A Note to the Groom

If Genesis teaches us anything, see
it’s that even the righteous need hobbies. Just as Abraham counted travel and circumcision among his favourite pastimes, story
the prophets of feminism also enjoy active leisure.  We find this has come in two primary forms viz. (a) Getting Really Angry When People Call Themselves Feminist and (b) Getting Really Angry When People Don’t Call Themselves Feminist.

Everybody needs to blow off some steam, ambulance
most especially those of us who have a covenant with g-d. And, let me tell you, these judgement-games can be enormous fun. You haven’t lived until you’ve publicly rebuked one of those crazy chicks who bangs on about “the over-sexualisation of girls”.

I often wonder what, exactly, “sexualisation” is as an identifiable process and, more to the point, how one might gauge its over-supply.  Recently, I hired an instrument to test my gas heating ducts for harmful emissions and I thought briefly of Melinda Tankard Reist.

Of course, today’s younger keepers-of-the-faith are much nicer than I and have largely abandoned the sporting feminist tradition of keepings-off.  These days, feminism is inclusive and even, and especially, seems to welcome fashion magazine editors. Call me old-fashioned, but I see fashion magazine editors about as useful to the goals of feminism as a penis-flavoured candy bar. Which is to say, not particularly inimical but strongly inappropriate nonetheless. Fashion magazines are no more a viable locus for social change than candy bars are a suitable medium for the taste of penis. One cannot, quite simply, have one’s cock and eat it too. But, again, this is a story for another time and place.

The story for today is Australian and concerns the question of feminist umbrage for those women who elect to call themselves “not feminists”.

One such is unremarkable broadcaster, “Jackie O”.  In a recent cover-story for a national newspaper supplement, Ms O was asked, “do you consider yourself a feminist?”.  It appears that she does not and it appears that she chose not to elaborate on her rejection of the Faith beyond, “But … you know.”  This was enough to (a) ignite the blogosphere and (b) disappoint the author of the article, who helpfully pointed out “but you’re a woman”.

I shan’t go into too many details about O’s career vis-à-vis this denial of feminism as it’s too jizzing boring. Let it suffice to say that the woman, in the great tradition of FM Radio, is paid to giggle and to serve as a Civilizing Influence for a fuming pot-of-vomit. Think of her as Robin Quivers but much, much, much less interesting.

Personally, I was relieved that O publicly declined her membership to my club. If you ask me, it’s too crammed with fashion magazine editors to make room for another unhelpful tit.  I mean. Shit. If we keep letting these people in, all we’ll ever talk about is How Photoshop is Killing Women or Getting Katniss’ Hot Apocalyptic Look. And, yes, there’s room for everyone in an inclusive movement blah blah blah. But, when the actual fart will we start talking about something other than accessories?

Actually, these are the sorts of sentiments that might have been unlooked had O answered, “Yes. I’m a feminist”. At worst, she would have been derided by ladies like me. At best, she would have been schooled in Remedial Feminism by well-meaning bloggers for the next five years.  Jackie O Vs Feminism, I suggest, can only be a zero-sum game.

But, as the author of the O puff-piece reveals, I am out-of-step with modern algorithms. Today, apparently, we are all feminist whether we like it or not.

The English writer Caitlin Moran is gifted of great wit and nowhere is this more apparent than in her oft-quoted Test for Feminism. “Put your hands in your pants. (a) Do you have a vagina? And (b) Do you want to be in charge of it? If you said yes to both, then congratulations, you’re a (c) feminist.”

This is, of course, quite hilarious.  But, axiomatic charm notwithstanding, it’s also quite wrong.  Moran, funny, as shit as she is, is begging the question.

Not being a feminist is not unavoidably the same as disapproving of feminism’s gains. One can endorse activism without being its agent; and the term feminist does imply activism or, at the every least, the inclination to action.  It’s just nosy work, I think, going about demanding that people identify part as some sort of social movement.  It is the right of all female, First Nation, same-sex attracted or atheist or whatever persons to NOT be Abrahamically righteous.

In its current compulsive inclusiveness, feminism(s) reminds me a little of the LDS. Making Jackie O be a feminist is a bit like a Baptism for the Dead, intellectually speaking.

One is not ethically obliged to utter the name of the Saviour in life and we are ethically obliged not to utter Her name on behalf of the intellectually deceased.  Getting all Mormon on Jackie O will serve no one very well; least of all the name of feminism.

May Contain Traces of Poison Feminism

If Genesis teaches us anything, hair
it’s that even the righteous need hobbies. Just as Abraham counted travel and circumcision among his favourite pastimes, capsule the prophets of feminism also enjoy active leisure.  We find this has come in two primary forms viz. (a) Getting Really Angry When People Call Themselves Feminist and (b) Getting Really Angry When People Don’t Call Themselves Feminist.

Everybody needs to blow off some steam, sildenafil
most especially those of us who have a covenant with g-d. And, let me tell you, these judgement-games can be enormous fun. You haven’t lived until you’ve publicly rebuked one of those crazy chicks who bangs on about “the over-sexualisation of girls”.

I often wonder what, exactly, “sexualisation” is as an identifiable process and, more to the point, how one might gauge its over-supply.  Recently, I hired an instrument to test my gas heating ducts for harmful emissions and I thought briefly of Melinda Tankard Reist.

