POINT: “I Hate My iPhone, But I’ll Die Without It”

I first realized that my iPhone turned me into a terrible person when I caught myself playing Angry Birds at my sister’s wedding last year. I couldn’t stop. I spent the previous night on a roll during the rehearsal dinner, and I was SO close to getting three stars on every level. I was the maid of honor, and I was supposed to hold her bouquet while she and her husband-to-be exchanged rings. Except, I got so caught up in the game that when she turned to give it to me, I missed the hand-off, and the bouquet bounced to the ground and kept rolling down the aisle, then got stepped on by an usher. So, her bouquet was pretty much ruined. Also, her wedding ceremony.

I do shitty stuff like that all the time because of my iPhone. I invite people out to dinner, then ignore them while I peruse through Instagram and Facebook. I run into people on the street because I’m reading on my Kindle app for iPhone, and by the time I register where I am and that I elbowed a 70-year-old man in the face, he’s already walking away and I’m tangled in my headphones and it’s too late. I even crashed my car because I was texting, building a new Spotify playlist, and googling “where is Gloria Estefan now” – all while doing a three point turn.I’ve also developed some weird antisocial tendencies. All the push notifications make me depressed when I don’t have at least two emails, one Facebook notification, and 2,000 Twitter notifications at any given second. I never call anyone anymore. I showed my mom how to text, and now I can barely remember the sound of her voice. I book reservations for restaurants with Opentable, I order a cab with Uber, I get directions from GoogleMaps, I scan pictures of my checks for Bank of America, I get laid using Tinder, and I order delivery through Foodler or Seamless. As a result, live interactions with humans make me uncomfortable and sweaty, so I spend most of my evenings asking Siri politically incorrect questions and giggling at her answers.

This is all iPhone’s fault. It just had to be super convenient and bank on human laziness to build this creation that has made me an addicted weirdo who sleeps with her iPhone in her bed with her every night and has a mental breakdown when the “20% battery” notification pops up (because soon it will only be 10%, and all I have is my Mophie battery case, and the extra external battery, and THEN WHAT?????). So thanks a lot, iPhone, for turning me into a terrible human with a Stockholm Syndrome-like addiction to you. As for the rest of you, I highly encourage you to never get an iPhone. If you never start, you will never know the pain of trying to stop.

COUNTERPOINT: “#Considerate”

I always thought of myself as a considerate person. I held doors for people, always gave up my seat on the bus for the pregnant and disabled, and I even helped elderly people cross the street. My thank you notes were always handwritten and offered detailed descriptions of all the towels I was going to buy with that lovely JC Penney’s gift certificate. My birthday presents were thoughtful and recalled the most fleetingly expressed desire for a lemon zester. I listened, I paused, I observed the people around me so that I could anticipate their needs, congratulate them on their successes, and comfort them through their failures. But, boy, was I wrong. This whole time I’ve been so caught up in the tactile world surrounding me that I was missing out on the world that really matters — the digital one. I was just bumbling along, with my pathetic little flip phone, too busy holding open doors and giving up my seat to even notice that, according to Facebook, it was my best friend’s sister’s ex-boyfriend’s cousin’s friend’s wedding yesterday. And I didn’t even send a congratulatory tweet! Or what about my old high school gym buddy’s aunt’s friend’s granddaughter’s communion? Did I really let the vast Instagram stream of her beautiful white dress go unliked? Just so I didn’t have to pay for a smartphone plan?! In the words of one Miss Stephanie Tanner: “How rude!”

But never again! My iPhone may be freshly removed from its wrapping, but the front is already smudged with the fingerprints of consideration! My commute, once spent reading and observing the silly habits of my fellow bus riders is now a daily devotional to my Twitter feed. Did you know that my co-worker’s roommate’s boyfriend finally made her kale chips? How could I let that pass without a favorite, a retweet, and a “@catzncuddlz Congrats on your bf’s cooking skills! #kale #love #eatclean #chefoftheyear #congratsagain” I mean, sure, that man on crutches didn’t have a seat for about 20 blocks, but it was really important that I get through the last 12 hours of my Twitter feed. I didn’t want to look like the jerk who didn’t retweet that link to my sorority sister’s little brother’s latest study abroad blog post, did I?

And you won’t believe how considerate I can be just walking down the street now! It’s a flood of Facebook “Happy birthdays!!!” followed by a quick read of the my News Feed. My downstairs neighbor’s girlfriend’s sister just had a baby? Better like the squishy faced first photo! And what about my kickball captain’s cousin’s best friend’s status about how she’s running so late for work? I better post a quick “You can do it, girl!” comment. Sure, I might have run into that nice man while I was doing it, but he was limber enough once he got back up off the pavement. Which I would have helped him do, but my brother’s best friend’s girlfriend just posted a picture of her breakfast and I needed to like it.

I can even be considerate at work! Before, I could never even go on Facebook for fear that my boss would notice and ask how my spreadsheet was coming. But she doesn’t bat an eyelash when I spent 30 minutes on Instagram. Or at least I don’t think she does. It’s hard to see what her eyelashes are up to when I’m too busy liking that beautifully filtered picture of the Thai food that my cousin’s boyfriend’s coworker is eating for lunch. With a quick comment: “Those spring rolls look amazing. #greatlunch #thaifood #yummmm #lunch #thosespringrollslookamazing #delicious #jealous #foodie.”

And that’s just the beginning! There are a ton of apps and features that I don’t even know about yet! I don’t have to steal company paper and ink printing out tickets anymore-I can just scan them on my phone. I never have to be that rude girl who awkwardly has spinach in her teeth, because there’s some kind of mirror I can use, I’ve heard (this is unconfirmed, but probably would have come in handy on my date last Friday). I don’t have to clog up bank lines waiting to cash a check, once I get my banking app set up. And I can even use Tinder to find more people to friend on Facebook and follow on Instagram! It’s not its original purpose, I understand, but you can’t just date people without liking that picture they posted of their best friend’s sister’s dog. That would be SO RUDE.

BALLPOINT: Lisa DeBenedictis (point), and Jessica Pierce (counterpoint)

Recently, a New York Times editorial calling for clemency in the case of Edward Snowden reignited the debate over whether or not the United States should continue in its attempts to extradite him so that he can stand trial for treason. Snowden, who in mid 2013 revealed that the National Security Agency was spying on American citizens as well as foreign leaders, currently lives in Moscow and is seeking asylum in Brazil. The American people are still very divided on whether Snowden is a hero deserving praise and safe passage home or a traitor deserving death. A very small minority even support the ludicrous idea that the whole point of civil disobedience is to spark debate while facing the consequences of your actions, and that Snowden should come home in order to renew debate on government surveillance.  Below, two of America’s most reasonable citizens debate their opinions of the matter.

