Hey Sistah, Soul Sistah

Before our offertory hymn (Almost Persuaded #351) , I would like to make a few announcements.

First, next week is Vacation Bible School at the Herald of Homoness. Each night we will reflect on the true meaning of VBS. Gentle readers are encouraged to submit their VBS memories for publication.

Second, and I hate to belabor this, really. I'm starting to sound like a broken record - a one trick pony, if you will. However, I'm inclined to believe that misogyny is the new black, coming back into fashion like low rise jeans or greed. As a bit of a disclaimer, I want to assure you, gentle reader, that there are many women I love or at least abide. Our discussion tonight does not include any of them.

Here goes....

I hate lesbians. Not all lesbians and certainly not because they like boffing chick on chick. I’m not talking about those quiet matrons who have shared the love of Sappho for decades or the militant über-dykes who call themselves “womyn” and do performance art with tampons. Love ‘em. You go sister.

I would, however, reserve a dirt bunk or two for those nubby Peppermint Patties who are guilty, in my reckoning, of the ultimate feminine crime: having no style.

I have always ascribed to the theory that there are really very few ugly women, but that there a LOT of lazy ones. Most women, if tarted up a bit, could pass as attractive or at least earnest. Not these bitches. Totally unblushed by anything color coordinated, they take the rugby-shirt-of-least-resistance to their jobs as Driver’s Ed teachers or assistant managers. Never really in a relationship of any ilk, they drive their Pontiac Sunbirds with rear spoilers to limited social events, perhaps a darts league or company volleyball team where they mouth-breathe and eat chips.

I think the thing that I find most vexing about these she-sloths is their disregard for the great things about being a woman. I’m not talking about the wisps of frilly pinkness that most people think of as feminine, but the ability to be concerned about niceties and details that make the world habitable: cakes from scratch and red lipstick and smelling amazing. They totally abandon themselves into genderless blobs of waxy lipid, their only adornment being a SWATCH and that little braided ducktail.

The acid test for determining if one of these stumpy creatures is in fact, the genuine article is this conversation:

“Dang, Cheryl smells kinda gamy today. Do you think she’s a…”

“…I don’t know, man.”