Just because I dig gaming doesn’t mean I don’t wonder what these games are doing to our society. Do I think the violence in video games directly correlates to gang warfare and in-school shootings? Not really. However, I admit that all forms of entertainment & media do desensitize us to a certain degree. While the violence may not make your child violent, he may be more likely to be a bystander in violent situations, or confuse the severity of crimes with being “cool” or “okay.”

Since this is a feminist website, I’d like to look at a similarly problematic theme of video games: the depiction of women. Again, part of me thinks…okay so all the women are buxom and Barbie-like (even the badass ones), but they are pixelated. Does it really matter? Actually it does. I want to point out a few extreme examples that have made me think twice about our pixelated counterparts:

Did you know that…

1. One way for your character to regain health on Grand Theft Auto IV is to have sex with a prostitute? You go down a dark alley and find a woman wearing next to nothing and you get into a car with her. Then the game shows a charming graphic of her fucking your (male) character so hard the car shakes. Then, if you drive away before she’s done, the prostitute is thrown forcefully out of the car. (Added bonus: most of my male buddies then shoot the hooker to death & get their money back, thus turning a business transaction into rape and murder)

Ivy in Soul Calibur...Her outfit has gotten skimpier in recent versions.

2. In fighting games like Soul Calibur (one of my faves, I admit), the men are usually fully clothed but the women wear cleavage-baring, skin-tight outfits. This goes for most games, actually.

3. There are games like “The Guy Game” which features pictures of naked women and “…it combines boozing, nudity, and revelry. There’s no question that it’s a party game. It sets itself apart from other party games in that you don’t have to pretend that it’s a drinking game or fathom special party rules to make it work. Admit it: you’ve tried to turn everything from Super Monkey Ball to Eye Toy into alcohol-driven party games. The Guy Game doesn’t pretend to be anything else; its style is a blend of Girls Gone Wild, the long-standing drinking game A**hole, and, well…You Don’t Know Jack. For four players.” Personal sidenote: I still don’t understand some men’s ability to watch pornography/strippers/other titillating subject matter in a roomful of their peers. Just sayin’

4. There’s a video game called “Fat Princess” that I actually linked to in August. The game is capture-the flag “with a twist: you can thwart capture attempts by locking the once-thin princess in a dungeon and stuffing her full of cake, thereby increasing her girth and making her harder for your enemies to haul back to home base.” Feminists have spoken out against this game and the main response by the jerks who support it say: “Well, a woman created this game”. Newsflash: Women can be sexist assholes too.

5. Popular FPS game Counter Strike allows (and even encourages) players to upload their favorite porn image. When they make a kill or when the game ends (I’m not too sure on the details) the image is “sprayed” onto the screen for all the players to enjoy. Believe me, when my boyfriend was showing me how to play, it definitely made me feel uncomfortable. I can’t help but think this practice alienates any female players. Also, watching your boyfriend’s best friend stop fighting and shoot at a woman’s naked ass on the screen for 30 seconds? Awkward and infuriating.

(I asked my boyfriend why the fascination with putting up porn images and his response, “Come on I was 16.” More of that ‘boys will be boys’ bullshit, eh?)

So what should be done? Boycott certain video games? Write angry letters to the companies? Personally, I’m not really sure. I do know that parents should exercise caution when purchasing for their children and teenagers. Do a little research before buying these games. Yet, one of main demographics for these video games is males in their twenties, who can just buy the damn things themselves. I’ve decided to judge a guy by his video game tastes. Give me a nerd who plays World of Warcraft 24/7 over a frat boy jerk-off who owns “The Guy Game” any day.

I’m a pretty big fan of sex myself and am quite aware the effect depression has on one’s sexual libido. However, does government funding really need to be allocated to the PORN INDUSTRY!? Last I heard, porn was a multi-billion dollar industry. Come on, Larry & Joe, I know you’re probably trying to be cute. Maybe you’re even attempting to make a point about the fact that “billion dollar bailout” was the “weapons of mass destruction” of 2008. Or, most likely, you’re just really fucking greedy. Either way, I hope that Congress ignores this ridiculous petition.

