Slow Burn

4 Oct

Clearly, this has been coming for a while.  I’m not happy with the way things have gone here.  This was never intended to be a social justice blog – this was supposed to be my place to write and “develop my craft” (don’t you loathe phrases like that? maybe I’m too pragmatic for my own good).

I still consider myself a feminist, but I just don’t have the spoons to write about it.  I certainly can’t say that this is a universal experience, but it seems that for me, with age comes more responsibility, and the head space I need to devote to that responsibility edges out and wins out over the head space I might be expending on social justice blogging.  Maybe that makes me a terrible person.  Frankly… I just can’t bring myself to care.

I’m hoping that this post is going to mark a transition for a new direction – one that’s comfortable for me.  I’d like to focus more on my writing – specifically, I want to focus on full package, rather than the content.  I want to be a novelist – it’s what I’ve wanted since I was small.

I’m sorry if that causes you to be disappointed in me.  Believe me, I feel guilty about it as well.  But this has been a slow burn developing since before I even started this blog.

I’m sorry.

Are We On the Cusp of a Class War?

19 Sep

Despite what Michelle Bachmann says, the defining issue of our time is not going to be gay marriage.  I think it’s more likely to be terrorism.  But “class warfare” is also going to be a good contender.

For some time now, Sociological Images has been documenting the ever-increasing gap between the very rich and everyone else.  Just a few days ago, Martin Hart-Landsberg wrote that median income has fallen and that poverty rates are rising.

In a speech delivered today, President Obama sided with Warren Buffet and took a firm stance that taxes on the very rich must be raised.  Frank James for NPR posits that:

Along with the jobs bill he introduced last week, the deficit-reduction plan was an opportunity to frame the political debate for the 2012 general election.

Whoever becomes the Republican presidential nominee and Republican congressional candidates will have to explain to voters why the wealthiest Americans shouldn’t pay taxes at rates that are at least as high as those paid by the middle class.

The president is betting he’ll have the better of that argument, especially since polls suggest a substantial majority of Americans agree with him. If 2012 is to be a referendum, he plans to make it not on him but on the rich and their taxes.

This is phenomenal.  For years, liberals have tried and failed to convince voters that U.S. tax policy favors the wealthy, and conservatives have hijacked the dialogue.  Finally, it seems, people understand that the current system is not fair, and that no one is asking the wealthy to pay more than their fair share.

The fact is that Republican proposals to introduce spending cuts without tax increases places the burden largely on the poorest among us – the ones who would be most affected by a reduction in social services like Medicare and Medicaid.  When Republicans tell us we need to tighten our belts, they’re actually just telling poor people that they need to struggle even harder than they already do.

I’m guessing that conservatives already feel that they are losing control of the dialogue.  s.e. smith of This Ain’t Livin’ pointed out over the weekend that Barbara Ehrenreich’s Nickel and Dimed, a (as far as I’m concerned) seminal sociological work on the working poor in America, has become a challenged book.  Smith says:

Many people in the United States have very set, specific ideas about poverty and what it is like to be poor. This book turns those ideas on their head and forces people to confront some of their own attitudes about poverty. Parents who want their children to believe that people deserve to be poor because they’re lazy and unmotivated, who want their children to believe that anyone can succeed by trying, who want children to believe that those people working in low wage jobs aren’t anybody their children need to worry about, certainly don’t want their kids reading Nickel and Dimed.

While I believe that Nickel and Dimed ought to be required reading for everyone (love that book), I’m going to take the fact that its status as a challenged book is a positive litmus test that tells us that conservatives are scared.  They’re scared that we know what they’ve been playing at.  They’re scared that we’ve all realized that there is a class system in the U.S., and the vast majority of us are not benefiting from it.

Could it possibly be that we’ve finally got the upper hand?

Link: American Apparel Offers XL Sleaze

14 Sep

No, I have not be terribly diligent about Delicious.  But I did bookmark a few fantastic posts which I’ll share with you now!

Autumn for The Beheld: Too Close For Comfort: Plus-Size Satire

The Beheld is a semi-recent blog discovery for me, and I’m loving it.  This post fingers exactly what bothered me about Nancy Upton’s submissions to the American Apparel “Next BIG Thing” contest.

Here’s what happened: American Apparel decided to start offering “plus sizes” (which, like so many things, aren’t really plus sizes), and then started a contest for fat models that employed really shitty language, like calling fat ladies “bootylicious” (though I’m sure “bootylicious” only applies to women with hips – not actual superfat women like me).  Jezebel gives a pretty good description of the whole contest.

