Farewell Feminist

As few of you probably know, and even less probably care, famed feminist Andrea "Sweet Tits" Dworkin passed away this week from what doctors report as being a severe case of "morbid unattractiveness".

Born September 26th, 1946, in Camden, New Jersey, Andrea was famous for an ugliness that even her home state was ashamed to have produced. Her family claims she was a generally congenial lass up until she was touched on her naughty bits at the age of 19 by overzealous (and apparently beer-goggled) doctors. Despite the fact that most women would leap at the opportunity to have their naughty bits touched by a well-to-do surgeon, and despite the fact that Andrea had been selling her gristled poontang in exchange for gas money all through college - oh, and regardless of it being the 60's, when everyone was touching each other's dangling parts - Andrea was incensed, and embarked on a courageous lifelong journey to repeatedly hurl her full 300 pounds onto the strained arm of the world's collective Fun-O-Meter.

Beginning with the publication of her first book, the promisingly titled "Woman Hating" in 1974, Andrea's plus-sized panties were in a permanent bunch. She lambasted all forms of sex as forced rape, and encouraged mandatory death penalty for all sexual crimes. Of course, she is most renowned for her vehement stance against the horrors of pornography. Her 1981 book, "Pornography: Men Possessing Women" earned her critical acclaim from many confused, desperately-grasping critics, still detoxing from all the drugs they took in the 70's. Exploiting America's right-swinging Reaganite morality kick, she then joined forces with the infamous Linda Lovelace to pen legislation that would classify pornography as a crime against a woman's civil rights. The idea was summarily laughed out of damn-near every court in the land, but, by cajoling the Deep Throat starlet into believing she had been raped and parading her before the media, we were all reminded why it was such a great movie to begin with - a woman can't talk with nine inches of stromboli stuffed down her gullet.

Andrea Dworkin, over her pathetic killjoy of a lifetime, clashed with folks from all ends of the ideological spectrum. She regularly claimed that people feared her because she spoke the truth, but, in my experience, people fear what they don't understand, and Andrea's rape-crazed musings were pretty damn incomprehensible. Many women as well as men despised her, but most simply wrote her off as the product of misdirected, overboard feminism and a severe case of orgasm deficiency. She will probably be best remembered as the flesh-and-blood archetype of the "Feminazi" character propagated by her equally fat-bodied, socially-crippled blowhard counterpart on the other side of the spectrum, Rush Limbaugh. Something about being absurdly fat and unattractive drives people towards becoming either shit-spewing political provocateurs, or drug-happy physical comedians. I wonder which one I am.

Then in 2000, inconceivably, Andrea was raped at the very peak of her disgustingness, eliciting from the world a collective, "Who the fuck is this guy?"

Of course, taking cheap potshots at Andrea's appearance is no challenge. What truly possessed me to volunteer this obituary wasn't the opportunity to publicly write that Andrea Dworkin's face could've revived Terri Shiavo just enough to pull her own feeding tube out in disgust, but that I've always felt myself to be her brother-in-arms of sorts. Sure, it sounds strange to think that a philandering, functionally-alcoholic pothead would feel himself such a kindred spirit of the world's most reviled feminist, but I do, and for all the most shallow reasons:

Both Andrea and I have spent lifetimes considering the horrible effects of rape on an individual. Andrea, so she could exploit it in political agendas that propped-up her own mental fragility, and me because getting laid has been a semi-annual event for most of my sexual maturity.