Let’s take a minute to review why exactly Hustler and Girls Gone Wild are the last companies the government should be funding:

Would it be the exploitation of under-aged and intoxicated girls on Joe Francis’ videos? Would it be the fact that Hustler, just like Playboy, is one of those magazines that feminists like me are always harping about? You know, because they feature photo-shopped skinny women and inundate men with the idea that real women have double-D’s and lie around all day masturbating for men’s pleasure, not their own. Maybe it’s because Joe Francis himself should be in jail for rape, among many other crimes (check out this article Harlequin wrote a few months ago, and this expose on Francis in the Los Angeles Times for more information).

The thought of the government shelling out taxpayer’s dollars to these companies enrages me. Luckily, I doubt Congress will give this petition much thought; they do have far more important things to discuss – the conflict between Israel and Palestine, Barack Obama’s new administration, and so on. I’m pretty sure our Senators and House Representatives don’t really care if our men (and yes, the majority of consumers of Girls Gone Wild and Hustler are men, surprise, surprise) have their porno mags and $9.99 videos of drunk girls taking off their clothes.

Read the full article here. If your blood isn’t boiling yet, just read this: “Flynt and Francis concede the industry itself is in no financial danger — DVD sales have slipped over the past year, but Web traffic has continued to grow.” What’s next? Hollywood asking for a bailout because all those damn teenagers are downloading their movies illegally? Microsoft asking for some loans because they are being slaughtered by Apple’s Macbook?

What are your thoughts?

So what if there was a social networking site that was anonymous? Enter Juicy Campus. On the surface, it’s great…you select which college you are in, and then you can post anonymously on a board about your fellow classmates. Have a crush on that guy in your chem lab? Tell the world how cute he is. Annoyed by those hipster kids who always loiter in front of the campus coffee shop? Rant away. Juicy Campus is, essentially, an online bathroom wall. It’s anonymous, free, and anything goes.

While this seems like nothing more than a gossip site (and who doesn’t enjoy just a little bit of gossip?), the truth of the site is a little more sinister. As any one with dial-up can attest, anonymity on the Internet leads to a more vicious, non-P.C. discourse. Forums about feminism are trolled by misogynist pricks who seemingly have little else do with their time. Entire websites like 4chan exist primarily for nerdy boys to out-gross each other on /b/ chat. The internet is a breeding ground for prejudice, offensive language and obscenity. So I guess it’s not a surprise that Juicy Campus is quickly becoming notorious for its racist, sexist, and just plain offensive content.

To quote a recent article in the Herald Tribune, “‘Legally, Juicy Campus is fully, absolutely immune, no matter what it runs on its site from users, just like AOL is not responsible for nasty comments in its AOL chat rooms,’ said Michael Fertik, a graduate of Harvard Law School and the founder of reputationdefender.com, a service that helps clients remove defamatory material about themselves from the Internet…Juicy Campus, he said, ‘is not encouraging people to be themselves, it’s encouraging people to be the worst version of themselves.’”

Needless to say, this online gossip mill has been getting out of control. For example, one student threatened to begin a shooting spree at his college. Yet most shocking, in my mind, is the story of Vanderbilt undergraduate Chelsea Gorman who was raped nearby campus, and then left college for a semester to heal and come to terms with her terrifying experience. However, after returning to school she found out someone had posted on Juicy Campus: “what could she expect walking around there alone. everyone thinks she’s so sweet but she got what she deserved. wish i had been the homeless guy that f***** her. [sic]“. Is this vitriol really what passes as gossip these days?

In the spirit of fairness, I checked out the site myself before writing this post. My small liberal arts college boasts only a few pages worth of posts, so I took ten minutes to skim through them. My school is close-knit and I know many people by name or at least have seem them around the dining hall every day. So, imagine my surprise when I saw posts entitled “who has the tightest puss?” and “who has the ugliest dick?” Some of the replies were harmless, but there were many instances where people named names. Some responses were downright awful, like the one that called a girl a dirty, alcoholic slut…and included her full name.

As I read through the pages, I was tense and apprehensive. I didn’t see any references to my close friends, but I did find a post specifically about the group of girls living in the housing unit next to me. It said where they lived, which is just creepy, and then the poster called them stuck-up, anorexic, and many expletives I don’t care to repeat here. Then, I got to one of the first posts: “Who would you like to have sex with?”. I figured I’d give this a look, already guessing which people would be named. And then I saw my name. Awesome. Apparently someone wants to have sex with me, and his post was detailed enough to include my full name and details about my life. Doubly awesome.