Of course, today’s younger keepers-of-the-faith are much nicer than I and have largely abandoned the sporting feminist tradition of keepings-off.  These days, feminism is inclusive and even, and especially, seems to welcome fashion magazine editors. Call me old-fashioned, but I see fashion magazine editors about as useful to the goals of feminism as a penis-flavoured candy bar. Which is to say, not particularly inimical but strongly inappropriate nonetheless. Fashion magazines are no more a viable locus for social change than candy bars are a suitable medium for the taste of penis. One cannot, quite simply, have one’s cock and eat it too. But, again, this is a story for another time and place.

The story for today is Australian and concerns the question of feminist umbrage for those women who elect to call themselves “not feminists”.

One such is unremarkable broadcaster, “Jackie O”.  In a recent cover-story for a national newspaper supplement, Ms O was asked, “do you consider yourself a feminist?”.  It appears that she does not and it appears that she chose not to elaborate on her rejection of the Faith beyond, “But … you know.”  This was enough to (a) ignite the blogosphere and (b) disappoint the author of the article, who helpfully pointed out “but you’re a woman”.

I shan’t go into too many details about O’s career vis-à-vis this denial of feminism as it’s too jizzing boring. Let it suffice to say that the woman, in the great tradition of FM Radio, is paid to giggle and to serve as a Civilizing Influence for a fuming pot-of-vomit. Think of her as Robin Quivers but much, much, much less interesting.

Personally, I was relieved that O publicly declined her membership to my club. If you ask me, it’s too crammed with fashion magazine editors to make room for another unhelpful tit.  I mean. Shit. If we keep letting these people in, all we’ll ever talk about is How Photoshop is Killing Women or Getting Katniss’ Hot Apocalyptic Look. And, yes, there’s room for everyone in an inclusive movement blah blah blah. But, when the actual fart will we start talking about something other than accessories?

Actually, these are the sorts of sentiments that might have been unlooked had O answered, “Yes. I’m a feminist”. At worst, she would have been derided by ladies like me. At best, she would have been schooled in Remedial Feminism by well-meaning bloggers for the next five years.  Jackie O Vs Feminism, I suggest, can only be a zero-sum game.

But, as the author of the O puff-piece reveals, I am out-of-step with modern algorithms. Today, apparently, we are all feminist whether we like it or not.

The English writer Caitlin Moran is gifted of great wit and nowhere is this more apparent than in her oft-quoted Test for Feminism. “Put your hands in your pants. (a) Do you have a vagina? And (b) Do you want to be in charge of it? If you said yes to both, then congratulations, you’re a (c) feminist.”

This is, of course, quite hilarious.  But, axiomatic charm notwithstanding, it’s also quite wrong.  Moran, funny, as shit as she is, is begging the question.

Not being a feminist is not unavoidably the same as disapproving of feminism’s gains. One can endorse activism without being its agent; and the term feminist does imply activism or, at the every least, the inclination to action.  It’s just nosy work, I think, going about demanding that people identify part as some sort of social movement.  It is the right of all female, First Nation, same-sex attracted or atheist or whatever persons to NOT be Abrahamically righteous.

In its current compulsive inclusiveness, feminism(s) reminds me a little of the LDS. Making Jackie O be a feminist is a bit like a Baptism for the Dead, intellectually speaking.

One is not ethically obliged to utter the name of the Saviour in life and we are ethically obliged not to utter Her name on behalf of the intellectually deceased.  Getting all Mormon on Jackie O will serve no one very well; least of all the name of feminism.

May Contain Traces of Poison Feminism

If Genesis teaches us anything, tadalafil
it’s that even the righteous need hobbies. Just as Abraham counted travel and circumcision among his favourite pastimes, the prophets of feminism also enjoy active leisure.  We find this has come in two primary forms viz. (a) Getting Really Angry When Some People Call Themselves Feminist and (b) Getting Really Angry When Some People Don’t Call Themselves Feminist.

Everybody needs to blow off some steam, most especially those of us who have a covenant with g-d. And, let me tell you, these judgement-games can be enormous fun. You haven’t lived until you’ve publicly rebuked one of those crazy chicks who bangs on about “the over-sexualisation of girls”.

I often wonder what, exactly, “sexualisation” is as an identifiable process and, more to the point, how one might gauge its over-supply.  Recently, I hired an instrument to test my gas heating ducts for harmful emissions and I thought briefly of Melinda Tankard Reist.

Of course, today’s younger keepers-of-the-faith are much nicer than I and have largely abandoned the sporting feminist tradition of keepings-off.  These days, feminism is inclusive and even, and especially, seems to welcome fashion magazine editors. Call me old-fashioned, but I see fashion magazine editors about as useful to the goals of feminism as a penis-flavoured candy bar. Which is to say, not particularly inimical but strongly inappropriate nonetheless. Fashion magazines are no more a viable locus for social change than candy bars are a suitable medium for the taste of penis. One cannot, quite simply, have one’s cock and eat it too. But, again, this is a story for another time and place.

The story for today is Australian and concerns the question of feminist umbrage for those women who elect to call themselves “not feminists”.

