Beyoncé is a feminist! This we know, for Beyoncé tells us so.
It should really be this easy, but it’s not. Because instead of saying, “I’m a feminist” while wearing a pantsuit with shoulder pads and castrating a bull, Beyoncé said, “I’m a feminist” while wearing a sparkly leotard and — perhaps most unsettling of all — moving her body in such a way as to suggest that she’s had sex before. Talk about mixed messages!
Since there’s nothing else going on in the U.S. right now — not like we’re bombing Iraq again, or dealing with a rash of unjustifiable police homicides against black men — there is currently a great debate raging as to whether Beyoncé is really a feminist, and if so, whether she’s feminist enough, and if so, did you even notice she was gyrating?
I’m not saying we only have to talk about Serious Pressing Issues all the time, guys, because that’s Nancy Grace’s beat and she covers it very thoroughly. But since Beyoncé has told us she’s a feminist, maybe we should just assume she’s the kind of feminist who likes to dance, and not always wear pants, and sometimes even have sex? And that frees us up to discuss other matters that aren’t quite so clear-cut, such as:
This is a pretty short list, but it’s actually a prequel to a longer post I have in the works. So, please read this and know that it’s part of my larger manifesto on passive-aggressive emailing at work. (Trust me: I’ve spent the past eleven years of my life embedded in cubicle culture, like Jane Goodall amongst the chimps, and I can sling mud via Outlook with the bitchiest of primates.) Continue reading
- It’s very late at night.
- I’m the only one awake in the house.
- I’m watching my husband and son, who are both sleeping on our bed, over the video monitor.
- I watched Paranormal Activity 4 today. (It wasn’t bad. Easily the fourth-best Paranormal Activity I’ve seen.)
- So my husband and son are both motionless, but my cat is also on the bed and licking herself in a very ordinary way, so I know the feed is live and hasn’t gotten stuck.
- I’m sitting at my laptop, maybe fifteen yards away — close enough to the bedroom that I can hear the white-noise machine both through the door and over the monitor.
- There’s a weird knocking sound I can hear over the monitor, but not through the door.
- I totally believe in ghosts. (I’m undecided about demons, because they always seem very religious to me, and I’m not a religious person. But anyway.)
- I’ve been watching this feed with the unexplained video-only knocking for a few otherwise-quiet minutes, and this is exactly the point in a Paranormal Activity movie where something loud/fast/scary would happen.
- OH MY GOD, THE BABY JUST STARTED CRYING RIGHT WHEN I TYPED “LOUD.”
- OK, he’s fine now. But that was terrible timing.
- Almost the kind of jump-scare fake-out you would find in a Paranormal Activity movie… that’s it. I’m totally shitting my pants.
- (Probably doesn’t help that I had huevos rancheros for brunch.)
There are very few people in the world I truly hate, because hating takes a lot of energy and I am LAAA-ZYYYY! (Please read that last word in the sing-song-y tone of your preference.) But if disliking people were a sport, I would be the Serena Williams of my generation. OK, maybe not — Serena Williams is the Serena Williams of my generation, and Serena Williams is actually two months younger than me, and I am such a failure compared to Serena Williams.
So forget all of that Serena Williams stuff, I guess.
What I’m trying to say is that I’ve achieved superhuman levels of skill, if you are of the mind that “actively disliking and dismissing entire groups of people” is a craft. Having spent more than three decades finely honing my abilities to pre-judge, sneer at, and dismiss my fellow man, I am pleased today to present you with a comprehensive list of The Actual Worst Kinds of People. (This is the closest I will ever get to writing a thesis. But please call me “Doctor” anyway.)
There are some people in this world who feel bad for polar bears. That’s fine. I occasionally catch myself feeling bad for Tim Tebow, so far be it from me to police anyone else’s sympathetic leanings.
But then there are some other people in this world who expect ME to feel bad about polar bears. They show me photos of polar bears floating away into the ocean on tiny, globally warmed, pencil-eraser-sized icebergs. They show me this photo as though it is a depiction of a kitten stuck in a tree, or an infant plopped carelessly atop the hood of a moving Camaro, or an indigenous culture crushed under the heel of the White Man’s boot. As though it were something to feel bad about it.
Listen: I don’t feel sorry for polar bears. Guess what? Tyrannosaurus Rex is fucking extinct, and I don’t feel sorry for him, either. So good luck getting me to shed any tears over a giant predator that’s feeling a little peckish.