I guess I should be flattered, but if people can praise me on this site, they can also insult me. Needless to say, I’m going to exert as much willpower as I can to avoid Juicy Campus. I think the fact that it promotes prejudice and an anything-goes policy of ripping your classmates to shreds is enough to dissuade me from visiting the site often. That, and I don’t really want to know what my classmates are thinking about me. Some things are better left un-read.

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A cursory, shameless self-promotion: If you don’t already know who I am, my name is Dolly. I blog at Dolly Speaks. I started visiting Rotten Little Girls after I read their top 10 reasons for disliking Girls Gone Wild. Consistently high-quality, feminist blogging following that led me to becoming a regular visitor and commenter. And now, upon invitation from Dollface, I’m proudly guest-posting. I can only hope I live up to the greatnesses of RLG’s bloggesses, who I thank profusely for hosting me.

Shortly before this past Thanksgiving, I thought I was going to collapse from exhaustion. Homework was piling up with the semester rapidly coming to its end, my family and I were constantly bickering with one another, and I was increasingly feeling alone and insecure. This, of course, wasn’t helped any when a series of events took place in and outside my classes that reminded me I’m probably the only-self-identifying feminist on my college campus.

It was sexist boys in my Chinese class; it was a girl who actually pondered over the question of whether sexism is a problem. It was the guy in my brit lit class who tries to get the upper hand in class by conveniently sharing his antifeminist views with the class after I’ve shared mine. It was the other guy in my brit lit class who completely used me just so that he could spend four pages telling me why he thinks feminism is stupid. It was me walking away from sociology feeling like a loser because I became angry and outspoken when discussing violence against women.

You know, I’m not the kind of person who believes I have all the answers. I’m constantly questioning myself and my ideas. But I think in these past few weeks, I’ve been taking the fact that “I’m a feminist” for granted. I’ve started assuming feminism is true and forgotten why I became one.

I started taking the things that brit lit guy wrote to me seriously. Stuff about men and women really just having natural, biological gender roles. I thought to myself, y’know, maybe guys really are just more active and headstrong and born-to-be-leaders. Maybe women really are more nurturing and gentle and born-to-be-helpers. Maybe society got so screwed and gendered because cavemen were killing the meat and women were collecting the berries. I even started doubting myself. Maybe I wasn’t the undefeatable, powerful feminist I thought I was. Maybe I wasn’t really even as intelligent as I thought I was. Maybe I should give up dreams of ever really making a name for myself and just go into teaching or nursing and hope I get married like every other girl at my school.

And it was all this that made me re-realize that while I may have been born a woman, I wasn’t born a feminist. I suddenly remembered that it was the assumption that stark gender roles existed that pushed me towards feminism in the first place. Because I have never been feminine, girly, or conventionally woman-like in anyway. So, sit back and grab a beer and brace yourself, because this is the story of how I became a feminist.

When I was a little girl, my hero was video game Sega legend Sonic the Hedgehog. Yes, I had Barbies and I played with them, but nothing to me was more exciting than that speedy blue demon. I dreamed of going on adventures with Sonic, Tails, and Knuckles and fighting to defeat Dr. Robotnik as a team. I had a Sonic backpack, Sonic dolls, Sonic audio books, Sonic stationary, Sonic socks, everything Sonic. I don’t think it ever really mattered to me whether Sonic was male or female; I just wanted to have adventures and be fast and defeat the bad guys. Of course, some part of that dream was flattened during the first grade. As I was riding the bus home from school a boy hackled me over my Sonic backpack until I burst into tears. His qualm? Sonic was for boys, not for girls.

When I was in middle school, I prided myself on being a tomboy. I tried to hang out with the boys, play sports, and be a star. I forced myself to play football, even though I hated it. I really got into soccer, even though my mother wouldn’t let me play on any teams. Eventually, I settled for the community girls’ basketball league, which was headed by all male coaches. I roller bladed, I tried to skate board, I claimed my favorite store was Foot Locker, and I wore Adidas and Nike as if they were the last brands of clothes on Earth. Yet, one day at lunch while I was proudly proclaiming my tomboyishness (at the boys’ table) a peer of mine laughed and said, “Nah. Not really. You’ll always be a girl.” The way he said it made me feel painfully and necessarily inferior.

