Like most people who succumbed to the sweaty, boozy, spray-tanned draw of Jersey Shore last week, I was taken aback when, during the highlights preview, I saw that twitchy lunatic haul off and smash Snooki in the face. The scene, like the punch itself, was jarring, mostly because, as a female friend of mine put it, "A man who does that is perfectly comfortable not even acting like he respects women." On top of that, that punch was hard. Nevertheless, Snooki's beating wasn't anything I considered unairable—not by MTV's standards, and certainly not by Jersey Shore's standards. In the series' first two episodes, for instance, not only do we see one of the male housemates punch another guy who was "lookin' at him" (which is every crazy jerk's Achilles' heel, by the way), we also see a man vomit all over a coffee table, women calling other women "whores," and, in the same preview reel containing the Snooki punch, several incidents of male-on-male and female-on-male violence.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, then, after first seeing Jersey Shore on Saturday, I didn't think much of Snooki or the punch until yesterday, when Irin posted "There's Nothing Funnier Than a Woman Getting Punched in the Face." After reading the post and the comments beneath it, I was again taken aback, though not by just the punch this time.

One commenter summed up the attack thusly: "Men hitting women violates a social contract ... Men on men violence or women on men violence doesn't have the same implications." Another said, "When I first saw the clip on the previews for the show, I had hoped that the guy was aiming to punch somebody else and accidentally hit Snooki." And still another noted, "I'm ... very much against men hitting women."

Now, you'll not ever get me to say or agree with the wrongheaded Mad Lib that is "If women want equality, then..." However, I find it remarkably troubling that a handful of Jezebel readers—a demographic distinctly aware of some of the world's most stupid violence—is so comfortable talking about violence as if it's something to be categorized and rated.

Yes, domestic violence against women is a serious issue, and much worse than a barroom brawl between two drunken males. But why is it unimaginably worse for an asshole to haul off and hit Snooki than for an asshole to haul off and hit a man Snooki's size, for no reason whatsoever? Why is random violence—again, not premeditated, protracted violence, like war rapes and domestic abuse—something MTV should consider not showing when against women, but air at will when it's against men? The government has laws in place to protect America's most vulnerable victims—battered wives, children, elders, etc.—from calculated attacks, as it should. But attempting to argue that some mindnumbingly stupid bit of violence, like that that befell Snooki, is better than some other stupid bit of violence, even marginally, is a slope slippery with blood.

Two weeks ago, it's very possible that Tiger Woods' wife beat him bloody and then chased him out of their home with a golf club. At the thought of this—a man being domestically abused by his wife—one clearly skeptical Jezebel commenter wrote, "Are we labeling every semi-physical interaction between couples as domestic abuse nowadays?" Presumably, the idea here is that violent women (like Elin Nordegren) lose their heads, while violent men (like Chris Brown) are monsters.

Unfortunately, I'm all too familiar with the taxonomy of violence. Six years ago, at late-night taco shop in Tucson, Arizona, a table of drunk jackasses in glittery t-shirts made a comment about my friend's breasts while I was in the bathroom. I exited just in time to see her lifting her tray of nachos and dumping it all over one of the guy's heads. The three men immediately stood up and squared off with my friend, and I ran over and put myself between them and her. "I'm sorry she did that," I told them, my friend still screaming obscenities at them behind me. "But let's let this one go, huh?" They didn't. Instead, one of them cracked me in the side of the face while I turned around to try and calm my friend, who was in tears at that point. I fell hard, hitting my skull on a table on the way down.

When I came to, my face was in a pool of my own blood, and an ambulance was on its way. I couldn't remember where I was, and the guy who beat me was long gone. But to this day I'm almost certain I knew what he was thinking the instant before he smashed my face in and gave me 36 stitches in my head: "I can't hit a woman."

Cord Jefferson is writer-editor. His work has appeared in 'National Geographic', 'Filter', 'The Awl', 'The Root' and on MTV.

