Idiot: Sarah Silverman
Not an idiot: Christina Hoff Sommers
Idiot: Sarah Silverman
Not an idiot: Christina Hoff Sommers
What do you get when you cross a radical liberal feminist with a psycho snack mom?
Seriously, folks, in case you hadn’t heard, some psycho nut-job of a mom baked vagina cookies, delivered them to her kid’s second grade classroom and became unhinged when the teacher politely refused to serve them to her students because (as said teacher calmly pointed out to psycho mom) VAGINA COOKIES ARE NOT APPROPRIATE SNACKS FOR SEVEN YEAR OLD CHILDREN.
The nerve of some people! (Insert sarcasm.) That teacher didn’t even bother to think about psycho mom’s feeeeelings… I mean do you have any idea how loooooong it takes to bake and decorate anatomically correct vagina cookies?!
I am well acquainted with the stress of attempting to strike the perfect balance between visual appeal, palatability and health benefits in a single serving snack. Indeed, on one or two occasions I have been one of those uber-competitive snack mom types, fiendishly trying to outdo the previous week’s clever confection, but never… NEVER… in all my years have I contemplated bringing a tray of genitalia inspired treats to my kids’ school. And do you want to know why? DO YOU WANT TO KNOW WHY? Because I am not INSANE. That’s why. (Special note to my sons, Christian and Jared: You’re welcome).
Anyway, apparently psycho mom came a wee bit unglued and started screaming about “vaginal pride” in front of the entire class. And if you think throwing a tantrum and shrieking the word vagina in front of a bunch of second graders is enough drama for one day… WRONG! Later that evening psycho mom sent the following impassioned email to the teacher.
“Miss (Teacher’s Name),
I would just like to take the time and express my feeling of todays incident. I thought you were a very well educated woman due to your accomplishments and, your well known teaching methods. You have completely changed my mind. You are one of the most closed minded women I know. You settled for less when you became a teacher because that is known for a women’s job. Why teaching because you are a woman? Why are you denying important education to our future leaders of the world. I must say that knowing the human body for both men and women is a beautiful thing and you are depriving them for that. We as women should stand together and inform people about the vagina and how to please it. I will no longer be participating on Fridays due to the lack of respect I was shown today. We should celebrate the vagina not be embarrassed by it. So I, (parents’ names), we be taking or trying to take (child’s name) out of your class due to your cliche role in life in being a teacher and not wanting to empower women. I hope you end up with an abusive husband that beats on you every night.”
Now, I’m no saint, but I will say I’ve never wished for nightly beatings from an abusive husband on anyone, even someone really, really annoying like Hillary Clinton or Sandra Fluke or Nancy Pelosi. Ironic, isn’t it, that a woman who chooses to advance the feminist cause via unambiguous, home-baked, confectionary iterations of “vaginal pride” would wish such a thing on another woman?
And by the way, what exactly is “vaginal pride” and when did it become part of common culture? And how do women like Eve Ensler (The Vagina Monologues) and Naomi Wolf (Vagina: A Biography) become so exceedingly proud of their vaginas that they are inspired to write plays and books about them? And whatever happened to simple rice crispy treats for second graders? I don’t get it. I really don’t.
Here’s the deal. I’m as vain as the next gal. I’m proud of my sassy, new haircut and I think I have nice teeth, but my vagina is…well… it’s just sort of there. I’ve never had penis envy and I don’t have vagina pride. If anything, what I possess is vagina humility. You know, as in having a modest view of my vagina’s importance in the world.
The truth is I simply don’t have strong feelings about my vagina one way or the other. I mean I’m certainly fine with having one (particularly when giving birth), but I don’t feel compelled to draw attention to it and I’m certainly not baking pastries that depict and glorify it.
Call me old fashioned, but I don’t get this whole “vaginal pride” business. Maybe that’s because there’s nothing particularly spectacular about my vagina. Whatever. The fact is I do not possess “vaginal pride” and even if I did, I’m confident I’d take the subtle approach in expressing it. Maybe bake something more traditional, let’s say a pineapple upside-down cake… with a cherry on top.
