Tuesday, February 10, 2015

PattiBlows: Cold Hard Cash Edition

Happy encroaching Valentine's Day. However you feel about this day, it is valid and true. Feel your feels and feel them freely.

For tips on how to celebrate when single, please have some advice from a fucking human being.

For sexist drivel, please keep reading.

Okay, I've done enough of these to know where this is going to go: sit quietly in a cocktail dress while being pretty, beaming your womanly thoughts at him from the confines of your frilly chastity belt, then blame yourself for not being pretty enough when it turns out you're not dating Professor X.

In the absence of this, second place goes to: anything you can think of, including but not limited to renting a troupe of chimpanzees to smear "I'd like to go to watch a movie" in their own shit on the wall, except talk to him.

What say you, Patti?


What the everloving crap?




Yes! Patti, you did it! You wrote a whole entire column that has good advice that I agree is healthy and wise for adults to follow! How to get what you want? Ask for it! Patti, I'm so proud. This must be what my mother's always telling me what having children is like. Those little fuckups will try your patience and wreck your dreams, but gosh darn does it feel good when you watch them do life right. I'm proud of you. Genuinely proud.

Please don't ruin in with your...

... words. Damn.

I'm torn. On the one hand it's condescending as fuck to give a grown adult cookies and gold stars for realizing that real life is not like romantic comedies, but for Patti, this is actually progress. It's creepy that she sounds kind of sad about the fact that real life isn't like romantic comedies, but progress is progress no matter how far behind she's still lagging. Imagine what this could mean! Maybe for her next column, "Ten ways to psychically project your woman-emotions into the man-mind of your shaven ape," one of them will be: use your words to communicate thoughts and desires. That's progress I can believe in without rolling my eyes all that much!

It's beautiful the way watching a unicorn give birth is beautiful: unexpected and fucked up and making me scared that someone slipped mushrooms in my tea. What the hell do I do with this? It's fucked up, me having to consider that I was actually being genuine when the thought that Patti might not be a force for evil first occurred to me on one of those long dark nights of the soul.

What do I seriously do with this? Tell people Patti Stanger has some good advice now and then? Concede that maybe I was needlessly cruel when I wished that she would helplessly drown in a sea of puss while slowly realizing her life left the world worse than she found it and weeps softly as regret grabs her heart in the final moments of consciousness? Keep reading?

And so the shards of a shattered universe slot into place again.

So, Patti dearest, you've stumbled onto the idea that words are good and communication gets you closer to what you want and need as a couple. I wonder how this happened, but clearly it did, so let's not dwell. You seem surprised. You seem a little bit baffled at the idea that clear communication gets better results than quietly performing female with a big smile and stroking his brittle ego until his latent psychic abilities kick in, so this is what you came up with? Communication is good because men are dumb and can't emotion and words are the hammer that drives the railroad spike of feelings into their wrong brain?

Don't let your partner know what you want because you trust them and words are one of the primary methods humans have of making their desires known to their fellow human beings. Do it because his fucked-up man-brain can't parse emotion. I haven't seen anyone misunderstand the purpose of communication this badly since my server told me the specials through interpretive dance.

Lesson learned. If Patti Stanger says something halfway decent, it's for the same reason monkeys can write Shakespeare. Sometimes commenting on this stuff isn't a feminist act. It's How To Be A Human For Dummies.

I know what this is though. I've said before that Patti Stanger strikes me as a very insecure woman who can only cope with her inner turmoil by believing everyone feels the same way she does, and digging her heels into other women when it turns out we don't. I'm even more convinced of that now, because of what happened here: she doesn't feel her independent observations and conclusions are worth anything unless they're backed by "science." She's scared that if she doesn't at least give her personal opinions a veneer of scientific truth, people aren't going to take her seriously. She's trying to sound smart, and she does it in the only way that makes sense for her: by viewing humanity through the lens of the worst of us.


Patti... Do you need a hug? I think you need a hug. You're wonderful just the way you are. Please accept that. Not so much for your own sake as for the human race as a whole. In the absence of a hug, please have a book recommendation instead.

See why this makes me fucking sad for her? This childlike delight! At discovering! That your partner might care about what! You! Need! OMG!

I just imagine Patti storming into our Galentine's Day party waving her arms and tripping over her heels, screaming: "Girls, girls! Sit ye the fuck down, because I've cracked the man code! Sometimes when you tell a person you love what you need, they will give you that thing!"

I imagine the rest of us giving each other nervous glances and telling her right, that's absolutely right sweetheart, while each and every one of us slips her a card for a battered women's shelter under the table.

If Sleeping Beauty got knocked out in the fifties and woke up yesterday into a world of wonder, this is what she'd blog about.

This isn't the Patti Stanger I know. Communication? Asking for what I want? Asking what he wants? What do I even want, Patti? How can I figure out what I need without some backwards harpy hovering over my shoulder screeching at me what I should ask for? How the fuck am I supposed to make my way into a world where what I want is unique to me and my relationship? What dystopian nightmare is this where no woman is told what to want?