Nope, Fonda's just being totally nonsensical. Speaking of which, he might just win the award for most galling justification of child rape, not to mention fleeing the country before sentencing, I've yet seen. According to the AP, "Fonda says Polanski 'is not responsible for killing anyone.'"

Also, funny thing about that line of reasoning. Michael Deacon at The Telegraph went back and looked at a 1979 interview Martin Amis did with Polanski, which contained this quote from the director:

If I had killed somebody, it wouldn't have had so much appeal to the press, you see? But… f-ing, you see, and the young girls. Judges want to f- young girls. Juries want to f- young girls. Everyone wants to f- young girls!

I guess nobody told Fonda that if Polanski had killed someone, this all would have blown over by now. Because all the attention he got was not a direct result of his committing a crime, then taking a runner before sentencing, thereby committing another crime. Everybody was juss jellus that he got that sweet, 13-year-old tail!

Peter Fonda: Authorities Wasting Time On Polanski [AP]
Roman Polanski: 'Everyone Else Fancies Little Girls Too' [Telegraph]

Earlier:
Letters From Hollywood: Roman Polanski's Rape Of Child No Big Thing

Sadie: No. I know GOOP can be risibly tone-deaf, and I know we're all in high dudgeon about the economy...but is she really that bad? I mean, really? Let's look the plus side: she's made some decent movies. Say what you will about her Oscar win, Shakespeare in Love remains a solid view; Emma was pretty good; she was funny on SNL; and who doesn't like Margot Tenenbaum?

And let's play devil's advocate here: is what she does on GOOP really that different from the recommendations and musings we get from Oprah or Martha Stewart? The difference may be that she was raised in privilege; but because she had advantages doesn't mean she's lazy - there are a lot of celeb spawn out there doing a lot less. We resent her taking the time to instruct us on attaining her perfection, but in a way, don't we want it both ways? It's annoying when stars are mysterious and elusive a la Angelina, yet when someone spills - and obviously she's going to be rich and oblivious and out of touch when she does! - we pillory her.

I guess the main thing, for me, is that apparently she's pretty nice. The few people I know who've had dealings with her (one of them's a teacher of mine who taught her in high school) have all said she was kind, generous, and genuinely interested in non-celebs in a way most stars simply are not. We hear so much about celebrities who are assholes, that should count for something. At the end of the day, can you really fault someone for obliviousness? Well, yes: no one likes to be patronized. But the thing is, she really seems to think she's offering useful information to people, and is hurt and baffled by the backlash. And let's be frank: GOOP is the gift that keeps on giving, and I for one like presents.

Anna: Yes. Sadie, let me say first off that you are a far more generous person on the subject of celebrities - and Gwyneth Paltrow in particular - than I will ever be. The woman has long come off like a phony, as evidenced by this self-satisfied, overly smiley appearance at the Grammys last night:

Okay, the wink at the end to her husband was cute.

Listen, I've had an admittedly strange dislike for Ms. Paltrow and her offscreen image for a long time, from back in the mid '90s when I was an assistant at an entertainment magazine and was assigned to cover numerous parties and events, many of which she attended. These were usually small, "private", Miramax-run functions - this was the era in which Harvey Weinstein was grooming her for A-list status and Oscar glory, the era right before Emma and Shakespeare in Love; when she had just begun dating Brad Pitt and when NY Mag tattooed a large, virtual target on her back by putting her on the cover and deeming her the "Luckiest Girl In The World" - and Gwyneth Paltrow, while "nice", never struck me as particularly authentic or sincere. Maybe it was the stint at Spence, or the fact that her entree into Hollywood came courtesy of her parents, or maybe it was that she was more fabulous than I ever would be, but there was something about her mannerisms both on and off-screen - condecension? snobbery? actually, I'd describe it as "smugness" - that always rubbed me the wrong way.

