At Medium.com, a brief scene in which Kaiser Wilhelm II interrogates his generals.
I’ll admit it: when I read this paragraph…
The fact of the matter is, if it weren’t natural, I wouldn’t still produce milk, and it wouldn’t feel good to breast feed my son. Because of the sexual repression of women, there’s little information on the sexual nerve receptors in the nipple and the rest of the titty, but when a baby sucks on a woman’s breast she experiences a bit of sexual pleasure. When a man does it, she receives even more pleasure because the breast is sensitive to facial hair, and now that my son Mason is old enough to grow facial hair, our breastfeeding sessions have become even more pleasurable for me.
…my immediate response was literally this:
And when I say “literally”, I mean I held my phone, on which I initially read it, an arm’s length away, saying “what even the f—-!”
But the last line (thankfully) gives the game away…
I’m going to keep breast feeding my son until my body decides that it’s time to stop, and I get the feeling that my body isn’t producing milk because Mason needs it, it’s producing milk because my body knows that we live in a problematic society that discourages women from letting their children suck on their boobs in public. That and I have a hormonal imbalance.
Now, I’m not entirely certain what the target of the satire is. Crunchy Uber-Breastfeedery Anti-Vaccer types, most likely, with perhaps a last snook cocked at Third Wave Feminism. But in any case, at least half the commenters don’t get it. Which is either the sign of good satire, or more evidenced that mass media and irony don’t mix.
Which is to say, the dearth of posting at this blog will be entirely blamed on the arrival of my youngest daughter, who blessed us earlier this month.
When normal blogging will resume, I cannot say. Babies are attention machines, and it’s summer.
Metric is useful for certain things, but Imperial is more human.
Then I start to realize that for length there is a similar problem in the metric system, in that you can’t divide a meter continuously by 2 without getting fractions. In the English system, the rulers are divided by quarters and eighths and 16ths, but the metric ruler is divided into units of ten, so any fraction of that you just have to guess. It is IMPOSSIBLE to divide a meter by three, because you get 0.333333333 etc meters; using the metric ruler, a third on a metric meter doesn’t exist! So then I start to think, hey, THAT’S why there are 12 inches in a foot, you can divide all sorts of ways, by 2, by 3, by 4, by 6, no problem! Cool!
We have this friend who is a carpenter, and I see him, and I say, “Hey, Freddie, when you have a board a meter long, how do you divide it into 3?” And he sort of gives me a funny look, and says why would he want to do that. And I say, well, “How does that work? Because in the metric system, a third of a meter isn’t marked on your ruler so what do you do? Don’t you ever have a board of one meter that you have to divide by three?” And he says, “No.” And I’m sort of crestfallen, and then he adds, we don’t buy boards by the meter, the standard lengths they sell are in 120 centimeters.
Americans are often castigated for not using the metric system. But we do. Where it’s more useful than the Imperial system. Where it isn’t, we don’t.
If you replace this with Verizon, it would be essentially the same…
Originally posted on Ramblings:
My name is Stacie Huckeba I have been a customer of Comcast for over eight years.
I realize that it’s a dirty little secret and you don’t like to talk about it, but c’mon, between just you and me, you can admit it. Basically you have a monopoly on internet service, at least in terms of speed. It’s ok, I like money too. Nobody is happier than me when I deposit big fat checks. Sadly, I’m not quite as “connected” as you guys.
I’m a photographer and I think I’m really good, unfortunately, I live in a town with a plethora of talented photographers so I can’t just sit back and be lazy. I’ve sent emails to the Mayor, and Governor and even my Senators and Congressmen asking that they put in regulations to make sure I am the only photographer who can use professional and top of the…
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Earlier this month, when some highly educated matron or other had to reach for her smelling salts upon hearing “Under My Thumb” whilst shopping for groceries (the Trader Joe’s manager who refrained from saying “Lady, I’ve heard that fucking song so many times in the last month I don’t even notice it anymore. All possibility of enjoyment of it has been systematically driven from me. I couldn’t come up with a fuck to give if you held a gun to my head. Now, are you gonna put that second package of gluten-free wheat germ back, or are you going to vacate the ’12 Items or Less’ aisle?” deserves a raise), I got a fillip of the familiar. Lester Bangs used to write about what the “woman’s libbers” were going to do to Jagger every time he toured, but I recalled something from Camille Paglia in particular, dealing with how “Under My Thumb” began her conflict with respectable feminism.
This was where I realized — this was 1969 — boy, I was bounced fast, right out of the movement. And I had this huge argument. Because I said you cannot apply a political agenda to art. When it comes to art, we have to make other distinctions. We had this huge fight about the song “Under My Thumb.” I said it was a great song, not only a great song but I said it was a work of art. And these feminists of the New Haven Women’s Liberation Rock Band went into a rage, surrounded me, practically spat in my face, literally my back to the wall. They’re screaming in my face: “Art? Art? Nothing that demeans women can be art!” There it is. There it is! Right from the start. The fascism of the contemporary women’s movement.
This is from a transcript of a lecture she gave at M.I.T. in september of 1991. I read it as part of her first anthology Sex, Art and American Culture, which is a good companion piece to Sexual Personae. It contains what I believe to be Paglia’s initial cir-de-coeur “Junk Bonds and Corporate Raiders: Academe in the Hour of the Wolf.” This was published in Arion in 1991 and although it reviews two contemporary books before unleashing hell at post-structuralism, I believe it entirely relevant today, based on what I recall of college in the mid-to-late 90’s and grad school four years ago. She pulls no punches with Derrida, Lacan (“The French fog machine”), or especially Foucault, whom she finds guilty of being a boring-as-fuck snide poseur, full of facile wordplay and bereft of learning. An appropriate passage:
Foucault is the high-concept pusher and deal-maker of the cocaine decades. His big squishy pink-marshmallow word is “power”, which neither he nor his followers fully understand. It caroms around picking up lint and dog hair but is no substitute for political analysis. Foucault’s ignorance of prehistory and ancient history, based in the development and articulation of cultures and legal codes, makes his discussions of power otiose. He never asks how power is gained or lost, justly administered or abused. He does not show how efficient procedures get overformalized, entrenched, calcified, then shattered and reformed. He has no familiarity with theories of social or biological hierarchies, such as the “pecking order” universally observed in farmyards and schoolyards. Because, in the faddish French way, he ridiculously denies personality exists, he cannot assess the impact of strong personalities on events nor can he, like Weber, catalog types of authority or prestige.
She goes on like this, sticking shaft after shaft in the old dead fart until it starts to look like the Martyrdom of St. Sebastian. But that line about picking up lint and dog hair is giggling genius. Post-modernism and post-structuralism are nothing more than the Sophists laughing at us from beyond the grave of their cultures. The whole goddamn thing is so brainless, a bot can do it.
And that puts us in a really good position in ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ
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