Women’s bodies have for millennia served as the medium for some of man’s greatest works. We have painstakingly molded dynasties within them, and written the fall of civilizations into their genes. They bear the scars of their mothers’ wounds like etched echoes, telling tales of woe older than words.
But you, whore? You’re barely worth a fucking Sharpie.
Squealer is a pulsing spectacle of sexual nihilism, but then, the entirety of Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap reads like excerpts from a sociopathic sex addict’s dream journal, all the while driving home the idea that “sociopathic sex addict” is just another way of saying “rock star”.
Can I just say that this is the cutest, most scrupulously G-rated bit of disdain-mail I’ve ever received? I feel like I’ve been zinged by Ned Flanders or something.
Dear Anon: It’s nice knowing there are people like you in the world. Seriously, don’t ever change.
I suspect that you overestimate the relevance of this information.
But good to know.
It’s a visual metaphor, capturing in it’s elegant simplicity your life’s central question:
Where does the girl end and the trash begin?
Where do you think you’re going?
Don’t you know it’s dark outside?
Where do you think you’re going?
Don’t you care about my pride?
Where do you think you’re going?
I think that you don’t know
You got no way of knowing
There’s really no place you can go
You gave me fortune
You gave me fame
You gave me power in your God’s name
I’m every person you need to be
I’m the cult of personality
I was still a teenager when this came out. I remember sitting in my room, squinting at a 13” TV as Arsenio Hall introduced the night’s musical guest.
White kids my age didn’t remember Hendrix, and only knew Chuck Berry because of Happy Days and Back To The Future, so there was a moment when I looked at these dreadlocked black dudes with guitars and assumed I was in for Earth, Wind, and Reggae or something. It’s possible I considered changing the channel.
Then Vernon Reid lit up the stage with that opening riff, and gave me a rapid, mind-opening education.
Unlikely. I’m pretty sure the correct dosage is “whatever your fucking brain can handle.“
I know the blog’s soundtrack is starting to look like a Lilith Fair lineup, but the ‘90s were a very good time for those who enjoyed listening to women howl out their pain.
Intriguingly, at the end of the decade, most of those shattering, disturbing women’s voices were brushed aside by a sixteen year old in braids who was begging to be hit one more time. Go figure.
Depends on why he’s being nice, I suppose.
For example, perhaps he doesn’t care about you. Screaming “WHORE!” into a woman’s spittle-flecked, wide-eyed face while filling her ass with cum and strangling her with a shoelace is hard work, and it’s possible you just aren’t worth the effort. You could try being prettier or smarter or something, but what are the chances of that working, right?
Maybe you seem too good, and he cares too much. He could be fully capable of bouncing you off a few walls before he bounces you on his dick, and yet refuse to do it because you don’t appear to be a whore. To quote the sage Bunk of Baltimore, “a man must have a code”; you may be outside the boundaries of his. At least this situation has some hope within it; I mean, how hard can it be to hold his hand, look deeply into his eyes, and confess to him that your head is a boiling vessel full of snakes and bullshit, and you need his cock to scrub it out?
Whatever the case, I suggest sitting him down and showing him this answer. Watch his face as he realizes that you’re not only stupid enough to ask for relationship advice from a random sadist on Tumblr, but that you’re even stupid enough to show him my response, thus ensuring that you come off as the most desperate, pathetic set of fuckholes he’s ever likely to meet.
By the time he gets to the end of this sentence, one way or the other, I’m betting he’ll never be quite as nice to you again.