[On a somewhat-related note, I went into my closet yesterday and dug out a paparazzi picture of her (that's me in the background trying to pretend I am unaware of the camera) from a private screening back in March 1996. I "defaced" it and put it up in my cubicle at the time. Yeah, the bad blood runs deep.]

I disagree with you: Celebrities of her caliber are not always going to be "rich and oblivious and out of touch" when they spill, and Gwyneth Paltrow has had the poor judgment to share her elitist, oblivious and out of touch opinions with the world at a time when no one wants to hear them. And comparing her to Oprah or Martha Stewart is giving her way too much credit; I fear for a world in which women are on a first name basis with Gwyneth Paltrow and sent into fits of screaming, consumptive ecstasy at every mention of her Favorite Things. The difference between Gwyneth Paltrow and Oprah and Martha is that the latter two built their audience - and their audience's trust in them - slowly, surely, and with sincerity. They are also self-made women. This GOOP and gym stuff seems random, arrogant, presumptuous and, at the same time, obvious... exactly what you'd expect a privileged, native New Yorker with an uptown pedigree and a downtown designs to say and do. (Sometimes I think Gwyneth Paltrow is an animated version of the worst parts of the NY Times' "Styles" and "Metro" sections.) But this isn't just about GOOP and designer gyms; it's about the years and years of her saying stupid and/or snotty stuff ("I can't pretend to be someone who makes $25,000 a year" - note to casting directors, this Oscar winner can't hack a Monster's Ball type role!); it's about that friendship with Madonna; it's about the ice queen image she's done little or nothing to counteract; it's about those pictures of her sunning herself on Valentino Garavani's yacht; it's about that rumored indiscretion while she was engaged to Brad Pitt; that "I Am African" advertisement; oh, and did I mention Madonna? It's about the sorts of things that are well-documented and widely reviled, and the sorts of things you hear whispered among friends who know more than you do, and, of course, it's about me.

Because the problem is, even though I didn't like Gwyneth Paltrow when she was the ice queen who never made an effort to thaw out, my hatred of this new iteration makes it clear that I don't like her when she tries something new. I guess the woman can't win.

Related: Fishy's GOOP Might Be A Copycat [DListed]
Gwyneth Paltrow: The Girl Who Fell To Earth [NY Post]
Gwyneth Paltrow To Elle: I'm No Goody Two Shoes [NY Daily News]

This was, obviously, a response to his accusation that I seemed "smitten" and wanted a relationship with him, and my assurances that I did not, I just liked making out, and if he didn't believe me he only needed to wait until my workload picked up and I made myself scarce, which is exactly what happened, and, you know, whatever. But I didn't remember how I had become so patient or resigned or how I'd come to enjoy the "Zenlike form of nonattachment" author Marguerite Fields is struggling to perfect because it happened such a goddamn long time ago. And that was depressing; Fuck I am old. (Also depressing: I held my first newspaper job the summer Israel turned fifty.)

Perhaps unsurprisingly, my little sister Christina, who is a year ahead of Marguerite in college, did not find this week's 'Modern Love' as depressing as I did. (Christina is different from me in that she does things like getting her eyebrows waxed and going to therapy.) And she penned some words of advice for people who did find the column depressing — and aren't too old to change their habits — which I will excerpt here.)

I'm Moe's sister who is about to graduate from college. Moe asked me to comment upon this week's Modern Love column, a piece much more enjoyable and insightful to read than I had expected since Moe usually makes such relentless fun of the Modern Love feature I stopped reading it.

Anyway, as someone who has her fair share of one-night stands and fleeting trainstop encounters, yet is decidedly over my relationship angst, if largely due to the absence of any relationships and the discovery of internet porn.... I would like to give some advice to Marguerite Fields and other women like her. Oh hell we're all like her.

