“Why Aren’t NFL Cheerleaders Protesting During the National Anthem?” reads the headline on an NBC News site.
I laugh because that’s the stupidest question I’ve ever seen. It cancels itself out before it finishes being asked.
Because they are part of the problem!
No society that isn’t fundamentally sexist would even have cheerleaders. They are part of the system.
If it weren’t sexist: there would be whole squads of male cheerleaders. But where’s the men’s team that cheers me on during childbirth? How about a bunch of men doing hip-grinding, pelvis-oriented dances to get women through their periods? And I sure as fuck could use some male cheerleaders to get me through menopause. Where is my high- kicking, ass-waggling, pom pom-bearing man squad?
I’ve never meet a feminist cheerleader in my life.
Oh look at those big strong men. Look at me, sexy, barely clothed woman, waggling my boobs and butt and eating lettuce all day so the men can look at me and be glad they have a penis. Football wouldn’t be complete without slapping an objectified woman on top of it to make it sexy on top of simply being brutally competitive.
There are no NFL cheerleaders protesting for their rights because they know they don’t have any. They exist to please and excite the men for money and that’s it. It’s an athletic form of prostitution; a stadium size strip-club.
That is not to say they aren’t intelligent and talented, but they are willing to prostitute themselves to a stupid, narrow-minded, racist, sexist patriarchal system. Being a cheerleader is the same thing as white women voting for Trump.
Now you want to ask the question again? It’s like asking why Trump voters aren’t taking a knee. My other answer to that is they aren’t taking a knee because they’re too busy bending over.
Cheerleaders are the Condaleeza Rice of feminism: the Kellyanne Conway of women’s rights. There is no knee, except to kneel before patriarchy and take its hallowed member into one’s mouth.
Yes, I was a cheerleader, so shut up. And when I saw what was really going on, I quit and joined the basketball team. The women’s basketball team. If cheerleaders want society to change, they all need to quit their jobs and do something useful, something that empowers women instead of entrenching sexism and its incestuous cousin, racism, even further.
Otherwise let’s all just learn to enjoy our Pussy Grabbing Society and cheer it on!
LET’S GO PATRIARCHY!!!!!
CLICK FOR AUDIO VERSION
So I’m walking to the Dollar Store on a summer evening, which is always a voyage into low self-esteem: Who feels good shopping at the Dollar Store?
Oh look, instead of buying really shitty cat food at Albertson’s for 75 cents a can, I can buy 4 cans of completely crappy cat food for 50 cents a can at the Dollar Store, because I’m such a derelict (according to GOP) that I can’t afford the healthier cat food at $1.50 a can, or the outrageously healthy cat food at Whole Foods for $7.25 a can, which would keep the cats alive longer than my lifespan. Then my poor cats would be put down cruelly by strangers who aren’t willing to suck it up and go into the Dollar Store to keep these extra dead-lady-cats-from-next-door alive, because the strangers also can’t afford Whole Paycheck Organic Cat Delight, or the Almost Food for Felines at Albertson’s and Smith’s.
And now for the real question that’s been on my mind for a while: Can you buy yoga mats at the Dollar Store? And if you do will it irreversibly cheapen Downward Dog? Will I be pilloried at the YMCA for shopping at Cheap Ass Goods warehouse, Santa Fe, New Mexico, or championed for my thriftiness? It’s all going to depend on the quality of the mat. I’m filled with hope: my possible positive self-esteem is hanging in the balance.
I decided to walk to the Dollar Store today. You don’t drive to the Dollar Store. You go there when you have no car and live nearby. If you have a car, you at least park at Trader Joe’s, then walk over to the Dollar Store-the poor person’s Starbucks. Our local Dollar Store is so progressive it opened another Dollar Store in the parking lot with great deals: locals call it The Fifty Cent. They love it because poor white Trump supporters just won’t go in there.
The Dollar Store. It’s a misnomer because it literally means: buy your dollars here. Right. This is the place to buy money. Who’d be dumb enough to purchase money? Um, I’d like to buy a dollar for a dollar. It’s money laundering for poor people.
Or maybe it’s a conspiratorial metaphor, a little known partnership between The Poor Store and Whole Foods. If you shop at Poverty R’ Us, you will save so much money that now you can buy goods at the GOP One-Percenter Market. (The O in GOP stands for “organic,” so I’ve been told. As in Good Organic Person. Right.)
Hang on, I shouldn’t be so cynical: what if it means I can pay one dollar to buy ten dollars; two dollars to buy twenty dollars, and so forth. It’s some special Dollar Store conversion table! Wow I am smart to shop here! The shabby appearance of the place belies the miracle of expenditure that is taking place every day here, maybe so the GOP doesn’t find out. Something for us the 99 Percenters! Awesome!
