Sunday, December 28, 2014

PattiBlows: Shub-Niggurath Edition


Patti Stanger is not a fun person.




That's okay. Remember when she talked about her own thoughts and opinions as they related to herself for two whole sentences? Narrow-minded as those opinions may have been, they were hers, as they related to her life, and that was nice. I mean, her wants in life sound very limiting and boring to Clementine, but the beauty of not being Clementine is that you get to want different things from Clementine. Humanity is a lovely quilt of whatever and such.

Of course your right to be boring ends where my fun begins. Patti Stanger also thinks all non-straight people are slutty-ho slut sluts and that people with kinks are sick and disgusting. (Although I will cop to that one. Every time I get hit with a belt a little bit of my humanity slips out of me, leaving shards of the void to prepare my body to become the tainted vessel of the demon-mother Shub-Niggurath. It's a hoot and a half.)

It's always hard for me to put myself in the mind of a bigot, but here, I'll try: I think Patti truly believes that all of humanity is exactly like her. And that there's one little queer person. Just the one, running around all queer, streaking through her gender-segregated lockstep parade marching ever toward the endgame of marriage, laughing at her good soldiers and shouting about kyriarchy. She hates that little queer person. She thinks that little queer person is the jester to her court, the little wise fool who has kingly license to mock the world, and she doesn't remember inviting them.

So I thought she'd employed a little jester:


Actually, no, that does not accurately describe my thoughts upon seeing this title in the blog links. Here, take my gentle loving hand and let's walk you through my Cognitive Matrix Bullet Time Explosion, you and I:

  • Wait, what? What the hell? Patti knows trans women exist? YES! 
  • I mean, NO! Oh my god, she's going to be mean and reductive about trans women!
  • Ugh, I bet it's going to be one of those "here's what you need to know about trans people: they are very sick and deserve our pity" sort of dealies at best. She seems the type.
  • Oh, it's a guest contributor! A trans man maybe? Would Patti hire a-
  • Jester! That's it! She hired the jester to debase himself while speaking truth!
  • No, wait, that doesn't seem right. Patti doesn't hire the jester, she puts him in the oubliette. Medieval lord-kings were more enlightened than Patti Stanger. Wow. That's sad.
  • Maybe she doesn't run the site though. Maybe the people who do are smarter than her. That's a safe bet. There's factory runoff mutating at the bottom of a lake that's smarter than her. Maybe those people held her down and forcefully updated her site with something positive.

Spoiler! This content note might ruin the ending for you.

(Content note: transphobia, weapons-grade misogyny, gender-essentialism, MRA, racism, implied threats, kink, male entitlement up my fucking hooha, it's a bad one.)

 So all that spontaneous thinking took less time to think than it took for me to click the link, where:



It did! Talk trans to me baby!


Um... Okay, I'll play along, but I think you got your text editor confused with a cyber chatroom.


A glorious bush and the Cave What Smells of Ocean.


No, actually, but it's funny you should bring that up. I just did a whole thing about how I've got externally implanted and enforced gender dysphoria and between you and me, I sometimes try to imagine what it would be like to-

Oh.


Oh.

Oh no.

Oh god David NO!





Stealth bigots are the worst.

And I keep running into them. Like those white people who seem perfectly nice and also assume that since I look like them I want to be their white power buddy. "Oh, your cookies are to die for, you must give me the recipe and also immigrants are ruining this country!" It's gross. It's Vader's outstretched hand tempting me to the Dark Side, only instead of wisdom and power beyond the limits of my imagination, what's actually on offer is a vague desire to be a dick to people. No thanks, I guess.

Men who want me to join them in their hatred of women are extra strength creepy to me. It's one thing to be an oozing, pulsating, throbbing boil on the ass cheek of existence (although I'd rather you didn't) but to happily and genuinely invite me to join you in bringing discomfort and unhappiness to the world is just adding a layer of extra-strength industrial-grade Creep. And I don't understand it.

"Ugh, women, ammirite? Women. They're the worst. Oh, you are one? You're not like those women, are you? I've got two burly fistfuls of male entitlement says you're not. Yeah, that's what I thought."

I don't like stealth bigots. I don't like any bigots, but I have a cold, dark storage freezer in my heart for people who gently or enthusiastically dismantle my defenses, break through my protective layer of caution to dig down to the warm, vulnerable core of trust only to dig their fingernails into into it and squeeze the kindness from me. You know who's really the worst? Women. But also stealth bigots.