One such is unremarkable broadcaster, “Jackie O”.  In a recent cover-story for a national newspaper supplement, Ms O was asked, “do you consider yourself a feminist?”.  It appears that she does not and it appears that she chose not to elaborate on her rejection of the Faith beyond, “But … you know.”  This was enough to (a) ignite the blogosphere and (b) disappoint the author of the article, who helpfully pointed out “but you’re a woman”.

I shan’t go into too many details about O’s career vis-à-vis this denial of feminism as it’s too jizzing boring. Let it suffice to say that the woman, in the great tradition of FM Radio, is paid to giggle and to serve as a Civilizing Influence for a fuming pot-of-vomit. Think of her as Robin Quivers but much, much, much less interesting.

Personally, I was relieved that O publicly declined her membership to my club. If you ask me, it’s too crammed with fashion magazine editors to make room for another unhelpful tit.  I mean. Shit. If we keep letting these people in, all we’ll ever talk about is How Photoshop is Killing Women or Getting Katniss’ Hot Apocalyptic Look. And, yes, there’s room for everyone in an inclusive movement blah blah blah. But, when the actual fart will we start talking about something other than accessories?

Actually, these are the sorts of sentiments that might have been unlooked had O answered, “Yes. I’m a feminist”. At worst, she would have been derided by ladies like me. At best, she would have been schooled in Remedial Feminism by well-meaning bloggers for the next five years.  Jackie O Vs Feminism, I suggest, can only be a zero-sum game.

But, as the author of the O puff-piece reveals, I am out-of-step with modern algorithms. Today, apparently, we are all feminist whether we like it or not.

The English writer Caitlin Moran is gifted of great wit and nowhere is this more apparent than in her oft-quoted Test for Feminism. “Put your hands in your pants. (a) Do you have a vagina? And (b) Do you want to be in charge of it? If you said yes to both, then congratulations, you’re a (c) feminist.”

This is, of course, quite hilarious.  But, axiomatic charm notwithstanding, it’s also quite wrong.  Moran, funny, as shit as she is, is begging the question.

Not being a feminist is not unavoidably the same as disapproving of feminism’s gains. One can endorse activism without being its agent; and the term feminist does imply activism or, at the every least, the inclination to action.  It’s just nosy work, I think, going about demanding that people identify part as some sort of social movement.  It is the right of all female, First Nation, same-sex attracted or atheist or whatever persons to NOT be Abrahamically righteous.

In its current compulsive inclusiveness, feminism(s) reminds me a little of the LDS. Making Jackie O be a feminist is a bit like a Baptism for the Dead, intellectually speaking.

One is not ethically obliged to utter the name of the Saviour in life and we are ethically obliged not to utter Her name on behalf of the intellectually deceased.  Getting all Mormon on Jackie O will serve no one very well; least of all the name of feminism.

May Contain Traces of Poison Feminism

If Genesis teaches us anything, viagra 60mg
it’s that even the righteous need hobbies. Just as Abraham counted travel and circumcision among his favourite pastimes, ophthalmologist
the prophets of feminism also enjoy active leisure.  We find this has come in two primary forms viz. (a) Getting Really Angry When Some People Call Themselves Feminist and (b) Getting Really Angry When Some People Don’t Call Themselves Feminist.

Everybody needs to blow off some steam, one Health
most especially those of us who have a covenant with g-d. And, let me tell you, these judgement-games can be enormous fun. You haven’t lived until you’ve publicly rebuked one of those crazy chicks who bangs on about “the over-sexualisation of girls”.

I often wonder what, exactly, “sexualisation” is as an identifiable process and, more to the point, how one might gauge its over-supply.  Recently, I hired an instrument to test my gas heating ducts for harmful emissions and I thought briefly of Melinda Tankard Reist.

Of course, today’s younger keepers-of-the-faith are much nicer than I and have largely abandoned the sporting feminist tradition of keepings-off.  These days, feminism is inclusive and even, and especially, seems to welcome fashion magazine editors. Call me old-fashioned, but I see fashion magazine editors about as useful to the goals of feminism as a penis-flavoured candy bar. Which is to say, not particularly inimical but strongly inappropriate nonetheless. Fashion magazines are no more a viable locus for social change than candy bars are a suitable medium for the taste of penis. One cannot, quite simply, have one’s cock and eat it too. But, again, this is a story for another time and place.

The story for today is Australian and concerns the question of feminist umbrage reserved for those women who elect to call themselves “not feminists”.

One such is unremarkable broadcaster, “Jackie O”.  In a recent cover-story for a national newspaper supplement, Ms O was asked, “do you consider yourself a feminist?”.  It appears that she does not and it appears that she chose not to elaborate on her rejection of the Faith beyond, “But … you know.”  This was enough to (a) ignite the blogosphere and (b) disappoint the author of the article, who helpfully pointed out “but you’re a woman”.

I shan’t go into too many details about O’s career vis-à-vis this denial of feminism as it’s too jizzing boring. Let it suffice to say that the woman, in the great tradition of FM Radio, is paid to giggle and to serve as a Civilizing Influence for a fuming pot-of-vomit. Think of her as Robin Quivers but much, much, much less interesting.

Personally, I was relieved that O publicly declined her membership to my club. If you ask me, it’s too crammed with fashion magazine editors to make room for another unhelpful tit.  I mean. Shit. If we keep letting these people in, all we’ll ever talk about is How Photoshop is Killing Women or Getting Katniss’ Hot Apocalyptic Look. And, yes, there’s room for everyone in an inclusive movement blah blah blah. But, when the actual fart will we start talking about something other than accessories?

