Cultural Imperialist

"Scathing Spats on Shallow Subjects"


Fri Jul 28



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Textual Healing

Greg Piper

It’s no coincidence that Seattle, the most literate city in America, also offers plentiful pole-dancing classes for women who haven’t already lost all dignity at home.

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Serena van der Woodsen has a great rack. “Gossip Girl” fans see it nearly every episode as the 19-year-old leggy blonde wears strips of cloth that technically qualify as dresses and gowns to Manhattan’s upper-crust galas. It’s as if the Merapi volcano erupted every time those tiny Indonesian hands started sewing the bustline on Serena’s outfits.

But through a clever Huxtablish use of reverse psychology, Serena’s mom told her daughter, smitten with her business professor, that she should simply drop out of Columbia and date him because we all know she’s a dim bulb. That’s when Serena decided, briefly, that her education was more important than her non-financial assets.

A boob job may put the winsome want-wit in close proximity to money and power, or get a small-town mayor to name a street after her, but a college education gives this daft diva the tools to enlarge her mind, wallet and animal magnetism. That means “sex appeal,” for those of you with endowments bigger than Harvard’s.

Porn grandma Nina Hartley embiggened her fun bags when she first started “acting,” but without her magna cum laude in nursing and, just recently, Ph.D. in human sexuality, she would be just another forgettable “ho” who can’t be prosecuted because of our strained distinction between porn and prostitution. Hartley paved the way for other metaphorical town bicycles to be taken seriously, endorse products not shaped like wangs, and credibly ponder a life where they only direct soulless penetration, not subject themselves to it. How many siliconed starlets can call themselves “educators”? (Try to suppress your editorial laugh.)

Not having breasts can actually work in an educated woman’s favor in some circumstances. Former HP chief executive Carly Fiorina, an MIT grad and slightly more likable businesswoman than Cruella de Vil, would have flopped even worse as a Senate challenger to Barbara Boxer if not for her breast cancer and double mastectomy. Her late-breaking, post-surgery infection may have even won some sympathy votes in the otherwise doomed race.

By stuffing their prefrontal cortex instead of their chest, women can also devise more creative ways to debase themselves than simply jiggling. Only M(IL)FAs could popularize “art sleaze” like (copy and paste it yourself, miscreants), where alterna-chicks show off their tats and t-ts as proudly as their children, decked in eyeliner and Bad Religion onesies, show off their macabre scrawlings of Dora the Exploded.  It’s no coincidence that my own Seattle, the most literate city in America, also offers plentiful pole-dancing classes for women who haven’t already lost all dignity at home, office and Thanksgiving with their mothers-in-law.

Fathers of the nation, keep shelling out for your little girl’s education. Her thesis on the antiquation of Western marital fidelity will provide a handy excuse for you boinking the secretary.

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Go For the Jugs(ular)

Jeremiah Lewis


Boobs are worth their weight in silicone; a college education, not so much. While a mammary mama might only be expected to get a job that pays in g-stringed singles, the truth is a girl with a BA has less potential than a girl with bigger than B bazongas.

Having worked in the Breast Enlargement industry for ten months in the heady year 2007, I certainly saw my share of women pre- and post-op. The defining characteristic of women with smaller breasts? They wanted bigger. They had dreams that, with the application of four to six thousand US dollars, could easily bring them a cup size closer to fame and fortune, or at least a reality television show. Granted, that figure runs closer to $7k or $8k in today's devalued currency, but compare it to the cost of a four year college education. Inflation of the non-currency kind has its attractions (and attractors).

The successes of the Silicone Valley in purveying perversion were paved with the plump excesses of eighties porn princesses, who now live in perpetual defiance of gravity in free streaming video glory. Who says you can't be famous while enduring multiple penetrations in degrading scenarios? Sure, it's messy and icky and sometimes requires latex gloves and basters, but so does science, and Ph.Ds cost a lot more than Double Ds.

But to the average single guy looking for a date, there's the additional problem a degree confers upon women: it makes them seem so together.

Men aren't looking for women who have paid off their student loans, live alone in high rise Manhattan apartments (with a doorman!), and have successful careers in law or business. Let's face it, a woman is intimidating enough because she is, well, a woman. Add in success, financial stability, or God forbid, aspirations to national politics, and you've got yourself a candidate for the unmarried spinsters club, or at least the cheated-on-by-Bill-Clinton club.

And while the Meg Whitmans of the world may be successful CEOs and political gadflies, they're still not smart enough to realize that if you want a political office, you never pay for it with your own money.

Men want a woman who still has roommates, has risen to the magnificent position of receptionist or Staples "Print Service Associate" and only sounds dumb when she opens her mouth. Men want women who look marginally hot or can be augmented by the cosmetic surgery industry (motto: "Beating Breast Cancer one Enlargement at a Time") and who can't see past the laughably transparent “I want a girl with personality.”

If you simply have to be someone in this life, forget the cap and gown. Just go for the jugs(ular).

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