Perhaps it also explains why someone burgled the place last night, breaking one huge plate glass window and the glass door, both covered now by particle board.
So here I am approaching the threshold of the Dollar Store on a warm summer evening, trying to beat down any self-esteem I might have built up during the day by doing yoga and not yelling at stupid people, when a car with completely tinted windows drives up, and slows down, timing its entry into the parking spot to coincide with my trajectory. Ordinarily I would assume thoughtfulness on the part of the driver, but because all the windows are opaque, and the windshield is heavily tinted, it’s making me nervous. I can’t see who is in the car at all. Is the person going slowly because they’re a Christian? A Grandma? A Braille Driver? Or am I being followed? Stalked? Menaced?
I personally think windows shouldn’t come with the equivalent of mirrored sunglasses. I deserve to stare into the face of the people who are trying to kill me. However, really dark tint is legal in New Mexico. Given the intensity of the sun I can understand why—it’s the only time in my life I’ve hated my sun roof—but I think tinted windows are the concealed carry of vehicles and shouldn’t be allowed.
Even so, as it pulled up I tell myself I’m being stupid, but my breath is catching a little and I have to force myself to keep walking down the side walk in front of the car and not cower like a man afraid of abortion rights against the Dollar Store wall. And now I come to see something completely startling: a grey Hello Kitty vanity plate on the front bumper. The black sporty car has black windows, black tire rims, black trim and a grey Hello Kitty license plate.
I burst out laughing. Who puts Hello Kitty on the front of their Macho-Mobile? The driver is either completely pussy whipped, so to speak, or using the cleverest disguise ever because now I’m cracking up so hard I can’t run lest I pee my pants. What kind of stalker/hit man/Russian spy would use Hello Kitty plates? I stand here for a bit, gasping and half-expecting a young Latina woman with heels and pink sun glasses to emerge and blow all my referential frameworks to bits.
But Hello Kitty just sits there, breathing, behind its car-sunglasses and I give up and go inside; obviously driver is male and now too ashamed to get out of the car. The Dollar Store: land of self-esteem. Or maybe he is here to buy some money, or maybe rob the place again, but is now having second thoughts because I’m memorizing his license plate and he knows it.
The cashier inside will not admit to selling money. I figure it’s because all the money had all been stolen last Thursday by the cat-burglar, also a misnomer when you think about it. Who would ever be stupid enough to break into someone’s house to steal a cat? Now planting a cat might make some sense, but not abducting a cat to ransom later. Running a CAT-NAPPING ring usually means you will be shopping at the Bankruptcy Store for the remainder of your life while feeling really sleepy.
After ascertaining the cashier would not admit to selling yoga mats (and as far as I could tell the inventory agreed with him), I left the store. The Hello Kitty Death Squad Car was still outside. But the car didn’t follow me down the road. We both knew his cover had been blown. Or maybe he couldn’t actually see through the window either and that’s why he’d been going so slowly and was perhaps marooned at the Dollar Store. Maybe he actually needed my help. I could go back and google: Blindfolds for Cars and tell him what a possible remedy would be.
But that would have to wait. Right now I had great plans for my Halloween Costume: Hello Kitty Assassin! I’m going right down the street to the Dollar Tree to pick up some money to buy it!
The Laughing Hello Dollar Kitty
Ferocious Feminists Fight for Environmental Justice and Indigenous Land Rights OPEN MIC Fundraiser Santa Fe, AUGUST 26
Ferocious Feminists Fight Fascism presents:
A Night of Words and Music for Environmental Justice!
Featuring the Indigenous poets and activists
Lyla June: internationally recognized performance poet and musician, Dine Walker, and communications director at New Energy Economy
Beata Tsosie-Peña: poet, artist, dancer, community organizer, and environmental justice coordinator for Tewa Women United
Followed by an open mic for performers of all genres and genders on the topic of environmental justice. Poetry, prose, music, performance art, and dance welcome! Sign ups at 6:45; 7 mins max.
Suggested donation $10
All proceeds go to the Black Hills Unity Concert, a project for Indigenous land rights, which Lyla June is organizing.
Saturday, August 26, 7–9 p.m.
Wise Fool Studios
1131 Siler Road, Suite B, Santa Fe
Laughing Coyote Productions, working with Kristin Barendsen of Santa Fe, co-produces performers and open-mics that fundraise for various political, environmental and humanitarian causes under the heading: Ferocious Feminists Fight Fascism.