So, in late middle school, early high school, I gave up the tomboy act and tried to be a girlie girl. I wore skirts everyday, I stayed in an emotionally abusive relationship for the sake of having a boyfriend, and I plastered my face in makeup. I was also, believe it or not, a Fundamentalist Christian and conservative Republican. I chanted Merry Christmas alongside Bill O’Reilly, prayed for the sins of women who got abortions, and condemned homosexuality for the ugly “choice” it was. And, despite the fact that guys reminded me daily while I was in school that I was ugly, unhawt, and unfuckable, I dreamed of a knight in shining armor, romance, and finding true love.

But somewhere along the way in late high school, I fucking gave up. I got sick of all the acting (which I would later learn was termed “doing gender.”) As valedictorian of my class and a National Merit Scholar, I wanted to be respected for my intelligence. I didn’t want to have to fight my face every morning in order to gain the admiration of guys who couldn’t add positive and negative integers together correctly. I didn’t even want the awe of the guys who could. I just wanted people to respect that I was smart and talented… without all the other things that go along with a woman being both smart and talented: arrogant, intimidating, and unlovable.

And, you know what, somewhere deep down inside of me, when I made this decision to be who I was instead of a vagina constructed out of Play-Doh, I realized that I’d always been a feminist. That even when I was Bible thumping and scolding my Wiccan friend for her politics, I didn’t want to have my happiness depend on a guy who probably thought other girls were prettier than me. I’d have these freak fantasies where I was a loving devoted housewife with a cheating husband and I killed myself in attempt to steal his happiness and bring public disgrace on him. Of course, at some point I realized that while my gendered fictions eventually vindicated the woman, in reality this wife’s death would have been blamed on her hysteria, her reproductive organs and/or their functions, or her actually being a burden on her husband.

It was the little things too, that added up over time. When I asked a boy out in eighth grade (secretly by letter), his friends got hold of it, read it out loud at lunch in front of both of us, and laughed hysterically over it with one another. Needless to say, the boy didn’t go out with me. Then, when I was actually dating a guy, he made sure to remind me regularly that while he thought I was pretty, tons of other guys in the school thought I was the ugliest bitch on the planet. Or the other guy I pseudo-online-dated who told me that while I was pretty, in all honesty he’d seen way hotter girls.

Or maybe it was all the times when my mother seemed more excited about getting my hair done and buying me clothes than my academic achievements. Maybe it was the fact that whenever I criticized something sexist I saw on television or questioned my parents’ traditional gender roles, she’d interrupt and silence me to talk about how much hair the dog left on the rug, how long before the pie was ready, or when her next hair appointment was. Maybe it was because every time I saw a super model in a magazine or a bill board, I felt this incredible sense of inferiority. Maybe it was because the first time I saw a female porn actress, I was torn between wanting to be sexually desirable and not wanting to be objectified and dehumanized. Maybe it was because I didn’t think I needed to have DD tits to be sexy.

Maybe it was because I didn’t notice women had breasts until I started developing them (honestly). Maybe it was because I got my period when I was ten during a school day, and thought somebody kept leaving red paint on my chair. Maybe it was because I thought pads were fucking annoying to wear when I started my moon time, but the fear of toxic shock syndrome and tampons as “virgin purity” stealers was even worse. Maybe it’s because until just a few days ago, the only other way I really knew to refer to my moon time were menses, menstruation, cycle, and being on the fucking rag. Maybe it was the first time I heard the phrase, “that takes balls.” Or was it “dude, you’re a fucking pussy?” Maybe it was because I questioned whether my pussy labia looked the way they were supposed to. Maybe it was because for at least 99.9% of my pre-adolescence and 99.8% of my adolescence I thought I was fat. Maybe it was the 18 years I spent hating the way my face looked instead of accepting it, loving it. Maybe it was because I couldn’t see that I was more than a face.