I'm sorry, women with a penis. I really am. And I don't mean I'm sorry the world is inflicting this upon you. I mean I'm sorry I haven't yet fully consumed the cosmic glory of the Dark Goat of the Woods to smite the wicked and cast them down into horror of unlife. Any day now.


Between all of them? Literally everything.

Oh, right.


Right, but...

Ugh.

Okay, so, here's my deal with this blog. The reason I talk about pop culture is because I love it, first and foremost, but also because it's the perfect tool to explore complicated societal issues and trends in a familiar format. The reason I pick apart movies like this isn't just because I think the thing on it's own is awful, it's because I think it also represents something awful. I want to dissect it and expose its insides and see what they have to say about the world we all have to inhabit. I'm not saying I always succeed, but it's my intent.

So sometimes I feel like I'm talking down to people. Gender-essentialism is bad! No, duh. Next you're going to tell me racism is wrong or something.

I don't want to create an echo chamber here. The reason I go after easy targets is because they represent a common, widely shared experience that merits a second look, and a third. I don't do it because it's easy, I do it despite the fact that it's hard.

Except right now. This shit is easy. I never would have given it a second look if I hadn't been tricked into thinking I was going to see some compassion and understanding on this site, but here we all are. So I'm sorry, gentle reader. I'm going to insult your intelligence very hard, but not as hard as I'm going to insult David Wygant, like so:

David Wygant, you are a bad man. I mean that in two ways. Let's explore them. You are a bad man, yes, bad in the sense that your very existence is a real and terrifying threat to all of humanity on the day when the gods return to earth and ask us what we've been up to while they were out. They are going to smite our collective ass with extreme prejudice, David. And it will be your fault. I want you to know that. When the great works of man burn and the Ancient Ones devour the very concept of humanity, I want you to look around and know that you did that. You. Personally. It's going to feel really bad. But you are also a bad man, in that you've chosen to be "man" before you are human. So I'm going to go ahead and call you sub-human, and I have reasons for this. Neurotypical humans have the innate ability to relate to and sympathize with the plights and joys of others. Most neurodiverse people who don't have the desire to do so and learn it. Not you though. You created by choice and design a clay gollem called Man, you breathed it to life with your hatred and now it has turned on you and consumed you. Your humanity, your very personhood is rotting in the clay bowels of the creature you yourself created. That sucks.

I'm not angry with you. In fact I take deep, glowing, almost sexual pleasure in the fact that you cannot abide me. There was a time not so long ago when creeps like you made me feel small and scared, but I get the feeling those days are over. I think that because when I imagine you writhing and squirming in impotent frustration at my personhood, it brings me pleasure. Comfort. When the mere fact of my existence brings anguish and hurt to the evildoers, that must logically mean that I am fantastic. I obviously think I'm better than you, clearly, but I want to explain that, so that whatever scraps of intelligence you have left have a chance of wrapping themselves around my sweet, sweet logic and absorbing the juicy righteousness within, and here it is: you suck. I am better than you because you suck, and I don't. Quod erat fucking demonstrandum, bitch.

I drink your milkshake, David. I drink it all.

Are we clear here, David? Are you picking up what I am laying down? Does David need a whoopin'? No? Good. Fucking sit down, because I'm about to drill some goddamn truth into your squishy skull.


You know what, David? You've got a pretty mouth.

I don't advise anyone to follow that link, because it leads to a place that has women/products in the URL, and you know that doesn't go to any place good and wholesome. But if you must, here it is.

Dude's got a pretty mouth, is what I'm saying. Now I kind of wish I really did have a penis like he thinks I do, but only because I know for a fact that me jerking it to his picture would bring him no end of grief and frustration. I bet the farm that he's the sort of dude who cries himself to sleep at night in tears of furious rage when a gay dude makes a pass at him. And that's wrong and sad, but it's also deeply funny.


You would agree? Why the hell wouldn't you? They're out there, David, being all magical and quaint, hiding in their little forest dens with their little twitchy noses. And I promise you, their lives are difficult enough without the voluntarily sub-human confusing genitals with gender.

But let's be real, that's not even what's going on here. Any thinking and moderately educated person, trans or not, has some basic understanding of the idea that genitals = sex = gender isn't true for everyone. Many people may not understand it, but they have some sort of awareness that the idea is out there. But that's not even what David is doing here. With him, it goes genitals = man/womanhood. Not personhood, because those aren't even separate things in the mind that is sloshing around in the digestive juices of a gollem. Penis = manhood. Vagina = womanhood.