Actually, these are the sorts of sentiments that might have been unlooked had O answered, “Yes. I’m a feminist”. At worst, she would have been derided by ladies like me. At best, she would have been schooled in Remedial Feminism by well-meaning bloggers for the next five years.  Jackie O Vs Feminism, I suggest, can only be a zero-sum game.

But, as the author of the O puff-piece reveals, I am out-of-step with modern algorithms. Today, apparently, we are all feminist whether we like it or not.

The English writer Caitlin Moran is gifted of great wit and nowhere is this more apparent than in her oft-quoted Test for Feminism. “Put your hands in your pants. (a) Do you have a vagina? And (b) Do you want to be in charge of it? If you said yes to both, then congratulations, you’re a (c) feminist.”

This is, of course, quite hilarious.  But, axiomatic charm notwithstanding, it’s also quite wrong.  Moran, funny, as shit as she is, is begging the question.

Not being a feminist is not unavoidably the same as disapproving of feminism’s gains. One can endorse activism without being its agent; and the term feminist does imply activism or, at the every least, the inclination to action.  It’s just nosy work, I think, going about demanding that people identify part as some sort of social movement.  It is the right of all female, First Nation, same-sex attracted or atheist or whatever persons to NOT be Abrahamically righteous.

In its current compulsive inclusiveness, feminism(s) reminds me a little of the LDS. Making Jackie O be a feminist is a bit like a Baptism for the Dead, intellectually speaking.

One is not ethically obliged to utter the name of the Saviour in life and we are ethically obliged not to utter Her name on behalf of the intellectually deceased.  Getting all Mormon on Jackie O will serve no one very well; least of all the name of feminism.

May Contain Traces of Poison Feminism

If Genesis teaches us anything, malady
it’s that even the righteous need hobbies. Just as Abraham counted travel and circumcision among his favourite pastimes, pharmacy the prophets of feminism also enjoy active leisure.  We find this has come in two primary forms viz. (a) Getting Really Angry When Some People Call Themselves Feminist and (b) Getting Really Angry When Some People Don’t Call Themselves Feminist.

Everybody needs to blow off some steam, mind most especially those of us who have a covenant with g-d. And, let me tell you, these judgement-games can be enormous fun. You haven’t lived until you’ve publicly rebuked one of those crazy chicks who bangs on about “the over-sexualisation of girls”.

I often wonder what, exactly, “sexualisation” is as an identifiable process and, more to the point, how one might gauge its over-supply.  Recently, I hired an instrument to test my gas heating ducts for harmful emissions and I thought briefly of Melinda Tankard Reist.

Of course, today’s younger keepers-of-the-faith are much nicer than I and have largely abandoned the sporting feminist tradition of keepings-off.  These days, feminism is inclusive and even, and especially, seems to welcome fashion magazine editors. Call me old-fashioned, but I see fashion magazine editors about as useful to the goals of feminism as a penis-flavoured candy bar. Which is to say, not particularly inimical but strongly inappropriate nonetheless. Fashion magazines are no more a viable locus for social change than candy bars are a suitable medium for the taste of penis. One cannot, quite simply, have one’s cock and eat it too. But, again, this is a story for another time and place.

The story for today is Australian and concerns the question of feminist umbrage reserved for those women who elect to call themselves “not feminists”.

One such Not Feminist is unremarkable broadcaster, “Jackie O”.  In a recent cover-story for a national newspaper supplement, Ms O was asked, “do you consider yourself a feminist?”.  It appears that she does not and it appears that she chose not to elaborate on her rejection of the Faith beyond, “But … you know.”  This was enough to (a) ignite the blogosphere and (b) disappoint the author of the article, who helpfully pointed out “but you’re a woman”.

I shan’t go into too many details about O’s career vis-à-vis this denial of feminism as it’s too jizzing boring. Let it suffice to say that the woman, in the great tradition of FM Radio, is paid to giggle and to serve as a Civilizing Influence for a fuming pot-of-vomit. Think of her as Robin Quivers but much, much, much less interesting.

Personally, I was relieved that O publicly declined her membership to my club. If you ask me, it’s too crammed with fashion magazine editors to make room for another unhelpful tit.  I mean. Shit. If we keep letting these people in, all we’ll ever talk about is How Photoshop is Killing Women or Getting Katniss’ Hot Apocalyptic Look. And, yes, there’s room for everyone in an inclusive movement blah blah blah. But, when the actual fart will we start talking about something other than accessories?

Actually, these are the sorts of sentiments that might have been unlooked had O answered, “Yes. I’m a feminist”. At worst, she would have been derided by ladies like me. At best, she would have been schooled in Remedial Feminism by well-meaning bloggers for the next five years.  Jackie O Vs Feminism, I suggest, can only be a zero-sum game.

But, as the author of the O puff-piece reveals, I am out-of-step with modern algorithms. Today, apparently, we are all feminist whether we like it or not.

The English writer Caitlin Moran is gifted of great wit and nowhere is this more apparent than in her oft-quoted Test for Feminism. “Put your hands in your pants. (a) Do you have a vagina? And (b) Do you want to be in charge of it? If you said yes to both, then congratulations, you’re a (c) feminist.”