Maybe it was the fact that my father never gave a damn about any of my accomplishments unless they were related to his interests. Maybe it was because the time I told my fifth grade teacher I wanted to be president of the United States, he told me in one breath that he thought it was fantastic and in another that his sons laughed when he informed them of my aspirations. Maybe it was the fact that my eighth grade history teacher laughed at me when I accused him of saying something sexist in class (he had been telling us that when girls are in middle school they are beautiful and skinny, but when they got to college they got fat, ugly, and their underarms flapped). Maybe it was the time my seventh grade teacher would put his hand on my thigh when I sat down with him at required class conferences.

Maybe it was because the first time I heard the word “rape” and learned what it meant, my body melted and I just wanted to crawl and huddle myself in a tight space. Maybe it was because when I started masturbating, I felt shame for betraying God and my “future husband.” Maybe it was because when I thought about forced clitoridectomies (which isn’t a word, according to Microsoft Word, BTW) it made me shove my legs together, close my eyes, and feel both squeamish and repulsed. Maybe it was because I didn’t think “Wanna know why women have smaller feet than men? So they can stand closer to the sink” was funny.

Maybe it was the time at Subway when I showed off my blackened nails to impress my boss with my hard work, and he assumed I was complaining about a ruined manicure. Maybe it was the time I worked at my local mall and the clerk next door came in, threw staples at me, and called me a cunt (the first time I’d been called one in my life) for not noticing a small crystal was missing from a watch. Or maybe it was the time that my gym teacher in sixth grade grabbed my ass as I was doing jumping jacks and smirked at me. Or maybe it was the time in middle school when a guy grabbed my ass to make it look like another guy grabbed it in an effort to humiliate him. Or maybe it was the time in ninth grade when a senior convicted of rape grabbed my breasts and fondled me in front of an entire cafeteria of people – I’m assuming nobody stopped him because I was smiling out of my intense anxiety and nervousness.

Maybe it was because as I got older, I realized that all my video game heroes were male, including Mr. Sonic the Hedgehog. Maybe it was because as I watched movies, I realized that women were more like plot devices than actual characters. Maybe it was because I didn’t like the way guys would use the word bitch and slut. Maybe it was because I didn’t like the way girls would use the word bitch and slut. Maybe it was because of the anger that bubbled in me when I stood up to a group of preadolescent guys who were antagonizing animals on their way home from school and they mocked me. Maybe it was because of the insecurity I felt when I told a guy friend I felt hideously ugly and he didn’t say anything at all.

Maybe it was because of this, that, and a million other things.

Maybe it’s because every time I reread this essay, I think of another reason to add to the list.

I was raised with the best conditions in the world to be an antifeminist. Two conservative parents with traditional gender roles, white skin and a Christian faith in a world that loves delicate, Caucasian Christian girls, and a wealthy home where clothes, makeup, and all the things needed to “being” a woman were readily accessible. I was never raped. My father never physically abused me. I was safe and protected all my life, just as patriarchy dictates a world good for women should be. All I can think that would have made a difference is if I’d been a little prettier and a little less smart.

But the fact of the matter is I have and always will be more than the product of this world’s gender roles. I am academically gifted. I am (and have always been) a writer, a thinker, and a dreamer. I am artistic, creative, thoughtful, and hard working. I am serious, but kind, unrelenting, but empathetic. I am loyal, honest, and a person of integrity. I am strong, powerful, confident, and persistent. And even if I hadn’t been any of these things, for every example above I gave, for every example I didn’t give, and for every example I can’t remember, the essence of my humanity had been in question simply because of my reproductive organs.

And that is why I am a feminist. Because I am more than a schema laid out for vaginas. I am more than the sum of my reproductive organs, cultural standards, and conservative parents. Even if gender roles were completely biological and natural, then I am a freak of nature because I can’t sanely live by them. And it is because the part of me that claims existence in this world rebelled so much against social scripts, even before I knew I was a feminist, that I am now a feminist.

Of course, these are all the personal reasons why I became one. Later on, as I learned and read more, I realized how much worse so many women have it off than me. The stories of transnational women who were suffering genital mutation, rape, and child separation. The tales of girls at my school who were sexually abused and assaulted. The legacies of women who lived before the right to vote was granted. And while I was never hurt in any of these ways, their stories aligned with my own. The pieces fit together, and I saw a world that worked both in little ways and big ways to keep women oppressed.

