter. When I'm talking about the lewd and crude, I've found my niche and am completely comfortable.

The bf and I went camping this weekend, and whadya know - I was the only chick there! Save for the female doggy that was limping around on a bum leg, I was the only creature with ovaries in the vicinity of our campground.

At first, this situation was fine. We're all human before we're our gender, am I right? So I smoked, drank, and in general caroused with the guys. While we imbibed Yeungling from a keg and toked our Parliaments, the conversation revolved around general "man" things (nary a discussion about lipsticks and nail polish was to be found. Not that they would have been had the group been comprised of mostly women, but you get my point). As dusk turned into night, the lot of us got drunker, and I took a small stroll around the lake with my dog. Upon my return, I was told by an older fellow that I needed to turn right back around - the conversation being had was not intended for a lady's ears. My boyfriend merely shrugged when I looked to him for instruction, and that was all he had to do - apparently he agreed that I should not be in the midst of whatever chauvinist, sexually-charged dialog they were having.

Being too drunk to produce a witty retort opposing my dismissal, I wandered away from the crowd, my dog in tow. My alcohol-addled mind began to debate what had just happened - I had just let a man talk down to me? I, Ms. Fuck-You-and-the-Misogynist-Horse-You-Rode-in-On, had allowed a dude to treat me like anything less than the autonomous, knowledgeable adult female that I am? Worse than that, my boyfriend didn't defend me, and I should have promptly commenced to making his life miserable for that infraction, yet I didn't! Well, these wrongs certainly had to be righted. I stumbled back over to the group.

"So what, are you guys talking about dirty sexual exploits over here?" My query was dead-on - yep, they were exchanging their most salacious bedroom stories. I knew immediately they were all just bullshitting each other. "Tell me some," I demanded.

"Oh we couldn't," one of the dudes said.

"Why not? I bet I've done filthier, more dastardedly things."

They all guffawed and exchanged curious looks. "Really?"

"Yeah, but I can't share my stories with him around." I jutted a thumb at my bf. "He couldn't handle hearing them." My bf's eyebrows lifted, then furrowed.

"Well he should leave, then!" All the guys were eager for my bf to take a hike. The bf gave me a look that said are you serious? "You should probably go somewhere else for a while," I told him. Taken aback, he did as I and the other dudes told him. That'll teach him not to have my back.

Well now I had to live up to my promise of delivering a sex story so demented it would make Caligula blush. I regaled them with a tale that involved multiple sex partners, but overall the story was a massive fail. They were all so disappointed in my tale and accused me of building up their hopes, but their attitude toward me had shifted - no longer was I a lady in their eyes; I had devolved to their gross male standards, and in this devolution, I found acceptance. Dare I say I had found a home?

Uh, no I do not dare. Because even though my refusal to be silenced (gosh I make telling sex stories sound so righteous!) had allowed me a spot in their male-centric circle, the lewd but fun conversation eventually spiraled into an out-and-out misogynist rant on one guy's part. Not only was it misogynist, but it was downright weird. The booze has fuzzed my memory, but somehow I found myself having a discussion with a man in his 60's, and this man could not keep his mouth shut about how much both of his sisters weighed. He was practically frothing at the mouth because his sisters, according to him, were "fat pigs." When and where is it ever normal to talk to total strangers about your sibling's weight?

At the beginning of the conversation, I thought maybe I could sympathize - maybe his sisters were dangerously obese and he was scared for their health. I asked him how tall they were, and how much they weighed.

"Oh, they're both about 5'11" and weigh like 180." I almost fell over upon hearing this revelation, because if what he said was true (and who knows? He might have been exagerrating their weight so I'd agree with him), this would give his sisters a BMI of 25.1, which is not problematic when you consider that a healthy BMI is between 18.5 and 24.9. Not to mention, his sisters have given birth to two children each!

Why was this douche's hate toward his sisters misogynist, and not just anti-fat? Because his younger brother was at the campground with him, and he was a chunky lard-ass if I ever saw one!

I started to lecture the guy about his ridiculous critique of his sisters, and it quickly escalated into a full-fledged "Gah you old men are so retarded!" tirade, so my boyfriend came over to calm me down. I was kind of wasted at that point, but I don't know if my reaction would have been any different had I been sober.

As I continued to drink, I also continued to talk - not a good combination. As punishment for banishing me in the first place, I made them all listen to my theories on the lives of heterosexual men when their significant others aren't around. I won't detail my theory here - but in a world of Larry Craig's and Mark Foley's, you can guess what it is I think heterosexual men do when the women are shopping or visiting their mothers.

