That’s a baby pudu. It’s so cute, it makes a kitten look like a pile of crap.
I led off with that picture because, well, why the fuck not?
Also, I’m here to talk about something that bugs the fuck out of me, so I thought I’d start with something cute.
A few weeks ago, I drove down to Chicago with some friends. A, I’m sorry that I didn’t come by for further orders on how to corrupt the youth with homosexuality, socialism, and LOLcats, but I hope that you’ll forgive me when I tell you what I was doing.
I went to see naked girls. Reading.
No, really. The fabulousMichelle L’amour, (warning–not exactly work-safe) a Chicago burlesque artist and savvy businesswoman, puts on a monthly show called Naked Girls Reading. You can look that up. It’s even less work-safe. It features, as you might have guessed, naked girls reading. It’s interesting, but I probably wouldn’t have gone at all if it hadn’t been amateur night. You see, one of my friends was in the show. And she was wonderful. There was a prize given based on audience votes (the room holds about 50 people), and my friend should’ve taken it. But, as it turned out, a local person won. You know, Chicago machines and all.
Anyway, I thought it was a fun evening. It went on a little too long, especially considering that I had to drive people back to Madison after the show. But I (mostly) enjoyed the performances, and I liked the readings that the different women chose to perform–they all said something about the performers, and they were all performed with passion. Plus, we had cookies.
So it was a fun experience, and the show is part of the whole neo-burlesque scene that’s showing up in many places across the country.
So far, so good, right? Lots of adults, having a good time, laughing, and not bothering anyone, right?
Well, enter the villain in this little story: the preening, egotistical douchebag.
Today’s douchebag will be embodied by a friend of a friend, someone that I’ll call The Barber.
My friend was chatting on-line with The Barber, telling him about the show. Mind you, The Barber didn’t go, he doesn’t know anyone other than my friend who did, and he doesn’t know any of the performers. What followed was an exercise in self-centered assholery that would make Ayn Rand proud.
The Barber proceeded to lecture my friend on how the show was “exploitive,” “anti-feminist,” how the site didn’t “feel progressive” to him and should have “more verbiage about goals and aims,” didn’t make him feel “comfy,” how he’d have to be convinced to go, and then he said that he thought the show might attract guys who he felt were assholes, and were there to fetishize the event. He then went on to say that, while his opinion was his, it might be representative of a class of people. (I got tired of using quotes. Fucking sue me.)
GET THE FUCK OVER YOURSELF.
You’d have to be convinced to go? Really, you precious little shit? You mean unlike every other person there, who followed the orders of the computer chips planted in their brains? Look, fuckface. It’s a performance. You go if you want to. If you don’t, stay the fuck home. That’s your choice. But don’t act like you’re a fucking aggrieved party because everyone in the world doesn’t tailor all of their efforts specifically to attract you.
The Barber shared with my friend a thought from someone he knew and had told about the event. His friend, apparently a kindred spirit of douchebaggery, said: “[I]s there anything to it? Is there some reason, other than entertainment, that there will be naked females reading?” To which I reply: What the fuck is wrong with you? Consider the following statement, and how abjectly stupid it is: “Is there some reason, other than
entertainment, that there will be people reciting lines about some
prince from Denmark written by an English guy from 400 years ago?” It’s performance art, you fuck. If you don’t want to go, don’t. And go on with your life.
hate“exploitive.” Goddammit, say “exploitative.” While “exploitive” is technically correct, I hate it.
being anti-feminist, anyone can claim that anything is anti-feminist,
because anyone can define “feminist” however they choose. That being
contra position to their (probably inconsistent) definition is perforce anti-feminist.
kind of reminds me of the Gordian Knot. That was an unsolvable puzzle
in ancient Gordium, a city in Phrygia (which itself is in modern
Turkey). There was this knot that no one could figure out how to
untie, you see. It was famous throughout the ancient world. Visitors
to Gordium would try to figure out solutions, but couldn’t. Finally,
one guy came through, and he solved it without any trouble. That
person was Alexander the Great. In 334 BCE, he looked at it, then drew
his sword and cut that motherfucker in half. Problem solved.
could do the same thing, instead of whining about how things look to
him with no experience. He could a) go to the show, and actually
experience it, and then have an opinion based on that, or b) shut the
probably choose option c), though: Continued wankery. Who gives a fuck
if something is “comfy” to you? What makes you so fucking special? It’s time somebody sat down with The Barber and said: This song ain’t about you, brother. God damn, the fucking egotism and
condescension in his whole spiel just fucking reek. “Me me me me ‘other
I’m willfully disregarding his bullshit about how his opinion might be representative of a class of other people because that’s just so stupid it makes me want to jam a rusty icepick in my eye so that I could be distracted from the dipshittery.
women who choose to perform are not independent actors, each of
whom does not have her own agency, each unable to exercise her own
judgment. In other words, by setting yourself up as the arbiter of
what is and is not “feminist” (and therefore “proper”), you’re claiming
that these poor deluded broads just don’t know any better, and need to
be protected from exploitation.