Women Who Take Pictures “At” BLM Protests for Their Social Media Accounts.

White ladies are having a “difficult” time right now. In short, they don’t know what to do with them damn selves amid a climate that no longer focuses solely on them (that is, unless it’s to highlight their Karen-ness). And that’s a hard spotlight to relinquish when they’ve been so accustomed to taking hold of it over the past, oh, century or so (’cause mind you, it was white “men” before them who had a complete hold on it). And so, not one to simply let black people have the microphone to themselves during this peak of political oppression, white women have decided to take a “creative” approach to remaining part of the conversation: documenting themselves within the framework of it. 

You’ve heard of the type, but never really believed she could be real. The basic bitch channeling that basicness into the likes of posting a black square on her Instagram as a way to “honor Dr. King or whatever.” Even though doing that really pained her for an entire day–an entire day of not posting about herself or some product she was beholden to shill for whatever nebulous company is paying her to put up photos for a living. She might have even lost some money on her “big” endeavor of activism. And of course one will notice that, up until the death of George Floyd becoming an international scandal and reigniting source of outrage, the color palette of the “influencer’s” social media account was entirely, well, white.

It starts to get black around the day of the black square posting, with the shades quickly fading back, once more, to white. That white skin tone being paraded “at” the BLM protests she’s sure to get her boyfriend to snap her photo in front of without having even the slightest clue about the suffering behind it. To her, it’s another trend to follow, insurance that she’ll be classified as being “on the right side of history.” But thanks to her, who knew that even on the right side of it there could be so much wrongness?

Women (Blanca) Who Paint Their Faces in Black Lives Matter Motifs.

White people do a lot of crazy shit when they feel guilty. It can often include posturing, backpedaling, awkwardly offering consolation, etc. Or maybe it’s not even about guilt so much as wanting to feel as though they’re part of the conversation. But one of the most absurd reactions to black injustice of late has to be makeup “influencers” thinking that painting their faces in “Black Lives Matter” and “I Can’t Breathe” regalia is the look of “change.” It is, in fact, the look of the same old fuckin’ story about blancos (or, in this case, blancas) commodifying something black to either seem “with it” or to pull some kind of Allison Williams in Get Out fuckery by grafting the elements of blackness they want to “partake of” without ever having experienced the pain inherent to it.

Alissa Ashley, a beauty influencer of color herself, commented on the unreal trend in “I Can’t Breathe looks” with: “White/Non-Black MUAs, I promise painting ‘I can’t breathe’ on your lips isn’t revolutionary, like I really promise that isn’t what we mean when we say be an ally.” Some have since deleted their TikTok or Instagram photos and videos featuring such content, while others have asked what’s so wrong with showing “support” in this way. Alas, if one can’t see the problem, then it’s clear just how naive we’re still being on thinking that the times they are a-changin’ when, in fact, they might just be mutating into a new way for white people to trivialize the black experience. In this case, with makeup “inspo.”

What’s more, these bitches should be wearing face masks that cover most of their visage anyway so what’s the point in trying to peddle this aesthetic?–other than to further make people falsely believe they can let their guard down about coronaV. And also so one can feel as though they’re “fighting for the cause” through a (camera) lens that suits their overt narcissistic ends. 

Women Who Are Karen.

As vitriol for the Karen archetype reaches a crescendo, it bears noting that the trope might die out if there was a genuine systemic change that forced white folk of means to check their privilege. To stop feeling they have the right to “speak to the manager” at the slightest inconvenience or perceived slight in customer service (all jobs thereof being thankless so how da fuck you gonna expect “service with a smile” while said workers are getting financially raped for their troubles?). To stop costing the lives of others amid a potential viable vaccine with their anti-science, anti-vax stances. Naturally, we all know this sort of shift in the culture of white privilege is impossible–that’s what makes it privilege: the right to never acknowledge it at all, perpetually blazing through red tape like it’s going out of style. To be sure, for the Karens of this world, it never will. 

That the women who are the “victims” of this very branding are likely unaware of just how much they manifest the name they have come to embody only further speaks to the bubble they live in. Making up in the self-awareness they lack with self-righteousness instead. Several examples of the Karen rhetoric and sense of exemption from the rules that apply to everyone else have cropped up rather glaringly in the media lately, starting first with Lana Del Rey’s rant about not being treated with the same liberties as her “peers,” primarily women of color who were listed that included Beyonce, Nicki Minaj, Kehlani, Cardi B, Doja Cat, Ariana Grande and Camila Cabello. Her series of “defenses” that followed in doubling down on the original post only further iterated a Karen mentality. When called out for such, all she could do was deny her true self with, “Thanks for the Karen comments tho. V helpful.” V helpful being a millennial Karen in denial of being a Karen’s prime word choice to seem “with it.” 