Copyright © 2014 Just Another Ordinary Day by Antoinette D. Datoc All Rights Reserved
I write a lot about radical liberal feminists and while I tend to poke fun at the ludicrousness of their ideology – because it is so incredibly irrational, illogical and absurd – the truth is I am concerned. I am concerned because the agenda of this amazonian cult of crazies is a dangerous call to extinguish the very fabric of human civilization: the sanctity of life, marriage, motherhood, fatherhood and the institution of the family. The following column, by Mallory Millett, affirms my concerns.
Mallory Millett is the sister of Kate Millett, who wrote Sexual Politics, the bitterly anti-male feminist manifesto that helped to ignite the second wave of the women’s movement. Mallory provides a first-hand account of Kate and the other militant marxist feminists responsible for launching the women’s liberation movement and founding the National Organization of Women (NOW). She exposes radical liberal feminism for what it is: a chilling, deranged and insidious brand of marxist dogma designed to destroy Western society by waging war on our sons and poisoning the minds of our daughters.
The article is long, but I hope you will read it. I hope you will share it and I pray you will remember it when you vote. One last thing. Mama’s, don’t let your babies grow up to be radical liberal feminists.
“When women go wrong men go right after them.” – Mae West
During my junior year in high school, the nuns asked about our plans for after we graduated. When I said I was going to attend State University, I noticed their disappointment. I asked my favorite nun, “Why?” She answered, “That means you’ll leave four years later a communist and an atheist!”
What a giggle we girls had over that. “How ridiculously unsophisticated these nuns are,” we thought. Then I went to the university and four years later walked out a communist and an atheist, just as my sister Katie had six years before me.
Sometime later, I was a young divorcee with a small child. At the urging of my sister, I relocated to NYC after spending years married to an American executive stationed in Southeast Asia. The marriage over, I was making a new life for my daughter and me. Katie said, “Come to New York. We’re making revolution! Some of us are starting the National Organization of Women and you can be part of it.”
I hadn’t seen her for years. Although she had tormented me when we were youngsters, those memories were faint after my Asian traumas and the break-up of my marriage. I foolishly mistook her for sanctuary in a storm. With so much time and distance between us, I had forgotten her emotional instability.
And so began my period as an unwitting witness to history. I stayed with Kate and her lovable Japanese husband, Fumio, in a dilapidated loft on The Bowery as she finished her first book, a PhD thesis for Columbia University, “Sexual Politics.”
It was 1969. Kate invited me to join her for a gathering at the home of her friend, Lila Karp. They called the assemblage a “consciousness-raising-group,” a typical communist exercise, something practiced in Maoist China. We gathered at a large table as the chairperson opened the meeting with a back-and-forth recitation, like a Litany, a type of prayer done in Catholic Church. But now it was Marxism, the Church of the Left, mimicking religious practice:
“Why are we here today?” she asked.
“To make revolution,” they answered.
“What kind of revolution?” she replied.
“The Cultural Revolution,” they chanted.
“And how do we make Cultural Revolution?” she demanded.
“By destroying the American family!” they answered.
“How do we destroy the family?” she came back.
“By destroying the American Patriarch,” they cried exuberantly.
“And how do we destroy the American Patriarch?” she replied.
“By taking away his power!”
“How do we do that?”
“By destroying monogamy!” they shouted.
“How can we destroy monogamy?”
Their answer left me dumbstruck, breathless, disbelieving my ears. Was I on planet earth? Who were these people?
“By promoting promiscuity, eroticism, prostitution and homosexuality!” they resounded.
They proceeded with a long discussion on how to advance these goals by establishing The National Organization of Women. It was clear they desired nothing less than the utter deconstruction of Western society. The upshot was that the only way to do this was “to invade every American institution. Every one must be permeated with ‘The Revolution’”: The media, the educational system, universities, high schools, K-12, school boards, etc.; then, the judiciary, the legislatures, the executive branches and even the library system.
It fell on my ears as a ludicrous scheme, as if they were a band of highly imaginative children planning a Brinks robbery; a lark trumped up on a snowy night amongst a group of spoiled brats over booze and hashish.