And so Nancy Upton, upset about the contest, took pictures of herself stuffing her fat face with food and stuff as a statement of protest.  And she won.

Here’s what Autumn says:

In short: Upton’s collection resembles what American Apparel might very well do in a plus-size photo shoot if left to their own devices. I’ve no doubt that if Upton had submitted the exact same photos but had sincere, not subversive, intent, her photos would be featured in their advertisements. When I first saw the shots, I recognized the nod to performance art but since it was presumably aimed toward getting a contract with American Apparel, I didn’t consider the notion that it was satire. (Thanks to reader Anna, who pointed me toward Jezebel’s interview with Upton and better informed me on the matter than when I mentioned it in my roundup last week.)

These provocative photos beg questions larger than I’m qualified to tackle: How much does the creator’s intent matter in art? If you have to know the background in order to spot the subversion, can it be effective? If the goal is to raise awareness of an issue and the only people who get the joke are already informed, have you succeeded in your goal?

Though now that it’s become apparent that, though she won the contest, American Apparel has decided not to give her the job, I feel that the issue is a little more complicated… and there’s also some poetic justice here.  Upton succeeded in coming out a hero, and making American Apparel look like an asshole.  I mean, you couldn’t really expect the company to choose her as a representative after how critical she’d been, but the fact that they didn’t even though she won fair and square?  That offers some startling validity to the performance piece, and makes the whole thing work.

A Magazine Ruined My Sex Life

12 Sep

This post was originally published on yet another blog of mine, which I started as an experiment to try to monetize my work a bit.  I have all of these mega thoughts about the direction my writing has taken, and the direction I would like it to go, but they’re like, boring and stuff.  Just fair warning that I’m probably going to be sharing a lot of content back and forth, and the nature of what I post here might be shifting a bit.

When I was really young, my best friend’s mom worked at the local library, which just happened to be right across the street from school. Since both my friend and I were kind of weird kids and were picked on pretty mercilessly, a couple of times a week we managed to “miss the bus” and went over to the library to wait for a ride home from her mom. And while we were there, we read Seventeen.

Cover of Seventeen magazine

"5 Easy Ways to Suppress Your Sexuality!"

Seventeen didn’t appeal to me after I hit about twelve or so, which makes me believe that despite the title of the publication, its target demographic is not, in fact, seventeen-year-old girls, but rather, girls who are much, much younger – the girls who aspire to be seventeen. When I was young, I didn’t want to grow up to be an astronaut or a marine biologist – I wanted to grow up to be a teenager. I thought that perhaps this was a phenomenon unique to the “Clueless” generation, but at a Purim party a couple of years ago, I asked a girl about her costume, and she told me that she was a teenager – proof, at least in my eyes, that girls are taught to believe that life ends after high school (which is kind of true – fun life ends after high school).

So when I was aspiring to be a teenager, Seventeen was the publication of choice, which upset my mom. She preferred me reading American Girl, which, by the way, I fucking loved, I just didn’t want anyone else to know that. They only saw the side of me that pretended to like boys and loved the shit out of Ace of Base (never mind that I knew all the lyrics to “Psycho Killer” and only managed to half-heartedly hum along to that one song about the traffic signal or whatever).
My weird friend and I mostly read Seventeen for two things – the “most embarrassing moments,” and the advice columns. The “most embarrassing moments” were genius.  They always involved a girl either farting, pooping herself, or unleashing a tidal wave of period blood in public, and they were fucking hilarious.  I remember this one where a girl went and took a crap in the woods, and forever after was known as “Forest Dump!”  Oh my god, I almost had my own “most embarrassing moment” when I read that one!

The advice columns taught me a lot about what puberty was going to be like.  I learned that if I happened to grow up with hairy nipples, that would be normal, and washing my face twelve times a day might keep the acne from eating me alive.

But most importantly, I learned to be horribly, terribly confused about my feelings of attraction toward other women.  You see, a girl wrote into Seventeen, terrified that she was a lesbian because she found herself getting turned on by scantily-clad women in movie sex scenes.  Don’t worry, was Seventeen’s response – you’re probably not actually turned on by the women, it’s the situation (not The Situation) that’s making you horny!