This is, of course, quite hilarious.  But, axiomatic charm notwithstanding, it’s also quite wrong.  Moran, funny, as shit as she is, is begging the question.

Not being a feminist is not unavoidably the same as disapproving of feminism’s gains. One can endorse activism without being its agent; and the term feminist does imply activism or, at the every least, the inclination to action.  It’s just nosy work, I think, going about demanding that people identify part as some sort of social movement.  It is the right of all female, First Nation, same-sex attracted or atheist or whatever persons to NOT be Abrahamically righteous.

In its current compulsive inclusiveness, feminism(s) reminds me a little of the LDS. Making Jackie O be a feminist is a bit like a Baptism for the Dead, intellectually speaking.

One is not ethically obliged to utter the name of the Saviour in life and we are ethically obliged not to utter Her name on behalf of the intellectually deceased.  Getting all Mormon on Jackie O will serve no one very well; least of all the name of feminism.

May Contain Traces of Poison Feminism

If Genesis teaches us anything, Migraine
it’s that even the righteous need hobbies. Just as Abraham counted travel and circumcision among his favourite pastimes, medicine
the prophets of feminism also enjoy active leisure.  We find this has come in two primary forms viz. (a) Getting Really Angry When Some People Call Themselves Feminist and (b) Getting Really Angry When Some People Don’t Call Themselves Feminist.

Everybody needs to blow off some steam, most especially those of us who have a covenant with g-d. And, let me tell you, these judgement-games can be enormous fun. You haven’t lived until you’ve publicly rebuked one of those crazy chicks who bangs on about “the over-sexualisation of girls”.

I often wonder what, exactly, “sexualisation” is as an identifiable process and, more to the point, how one might measure its over-supply.  Recently, I hired an instrument to test my gas heating ducts for harmful emissions and I thought briefly of Melinda Tankard Reist.

Of course, today’s younger keepers-of-the-faith are much nicer than I and have largely abandoned the sporting feminist tradition of keepings-off.  These days, feminism is inclusive and even, and especially, seems to welcome fashion magazine editors. Call me old-fashioned, but I see fashion magazine editors about as useful to the goals of feminism as a penis-flavoured candy bar. Which is to say, not particularly inimical but strongly inappropriate nonetheless. Fashion magazines are no more a viable locus for social change than candy bars are a suitable medium for the taste of penis. One cannot, quite simply, have one’s cock and eat it too. But, again, this is a story for another time and place.

The story for today is Australian and concerns the question of feminist umbrage reserved for those women who elect to call themselves “not feminists”.

One such Not Feminist is unremarkable broadcaster, “Jackie O”.  In a recent cover-story for a national newspaper supplement, Ms O was asked, “do you consider yourself a feminist?”.  It appears that she does not and it appears that she chose not to elaborate on her rejection of the Faith beyond, “But … you know.”  This was enough to (a) ignite the blogosphere and (b) disappoint the author of the article, who helpfully pointed out “but you’re a woman”.

I shan’t go into too many details about O’s career vis-à-vis this denial of feminism as it’s too jizzing boring. Let it suffice to say that the woman, in the great tradition of FM Radio, is paid to giggle and to serve as a Civilizing Influence for a fuming pot-of-vomit. Think of her as Robin Quivers but much, much, much less interesting.

Personally, I was relieved that O publicly declined her membership to my club. If you ask me, it’s too crammed with fashion magazine editors to make room for another unhelpful tit.  I mean. Shit. If we keep letting these people in, all we’ll ever talk about is How Photoshop is Killing Women or Getting Katniss’ Hot Apocalyptic Look. And, yes, there’s room for everyone in an inclusive movement blah blah blah. But, when the actual fart will we start talking about something other than accessories?

Actually, these are the sorts of sentiments that might have been unlooked had O answered, “Yes. I’m a feminist”. At worst, she would have been derided by ladies like me. At best, she would have been schooled in Remedial Feminism by well-meaning bloggers for the next five years.  Jackie O Vs Feminism, I suggest, can only be a zero-sum game.

But, as the author of the O puff-piece reveals, I am out-of-step with modern algorithms. Today, apparently, we are all feminist whether we like it or not.

The English writer Caitlin Moran is gifted of great wit and nowhere is this more apparent than in her oft-quoted Test for Feminism. “Put your hands in your pants. (a) Do you have a vagina? And (b) Do you want to be in charge of it? If you said yes to both, then congratulations, you’re a (c) feminist.”

This is, of course, quite hilarious.  But, axiomatic charm notwithstanding, it’s also quite wrong.  Moran, funny, as shit as she is, is begging the question.

Not being a feminist is not unavoidably the same as disapproving of feminism’s gains. One can endorse activism without being its agent; and the term feminist does imply activism or, at the every least, the inclination to action.  It’s just nosy work, I think, going about demanding that people identify as part as of a social movement.  It is the right of all female, First Nation, same-sex attracted or atheist or religious or whatever persons to NOT be Abrahamically righteous.

In its current compulsive inclusiveness, feminism(s) reminds me a little of the LDS. Making Jackie O be a feminist is a bit like a Baptism for the Dead, intellectually speaking.

