A ranty, funny, dead-serious intersectional feminist blog.

Posts tagged “violence

The Day the Onion Died

[Trigger warning: graphic discussion of domestic violence]

Or at least, one can hope, because these assholes obviously haven’t learned anything. (It’s been dead to me since Quvenzhané.)


Hey, The Onion? Violence against women isn’t funny. It wasn’t funny at the Oscars, and it isn’t funny now. It’s time for you to sit the fuck down and take a time out. Forever.*

Beyond that, I have far too much rage to form words right now. More later.


Full disclosure: One of my exes beat me because we fought and I left a party without him and caught  ride home with a passing car that happened to be driven by a man. This particular ex always figured if I could talk to another man–Hell, if I could look at him–I might as well be fucking him. So, you know, I might as well have fucked that guy who gave me a ride home. Fuckhead beat me, cut my face with a paint-scraper (so no one would find me attractive again), poked my eyes with his fingers (I still have scars I can see when the light is right and I look at a blank surface), and told me that when he was done with me he was going to bury me in a field where no one would find me.

Perhaps some of you who think I don’t “get” satire will understand that some things just aren’t funny to some people. And considering HOW FUCKING MANY OF US HAVE BEEN THROUGH THIS (and how many haven’t survived it), I don’t think asking for a little sensitivity is out of order. I don’t think asking the Onion to find a way to poke fun at Chris Brown without making a joke out of domestic violence is too much to ask. I just don’t. Chris Brown deserves whatever shit life throws at him, but I think it’s ok to ask questions about whether a work of satire meant to draw attention to domestic violence might actually be harming the people it seeks to help.


And no matter how many of you come here to tell me I really ought to get mad at something else or someone else or expend my energy elsewhere and stop making feminists look bad, I’m not shutting up. When something strikes me as wrong–when it hits me in the gut like this did–I’m going to talk about it. Write about it. And as so many have said to me here and elsewhere regarding just “not reading” the Onion? If you don’t like what I have to say, you know how to avoid this page.

*Something an acquaintance said today reminded me of the above line, written in a fit of rage, which I didn’t mean literally and have neglected to address before now (3/10). I’m never in favor of shutting anyone up. I do think The Onion needs to examine whether they are actually achieving their goals (I don’t pretend to know what those goals are, but I used to feel they were more aligned with my own). Satire should point up, and too often, The Onion ridicules and trivializes the people it seeks to champion.

Additional Updates:

Hope Fiending has written something very like what I would have if I’d been able, so off you go to read her piece:


Buzzfeed featured my post, and The New Republic quoted me. Apparently “a hardcore of feminist bloggers” is a thing. Like a murder of crows. Neat!

Also, Salon chimes in:

Has the Onion gotten mean?

Aaaand here’s an article written from the POV of the three Cleveland, OH women recently freed in which they lay the blame for all of society’s ills squarely at the feet of men. I don’t even know what to say about that except #FUCKTHEONION.

Respectful discussion is welcome and encouraged. When in doubt, see the Comment Policy.


So Fucking Angry

So fucking angry right now so this will be a mess. Apologies.

Out watering in my yard tonight when a girl comes running up through the greenbelt looking scared. I ask if she’s ok, and she smiles a little and says she’s just “hiding from my brothers,” and asks me not to tell them where she is. Her friend comes and I do tell her. Now here comes a brother. I’ve heard him all along screaming at her. “I can fucking see you right now,” he says to her, and he gives me what he thinks is a charming smile and says he’s looking for friends. “Friends who don’t want you to find them,” I said. He launches into a hateful diatribe about how I’m a fat fucking yuppie bitch who needs to shut the fuck up and go back to watering her flowers while he talks to his sisters. My boyfriend comes out and asks what’s up, and the kid keeps screaming obscenities at me and daring me to do something. “Go ahead and spray me! That’s assault!” Then he starts in on my boyfriend. I turn to my boyfriend and say, “Call the cops, Honey, and tell them I’m gonna spray this little asshole!” The kid goes back into the brush and tries to force his sister out, and I follow, telling him to get his hands off her. He comes back and screams at me some more, spits in my face. The girls come out, and the sister looks shaken, teary. I tell her to come in the house, but she won’t. She says something that I think is meant to make me feel like she’s a part of something she can’t get out of, and I should probably butt out, but I can’t put my finger on it. They head down the path, and I’m screaming at the girls that they don’t have to go. The kid is screaming back up the hill that I’m a fat fucking bitch, and I hold my skirt up and say, “Look! I’m fat! I don’t give a fuck! Leave those fucking girls alone, you fucking bully!” My voice sounds like a monster. I see him attack his sister at the bottom of the path and I scream my rage over and over, but I’m afraid to go down any farther. She said “brothers” and I don’t know who’s waiting around the corner, and they’re gone. I run up the hill and I can’t breathe, but I know I’m going for the car because I need to go after them. I need to make sure the girls are ok. I want to tell them “Get in the car. You don’t have to go with them.” But when I get to the car I see that the cops my boyfriend has called are coming down the street. My boyfriend talks briefly to them, sends them after the kids, and I go back out and water my lawn, knowing that I’ve painted a target on myself and my house, and knowing that I’d do it again in a heartbeat. Sitting here crying and laughing now because that little fuck thought his words and spit could hurt me. What hurts is the anger and the impotence.