That was something I internalized and greeted with sincere relief.  Even as a young girl, I had doubts about myself and thought that maybe I might be gay.  But Seventeen taught me that it was the fucking that piqued my interest – not the vaginas.

I have to wonder if that advice is true.  I mean, it’s not true for me – I discovered later that it really was the vaginas.  If it was, in fact, terrible, misleading advice for everyone as much as it was for me, then I have to wonder how many girls grew up guiltily hoarding lingerie catalogs beneath their mattresses, and telling themselves, as they furiously masturbated, that it was the situation those half-naked ladies were in, and not the fantasy of scissoring the shit out of them, that was getting them off.

11 Sep

Today marks ten years since our nation was attacked.

I feel like it’s tacky to tell you what I was doing when it happened, or to draw some broad conclusions about the way we are, or to use it as a teaching tool to tell you about how we should conduct our foreign relations.

Rather, I just want to say that my thoughts are with the families of those who were lost, and with those who risked their lives to help.  9/11/2001 was a sad day in American history, but it was also one in which the U.S. was kind of at its best – we were united in our grief, we were generous with our help, our resources, our sympathies.  That’s something that I’m proud of today.

The Crises – They Continue

9 Sep

I shoulda known that since Google has been getting a serious facelift lately, it would probably happen to Blogger, too.  And it did.  And now I’m kind of torn again.

You see, overall, I think WordPress is the better platform.  It fosters a better blogging community, I love its sensitivity to aesthetics and design…

However, Blogger is infinitely more customizable and allows you to attempt to monetize your work without having to spend any money to do so (the way I understand it, you have to head over to to have ads on your site, which requires that you pay for hosting – on Blogger, you don’t even need your own domain name to use AdSense).

So, the Blogger facelift is attractive, certainly, but the site design is also a little better, I feel – more intuitive.  Additionally, they’ve added a butt-ton of new fonts (I’m a font junkie, by the way), and fixed some other glaring problems.  However, the problem still remains that WordPress helps people to find you and your blog, with absolutely zero effort on your part.  I mean, seriously – you don’t have to publicize AT ALL, and people will stumble over your blog.  Blogger isn’t really like that.  Which is a problem.

Now, onto the other whatchamahoozit – I’ve been feeling kind of fed up with myself and my blog as of late.  When I started this blog up a few months ago, the idea was to stop limiting myself in my writing.  I used to have a social justice blog, and I got sick of feeling like that was all I was allowed to write about.  So then I came here… and now I feel like I’ve backed myself into a corner again.  Which is frustrating.

That’s some real, earnest talk, yo.

So what I did was start a new blog on Blogger, and I think I’ll just try to kind of fiddle with both and see how I feel about everything.  I’ve just kind of come to this point where I’m wondering what I’m doing, and why, and if all of this really makes me happy, and if I even agree with myself anymore.

Your Daily* Dose of WTF?: Do Not Fear Chaz Bono

8 Sep

I’m pretty confused about the reaction to the recent news that Chaz Bono will appear on “Dancing With the Stars” this upcoming season.  You see the same thing when people get all huffy about their children being potentially exposed to homosexuality.  It’s just baffling to me.  The only conclusion I can draw is that the people who are afraid of exposing their kids to anyone who isn’t heterosexual or cisgender are misinformed about a few things.

I think I’ve managed to identify some of the fears people are experiencing, so I’d like to address them now:

Gay and transgender people do have self-control.

I figure that one of the reasons that parents might be averse to seeing gay and transgender people on television is because they’re afraid that, before they’re able to clap their hands over their children’s eyes, someone is going to whip out a riding crop and a ball gag and initiate a primetime fuckfest.  I’m guessing that some people mistakenly think that gay and transgender people are unable to stop themselves from having amazing, kinky sex all the time.

Well, parents, I’m here to tell you that you don’t have to worry – that’s not going to happen.  Gay and transgender people are, in fact, able to curb their insatiable sexual appetites, and I can guarantee that you will not see hardcore gay sex on network television.  I cannot, however, guarantee that you won’t be treated to softcore fake lesbian sex on Cinemax after midnight.

The words “gay” and “transgender” really don’t have much to do with sex.

Donkey punch.  Strawberry milkshake.  Angry dragon.  Hot Carl.  Dirty Sanchez.  Blumpkin.  Cleveland steamer.  Alabama Hot Pocket.  These are all sex things.  Notice that this list does not include “gay” or “transgender,” as they are not sex things (notice also that this list has quite a bit to do with poop – COINCIDENCE????).

