Awesome Names for Radfem Blogs, the Special Kind

As it may be obvious by now, I’m a tad bit annoyed by much of online radical feminism.

And one of the things that bothers me about it, and bothers a whole lot of other people too, is the whole tone of the radfemosphere – the breathless drama of it, complete with agrrieved-sounding blog names like “The Margins” (they’re on the margins, dammit! No one cares about them!) or “Rage Against the Manchine” (which actually sounds pretty clever, until you understand that the author is Always. Dead. Serious.) or “Gorgon Poisons.”

Considering that these people want to change the world, the rhetorical hand-wringing is just… hilarious.

So, me and some other people decided to help the Radical Feminist Online Project by coming up with a list of pithy names for true radical blogs. You know, none of that frivolous, sparkly stuff. So people know you mean business.

The list got kind of long, as most of us, though dying of vicious laughter, were unable to stop ourselves. And here are the greatest hits. Nearly a hundred of them: Continue reading “Awesome Names for Radfem Blogs, the Special Kind”

…Into Shadow

“This is war, Peacock.” – Clue.

You know those old westerns, or those new space westerns, wherein the intrepid hero walks into a saloon or bar and all eyes turn to him? When everyone is waiting for the hero to do something stupid – such as order a glass of milk or fail to kiss the local gangster’s ass in a sufficiently enthusiastic fashion? Yeah, this is my life at the moment.

The cockroaches are waiting for me to do something stupid. Yesterday, they got their chance. I kept the light off in the hallway as I worked. I allowed myself to ignore a faint rustling noise. And I got a f*cking cockroach crawling up my leg.

I even suspect he was trying to hump it.

The only thing that saved my brain from overloading and powering off was the beer I had drunk half an hour before. Say what you want about alcohol, but it does have that certain dulling effect at times. Perhaps intrepid heroes everywhere should re-examine their relationship with it. I certainly have, in these last, dark weeks.

I’m not really sure what great lesson I am supposed to learn from this war of attrition. If it goes down in history books, it will be one of those wars that no one wants to learn about, featured heavily on essay questions in stuffy classrooms in the world over (Hundred Years’ War, Thirty Years’ War, the War of the Roses). For every strike, there is a measured counterstrike.

Perhaps the cockroaches don’t see it that way – perhaps killing roughly 100 by putting poison in the pipes between the garage and the stairs is seen, by them, as way, way worse than the single act of harassment last night. At least, I can only hope so. I want them to lament the terrors of my pesticide arsenal, goddamit. I want them to build remembrance museums. I want them to shoot documentaries about it, featuring the moody music of Phillip Glass and constant reminders that “viewer discretion is advised” between commercial breaks.

1,000 years from now, I want some pipe-smoking cockroach linguist to write an epic based in part on the legendary events of the stairwell. Half a century later, I want a blockbuster trilogy to be filmed, complete with stubble-chinned method actors.

What pesticide I spray in life – damn better echo in eternity. No just God could let all that stylized violence (*shriek* *flying shoe* *spurting pus* *another shriek*) go to waste.

Blatta orientalis: There will be blood

… So go to sleep bitch, die motherf*cker, die. Time’s up, bitch, close your eyes. – Eminem

An old X-Files episode, “War of the Coprophages,” centers on a town brought down to its collective knees by an infestation of cockroaches.

I am somewhat depressed to find my present living quarters to be a version of said town. The bathroom especially is a Body Shop-scented horror-fest. Even with shampoo running down my face, I try keep a vigilant eye on all surroundings, ready to jump out at the merest hint of something brown and quick, moving on long, bent, monstrous legs of doom in the corner of my vision. Not only did Mother Nature beat these things with the ugly stick, she also made them into unrepentant perverts.

Scavenging in the dark is somewhat forgivable, but attacking a naked girl in her shower is crossing over into “Psycho” territory. They say that Oriental cockroaches are attracted to light; what they fail to mention is that they are also attracted to the ladiez in a sick, degenerate way that, in a just world, would see them locked up forever in a maze full of hungry geckos and steroid-addled centipedes.

One hideous, malformed Child of Hades scuttled into the bedroom and tried to graze my foot lovingly while I was on a business call. It was a scene straight out of Kafka, and my partner’s eardrums may never be the same. I killed him (the cockroach, not the partner) with spray, and today I killed what I only hope is his dear, dear auntie – also with spray, since the fungal roach bait is becoming less attractive to these living abominations.

I’ve spent way too much time worrying about zombies and colossal squid, while the real threat grew unseen in old and rusted water pipes. What does a warrior do in such a situation? (Besides uttering a piercing scre… er, war-shriek, and bravely buggering off) The hunted must become the hunter. One’s inner Jim from “28 Days Later” (not whiny, unshaven Jim, but killing machine/smooth operator Jim) has to be unleashed.

At the gym, I improve my endurance, patiently shaving milliseconds off the time it takes me to react to the atrocity emerging from between my shampoo bottles and bolt for the death-spray. I also work on my arms, making sure I’m strong enough to deliver the perfect blow with my Nine West pump. I’m not a sadistic person, but the glee I experience at seeing one of these servants of Satan twitch its evil appendages as it expires makes me wonder if I should start moonlighting as an exterminator of sorts:

Except, in my case, I’d wear combat boots and a stars n’ stripes bikini, blast Iron Maiden in the background, pour kerosene down the pipes, and greet the exodus with a vengeful rain of armour-piercing bullets laced with boric acid, cyanide, and the ground-up teeth of evil clowns. If the house blows up, I’ll take them with me, and they, in the immortal words of Renegade Evolution, can suck my strap-on in hell ’till doomsday.

And you shall know me by the trail of dead, etcetera, etcetera.

Dmitrii Artemyev on The Clown-Show to End All Clown-Shows

If you don’t read Russian, you probably don’t know of the existence of Dmitrii Arteymev, an opinion essayist for the popular website (APN stands for Agency of Political News) and self-described “Orthodox Christian.”

I have to say, I envy you.

The misery of knowing that a person like Dmitrii Artemyev exists is a burden that I cannot bear alone. Having invited all of my Russian-speaking friends and relatives to share it, I shall now inflict some choice bits on my non-Russian-speaking friends as well. The bits were originally part of an essay on the 8th of March, International Women’s Day.

What follows is a translation, combined with my own commentary. Please note that my good Russian-English dictionaries are presently away from me. I have, however, tried very hard to do this monstrosity justice… or injustice, as the case may be. Continue reading “Dmitrii Artemyev on The Clown-Show to End All Clown-Shows”

This… Is… Germaine Greer!


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.