I figured out why he's on the site, by the way. Patti Stanger must be his sweet forever princess. The image of those two sub-humans rage-fucking the pain away gives me an imaginary boner that I'm pretty sure means I'm a zoophile.


The frustrating thing about making fun of the emotionally sub-human is that all your pretty words and twists and analogies fly right over their head. I could explain to David that the reason everyone at parties keeps putting toothpicks in his hair is because his hole-riddled brain is indistinguishable from the cheese platter, but he wouldn't get that, so let me try this instead:

Hey, David! You smell bad and you suck. Ook ook.


I'll bet they do. Oomph. Ugh. Hip thrust.

David, you do realize you've been using the word "vagina" to mean "femininity" this entire time, right? You dirty, dirty slut you. Bend over. I'm going to do things to your masculinity.



This seven-paragraph article uses the word "penis" nine times and it never means the same thing twice. That makes it very difficult to criticize, because I never quite know what pocket of fevered lunacy David's mind resides in sentence to sentence, but I'm pretty sure he just called me a dick for talking about my accomplishments.

Fuck you too, David.

Sorry. They can't all be winners.


Should it be?

Or are we just listing things that aren't turn-ons? Fair enough, I'll play! Babies. Chickens in stockings. Cheese platters. Weeping vaginal sores. Female pride. The Misshapen Children of Demon Mother Shub-Niggurath what have teeth for eyes. Barnyard animals. Not your pretty, dirty mouth though, that gets me going. Oh yeah. Umph.


I think what you're trying to say here is that you've confused men with co-dependency sufferers, or possibly children.

I mean, I could pick that statement apart and talk about no doy, it's fairly well-established that every human wants that, but instead let me just point out that your skill at psychological analysis is only rivaled by your spelling and grammar. It's low-hanging fruit, I'll cop to that, but so are the big hairy balls I wish I could dip in your pretty mouth, so it evens out.


Can we just all agree that this is hate speech? I mean, I don't know the legal definition of the term in every country on earth, but can we at the very least agree that claiming that a whole group of people is neurologically compelled to be predatory sex pests should not be as commonly accepted as it is?

This is what gets me about MRA talk, which we can all agree this is. The things they believe about women are horrific and upsetting and more than a little insulting, but it's not surprising. I can follow the logic that leads them to think all wimminz is out to sink their harpy teeth into their groin and rip out their testes through their wallet. There's a step-by-step psychological process there that I can comfortably follow. But why do they always paint men as these feral, amoral sub-humans with no want in life other than to stab their groin-sword at every warm body in proximity? You'd think that if they see man and woman as completely separate concepts that inhabit completely separate spheres of existence, and women are the vastly inferior species, they'd have a really high opinion of men, but they don't. So I'm not being aimlessly nasty when I call David and his ook-ooking cronies less than human. I'm pretty sure I'm going by his own logic.



Why? So that you'll like me? We've already established that your anguish makes my dick hard.



Yes, but then it's not very complicated, is it? This isn't how you win hearts and minds, David. Just saying "penis" over and over again is a great way to announce to everyone in the room that their day just got a whole lot longer and infinitely more taxing, but let's all not pretend it makes you a brave warrior for truth most splendid.

I mean really, all you're doing here is braying about how my personality hurts your barnyard feelings while simultaneously trying to threaten me into obeying you, or else!

Or else what, David? You'll go on the internet and say mean things about me some more? That would make you as bad as me, a woman! I win! Har har and and a mighty up yours!



Don't fucking call me a creature, you blight.

Seriously, or else what? You started with the implied threats, I'm calling it. Or else what? I don't get to date this splendid guy?



Gee, what a loss.

You can't do that David. You can't write several paragraphs about how all women need to do this and that and then turn around and claim that it's not about telling women to be this and that. I mean, you can, clearly you just did, but on the other hand, you know, eat my balls.

And you know what Patti, you're not off the hook either. I already knew you were a pustule, but hosting MRA crap on your advice blog for women? I honestly, genuinely mean it when I say you've sunk below even my lowest expectations. Which is why I feel entirely justified in pointing out how ball-ticklingly funny I think it is that the cover of your book about how you found your soulmate has the dude clearly Photoshopped in.


This is what happens when you tell people they're brainless filth and give them license to be their worst, Patti. They get to be their worst.

And you, David?

You can suck my dick.


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