(for audio blog, scroll to the bottom)
I need directions for how to follow directions.
Something like: Step one-read them in order. Step 2: do the steps in order. No improvising. (The steps are numbered in chronological order for a reason. The procedure isn’t: Start wherever you like to put your kids’ swing set together.)
If that were the case, I would start at the end, when it’s all finished.
I wish all instructions said: Start wherever you like! So I’ll start with step 3! What goes good after 3? I hate 4, 5 looks way too fucking complicated and 6? I think 6 should follow 2, then we’ll do 7. . . then I will see how I feel after that. I may even leave out some numbers. I mean just because you have a bunch of numbers doesn’t mean you have to use them all right? I mean even math doesn’t use ALL THE NUMBERS at once. That’s just stupid.
Good I’m being discerning. Even a little smart about the number line which has always bothered me. What if number 2 hates 1? What if 4 can’t stand the sight of 3? It’s like grade school in a small town where you are always sitting next to Kimmy Stanley and Kimmy Stanley, who wears blue glasses and pigtails, is one boring fucking individual. Karen Spruell is no better. Fuck, I thought, can I just change my name during school hours? I will be the only school kid with a series of aliases. Or is that aliei?
I decided I should change my last name to New. Because I wanted to sit next to Paula Newman and that would guarantee it. This was after I tried to get Paula to change her last name to Stegg so she could sit by me, my name being Stehr. The shortest unpronounceable name ever. Phonics stopped being a thing once I was done answering roll call.
I was the only kid in sixth grade with a disguised name due to chronology, which may be why I developed an allergy to reading directions. So long and drawn out- Jesus I will be dead before I finish reading the instructions and swing sets will be outlawed for the dangerously boring things they are. They really should just collapse after the third use. Even birds won’t use a use pink and blue swing set. Ever see an abandoned swing set in a yard?
There’s a perimeter of radioactivity around them, no squirrels, butterflies, raccoons—not even any spiders, for God’s sake. Maybe they know something we don’t. Children play strategically around them, as if they don’t even see the swing set that dad nearly lost his marriage over during one very long Christmas Eve sponsored by egg nog. (Rum? Really? He would have been better off with whisky or scotch. Who builds anything drinking rum? Maybe that’s why the kids won’t play on it.
I figured maybe if I didn’t follow the directions I could build a swing set that kids might use for more than five minutes. Our yard isn’t really big enough to have a black hole of that size in it and I’m not about to have my kids stay indoors with me. I’m their fucking mother for god’s sake, not a companion animal. My job is to make sure they don’t expire before age eighteen and if they are in the house with me all day and night because they are avoiding the Bermuda triangle of a swing set in the back yard, someone is going to be spending some time in the lockup, and last I checked Murdering Your Own Children Even if they Fucking Deserve it, is not on the list of preferred parental behaviors, and I don’t want to be in a tiny cell next to Kimmy Stanley or some shit for the next thirty years of my life.
I thought maybe if I just followed the directions in a-chronological order, the swing set might look so goddamn interesting and mysterious that my kids might not ever come back in the house at all, and this was a goal worth working towards.
As I built this monstrosity I also employed some Synchronous Directionality, which is when you do all of the steps of the instructions at the same time. You definitely need to wear tennis shoes for this. I figured Syn chronous Directionalitywould keep me completely safe from all thing ordinal, but as soon as I built the swing set, loosely speaking, the government called and wanted to hire me and wouldn’t take no for an answer, even when I said “I can’t follow instructions.”
Apparently the bureaucrats needed help understanding the tax code, which science has proven cannot be done while following the guidelines, and then Trump wanted me in the Strategic Planning Department.
I asked, “Really? Strategic planning for what?”
They said they didn’t know and that was part of the beauty of my job. I was to work towards an unknown goal using something like Debbie Snack Cakes as a template and, since my name is Debbie, and I needed to rehabilitate my name and reputation because of that awful Dallas thing of the early 80’s, I took the job and created the Adventitous Planning Department. No one knows what it means so I pretty much do whatever I want, mostly designing things that don’t work, but that’s not a problem since no one can really figure out what the things I design are for in the first place.
Like place mats for cars. That was a signature piece. I also designed an ice cube tray that makes anything but cubes, mostly jagged slivers in random triangular shapes that cut your throat open when you drink your highball. (So if a highball is more mixer than booze, is a lowball more booze than mixer? If so I’ll have three lowballs please.)
Meanwhile Ice Scientists have told me that my non-cube ice shapes aren’t random because ice cleaves apart in certain predictable patterns, but since I was listening to the words they were using to explain this out of order (like listening to English as if it was German) I didn’t understand what the Ice-atists were saying to me. Global warming will take care of the ice anyway, so I don’t really need to know.
