I just wrote an incredibly long rant about why all of the blame being placed on Seth MacFarlane for the misogyny of the Oscars is pissing me off, but Tumblr deleted the whole thing. It’s probably for the better honestly. It was a real scree.
I think that people just love getting angry about things, and it’s just something easy to pinpoint. But what women especially aren’t realizing is that by making uncomfortable, even sexist jokes, Seth MacFarlane was actually doing us more of a service than anything else. Because there’s a lot of offensive shit that goes on underneath the surface at the Oscars that no one talks about in an intelligent way, and by even bringing it up, MacFarlane is giving us room for discourse. If he hadn’t made a single off-color joke about women, it would have been far more offensive — then, he would have either been treating women like they were rareified, delicate objects that didn’t deserve the same treatment as men, who he disparaged equally.
Here are some things I actually appreciated about his routine.
1. The “We Saw Your Boobs” song
Dear Flock of Sheep,
On this day, the 11th of February, 2013, I hereby declare that I resign my position as Bishop of Rome, Sovereign of Vatican City and God’s direct messenger to his chosen people — jihadists, homosexuals and women obviously excluded. My tenure as Pope has been a short one; I would like it to be longer, but Federico Lombardo, bastard son of a whore and gnat in my ear —also the spokesman for the Church — tells me that my reign must come to a close because I am demented.
I personally think he is an idiot — while I was studying the holy scriptures of God, he was undergoing training to become the Holy See of the Press Office. While I was locked in my study, pouring over the word of God, he was receiving training on how to apply his own make-up for television appearances. While I was writing the doctrine for the 21st century church, he was editing 300 word press releases. While I was Tweeting the messages of our Lord Jesus Christ in seven languages, he was struggling to translate Italian Facebook posts into simple English. “How do you say ‘vafanculo’ in English?” he said to me the last time I told him to go whip himself in his cell for being disobedient. I tried to slap him in the mouth but oh, my Lord, my arms are so weak, and my muscles have begun to atrophy under the weight of my gold threaded vestments.
I’ve recently come to truly abhor winter. For a while, I loved it, because everyone stayed indoors and left me alone. I could go for runs in Prospect Park and not see another living soul. Then, I started working from home, and now I’m alone all of the time. One obstacle — other people — was removed, leaving behind an even greater obstacle — myself — and lately I find myself even more unhappy than I’ve ever been before.
In the summer, at least, I could spend large swaths of time outdoors. In Valentino Park in Red Hook, reading. Or at the Brooklyn Bridge Pool. Now, the waterfront of Red Hook smells like open sewage, and the Brooklyn Bridge pool has been dismantled.
The weather has been so fucking wacko that I’m afraid to leave the house, because I’m never dressed properly. I thought it was supposed to be 50 degrees yesterday so I wore a dress and a leather jacket. WRONG. It was 50 degrees with 40 mph winds, and I was almost stripped of the skin off my bones.
Last week, it was literally too cold to go outside. And this upcoming week promises only to be slightly warmer. Without any reason to leave, I am trapped here. Which is why I feel justified watching as much television as I can find on Project Free TV, my new illegal download site.
My brother Stuprendan came to visit me last Friday in Brooklyn, and we got to talking about his high school midterms, which he had just finished. He told me he had been up until 2am the night before writing a term paper on gun control. The paper was 12 pages long, and it argued heavily for gun control—which is unsurprising, considering that my family is firmly anti-guns.
When we first moved into the house where my family lives, there were two hunters that would set up camp on the edge of the property. They had been given permission to do so by the family before us, but my mother didn’t like them being there.
They didn’t even hunt with guns—they used crossbows and arrows—but my mother was afraid that one day, we’d be playing in the woods, and they’d actually mistake us for deer. That was entirely possible, considering that she encouraged us to spend most of our time outdoors—we had camps and tree houses all over the place, buried deep in the woods, where we would eat onion grass and pretend to survive the apocalypse. She asked them to leave. They snuck in through the entrance to the park adjacent to our driveway. Finally, after a few calls to the local police station, they disappeared for good.