In all, I was able to handle being a lone girl thrown in the mix of 10 straight, old-school, kind of uneducated, perverted guys. But I don't think I'd voluntarily choose such a situation, because seriously old men? You make me weep for the women of your generation who had to put up with your stupid asses.

I feel like I'm constantly apologizing for this...

Yep, I haven't posted in a few days, and though I have a post or two in my back pocket for times like these (i.e. when I'm feeling lazy), I'm not going to publish them (because they suck). This week has been full of DNC happenings and veep choices (haha, ooook McCain), and also I'm trying to write stuff that will help me have a real career, so this blog will have to deal with being my neglected bastard child from time to time.

But I'd hate to leave you all high and dry, so I'm gonna do some piggybacking on the work of my college buddy, "Vern." He wrote this fake craigslist post, and it had me ROTFFLOLDFGYJNBVC (don't ask what that stands for, I just dragged my knuckles across the keyboard and thought the letters looked cool). Please don't be taken aback by its crudeness...ok, go ahead and be taken aback, but you CANNOT tell me with a straight face that the wikipedia part didn't elicit the smallest of laughs from you (there is a picture toward the bottom that is slightly NSFW).

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Hey, do you want to get fucked in your vagina by a penis? - m4w - 24 (SoHo)

Reply to: [redacted] Date: 2008-08-27, 12:57PM EDT

Then, my darlings, my lovers, my Nubian queens, you have come to the right place. Because I am about to unleash this dick all over your ass. Oh yeah. You read that right. This dick. All over that ass. Let me put it to you in even more ridiculous terms.

I have a penis. You can call it a lethal weapon. You can call it whatever you want to call it. Fact is, I'm going to elect your vagina to political office just so that I can assassinate it. I'm going to make sure that your vagina is not registered in the National register of historic places, because I am about to destroy it and I do not want to get fined. Let me break it the fuck down.

First, you'll pull up into my apartment complex in your lifted truck that you stole from your old boyfried, but it doesn't matter, since he's in jail and all. I'll open the door for you, wearing nothing but full body SCUBA gear. Yes, to answer your question, of course it will have a hole in it with my dick hanging out. I'll pull out the case of PBRs that I purchased, and we will slam them. All of them. Shotgun, bong them, whatever. I'll light a few candles. I'll then take your pants off, and singe a few pubes with the candles if you need it. You won't care, as you are already in awe of my penis. You'll be like, "omg, that looks delicious!". I will agree. I will then excuse myself to go to the bathroom. I won't move. You'll ask, "aren't you going to go to the bathroom?", and I will continue to remain still. Then I'll start pissing on you. You'll think to yourself "ohh...fuck". Covered in piss is no way for a lady to present herself, so I'll slap you in the face and tell you to clean up. You'll like it, since you are a sick fuck and you're into that kind of stuff. Whatever. I'll take you to my room, but since you are covered in piss, I'll pull the sheets off first. I'll then proceed to tell you that you look like Rebecca Lobo. You'll say "who?", and I'll get all pissed and make you look her up on Wikipedia before we proceed. The whole time I will be sitting on my bed jacking off while wearing batting gloves.

Ok. So you looked that bitch up, said she was ugly, and got all sad. I said, "no way, baby, she's one of the prettiest women on the planet, just like you". You'll open your mouth in a huge smile, and then I'll jump up, stick my dick in it, and yell "siiiike!". HA! You just got served! SERVED! Oh well. I'll make you bite off my pubes, too. You sick little girl. But then I'll stop playing games and get back to business. And I am in the business of tearing that vag up. I'm like a fucking entrepreneur in that business. So I'll go to town, like a fucking jackhammer on your uterus. A jackhammer with balls. And ball hair. Shifting around, hitting all the spots, pretty much surveying all of the land with my wang, taking you to pleasuretown on the L train, you fucking hipster. I will pull it out, put it on your forehead, and knight you. I will rub ball sweat all over your hair, and then style it like Belinda Carlisle's. You will be moaning. I will make no sounds, like a silent ninja. You'll ask me why I am silent, and if I am even enjoying it. I'll cockwhip you in the face and tell you to shut the fuck up. Huh? You like being yelled at? No? Then DON'T FUCKING CRITICIZE MY SILENCE. You stupid tramp. I'm sorry. Can I put my penis back in your vagina? Thanks.

So, as I'm pulling into the final stretch, I'll start thanking all of the people who made this possible. I'll thank Craigslist, I'll thank God. You'll interrupt me and tell me to stop. I'll give you an angry glare and you'll get the point, lay back down, and shut the fuck up. I will proceed to thank my parents. I'll thank Al Gore for inventing the internet that I solicited you with. And, finally, I will thank you for taking the dick. Then, in my final silent scream of quasi-pleasure, I'll blow it all up in the condom. Because I don't want to get you pregnant. You don't even weigh less than me, and that's just sick. Damn. Get out of my garage.Here's an artist's rendition of the dick, since this is Craigslist, and I have to post my dick.






















