I can’t decide which part I like best: the part where he awkwardly takes off his clothes, or the part where he awkwardly pushes a chair around, or the part where he awkwardly pulls money out of his pants (paper AND coin!), or the part where he awkwardly mimes the lyrics, or the part where he awkwardly gesticulates with a stack of dollar bills, or the part where he awkwardly tries to shuffle a deck of cards, or the part where his inability to shuffle a deck of cards is awkwardly obscured by a stack of chips, or the part where he awkwardly pours a shot of whiskey, or the part where he awkwardly does not drink the shot of whiskey, or the part where he awkwardly poses for a freeze frame with the shot of whiskey.
I just can’t decide.
(Kenny Rogers - The Gambler)
KEEP FEAR ALIVE!
(NSFW, if your work has a problem with reproductive biology and rough anatomical sketches. And if so, you should quit.)
Dear Right Wing,
Hi! Professional sex educator here, hoping to clear some things up. I know I’m the kind of sex educator you totally hate - the kind who believes in dumb commie things like accessible, affordable abortions for women who want them, medically accurate sex education that isn’t intentionally deceptive, universally available contraceptives, and protecting people’s (even sluts’!) reproductive health and rights in general - but that doesn’t change the fact that I’m thoroughly and scientifically educated about the nuances of sex and pregnancy, and most of you aren’t. You’re gonna have to trust that I might know a little bit more about this than you do, because it’s my job. After all, I don’t come down to the Senate floor and tell you how to best disenfranchise poor people.
It seems as if many members of your party, in addition to having impressively deplorable opinions about sexual assault, are a tad…misinformed about the basics of human reproduction. I know, it’s hard! What wise, all-knowing, powerful legislators wouldn’t be confused by ladies’ super confusing confusion holes? I teach sex ed to “at-risk” inner-city youth, so I’m pretty good at making this complicated icky vag stuff digestible for all education levels. I’ma break it down real simple-like for you (spoiler alert: rape CAN cause babies!).
I’m not one to get all chocolatey about dead celebrities, but I vividly remember the summer of 1990, when I wore Grandma Sherry’s size 5 tap shoes and time-stepped endlessly to the vinyl version of “How Will I Know” on her tile kitchen floor for hours upon hours, while she cooked me bottomless pots of Kraft macaroni and cheese, until my pre-teen feet finally outgrew those black, leather, semi-heel taps.
Dead Whitney Houston = I should probably call my grandma. She called me when Etta James died, so I need to return the favor.
Pro-“life” activists are like cancer: they’re ubiquitous, heartbreakingly detrimental to women’s health, and often go undetected until their damage is irreversible .
Which is why it’s so mind-blowing that one of the country’s most powerful and well-known cancer charities has teamed up with pro-life activists to deny women lifesaving breast cancer screenings.
Ugh. F’real? I’d be irate if I wasn’t so used to this bullshit.
When news first broke that the Susan G Koman foundation yanked breast cancer screening funding from Planned Parenthood, people were dumbfounded. Huh/What/Why/How? What were they thinking? Why would they do that? How could anyone have a problem with Planned Parenthood providing breast cancer screenings? But to understand how something like this could happen, you have to understand the pro-life movement, which is at the heart of the split.
I’ve worked in the reproductive rights field for over ten years and I’m pretty familiar with the motives of pro-life activists. I’ve spent thousands of hours studying their materials, debating them, dodging their attacks, and, yes, secretly helping them get abortions and birth control behind their community’s back (it happens more than you think). I know a thing or two about the true motive of the anti-choice movement, and I promise you this:
Last night I spent the evening at my local bar, sipping gin while creating a lesson plan, the intention of which was to teach pre-teens how to avoid HIV, STDs, and unplanned pregnancy. A dapper gentleman approached, politely introduced himself, and began to wax poetic on how beautiful the glow from my laptop made me look, that it perfectly illuminated my “features” (whatever those are), and how, combined with the pencil protruding from the bun atop my head and the stacks of notebooks surrounding me, I appeared “studious and, well, just absolutely perfect.” I was genuinely surprised because I’d always assumed uplighting was terribly unflattering and enhanced the numerous wrinkles and imperfections that decorate my far-from-porcelain visage, but no, he insisted, I looked positively angelic. Now I’m just bragging, but even though this sounds like bullshit it’s all incredibly true, so whatever, fuckface.