'Daughters of the Revolution', 'Mothers of Invention', anti-ageing cream, Cambridge University, catwalks, Critique of Pure Reason, Emannual Kant, feminism, JJ McCabe, leather trousers, male chauvinism, MIT, sexism
They Kant be Serious (Geddit?)
[No. Ermintrude] (Besides, Emannual Kant was a distinguished, thoughtful philosopher. EdZilla) [Not an utter twat. Ermintrude] Bah! Anyway; what is wrong with the world? No. Seriously. Like today. Like even right now, I’ve just received a blog criticising MOI, if you please. [What; another one? Ermintrude] Apparently for exhibiting ‘atavistic, unreconstructed sexist and phallocentric value systems from the Middle Ages’. Eh? It took me half an hour to work out it was an insult. (God; he really is pathetic! EdZ) But wait! Not from some titless WunderPuss in some far-out lefty, right-on university like Cambridge or MIT, but from a bloke! Some guy called Ephraim Z Lullabelle the Third – American, obviously. He says MOI and my kind deserve to be consigned to the ‘Dustbin of Herstory’ for trying to resurrect a male dominated society where women are only valued by criteria based their breasts, bums, and bedability. Like what’s wrong with that?
Storm in a D Cup
This guy; is he PussyWhipped or what? One will get you five, he writes poetry; and not the stuff that rhymes either. And it’s unlikely he will ever manage to parse ‘June’ with ‘Orgasm’. Not surprisingly, his exercise in literary criticism-cum-ball-strangling was immediately followed by a barrage of blogs from some bunch of crotchless y-chromosomes from the old former colony, threatening hell and damnation; particularly for the contents of my y-fronts. Probably some splinter group of ‘The Orgasm Police’, although from what they’re threatening to do to me, ‘sphincter group’ might be a better description. I imagine they could be descended from the ‘Daughters of the Revolution’, or is it ‘The Mothers of Invention’? No matter. My knowledge of that colonial insurrection is a bit shaky. Huh! They probably said the same about Titian. I mean, where do you think his name came from? [No it didn’t! Ermintrude] I seem to recall it was John Knox who tried to warn all us blokes about that ‘monstrous regiment of D Cups’. (It certainly explains how you got that Lower Second in History. EdZ) Humbug! [Apologies; he wasn’t properly potty-trained till he was eighteen. Ermintrude]
In any event, I’m not the gormless gender who drool over the titless wonders who parade up and down catwalks, sporting ridiculous confections by the talentless and tasteless designers who create such stuff, mainly for twelve year-old survivors from a Second World War movie. The irony, unlike the tits, is massive. When the cameras zoom out to the crowd of spectators – loaded blokes with their trophy shags; inter alia – all the women in the oddience are demonstrably female: gorgeous hooters, long slim legs, faces to die for – palpably feminine. While on the tat-walk beside them a bunch of undernourished beanpoles, putatively of the same gender, stagger about trying not to fall of their high heels. Weird or what? And this is the gender who demand ‘respect’? Sure; just keep taking the monkey glands, babes. I mean; with blokes it’s different. Even today, I doubt if the world is really ready for me in tight-fitting black leather trousers. (Still less, a Spandex truss. EdZ) Yet how often do the poor menfolk wake up in The Accident and Emergency Department of their local hospital for giving the wrong answer to the perennial question; ‘Does my bum look big in this?’ Is it still possible to be a babe magnet at my age? [No! Ermintrude] (Maybe; with a full body transplant; and a new head as well. EdZ) Bah! But at least I don’t go round sporting some absolutely foul chiffon-cum-sackcloth creation designed for younger, tauter bodies. It can be quite un-nerving if one comes across them by surprise at parties. [Have you seen the state of your jeans? Ermintrude] (When did you last wash them? EdZ) As a matter of fact I always wash my jeans once a year, whether they need it or not! [The case rests. Ermintrude]
And Another Thing
Or do I mean ‘thong’? Blast! I’ve forgotten what I was going to rant about next. Oh yes. What about all the adverts for anti-ageing cream? Why not start with using models who made it to the other side of forty for a start? I mean, no woman wants their neck to have that ‘last chicken in Sainsbury’s’ look, but some lines or wrinkles surely lend character. What about Lauren Bacall or Christine Deneuve? What about Ivana Trump? Any bloke would die to have one of them perched on his arm whenever he was compelled to attend one of these bizarre beanfeasts. But now, after such pearls of wisdom, I must go and lie down for a while… [Under a train, preferably. Ermintrude] Or Raquel Welch. Or Cher. Or Twiggy. [Or St Ermintrude; the Patron Saint of Sharp Pointy Things, who’s gonna paste you one, unless you put a sock in it!]
John J McCabe. Copyright.