Saturday April 19 , 2014

Archive for July, 2012

*%$#!

Holyshitfuckcuntassdamncockpie – just did my taxes, assuming as per usual that I could take my time because they would owe me anyway, but no, I owe them!

And now I owe them with interest!

I mean, those CPC cocksuckers have cut public services like no other government before them, squandered money like drunken corporate executives and for the first time in my life – ever – I’m not only not getting money back after doing my taxes (and buying a big honking RRSP) – I owe money.

Seriously, if I run into you today and ask, “Did you vote for one of those cheating stealing lying Conservative cocksuckers in the last election?” Do not say “Yes” or I’m taking my foot off in your ass.

Grr. What kind of idiots vote for service-cutting tax-grabbing politicians?!

 

Olympics This!

Disclaimer: The winter Olympics don’t count as Olympics, so the Olympics only happen every four years.

No wait, that’s not a disclaimer, that’s a note.

Note: The winter Olympics don’t count as Olympics, so the Olympics only happen every four years.

I’ve been giving some thought to the whole beach volleyball thingamiroo that erupts at the Olympics now that beach volleyball is a bonafide event, and decided to take a “Yeah, baby!” position on it.

I believe it was Shakespeare who said, “What the hell, keep your reader(s) guessing”. And I hope, as an armchair prude, that I have succeeded with the above random position, which is in diametric opposition to most of my armchair prude positions, and one I intend to cling to like grim death now that I’ve taken it.

As Al Gore said about the internet, “That’s why I invented it.”

Oh, and of course, I’m referring to chick beach volleyball, not dude beach volleyball, which is undeniably the lesser of the Olympic beach volleyball events, only a half-step removed from men’s gymnastics, up or down being anyone’s guess.

Let me take you back to Munich, Germany and the 1972 games when Olga Korbut, and to a lesser extent, the entire Soviet women’s gymnastic team (Ludmilla Tourischeva, team captain, is considered the last woman of international gymnastics competition, which was taken over and dominated by girls once Olga Korbut made her acrobatic leaps that defied logic and gravity). I was a pre-teen in ’72 and politically aware enough to know that it was a big deal that the team had been flown over to the U.S. for a photo shoot in Seventeen magazine earlier in the year. The Russians didn’t make Olga Korbut a star, the Americans did, and although she was actually 17, she looked my age. And the fascination was all physical.

Another remembrance is a Best of Life Magazine photograph of a Swedish high jumper who was nowhere near a medal but who was model perfect as she gazed directly into the lens (I believe she was of the 1968 Olympics in Mexico City). It’s an incredible photograph, “grace in defeat”, being the caption, I believe. The fact is, athletes are beautiful people. Sport is all about physicality. It makes absolute sense that their bodies are on display, which brings into stark relief the misogynistic regimes of the world. Not only should there have been a minute of silence for the murdered Israeli wrestling team by Palestinian terrorists in recognition of its 40th anniversary, but there should have been a week of silence for the ongoing worldwide obscenity of women being so grossly under-represented internationally at the Olympics.

Oh, and the burka be damned. The Olympics should be a religion and politics free zone and repressive regimes dragged kicking and screaming into the 21st century for two weeks out of every four years if they want any international respect or credibility. Fuck Saudi Arabia, fuck it in the ear. And fuck any country hosting its ridiculous princes and princesses, too. Enough already. Misogynistic asshats, the lot of them. It was almost 40 years ago that Cathy Rigby, American gymnast up against the famous Olga Korbut, did a nude spread in Sports Illustrated – yes, gymnastics performed in the nude, imagine – ferchrissakes.

Oh, the humanity! was, of course, the armchair prude cry at the time (not be me, I thought it was kind of cool, especially since bikini waxes hadn’t been invented yet and I couldn’t imagine how a brunette could prevent a pubic hair or two from peeking out from under a thigh high leotard during an unevens routine, anyway).