1) Trust your instincts. This is the only thing I learned in therapy. Women have great instincts (the women's intuition!) but we never listen to them. Marguerite Fields, at the end of another unceremonious dumping, writes "[I] tried to remind myself that when we first met I thought he was an arrogant, presumptuous little man." She got bad vibes from the start, and yet Marguerite, a talented and sensitive author who should have known better, proceeded to form a relationship with this man. Why? Because of a little thing I like to term "The Mister Darcy Delusion." I am sure some feminist theorist before me has already coined this term, and if so I apologize, but it's ridiculous that this is your job. The Mister Darcy Delusion is the notion, popularized by the early 19th century author Jane Austen, that the smug asshole who calls you fat at the party is really just a misunderstood studmuffin held in by early 19th century social conventions who will turn into Colin Firth if you give him a chance. Well chicas, Jane Austen died a spinster (thank you, Anne Hathaway) and it's the 21st century, and if he looks like a prick and he talks like a prick and he walks like a prick, well, chances are you've had sex with him.

2) Read "The Rules." It's a stupid book, yes, but it's a reminder that you can take control of your relationships at least partially by a) getting a life b) taking a shower and c) not calling back immediately after he calls and going all crazy on his ass.

3) Only go out for guys that you think are hot. Most women tend to chase after guys that they think are physically unattractive under them is guided assumption that said guy will be so grateful to have scored a Hot Chick that he will be true forever. THIS NEVER HAPPENS. Ugly guys always get laid more, and they are often the biggest assholes about it because they are so insecure that girls keep hooking up with them out of pity. This is a time when our human evolution truly runs counter to our own efficient natural instincts. Ladies, right this wronged system and only chase after guys that you think are LEGIT cute so you don't have to lie to your friends and be like "But he has a really great personality," when what you mean is "It's weird how he makes me feel so terrible about myself when he's the ugly one."

But really, the nastier, and uninhibited the better. Sometimes performing a specific act — like say, getting tit fucked — is satisfying, not because it necessarily feels better than other stuff, but because it's so dirty that it's a turn on. Of course, if you're not into that sort of thing, then that's totally cool. Just don't fuck dudes who are. Frankly, if you're having sex in a manner that makes you uncomfortable, you're either a retard or a rape victim.

Sex is such a mental thing for women, that porno can really help one determine the parameters of what's vanilla, so that you can step the fuck out of the box and be adventurous. Porn has definitely not only given me new ideas, but also the confidence to try out the lewd ones I'd already dreamed up during Magic Wand sessions.

And it's not just men and sicko perverts like me who make use of the vast world of carnal knowledge that the adult entertainment industry has to offer. Have you picked up an issue of O magazine lately? Oprah has her sex columnist (and Sex And The City writer) Cindy Chupack and other writers discuss porno and make dirty movie recommendations practically on the regular.

You know, it's not like porn taught me how to have sex. But it did teach me to have better sex than I'd been having, if only because it opened up my world to all the smutty, nasty shit I love so much. So I just want to say, thanks, porno. If it weren't for you, then dudes probably wouldn't know that it's totally cool for them to ask me to sit on their faces while they do what needs to get done.

Earlier: How About You Don't Ask To Come On My Face On The First Date?
Related: Study: Young adults now find porn more acceptable [USA Today]

Dodai: This is pretty, though it might not work if you've got a big rack, sigh. Still, pair it with black pants and you've got an easy holiday party solution.

Anna: I have a small rack, so I love this unconditionally, even though I prefer sweatpants and tees over, well, everything else.(Showshoe blouse, $128)

Anna:I hate myself for loving this sort of stuff, but I'm sold. But is it just me or do these look more like owls than penguins? No matter: I'd take the middle guy with the vest and weekend bag.

Dodai: They're cute, I just can't look penguins anymore without thinking about how they've been pimped by Hollywood recently. (South for the winter ornaments, $14)

Dodai: Gloves are cool, mittens are warmer.