POINT

Edward Snowden Is the Greatest and Sexiest Hero Our Nation Has Ever Known

Dear America,

The very idea that you are threatening the life of that hero, that god among men, the greatest patriot the world has ever seen, with the ideals of George Washington, or Ben Franklin, or even Jesus is insane. A man willing to sacrifice himself, to spend his life on the run, from the cold Siberian winters of Russia to the hot sticky nights of Brazil. My man: Edward Snowden.

Edward, if you’re reading this from the frigid, homophobic expanse of Mother Russia, I know I mean nothing to you. But you must know what you mean to me. You are everything. The love of my life, the very fire that keeps me going. One day, years from now, I will show my grandchildren pictures of you and tell them that this is the man who granny loved. This is the man who saved America from itself. This man made the constitution even sexier, if that’s possible.

So, America, please, let him come home to us. This man is the greatest hero our country has ever known, challenging the insidious, disgusting, and unconstitutional invasion of privacy perpetrated by our own government. In violation of the laws! And then, this government, they came after a man with a jawline so chiseled and eyes so deep and soulful, whose wire-rimmed glasses sit so bravely on his perfectly formed nose.

I know some are saying that he needs to complete his martyrdom and come home to be tried. Some even claim that capital punishment has been taken off the table. But are we going to chance it? Are we going to let liberty and the world suffer by ending his life before a man so noble and handsome can successfully procreate? How is the miracle of his genetic profile supposed to be passed through the generations, to grow in my womb if he’s murdered? Or in jail for life with no conjugal visits?

No, America, I say no. You can take your Patriot Act and your singular court ruling that declared the NSA surveillance uncovered by Edward constitutional and shove it where the sun don’t shine. My man is no traitor. And we need to bring him home. It’s what George Washington would have wanted.

Sincerely,

Mary Price

COUNTERPOINT

This is America, People: Let’s Just Kill the Benedict Arnold

Dear Fellow Americans,

I’m getting pretty damn tired of these bleeding heart wussies telling us that Snowden “is a brave American,” or “has a point,” or even “deserves a fair trial” – the second that caviar-guzzling, vodka-swigging, Putin’s ass-kissing commie made his choice to give up our secrets, he became a traitor. After all, this is America, people.

This is America; home of the CIA, the NSA, the Patriot Act, and Homeland, starring Claire Danes in her best role yet. You think that the fact that we haven’t had a war fought on our soil since 1815 has nothing to do with our surveillance? Well, I’m sorry if it makes you uncomfortable that if you google “how to make a bomb,” people in the government might feel obligated to look into it. If you don’t like it, you can just go live in France with the rest of the pussies and lament about freedom to privacy over a glass of wine on your three-hour lunch break. Lazy bastards.

Now Snowden, he crossed the line in more ways than one. That arrogant bastard thought that he could capitalize on selling secrets, and then throw it back in our faces as “constitutional violation” bullcrap before jetting off to join the fascists. I’ll bet you anything he’s been one of the commies the whole time. Think I’m joking? Even the liberal’s bible, The New York Times, admits it.

I personally am an honest and true American, and I have nothing to hide. So please, check my phone and my internet records. I’m like any other hot-blooded American male: I’ll admit to a little light pornography here and there, a lot of Facebook, Pinterest (for the recipes, obviously) and some perusals on EBay for Elvis memorabilia. That’s my internet history for you. The REAL question is: what do all these people who are so bent out of shape about the NSA have to hide? We always hear about terrorists and those who support them on our own beautiful soil – you’ve seen Season 2 of Homeland! One was even a blonde lady! THESE are the people we should be looking into.

As for Snowden, he obviously deserves nothing less than death without a trial. Now THAT would show the world America’s unrelenting strength and dedication to the spread of democracy and decency everywhere. He’s a traitor, who lost all privileges to be an American citizen the second he stepped out of line and broke our law. I don’t know why they can’t just sic one of our drones on him in Russia. Here’s hoping.

Yours Ever a Proud American,

Danny Walters

BALLPOINT

POINT written by Jessica Pierce and COUNTERPOINT written by Lisa DeBenedictis

POINT:

Guns Are Puny Little Girl Toys

You know everyone’s going on about guns, like they’re so dangerous, right? Like they’re this BIG bad thing that needs to be banned or else we’ll all get iced. Iced,  dusted, you know. Tangoed down, sent to the farm, smoked, swimming with the fishes, whacked, gang banged. What? Ganged banged doesn’t mean shot? Okay, not that one then.

But guns, guns are for puuu—puny little girls. Yup, that’s right, I said it. Puny. Little. Girls. I mean, they even come in pink! What? Well, yeah, I know cars come in pink, too, but that’s different. Cars are badah—bad at being good. We’re just straight bad. Cold as ice.

So, yeah, this whole gun thing, means nothing. You want danger, you want REAL danger? You want to be an OG? Well ditch those puny little girl guns and get in a car. Get in a car, head for the highway, and start texting. You will be mad deadly.

Sure, the haters will say “oh, cars weren’t made for the sole purpose of killing another living thing.” Yeah, gangsta, but we’re mad good at it. We’re like giant death traps cruising at 70 in 65. We don’t care.

Plus, guns ain’t got shi—shiny coats of paint like cars. We’re just shiny, metal death on wheels. Giant shiny metal death on wheels. Have you seen guns? They’re fu—funnily tiny. Like crazy tiny, yo! And have you seen bullets? How are bullets even supposed to kill you? What? Because they’re going at such a fast velocity they just tear through your body like its soft butter? How about the velocity of my steering column through your chest!

And if you still don’t think cars are dangerous, man, just go ask a polar bear. But be fast about it, because global warming is straight up melting their habitat and soon they’ll have nowhere to live. That’s right, we don’t just kill people, we straight up kill the environment.

Don’t be fooled by all of our safety features, either, or that car registration is way more strict than gun registration. Or that you can’t just waltz into a school with a car and start mowing people down. Because guess what, bro? We could take down those school walls if we wanted to. Brick ain’t got nothing on a 1995 Camry. What? No, I don’t think I would just smash up my engine and make a bunch of noise. I’m deadly, man!