So yes, give me bikini-clad amazons playing volleyball as Evolution intended, on a unionized(?) labour (brothers and sisters?) made beach (imported sand?) in the middle of Buckingham Square where Palace Guards have been made to endure the torture of tickling tourists for decades (centuries?) and Henry VIII’s Act of Succession still stands in spite of the longest reigning monarchs having all been female, because that’s what the Olympics should be all about.

As a Feminist, I say get the hoary old I.O.C. out of the way and let it be California dreamin’ bikini beach party every four years at the Olympics: “Free at last! Free at last! Free at last!”

For two weeks every four years.

 

Lost and Found

When I was fourteen, I lost my period. I knew why this was, I was fasting, running 2.5 miles every night during the week and 5 miles on weekends. If I couldn’t run outside due to weather, I ran stairs indoors.

Freddy next door would sometimes come out to time me doing sprints (he wanted me to be a track star in the 75 yard dash, not a long distance runner – I wanted to be a gymnast at the Olympics). He was my brother’s age and although he’d been a bully in his younger days (he went to a Catholic school where he claimed the priests regularly beat up the kids) he became sort of an elder statesman of our street. His parents were impossibly old but my mom remembered Dolly being pregnant. She was what people called “long suffering, even for a Catholic”.

We were a mostly Protestant and/or heathen street except for the Cohens, who were orthodox and not only missed Christmas, but Saturday cartoons. Still, they would wave mockingly with their baseball gloves as we drove by them Sunday morning on our way to church.

Church was worse for us than most other kids because even though my mother never struck me as much of a believer, it was important to my father, who was dead, so we had to go.

Comedy aside: My gram told a funny story about Freddy and my brother watching a cowboy movie together in the living room one day when my brother asked Freddy, “Hey Freddy, where’s your grandmother?” And Freddy replied, “Dead”, eyes never leaving the screen. “How come? What happened to her?” “Somebody shot ‘er, I guess.”

True enough, youth of today, no matter what your parents tell you, television was our main source of infotainment, too.

So thanks to my training regimen and fasting (occasional use of dietary aids, etc, not that I was even remotely overweight) I lost my period. Around this time, other girls decided they were having trouble with their periods, too. Turns out there was a good reason for this, a dreamy new gynecologist in Sault Ste. Marie. Perhaps even the first gynecologist in SSM.

Now, like or unlike most fourteen year old girls, especially ones with ballerina build hippie older sisters who had more boyfriends than Carter had pills, I considered myself to be going through an unsightly stage that left me free and clear to save myself for when I would meet Bob Dylan. Later. (I haven’t yet, but I gave away a pair of red cowboy boots that the owner of the vintage store claimed had belonged to Bob Dylan, who apparently wears a ladies size 8 – too big for me but perfect for my friend.) And yet, I was curious to see if the new gynecologist would fall madly in love with me, too, as no one yet had except for boys even more loserish than me.

Exactly. A failure to see the irony of not wanting to belong to any club that would have me as a member. My heartfelt apologies to all boys and men everywhere but now you know – it wasn’t you, it was my low self esteem and high expectations. How could you have known you were competing with a much older and more glamorous “too good for you” version of me AND Bob Dylan.

So, my mom, being no slouch in the gotta get with the times department, called Dr. Tiltons, our ancient doctor we couldn’t understand who had escaped from Estonia, and she set up an appointment with the dreamy new gynecologist.

Now, it’s one thing to imagine the romance of being alone with a dreamy new gynecologist when you’re fourteen, another to actually have him conducting a gynecological exam. I wasn’t quite a virgin in that regard because not only had I busted my hymen at the circus, but I’d run a marathon while on my period and my pad had ended up glued to my nethers with dried menstrual blood and had to be removed with little scissors (along with a fair bit of newly acquired pubic hair). Once again my glamorous older sister was mortified beyond all reason, especially when my mom phoned all her friends to brag about how I’d run the marathon “on her period!”

I was also on the radio because I was the first female to cross the finish line. It was actually a walk-a-thon, but I got pledges to run it: Sault Search and Rescue. For years I’ve told people I beat a boys high school track team, but I think I may have made that up. And I remember the interviewer, Lionel McCauley, knew my dad and got a bit lost in the mists of time while I sat in the radio truck waiting for him to start talking about ME!