Anna: And both are bound to get lost within a week. (Nepalese garden mittens, $38)

Dodai: If I were domestic at all, I would admit that love these plates, but I'm not, so I can't. (But secretly, I do.)

Anna: I'd feel a little better about eating off plates with endangered animals if, well, I wasn't eating meat. (Expedition dessert plates, $12 each, in gazelle, giraffe, penguin and polar bear.)

Dodai: Brunette, blonde and redhead, but no brown girl. Frown.

Anna: What she said. (Remember, we posted about this before.) (Hobbyist ornaments, $24 each)

Anna: I love them all. Thing is, whose picture would you put in them?

Dodai: I hate fake crafty heirloomly crap. Gimme rhinestones, or studs, or something with flash! (Fabric lockets, $48 each)

Dodai: Here's what I hate about Anthropolgie! Supposedly precious "handmade" shit that is supposed to be like "Check it out OMG I'm so worldly I totally spent a semester in Prague" but is actually just completely UGLY, especially when you consider the price.

Anna: This definitely goes into the Jezebel category of "Expensive Shit". (Crewelwork coat, $598)

Dodai: More "folkloric" fug. As the kids say: Vom.

Anna: It looks like this jacket took a wrong turn and missed the Garnet Hill catalog. (Dragon boat jacket, $88)

Anna: I love buttons and snaps and the price is pretty reasonable. Too bad they only go up to size 10. (Either-or-rose flats, $88)

Dodai: Meh. I have no desire to look like a Depression-era five-year-old.

Dodai: Okay, so even though this has homey embroidered doodads on it, it's quite pretty. Love the colors and the neckline.

Anna: I'm with you. Dear Mom, here's what I want for Christmas. (Silent Solstice dress, $178)

Earlier: Anthropologie Doesn't Care About Black People

Our November 1st post on the state of 'Ms.' Magazine — now celebrating its 35th anniversary — riled some readers up, including 'Ms.' staffers themselves! We asked Jessica Stites, Assistant Editor at the magazine to respond.

At such times of feminist crisis I turn to Lisa Jervis, founder of Bitch. In a '04/'05 Ms. article, Lisa tried to put the "wave" terminology to bed, pointing out that, "ideological disagreements...can't be discussed productively while in disguise as generational issues." In other words, dividing ourselves according to the relative viability of our eggs is only going to get nasty. She goes on to point out the dubious origins of the "wave" stereotypes:

[The image of the second wave feminist is] a slightly — and only more slightly — more nuanced and polite version of the stone-faced, hairy-legged man-hater whom we all know to be a myth that originated in the sexist culture at large and was cultivated and amplified by conservative, antifeminist and/or just plain clueless journalists. The image of the frivolous young pseudo feminist has the same provenance.

And that's why I think Jezebel, at its best, is so necessary. Sometimes the best antidote to stereotypes is snark. Three cheers for Jezebel when it takes down Asian fetishists, sugar daddies or too-thin models.

But there are other reasons I'm a feminist, and I refuse to believe they're fundamentally at odds with Jezebel or hopelessly "second wave." I'm a feminist because magazines and newspapers still accept back-page sex ads that allow human traffickers to connect with johns. Because U.S. women still work a "second shift," spending 133 minutes per day on housework compared to men's 81. Because immigrant women laborers in the U.S. Commonwealth of the Mariana Islands work long hours in squalid conditions for little pay to make clothes that bear the misleading label, "Made in the U.S.A". Because plastic surgery is becoming scarily mandatory, with 11 million procedures performed in the U.S. last year alone. Because the government recently drove up birth-control prices. And because the U.S. invasion of Iraq set the clock back 40 years for women there.

Ms., like Jezebel, is necessary, because it can bring all this to the attention of hundreds of thousands. The other week, our Fall issue came out lambasting New York magazine for running sex ads; this week New York magazine changed its policy.

