On the Objectification of Women

Let me get this straight. I take a couple of days off, and I come back and find that some group of chicks is arguing with another group of chicks about whether posting pictures of, and then ridiculing, Madonna and Sarah Jessica She-Hulk Parker's physiques is appropriate. And implicating this blog and it's host and commenters for its seeming lack of "sensitivity" and "respect" for women.

Respect, apparently, that is due to them solely because they possess a va-jay-jay.

Now, if you jokers have learned anything about me it's that I'm all about giving the ladies (and I use that term advisedly) their due. If you've learned anything else about me, it's that I like to give these "ladies" their due in the form of epic poetry.

So here, for your edification, is my take on this whole "blog drama" silliness that went on in my absence. I think you will find that it is the very model of empathy, sensitivity, and compassion that you have come to expect from me.

Read on at your own discretion. Unless you are a fat chick.

No fat chicks allowed.

On the Objectification of Women

As many of you know
I have long
maintained
that the secrets to all life's
mysteries
could be found in the lyrics to
Bob Dylan's songs.

So when this fight broke out,
between the conductor of the
rag-time band,
and normal chicks like Jen,
who we all kinda dig,
Secretly.
I turned to Bob for guidance.

And I found his song
"All I Really Want to Do"
to be an inspiration.

It goes like this:

"I don't want to straight-face you,
Race or chase you, track or trace you,
Or disgrace you or displace you,
Or define you or confine you.
All I really want to do
Is, baby, stick my ramrod
up your poop-shoot."

See? I told you Bob would
come through for me.
And when it's put so plainly,
I fail to see what
the brou-ha-ha
was all about.

So Sarah Jessica Parker has
arms that could probably hit
55 home runs.
Does that mean she is unattractive?
Yes.
But what about her insides?
Her heart?
Her soul?
Her brain?
Who fucking cares?

Sarah Jessica Parker isn't paid the big bucks
to split atoms
with her mind.
She isn't a star of stage and screen
because she looks good
feeding starving orphans
in Calcutta.
Rather she is paid mightily,
because she once was worth seeing in
"Oh, Calcutta!"
And now she's not.

Poor Matthew Broderick.
The most emasculated male in America
(well, except for maybe the post-Jolie Brad Pitt)
now has to ask his wife
to open the pickle jar.
There really is only one option left to him.
Gender-reassignment surgery.
It's apparent that Sarah-Jessica is on her way.
He might as well reciprocate.

Speaking of Pitt.
I'd let Jolie emasculate me.
Because she is the hawt-sauce.
But I'd ditch her when she hit 40.
I have my pride.
And fortunately
20-something blondes
are one of America's
greatest renewable resources.

It was cute, though.
Watching some bloggerettes
Marching through the 'sphere
like modern Susan B. Anthony's
demanding silly things like "respect"
and the "right to be taken seriously"
and the "right to vote".
When all I was interested in
was seeing their tits.

Well, we've already given you the right to vote.
As they say, fool me once.
But it's cute that the bloggerettes went
apeshit.
I call them bloggerettes
for a
reason.

Because they are to real bloggers,
by which I mean "Men"
as towelettes
are to towels.
Smaller and less consequential
that the real thing.
And a hell of a lot
less absorbant.

Now that I think about it.
Bloggerettes and towelettes
have a lot in common.
Neither one of them is
worth a damn thing unless
they are moist.
And everyone knows,
you just use them once
before moving on to the newer
younger, fresher
towelette.

I can hear the screams now.
"How dare you objectify us!"
When I've done no such thing.
That doesn't start until I tell you
your ass does look fat in those jeans.
You can stand to lose a few pounds.
Those wrinkles around your eyes?
A real turn off.
Why can't you be more like Scarlett Johannson?
She has nice tits.
Or Jessica Alba?
She has a great ass.
Or Eva Longoria.
She's so petite, and has great legs.
You should be more like her.
I might
bookmark you
then.

In fact,
now that I think about it.
There was only one chick in all of recorded history
who managed to be
hot with
gray hair.
Her name is Emmylou Harris.
Are you Emmylou Harris?
No?
Then you better dye-that mop, pronto.
I'm not interested in dating someone
who looks old enough to be
my grandmother.

Is my sandwich ready yet?
Blogging is hard work.
How can I be expected to perform at my best
when you haven't made my
dinner yet, honey?
What's that?
You say you just wrote a 1,500 word
piece about the implications
of Bush's Domestic Intelligence Program
on privacy rights?
That's soooooooo cute.
You might get 5 or 6 unique hits from that.
Meanwhile I'm hungry.
So fix me a damn sandwich.

While you are in there though,
I'll add a shot of you in a bikini
I took at Panama City last summer.
That will add 1,000 hits, easy.
You were younger then, after all.
Don't say I never did nothing for ya.
Oh,
and get me a beer.

Since I opened with Dylan,
I suppose I should close with Dylan
too.
That's symmetry, baby.
Yeah, that's a big word.
I'll break it down for you later.
You just keep right on reading your
People Magazine
and worrying about
Britney's menstruation cycle.

Anyway, Dylan has a song called
"Up to Me."
That song has a verse that contains
these lyrics:

"I heard the Sermon on the Mount
and I knew it was too complex.
It didn't amount to anything more
than what the broken glass reflects."

Which I think sums up the problem here.
Some gals are afraid of their reflection.
They wish they were Vampires.
And trust me,
some mirrors, have it bad.
But there is one reflection they can't escape from.
The image on my cool ass mirrored sunglasses,
that I bought in 1978,
after seeing Smokey and the Bandit.
Or the reflection of themselves
that they see in my un-shaded eyes
as I pass over them
for the hotter,cuter, younger,
chick
at the bar.

Butch up chicks.
Get over yourselves.
Be comfortable in your own skin.
Because if you don't love you,
who will?
Especially if your a fattie,
tubby-tub, lardo, tubster, fatty.
In which case,
you better be comfortable in all your excessive skin.
Because even vibrators
have feelings.
And many of them get scared.

Who will think of the poor, unlucky vibrators?
Will you?

No?
Why are you so self-centered?
What makes you so great?
Nothing that's what.

Unless you are Angelina Jolie.
Or Jessica Alba.
Or Scarlett Johansson.
Or even Emmylou Harris.

In which case, do you have a blog?
Cause then I might read it.

posted by Jack M. at 01:03 PM

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