Gosh Vern, you always were the charmer!

Quick Post: Songs I'm lurving

I try not to gush over bands or music I've recently discovered. I refrain from doing so because, whenever I'm reading a blog and the author posts a video or music clip, I never, ever take the time to listen. It's time consuming, and the chances of me actually liking the song or video are about 5%. Also, I am probably the last to even 'discover' this music. Odds are the comments will turn into one big thread of "these songs are SO two weeks ago."

But because I'm excited to be seeing them in October (along with my other favorite musician, Beck), I've been listening to a lot of MGMT, and I just thought I'd share a song with my readers. Their album, Oracular Spectacular, has been playing non-stop on my cd player, and this tune, "Future Reflections," has had me hitting the rewind button. Hope you enjoy!




Oh, you want a bonus? How about this one from Panic! At the Disco called "When the Day Met the Night"

MySpace? More like Oh-My-Fucking-God-You-People-Appall-Me Space

After my umpteenth invitation to view some chick's webcam, it seemed time to delete my MySpace account. I never use it; it's an abscess on the shiny veneer of social networking, particularly my social networking. Even though I heart the internet, I am not one of those people plugged in at every outlet - I do not twitter, or digg, or flickr, and I do not own a mobile device that provides me on-the-go internet access. Blogging, emailing, and perusing the Craigslist casual encounters is as much as I do with the interweb. Oh yeah, and Facebook. And coming back to my former statement, Facebook is a far more superior method for social networking - it looks cleaner, and is, in my opinion, more user-friendly. Though MySpace was Facebook's predecessor, MySpace has quickly become the ugly, half-retarded, spam-loving step child of internet communication.

So like I was saying, I was going to delete my profile. As I logged onto my MySpace account and considered the piss-poor layout I was about to obliterate, I clicked on one of my 50 "friends" - people who I have known at one point or another, but can't really say I'm friends with. This particular "friend" was a girl I knew in elementary school, someone who I can quite literally say I watched grow up from an awkward, be-spectacled little girl, into a beautiful young woman, then into a ghetto-ized drug-dealer with a penchant for accusing females in the vicinity of her boyfriend of trying to"git wit him." Seriously, she went from coke-bottle eyeglasses to coke-caked nostrils. I don't totally judge her for it - she was one of my partners in crime during my drug-addled summer after college - but the image she purports in her MySpace is a fucking parody, or would be a parody if she didn't really aspire to be what she puts forth to the world.

In essence, her profile is a total fetishization of all that is "gangsta,""ghetto," and "slutty," although I bet she's trying to be sexy. But it's not sexy at all. She substitutes "da" for "the," deliberately loses the "g" on all her gerunds, and says things like "holla!" Possibly the best (or most despicable?) part of her profile is when she declares that she has "been workin in the sex industry for a while now, its been fun n all but I'm ready and qualified fo so much more!" (sic all of that, if you couldn't guess)

Um, I could forgive that statement if she actually worked in the sex industry, but she works at Priscilla's, an "adult boutique" that sells tacky stripper shoes and penis-shaped crazy straws. It does not, in any way shape or form, require my "friend" to twirl around a stripper pole, perform sex acts on camera, or hustle her ass on the street. So why is she implying thus? There is something truly pathetic about a person who finds the sex industry glamorous. Please, go talk to a prostitute and ask how he or she feels about selling their bodies, and then come and tell me how glamorous it all seems.

After spending 15 minutes reading her MySpace profile in amazement and horror, I moved onto my other high school classmates - what can I say? None were too bright, none were too...dignified? Part of the reason why their profiles make them look like caricatures of ghettofabulosity is implicit in MySpace (I know animated GIFs are fascinating, but Jesus Christo one can only take so much before the seizures happen!) But you can't blame Tom for that profile picture of you holding a fan of Benjamins, and you really can't blame Tom when you lack any trace of irony when you're holding that fan of Benjamins. That photostream of you and all your boys? Yeah, it could have been classy if you'd left out the snapshots where you're flashing gang signs and nuzzling up to some "hottie's" ass. And may I remind you that you will be 30 years old in two months? As most sane people say, no time like the present to grow up.

