For the World’s Silliest Feminist Award, that is. The competition was, as you can imagine, savagely fierce. Yet who can dispute Margot Magowan’s worthiness for this coveted honor?
Ms. Magowan is talking about — wait for it — M&Ms.
I’m not kidding: The illustration on the package of new Coconut M&Ms is, I guess, in violation of the Violence Against Women Act or something.
Compared to Margot Magowan, such deranged lunatics as Amanda Marcotte, Melissa McEwan, Michelle Goldberg and Rebecca Traister are exemplars of stoic rationality and emotional stability. She finds patriarchal oppression in the candy aisle at 7-Eleven!
Forget the M&Ms, Margot — what about that obscenely phallic Zagnut bar, huh? How dare they expose our children to that?
Magowan is a socially prominent heiress type, her father being owner of the San Francisco Giants and her grandfather the CEO of Safeway, so she can afford to be a ridiculous ditzy feminist and people have to pretend to take her seriously, which explains why her absurd maunderings are published by the San Francisco Chronicle. Her bio informs us, “In 1998, Margot co-founded the Woodhull Institute, an organization that trains young women to be leaders and change agents.”
Oh, wonderful. Let’s train up a new generation of paranoid lunatics who think they’re being oppressed by candy companies!
This is a solid piece, reminiscent of Moby. Sorry about the ‘none more black video’:You can get a full EP on iTunes now, before these guys are bigger than Nine Inch Nails. Hopefully they never achieve the full diaper wail of Trent Reznor.
And that, Mr. Sheppard, is how you pimp some product. 😉
Oh, you were one of the lucky ones who could afford a horse to pull your computer! When I was starting out, we had to pull our computer by hand — uphill! — to work every morning at dawn, then we’d blog all day in Fortran or Cobol, using an awl and a mallet on our punch-cards.
Weren’t none of this here fancy “electronics” back in the old days. We learned our craft on coal-fired computers. Only supervisors at the plant had the fancy high-tech kerosene-burning models.
Little boys and girls were hired to sweep up the chads from the punch-cards, and feed ’em into the stove what heated the Blog Factory . . .
Well, I remember it like it was yesterday, but it’s a sho-nuff wonder that was all the way back in aught-one.
Or was it aught-two? Anyhow, it was near the turn of the century, and folks would toil 12, 14, 16 hours a day, seven days a week. Didn’t have any fancy “PayPals” or “BlogAds” back then.
No sir, bloggers were paid in scrip, at piecework rates, and they’d trade ’em in down at the company store where Old Man Reynolds sold ’em some moldy bread and maggot-infested pork — and they were happy to get it, too! Times were hard back then, after the Dot-Com Bubble swole up and busted. Programmers were living in hobo camps down by the railyard, huddled around bonfires of burning copies of The Industry Standard every night. During the day, you’d see ’em on the street corners, peddling worthless stock options they’d taken in lieu of salary at startups that went bust in the Crash.
Then the War came, and every patriotic blogger enlisted in the Fighting Keyboardist Brigade. Boys came home from the blog-wars all gimped-up, and some of ’em were never quite the same. Reckon that’s what happened to Ol’ Crazy Charley . . .
What? . . . Oh, never mind, kid. You never heard of him, and it don’t hardly matter no how. You’d have to understand there used to be a guy name of Rather, back during the War Years. People got so confused they thought Howard Dean should be president one day, and then the next day you’d turn around and they was claimin’ John Kerry should be president! Anyway there used to be things called “GIF” files . . .
Never mind, son.
My point was, that war done things to people — messed up their minds — and so when you see Old Crazy Charley staggering around with his face all covered with Cheeto dust, ranting about “Belgian fascists” and “Greek Nazis” and so forth, try not to mock and point fingers and make jokes about him, like those mean kids do. The war messed up old Charley’s mind, and then he got obsessed with Pamela Geller, and next thing you know . . . Cheetos.
UPDATE III: “He’s done told it like it was, fer sure!” Back in the old days, when a man’s word was his bond, and a neighbor would always share a link or two with a feller.
I had Hannity on Sirius XM while driving home today, and Klein was on, pushing The Amateur.
Typically, these tell-all books don’t do much for me. Racey tales of he-said-she-said that don’t amount to much. In the segment I heard, though, Klein related to having 3.5 hours of taped Jeremiah Wright interview. Purportedly, Wright’s acquaintance with the underside of the bus in 2008 was not a happy one. The references to BHO’s spiritual development could prove highly explosive in bitter, cling-on circles. That Billy Jeff called Barack an amateur, the source of the title for the book, is less interesting. What else is WJC going to do? Clinton provides a kind of political Seinfeldian comedy of manners, where the main interest is in the tension between supporting the sitting Democrat President on the
right hand, while reaching around to stab repeatedly with the left.
Over at The Tatler, Stephen Kruiser picks up on British reporting on another angle in Klein’s book: the Oprah/Michelle tension.
Still, the fact remains that [BHO] was propelled to a landslide win by little more than a cult of celebrity that Oprah and the MSM conferred upon him. If you disagree I will gladly wait to hear any recitation of POTUS-worthy accomplishments he had prior to 2008 you can point out.
It looks like Doug Ross is maintaing a list, which will have to do until Hot Air gets a master Obamaturism list published.