To me, this sounded silly. I was enduring culture shock after having been cut-off from my homeland, living in Third-World countries for years with not one trip back to the United States. I was one of those people who, upon returning to American soil, fell out of the plane blubbering with ecstasy at being home in the USA. I knelt on the ground covering it with kisses. I had learned just exactly how delicious was the land of my birth and didn’t care what anyone thought because they just hadn’t seen what I had or been where I had been. I had seen factory workers and sex-slaves chained to walls.
How could they know? Asia is beyond our ken and, as they say, utterly inscrutable, and a kind of hell I never intended to revisit. I lived there, not junketed, not visited like sweet little tourists — I’d conducted households and tried to raise a child. I had outgrown the communism of my university days and was clumsily groping my way back to God.
How could twelve American women who were the most respectable types imaginable — clean and privileged graduates of esteemed institutions: Columbia, Radcliffe, Smith, Wellesley, Vassar; the uncle of one was Secretary of War under Franklin Roosevelt — plot such a thing? Most had advanced degrees and appeared cogent, bright, reasonable and good. How did these people rationally believe they could succeed with such vicious grandiosity? And why?
I dismissed it as academic-lounge air-castle-building. I continued with my new life in New York while my sister became famous publishing her books, featured on the cover of “Time Magazine.” “Time” called her “the Karl Marx of the Women’s Movement.” This was because her book laid out a course in Marxism 101 for women. Her thesis: The family is a den of slavery with the man as the Bourgeoisie and the woman and children as the Proletariat. The only hope for women’s “liberation” (communism’s favorite word for leading minions into inextricable slavery; “liberation,” and much like “collective” – please run from it, run for your life) was this new “Women’s Movement.” Her books captivated the academic classes and soon “Women’s Studies” courses were installed in colleges in a steady wave across the nation with Kate Millett books as required reading.
Imagine this: a girl of seventeen or eighteen at the kitchen table with Mom studying the syllabus for her first year of college and there’s a class called “Women’s Studies.” “Hmmm, this could be interesting,” says Mom. “Maybe you could get something out of this.”
Seems innocuous to her. How could she suspect this is a class in which her innocent daughter will be taught that her father is a villain? Her mother is a fool who allowed a man to enslave her into barbaric practices like monogamy and family life and motherhood, which is a waste of her talents.
She mustn’t follow in her mother’s footsteps. That would be submitting to life as a mindless drone for some domineering man, the oppressor, who has mesmerized her with tricks like romantic love.
Never be lured into this chicanery, she will be taught. Although men are no damned good, she should use them for her own orgasmic gratification; sleep with as many men as possible in order to keep herself unattached and free. There’s hardly a seventeen-year-old girl without a grudge from high school against a Jimmy or Jason who broke her heart. Boys are learning, too, and they can be careless during high school, that torment of courting dances for both sexes.
By the time Women’s Studies professors finish with your daughter, she will be a shell of the innocent girl you knew, who’s soon convinced that although she should be flopping down with every boy she fancies, she should not, by any means, get pregnant. And so, as a practitioner of promiscuity, she becomes a wizard of prevention techniques, especially abortion.
The goal of Women’s Liberation is to wear each female down to losing all empathy for boys, men or babies. The tenderest aspects of her soul are roughened into a rock pile of cynicism, where she will think nothing of murdering her baby in the warm protective nest of her little-girl womb. She will be taught that she, in order to free herself, must become an outlaw. This is only reasonable because all Western law, since Magna Carta and even before, is a concoction of the evil white man whose true purpose is to press her into slavery.
Be an outlaw! Rebel! Be defiant! (Think Madonna, Lady Gaga, Lois Lerner, Elizabeth Warren.) “All women are prostitutes,” she will be told. You’re either really smart and use sex by being promiscuous for your own pleasures and development as a full free human being “just like men” or you can be a professional prostitute, a viable business for women, which is “empowering” or you can be duped like your mother and prostitute yourself to one man exclusively whereby you fall under the heavy thumb of “the oppressor.” All wives are just “one-man whores.”
She is to be heartless in this. No sentimental stuff about courting. No empathy for either boy or baby. She has a life to live and no one is to get in her way. And if the boy or man doesn’t “get it” then no sex for him; “making love” becomes “having sex.” “I’m not ‘having sex’ with any jerk who doesn’t believe I can kill his son or daughter at my whim. He has no say in it because it’s my body!” (Strange logic as who has ever heard of a body with two heads, two hearts, four arms, four feet?)