So if you want to save American lives, really get the OGs off the streets, stop the mindless slaughter, you’ve gotta come after the real gangsters: the cars. But first, you’ve gotta catch us.

COUNTERPOINT

Cars are Death Traps: I’m Just Here to Shoot the Shit!

I personally feel really victimized by this whole “gun control” thing. What are they trying to control me for? I’m just a lone hunting rifle, just a simple Long Action Centerfire with a 22” barrel. I’m practically the Joe Six-Pack of guns, and I’m just trying to live my life out in the wilderness, with nothing but the tall trees and dead animals I’ve killed, stuffed, and hung on my wall to keep me company. Of course a car is more dangerous than little ole me!

Did you know that 89 people die from car accidents every day in the US? That’s THREE more people on average that die from cars than from being shot by a gun! I mean, clearly we’re on a totally different level here. There’s no comparison. Cars are death traps, and I’m just a mere toy.

What I’d like to do is to take a minute here and say that this travesty of lives lost far too early is due to the fact that we’ve got a ridiculous system for letting people have access to cars: a gosh darn 16-year-old kid can get a license – and in some states in the Midwest, you can get your license at as young as 14! So these totally reckless, young, hormonal wackos are tearing through town with their loud music and their text messaging, and next thing you know, people are getting killed!

Me meanwhile, I’m just a toy, an accessory. I just want to be held, cleaned, stroked. I just want to be taken outside on a crisp fall day with nothing but blue sky, aimed straight at the sun. I just want to fly full speed at a duck’s heart, ripping its insides apart in mid-air as I make contact. I just want to fall slowly back to the earth, covered in sticky hot blood.

Like I said, I’m a simple gun. I’m not one of those fancy automatic assault rifles, or easy-to-conceal-in-your-pants handguns. I don’t want to actually kill anybody (but I definitely could if I wanted to.) My point is, anything can kill people. You can bash someone over the head with a rock, you can poison them with arsenic, you can strangle them with a pashmina, and you can definitely run them over with your car. Guns don’t kill people, people kill people – I just make for a cleaner, quicker, faster, and easier way to do so.

BALLPOINT

POINT written by Jessica Pierce and COUNTERPOINT written by Lisa DeBenedictis  

Now I just want to say, I stand by my earlier essay I wrote for this very blog, whatever the hell a blog is. I still think that little pissant Trayvon Martin had it coming. Not because he was black, but because he was 17. All 17-year-olds, black, white, Chinese, Mexican or one of those half-and-half I have two daddies freaks, deserve far worse than a bullet, what with their whining and their Mary Jane smoking and their internet.

But just because Martin deserved it for being a whiny little punk ass kid doesn’t mean Zimmerman didn’t deserve to go to jail. Sorry pal, but that’s the law. Face it like a man. You should have listened when the cops told you to stay in your truck. Back in Nam, I shot a lot of damn dirty Viet Cong commies, who all deserved it. But was I ready to face the music if they captured me and I became a POW? You’re darn tootin’ I was, because I’m a man. And I always listened to my superiors when they ordered me to stay put. Always. The way I see it, this trial, Zimmerman was supposed to face up to his punishment like a man and head to jail. Plus, little Georgie boy himself isn’t too far past the pissant stage himself. Wouldn’t be too big of a loss if he were locked away until he reached a nice, respectable age.

Now the whole country is rioting and screaming about racism. But let me tell you something. Racism is not letting one half-Mexican go free because you relied on a bunch of hormonal, brain-addled women on their periods to bring some justice into this world. Racism is whining about how you got rejected from college because you’re white, when really you got rejected because you’re a dumbass. Racism is believing that racism’s over just because the president is black. Racism is me hiring a Jew to be my lawyer, a Chinamen to do my taxes, a Mexican to mow my lawn, and a black woman to be my whore. Racism is looking at the Trayvon Martin case and crying “it’s not white on black crime, Zimmerman is Mexican!”

COUNTERPOINT: 

Who’s Skittles Are They, REALLY?

Though I stand by my previous statements on Skittles and their uncanny ability to make everyone look like a nasty hooligan who is up to no good, I cannot help but wonder after this trial if there is simply more to the story.

You see, at first, CNN told me that Martin was a poor little black boy, just trying to buy Skittles. Granted, he was buying Skittles, one of the nastiest, most vulgar candies known to man (Has anyone else seen those creepy commercials where Skittles grow out of their faces? Horrible!), but nonetheless, he was only a child and thus, he cannot be held responsible for his taste in sweets.

But then, HuffPo let me know that Zimmerman was Hispanic. Well, NYT called him “white Hispanic,” but Hispanic nonetheless. With a name like Zimmerman? That is far too confusing – and the Jews have been through enough. I felt torn. Which minority is my socially-liberal-yet-fiscally-conservative white guilt more aligned with? What with all this anti-immigration policy in fashion, isn’t being Hispanic as unfortunate as being black nowadays?

But THEN I was reading CBS on my iPad and saw photo evidence that Martin hurt poor Zimmerman, and suggesting that Zimmerman acted in self defense! And they started posting all of those rather threatening photos of Martin. And of course, there was the matter of his school suspension due to the possession of cannabis, or something dreadful like that! Perhaps those Skittles had already begun to take their toll on the boy after all!

THEN, everyone started criticizing media outlets like Fox News for posting those photos in the first place, and I felt very bad indeed for judging Martin on his not-so-nice photos. Besides, from the looks of those grainy shots, he only had an iPhone 3, at the absolute maximum. I can only imagine, poor child.

THEN, NBC released those edited 911 calls, and I must say, Zimmerman seemed positively wretched! What if – gasp – Zimmerman was trying to steal the Skittles all along!?! I should have known – my father’s nasty third wife (the one with the Skittle addiction) was definitely part Latino! She was far too provocative and busty to be Anglo.

But then I found out from CNN that they were edited and that he was going to sue NBC for libel, so once again, my heart bled for Zim.

THEN, The Chicago Tribune spilled the beans that Zimmerman and his wife LIED about how much he could afford for bail. I was astounded! Who could lie about their personal finances just to save a few dollars? (Don’t look at me like that! My accountant handles all that nonsense. And besides, dividends are perfectly legal, thank you very much.)

But anyway, so THEN, I wondered if this Zimmerman character could lie about money, was he lying about how he sustained his injuries? And if so, then…oh no! Poor Trayvon! Zimmerman was after those evil Skittles all along!

