“My art has been commended as being strongly vaginal which bothers some men. The word itself makes some men uncomfortable. Vagina.”
So, let me get this straight. You’re a woman. You are marching. You are dressed like a giant vagina.
Why should I take you seriously about…anything?
Understand, my not-taking-you-seriously has nothing to do with the fact that you are a woman. I take women very seriously. I enjoy the company of women. I enjoy their company over men because they tend to be better conversationalists. This would probably explain why I have spent twenty of the first thirty years of my adult life living with women. In fact, tonight, I will go home to my apartment, and binge-watch “Skin Wars” with my wife and stepdaughter while sipping a nice but not too expensive glass of Merlot. This is who I am. I am secure enough in my Dudeness to sit around and watch a show as gay as “Skin Wars” with a couple of chicks. Now, very obviously, that doesn’t exactly make me your classic example of an Alpha Male. But I sure as shit ain’t no dang Beta, either. I can load and fire a weapon, I watch a lot of Clint Eastwood flicks, I think guys with man-buns are sissies, and I drink my tequila straight. WITHOUT the lime, Mister. I am neither Alpha nor Beta. I’m…Balfa.
Moreover, I’ve been fortunate to have known quite a few strong, independent women over the years. Some of them were professional broadcasters and program directors. Some of them were my on-air partners. Some of them were my boss. Some of them were stay-at-home moms. Some of them were single, working moms. Some of them were divorced. Some of them were married. Some of them had been married and divorced several times. Some of them had never been married at all. Some of the were straight. Some of them were gay. Some of them were religious. Some of them were atheists. Some of them were Liberal, and some of them were Republican. Some of them had no politics at all. Some of them had had abortions. Some of them had not. Some of them are exes. Some of them didn’t want anything to do with me, and they were the smart ones. Some of them are good, old friends. Some of them, I lost track of. Some of them were funny. Some of them were not. Some of them were funny when they weren’t trying to be funny. Some of them were brilliant artists. Some of them were brilliant parents. Some of them were both. And, yes, some of them could really freaking cook. And some of them couldn’t manage a 49-cent box of mac-n-cheese.
None of them, not a single one, I can assure you, would ever try to convince anyone of anything by dressing up like a giant vagina. The strong, independent women I know have more self-respect and class than that. Moreover, the badass women I know could never be diminished, in any way, by either the man who won the election, or the woman who didn’t. This is because their independence isn’t merely a “social construct” that can be dictated by either trendy politics, sanctimonious celebrities, or inelegant Presidents. It is something they own. It is their nature.
I am proud to count my wife, my daughter, and my stepdaughter among this inspiring group of women.
But, you know, if you truly believe walking around in a stuffed vajayjay costume and crapping-up the streets with litter while destroying private property is the way to achieve equality for women, then at least try it someplace where women and girls actually have no rights, are actually treated like property, and are actually stoned to death and raped and tortured and sold into slavery. You know, places like Iraq, Somalia, Congo, or Sudan.
Of course, I don’t think we’ll see any Angry Vagina Marches in the oppressive and violent nations I just mentioned.
Do you know why?
Because that would take balls.
Jesus loves you and so do I,