Remember when Hilary Clinton talked about her hot young campaign workers and told Oprah Winfrey that all you have to do is squeeze their dicks and how much they love that? Or that time when Margaret Atwood was musing about how men become completely uninteresting after reaching the age of fifty? I mean, we all know about gravity and those ball sacks dangling down to the knees. Who the hell wants to put up with that? Have you heard that Ellen is back on the comedy stage, by the way? I think that is totally okay. Because come on, spreading her legs and showing her cunt to her co-workers wasn’t really that bad. It’s not like it was rape or anything! Not like Beyoncé, who drugged her under-aged background dancers and then raped and peed on them. I think it’s great that Frank Ocean regrets that he collaborated with her. Better late than never.
Another thing that is great is that Rafael Nadal now has the official permission to wear those shorts on the tennis court. If he could only keep his temper in check a little bit better. I mean, all that yelling and anger is really not suitable for a man. Speaking of sports and aggression, did you hear that domestic violence in the UK increased by almost forty percent during the World Cup in women’s football? Yeah. Women get so frustrated if England lose that they start beating up their men. Some said that it would be good if the players and FIFA addressed this, but come on … they can’t be responsible for that, right? They are athletes, not politicians! And it is hard to be a woman these days. It’s not strange that some women get frustrated when men don’t show them the respect that they deserve. I mean, there you go, buying those dicks flowers and taking them out to dinner and everything, and then they won’t even lick you!
This whole society has really gone too far. If a woman tells a guy that he’s pretty when he smiles or if she just accidentally brushes up against him on the street, they start screaming harassment. As if we wanted to fuck those ugly assholes anyways. They should be happy when they get a compliment!

Denice thinks that there should be a law that says that everybody has to read Gerd Brantenberg’s ‘Egalia’s Daughters’. She also thinks it’s both terrifying and tiring that it was written 42 whole years ago.

satire für feminist*innen

Ganz schön lang, so eine werdende Großmütterschaft, zehn Monate, oder? Die Berechnungen von Schwangerschaftsdauer bleiben weiterhin rätselhaft. Und lange dauert auch so eine Schwangerschaftsberatung, viele Monate mal viele Stunden am Telefon, denn zwei meiner Töchter werden zum ersten Mal Mütter – laut Prognose im Abstand von zwei Tagen – und eine der Töchter lebt im Ausland.
Ist das normal? Und das? Ist es normal, nicht zu kotzen? Gibt es im Bauch hyperaktive Kinder, und gibt es hyperpassive? Was, du warst eine Woche vor einer Geburt in einer Disco? Was, du hast Milch getrunken, einfach so, von der Kuh? Kaffee auch noch?
Ist die werdende Großmutter in der Schwangerschaftsberatung überhaupt noch auf dem neuesten Stand? All die Abmessungen, Ablichtungen, all die Proben und Tests, Urin, Blut, Nackenfalten, die X, das Kind, bestehen muss, bevor das, uff , OK gegeben wird, unverdächtig, Bleiberecht. Wobei, nichts muss, die Mutter ist ein freier Mensch und ihre Entscheidung natürlich eine vollkommen freie. Und zum Weiterausschließen ein weiterer Test, etwas kostspielig, aber er schließt alles aus. Beinahe.
Ist die werdende Großmutter Expertin, eine Koryphäe, oder hängt sie hoffnungslos nostalgischer Ur-Muh-tterschaft nach? Goldgerahmte Erinnerungen wiederkäuend? Sich selber als heilige Schwangerschaftskuh darstellend, umgeben von glücklichen, seufz, Säugetieren? Damals, als Muttermilch in Strömen floss, Kaffee auch. Nadeln, ach ja, wurden auch mal in den Bauch gebohrt, so brutal waren damalige Ausschließungstests, und ach ja, einmal landete Urmutter unter dem Messer und bedankte sich beim Lebensretter Schulmediziner – nachher.
Von Töchtern streng Kommentiertes von sich geben, Töchter- und Mutter- und Schwesterthemen, weit, tief und allzu nahegehend. Fluchtreflex der Alten … endlich Kasachstan durchwandern, auf einer schwimmenden Senior_inneninsel beschaulich Richtung Schwarzes Meer schaukeln?
Babys ahoi, in ein paar Tagen wird werdende Großmütter gewordene Großmütter sein.
Jubeljuchzhuchfreu, wie geht das?

Michèle Thoma hat sich eigentlich immer Enkelkinder gewünscht.

satire für feminist*innen

There are so many fucked up things happening these days that I don’t know what to do. Where to begin? What can I smash? Who can I scream at? It’s impossible to just pick one issue. And if you do settle for this one thing to be so furious about, a hundred more fall down on your head as soon as you touch the subject. Like when you have the brilliant idea of picking that one tasty looking apple in the super market… you know what I mean. So my new strategy to keep my inner peace and sanity is to only get mad about completely unimportant things, because you have to let that anger out somewhere. But if you start yelling around about the complete absurdity of us Europeans being entitled, spoiled little shitheads and that is why fascist-flirting populism is the new thing, then you end up with ridiculously long sentences like this and probably 5 popped veins in your brains. So I have to channel my fury, which I do through food buffets. I am not talking about these awesome “all you can eat”-darlings, no, no, I mean the ones where you pay the weight of your plate. I am now a proud (and smug) vegan, and it’s not easy to find food for us here in Austria. So when we do fall over a vegan buffet with more than three dishes, we have hit jackpot. We can take a lil’ of this, and a lil’ of that, and we don’t have to settle for rice with frozen vegetables brought to you directly from the discount jumbo bag. And since you pay per weight, you gotta think smart, so that you get the most out of your taste fest. So when I see these people slopping fucking potato gulash on their plates like there’s no tomorrow, I go absolutely crazy! What is wrong with you? Do you not understand how heavy potatoes are? Don’t you remember that potato-something-stew is basically the ONLY thing you are ever offered as a vegan beside rice & co? Where is your sense of adventure? Where is your urge to LIVE a little?? So I sit there, fuming, at my table with my very diverse plate and watch one self-satisfied face after the other passing by with their gulash mountains and I just wanna scream, “No wonder we are stuck with this government from hell, you ignorant cowards!”

Denice didn’t leave you for good, she just moved a couple of pages. And she will still write about queer stuff . Sometimes.