But THEN, I followed the trial, and Zimmerman was set free. Could it be that he was in the right all along? It can’t be, because all of those poor minorities are rioting right and left for dear Trayvon. But then again, juror B37 has already got a book deal in the works, so she has to be a voice of reason and intelligence in all of this, right? I decided then and there that I needed to do something; this year-long saga has left me positively verklempt!

Unfortunately, that gossipy media can’t seem to make up its mind (or let me make up my own) about who’s at fault, so I  wrote a check for a large sum to each of their causes and booked my usual 2:00 PM massage. My hope is that this way, neither party will be want for anything – especially Skittles – again.

BALLPOINT:

POINT written by Jessica Pierce and COUNTERPOINT written by Lisa DeBenedictis.

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POINT

So now Americans hate Congress more than cockroaches? That shit is fucking crazy. Here’s the deal: I guarantee you that half of the respondents to that poll haven’t seen a cockroach in their entire miserable fucking lives. Because if they had faced the six legged demon and come out the other side they would NEVER claim to prefer cockroaches to fucking Congress.

I mean sure, I get it. Congress can’t do their jobs. They’re too busy bickering to avoid throwing America off the fiscal cliff. They’re going to destroy an already faltering economy and drive our government into default. We’re just so fucking scared for our country’s future. Boo fucking hoo. Do I need to call you a wahambulance?

Do you want to know real terror? Real terror isn’t some namby pamby fucking fiscal cliff. Real terror is waking up at 5AM to the sound of a rustling by your ear, turning on your bedside light and seeing a cockroach streaking up your wall, that twitchy little fucker heading for its hiding place in your closet. Real terror is knowing that you blew your one shot to kill the beast once and for all because that fucker is fast, man, and he is long gone. Real terror is sleeping with your light on so that he doesn’t come out of hiding and crawl into your mouth (Disclaimer: I have no scientific evidence to prove that cockroaches actually crawl into the mouths of sleeping humans, but once that idea’s in your head, trust me, it’s not going anywhere).

And then you look at the infighting in Congress and everyone is all disgusted. “Oh gross, look at them refusing to work together! What are they 12? Their behavior is so squalid and low brow!” As if immaturity is the be all and end all of disgust. I mean, what do you want? Professional adults who actually work for their pay? Have you MET your fellow countrymen?

But you want to know what’s really disgusting? Finding cockroach shit on your kitchen counters. That’s right folks, cockroaches shit on my counters, on my stovetops, in my cabinets, anywhere they find themselves crawling and need to let loose. I don’t see anyone from Congress shitting on my counters. In fact, some of the Republicans in Congress seem so uptight I bet they haven’t taken a good dump in years. Unlike the fucking cockroaches that live in my apartment.

And if shitting where I prepare my food weren’t enough to convince you, I’d like to share this little tidbit from Wikipedia:

“The odorous secretions of American cockroaches can alter the flavor of food.”

Just say this with me and try NOT to throw up: odorous secretions. In your fucking food.

The point is, I could write a fucking book about the fucking high jinks that cockroaches pull. At night. When you’re asleep and vulnerable. Because they’re nocturnal. They are so much fucking worse than Congress it’s not even funny. Sure, you might say, “Hey bud, if Congress could get their shit together and stop fucking up this country over petty political feuds, couldn’t the economy improve, allowing you to get a better job and maybe move out of the cockroach-infested apartment where you live? Or at the very least, allowing you to pay for an exterminator?” But that shit’s fucking ridiculous. You can’t lay the cockroaches’ misbehavior at Congress’s feet.

Plus, Congress has started to get their shit together, I hear. Something about actually starting to agree on immigration reform. And you know what, man, at least when Congress gets their shit together, it’s to work for a better country. When cockroaches get their shit together, it’ll be to take over the fucking earth and eat all of us humans for fucking lunch. The worst Congress can offer is inaction and inaction in a fucking cockroach is golden. They’re easier to kill when they’re not moving, anyway.

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COUNTERPOINT

I have to admit that when I heard about the comparison between cockroaches and Congress, I laughed aloud – something I rarely do. Of course Congress rates lower than cockroaches, you fools.

There’s a reason why this study was conducted in the first place. Congress is a bloated, greedy, shallow pool of fecal matter. What’s worse, it’s stagnant. Sure, maybe an “idealistic” new shit drops in every four years, but if his mind hasn’t already been polluted by lobbyists, corporate greed, and honoring The Party above all else, I give it a week.

The fact is, people only fear and abhor cockroaches because they don’t understand them. I’d argue that a cockroach is fascinating, even elegant. Have you ever truly listened to the sounds of a Periplaneta americana as it scuttles across a floorboard? Have you observed its sleek, auburn pronotal shield as it pauses to eat decaying organic matter? Or the spread of its gossamer wings in flight? There’s a reason Kafka dedicated an entire novella to pontificate on its dark, twisted beauty in spite of its societal alienation. Some of us can understand what it’s like to be misunderstood.

But, anyway: Congress. The fact is, Congress has a great deal of power, and for far too long, its members have abused it. It gives me great pleasure to hear that finally, people can pinpoint the true beasts, the creatures who actually deserve the term “ugly” or “wretched” or “abject vermin.” (Although a person who, upon stroking the golden bands of a Supella longipalpa, could call it anything other than “exquisite,” is frankly a person I could never understand.)

Just think of it. With a cockroach, sure, you may not how many are taking momentary shelter behind your bathroom mirror or under your stove, but at least you know that a cockroach will always be a cockroach. A cockroach is who it is, regardless of whether or not people judge, debase, or persecute them. And I respect that. But with Congress, we have no idea where our congressmens’ loyalties really lie. We are fed a whole lot of rhetoric about hope, dreams, equality, and democracy, but when push comes to shove, our votes are in their sticky, slimy hands.

Let’s examine, if you will, the filibuster. The fact that it is legal for a member of Congress to indefinitely delay a bill whose outcome may affect millions of people is to me, a perfect example of why a cockroach is vastly superior. Why? A cockroach is and has always been incredibly decisive. When it comes to thinking on one’s feet, I trust the roach. (He has six. Plus, eighteen knees! How intriguing, right?) Maybe you don’t support a cockroach’s decision to crawl into your mouth while you’re sleeping, but at least the cockroach didn’t spend months parked on your nose while he debated semantics. Plus, I’ve found their odorous secretions to be quite zesty on the tongue!

Perhaps cockroaches do feast on our beer, cheese, leather, glue, hair, or flakes of dried skin, but Congress feasts on something even dearer to our hearts than our own scalps – our tax dollars. So thank you America, for siding with the cockroach.