The Obama Administration is morphing into some vast, reptilian beast in a Sword & Sorcery flick which has taken enough damage from the attacking characters to be either royally pissed or mortally wounded. Said beast is entering into a dangerous ‘thrash mode’, where some adventurers are going to get laid out. Whether or not the beast is stricken beyond recovery remains to be seen; Valerie Jarrett is rumored to be a 17th level anti-Cleric with Cthulhu on speed dial. Don’t think this book by Klein spells the end.
There may be other work to be done today — work for which I might actually get paid — but even if nobody hits my tip jar, this verbose bimbo is gonna get smacked around so bad, she’ll wish she’d never even thought about writing that witless screed. Just give me a few minutes to skim through and find the proper angle of attack. While you’re repeatedly hitting the “refresh” button in eager anticipation of the forthcoming viciously misogynistic updates, however . . .
C’mon: $5 or $10 to make it worth my while? Because nothing would so infuriate Rebecca Traister as to know that a shameless capitalist blogger is getting paid to heap more ridicule on her.
UPDATE II: While you’re waiting for me to unleash the hounds of patriarchal hell on Rebecca Traister, let’s point out that embittered humorless feminists are not a stereotype. They’re the unspeakably grim reality that is Michelle Goldberg on MSNBC:
Donald Douglas at American Power: “I’ve written about Michelle Goldberg many times. I was literally sickened when I read her book a few years back, which is a global manifesto for infanticide.”
In their spare time, Goldberg and Traister probably volunteer at the local abortion clinic, taking turns plunging knives through the hearts of any infants who manage to survive the procedure.
UPDATE IV: OK, now working feverishly on the main response, and thanks to Shelly in New Mexico for hitting the tip jar. The rest of y’all, c’mon: $5 or $10, and I’ll try to earn it.
There isn’t really an argument, except between Traister and her selected strawmen, or perhaps among the screeching voices inside Rebecca’s demon-filled head. (“My name is Legion” – somewhere, a herd of swine awaits.) Her intent is to celebrate the humor of various other liberals, to whom she attributes an aptitude she conspicuously lacks herself. No one has ever accused Rebecca Traister of being intentionally funny and, if “the personal is political,” her politics is either intensely secretive or utterly empty. Careful observers of Traister’s work cannot help but notice how guarded she is about herself, seeking always to have us focus on whatever idols she reveres or scapegoats she demonizes.
There is something about Rebecca that Rebecca doesn’t like (a self-loathing she externalizes by attacks on others), and her “feminism” is less a philosophy than an attempt to distract herself and others from her own emotional desperation.
One suspects she has a history of suicidal thoughts. What sort of anti-depressants has Traister been prescribed, and in what dosage?
It doesn’t matter: She is not funny, because there is nothing funny about her own lonely and joyless existence. For this plight, she somehow irrationally blames conservative Republicans she’s never actually met and who wouldn’t even know she existed — admit it, you had never heard of her before now — if she hadn’t committed that stupid miscomprehension of “succubus.” (Can the Washington Post no longer afford to employ college graduates as editors?) At any rate, here is the conclusion of Traister’s column:
The hairy harridan of yore isn’t totally vanquished. She’s too useful for the right. Without her, it becomes clear that Republicans are fighting not some made-up monster but women themselves. Contemporary activists who have recently replaced the yellowing cartoon of feminism with a living, breathing, nuanced version of what women’s liberation means in 2012 must keep fighting with humor and zeal if they ever want to finish off the old bat.
Perhaps someday they’ll even avenge her by hoisting a banner of their foes as fogeyish, woman-hating, humorless prudes and carrying it into future battles.
Unfortunately for Traister, she can never escape her own worst enemy, whose unforgiving gaze penetrates her every time she looks in a mirror.
A Texas pastor who once led the Southern Baptist Convention in introducing a resolution that recognized Obama’s historic achievement has voiced his displeasure with the president’s support and approval of gays, reports the Associated Baptist Press.
Dwight McKissic, pastor of Cornerstone Baptist Church in Arlington, wrote in a blog on May 9 that Obama’s statement is worthy of incurring wrath of biblical proportions. . . . “President Obama has betrayed the Bible and the Black Church with his endorsement of same-sex marriage. The Bible is crystal clear on this subject. . . . The moral impact of this day and decision is equal to the military impact of al-Queda when they attacked the Twin Towers on 911.”
(Hat-tips: News One and Fox Nation.) This is something I think most secularists don’t understand about us “bitter Bible-clingers.” We are People Of The Word, servants redeemed by unmerited grace who therefore owe as a sacred obligation the duty to defend the Word. It is not our own mere “belief” we defend, but the Word, which is eternal, a truth that will endure no matter what any liar may say against it. There are such things as Neutral Objective Facts, and we will not surrender the truth, for that would be a betrayal of the blood that was shed in order that we might know the truth.
My hope is built on nothing less Than Jesus’ blood and righteousness . . . On Christ the solid rock I stand. All other ground is sinking sand.
As it is written, “the truth shall make you free.” How then can anyone suppose that a people who, in answer to prayer, have been miraculously brought out of Egypt — for such was the understanding of their ancestors’ faith — should now turn their backs on He who redeemed them, to abandon the march toward Zion, and to surrender that salvation which so many suffered to gain?
Some people say it would take a miracle to beat Obama, so if “The First Gay President” soon becomes The First Black Ex-President . . .
Well, you can believe what you want to believe, I guess.
Exit Question: Why do liberals hate black Christians?
