The above is called “fun with Photo Booth at 4 a.m.” Leonidas is attacking from behind. *cough*
Germaine Greer hates me. I know it. For reals.
As I go about my days, fiddling with fairy tales, hunting for a good pair of platform sandals, drinking bad instant coffee, and dealing with my homicidal rage at Ben from “Lost,” I often pause and wonder – “Would Germaine approve?”
The answer is always “NO. Especially if you have to ask to begin with.” Hence, she hates me. And, she hates you too, most likely.
We are, of course, in exalted company. Germaine doesn’t like supermarkets, the colour pink, waitresses who delight in their own décolletage (of course, it’s always been OK for Ms. Greer to delight in her own – she’s a classy intellectual, not some trashy tart), and Hillary Clinton. She also hates transgender people, Steve Irwin, Princess Diana, and, well, pretty much anyone who takes the world’s attention away from Germaine Greer.
Being the subject of Germaine Greer’s hate is like having a pissed-off Spartan barrel down upon you with spear aloft. The reason for this has to do with the fact that Ms. Greer has made an entire career out hating things. Back in the day, she hated women if they happened to be too timid. Now she hates them if they are too brash.
You can’t win someone like that. You don’t even want to try. You’ll end up in a broom closet somewhere, sucking your thumb and whimpering for Valium.
Wherein lies the appeal of King Leoni… Germaine Greer? Is it because most people agree with her? I don’t think so. I think it has to do with the fact that there is something delicious about being hated in this fashion.
Consider this: I own a few pink wardrobe items. They’re not particularly outlandish, and, the sad truth is, most of them aren’t even that well-made. So, I don’t get particularly excited when I throw my closet open and discover that one of the few clean things left is a pale-pink oxford shirt I should have replaced at least a year ago… Until I read Greer’s diatribe against pink, that is.
Suddenly, wearing that pale-pink oxford shirt that should have been replaced at least a year ago is a STATEMENT. It is a PROVOCATION.
It is saying, “bugger off, Germaine, you patronizing, pseudo-feminist kill-joy, I will wear whatever I damn please.” It is saying, “I am among the ranks of Steve Irwin and Princess Diana!” It is saying, “tonight! We dine! In pink!”
It is also, according to Germaine, an action that invokes genitalia and, ah, other body parts. Which is just the icing on the cake, really, because while I always want to be exciting and artfully suggestive, sometimes, it’s just too much work. Now, all I have to do is put on a damn oxford shirt, and I’m practically Nabokov.
Same goes for cleavage. And being able to navigate the produce aisle.
Amazing, really, how much meaning and purpose can be found in the most ordinary tasks and abilities if Gerard… I mean, Germaine, shows you the way.
I can’t wait for Germaine Greer to stumble upon “Lost.” Or write a diatribe about bad instant coffee.