I’m Done! Whee!
As I was walking home after handing in my sloppy-but-passable and oh-so-finished report on this particular patch of ground where we dragged around a few wires last week, some guy pulled over and called out that I had the nicest breasts he’d ever seen. He didn’t call them breasts, of course, but I figured out pretty quickly what he meant. My response to that kind of thing is always to think up some snappy comeback a la Al Jafee, and then keep walking without a hint of response. Because I know damn well that any snappy comeback would inevitably devolve:
me: Oh, so how many breasts have you seen, then?
creepyguy: Fifteen.
me: Fifteen? What, you bite off yer ma’s nipple trying to suck on it after she’d been in labor for thirty-six hours to get your fat head into the world?
creepyguy: … hey, baby…
me: Dude, you need to get out more. Go find a strip club, you can see all the nice boobies you want there.
creepyguy: (here comes forth a soulful ode to the virtues of the honest, unaltered breast, wherein creepyguy paints himself as a sensitive, modern man in words of one syllable or less, all the while referring to me as “girl” or “baby” and staring at my chest for signs of nipple.)
me: … (blank stare as I realize once again that pop culture feminism has somewhere gone terribly, terribly wrong) … look, just fuck off, okay?
It’s not so much the sexual objectification that disturbs me - after all, I can read a full issue of Cosmo without puking once. It’s the fact that, unlike Cosmo, creepy guys give you no reasonable path to conversation.
So, tell me how it makes you feel to be failed by pop culture feminism…