That is why I became a Buddhist. That is why I decided to fight against racism. That is why I decided to speak out against heterosexism. That is why I came to abhor ageism, classism, and size/weight discrimination. That is why I came to join the battle against sexism. Even when it seems like I’m all alone in a huge world, there’s no way I can’t be a feminist. I’ve tried. Unless you’re satisfied with half-autonomy and a conflicted existence, it’s impossible.

Sure, I have my doubts when I look at her personal life.  While I have to admit that I totally admire Bill Clinton (I think to the point of having a crush on him), let’s just get it out of the way that he is a cheating womanizer.  I would like to say I would respect Hillary more if she dumped the guy, maybe hired a hot younger campaign assistant who became her boyfriend (sort of like Demi and Ashton), or if she aged gracefully without a partner by her side – but who am I to comment?  I, and many women, have stayed with cheating men, and it is not a clear-cut issue.  I don’t advocate adultery, but I also don’t advocate sticking your nose into people’s personal lives.  When she did feel compelled to explain, Hillary stated that she stayed married because of love: “No one understands me better and no one can make me laugh the way Bill does…even after all these years, he is still the most interesting, energizing and fully alive person I have ever met.”  Cliche or not, I don’t care who it is – Clinton, Spitzer, Edwards – the women who have married these men can make their own decisions regardless of society’s opinions of the wrongdoers.

Not only that, but people have been critical of Hillary and Bill’s marriage for long before any cheating came to light.  Opponents claim she is a power-hungry bitch just using marriage to gain a political stronghold.  I am personally impressed by the relationship between these two professional people, especially looking at how their daughter Chelsea turned out (here’s Jenna and others of the Bush clan for comparison).  Never mind that they have dated since college, when Bill gave up his plans to join Hillary when she was interning in California, and Hillary stayed at Yale an extra year so she could graduate with Bill.  She did decline his early proposals – explaining that she “harbored doubts about marriage, concerned that her separate identity would be lost and that her accomplishments would be viewed in the light of someone else’s – and that seems like a responsible move that many young women could learn from.  I mean let’s face it, after the marriage, Hillary ended up supporting her husband through her high-paying job as a lawyer, a job she eventually gave up to work on his political campaigns.  After years of keeping her own last name, which reportedly made her mother cry, she started using the name Clinton in order to appease Arkansas voters (for more about last names in marriage, read this post).

No matter what insults you do have for her, there is no doubt that she is intelligent.  A graduate of Wellesley College and Yale Law School, she has twice been named one of the top 100 lawyers in America.  Her work as First Lady was a lot more work than she got credit for; it wasn’t all about drinking tea and planning parties.  If anything, I agree with Elizabeth Wurtzel‘s commentary in her book “Bitch” that the biggest flaw in Hillary’s career is that she did all this damn work without demanding a cent.  She worked for her husband’s cause – for instance, she developed the idea for a universal health plan that has been both applauded and bashed – and she did it all for free.  Simply because she was the First Lady…his wife.  Even Bill Clinton referred to presidential ticket as a “two for the price of one” deal because of the woman he would be toting with him to the White House.

Because she does have experience.  I think that is what people fear in a woman like Hillary Clinton.  She has been involved in politics since the age of thirteen, when she studied electoral fraud against Richard Nixon in the 1960 presidential election.  When I was thirteen, I was sitting in front of the mirror picking food out of my braces.  She continued to be active in politics, but was also the first First Lady to hold a post-graduate degree and to have her own professional career up to the time of her husband’s election.  It was quite obvious that she was involved in public policy, a fact that many people deemed “inappropriate.”  She is labeled a ballbuster, a feminazi, and a bitch – but one of my close friends likes to point out that in reality she seems like a “dude in a skirt.”  Sure, she criticizes women like Tammy Wynette for staying home and baking cookies.  Because baking cookies isn’t going to get you respect.  But guess what?  Apparently neither is having intelligence, independence, or strong opinions.  I don’t think Hillary Clinton could be a good president, not because of her ideas, but because she just has too much going against her.  The most popularly sold books about the woman have titles like, “Madame Hillary: The Dark Road to the White House”, “Hillary’s Scheme: Inside the Next Clinton’s Ruthless Agenda to Take the White House”, and “Can She Be Stopped? : Hillary Clinton Will Be the Next President of the United States Unless…”.  When she ran for Senate in 2000, organizations with names like “Save Our Senate” and the “Emergency Committee to Stop Hillary Rodham Clinton” were established – does anyone else think these titles and names are akin to something 14-year-old boys would come up with because they are afraid of the girls getting into the clubhouse?  And she got reelected in spite of all this…but then again, so did George Bush (both of them!).