Movements have faced worse conflicts than "serious vs. funny." Most of us integrate these two traits just fine in our day-to-day lives. Maybe it's time to do so in our political lives? Here's a deal for you, Jezebels: admit that you and Ms. are kinda maybe fighting the same fight, and I'll see what I can do about a few sex-positive Ms. articles, because lord knows, prune stereotypes notwithstanding, I can't think of a single Ms. staffer who's against sex.

Earlier: Ms. Magazine Celebrates Its 35th Anniversary... Yay?

Dodai (the cynic): I log on not really knowing what to think. I expected it to be slick, and it is — everything looks great, loads quickly, the graphics and fonts are pretty. The choices you're faced with are "Shop," "Watch" and "Share." They've got videos of collections: Carolina Herrera, Versace, YSL and more — sparkling electro beats and models strutting on a runway — fashion at one of its purest forms. While viewing a behind-the-scenes piece of the Chloé ad campaign shoot, I wonder about the price of the graphic dress Shalom Harlow is wearing, so I click "shop the ads" and discover that the dress is $2425. I stop watching the video.

Next, servicey stuff: "60 Seconds To Chic." A makeup artist shows how he creates a natural look and a glamorous look. A stylist named Jen Rade shows how a Mary-Jane can take a summer dress from Summer into Fall. "That shoe is cute," I think, and click on the adjacent ad, discovering that the shoe is affordable at $140! Swept up in the easy, "See. Want." mentality of the site, I suddenly decide that I'll buy the shoes. But when I submit my zip code (downtown Manhattan) I get a message: "Sorry, we couldn't find any stores." WTF. Shoe-blocked! (Later I went back and found the link to the online shopping site, but the thrill was gone.) Moving on: "TrendWatch" has a video about Phillip Lim's new store, snooze. I skip to fall accessories: Ooh, environmentally-friendly reusable grocery bags! Wait, no click and buy option? Grrr. I jump over to "Share." Here's where you're encouraged to "share your style" and submit a photo. How democratic! Is this really Vogue? I try submitting a shot of my friend Richard's cool shoes and socks, then discover I have to wait and see if my shot is approved. Ah, so it is Vogue, after all. Final verdict? Love the immediate gratification; hate the postponed acceptance. It's designed for a fashion junkie with a short attention span and a large pocketbook. But if you love fashion — actual fashion, not just styled celebrities — looking at clothes and accessories and wondering if you can afford them — this site delivers, and it's kind of fun.

Jennifer (the enthusiast): I'm confused. I spent a solid hour trolling the site and still have no idea what the fuck it is. I thought it was supposed to somehow facilitate — through the magic of Web 2.0! — being able to interactively shop the pages of Vogue. Either I am stupid, or this is untrue. "Shop", one would think, should be the most significant category. But in reality, it seems to merely display the ads for many brands (the label the Devil supposedly wore is noticeably absent. Pringle of Scotland in but Prada out? Huh?). Soon enough, I tire of looking at objects I can neither afford nor buy impulsively if I want to. So I try some "Watch"-ing. I see the Chloé ads get shot (and hear Shalom Harlow get called "bourgeois" by the Chloé designer), learn three Maybelline make-up looks in 60 seconds (all of which seemed to consist of "pencil your brows, put on Maybelline mascara, apply Maybelline lip gloss), and watch about half of a Vera Wang runway show before I start to feel like the NY Times' Cathy Horyn. And still I wonder what the fuck any of this has to do with shopping my way through Vogue — and why this wasn't just loaded as new, much needed, content on Style.com, the official website of Vogue(and its other Condé Nast sisters). Hell, at this point I would be grateful for even a Lucky-esque shopping tour of one given city street! Finally I turn my gaze to "Share." Some chick has uploaded pictures of herself riding camels? I give up. Bored, confused, and still hankering for the "shopping" of titled promise, I realize it's time for me and ShopVogue.tv to break up.