Elsewhere, the recent rejuvenation of Celeste Ng’s 2017 novel, Little Fires Everywhere, in which Reese Witherspoon stars in the miniseries adaptation as an ultimate Karen (whether in the 90s or not) called Elena Richardson, has also re-highlighted an even worse problem about the type of woman at hand. One who is convinced she is as “PC” as they come, all the while holding her racism in check until it bubbles to the surface in the most unexpectedly venomous ways.

The “Karen in the news” phenomenon persisted earlier this week when a white lady named Amy Cooper had a tense, racially driven run-in with a man who shared her last name in Central Park. Bird-watching Christian Cooper approached her when he saw that she had her dog off a leash in the Ramble, at which point Karen freaked the fuck out and called the police to tell them there was “an African American man threatening my life.” On a side note, being racist while trying to be politically correct in classifying him as “African American” is peak Karen moves (again, as Elena Richardson additionally showcased).

Naturally, this Karen worked somewhere as banal as an asset management company, which put her “on leave” after the incident, proving that you can’t do shit in your personal life when you work for a corporation. And then her dog got taken away too (though maybe the shelter will give it back at some point). Yet despite these comeuppances, one can’t help but think that Karen is still going to cling to her right to be affronted by the mere presence of a black man in an isolated area. It is, simply, her Karen’s right.

And even in the face of viral incidents like these, Karen won’t die, though in the future her name might be replaced with a new generation’s more popular name, like Emma or Olivia. Or maybe the gender neutral X Æ A-Xii.

Women Who Are Butter Faces Taking Advantage of Surgi Mask Usage in Every Man’s Current Weakened Condition.

While many women are, naturally, somewhat in denial about their appearance despite already having the kind of low self-esteem that makes them think they’re always lacking in some way regardless, there are other types of women who fundamentally cannot deny that their face is, well, hideous. Maybe this is part of the reason they cultivate their bodies so diligently. Making sure that all the dimensions are distributed in just the right place for the perfect Barbie physique (Barbie, too, being arguably something of a butter face–there’s a reason she’s never without makeup). Because if you want to “attract a ‘man’,” the best thing to focus on is one’s body anyway, right?–you shallow bitch still trying to deny that the best way for a woman–any woman–to live is without making the opinions of “men” your benchmark for everything. You honestly think those toads have any credibility regarding what matters? Alas, women are still hopelessly conditioned to believe that they ought to be as visually pleasing as possible. Not for themselves, but for the benefit of attracting the gaze of another. So long as, in the butter face’s case, that gaze is not directed too closely on her face. Which, in the present climate, it will not be thanks to one, COVID-19. 

The average self-aware butter face has, of course, already caught on to this insane fluke of a perk by now. In short, she’s the girl who has gone apeshit on buying every single custom mask from the likes of Etsy and Society6 to really play up her “fashion sense” no matter the conditions when, in fact, it’s simply her time to shine when it comes to being able to legitimately conceal the most undesirable part of herself. No more silently wishing she was of the religious faith and descent that would allow her to wear a hijab without it being called appropriation. At last, the universe has seen fit to throw her a motherfucking bone–like literally–as she attracts more vulnerable “men” in a state of loneliness and desperation for touch than ever. The butter face woman is, indeed, what Paris Hilton would call sliving in the pandemic climate. Inviting fuqbois over during quarantine like she’s the den mother of curing dick depression. It’s safe, she reasons, because she’s always wearing a face mask no matter what–so how could she ever possibly contract COVID-19? Well, darling, potentially through his semen, if you must know

In any case, will the butter face woman be able to sustain these glory days of mandatory face mask wearing? Considering that the increased regularity of pandemics feels like a given as climate change continues, then the answer would be an orgasmically resounding, “Yes! Yes! Yes!”

Women Who Toy With Men Out of Boredom in Quarantine: A Chat Ho Production.

While it has always been the “male” way to chat women up in pursuit of a potential fuck via DMs, texts and any other manner of “tech-savvy” means, females, in general, have never been one for playing such games. Of being so down to squander valuable time. With the advent of self-quarantine existence, however, the available hours a girl has to use for more inane purposes has led to her “bored” engagement in chats with garden variety fuckboys and softboys alike.