What’s wrong with sex?

I mean, even if sexuality and gender expression were sex things, what’s wrong with that?  Of course I would never argue that you should show your four-year-old porn, but you know – it’s just sex.  I mean, I think even the most conservative among us look back at ye olde Puritans, who used to like, flog themselves if they even moaned during intercourse, and we think that’s ridiculous.  I mean, we don’t inflict self-harm on ourselves (much) anymore as a punishment for enjoying sex (I mean, unless you’re into that kind of thing… but I have a feeling that if you are, I’m not really talking to you), but we still treat sex like it’s wrong and evil and corrupting.

All right, I’m going to stop evangelizing about my utopian sex-party society where people have sex and do it without shame.  But seriously, what’s wrong with sex?  And why can’t kids know about it?  And why is sexuality discouraged in children (and no, I don’t mean intercourse, but two-year-olds stick their hands down their pants, and we shake our fingers at them)?  Do you have a good reason for this, because I don’t.  But seriously, raise your kids however you want – I’m not a breeder, I don’t know what I’m talking about.

That’s not how a television works.

When I was a kid, I used to kind of hope that there were tiny people living inside video cassettes who acted out that Fraggle Rock Christmas special my mom had taped for me.  I mean, I knew that wasn’t the case, but I kind of hoped that it was.

As an adult, I still don’t understand how television works, but I’m fairly positive that there aren’t really people inside the TV, and contrary to what I learned from “Poltergeist,” one cannot be sucked into a television (and it’s especially less likely now that tube televisions are obsolete), nor can the people on your TV screen jump out and hang out with you (I’ve tested this also, but no matter how much I begged, Alexander Skarsgård remained in “True Blood” with Anna Paquin – that bitch).  So, knowing all of this, I can tell you, with a moderate degree of certainty, that no one – gay, straight, transgender, cisgender, or anything else – is going to jump out of your TV, suck you into it, or otherwise pass their sexuality or gender identity onto you or your children through your television set.  We don’t yet have the technology.

Oh, and also, sexuality and gender dysphoria are not communicable.  I looked it up.  You can’t catch gay.

Well, that’s it.  I hope this has served to allay some of your fears about Chaz Bono strutting his ass on DWTS.  If I didn’t have an irrational fear of Tom Bergeron, I might actually watch.  But I do.  So I won’t.

Crisis of Faith, Apparently

7 Sep

I have no Wednesday links.  Frankly, I’ve dropped the ball on Delicious this week.  My bad.

I’m going through one of those cycles where I wonder what the fuck I do all of… this for.  Is it really helping anyone?  Is it really changing anyone’s mind?  And, more importantly, what do I hope to accomplish here?  Is it improving my writing, or my prospects?  Is it making me happy?  If I try to quit doing this, will I be able to?

I don’t know.  I just don’t know!  What I do know is that the next time I go to the store, this is how it’s going to happen.

The Rape of Sookie Stackhouse (Redux)

5 Sep

This post was originally published at Orange the Brave.

Trigger warning for descriptions of fictional rape.  Spoiler warning… for spoilers.

A portrait of Anna Paquin; text reads "What will become of me?"


A few days ago, Eld and I had a Tumblr exchange about bad books we feel compelled to finish, even though they’re bad, which was precipitated by my stating that I found the most recent installment in the Sookie Stackhouse series of novels by Charlaine Harris to be unforgivably awful.  The book, Dead Reckoning, had no discernible plot, completely dropped the ball on what should have been a HUGE DEAL, and it just felt like it was unenthusiastic about slogging through yet another formula Southern Vampire book (it would be unfair to call it a mystery – there was little to no sleuthing).  This is how the books work: Sookie cleans her house, Sookie finds out there are even more supernatural creatures that we didn’t know about (seriously, as the books progress, it gets kind of ridiculous – vampires, shapeshifters, werewolves, werepanthers, fairies, demons, maenads, men who are not rapists – just kidding!  all men are rapists in the Sookie Stackhouse novels!), Sookie has violent sex after which she is obligated to ice her pussy, horribly gruesome violence porn in which at least ten minor characters are slaughtered and/or dismembered, the end.