And no, I did not tell the listening audience that I was on my period. I do recall, however, the uncomfortable sensation of sitting in the radio truck with my pad hardening to my pubic hair while Lionel McCauley asked me questions about my training.

So Dr. Tiltons had already gone where the dreamy new gynecologist was about to go but it really wasn’t much different to have Dr. Tiltons giving the all clear for your vagina than it was for her to be giving the all clear for your throat. It was Dr. Tiltons.

It was a terrible mistake, one of my worst judgement calls. For some unfathomable reason, I had actually forgotten to shave my legs, which was something I did only semi-regularly at best, so the hair was probably half an inch long (or 1000 centimetres, as you kids say today) – both plentiful and stubbly and, of course, I’m a brunette.

I was mortified. It was worse than the time the dreamy young intern removed the cast from my broken leg to reveal a dusty hairy leg that looked like it belonged to one of Jane Goodall’s orphaned chimpanzees. Then, when it was mercifully over and he had given my vagina the all clear (the dreamy young gynecologist, not the dreamy young cast-removing intern – even I knew that would be wrong), he asked, “So, have you been screwing around or something?”

I stared at him, drawing a blank.

“Have you. Been. Screwing around.”

Mind empty, palms sweating, frantically thinking ahead to whether you shake hands when you leave the gynecologist’s office.

“Okay. You look pretty lean so I’m going to suggest you stop whatever you’re doing to lose weight. Your period should come back. You lose your period when you lose too much body fat. You’re supposed to have body fat.”

Of course he had me at “lean”. I was “lean”. Glory be to God in the Heavens, I was “lean”.

And, of course, I knew fully well why I had lost my period because I had a Seventeen magazine subscription. And it turned out the dreamy gynecologist, who originally hailed from the west end of Sault Ste. Marie, had spent too much time in The Big Smoke, where it was apparently normal to ask fourteen year old OBVIOUS virgins if she’d been “screwing around”.

Excuse me, Dr. Dreamy, but I haven’t met Bob Dylan yet? And my hymen, for your information, was broken at the circus?

Anyway, that wasn’t the end of my trials and tribulations because on my way home at about 2:30 on a school day, I passed a boy on Pim Hill, a disreputable looking boy with black hair, dusky skin, and the bright blue eyes of a psychopath (disreputable looking because it was 2:30 on a school day and he was clearly truant) who leered sideways at me and said, “Wanna fuck?”

If I could convey to you the combination of thrill through my nethers and disgust through my brain that immediately transpired as I held my head high pretending not to have heard his invitation to the ball, I would be up for a Pulitzer or whatever the hell prize male writers win all the time.

But some day I want to write the story of the girl who doesn’t have any of the hangups (and also a horseshoe up her ass, which I was lucky enough to have been born with as I would discover in later years hitchhiking beside that ice field between Banff and Jasper one summer when Clifford Olsen was making his rounds) I was cursed with (and  maybe the hangups and the horseshoe are one in the same) who says “Sure!” to the disreputable looking boy who asks her, “Wanna Fuck?”

I think I’ll call it, “Are You There God? It’s Me, The Girl With No Hangups”.

 

How I Broke My Hymen

I’ve blogged about this before but since I repeat myself at parties, too, I figure what the hell, why should my reader(s) be spared. Anyway, how I broke my hymen was by hopping seats at the circus. I was there with my brother and his friends and although I don’t really remember much about the circus, I sure as hell remember what it felt like to hop a chair only to find that the departed doofus who’d been sitting in it had flipped it up.

Ouch, baby.

Anyway, I was little, six or so, and although you’d think my mother would have come to pick me up, you’d be wrong.

(And you should know you’d be wrong because I recently blogged that the one and only time my mother ever picked me up, I had a broken leg – literally. I had just broken my leg and it had happened at school during a gymnastics display and she yelled at me all the way to the hospital and all the way home again. Even the doctor who put the cast on my leg was moved to say, “Poor you.” “My leg?” “No, your mother.” After that I had to do the normally 1/2 hour walk to school on my crutches. It was on the way to her school, too (she was a high school librarian). Once I even waved a crutch at her (my friend wanted to see if she would stop and pick me up) but she just motored on by. I think she may even have sped up.)

