I remember girls like this. They were the perky ones from Sunday School you had to hang out with because your moms knew each other.
They’d tell on you for smoking cigarettes and feel righteous about it, even after you covered for them while they were getting fingerblasted through Jordache jeans in the church basement during the youth group sleepover.
It’s okay, though. Jesus forgave them. They were true believers, the kind of candy-headed twits who would shed genuine tears whenever some tie-dyed youth minister told that insufferably retarded story about footprints in the sand.
I never knew quite what to say around them, because every conversation led back to Jesus, praise the lord and hallelujah! It was awkward. They weren’t bad people, just blindly earnest and completely full of shit.
I learned quickly that their ignorance really was bliss. There was no saving them from being saved. It was better just to nod and smile and dream of the day I could finally move the fuck out to Los Angeles.
That’s all well and good, because I get to watch this ridiculous YouTube clip from a thousand miles away, safely ensconced in the land of godless liberals. I’m so glad I escaped that kind of life. What a holy nightmare.
No hard feelings, though. I wish the all Haleys and Camilles of the world continued bliss, and short of that, I hope the abortion that statistically one of them will end up getting is safe, legal, and covered by insurance.
“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.
I love this so much. Nothing makes me happier than offending people who use frowny face emoticons.
Part of last night’s costume. Halloween fun fact: fishnets and chain mail don’t mix. Snag city, kids. Lesson learned.
“…so just when I thought I was finished picking glitter out of David Bowie’s foreskin, Warhol tells me the camera ran out of film. That meant two more hours of listening to von Fürstenberg chew ice and complain about her razor burn. We ended up having to get fresh sushi for all the midgets and before you know it, the sun was up. I mean, seriously, do you know how slippery the leather gets on the booths at Studio 54? What am I talking about, of course you know. Ugh, I’m so hung over…”
So yeah, ultra-right wing christian nutballs are slowly eroding women’s rights, but the good news is I could probably sell a few of these t-shirts.