[ShopVogue]
Related:The Web Way to Magazine Ad Sales [NYTimes]
Shop Vogue: More Fun Than Actual Vogue? [Fashionista]

Which is why even Jezebel has to take money from marketers such as American Apparel — the pervy, hipster brand that's all about worshipping dewy, cellulite-free, half-naked youths..

Um, Simon, see an optometrist! American Apparel ads are the only reason we knew hipsters got cellulite. And stretch marks! And zits. JUST LIKE US. And Faith Hill. And third-world sweatshop workers. Which brings us to your conclusion, which is true if you substitute "urbanites who make more than $500,000 a year" for "Americans."

But the larger, really obvious truth here is that fewer and fewer Americans — females especially, but males, too — have the strength of character to age gracefully or entirely honestly.

Hey, Would You Want Your Back Fat On The Cover Of Redbook [Ad Age]

I know that feeling this way is misogynistic and very immature—so don't belabor those points, and if you must just e-mail me—but I really can't deal with the fact that women poop. Sorry. Hearing them fart is bad enough, but seeing them grab the Charmin Ultra economy pack gives me panic attacks the likes of which I haven't seen since I believed in cooties.

POINT (ANNA): Who would have thought that I'd ever defend Jessica Biel? But this sorta stuff is precisely why I often hate gossip blogs. (Sadly, Jezebel has been accused of being such a blog!). Most of them feature offensive, misogynist bullshit usually written by men with a penchant for objectifying and critiquing women's bodies. In fact, every day, one of these sites has at least one (although usually more like five to ten!) nasty posts about the latest starlet to you know, display some cellulite, leave the house without makeup, or — horrors — not starve herself to below 100 lbs. quickly enough after giving birth. It's their bread and butter. These bloggers get particularly up in arms over women displaying any sort of bodily function, like, you know, sweat stains. (For one particular blogger, crude scribblings meant to denote urine streams are a favorite insult.) Such posts, although funny at times, send the message readers (most of whom are fairly young, fairly impressionable females) that any woman who, you know, isn't a well-preserved living doll with perfectly formed breasts, a thick coat of makeup and 15% body fat, is somehow unclean, undesirable, unfeminine. Here's a news bulletin for all those men (and women!) out there who hate the idea that a woman has bodily functions: Get over it! I did! Like, when I was, oh, about fifteen (and I'm not even that mature!). In fact, right now, my uterus is about to begin contracting and expelling the lining that's been building up up in it for the past few days, just waiting for chance to nourish a baby. This lining will exit via my vagina, in the form of blood and, sometimes, clots of tissue. (As in the fleshy stuff, not Kleenex!) This happens about once a month. More than once a month? Other things happen. Like peeing! Shitting! Oh, and farting is also a common occurrence — did you read our post about farting from Monday? — and if I eat 'right' (read: 'eat bad') I can keep up with the best of 'em! (Sometimes I even fart in front of my boyfriend! If he does it, why can't I?). Call me gross (yes!), call me humorless (sure!), call me whatever. (Pre-menstrual? Absolutely!) But women are taught to hate themselves enough as it is. Let's not teach the young'uns out there that fucking toilet paper is something to be ashamed of.

COUNTERPOINT (MOE): In China, where I happened to endure puberty, one of the ways Mao humbled (humiliated, same diff) the population was by making all the bathrooms these communal open air affairs where you'd literally just pick a spot over an anemic stream of water and defecate into a hole, all in front of your fellow womyn. If I grew up in that country and still have problems with other people knowing I shit then it must be in my DNA somehow. And even during the height of the Cultural Revolution they allowed the men and the ladies to shit separately. I am making that up but I'm pretty sure it's true, because if they hadn't no one would have ever gotten laid! And then they'd have worse population problems than they already do. Fantasies like the shitless Jessica Biel might just keep the human race human.