In conclusion, odorous secretions.

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BALLPOINT

POINT written by Jessica Pierce & COUNTERPOINT written by Lisa  DeBenedictis

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POINT

To Vote: I Just Want To Feel Like A Woman Again 

I know what you’re thinking.

I’m a sad-ass divorcée with a bad Bridget Bardot hair job who spends way too much time in the frozen food aisle at Kroger wishing I’d never met my Tweedle-dumbshit of an ex.

Well, guess the fuck what.

You’re right. I’m addicted to Hot Pockets and I never thought it was weird that Kevin owned 17 pairs of camel leather pants.

When life gives you lemons, you don’t ask questions.When your husband wants to wear your old Sweet Sixteen tiara on your wedding night, you take a Tylenol PM and you just go to bed.

But when you lose your day job at Jiffy Lube and full custody of the kids, you have to start asking yourself some pretty serious goddamn questions. Like: am I that shitty of a Mom? How do they cook the eggs inside of the Breakfast Pockets? Should I vote for the next American president?

The answer to two of those questions is, “Yes.” I know I can’t take my kids to Magic Mountain with my last paycheck, but I can walk down to the polling center in downtown Hamilton tomorrow and offer my 2 cents. Funny, how that works. The fact that I can vote makes me feel less like an emotionally crippled woman and a whole heck of a lot better about myself.

I used to wonder whether anybody really cared if I voted or not. But the future of our country isn’t relegated to either Obama or Romney without sad-ass divorcées like me, now is it? I know the Stevensons next door would beg to differ, but I’ll have you know that sad-ass divorcées are the only demographic both candidates happen to be calling at home today, thank you very much.

I know you think I’m pathetic for thinking my puny little vote counts, but guess what? I just don’t give a fuck. I want Christina from so-and-so’s campaign to call me at 7 p.m. during my game of Go-Fish with myself. I want to watch debates on the weeknights I don’t have the kids. I want somebody to hand me a little red or blue button to put on my crappy little handbag. I want to kill the Stevensons.

Sure, I’m no Hilly Clint or Condy Rice. Actually, my prime source of national information is US Weekly. But I have the God-given right to cast my vote based on what I interpret to be the most riveting, current events on Tuesday and nobody – not even Kevin – can take that way from me.

If casting my ballot makes me feel like a brand new woman who can afford $9 lipstick and a touchscreen microwave, so be it. If watching two handsome presidential candidates argue with each other about my right to choose makes me feel a little hot the way a vintage issue of Hustler magazine sometimes does, the American government can count me in.

Truth is, Obama and Romney have made me feel more desirable than I have felt in years and unlike the P.T.A. who has now ignored my request to participate in their monthly potluck six months in a row, I really think they’re listening.

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COUNTERPOINT

Not to Vote: Politicians Won’t Get Shit from Me

People expect SOOOO much from us Americans. Especially the young. Oh be the best country in the whole universe. Oh the young are really weighing us down. They’re so lazy. Blah. Blah. Blah.

But you know what, man? Fuck em all. I am lazy. And voting, it’s just too much work. Like why am I going to go out of my way to vote for some old man who knows shit about what I’m going through? Especially not when there’s a Game of Thrones marathon on.

This is the way I see it. I’m not jumping through hoops just to put some guy who had no idea what he was doing the last four years back into the White House. And I’m CERTAINLY not going to do shit to vote in that other Ken doll who seems to think that the American electorate is some sweet little 16-year-old virgin whose pants he can lie his way into.

You know why? Because they’re certainly not going to jump through any fucking hoops to improve MY shitty life once they get there. Like, it’s all fine and perfect to talk about poverty and education problems and let your concerns roll off your tongue, smooth as the fine wine Romney probably drinks for breakfast. (Or wait, smooth as the fine apple cider…dude’s a non-drinking Mormon, right?) But that’s why they call that shit political rhetoric. Because no one actually does anything that even changes my life even a little bit.

I mean yeah, sure, there’s all this talking about Obamacare and jobs and shit and getting Americans back to work. Which is great, if anyone in the government ever bothered to get shit done. But, no, they’re too busy playing golf and traveling the world and starting wars and shit to even bother.

So, you know what? If you’re too busy hanging out with your family in Hawaii or gracing the London Olympics with your stiff as hell presence to even give a thought to me, the little guy, not even part of that sacred middle class everyone goes on and on about, then fine. But don’t expect me to go out of my way to even register to vote, let alone show up at the polls on the 6^th.

And I never fucking have. For all of the long years I could’ve registered to vote, all the times I watched the ebb and flow of that shitshow of a government, never have I once lifted a finger to become a part of this little system. Why give them even the satisfaction of even the tiniest, little implicit support of this fucked up little world that they created from their tiny little bird brains.

You know what I do instead? I watch sports. I buy tickets and jerseys and baseball caps and I get wasted on cheap beer and cheaper wings every Sunday, Monday, whatever day. Because football and basketball and baseball and all its meaningless games and championships and bowls and series have done more to lift this poor man out of the ghetto than any president ever has, could, or would do. So you know what? Long live the New York fucking Giants, because there’s more hope in that team than there ever will be in the White House.

And all you do-gooders, you apple pie-eating, rosy-cheeked and blue-eyed citizens, you have fun trotting down to the polls on election day. Have fun getting off to the results show, while some fat, obnoxious pundit maths his way to the result he wants. Even, if you really want, have fun volunteering and calling a poor little fucker like me and trying to convince him to vote, just because he lives in some shithole swing state that only really matters to anyone every four years. But I’m not lifting one fucking finger for some D.C. asshole in a shiny suit who just wants $400,000/year in perpetuity and access to nukes.

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BALLPOINT

POINT written by Shruti Sehgal & COUNTERPOINT written by Jessica Pierce

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POINT

Wake Up and Get a Job People: Why this One Percenter Was Over Occupy Before It Started

Why did Occupy fail? Because they couldn’t hold down a damn job. (Was that in poor taste?)

I get why they did it. When I was young, I was angry at rich people, too. I was angry that I paid my way while most of my schoolmate’s parents bought theirs. I was angry that I couldn’t buy my wife a real diamond until I was 30.  Most of all, I was angry that I had to eat Spam. That shit is disgusting.  The only difference is that instead of focusing all my energy on hating those that were more financially successful, I decided to become one. I shed that idealistic garbage and became one cutthroat son-of-a-bitch. And I started to finally make some money.

