The Two Brittanys


Lance Cpl. Brittany Holloway (left) talks with Brittany Dunklee next to their LAV.

Lance Cpl. Brittany Holloway (left) talks with Brittany Dunklee next to their LAV.


I was reading an otherwise unremarkable article about women in combat when I stumbled upon this photo. It absolutely took my breath away.

It’s of two women, both Marines, both harsh and beautiful, their strength and poise almost palpable. It’s like a modern-day Dorothea Lange photograph, crisp and real, but still with a dreamlike quality.

I don’t know why the image struck me so hard, but it did. I haven’t been able to look away from it. As an added mindfuck, the caption told me their names — Lance Corporal Brittany Holloway and Lance Corporal Brittany Dunklee.

They’re both named Brittany. The socio-political implications of that alone are staggering, but it also just adds to the poetry — “The Two Brittanys.”

I desperately want to meet them. I don’t know what we’d talk about, and they’d probably hate my guts, but I don’t care. I’d be totally okay with that.


(Source: NPR)


On Lightening The Fuck Up



“When a girl CAN wear a bathing suit like this, it’s her DUTY to do so? Come on, now. I’m sure you’ve gotten a pretty large response from the Tumblr feminists for that one, but even I’m surprised at you. Since when is it a woman’s duty to wear anything she doesn’t want to?”


The line is an intertitle card from Cecil B DeMille’s 1920 silent comedy, Why Change Your Wife? The photograph is a Venice Beach fashion shot from the Roxy High Summer 2010 Collection. The combination of the two images is obviously a juxtaposition open to interpretation.

Perhaps it’s a commentary on a century’s worth of prescriptive modesty standards that anyone with half a brain and a sense of humor should be able to smirk at. Then again, perhaps I was just poking a stick at those who seriously consider themselves “Tumblr feminists.” Who knows? I’m a fuckin’ mystery.

Either way, I hope your question is rhetorical, because you really don’t want me to start listing the many ways it has always been and continues to be a woman’s duty to wear shit she doesn’t want to.


Miss America



Raise your hand if you’re an embarrassingly insignificant vestigial remnant of the protofeminist American experience whose only remaining cultural value will be in your dramatic potential as reality TV scandal fodder after having reached your life’s goal of winning a glorified slave auction a few months after graduating from high school.

Five Inch Beef Curtains



I’ve been sitting alone in an exam room at my new plastic surgeon’s office for about a half hour now with nothing to read but these brochures.

Normally I’d be bored out of my skull, but beyond this wall is some kind of nurse’s lounge, and I can hear everyone talking all kinds of shit.

It’s pretty fantastic water cooler gossip.

There’s talk of a lady “with five inch beef curtains” who got a much needed vaginal rejuvenation procedure.

There’s also talk of a new trend where Asian women are getting heroic doses of Restylane injected into their labias. One nurse says they do it to look like prepubescent girls, and the another nurse thinks it probably gives tiny penised Asian men a little more traction.

Fucking priceless.