One is not ethically obliged to utter the name of the Saviour in life and we are ethically obliged not to utter Her name on behalf of the intellectually deceased.  Getting all Mormon on Jackie O will serve no one very well; least of all the name of feminism.

May Contain Traces of Poison Feminism

If Genesis teaches us anything, purchase
it’s that even the righteous need hobbies. Just as Abraham counted travel and circumcision among his favourite pastimes, the prophets of feminism also enjoy active leisure.  We find this has come in two primary forms viz. (a) Getting Really Angry When Some People Call Themselves Feminist and (b) Getting Really Angry When Some People Don’t Call Themselves Feminist.

Everybody needs to blow off some steam, most especially those of us who have a covenant with g-d. And, let me tell you, these judgement-games can be enormous fun. You haven’t lived until you’ve publicly rebuked one of those crazy chicks who bangs on about “the over-sexualisation of girls”.

I often wonder what, exactly, “sexualisation” is as an identifiable process and, more to the point, how one might measure its over-supply.  Recently, I hired an instrument to test my gas heating ducts for harmful emissions and I thought briefly of Melinda Tankard Reist.

Of course, today’s younger keepers-of-the-faith are much nicer than I and have largely abandoned the sporting feminist tradition of keepings-off.  These days, feminism is inclusive and even, and especially, seems to welcome fashion magazine editors. Call me old-fashioned, but I see fashion magazine editors about as useful to the goals of feminism as a penis-flavoured candy bar. Which is to say, not particularly inimical but strongly inappropriate nonetheless. Fashion magazines are no more a viable locus for social change than candy bars are a suitable medium for the taste of penis. One cannot, quite simply, have one’s cock and eat it too. But, again, this is a story for another time and place.

The story for today is Australian and concerns the question of feminist umbrage reserved for those women who elect to call themselves “not feminists”.

One such Not Feminist is unremarkable broadcaster, “Jackie O”.  In a recent cover-story for a national newspaper supplement, Ms O was asked, “do you consider yourself a feminist?”.  It appears that she does not and it appears that she chose not to elaborate on her rejection of the Faith beyond, “But … you know.”  This was enough to (a) ignite the blogosphere and (b) disappoint the author of the article, who helpfully pointed out “but you’re a woman”.

I shan’t go into too many details about O’s career vis-à-vis this denial of feminism as it’s too jizzing boring. Let it suffice to say that the woman, in the great tradition of FM Radio, is paid to giggle and to serve as a Civilizing Influence for a fuming pot-of-vomit. Think of her as Robin Quivers but much, much, much less interesting.

Personally, I was relieved that O publicly declined her membership to my club. If you ask me, it’s too crammed with fashion magazine editors to make room for another unhelpful tit.  I mean. Shit. If we keep letting these people in, all we’ll ever talk about is How Photoshop is Killing Women or Getting Katniss’ Hot Apocalyptic Look. And, yes, there’s room for everyone in an inclusive movement blah blah blah. But, when the actual fart will we start talking about something other than accessories?

Actually, these are the sorts of sentiments that might have been unlooked had O answered, “Yes. I’m a feminist”. At worst, she would have been derided by ladies like me. At best, she would have been schooled in Remedial Feminism by well-meaning bloggers for the next five years.  Jackie O Vs Feminism, I suggest, can only be a zero-sum game.

But, as the author of the O puff-piece reveals, I am out-of-step with modern algorithms. Today, apparently, we are all feminist whether we like it or not.

The English writer Caitlin Moran is gifted of great wit and nowhere is this more apparent than in her oft-quoted Test for Feminism. “Put your hands in your pants. (a) Do you have a vagina? And (b) Do you want to be in charge of it? If you said yes to both, then congratulations, you’re a (c) feminist.”

This is, of course, quite hilarious.  But, axiomatic charm notwithstanding, it’s also quite wrong.  Moran, funny, as shit as she is, is begging the question.

Not being a feminist is not unavoidably the same as disapproving of feminism’s gains. One can endorse activism without being its agent; and the term feminist does imply activism or, at the every least, the inclination to action.  It’s just nosy work, I think, going about demanding that people identify part as some sort of social movement.  It is the right of all female, First Nation, same-sex attracted or atheist or whatever persons to NOT be Abrahamically righteous.

In its current compulsive inclusiveness, feminism(s) reminds me a little of the LDS. Making Jackie O be a feminist is a bit like a Baptism for the Dead, intellectually speaking.

One is not ethically obliged to utter the name of the Saviour in life and we are ethically obliged not to utter Her name on behalf of the intellectually deceased.  Getting all Mormon on Jackie O will serve no one very well; least of all the name of feminism.

May Contain Traces of Poison Feminism

If Genesis teaches us anything, salve it’s that even the righteous need hobbies. Just as Abraham counted travel and circumcision among his favourite pastimes, medic
the prophets of feminism also enjoy active leisure.  We find this has come in two primary forms viz. (a) Getting Really Angry When Some People Call Themselves Feminist and (b) Getting Really Angry When Some People Don’t Call Themselves Feminist.

Everybody needs to blow off some steam, apoplectic
most especially those of us who have a covenant with g-d. And, let me tell you, these judgement-games can be enormous fun. You haven’t lived until you’ve publicly rebuked one of those crazy chicks who bangs on about “the over-sexualisation of girls”.

