Today my copy of The Atlantic arrived in the post. Thanks to a media market in tatters and an Australian dollar on an unnatural high, my subscription cost me around five cents. And came gratis with Vanity Fair, The Economist and a comprehensive rimming to be administered by a qualified practitioner on the date and at the anus of my choosing.
I love good middle-brow American writing almost as much as I love attentive ass play. In a minute I’m going to bed with Frank Rich. Why aren’t you? Who would elect to spend an afternoon in the company of, say, Australian Marie Claire over Christopher Hitchens? Apparently, thousands of bitches.
This is odd.
Let it be clearly said: I have never actually read the local iteration of Marie Claire. I looked at it once to learn about its editor; a woman named Jackie Frank. I took down her email address and didn’t really bother reading about Christina Amanpour’s struggle to find a store that sells Kiehl’s pore-minimizer in Ramallah. Because I don’t fucking care. I just wanted the commission. I just wanted to pay my tax bill so the ATO will finally let me leave the country and live in Brooklyn so I can be closer to the real writers I hope one day to imitate.
Although I know nothing of Jackie Frank’s character and oeuvre I can only presume she is a shit-head and that her magazine is total pigfuck. Viz. I sent her an excellent pitch that demanded my fully funded attendance at a Queensland swinger’s weekend. She never fucking wrote me back.
She may of course otherwise be a very decent person who quotes Auden, recycles and appreciates the gradations that separate the good rimming from the merely adequate. I don’t know. As forestated I don’t fucking care so long as someone somewhere writes me a cheque. But I do know that Frank, shit-head that she may be, has today been unfairly criticised.
If like, your correspondent, you have your News Alert compass always pointing to Miss Universe you will have seen today’s news. Apparently, the convincingly lifelike Jennifer Hawkins appears NUDE in this month’s Marie Claire.
You’d think such a move would be applauded. I think it far better that Our Jen is being viewed on high stock paper rather than the changeroom of the Newcastle Knights. What’s the big deal? At least no one is spoodging on her breasts without a by-your-leave and it’s nice that she’s pretty and it’s great that she has such a colossal rack.
If you’d ever met Jen, which I did briefly during Melbourne’s Spring Racing Carnival, you would only be happy that the dear lamb has something so extraordinary to offer. The woman seems unable to make a sentence. Seriously. This is not sour grapes but the truth. Her grasp on object and verb was so poor that my producer that day, an habitual sycophant when it came to celebrities, said “Fuck me. What the cunt did she say? We can’t put her on the radio. People will cry.”
So it’s nice that Jen has something. And who cares if Marie Claire posit Hawkins ostensibly untouched photos as inspiring? I fucking don’t. Jackie “Couldn’t-Recognize-A-Great-Fucking-Pitch-From-A-Sassy-Writer-Named-Helen-If-It-Rimmed-Her” Frank Couldn’t. But some woman even less famous than me does.
I shouldn’t be nasty about Bianca Dye , a person largely unknown to me, as I dimly recall she once sent me a supportive email during one of my lavishly published sackings. I suppose that she sent these words of support in the spirit of sisterhood. And, no doubt it was the same “feminist” spirit that led her and other “feminist” women to sound off to press about the Hawkins nude.
The impulse to embrace womanhood-in-its-multiple-lumpiness might be nice. But it’s confused sometimes disingenuous and Oh FUCK ME I am SICK to my rarely-rimmed quarters of this whining.
Positive body image blah blah blah. Beauty Queens compromises all the positive moves feminism has made blah blah blah.
What? Crap. Dye whose own nude posturing is apparently “positive” because she’s a bit tubby, is one of many convenience feminists. i.e. They don’t give a flying fuck about feminism unless the matter is intimately related to the fucking cottage cheese on their own thighs. They register discontent with the boot rule of patriarchy only when they see something in a magazine edited by a shit-head who won’t employ me.
“Body Image” seems the only realm in which it remains acceptable to express anything resembling a feminist standpoint. It strikes me as odd, and not a little self serving, that Fashion Shows and glossy mags are seen as the primary locus for “feminist” debate as it is uttered by people like Dye.
Talk of equal pay, domestic violence and the arsenal of issues that once occupied feminism has disappeared and is replaced by the moaning of middle brow motherfuckers who feel the emergence of a size 14 model will, somehow, transform the world.
Of course, someone always hoists the spectral image of a 14 year old girl with an eating disorder into play for this dull-as-dishwater debate; but it remains doubtful that there is any necessary connection between skinny models and imitative starving.
Why has feminism become so toothless? Why is its purview limited to raging about how Muslim women are oppressed and magazines don’t have pictures of fatties? And why, more to the point, is Bianca Dye working in radio when I can’t even get anyone to listen to my cocking podcasts?
Perhaps I should show people my tits.
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