Buzzine, under Editor in Chief Richard Elfman, was an online publication where I was a weekly contributor. The OpEd part of my life is filled with angsty rantings describing formative years spent in NYC and its boroughs on many a misadventure.
The theme party is a time-honored art, which can be used to delve into the creative potential of any one group of people, yet divine inspiration is now a dwindling resource. I’ve donned sheets, “wigged” out, or pimped and whored it with the best of them, but I wanted to embark on unexploited and untapped territory. I wanted to be more than the girl who is a sexy cat for Halloween. I dislike that girl. That girl draws on whiskers with eyeliner, gets scantily clad and tosses on some fuzzy ears. Don’t get me started on that girl.
The idea for the “Douche Bag” party came to me when a friend of mine was discussing a theme party at which we were both supposed to make an appearance, the theme being glitter and sparkle or slutty and special or Cliché McBoring. After listing all my ideas for what I wanted to wear, she turns to inform me that we are not, in fact, attending a douche bag party. To which I responded, “fair enough, but we totally should.” So after Bedazzling (yes, I used the actual trademarked tool) D-Bag to a t-shirt for the glitter and sparkle gathering, I started planning my own brand of the theme party.
There are many different kinds of douche—for example, there’s the college frat guy douche with multiple layered pink popped-collared Polo shirts. He most likely accessorizes with a visor at night tilted to the side -- complete with gelled, frosted tipped and spiked hair through the top-- bronzer, newly purchased torn jeans, several phony LiveStrong bracelets and will smell heavily of Abercrombie cologne. He’ll be the guy that refers to himself with both thumbs as “that guy.” Don’t worry sir; the odds are in favor of everyone else referring to you as “that guy” as well, but most likely for differing sets of reasons.
Though it is harder to define the female douche (which is ironic given the word’s origin) as it’s short skip into slutty, however depictions can be made. For instance, there’s the bitter bridesmaid douche. Donned in head to toe penis paraphernalia, armed with a to do list and scavenger hunt, a bitterness towards her younger and thinner sister that’s getting married, and probably some sort of regurgitated sex on the beach on her cock straw. Yes, tiaras a go-go, veils adorned with varying condoms, and the amount of inhibitions required to squire a lucky stranger back the limo for a hummer.
These examples, of course, are just to name a few and give one possible inspiration to help celebrate douchbagery. A themed event that calls a spade a spade, or a d-bag a d-bag, which practices as little tongue-in-cheek as possible, though I mean that in the most ironic sense.
While sitting with a group of relative strangers discussing emotions evoked from quotations we were reading, I made the mistake of addressing one of the females in the group with the following statement, “Man, this is heavy—sorry, no gender pun intended.” To which she replied, “Why does it have to be ‘man’ in reference to everything? ” I could see I was about to be hip deep in what was verbal gender connotation muck. Even as someone who believes the correct nouns should be used in descriptions, I still find laziness in speech patterns can prevail. Words do have so much power. The weight each carries is only added to by every stone verbally thrown. It made me ponder how casually I cast words and whether their significance and meaning matched my intentions. How much power can I take away from the words I say? So I asked the group.
“With no gender pun intended, I say, “don’t be a pussy.” to men, and, “suck my dick.” to women. I call my friends with vaginas “dudes.” I call my friends with penises “chicks.” If a girl can throw a curve ball she’s a tomboy. If a boy cries at a chick flick he has a mangina—a word in and of itself so confused in its gender orientation it doesn’t even know who it’s supposed to be insulting. Females are infantilized and by word association considered lesser or worse. Why is it such a great insult to an insecure man to call him a woman? Vaginas are the most durable body part known to man or woman. They can expand and endure pain and birth the human race. A penis gets caught in one zipper and it’s never the same.
Someone cuts me off in the rush to the exit on the subway and I should tell him or her to, “suck my clit!” Yeah, I changed it. What? They are just words. They don’t own me. Or you. Or any ass hole. (Ass hole is okay to degrade someone with as everyone has one.)
We all walk with our genitals on our sleeve. I’m a feminist, but some wouldn’t agree to what degree, as I don’t get angry enough when gender is used as slang. I’m part of the problem as it’s exhausting to constantly be correcting grammar, content and context. Everyone is equal somehow still doesn’t add up.
I’m proud of my gender and wouldn’t want a penis, as that would be gay. No, wait, that’s not right. I don’t mean gay in the way of sexual orientation, I mean gay in the way children say it. If any feminist is still listening to this she is positive I’ve set the movement back to 1956. Fuck her. She’s an ass hole. No she’s not. She’s right, she just has more strength for the fight. 1956 would be invigorating because then the movement would be visible, and flowing, and we could get arrested while protesting, burn our bras, shout our rants, follow Rosy the Rivetor out of the kitchen and into the factory.
Unfortunately, Victoria told me her secret: we like the support, even if we know under-wires cause breast cancer. And lots of materials chafe nipples. I can say nipples because everyone has them.
I like to cook, I’m even good at it when I occasionally make the attempt. I’m not offended when in the kitchen, but if someone were to tell me I belonged there, I would kick her or him in his or her gender.
Or is that what they want? To get the better of me even though they were just kidding? Oh. You were just kidding? Phew. Giggle. Oh. You were serious? Now your gender is swollen and bruised because I can’t take a serious.
If a feminist-lesbian is being mean to me, and I call her a “cock-sucker,” am I in the wrong? Literally—yes. But I prefer to think I’m just creating a paradox in which irony exists in its truest form. I define it differently than Alanis Morrisette did in the mid-90s. She was so angry with Dave Coulier she couldn’t see she was using that word often times incorrectly. But the word still had power. Any man could see that.
I can say “any man” in this case because I am in fact referring to the male species as a whole. Whole as in entire. Not hole as in Courtney Love or orifice. Can I say “their” in reference to women? How far do I have to break this down? I don’t even remember what I was talking about. It now takes me 20 minutes to state--then justify--any sentence that comes out of my mouth.
I guess I’m sexist … even though I absolutely think women are better than man. Wait. No-- that’s not right. I don’t mean better as in unequal I just mean more capable at adapting to life in any given situation.”
As I paused and stared at the silent group, I gave a slight nod and then this disclaimer, “If you found the humor in this: I meant every word. If you were offended by this: I meant every word. If you stopped listening to this at such points as ‘mangina’ or ‘Dave Coulier’: I didn’t mean the word. Don’t be such a penis. I was just being a dick.”
I smiled and then asked the person to my left what she thought of the Maya Angelo quote.