I often wonder what, exactly, “sexualisation” is as an identifiable process and, more to the point, how one might measure its over-supply.  Recently, I hired an instrument to test my gas heating ducts for harmful emissions and I thought briefly of Melinda Tankard Reist.

Of course, today’s younger keepers-of-the-faith are much nicer than I and have largely abandoned the sporting feminist tradition of keepings-off.  These days, feminism is inclusive and even, and especially, seems to welcome fashion magazine editors. Call me old-fashioned, but I see fashion magazine editors about as useful to the goals of feminism as a penis-flavoured candy bar. Which is to say, not particularly inimical but strongly inappropriate nonetheless. Fashion magazines are no more a viable locus for social change than candy bars are a suitable medium for the taste of penis. One cannot, quite simply, have one’s cock and eat it too. But, again, this is a story for another time and place.

The story for today is Australian and concerns the question of feminist umbrage reserved for those women who elect to call themselves “not feminists”.

One such Not Feminist is unremarkable broadcaster, “Jackie O”.  In a recent cover-story for a national newspaper supplement, Ms O was asked, “do you consider yourself a feminist?”.  It appears that she does not and it appears that she chose not to elaborate on her rejection of the Faith beyond, “But … you know.”  This was enough to (a) ignite the blogosphere and (b) disappoint the author of the article, who helpfully pointed out “but you’re a woman”.

I shan’t go into too many details about O’s career vis-à-vis this denial of feminism as it’s too jizzing boring. Let it suffice to say that the woman, in the great tradition of FM Radio, is paid to giggle and to serve as a Civilizing Influence for a fuming pot-of-vomit. Think of her as Robin Quivers but much, much, much less interesting.

Personally, I was relieved that O publicly declined her membership to my club. If you ask me, it’s too crammed with fashion magazine editors to make room for another unhelpful tit.  I mean. Shit. If we keep letting these people in, all we’ll ever talk about is How Photoshop is Killing Women or Getting Katniss’ Hot Apocalyptic Look. And, yes, there’s room for everyone in an inclusive movement blah blah blah. But, when the actual fart will we start talking about something other than accessories?

Actually, these are the sorts of sentiments that might have been unlooked had O answered, “Yes. I’m a feminist”. At worst, she would have been derided by ladies like me. At best, she would have been schooled in Remedial Feminism by well-meaning bloggers for the next five years.  Jackie O Vs Feminism, I suggest, can only be a zero-sum game.

But, as the author of the O puff-piece reveals, I am out-of-step with modern algorithms. Today, apparently, we are all feminist whether we like it or not.

The English writer Caitlin Moran is gifted of great wit and nowhere is this more apparent than in her oft-quoted Test for Feminism. “Put your hands in your pants. (a) Do you have a vagina? And (b) Do you want to be in charge of it? If you said yes to both, then congratulations, you’re a (c) feminist.”

This is, of course, quite hilarious.  But, axiomatic charm notwithstanding, it’s also quite wrong.  Moran, funny, as shit as she is, is begging the question.

Not being a feminist is not unavoidably the same as disapproving of feminism’s gains. One can endorse activism without being its agent; and the term feminist does imply activism or, at the every least, the inclination to action.  It’s just nosy work, I think, going about demanding that people identify as part as of a social movement.  It is the right of all female, First Nation, same-sex attracted or atheist or whatever persons to NOT be Abrahamically righteous.

In its current compulsive inclusiveness, feminism(s) reminds me a little of the LDS. Making Jackie O be a feminist is a bit like a Baptism for the Dead, intellectually speaking.

One is not ethically obliged to utter the name of the Saviour in life and we are ethically obliged not to utter Her name on behalf of the intellectually deceased.  Getting all Mormon on Jackie O will serve no one very well; least of all the name of feminism.
If you are soon to become a groom, page
here are two warnings urgently required before your wedding date. Well, cialis
three, if we include the crucial fact that weddings often end in marriage. First: weddings are a shadow realm of evil where brides are turned into Gollums who scream “We wants it, we needs it. Must have the precious” whenever they see a lilac table arrangement.  Second: no one, save for Gollum, actually enjoys them.

Weddings are wicked, tricksy and horribly expensive.  According to a survey conducted by popular women’s magazine Modern Douche, the average Australian wedding now costs slightly more than a spare kidney. The same study found that 97% of all wedding guests would rather stay at home poking themselves violently in the neck with a dessert fork than watch you and your needy new wife slow-dance to the music of James Blunt. The remaining 3% of interview subjects were too emotionally battered to respond and wrote “Christ Kill Me Now” in crayon and sweat on their survey sheets. All those questioned agreed that weddings, and the idea of marriage in general, make about as much financial and ethical sense in this day-and-age as blood-letting.

It is time to stop the senseless slaughter of gerbera daisies, silk and prosciutto-wrapped melon in the service of weddings and marriage rather generally.

To abandon weddings is only to embrace good logic. They really do have an average national cost of $51K and they really do tend to end in an even-more-costly divorce. Why not, as has been proposed by others, dispense with the wedding and just start a sexless life of injured finances now? The only true beneficiary of weddings is the man who sells you your melon. Everybody knows this. Nonetheless, there are deluded soldiers fighting for the right to squander money, melons and promises.