There’s no end to the absurdities your young girl will be convinced to swallow. “I plan to leap from guy to guy as much as I please and no one can stop me because I’m liberated!” In other words, these people will turn your daughter into a slut with my sister’s books as instruction manuals. (“Slut is a good word. Be proud of it!”) She’ll be telling you, “I’m probably never getting married and if I do it will be after I’ve established my career,” which nowadays often means never. “I’ll keep my own name and I don’t really want kids. They’re such a bother and only get in the way.” They’ll tell her, “Don’t let any guy degrade you by allowing him to open doors for you. To be called ‘a lady’ is an insult. Chivalry is a means of ownership.”
Thus, the females, who are fundamentally the arbiters of society go on to harden their young men with such pillow-talk in the same way they’ve been hardened because, “Wow, man, I’ve gotta get laid and she won’t do it if I don’t agree to let her kill the kid if she gets knocked-up!” Oppressed? Woman has always had power. Consider the eternal paradigm: only after Eve convinced Adam to eat the fruit did mankind fall. I.e., man does anything to make woman happy, even if it’s in defiance of God. There’s power for ya! Without a decent womankind, mankind is lost. As Mae West said, “When women go wrong men go right after them!”
I’ve known women who fell for this creed in their youth who now, in their fifties and sixties, cry themselves to sleep decades of countless nights grieving for the children they’ll never have and the ones they coldly murdered because they were protecting the empty loveless futures they now live with no way of going back. “Where are my children? Where are my grandchildren?” they cry to me. “Your sister’s books destroyed my sister’s life!” I’ve heard numerous times. “She was happily married with four kids and after she read those books, walked out on a bewildered man and didn’t look back.” The man fell into despairing rack and ruin. The children were stunted, set off their tracks, deeply harmed; the family profoundly dislocated and there was “no putting Humpty-Dumpty together again.”
Throughout the same time these women were “invading” our institutions, the character of the American woman transformed drastically from models portrayed for us by Rosalind Russell, Bette Davis, Deborah Kerr, Eve Arden, Donna Reed, Barbara Stanwyck, Claudette Colbert, Irene Dunn, Greer Garson. These were outstanding women needing no empowerment lessons and whose own personalities, as well as the characters they interpreted, were strong, resilient and clearly carved. Their voices were so different you could pick them out by that alone. We all knew Rita Hayworth’s voice. We all knew Katherine Hepburn’s voice.
I dare you to identify the voices of the cookie-cutter post-women’s-liberation types from Hollywood today. How did these “liberated” women fall into such an indistinguishable pile of mush? They all look exactly the same with few individuating characteristics and their voices sound identical, these Julies and Jessicas! My friend, Father George Rutler, calls them “the chirping fledglings of the new Dark Ages.” The character of the American woman has been distorted by this pernicious movement. From where did this foul mouthed, tattooed, outlaw creature, who murders her baby without blinking an eye and goes partying without conscience or remorse come? And, in such a short little phase in history?
Never before have we heard of so many women murdering their children: Casey Anthony killing her little Caylee and partying-hearty for weeks; Susan Smith driving her beautiful little boys into a lake, leaving them strapped in the water to die torturous deaths; that woman who drowned her five children in the bathtub? “Hey, if I can kill my baby at six months of gestation why not six months post-birth, just call it late late-term abortion.”
I insist that woman always has been the arbiter of society and when those women at Lila Karp’s table in Greenwich Village set their minds to destroying the American Family by talking young women into being outlaws, perpetrators of infanticide, and haters of Western law, men and marriage, they accomplished just what they intended. Their desire — and I witnessed it at subsequent meetings till I got pretty sick of their unbridled hate — was to tear American society apart along with the family and the “Patriarchal Slave-Master,” the American husband.
We’re all so busy congratulating each other because Ronald Reagan “won the Cold War without firing a shot” entirely missing the bare truth which is that Mao, with his Little Red Book and the Soviets, won the Cold War without firing a shot by taking over our women, our young and the minds of everyone tutored by Noam Chomsky and the textbooks of Howard Zinn. Post-graduate Junior is Peter Pan trapped in the Never Neverland of Mom’s (she’s divorced now) basement. Christina Hoff Sommers says, “Moms and dads, be afraid for your sons. There’s a ‘war on men’ that started a long time ago in gender studies classes and in women’s advocacy groups eager to believe that men are toxic… Many ‘educated women’ in the U.S. have drunk from the gender feminist Kool Aid. Girls at Yale, Haverford and Swarthmore see themselves as oppressed. This is madness.”