I walked home with my brother and his friends, my poor little winkie stuck to my undies with dried blood from my broken hymen. I believe my mom may have yelled at my brother, but I’m not sure. I hope she did. Certainly she yelled at him the time he tripped over his big galumphing feet on the stairs and put his head through the wall.

“Jesus H. Christ! Now we’re going to have to get Gordie over here to patch the drywall and I don’t have any more wallpaper!”

Anyway, my older sister was mortified, so that was good. Plus I believe she told me I wouldn’t be able to have children, which came as a great relief to me at the time.

(A few years later, after watching an episode of Marcus Welby or Coroner about a girl who got pregnant by sleeping with her boyfriend, I asked my older sister if a girl could get pregnant by sleeping with her brother, which I had done recently down at our farm, which was like a cottage except on a rock in the middle of a desert with no other kids or water or anything even remotely fun to do. “Oh yes, definitely”, she said, assuming a sister six years younger than her would know that “sleeping with” was a euphemism for “broken hymen”.)

And yet, the first time I had a penis in my vagina, or “lost my virginity” as we still say for some reason I’m not quite clear on, it hurt like FUCK! So I really have to hand it to all the virgins out there who had an intact hymen AND a penis in her vagina for the first time at the same time.

Double ouch, baby. And no, fellas, it doesn’t hurt because you’re “so big” (she squeaked, as she tried frantically to replay the scene in Casablanca when Viktor Laszlo instructs the band to strike up La Marseillaise), it hurts because the first time a girl has sex and for the next thousand times after that she’s really not that into it. We do it the first thousand times because we feel like we should on account of all the innuendo (the Italian way) and a primitive brain instinct that tells us we need to keep a man around even though 9 times out of 10 we make more money than he does and the other 1 time he doesn’t share it anyway.

So yes, boys 2 men, that episode of Seinfeld when Elaine admits to Jerry that she faked every orgasm when she was young is absolutely true to life.

And if you just thought of Vic Toews, er, I mean, Judge Toews, “sleeping with” his children’s babysitter, well, I’m sorry.

Anyway, the important thing is: it gets better. Because around the time when we start that slide into invisibility, we start to enjoy sex. Ironic, eh?

It’s like this, we can tell our children the sugar-coated truth or a load of malarkey or deliberately and unflinchingly lie to them (and Ricky confuses Santa Claus with God in the Trailer Park Boys’ Christmas movie because God isn’t real either kids) and make a big deal out of virginity as if it actually matters (and it doesn’t, matter that is) because we all find out the truth in the end (which is doubly painful, you experimenting kids out there).

And the great thing about the truth is that it really does set you free.

Tomorrow: The night I played with my uncle’s thumb.

 

Haha – NOT!

I notice there’s another male comedian in the news who thinks he should be able to tell a rape joke without getting called out on it by a rape victim in the audience.

Dude, it’s called free speech. Suck it up.

But that’s just it, isn’t it. The same people who think they should have the right to say whatever, don’t think other people should have the right to say whatever back. Well shut the front door, Mr. Rape Is Hilarious, Isn’t It? – you can make your rape joke, and you did, but other people can start a petition to have your ass kicked off Comedy Central.

After all, if that wasn’t the reaction you were looking for, then maybe you should have made a funny joke instead of a rape joke.

And maybe, instead of getting all angry man on stage and inciting the audience to rape your female heckler – which is when you actually crossed the line (until then, you just weren’t pulling off a rape joke, admittedly difficult) – you should have said something funny, you know, switched the show over to comedy.

Lesson learned, if you’re a male comedian and you’re going to tell a joke about rape, you had damned well better be sure it’s at least funny.

