Y’all, clearly when you start talking about the Patriarchy’s prostate, the Patriarchy fights back. You hit it where it hurts and it hits you where it hurts, right in the car.
Well, the Patriarchy might be able to live without its prostate, but I cannot live without my car.
I left work early, cried all the way to Sarcastro’s house, pulled myself together enough to drink the last of his liquor, and decided on the way home to renounce my patriarchy-hating ways. After all, the Patriarchy has 3 billion, give or take a few, prostates and I have but one car. And you all know that I need my car, for both practical and emotional reasons.
I know when the deck is stacked against me.
So, I’m done.
From here on out, the Patriarchy rules, especially its magnificent penises and its love for pre-born humans.
I take back all the nice shit I said about him.
Good thing I’m made of money and can just get all this shit fixed right up.
Oh, wait. I am actually not made of money. I am made of flesh and bone and rage mixed with "what the fuck"ness?
Seriously, what the fuck?
I’ve got to go talk to State Farm about this shit. I can’t be driving around some fucking mess of a vehicle. I’ve got to go get this stuff straight.
Hey, y’all! Did you see the media coverage? And don’t forget, it’s free and it’s this Thursday and Friday.
1. He folded my laundry.
2. He cleaned the house.
3. He got my oil changed.
4. He got me a new air filter.
5. He’s using this new shellac on his art that makes it look all shiny and cool, like stained glass or a really super car finish.
6. He just called me from Walmart where they’re having some kind of crazy sale on crayons (24 for $.25) and he bought $5 worth.
Y’all, I don’t know. He’s just cool and it makes me happy to have him around.
I wish we had a digital camera so you could see how awesome his art is lately.
Y’all, because I feel like I’m failing to make myself understood, we must have a brief update on feminism Aunt B. style.
I have a two-pronged approach to feminism: 1. Gentlemen, make some room for me. 2. Gentlewomen, get your heads out of your asses. Be self-assured, self-confident, self-reliant, and the smart, funny, brilliant people you can be. Learn to get by on your own in the world so that you are an asset to yourself and everyone you’re entwined with. Don’t use sex to manipulate people. Etc. Me included.
My whole heart lies with stopping this nonsense that we women do to ourselves and each other, which often has little to do with anything to do with men, except as how we set them up as boogey-man excuses for not being brave enough to do right by ourselves.
HOWEVER, gentlemen, if you say or insinuate something that is going to make women’s lives more difficult, I’ll probably call you on it (Kleinheider). AND I’m going to tease you. I just am. If you don’t like to be teased, well, then, I don’t know what to tell you. You’re going to have a boring life. And if you don’t get that I tease you because I love you, then it’s no wonder there are so few of you at the Tiny Cat Pants orgies.
That is all. Drop me an email: appropriateaunt at yahoo dot com.
Y’all, I’ve told you how Mrs. Wigglebottom is frequently mistaken for a giant Boston Terrier, right? Well, get this! There’s a Boston Terrier on the internet who also goes by the name of Mrs. Wigglebottom!
I don’t know what to make of it, but if you click this link, be prepared for some cute.
I have been made acutely aware that many of you are growing tired of the blatant bias here at Tiny Cat Pants. While Tiny Cat Pants has never been an advocacy blog, where I sit around and tell y’all what you should do and you go out and do it, like some kind of mini-Kos, I guess that I can appreciate that, when I complain about things, some people feel like I’m trying to nag them into changing their behavior.
I feel like I must take this moment to remind folks that I am not the last opinion on anything. I don’t know what’s best for you; I can only tell you what my experiences have been and show you the reasons why I have drawn the conclusions that I’ve drawn.
Some of you, I think, have come to the conclusion that I am a “hater.” And I suppose it doesn’t matter that I’ve lived in housefuls of them, that some of my closest companions have been them, and that, even now, I still prefer their company two-to-one to the company of the folks I’m supposedly unreasonably biased towards.
You’ve formed your opinions. And, honestly, I’ve looked back over the past two and a half years worth of writing here at Tiny Cat Pants, and I think you have a point.
I clearly do seem to give preferential treatment to Mrs. Wigglebottom at the expense of the cats.
If I could throw up, I would feel better, but I have to say, I don’t remember the last time I threw up without there being a lot of alcohol involved. I suppose I could drink a lot of alcohol and then throw up, but even joking about that makes me feel kind of nauseous.
So, we went to the Germantown Cafe for dinner and I started feeling sick about the same time I started eating, so I won’t unnecessarily malign the place, as one doesn’t necessarily have to do with the other.
However, I do wish I’d asked the Butcher to run for Pepto or something before he left with the car.