I have also recently embarked on atemporality where I attempt to experience time out of order. Like expecting a break up that already happened! Some people call that depression. I call it planning for your past. (I’m going to do that surprise break up better this time because I know all my lines!
Atemporal living is also very similar to housework-pretty much the eternal return of the same, thus the stuttering now of the dishes never being over, also known as timelessness. Who knew you could get that with your kitchen? Being a practicing Atemporalist also means I’m never late anymore.
And my other trick, called a-historicity is also coming along nicely. This consists of pretending something that never happened happened last week. President Hillary. I thought I’d be alone in this project, but no! I’m attending a Hillary is Really the President party tonight.
We are going to bring lowballs and build a swing set.
The Laughing Coyote
Audio of this blog below…give it a listen!
As performed on May 20, 2017 at FURIOUS FEMINISTS FIGHT FASCISM OPEN-MIC FUNDRAISER NIGHT AT ICONIK COFFEE ROASTERS IN SANTA FE. THANKS EVERYONE for raising money to prevent families from becoming homeless! (Audio)
The Paradoxical Nature of Pre-Existing Conditions: A Monograph by Dr. Laughing Coyote of WTF University
Evidently there are now many pre-existing conditions NOT COVERED under the new We-Could-Give-a-Flying-Fuck-Care bill that the House Republi-cretins voted in without even reading it or checking their collective pulses for a conscience.
Being worried about health care coverage these days, (No you had those eyes before you tried to sign up for glasses!) I decided to write to Paul Ryan to ask about what constitutes a “pre-existing condition” according to the AHCA, otherwise known as the Assholes Hurt Consumers Act.
According to Paul Ryan the following are designated as “pre-existing conditions,” which will not be covered under the various sub-categories of the Abolish Health Care Act (AHCA).
-Being unable to remember your fucking passwords
-Having a Russian boyfriend
-Giving a shit about other people
(Math skills are considered to be untreatable pre-existing conditions, so no self-respecting insurance company would deign to insure it.)
Being on Facebook is also a pre-existing condition, as is:
Voting for Hillary
Having your pussy grabbed (Insurers think this isn’t really a disorder, but just in case. One arrogant asshole claimed that if he had a pussy he would want it grabbed night and day.)
Other conditions that will not be covered because they are pre-existing conditions:
Watching Rachel Maddow
Drinking water daily
(It’s not the insurers fault that you believed a malignantly narcissistic con man).
The AHCA (Apocalyptically Harmful Creeps’ Act) also does not cover the following pre-existing conditions:
Pining for Obama
Wishing Trump had the balls to go to his own correspondence dinner
(One insurance representative commented: Our money won’t cover your lack of money. What do you think money is for? It’s to make sure our money has money!)
Other pre-existing conditions for which there is now no insurance:
The Comcast-Verizon Internet
Dying prematurely because of the AHCA (Arrogantly Harmful Cunts’ Act)
In a phone call (because I threw my computer against the wall in a fit of outrage—also not covered under the American Heinous Assholes’ Act), Ryan explained that insurance can’t cover the pre-existing condition called “having no insurance,” or any sequelae. I told him I was going to shove my fist up his sequelae.
Subsequently I was then told that “not having an iPhone anymore because I threw it over 1500 miles at Ryan’s self-satisfied fuckhead” is also a pre-existing condition that no one will pay for. I had to borrow my grandmother’s flip phone so he could tell me that.
Then I asked “What if one of my pre-existing conditions has a pre-existing condition? Wouldn’t they then cancel each other out and then you’d have to cover it?”
This comment was ignored. I suspect the Republican “Nerd” (so called because what exactly is ‘smart’ among Tea Party GOP?) didn’t understand me.
I said, “For example, being a Republican is obviously a pre-existing condition and being a Tea Party Republican is manifestly one also-”
“I don’t follow,” said Ryan.
“You didn’t really pay attention during Nerd Lessons, did you?”
“I don’t follow.”
“Obviously you have a few pre-existing conditions that Democrats are fully paying for. Listen closely. Being a Tea Party member is a pre-existing condition inside the already pre-existing condition of being a Republican. These two things that are proven chronic mental conditions are so awful that they negate civilization creating a manifest emptiness which by definition does not exist (thus it cannot ‘pre-exist’) and therefore must be covered by your own Arrogantly Harmful Cretins Act.”
“Oh, yes, we congressmen do have very good insurance,” said the right wing, brown-nosing pseudo genius, and Speaker of the House.
