I used to like Garden Herb Triscuits, but now I kinda think they should rename them Salt-City Triscuits.
How Not to Charm Me:
Make jokes about fat women. I find these coming most often from men who themselves have struggled with or are struggling with, weight. Now, I know that we tend to criticize most quickly, traits we see as negative which we are afraid of embodying (har) ourselves.
But, shucks. I know you. And I know that when you make the joke about that lady’s ass, it really means you’re pointing out a value you and I share, a special something you see in me, something, hmm….not…Fat!, which, both you and I know, is a mark of un-laziness. Of industry and that zippy go-get-‘em spirit. In other words…Pure Fucking Patriotism. Plus, it must mean that I am someone who Keeps Up Her Appearance, someone who might not be averse to a little daily trip to the gym as I grow older, and maybe a pinch of Botox, too, now and again as the years go by. I’ll stay pretty and young and unthreatening and completely deferential to you, forever and ever.
Also, go ahead and diss The South. As a whole. Part and parcel. Do this especially if you’re from some other part of the country and have spent two years or less here. And if you know nothing about this region except for drunk pre-football crowds and Deliverance. Because then I’ll know that you are unsullied enough to be able to really deliver the astute judgments only true outsiders can make. This is especially great if you consider yourself to be an erudite scholar. An Emory student? Great! We’re so happy to be at this party with you. Refill your wine. Now: You’ve told us about your recent mention as fifth author in an article in Midwesterners Quarterly. You’ve regaled us with tales about these ridiculous superstitions native women harbor in Zambia. You’ve wowed us with your audible-above-the-passing-garbage-truck-harangue about how none of the bands you love, including and especially Fiona Apple, ever come to The South. Now it’s time-please? To turn your learned eye our way. Give us a glance; please? What do you think? Whatwhatwhat ? We are foaming at the mouth for that blanket truth about the ten-state region our mothers and fathers came from where you’ve spent six months. Because we jest dunno.
How Not to Charm Me:
Make jokes about fat women. I find these coming most often from men who themselves have struggled with or are struggling with, weight. Now, I know that we tend to criticize most quickly, traits we see as negative which we are afraid of embodying (har) ourselves.
But, shucks. I know you. And I know that when you make the joke about that lady’s ass, it really means you’re pointing out a value you and I share, a special something you see in me, something, hmm….not…Fat!, which, both you and I know, is a mark of un-laziness. Of industry and that zippy go-get-‘em spirit. In other words…Pure Fucking Patriotism. Plus, it must mean that I am someone who Keeps Up Her Appearance, someone who might not be averse to a little daily trip to the gym as I grow older, and maybe a pinch of Botox, too, now and again as the years go by. I’ll stay pretty and young and unthreatening and completely deferential to you, forever and ever.
Also, go ahead and diss The South. As a whole. Part and parcel. Do this especially if you’re from some other part of the country and have spent two years or less here. And if you know nothing about this region except for drunk pre-football crowds and Deliverance. Because then I’ll know that you are unsullied enough to be able to really deliver the astute judgments only true outsiders can make. This is especially great if you consider yourself to be an erudite scholar. An Emory student? Great! We’re so happy to be at this party with you. Refill your wine. Now: You’ve told us about your recent mention as fifth author in an article in Midwesterners Quarterly. You’ve regaled us with tales about these ridiculous superstitions native women harbor in Zambia. You’ve wowed us with your audible-above-the-passing-garbage-truck-harangue about how none of the bands you love, including and especially Fiona Apple, ever come to The South. Now it’s time-please? To turn your learned eye our way. Give us a glance; please? What do you think? Whatwhatwhat ? We are foaming at the mouth for that blanket truth about the ten-state region our mothers and fathers came from where you’ve spent six months. Because we jest dunno.
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posted by Alice at 9:46 PM
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