No Shit [MollyGood]
Earlier: Farts Are Funny! Except, You Know, At The Gym, During Sex, Etc.
Related: The Wow Of Poo [Nerve]

Yesterday, hackles were raised after one of us responded to all the hate being directed at the film "Knocked Up" with a sort of love-letter to the film. However, in the interest of being fair and balanced (like Roger Ailes!) we've decided to present a dissenting opinion on the film, which, if all the emails and comments we've been getting reflect an accurate representation of contemporary female reality (which of course they do!) has divided American women in a way only previously seen by, uhm, the whole Is-Zach-Braff-hot question. (Answer: No.) Herewith, Slut Machine's take on the weekend's second biggest box-office champion.

And speaking of cute: Yeah, actor Seth Rogen (Ben) isn't bad. In fact, he's not nearly as fat or ugly as the movie wants you to believe. But there was way too much suspension of disbelief required in the film to even make him bearable. For one: Alison (Katherine Heigl) was just promoted to an on-air job at E! but she can't afford to live anywhere but her sister's guest house? And then shortly after the promotion, she discovers she's pregnant and decides to keep the baby even though it might jeopardize her new career when she's already seemingly in financial peril? There was absolutely no logic behind that decision making process. And I'd like someone to show me even one of those L.A. entertainment news "journalist", ladder-climbing whores who behave anything like this woman. In reality, she wouldn't have enough fat on her body to even menstruate, let alone get pregnant. (And OK, I totally got it that they didn't use protection. It was stupid but whatever, we've all been there. And Alison didn't notice? If you can't feel a hot load shooting up in you and then oozing out later, you're probably not gonna need that epidural because your vagina has no feeling anyway.)

And how bullshit is it that Ben, the dude her knocked her up, is such a giant moron that he can't even turn a profit through his adult entertainment web site? Any fuckhead with a PayPal account can make money peddling smut that way. The internet + porno = ATM machine. If you can't do that then you really shouldn't be raising babies. And yes, I understand why Alison thought that Ben was a sweet guy or whatever, but come on. I don't consider a guy's personality when I consider whether or not to abort a pregnancy. In fact, I don't consider the guy at all. I consider myself. Not just what I have to lose, but what I don't have to give. But it's fine, whatever, it was the premise of the movie. It just really fucking bothered me that the word "abortion" was never uttered in the film, except for when Ben's fat friend Jonah (who looks eerily like Brett Ratner) referred to it as "schmamortion". I was also really bothered when my mother told me that in the homily during mass this weekend, her priest was so enthusiastic about how wonderfully pro-life this movie is. The same way that right-wing zealots are irrationally afraid that Will & Grace will make people gay, I'm irrationally afraid that this movie will make bad parents out of people who would've otherwise gone to Planned Parenthood for a schmamortion.

Anyway, it was a lot easier to believe that Ben wanted to keep the baby. He was a 23-year-old loser with nothing going for him. This attractive, employed woman was the best thing to ever happen to him. And of course a stoner would think it was a good idea to raise a baby. One time I got stoned and thought it would be a good idea to develop a product of frozen salsa ice pops that I'd call Salsacles. But pot smoking aside, I found that I related to Ben's group of dudes a million times more than any of the women in the movie. And it's not because the dudes were on a permanent chill session, or because they fart edon each other's pillows (although, I am one to entertain myself by searching "fart" on YouTube). I think it's because they were actually well-developed characters, written as humans whereas the women were written as psycho harpy fembots who complained about anything and everything for no apparent reason. And that was my main problem with this film: Nothing that the women did made sense, which simply played into the stereotype that women don't base their decisions on logic or reason, but on whims and fancies. And to me, that's not funny because it's not true. Fishing for laughs through jokes based on the hormonal irrationality of women is about as lazy as say, an unemployed stoner. And frankly, I find that way more offensive and disgusting than a tight shot of a baby's head crowning in a vagina.

Earlier: Didn't Like Knocked Up? Screw You.
Related: What Knocked Up Gets Wrong About Women [Slate]