Refusing to discuss it further, Ryan went on to say that in most states the Aggressively Hurtful Conditions Act does not cover being alive at the time of coverage. “We view being alive as a condition that the state can take no responsibility for, and thus any condition that actually involves respiration, whether natural or enhanced, cannot and should not be covered, because it is the individual’s responsibility for being alive in the first place that is the underlying cause of most illnesses and it is not fair to ask money to pay for that endemic situation.”
I said, “So in order to get coverage, we would have to sign up for the Aggressively Harmful Consumer Act before we are actually alive because actually having enough fingers to fill out the form would be a pre-existing condition?”
“Precisely,” said Ryan.
“So in order to get around this No Pre-existing Conditions Act I have to sign up before I exist?”
I said, “How many people do you think can cope with that kind of planning?”
Apparently in this Asinine Health Can’t Act there are also levels of “pre-existing conditions”, to wit: some conditions exist more than others, and are therefore unqualified for a higher level of coverage; in other word the more something exists, the less likely it is to be covered; and the less a condition exists, the more likely it is to be fully covered by the WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT!!? Health Care Act.
The only conditions the AHCA covers are conditions that don’t exist. It should be called the Apocryphal Humanity Coverage Act.
Thus, under this sub-clause:
- All interactions with unicorns are fully covered.
- Accidents involving people with wings are covered.
- Diseases stemming from telepathy are widely insured.
- Chronic illnesses stemming from chronic prescience are actually pre-covered: you get money from the government before you come down with viral omniscience.
Donald Trump’s brain is, obviously, also fully insured.
Faced with this, I thought about shooting myself, but wasn’t sure if I existed enough to be successful. And then I received a call from a philosopher who had a whole different take on the semantics of the issue.
“This shouldn’t stand up in court,” said Philosophical Phil (his friends call him Philoso-Phil). “To pre-exist means you don’t exist, so that means pre-existing conditions can’t exist and they can’t keep you from having insurance.”
“So that means they have to insure me even if I breathe on a regular basis, watch Rachel Maddow, vote Democratic and understand facts?”
“Looks that way.”
“I believe they may have fucked themselves, I said.
“Also not a pre-existing condition,” said Philoso-Phil.
So, armed with this knowledge, insurance fans, let’s all write to our insurance companies and legislative branches and lawyers pointing out that there is a logical inconsistency in their plan to kill us all and take our money.
I’m so relieved that having a new iPhone 6 isn’t a pre-existing condition, but I am now insanely worried about the unicorns.
The Laughing Coyote
Day 92: Trumpaggedon
Dems Finally Find Solution to Trumpageddon: Duct Tape
We are all about solutions here at the DCCC. Duct Tape can fix anything.
Our first step will be to seal President Dump’s mouth shut. We will also place duct tape on all his phones so he can’t tweet. Then we will capture his cabinet members one by one (we’ll put a Muslim outside the White House waving a legal visa to lure them outside) and then we’ll wrap each one up like a silver mummy and leave them on the White House lawn. We plan to use red duct tape on Kellyanne Conway’s mouth to match both her lipstick and the color of shame that her face should be. We will also use some tape on that drooping right eye of hers so we won’t have to look it all day. (Someone should really get her to read The Picture of Dorian Gray).
Then we will wind duct tape around both houses of Congress so no one can get into the building and pass any legislation for the next four years.
Then it’s on to the Supreme Court where we will send Merrick Garland into the building, with snacks, to join the eight other justices and then tape shut all the windows and doors so no one can get in or out.
After that we will send Seal Team 6 into Russia and duct tape Putin to Siberia. Subsequently, we will use the entire Western supply of duct tape to tape over Russia. The Middle East will then chill out because they’ll see we mean business, and because they don’t want to spend the next four years under some plastic-y, grey gluey shit, they will just shut the fuck up and keep killing themselves.
North Korea will get totally wrapped up in producing and testing this newfangled Duct Tape (despite sanctions); China will wrap themselves in duct tape because that’s how they are, and with the amount left over from the black market, we Democrats can build a bunker completely out of duct tape and hunker down and wait until 2020, when we can pull Hillary out of her duct taped-sealed bubble wrap container and run her again, after we duct tape shut the electoral college, so democracy can actually fucking work.
It’s not a nuclear winter, but it will do.
This DCCC think tank is sponsored by Duct Tape. (Trump thinks it is spelled “Duck Tape” and that’s how we’ll get the drop on him. The NSA thinks we are talking about hunting.)
Make a contribution now to the DCCC and receive a pair of balls completely made out of blue duct tape!
Laughing Coyote Reporting
It’s exciting being part of the solution!