Of course, can a woman really be blamed–particularly if she’s quarantined in solitude–for her sudden interest in chat ho’ing? After all, so much of being a woman is predicated on histrionics. And without attention paid to the inherent performance of “being female” (something gay men long ago took to, way back when drag queens were simply called “female impersonators”), a girl can tend to have an identity crisis that plays out onto the screen. Alas, what she appears to forget is that “men” can never seem to take flirtation for what it is: mere distraction–not, in fact, an actual invitation to fucking. For all women really get out of coquettish bantering, for the most part, is the desired attention they’ve been seeking (of the variety that was not likely given to them by their father).

Whilst in quarantine, this need has augmented tenfold, without many women realizing that the aftermath of “being set free”–back into the wild of an environment run by a mad “man” claiming it’s safe–means that these mere projections of their ego will once more become real as “boys” try to actually meet up post-quarantine, for some reason having no idea that they were merely pawns in a woman’s game called Distracting Myself From Crippling Loneliness and Irrelevancy. Thus, a girl ought to do well to remember that cultivating chatting-based “dalliances” in lockdown is never worth the stalker-y attention that comes after. When IRL rears its ugly (and likely infected) head again.

Women Who “Discover” Janis Joplin in Their Twenties.

Ah, the last stab at youth called one’s twenties. Sure, it’s still a period in a “girl’s” life when she can get away with being a fuck-up and engaging in the puerile behaviors that were once more endearing when it was still acceptable for her to suck on lollipops and wear Mary Janes with ankle socks. But what it is not is a time for “fresh discovery” of the likes of Janis Joplin (or Amy Winehouse, or The Smiths, or Joy Division for that matter). For some reason, however, the “woman” still grasping at some quaint notion of fatalism being endearing or some such bullshit seems to think that it’s a good idea to turn to Janis at a time in her life when being the tragic victim is a little much to take seriously (after all, twenty is the new sixty in this climate called despising the old guard).

Maybe it’s that Janis appeals to the maligned “woman” at any age, that her brand of being shat upon by a “man” transcends the generations. Yet, at a certain point, playing the part of the sad, chain-smoking alcoholic in order to better appreciate the place the music of Janis was coming from can become more exhausting than liberating. Anyway, it’s certainly not helpful to one’s lungs or potbelly. Or even one’s musical growth, for Janis’ music tends to hit a wall pretty quickly, what with her solo artistic output consisting of I Got Dem Ol’ Kozmic Blues Again Mama! and Pearl.

In any event, the “woman” who has “just” realized how “groovy” Janis is in her twenties can’t really be deemed anything other than someone who could never take another piece of your heart now darlin’–’cause she didn’t have one to earlier apprehend that feelings, if we ever have them/choose to embrace them, can only come in the dawn–not the twilight–of our youth. Everything after is just a feigned attempt at emotionalism.

Women Who Sit on A Man’s Shoulders During A Concert.

Seeing as how “men” are already endlessly titillated by the image of a “woman” relying on them in metaphorical ways (though what could be metaphorical about an ad like “Keep Her Where She Belongs” with the image of a woman lying down next to a “man’s” shoe?), it’s no wonder that the timeless emblem at any outdoor concert or music festival remains the sight of a flower crowned twig wearing little more than shorts and a bathing suit top happily gawking at the stage while perched atop her current beau’s shoulders.

Because being dainty and on drugs is almost harder than being a “woman” itself. And a “girl” needs all the propping up she can get, after all, when she’s barely got enough girth to handle the weight of that bird brain of hers. Plus, she just really loves music, you know? Not any specific artist or genre, she just likes it. The social nature of getting high or microdosing in a public space where she can “really commune” with others. Though obviously not anyone that might lure away the attention of her boyfriend (of the moment, for these types of shoulder-carrying romances rarely last past the summer). But anyone else slightly fatter or dowdier or “male” will do for the purposes of her festival consortium. Because this is her moment, understand? She’s been waiting at least forty-five minutes for a band she has no ardor for (apart from the song that’s been playing on the radio) to come on while everyone else has been standing around for hours in order to have secured the benefit of a decent vantage point.

But she, in all her white “girl” wisdom, gets ahead by getting on top. For the pussy isn’t powerful just when serving as an orifice of pleasure, but also when wrapped around a “man’s” head. A “man” whose sense of privilege is possibly more egregious than the “woman” he’s lifting for obliging her request in the first place.

Women Who Are Not Offended by the Latest Gillette Commercial.