And I can say “the end” because I finished reading it.  I finished reading it, even though it was horrible.  I finished reading all of them, even though they were horrible (though not so horrible as the latest one).  Part of the reason is that I have this sick compulsion to finish reading terrible books, and I am in fact more likely to finish a terrible book than I am to finish one that I’m legitimately enjoying (I mean, I finish the vast majority of books I read, but I can think of a few occasions where I put a good book down and just never picked it up again, and zero occasions in which I’ve put a bad book down).  And another reason that I’m hooked on these books is that I just cannot believe some of the horseshit that goes down in them.

A while ago, I had this other blog that kind of stalled out and was eventually deleted, but one of my projects there was to recap and analyze each of the Sookie Stackhouse books.  So I’m going to try to condense all of that down into one blog post about how rape-y these books are.  Because they’re super rape-y.

Unlike some feminist critics out there, I don’t have a problem with portrayals of rape.  I don’t necessarily believe that if an author writes about rape, ze is necessarily condoning it.  Vladimir Nabokov wrote about a pedophile – in the first person, no less! – and I really, really don’t think anyone would dare argue that Lolita gives child molestation the thumbs-up.  But the Sookie Stackhouse novels are not like that – not at all.  While I wouldn’t argue that they condone rape, they certainly engage in some pretty heinous rape apologism – and that’s what we’re going to delve into.

The first thing you need to know about the Sookie Stackhouse books is that the vampires are scary, and they have fangs (unlike some other vampire fiction we know).  They are ruthless, untrustworthy, passionate, and they fuck.  In fact, it’s observed many times throughout the course of the novels that blood and sex are deeply intertwined, and that for vampires, one rarely comes without the other.

The second thing you need to know… is a brief plot synopsis.  In the world of the Southern Vampire Mysteries, vampires have “come out of the coffin” after the invention of synthetic blood – which obviously means that they don’t need to prey on humans to sustain “life” (they don’t need to, which doesn’t mean that they don’t).  The first novel,Dead Until Dark, is set in the fictional Bon Temps, Louisiana, two years after vampires have made their existence known to the world.  This is where we meet Sookie Stackhouse, a waitress and telepath, who gets all gooey in the groin over the first vampire she meets.  His name is Bill Compton, and he just happens to live in the house across the cemetery.  AND THIS IS WHERE ALL OF THE TROUBLE BEGINS.

Right out of the gate it’s established that in these books, rape and sexual assault are the weapons of choice.  Whether she’s forced to watch sex acts against her will (on page 57, we’re introduced to a group of vampires considerably more frightening than Bill, and the way that threat is established is through a lot of heavy petting and one of them receiving fellatio while Sookie, too frightened to run away, watches), or the local detective is trying to bait her telepathy by imagining her fucking her brother (Dead Until Dark, 104), it seems that the best way to scare Sookie is to put her into extremely uncomfortable sexual situations.

And because it wouldn’t be good, trashy genre fiction without it, “forced seduction” and the threat thereof plays a large role in the steamy scenes as well.  Take, for example, this scene which occurs on page 101 in Dead Until Dark:

Oh boy, could he kiss.  We might have problems communicating on some levels, but this wasn’t one of them.  We had a great time for maybe five minutes.  I felt all the right things moving through my body in waves.  Despite the awkwardness of being in the front seat of a car, I managed to be comfortable, mostly because he was so strong and considerate.  I nipped his skin with my teeth.  He made a sound like a growl.

“Sookie!”  His voice was ragged.

I moved away from him, maybe half an inch.

“If you do that anymore, I’ll have you whether you want to be had or not,” he said, and I could tell he meant it.

“You don’t want to,” I said finally, trying not to make it a question.

Okay, here is where we have to draw some lines between real life, and the conventions of fiction.  In real life, if someone told me that they’d “have” me, whether I wanted it or not, I really, really doubt I’d find it sexy (unless it was something my partner and I had previously negotiated, of course) – in fact, I’d probably be scared shitless.  In this book, and in other literature – especially romances – we don’t read this situation as a rape threat because it’s been previously established that Sookie is game, and we know she is game because she is narrating, and we know what she is thinking.  We also know that Bill and Sookie would have been humping a long time ago were it not for some strategically placed barriers, like social taboos and miscommunications (because it’s not romantic if two people meet, decide they want to fuck, and then fuck – no, no, there has to be anobstacle).  There’s been a considerable amount of research and speculation as to why we’re okay with rape in genre fiction (here is one that I like in particular, and here’s another).