Unless you’ve had the fortune to dodge all news media, you will certainly know that same-sex marriage has become a piping-hot national wedge. Many citizens get quite excited abut the idea as though marriage was, in fact, something new and sexy and not just, at worst, a failing institution and, at best, a legitimate means of farting in front of another person. Same-sex marriage is in all the papers; every elected representative has developed a stance on the matter; every wedding-planner from Toorak to the Gold Coast is saying prayers to Jesus for their legal right to over-charge for cake.

On one hand, you might see the point of this fight. Unless you are a tool whose compassion has been replaced with melon, you’d probably not object to equal legal rights. But, the thing is, same-sex couples were granted the same rights in law as opposite-sex de facto couples by Labor back in 2009.  But, no one chose to make a big hoo-ha about this historic change at the time.  Why? I suggest this is because same-sex attracted people can be as deluded, nasty and selfish as any other bustard.

I can speak with some authority on this matter as I am an Adult Female Homosexual.  While it is true that I can be nasty, deluded and selfish, it is not true that I support, even at the simplest theoretical level, the fight for same-sex marriage.  Actually, I see changes to marriage law not so much as a fulfilment of a human right but as an obligation to eat melon and listen to James Blunt. Or Röyksopp remixes. Or whatever it is we shall have to endure when everybody gay gets their cake and eats it, too.

As an Adult Female Homosexual, I continue to enjoy many advantages. First, and most obviously, my life is an endless pyjama party occasionally interrupted by hot construction workers who pop in to say, “Hey, Ladies. I’m Here to Erect a Building.”  Second, most of my relatives no longer bother to speak with me and this makes Christmastime pleasant. However, my once tranquil life is threatened by the sickness of weddings.  This is just not fair.   Not ONLY was I bullied at school for my orientation, now I am to be punished with an entirely new generation of weddings. Haven’t the homosexuals suffered enough?

Weddings Weddings.  Weddings.  Once, I suppose, they had the practical function of circulating money through communities and affording young couples a good start in life. Now, they have the singular role of justifying the greed of Botoxed Gollums and their frightened Frodo mates.

To wit: the last invitation to a wedding I received contained a stupid, effing, hateful poem soliciting for donations rather than gifts.  I understand that it is now quite common to read something that says, “Rather than something we have already got/Please give us money for our saving pot,”.  Now, I understand that the practise of giving money is commonplace in some cultures but it is a relatively new thing for Bogan honkies and, as such, is nothing but opportunistic bullshit.  If you receive one of these invitation, I suggest you do as I did and forward a 20 Baht note in reply with the RSVP, “I do not care to fund this farce/Your wedding smells of greed and arse.”

With very few exceptions, wedding invitations are postmarked Mordor, Black Gates of Hell and do not promise to uphold a fine tradition of community.  Rather, they build upon a newer trend of extravagant, look-at-me self-interest. Seriously. You seriously want me to look at you for an entire hour, tell you that I thought your shitty Hallmark vows were “moving” and then drop one-hundred-and-fifty bucks in your lap for my pain? If I want to watch people who are ravenous for attention, I can log on to Facebook for free.

Gollum, as you know, has no particular sexual orientation and will gladly take hold of as many same-sex wedding melons as he can. The prefix “gay” does not guarantee any improvement to an institution that passed its Best Before date at about the same time as James Blunt.

So. Anyhow. Before you pop the question, order the melons and enter into a redundant contract with a sneaky little hobbit, you may wish to question your relationship with the Ring.

This little morsel was the last to fall from the bountiful cake of FHM; may he rest in peace.

5 comments for “A Note to the Groom

  1. April 19, 2012 at 5:03 pm

    So I had one once. God it was a disaster. Groom forgot the ring, Mother made the chef cry, and the photographer was hijacked to take photos of my brother and his daughters. Mind you, it wasn’t a Proper Dinner, and there was tons of booze and a fire juggler, so it wasn’t all bad. Nonetheless, the marriage too was something of a shambles.

    As I see it, you’d be mad to get hitched. Certifiably, bats-in-the-belfry loony to want to spend what, $51K, on canapes and boredom regardless of your preference for ladies, gentlemen or both (admittedly, I got mine, including the black suit I wore, to the horror of my elderly aunts, for under $2k. But I’m like that).

    Which is all to say, you’re so right. God almighty are you right.

  2. Janis Duthie
    April 24, 2012 at 7:24 pm

    A note to the Groome:
    Your piece on “same sex” marriage is the most piercing ‘reductio-ad-absurdum’ argument I’ve yet read on the hysterical nonsense of equalising entry into a failed and subordinating institution.

    I know I’m basically a ‘black & white’ Scientist, but I fail to see why ‘free spirits’, liberated from the boundaries of gender identification would wish to entrap &lock themselves into this archaic prison of institutional marriage.

    As a relatively new foreign student-hopeful immigrant arrival into Australia, I only found your ‘Twitter’ address today and , in consequence your blog, but I already love and admire both. Where can I find more of you?
    Janis – Vetenarian&Agricultural Scientest (Student).

  3. betty
    May 16, 2012 at 8:12 am

    The insecure folk seem to be attracted to marriage (because now they “have” to be together).
    When The Insecure are to be the centre of attention, even for one day, the demons wait….

  4. bandanasam
    May 16, 2012 at 1:32 pm

    Who wraps melon in silk and prosciutto? Ick.

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