Smack That!

What better way to say “I miss you” than to leave an impression that results in a week of soft cursing whenever you sit your sore behind down? Ask this of the average, female, humanities student and all you will get are several raised eyebrows and a few outraged gasps. According to a group of women in one of my English classes (whose collective refusal to admit make up may be a good idea and razors a fantastic one negates any desire to associate with them outside class discussions), a firm smack to the ass is not the way to win a girl’s heart.

“That’s supposed to be endearing?” she says, tugging at her calf length, burlap skirt.

Well, obviously. How else would a long-lost friend reaffirm his love for me than to assert how fantastically bootilicious my behind is? Truth be told, I like knowing that what my mama gave me is thoroughly appreciated, be it by friends or otherwise. It is those moments of feminist outrage that I (as unlikely as it may sound) feel the pangs of pity for the “oppressed sex,” although, coincidentally, considering how oppressed I’ve been feeling of late, I’ve begun to believe that there is quite possibly a third gender previously unknown to science- the otherwise labelled women’s studies major.

Between the extensive collection of bruises gathered during gameplay that may have one day been limited to me and the assortment of free drinks gleaned by lounging over the bar, I would be betraying myself were I to even nod in the direction of those who cry for female justice. Even with tits I could make a fortune (were my career ever to become one), I could buy and drink as much alcohol as the next guy, and I could uphold laws should I ever desire to; granted, the fight for feminine equality could still make some advancements were the access to male changing rooms remains limited. For that, I might consider not crumpling the petition sheet.

“But how do you justify the objectifying?” they might cry. Perhaps, biology may have something to do with it; our very own ogling of male muscles during sports games, the enthusiasm over the hard angle of a jaw, or for the less aggressive madames, the way the male lips curve over the words “make love to me!” I was once told that humans have been biologically designed for reproductive purposes, but that would be as ridiculous as believing in the existence of evolution. Astoundingly enough, science also states that an entire one hundred percent of the population is devised of males and females (although, should my earlier hypothesis be proven true, I will have to admit the aforementioned fact should no longer be considered as such) and therefore an equivalent percentage of human interaction is based on the genders of the involved persons. Thus, the demand for the cessation of both ogling and objectifying is not only a doomed battle, but one that would leave me without the wolf whistles, ass grabs and free drinks that not only add spice to my evenings, but flavour to my subsequent stories.

The feminist crusade to see a world of complete and utter equality is one that is about as completely and utterly useless as the laundry basket in my room. What kind of fun are we expected to have if we are forced to pretend that there are no subtle imbalances in the game play between dudes and broads? That I couldn’t swing my hips to get a door opened or cook dinner for the spell of solid biceps simply because we are all supposedly equal is just fucking ridiculous. I am about as equal as I ever want to be, being the “good looking broad” that I am and about as uninsulted by that statement as the next girl, and I could not possibly bring myself to sympathize with a chick who believes her breasts to be in the way of her future or who finds insult in a cat call. So they want all up on that hemp-covered ass; where’s the offence in that?

Cattles and Wives

Over the course of a trip to Kenya, it came about that I wasn’t only there to crisp my pallid complexion or ooh and ah appreciatively over animals whose names and forms I wasn’t familiar with. It turned out that all along I had been wearing a For Sale sign.

Being female, nubile and whiter than I would like to admit became my own personal advertisement that simply begged the locals to make extravagant offers to the family patriarch. Our first day in the country decidedly lay out the course of the next few weeks for me; one bold shopkeep took it upon himself to bid the entirety of the Masai Mara, animals included. Thankfully, despite his affinity for the bush and the potential for a prime piece of property, my dad declined.

Several days afterwards, a discussion with two younger Masai warriors brought about the question of the going rate for your average wife and I discovered that not only is the concept of a “free” wife baffling to them, but that a man would need to be at least ten cattle rich to even think of asking a girl from her father’s care (further confirmation that I am worth a hell of a lot more than one steak dinner). The conversation finally ended with a declarative offering of fifty cattle for my hand in marriage, much to the delight of my younger, growing and protein voracious brother. Needless to say, my dad spent most of the vacation giggling.

Eventually, Dad even took it upon himself to offer me to the locals we happened to engage in conversation. A particular group of the Masai tribe acting public relations several kilometres and tens of species later ended up, much to their misfortune, conversing with my rather spirited family. After a thorough discussion of Dad’s appreciation of the local birdlife, he began animated, and Tusker beer enthusiastic, gesticulation in my direction while seeking out a proposal in exchange for my hand in marraige. Unfortunately for my pride, partway through some light-hearted negotiations, my mother let slip that I was incapable of cattle milking. My brideprice instantly dropped to the entirety of one chicken. Brilliant.

To this day, my parents claim that our tour through Kenya was not intended as one to settle me with a paying husband; all proposals were, apparently, spontaneous. Whether or not I can believe my parent’s denial that this was premeditated is still up for debate, however. They must be holding out for a better deal with an oil-rich Arab; why else would they have put up with my shit for this long?

How to Get Rid of Writer's Block

And Other Such Useful Things for Useless Careers

- While spending time in polite company, the moment something remotely interesting and/or obscene is said (pay attention primarily to your own words as they are liable to be the most inventive), jump up, scream “Ah-ha!” and begin scrambling for a writing tool and surface, preferably while dropping your cigarette in someone’s lap to accentuate the drama. The opposite is true while in the presence of impolite company; here, it is recommended that the use of large words such as “exceptional ingenuity” and “incomparable pretentiousness” are frequent, particularly when in reference to your own work, so as to evoke varying theatrical responses.

- It is, in all actuality, exponentially more constructive to the creative brain to continuously envision the final goal as an acclaimed writer (the type of desired praise is entirely up to you) than it is to indulge academics and “professionals” by repeating mundane writing exercises.

- When vacationing in exotic countries, be sure to avoid telling locals how uninspiring their scenery, culture and language truly is; instead, try focusing on original ways to critically dissect everyday objects and rituals, such as changing your underwear or the Q-tip you have failed to discard over the last month.

- While attempting to write in public locations (such as the favourite coffee shop or park bench) and finding yourself stuck in an especially frustrating block, a solid method of forming unique ideas, and particularly inventive dialogue, is to leap to your feet and throw your books at passing strangers, cursing in all of your favourite languages.

- Although it may be true that one of the best creative wells for authors can come from what you know, oft times the subject matter at hand can become highly emotional and too unprecedented to be comfortable; this is best ignored in favour of writing about what we know as a collective of human beings- the colour of love when in proximity to roses, for example.

- If you find yourself to be completely lost for both words and motivation, you can always exchange your beret for blue hair dye and take Modern Art to the next level; begin writing pieces entitled Twenty One Questions with the sole sentence being “Okay, go.”

- After having seized upon a new idea only to discover that a substantial amount of research and leg work is required, the recommended course of action is to relinquish the material to journalists and rather to try for an essay based principally on your own insightful musings.

- When speaking with those who are more talented than you (and who are, coincidentally, better “acquainted” with critics and professors alike), be sure to apologize profusely after having accidentally spilt your coffee down their shirt while trading your respective notebooks of ideas. The latter is also an excellent source for future brainstorming sessions.

- Upon achieving your desired level of fame and/or infamy, be sure to establish and maintain an air of pompousness, to gaze thoughtfully into the distance for all portraits and, above all, to regularly interrupt conversations by mentioning stories or articles that you have written about the subject at hand.