Yup, here I am, a fucking success story. I’m the 1 percent. I’ve got six bank accounts, five cars, four houses, three ex-wives, two mistresses, one spoiled brat of a daughter, and half a dog (my fourth wife calls it a cockapoo – I call it a dog the size of my cock). But if that’s not making it in America, I don’t know what is.

And while I was scurrying by the Occupier’s shabby tents for months to get to the office two hours early, there they sat, warming their asses on a sewer vent.

So, why did the Occupy Movement fail? I can answer that question with an excerpt from a previous sentence: “there they sat, warming their asses on a sewer vent.” Now, before you 99-ers get all bent out of shape over my unkind remark, please note that I’d actually like to remove the last eight words from that phrase. What does it leave: “They sat there.”

Look, I understand that protest, though too hippy-dippy for my taste, is necessary at times. I went through my “kick up your trousers” stage like the rest of the youth today. I rebelled. I questioned authority. I even…voted for a Democrat. (Once! It was only once!) The only difference was that I still worked three odd jobs to pay my own rent, instead of complaining from the basement while my mommy was upstairs making me meatloaf.

They failed because they forgot that while it’s easy to hate billionaire trust fund babies and coked out socialites, the 1 percent also encompasses some of the most hardworking Americans you’ll ever meet: doctors, lawyers, financial professionals, executives, supervisors, managers. We studied hard, we stayed late, we got up early (and the thing is, we still do). So, guess what? It paid off – literally. Are you really going to blame Jack Welsh? Irene Rosenfeld? Are you really going to blame Jack Donaghy?!

They failed because the only thing that Americans hate more than rich people are hypocrites. They hate cheaters, they hate liars. Thats why they love to hate politicians. And Kristen Stewart. (Team Edward, all the way!) And while all of us can be hypocrites from time to time (there’s no way in hell I’m releasing my tax returns, either), that doesn’t mean we can actually recognize hypocrisy in ourselves. We just see it in others, and immediately get angry.

Most of all, they failed because they didn’t have a legitimate business plan. You want change? Fine. Tell me how you’ll do it, why we need it, and why it matters to me. Let’s nail down some fucking examples. Oh, wait? You don’t know? Then why don’t you go work on another Obama campaign, or something? Between the both of you, maybe you’ll figure it out.

So, when those young kiddos took a break from picketing to buy a $10 organic, fair trade, free range cappucino around the corner, or my son-in-law paused from all his whining to ask me about a job (again), or recent college grads complained that they’re not CEOs at 24, I quickly stopped listening. And so did the rest of America.

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COUNTERPOINT

You Can’t See Zuccoti Park from a Private Jet, Or, Why Occupy Was a Complete Failure

I’ve always been a bit of a revolutionary. Even when I was little, as soon as I graduated from Velcro straps to big boy shoe laces I used them to tie myself to my bed and refused to go to school in protest of the inherent inequities of the public school system. Of course, the way my mom tells the story, I was just too embarrassed to go back after farting in science class the day before, but she’s always been part of the establishment. Just trying to keep down a little revolutionary with stories about bodily functions that totally did not happen.

So when I heard about Occupy from my good friend and revolutionary brother Che Holmes (like Guevara, get it? Plus he studied abroad in Argentina, so he’s always throwing “ches” into the conversation when we have our weekly Hermanos de la Revolución meetings), I knew I had to get to NYC right away. Sure it meant leaving a plush job with health benefits at Starbucks but this was it: the revolution! Finally, my generation was having their moment, their big wake up, their call to arms. The streets would run red with the blood of our bourgeoisie enemies!

Or not. Okay, fine. I could get behind this whole non-violence thing. It was a pretty good shtick, really, something to define the movement. Plus, all of war was in the name of peace, right? All I ever wanted was for everyone to live in peace and love and harmony, without having to sacrifice themselves on the altar of capitalism just to own a home, so that some Wall Street Fat Cat could buy his cousin’s nephew’s girlfriend’s best friend a yacht for her Sweet 16. Because, you know, that’s what’s happening, right? The middle class is buckling under the strain of a financial crisis created by men who are probably, at this very moment, flying around the world in private jets while 12-year-old Tawainese girls massaged diamond filled lotion into their testicles and professional chefs make them Galapagos tortoise ravioli.

But you know what I realized after a year of freezing my ass off in Zuccoti Park, of getting the shit kicked out of me by police, of pretending armpit hair is sexy just so I can get laid? You can’t take down a private jet by camping out in a park. Seriously? Do you honestly think that the 1% with their millions, even billions, of dollars would just casually hand over the keys to their kingdom just because we’ve created a settlement in a park? They can buy their own fucking park. But what about that lady in the business suit, that was clearly bought from the 65% off rack at Macy’s, walking by our protests with disgust in her eyes? She’s a fucking secretary who’s fighting off the foreclosure of her own home. She has no power. And the people with power? Well they’re too busy eating endangered animal ravioli to care about what we’re doing.

What I’m saying is don’t expect all that sitting around in a park and marching up and down the streets to do anything. It didn’t work for the homeless, it’s not going to work for us, okay? And that girl with the daisies in her hair who’s armpit hair actually was sexy? She’s not going to call you. Not since that guy with a dreadlocked beard who reads Marx in the original German because it’s “more authentic that way” moved into the tent next door.

So if you want real change, then rise the fuck up. For real. No more camping on the concrete like it will make them listen. Because real revolution is about grabbing the small amount of power and money and hot women that exist in this world and keeping them for yourself. By force if necessary. And it is necessary. Because this Occupy bullshit, it’s just that. We were supposed to take over the world, revolutionize the distribution of wealth in this country, in this world, and leave the 1% to rot in jail for their sins while we had house parties in their mansions. You know what happened instead? Mitt Romney became the Republican candidate for president. And who knows? He might take the whole thing. If that’s not a sign that Occupy has completely failed, I don’t know what is.

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BALLPOINT

POINT written by Lisa Debendictis & COUNTERPOINT written by Jessica Pierce

]]> https://thegabbler.com/point-counterpoint-ballpoint/2012/09/21/why-occupy-failed-but-happy-anniversary-anyway/feed/ 0 https://thegabbler.com/point-counterpoint-ballpoint/2012/07/27/whats-in-a-sport-chess-and-skateboarding-weigh-in-on-ioc-regulations/ https://thegabbler.com/point-counterpoint-ballpoint/2012/07/27/whats-in-a-sport-chess-and-skateboarding-weigh-in-on-ioc-regulations/#comments Fri, 27 Jul 2012 14:19:49 +0000 http://thegabbler.com/?p=885  

On the eve of the Opening Ceremony of the 2012 Summer Olympics in London, two leisure activities, Skateboarding and Chess, have expressed to The Gabbler their desire to speak out against what they believe are the restrictive and at times even oppressive policies of the International Olympics Committee (IOC) as it determines which athletes and activities are eligible to participate in the Olympic Games. As both weigh in on what characteristics and requirements are necessary , readers are left to wonder: what is a sport, really?