While it is mostly “men” who voted for Trump and have bits of shit and meat for brains inside that otherwise hollow head of theirs who have been offended by Gillette’s latest “avant-garde” approach to marketing their product, it is, in actuality, “women” who should be most terrified of all by the implications of this new narrative. While, sure, no “girl” wants to be leered at just because she made the somehow “courageous” decision to wear short shorts, this doesn’t mean she wants all “men” everywhere to suddenly stamp out their entire encoded DNA by suppressing their lust and sex drive altogether. What is Gillette trying to create, huh? A fucking nation of peacenik eunuchs who leave all the work of pursuit to “women”?

That’s exactly what it seems like as a father at a barbecue tears two boys roughhousing apart and says, as though in an attempt at some bad imitation of Gandhi, “That’s not how we treat one another.” But isn’t it? Or at least how “men” should if they’re going to know how to properly take out their aggression on other asshole “males” instead of the eventual “girl”friends they end up verbally and/or physically abusing?

And as for this call to eradicate bullying, how are we ever going to collectively give birth to another androgynous pop icon like Prince or Freddie Mercury without this occasionally harsh goading? Who is a “girl” going to look to for masturbation, let alone fucking, purposes in the future when “men” ooze not sex but enervation? As a matter of fact, when the next generation of “boys” grows further into weak little pussaysays building on the Michael Cera blueprint, and the last of the straight “girls” not turning to lesbianism for the ease of it, Gillette will sell fewer razors than ever. Because hair is a symbol of the virility and masculinity that will no longer exist, if it even still does now. So thanks Gillette, for asking what the best a “man” can be is and making “women” responsible for answering the question with the observation: scared do-nothings with an opinion and sex drive that must constantly be shaped by “women” who don’t even have the luxury of calling this world a matriarchy.

 

 

 

 

Women Named Brie.

“Women” named Brie do not fart. They do not get fat (mainly because they can afford to have their children surgically removed from them). They do not marry “men” who don’t have names like Brad, Derek or Kent. And yes, they will occasionally indulge in brie cheese with the poor choice of pairing it with something like white zinfandel because they are East Coast white “girls” or California “free spirits” who simply don’t know any better. And of course no one is going to tell them what might be better because they are too “pretty” to be told such things and even if someone did tell them, it’s not as though a Brie’s microscopic brain would be ready to receive such information the way her pinhole-sized pussy seems to so effortlessly receive rich (therefore small) dick.

“Women” named Brie go to college as a matter of course, knowing full well that they will have something better to fall back on before even graduating, like marriage or a modeling career. Or simply being Daddy’s little socialite. There is simultaneously no limit to what a Brie can achieve and nothing but limits to her potential in life. She is another waste of air, contributing little to society other than prosaic blonde beauty and a stick figure physique. But of course it’s not like she doesn’t work for that unformed thinness; Brie can spend as much as three hours a day exerting herself with the mouth and hand movements that require the two types of standard-issue penis-oriented jobs. Because she knows that Bries are a dime a dozen in her world, and she should at least suck for her diamonds (the wealthy “woman’s” version of singing for one’s supper).

Women (Not French) Who Pronounce Croissant Like Cwahsahnt.

There is no shortage of gross “female” behavior when it comes to attempts at exhibiting pretension and superiority. Particularly in the neighborhoods of New York that encourage the sort of faux learnedness that comes with having never actually traveled anywhere, because why would you? You live in New York! Everything you could possibly need to comprehend about other cultures is right here. And, what’s more, so long as you pronounce “foreign” words with the correct flourish, you’re sure to prove your international cachet to the cashier that wants to murder you anyway due to the blatant class divide between y’all.

Isn’t it enough that you’re working below your full potential by working at all anyway? Shouldn’t you get to showcase your intelligence and knowledgeability in some way to the world outside of dinner parties and discussions about your love of travel over dim sum when you slum it in Chinatown? No, one supposes, it is not. It is just too essential for you to barf the word croissant as cwahsahnt to prove, I don’t know, that you don’t queaf (you’re also too elegant to spell it like queef) during sex or something because you’re so goddamn erudite. But oh chouchou, it has to be said that the more you try to parade your cultivated aura, the more of a pompous little dodo bird you come across as. But don’t worry, surely your wispy pronunciations will attract the corresponding blowhard so that you might combine forces to birth a mutant even more faux intellectual than the two of you combined. And then you can all eat baby cwahsahnts (you must maintain your figure if you’re going to keep Blowhard from cheating) before nine a.m. together around the breakfast table because waking up past noon would just be much too French.