In any case, I decided not to delete my MySpace account. Though I rarely go on it, it does provide great comic relief when I'm feeling kind of low. Also - you can't write this shit. The characters that I'm seemingly friends with could not be conjured by Capote, Oates or King. These MySpace profiles are a well of material, a go-to source for those times when writer's block hits me. True, MySpace really only provides me a close-up to a few character traits (ridiculous and fucking ridiculous being the main ones), but my "friends'" profiles are thorough character-studies in and of themselves. Now is the time for you all to start anticipating my debut novel, "Who Knew I Attended High School with Retards?"

Ewe are the wave of the future

From time to time, my college pal Sara will send me topics to blog about. And they aren't colloquial topics either - she never asks me to write about prime time programming or Obama vs. McCain. Moreso, she wants to read my musings on weird shit that, if I (or anyone) were to bring it up in daily conversation, everyone would stare at me cross-eyed and write me off as a schitzo, even though they think weird shit like me all the time. It's just that I'm brave enough to say it out loud! (This is what I tell myself when I have tourette's like outbursts - the fact that I announced that my farts smell like broccoli makes me a visionary.)

Sara has asked me to write about my thoughts on the end of the world, to which I complied, and now she wants to know what I think about a lyric she heard in a song and how "being the last man/woman on earth" has different ramifications depending on your gender. This is the message she left on my facebook wall:

"i heard this lyric in a song that went like, "i would choose her if I was the last man on earth" and i started thinking about if i was the last woman on earth. the difference between being the last man or the last woman on earth.. a man sees it as if he has his pick of fucking any woman he wants, but think what it would be like to be the last woman, you would have alot of dudes just trying to rape you all the time." (emphasis mine)

After I read her message, I hardly had to think about it - my answer to this dilemma is sheep prostitutes.

Because let's face it, if you were the last woman on earth, you have a shitload of problems to deal with. Hell, even though women make up half the population now, we still have to fend off unwanted suitors (i.e. perverted assholes). Prostitutes help divert some of this unwanted attention from the ladies of the day to the ladies of the night, and because of this, I am forever grateful.

At first, I thought maybe I would band together a group of men who, in return for their protection of my lady bits, I would service sexually. But I would need to employ a HUGE group of men to protect me from the other HUGE group of men who were trying to rape me, so I would have to sexually service like, a baskillion dudes, which is kind of what I'd be trying to avoid, so no, that solution would not work.

Then I thought of farmers, and how they are stereotyped to have sex with their farm animals, sheep in particular. (BLUSH ALERT) I hear that ewes have genitalia that feel just like human vaginas, hence the reason for the farmer's predilection for them.

I would become the Heidi Fliess of the animal kingdom. I'd round up a bunch of sheep, at least 500,000, and I'd build some fancy digs complete with ESPN playing on huge flatscreens 24/7, and there would be a bar that has every beer in the world on tap. There would be a cigar lounge, a pornography palace (I can expect men to have sex with farm animals, but I can't really expect them to suddenly be aroused by them), and I don't know, a state-of-the-art athletic center for all that residual testosterone.

While the mens were gettin it on with my ladies, I would train a pack of ewes to be vicious killers, so eventually I would be surrounded by 500 sheep who wouldn't hesitate to rip a man's throat out. And I would live my days happily ever after, reveling in my empire and snuggling in the fluffy wool of my sheep protectors.

How many men would opt for bestiality as opposed to spending the rest of their days just jerking it? Also, would PETA have a problem with sheep prostitutes? Ha! That would be hilarious - decrying the practice of using animals as sexual objects while simultaneously using Pam Anderson's ass to push its agenda.

Let us contemplate this for a second

Ok, I finished American Psycho. I started a blog post about my thoughts on the novel, but then Blogger lost part of what I wrote, and it just seemed stupid to share my feelings about it with people who, odds are, have not read it. So instead, let's please discuss this:


I was making a turkey burger on the George Foreman Grill the other night (covered in a melted string cheese stick - mmm ingenuity!) and while contemplating the grilled goodness that awaited me, my eyes landed on George Foreman's signature. Now I know he's an entertainment personality and whatnot, but is this the signature you would expect from a heavy-weight boxer? This looks like the signature of a Hannah Montana fan, some 11 y/o girl who spends math class practicing her cursive G's and character spacing, perfecting the dips and curls in her letters to ensure that her signature tells people: Pay attention! Please?

As I mentioned before, I know he's an entertainer and a certain amount of showmanship is to be expected, and since they created the GF grill for the sole purpose of sitting in a kajillion people's kitchens, the signature had to be decorative, but I don't know...I guess I just expect the signature of a fighter to be like, jagged teeth marks on a sheet of paper. What do the readers think - cool sig or not cool sig?

American Psycho has me freaking out

I'm reading the book American Psycho, by Bret Easton Ellis. I've got 96 pages to go before I'm finished, and I really don't know if I should continue.