But see, that isn’t the big problem.  The big problem occurs in book three, when I guess someone decided that all of those rape threats were no good unless they were actually carried out.  At the end of book three, which is called Club Dead (I know), Sookie ends up rescuing a half-starved Bill from where he’s being held captive by the vampire king of Mississippi (I KNOW), and then some bitch locks her in a trunk with him, where he rapes her.

I mean, he really rapes her.  I KNOW!!!

Thankfully, Sookie terminates the relationship after that point (though they were honestly on the rocks before that), but remains reluctant to really place any blame on Bill for what happened.  It’s argued first that Bill, starving as he was, couldn’t help it or wasn’t aware that he was even doing it.  It’s then argued that the blame lies with the woman who pushed Sookie into the trunk, and this isn’t just Sookie trying to rationalize what happened – other characters also say it’s the woman’s fault (her name is Debbie Pelt, FWIW).  It isn’t even until book five or six that Sookie even calls what happened in the trunk a “rape.”  Bill is never held accountable for his actions (except that he loses Sookie as his girlfriend), and Sookie even becomes friendly with him again after a little time has passed.

Where Harris really fails is that she puts forth a situation – Sookie’s rape – and then refuses to really deal with it.  I’d never argue that an author can’t allow hir main character to be sexually assaulted – but if you’re going to have that happen, you must treat it with the gravity it deserves.  For example, don’t have another one of your characters say this to the woman who was raped a few hours after it happened:

“Had it occurred to you,” he said, after we’d rolled out of the city’s center, “that you tend to walk away when things between you and Bill become rocky?  Not that I mind, necessarily, since I would be glad for you two to sever your association.  But if this is a pattern you follow in your romantic attachments, I want to know now.” (Club Dead, 215)

Hey Sookie – this dude just raped you, and I feel like I should probably shame you a little bit for not sticking around to work it out with him, and I also want to know if it’s your wont to run away from your rapist, in case you and I get into a relationship with one another and I rape you.  I mean, running away from your rapist – is that a pattern?

And this is typical of the way this rape is treated moving forward in the series – and it’s something I was never able to forgive Harris for.  It’s one of the reasons, I imagine, that True Blood changed this scene up so that Bill simply drank from Sookie – almost to the point of killing her – and did not rape her.  Because when you allow one of your characters to get raped, you have to deal with it – you can’t treat it like he farted in bed or forgot to bring milk home, or even like he cheated.

It’s a real shame.  While these books are certainly not masterpieces, they are fairly progressive in their cavalier attitude toward homosexuality, bisexuality, and gender expression.  It’s just too bad that all of that got ruined when Harris refused to acknowledge that she allowed one of her characters to get raped.  I guess I’ve never forgiven her for it.

And yet… I’ll be reading the next one when it comes out – you can be sure of it.  And I’ll hate it all the way through.



Harris, Charlaine.  Dead Until Dark.  New York: Penguin, 2001.

Harris, Charlaine.  Club Dead.  New York: Penguin, 2003.

Your Daily* Dose of WTF?: Rape Culture, Alive and Well

31 Aug

Trigger warning for description of a possible sexual assault.

This story appeared a couple of days ago on Jezebel.  A guy gives a comedy monologue in which he basically describes how he raped a woman.  And everyone is apparently supposed to laugh.

Irin Carmon reports:

As the story goes, an “old drunk girl” gave her number to a waiter, who had a girlfriend but suggested Eric go instead. He claims “peer pressure” from the fellow staff led him to call the woman, “without saying, hey I’m a different person, is this okay?” and to take a cab to her hotel. He says she opened up the door and said, “Oh no.” This is how he recounts the dialogue:

“You’re not the guy I wanted.”

“But I’m the guy who showed up.” This elicits cheers.

She said, “Well I’m not letting you in,” but “she leaves the door open so I’m like bingo…. I walk in there and I kind of close the door.” She told him to leave, again, and he says to himself, “All right, it’s now or never.” He says he kissed her, they started making out, and when the comedians start uncomfortably joking about the police and the Fifth Amendment, Eric says, “I’m pretty sure she felt safe,” that she was stronger than him and had him “pinned down.” He then says he went for the “fishhook,” which is how he says he tells it to his friends, and demonstrates penetrating her with his fingers.

This is a perfect example of a really awful rape joke.  The worst part is that this guy clearly doesn’t think he did anything wrong.

Um, gross.  The article includes a video of the performance.