If you see something traitorous in this, a betrayal of my sister, I have come to identify with such people as Svetlana Stalin or Juanita Castro; coming out to speak plainly about a particularly harmful member of my family. Loyalty can be highly destructive. What about Muslims who refuse to speak out right now? I was one of the silent but at last I’m “spilling the beans.” The girls have been up to something for years and it’s really not good. It’s evil. We should be sick to our souls over it. I know I am. And so, mass destruction, the inevitable outcome of all socialist/communist experiments, leaves behind its signature trail of wreckage.
So much grace, femininity and beauty lost.
So many ruined lives.
Copyright © 2009 FrontPage Magazine. All rights reserved.
Coeds at Arizona State University get extra credit for having hairy armpits. Seriously. Associate Professor of women’s and gender studies, Breanne Fahs, offers female students extra credit if they agree not to shave their body hair – as in armpits, legs and bikini areas – for the entire semester.
I imagine it’s worth it when you consider those bonus points have the potential to raise a flailing student’s grade from a D to a C or C to a B or if you end up as flocculent as this chick, from a B to a BO (sorry). Anyway I can’t help but wonder about eyebrows and upper lips. I mean is only shaving taboo or are plucking, waxing and chemical depilatories prohibited too?
Men in Professor Fah’s classes aren’t excluded from earning extra credit, but unlike their woolly female classmates, they are required to shave off all body hair from the neck down and maintain hairlessness for the entire semester. The thing is, the extra credit probably isn’t really much of an enticement since any college guy choosing to enroll in a women’s and gender studies course is more than likely already in the habit of mowing his manscape.
Likewise (and yes, I acknowledge my next comment is sure to invite a maelstrom from the angry wackadoodle club), gals who gravitate toward women’s and gender studies courses tend to be the sort with hairy armpits anyway. Don’t feign shock and dismay. You know what I’m talking about: the kind of W-O-M-Y-N who hiss at phallic mushrooms, boycott make-up and sport butch haircuts and black army boots as a means of rebelling against the oppressive male patriarchy. At least that’s how it was back when I was in college, which, by the way, was when I first made the following observation: radical feminists despise men, yet they expend tremendous amounts of energy attempting to look like them. It’s a curious, incongruous phenomenon indeed, but it’s true. You know I’m right.
Professor Fahs requires participants to keep journals to track and document their experiences, but obviously, the assignment is much more labor intensive for the guys than the girls. According to Professor Fahs that’s okay though because, you know, it “gives men some insight into what women who shave go through.”
Really? What women who shave go through? I’m shaving my pits and legs for heaven sakes. It’s not like I’m painting the kitchen or rebuilding the deck on my house every morning. It adds about three minutes to a shower and for the record, I’m pretty sure my sons and husband spend more time than that shaving their facial hair. It’s not a burden. It’s simply personal hygiene. Good gracious.
It’s no wonder the United States lags behind the rest of the world’s developed countries in science and technology when our college students are forced to waste their time on assignments, like Fah’s hairy armpit project, that are so far beyond useless and idiotic I can’t even think of a word to describe them.
Breanne Fahs says, “There’s really no reason why the choice to shave, or not, should be a big deal,” and believe it or not, I agree with her, but for the love of Pete, there’s no need to study what happens as a result of it. I don’t give a rat’s patootie whether a person, male or female, shaves or doesn’t shave, grows a unibrow or, for that matter, grooms the pubic garden into a topiary.
My son is headed to Georgia Institute of Technology in the fall. My husband and I are delighted because, among a list of reasons too long to tally here, it’s a great school and you can bet he won’t be asked to shave his armpits when he gets there.
By the way, in case you’re wondering about the pubic topiary thing, people (with too much time on their hands) really do it.
© Copyright Just Another Ordinary Day by Antoinette D. Datoc All Rights Reserved