Seeing as it's National Women's History Month I thought we might be short on douchebags this week. No chance. Beyond the heaps of reappropriation and cause-branding companies stamping International Women's Day discounts on "goods" ranging from totebags to mail-order brides, senior d-bags up for declaration are the Network of Enlightened Women and their annual Gentlemen's Showcase. Misguided by the Palins and Thatchers of the right wing's anti-feminist past and present, NeW replaces the women showcased during National Women's History Month with men!
Sometimes a simple acknowledgment of douchery just isn't enough.
Sometimes you have to step back and marvel at how consistent, how
dedicated, how impressively shameless a person's commitment to being a
total asshole is. And that's why Bitch has decided it's time to start
recognizing those individuals as the All-Star douchebags they are.
Practically, it just makes sense: We plan to be awarding Douchebag
Decrees for many years to come, and there are some people it would just
be easier to mention once, acknowledging that not only have they
already amassed an impressive body of douchebaggery, they will surely
keep it up for the foreseeable future.
It's in this spirit
that we give a nod today to the lifetime douchechievements of Mrs.
Caitlin Flanagan: author, columnist, wife, mother, professional scold,
and 24-karat-gold douchebag.
You see, if I was a guy, and I was sitting here with a cigarette in my hand, grabbing my crotch and talking about how I make music 'cause I love fast cars and fucking girls, you'd call me a rock star. But when I do it in my music and in my videos, because I'm a female, because I make pop music, you're judgmental, and you say that it is distracting. I'm just a rock star.
Are you also a feminist?
I'm not a feminist - I, I hail men, I love men. I celebrate American male culture, and beer, and bars and muscle cars...
The New York Times Book Review has never exactly embraced passionate advocacy—unless it was promoting Pynchon’s and DeLillo’s place in the postmodernist canon. Even worse, it has become the place where serious feminist books come to die— or more accurately, to be dismissed with the flick of a well-manicured postfeminist wrist.