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POINT: 

Suck It, IOC, Skateboarding Will Never Bow to Your Authority (Unless You’re Asking…)

SKATEBOARDING

You know what, man? I’ve never been much of a joiner. Gliding over the endless pavement of a waterless pool has always been enough. Who needs permission? Or rules? Or the approval of a giant international sports organization like the International Olympics Committee (IOC)? Not this board, man, not this board.

I mean, I’m like all about rebelling against authority. Who needs it, right? Some weird dude in some official Olympic polo that was probably made in China, mecca of authority and discipline and rules and stuff, telling me where I’m supposed to “live” in the “Olympic Village” for two and half weeks? Like they even know what living really is, right? Living is a sweet 360 off a half pipe, wind blowing in your hair, some early Blink 182 blaring from your stereo. That’s living. Is the Olympic Village equipped for that, man? I don’t think so.

But if I did know about rules and stuff, you know, just so I knew what confines society was trying to shackle onto my awesomeness, I would know, for example, that skateboarding meets all of the International Olympics Committee’s requirements for a summer sport. I’ve gone international to a totally extreme degree, I’m in every continent, every country, helping little dudes and dudettes subvert authority and not care about the dumb rules of giant governing bodies like the good old IOC. And I’m not propelled by an engine. Bam. Both requirements met. Suck it, IOC.

But here’s the problem with shit like numbers and rules and requirements: the IOC is all like, “Oh no skateboarding, even though you’re totally rad and would actually make the Olympics worth watching again, we can’t possibly have more than 28 sports, that would be like a total downer.”

Whatever, IOC, just get rid of that Dressage shit. Who wants horse ballet when you could have a half pipe, right? Right?

Not that I care, man. I mean, like I said, I hate shit like organizations who pretend to be in charge of stuff. Like who are you to be in charge of the Olympics, IOC? Right? I say we just do an X Games raid on that shit. The Brits’ll never see it coming. But, seriously, though, I’ll be invited in 2016, right? Because that would be totally gnarly.

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COUNTERPOINT

Don’t Call Checkmate Just Yet, IOC — This Is Far From Over

CHESS

I’d just like to make something perfectly clear: it’s not that I, Chess, have any desire whatsoever to be in the Olympics. I’m quite sure that those heaving brutes and I have very little in common. Whereas I enjoy dissecting worms, watching Star Trek, and discussing the exponential increase in ply positions over a nice bottle of seltzer (it clears my sinuses), they prefer to sweat and grunt loudly every time they run around or make contact with the ball (yes, female tennis players, I’m referring to you). And fine, maybe I have lit a few candles, closed my eyes and listened to Petra Cetkovska play a few matches. What sexually repressed Chess Board hasn’t, for Turing’s sake? We don’t often binge drink and then prey on lonely women with low self esteem on Friday nights, okay? Maybe Checkers never called me back, okay?

Anyway, that’s not important, and my therapist and I are dealing with my female-induced social anxiety in a very healthy way, at my own pace, on my own time. The fact that I might have the chance to see Stephanie Rice in a bathing suit with my own two eyes doesn’t mean that I would actually entertain the possibility of lowering myself to such a vulgar display of animalistic brutality. It’s not as if I give one half a darn QUARK that the International Olympics Committee doesn’t consider me a “sport.”

Let me tell you something about me. I’ve been around for over 5,000 years, and I was invented as a form of leisure for those who were interested in strengthening the single most powerful and important aspect of the body: the mind. You see, even now, people make the grave and naive error of separating the mind from the body, as if there is any way at all a 5 percent BMA makes any difference if you can’t remember your own birthday. The fact that the IOC can define “strength” by such narrow and superficial standards as certain “physical” requirements just goes to show that they are still stumbling through hastily written analyses of the dualistic dichotomy theory in a 1990 issue of Psychology Today. We might as well all be Freudians and prescribe cocaine for headaches, for Turing’s sake.

What does it matter if I undergo immense pressure and nearly unbearable mental struggles daily? I can’t bench press 250, so apparently I’m not WORTHY of accepting a medal in a spandex jumpsuit. What if I told you that my IQ was 136, and that it takes me 15 gosh darn seconds to do a Rubix cube? Mensa returns my calls, but the IOC won’t? That’s fine, because once I master telekinesis, I’ll bench press those dumb jocks straight into the Thames. I’ll show them the real meaning of “atomic.” HINT: It’s got nothing to do with a wedgy, you blockheads.

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BALLPOINT

POINT written by Jessica Pierce and COUNTERPOINT by Lisa DeBenedictis

As media pressure mounts on new Yahoo CEO Marissa Mayer for being pregnant and a recent article in The Atlantic claims that women still aren’t able to properly balance work and family, the topic of women having it all has been taking over the feminist stage. So The Gabbler decided to consult two experts on the topic: Queen Elizabeth I and Marie Antoinette.

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POINT

Why England’s Most Powerful Queen in History Still Can’t Pee Standing Up

 QUEEN ELIZABETH I

I felt compelled to write today, especially after I heard that French fruitcake was going to put her two pence in. As a woman who basically had to de-sex herself in order to get any respect whatsoever, I just want to say, I feel you, ladies.

I mean, I remember the 2008 election (you invariably have a lot of free time to watch debates when you’re dead. Plus, Tina Fey’s SNL performances back then were a thing of beauty). You’ve got Hillary Clinton, the cold-hearted bitch who probably peed standing up, versus Sarah Palin, the dumb yet totally fuckable veep candidate who happened to possess the bizarre ability to see Russia from her bedroom window. I don’t think many of us can identify with either position, which is why so many intelligent and successful woman find themselves taking pause to ask: Why can’t I aim for extreme success while also retaining my femininity? Why can’t I be a kick ass exec on Friday and bake cookies with my kids on Saturday? Why should taking better care of my appearance be directly proportionate to how dumb people think I am?