In spite of all her “ball-busting” opinions, Hillary is just a dude with a skirt.  She is trying to conform to the role of a politician so that she can play with the big boys.  I wish it could go another way, but can you picture someone overflowing with Jennifer Lopez-esque femininity running the White House?  Still, as much as she tries, Hillary can’t escape her womanhood.  She has been the subject of many misogynistic comments, and the Internet is rampant with sites that sexually degrade her (just try looking up some groups on Facebook).  It’s sad, but the way our country is today, I can’t see a woman or a black man being elected to office, no matter their qualifications.  As much as I support Joe Biden, sometimes I feel his best asset in this race is his status as a white male.

10. They are ridiculously low-class – it seems ironic that a bunch of girls that look like spoiled brats are sold by mail through late-night infomercials. You spent enough money on Gucci sunglasses and Prada shoes, so don’t you think you deserve an audience of a higher pedigree, ladies? Girls say it’s their “15 minutes of fame,” so I’d think they’d make it worth it.
*By the way, it’s not 15 minutes honey. This is your fame forever. Relish in it, along with all the men (your ex-boyfriend, or your boss, maybe your father) who may be as well. And can anyone give me the name of a successful showbiz woman who got her start in the soft-core porn bar videos? Ashley DuPre does not count as successful.

9. Serious lack of individual style – the fact that they are all clones of each other simply increases my distaste for them. If I was going to get drunk and strip, I would at least do it in style.

8. They disappoint even the lowest of men - the corporation’s mogul (and the face of arrogance), Mr. Joe Francis himself wants innocent girls next door, but instead gets slutty tramps looking for a moment in front of a camera. And sadly, I have to agree with him. As one girl puts it, “I’m ready and willing, and I’m a dirty slut.” As if we needed any confirmation.

7. They failed American History - supposedly the whole franchise is just some passionate movement to embrace the freedom of First Amendment. Way to go ladies, you really embody the spirit of America.
*And remember, judges will just shut down your lawsuits against Girls Gone Wild for capturing what you do in public – that’s part of the same First Amendment that allows your flashes of nudity.

6. They are not even getting paid - I have a lot more respect for strippers and prostitutes who are at least making a buck instead of gratuitously showing their naughty bits the world over, and on tape nonetheless. If you think about the money that the corporation is making, these girls could at least salvage some dignity by demanding compensation.
*NOTE: T-shirts, booty shorts, trucker hats, Mardi Gras beads, or even panties do NOT count as compensation.

5. They are giving a bad name to drunks everywhere – instead of taking their clothes off when they get plastered, they should be belligerently yelling at people, like any self-respecting binge drinker.

4. They idolize a criminal industry - and we aren’t just talking public indecency. Joe Francis and co. have been accused of money laundering, tax evasion, racketeering, not to mention sexual assault, child pornography, and you guessed it, rape. If I saw Mr. Girls Gone Wild, I would throw him my haymaker and stab him with my stiletto, not fawn over him like a smitten schoolgirl gone wrong.

3. They completely embarrass the feminist cause – not to mention any self-respecting woman. I totally encourage women owning their sexuality and all, but taking your clothes off and rubbing your best friend’s twat in front of Joe’s crews is most definitely not what Gloria Steinem (a respectable babe herself) had in mind for the sexual revolution.

2. They are just plain dumb - as one girl explains her motives for baring her breasts to appease the chants of young men, “Everybody wants to be famous in some way. Getting famous will get me anything I want. If I walk into somebody’s house and said, ‘Give me this,’ I could have it.” Just goes to show that almost anyone can get into college.
*To any future GGW – this is just not how it works.

1. They are the backbone of Joe Francis’ success – both financial and sexual.

Ew.
Enough said.

Who wouldn't want this?

Anyone have any additions?

Read the horrifying article I found while researching this post. I plan to write more on it later, but I have to wait until my stomach settles from the nausea it just produced.