Our myths choose us

I have, during the course of my life, been the member of many groups that have been well away from the center. In fact, sometimes this seems to be an intrinsic part of my lot. Geek, queer, high school marching band, mac user, etc. It has been my experience that these little “bands of buggered” have taught me much about irony. Most of my best friends have been met this way and a lot of my identity comes from these affiliations, that ironic secret comradeship that comes from sharing the sense of no matter what the mainstream says, not matter that the central one thing that keeps us from the mainstream/popular/big stage is most likely Never.Gonna.Happen.Ever, that we are still right and good, and possibly better, for ending up here in this offcenter space together.

An excellent BTVS fic writer once dismissed a long well-reasoned comment I made in some fic forum in the past with, “You Buffy/Willow shippers are just….so….cute!” If I recall correctly, she even included a smiley.

©Dark Horse Comics

So, as the squeeeees!!! about the above S8/10 cover bounce from one inbox to another, and we once once again wonder whether this will be it or not, I send all my comrades on the sturdy little ship Wiffy tonight a reminder that we are, after all, still right and good, as is our version of the myth.

What the fucking WHAT?

I really have got to get my inter-web-tube things turned back on because an entire day went by before I heard about this vomitus from Coulter (h/t and thank jeebus for jewgirl!)

If we took away women’s right to vote, we’d never have to worry about another Democrat president. It’s kind of a pipe dream, it’s a personal fantasy of mine, but I don’t think it’s going to happen. And it is a good way of making the point that women are voting so stupidly, at least single women.

It also makes the point, it is kind of embarrassing, the Democratic Party ought to be hanging its head in shame, that it has so much difficulty getting men to vote for it. I mean, you do see it’s the party of women and “We’ll pay for health care and tuition and day care — and here, what else can we give you, soccer moms?’’

It’s not the first knee-jerk outrage, and I’ll give Coulter a little credit, her long bony clawlike fingers do know what buttons to push…but anyway, it’s not that outrage, it’s that she’s completely transparent that this is all she has to do to make the dough.

There’s no art, there’s no wit, there’s not even a desire to feed a like-“minded” coalition. She’s just giving handjobs out back for quick cash. And the freepi line up for it. Then she picks up their sticky napkins and sells it all right back to them.

On one of her standup specials, Wanda Sykes did a bit about going to strip clubs with coworkers, wherein she described the saddest, seediest strip club ever. No dancing, there was no music, just a tired naked old battle ax spreading her legs, snarling “Look at it!”

That’s pretty much Coulter.

Poetry blogging: “the cave with an oracle yelling at the bottom, certainly depraved.”

From Crimes Against Nature

by Minnie Bruce Pratt


The hatred baffles me, individual, doctrinal, codified.
The way she pulled the statute book down like a novel

off the shelf, flipped to the index, her lacquer-red
lips glib around the words: crime against nature, and yes,

he had some basis for threat. I’ve looked it up to read
the law since. Should I be glad he only took my children?

That year the punishment was: not less than five nor more
than sixty years. For my methods, indecent and unnatural,

of gratifying a depraved and perverted sexual instinct.
For even the slightest touching of lips or tongue or lips

to a woman’s genitals. That means any delicate sip,
the tongue trail of saliva like an animal track quick

in the dew, a mysterious path toward the gates, little
and big (or per anum and per os), a pause at the riddle,

how tongue like a finger rolls grit into a jewel of flesh,
how finger is like tongue (another forbidden gesture),

and tongue like a snake (bestial is in the statute)
winding through salty walls, the labyrinth, curlicue,

the underground spring, rocks that sing, and the cave
with an oracle yelling at the bottom, certainly depraved.

All from the slightest touch of my lips which can
shift me and my lover as easily into a party on the lawn

sipping limeade, special recipe, sprawled silliness,
a little gnawing on the rind. The law when I read it

didn’t mention teeth. I’m sure it will someday if
one of us gets caught with the other, nipping.