The book came into my possession a few weeks ago while my boyfriend and I were walking to Prospect Park. American Psycho, along with The Sun Also Rises and I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, were lying on the sidewalk, laid in a neat row and presumably free for the taking. Though it had rained a hour or so prior, the books were dry and intact.

I had read about American Psycho in a book I own, 1001 Books You Must Read Before You Die. I liked the movie (starring Christian Bale), and since the book was an absolute must-read, I plucked it from the ground (I took the Hemingway novel as well; since I own Caged Bird, I left it for another lucky bookworm).

Last Saturday the bf and I were packing up supplies for a sailing trip, and since I'd left the book I was already reading (Me Talk Pretty One Day by David Sedaris) at my apartment, I brought American Psycho with me; when I finally began reading it, I was instantly drawn in. It was fast-paced and provocative, detailing a world where money and image mean everything while at the same time mean nothing. For the first 100 pages or so, there was no violence - just tedious descriptions of 80's yuppie fashion and the vapidity of a life that, though priviledged, made me sigh with relief because I have no connection to it.

But then the gruesome stuff started to take place. At first, the bloody murders were tolerable - though it disgusted me when Patrick Bateman would murder a bum and his dog, I eagerly took it all in, my mouth agape with shock. After a murder more tedious descriptions of name-brand clothing and upscale dining would soften the horror I felt. But then the murders became more frequent, violent and depraved, and now I'm actually thinking that I have made a serious mistake by picking up this book. Part of me wants to keep on reading - 1001 Books says American Psycho "must continue to be read," if for anything because it is a warning, or a powerful statement on how capitalism kills the innocence of the soul, or something...and also, I've got 96 pages to go - I'm almost done with it and I need to see how it ends.

But I'm having nightmares. Last night I dreamed that Patrick Bateman (looking like Christian Bale) wooed me with his looks and charm then tried to kill my family and me with butcher knives. I awoke thoroughly freaked out, and I can remember thinking in my dream "this is all because you are reading that fucking book."

Tonight I was walking my dog, and though I've walked him in my neighborhood (not to mention run errands and gone jogging,) at night a million times before, it was frightening. If the dog wasn't with me, I wouldn't have gone out at all. The entire time, I kept thinking someone was watching me and scenarios kept running through my mind - what would I do if accosted by a psychopath? Would my dog attack him? Should I just run? What about my dog, should I hold onto his leash to make sure he comes with me, or let go of it and just hope he follows? What if the psychopath got my dog, should I run or try to save him? At one point - and I'm almost too ashamed to admit this - I started walking in a zig-zag thinking that by doing so, it would be harder for some lunatic with a sniper rifle to shoot me.

And the worst part is, I can't even be comforted by reminding myself that it's just a work of fiction because the sick shit written in this book does happen. Maybe not in its exact form, but there are crazy people out there who need to control and need to kill, and their methods are revolting and torturous. Hell, maybe someone has read American Psycho and reenacted one or more of the murders described. That wouldn't surprise me in the least.

I'm really wondering if I'm going to have severe trust issues after reading American Psycho, and my paranoia of the everyday has been tripled. Or quadrupled. I don't know, all I know is that I'm freaked out by everyone. And my boyfriend is out of town, so I don't have anyone to relate my fears to:( Except for my readers. I guess that's why I'm writing this.

Then again, maybe this excessive fear will just last for tonight, and another week or so. Maybe the intensity of the violence will wane, and I'll come out stronger for reading it. But I cannot in good conscience recommend this book. It's sick. The detail Ellis writes with is, for lack of a better word, illuminating. But the word illuminating connotes a wonderful discovery, and there is nothing wonderful about this book. Or maybe there is. I don't know, I'll tell you when my stomach stops churning. Ugh, I'm even scared of what will happen if I have a kid and my kid wants to read this book - I certainly don't want him or her to, but how will I stop it? How can I censor them? Oh jeez, I need to chill out.

If anything, American Psycho has made me see the need to legalize prostitution. Many of Bateman's victims are prostitutes, and the same holds true for the non-fiction world; ladies- and gents-of-the-night are often the most victimized group of people. Prostitution should be legalized, therefore monitored, to prevent further horrors from afflicting sex workers. I'm so convinced of this right now that I'm going to start looking into some pro-sex worker organizations. Seriously, I'm on it.

Ok, I think I'm done incoherently rambling. I'll probably stay up til 3 am to finish the book, and then stay up the remainder of the night clutching a baseball bat. Gosh, how lucky I was to find this book randomly laying on the ground; God must have been smiling on me that day! (douchebag)