Take this week’s news cycle: there has been a boatload of coverage over Yahoo’s newly appointed CEO, Marissa Mayer. Nevermind that at 37 years old, she is the youngest CEO of a Fortune 500 Company. Nevermind that before this, she was the Number 20 exec at Google and is worth an estimated $300 million. Nevermind that she’s got honor’s degrees from Stanford in symbiotic systems and computer science. In case you haven’t been reading the Wall Street Journal, Mayer is also (gasp!) six months pregnant, which inevitably means that she will only be able to focus on two things for the next three months: binge eating and planning the perfect Finding Nemo-themed baby shower.

When Anne Marie Slaughter wrote that women still can’t have it all, maybe this is the kind of thing she was talking about. Having it all seems like an impossibility, and maybe it is. But that’s no reason to stop trying. “Though the sex to which I belong is considered weak you will nevertheless find me a rock that bends to no wind.” (Is it tacky to quote yourself? If so, I apologize, but I was pretty proud of this one.)

There was a time when I was the most powerful woman in the world, but I made a lot of sacrifices for power and success. I never married, even when I was in love. Instead, I was stuck flirting with every Sir Tom, Dick and Harry just to wield the only real power I had – that if they thought they might have a chance with me, they’d have a chance at the throne, and for once and for all, would stop trying to poison my dinner. I became extremely paranoid and isolated myself. I even had my sister killed off. Sure, she threw me in the Tower of London first, but if I’m not a cold-hearted bitch, I don’t know who is.

Times sure have changed, (God, I wish I was around for the invention of the iPhone – or even hot showers), but it’s a shame to see that many of the same, sad stereotypes about women in power remain. Maybe if we just learned how to pee standing up – Hillary, could you help us out with this?

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COUNTERPOINT

Let Them Stop Whining

 MARIE ANTOINETTE

I was a woman who had it all. Born a beautiful and powerful archduchess, married to the future king of France, free to waste the crown’s money on clothes and gambling and the gardens at Versailles, until the people were starving in the streets of Paris, right? If any woman can tell you the secret to having it all, it surely must be me.

I have one simple, easy tip for you all, so listen carefully: stop your whining. Oh, I’m sorry, you’re struggling to figure out when to factor marriage and children in between graduate school and your career, or you’re a little sad because you can’t be at home to be yelled at by your evil, hormonal teenager. Or, oh it can’t be! Your evil boss scheduled that meeting for the exact time you needed to pick your child up from school.

Would you like to know how I came to have it all? How I, the youngest daughter of the Holy Roman Emperor, ended up a queen. The youngest certainly never gets to marry well. Maybe a duke or a count, but a future king?  We youngest children are never that lucky. Well, God must have favored me, because he systematically killed off all of my beloved older sisters with smallpox. That’s how I got promoted straight to dauphine, the future Queen of France. But, please, tell me about that one time you cut your honeymoon short because your boss implied that if you did, you would finally snag that big promotion.

So I married well. The future King of France, quite a catch. I was truly on my way to having it all. Now if I could only get him to have sex with me. That’s right, despite the fact that I had a series of painful oral surgeries (without anesthesia, by the way), my darling new hubby had no interest in consummating our marriage. Luckily I had my loving mother to comfort me in my loneliness by constantly berating me for being too unattractive to “inspire passion” in a man. Thanks, Mom. Then, seven years into our marriage, my brother finally came to visit us with the specific goal of finally convincing us to start the baby-making, since it was a pretty important part of my job description as Queen. Don’t worry, that wasn’t incredibly awkward and embarrassing at all and definitely just as bad as when your libido was slightly reduced by all of that overtime you were working.

But I was Queen, right? I had a certain amount of political power and sway. I, as a woman in the late 18^th century, had what amounted to a job, really, as a politician, running parts of the state, advising my husband, appointing his counsel, like the queens of the past had done. Oh, wait. My husband had been raised to believe that my country (Austria) was evil, that it needed to be conquered, that it was, if anything, his mortal enemy. Basically, imagine how much say Malia Obama would have if she were married off to the star pupil at Osama bin Laden’s Anti-American School for Terrorists in an attempt to end the war on terror peacefully through marriage. That was about how much power and control I was given in my husband’s regime. Of course, though, it’s basically the same exact thing as that time your boss seemed to have stopped listening to your ideas once he found out you were pregnant.

So, I had no real political pull, no big deal, right? I mean, it was a pretty crazy time in France, so maybe it was for the best that I wasn’t really involved, because that way who could possibly blame me once the peasants started starving? Well, just about everyone, apparently. Conveniently, though, once things started to get really scary, right before the Revolution, my eldest son was busy dying from tuberculosis. God’s favor shining on me once again, I suppose. Still, though, the people were starving and angry and who was to blame? That’s right, I was. So while I was taking time off from my role as queen (a role in which I was incapable of accomplishing much due to my husband’s distrust of my origins) to tend to my ailing eldest son, as well as my sickly new baby girl, I was being constantly criticized for not effectively helping France. Luckily, my girl died at a sweet 11 months and God took my boy from me once he had reached a robust seven years. So I was free to help France once more! But, please, I’d love to hear more about that time you quit your job to spend more time with your happy, healthy toddler and everyone just thought it was a euphemism for you being fired. I would say that it’s basically the same situation as watching your children and country wither away simultaneously. Just as hard, I’m sure.

Of course not every woman can have it all forever, right? Now we’re coming to the part of my story of having it all in which I am beheaded for, wait for it, the made up crime of raping my eight-year-old son. It wasn’t enough to just charge me with treason, throwing giant orgies in Versailles, stealing money and sending it to Austria, or plotting to kill various noblemen. They also had to accuse me of incest with my sweet baby boy, the only hope left for French royalty. The icing on the cake, though, was that they forced him to testify against me. Lovely. Nothing like the sweet relief of the guillotine in a world that has created so much sorrow. So it was basically just like that time you finally gave up and became a stay at home mom because it was just too hard to be away from your boys anymore.

I know what you’re thinking, that was then, this is now. Things have totally improved for women since the 18^th century, Marie! We have birth control and epidurals and we get to wear pants instead of corsets, now! It’s great! But if you’re crazy enough to believe that any amount of equality or feminism can allow you to have anything as expansive as “it all” without a little pain and sacrifice, you’re crazy. And those old-school feminists who have been urging you on, telling you to go for it, it won’t hurt one bit, have been selling you a lie. Because there’s a price for everything. Apparently, even for cake.

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BALLPOINT

POINT written by Lisa DeBenedictis & COUNTERPOINT written by Jessica Pierce