Oh, you'll tell me? Thank Christ. For a minute there I thought I was going to have to be a person instead of a ramshackle fetch forlornly performing femininity.

It's always a huge relief to me when Patti writes rebuttals of her own opinions. If she spent half as much time delving into the principle of "consistency" as she does worshiping at the feet of lady-mouthed MRA apes my job would be a lot harder.

Ask for what you want, she says in a kind voice, gently wiping a stray lock of hair behind your ear while smiling encouragingly. You smile back, sadly but genuinely, and quietly resolve to delve deep into the gleaming treasure trove that is the wealth of your soul, dive into the depths of self to clutch at a pearl, the essence of what you want.

Now fucking stop that lunacy and shut up, because here's what you want

Patti uses the word "know" with such reckless abandon that it devalues the very concept of knowledge. Every time she types the words "I know" the timeline loops back on itself to burn another tome in the library of Alexandria.

So it's a gift for the both of us that is exclusively for him and also from him.


God, this really is a nightmare for a feminist to unpack, but fuck me with a patriarchy if I'm not going to at least give it a fair shake: the perfect gift for you as a couple is to let him wrap you up like a present before he fucks you, because you get to chose the color of the ribbon.

I guess lingerie is "for me" (which equals "him") "from him" (which equals "us") because he paid for it. Did I get that right? Gosh. I guess that's one way to break down the complicated emotional give-and-take that is ritualized gift-giving. Do it or don't, I really couldn't care less, but if you do, at least try and keep things in the realm of normalcy. What is this backwards shopping-by-proxy ritual supposed to achieve emotionally?  It's not about you getting something you want. It's not about him giving you something you both get enjoyment out of, because we all know know know that lingerie is for him. It's not about him knowing what you like, because you've given him detailed instructions on what to buy because you think he's too man-dumb to figure it out on his own. And all that's fair enough, but what if my relationship isn't based on mutual contempt?

I would posit that it would be a whole lot easier to just demand a twenty before you fuck. The core advice remains the same and at least we're all being honest about what this is: you'll fuck for cash and goods. Now you and I both know there's nothing inherently wrong with that, but Patti doesn't, and it kind of tickles me to imagine how rabidly, frothingly angry she'd get if you explained the core principle of her own advice to her.

This really sucks as vanilla romantic advice, but it's pretty decent fetish play. It all comes down to what you want, doesn't it? At least when I get put in uncomfortable bondage gear for a fuck, it's because I enjoy it, not because offering up my ass to appease the master's tempestuous dick is just the painful sacrifice good girls make on the altar of the relationship. By all means wear sexy lingerie as a prelude to a nice screw. Hell, wear chains, wear a gimp mask, wear nothing but your own fabulous skin, just make sure you do it because you want to. And don't ever get fucking fooled into thinking all-about-him sex, which has its place, has to come at the expense of your own needs.

And to think Patti's advice is supposed to avoid hurt feelings and fights on Valentine's.


Surely not.

Surely not!

As it turns out, no, but I don't mind telling you I've never shipped anyone harder. I didn't root for Merry to get with Eowyn as hard as I'm rooting for this shambling sack of lipstick and dryer lint to get with a subhuman made of dicks and manpain.

This, incidentally, answers one of the most pertinent questions in feminism: is it ever justified to wish an MRA troll on a woman?

The answer is yes. Yes it is.

So your idea of something "made especially for you" is a useless overpriced piece of chintz that someone wrote your name on? Fuck, why go through the trouble? Here's a Sharpie, just write David on your ass.

We'll get right on that after we're done playing spin the bottle and braiding each other's hair. But yeah, screw it, go to a fucking pottery class and get all cheesy, see what that does for you.

Nice try Patti, but when you describe "not buying each other stuff with cold hard cash" as "letting him off the hook" in the understanding that you're only being this monumentally generous in anticipation of bigger, better gifts, you're not exactly warming the cockles of my fucking heart. You're one of the most materialistic people I've ever had the displeasure of encountering. You deeply, genuinely believe that love isn't love until diamonds materialize and that the only way for a man to earn a woman's physical affection is to prove his worth with a binder of bank statements. Your trust issues run so deep you compliment the man you love based on a calculated 4:1 ratio lest you undersell the goods. Your contempt for the concept of organically occurring love is so viceral you can only conceive of the worth of other human beings on a sliding numbers scale. Fuck, you think a personalized gift is buying something someone else made personally. You could walk into a homeless shelter and take a steaming shit in the trays and still be just about as familiar with the concept of charity as you are now.

Don't buy it, David. I don't know what this lunatic's game is, but she's clearly just looking for an excuse to tear your fucking head off. Buy the woman a gift. Or if you don't, at the very least bung a frozen pizza in the oven. She'll think it's positively adorable that you're trying to be a grownup with your retarded man brain and offer you her monogrammed ass as a reward.

Happy fucking.

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