Full disclosure: I wasn’t going to blog about this until another male comedian took on Mr. Rape Is Hilarious, Isn’t It? by pointing out that maybe rape jokes aren’t for the 90% male professional performing comedians of today to be making to their 50% female audiences, a certain percentage of whom have most likely been raped. Until he took up the cause, I was falling for the “all’s fair in comedy” routine male comedians like to trot out when they’re caught being misogynists.

Funny rape joke aside: Reno 911 officer Deputy Trudy Wiegel addressing a classroom full of kids, “100% of you will be raped”. Or, in another episode, “This hotel reminds me of a place you’d want to go to get a good ol’ fashioned raping or a down-home murder!” Or, in another episode, “Shut up, nigger.”

Oops. Wrong joke that had better be funny or prepare to be petitioned and kicked off the public and/or private airwaves.

I’ve also seen a male comedian do a rape joke that was funny because he tapped into what living with the constant threat of rape is like, not just for women, but for men (who aren’t rapists). It’s a whole bit that has him randomly following a woman in high heels down a deserted street late at night. He’s nervous and kind of nervous for her so he’s keeping a steady pace behind her and as she picks it up he picks it up until eventually she’s running and he’s running. Suddenly it occurs to him, “Oh, she’s running because she’s a woman and I’m a man and she assumes I’m going to rape her.” And he’s kind of annoyed that she would think that but he also wants to reassure her that he isn’t a rapist so he picks it up (he’s in running shoes) and shouts, “I’m faster and stronger than you and if I wanted to rape you it would be easy!”

Interestingly, I related that bit to a male colleague the other day at work and he was like, “Exactly. When I’ve been working late and I’m on the elevator and a woman gets on it’s like “aw, crap” because it means I have to either lag way behind or get out way in front so when we head to our cars in the underground parking lot she doesn’t think I’m a rapist.”

(I told him he should demand that a security officer accompany him to his car.)

But that’s just it, isn’t it, tragedy + time = comedy, but if it’s not your tragedy and you have no idea of the tragedy/time ratio and you attempt a rape joke (1 in 17 women in Canada are victims of rape), well, most likely it’s going to result in a FAIL. When you follow up a FAIL with an incitement to gang rape a heckler, who may well be a rape victim, well, maybe you should try performing your act from inside a prison first and see how that goes down.

Better yet, try the Congo or the Sudan or Saudi Arabia or Russia.

Because girls may just wanna have fun but we’re also mad as hell and not gonna take it no more.

What lots of men, particularly young heterosexual men of a certain frat boy mentality don’t get is that all girls grow up with the threat of rape (by men, too, not just boys) and all women (I feel quite confident in saying “all”) will have experienced some form of sexual assault before we shuffle off this mortal coil. What’s changed from when I was a girl, and I was relatively protected and yet still experienced lots of scarring moments thanks to the men of the greatest generation and their sons and grandsons, is everything. Here. In Canada, at least. Everything has changed. Because nowadays, in this society, we recognize (the odd law enforcement official excepted) that rape is a male shame.

We look down on men in societies where rape is considered to be a female shame as backward, primitive, savage. The recognition that rape is a male shame is what separates the civilized world from the uncivilized world. What separates us still further is that in the civilized world we mock authority that is backward, primitive, savage, too.  We mock brute force. We mock violence. We mock stupid. And then we mock ourselves for not being as far removed from all that stupid as we should be and mock Feminists for reminding us of it – because it’s safe to mock Feminists no matter what the free speech for me but not for she male comedian may claim.

How many Feminists does it take to screw in a lightbulb? THAT’S NOT FUNNY!

Dan Ackroyd rebutting Jane Curtain in an SNL News Update with, “Jane, you ignorant slut.”

Al Franken responding to whichever Feminist was misquoted as saying, “All sex is rape” with “Just ask my wife”.

But – and it’s a big butt (just like my grandma’s and JLo’s) – rape jokes, not so much.

So, yes, I have a reasonable sense of humour, thank you (although I do love a prop comic, it’s true), but I know and know of too many girls and women who have been raped by men and I just don’t think it’s up to a man to sell us on the funny.

Now, if you’re a male comedian wants to make fun of his own rape, my all means.

But good luck with the funny.