Stop Bitching About Those Lady Chips
Some more advice from an adult woman dating a cardboard cutout of Knight Rider era David Hasselhoff
‘Sup Moaning Myrtles, I just took a break from brushing my teeth with Wild Turkey to come by and grace you with some advice because I heard you all got on the same cycle and were bitching about those lady chips.
Don’t look at me like that, I can say that. I wouldn’t consider myself a feminist, but I do believe in the equality of all genders. I just don’t like labels.
I still don’t call my boyfriend, a cardboard cut out of Knight Rider era David Hasselhoff my boyfriend. Sometimes I call him my “Origami Sex Maggot” or “Paper-Dick Dave”, but mostly I don’t call him anything at all, because his one good ear has started to disintegrate from taking him in the shower too many times.
Look, you’re already getting offended and you haven’t even heard what I have to say! Just like you Prissy Patties to always get upset. I never get upset.
Being mad at anyone for anything is a real boner-shriveler. Keep that in mind.
I never get mad. Not even that time David got a silverfish infestation that ruined my collection of vintage Hustler Magazines. I just drank a tiny travel-sized bottle of Evan Williams and then gripped the bottle until it broke and a shard of glass got lodged in my hands, dripping blood on my leather pants.
Look, dudes, I’m sure you probably think you have good reasons, like that the idea of a quiet chip for women is problematic because women are often unfairly scrutinized about their bodies, what they eat, where they eat and how often they eat- which is really unfair and probably all in your head.
I never feel scrutinized because my diet of 7/11 hotdogs and chicharrones and the subsequent D.A.D.S. (Day After Drinking Shits), help me keep things tight.
But alls I’m hearing is that you’re upset that this is another product arbitrarily marketed to women- like Bic lady pens and the gender wage gap.
Not that I know a lot about the gender wage gap, I make good tips at the roadhouse where I serve whiskey in Von Dutch tank tops, “Coyote Ugly” style.
I don’t understand why you’d be so mad about something just being marketed to women. I love being a woman- but just the parts that make me fuckable. Like my boobs, or the way my hair looks when I’m shotgunning a beer. And, if I ever start to have a feeling, I go out behind the roadhouse and throw knives at a tree like my dad taught me.
I’m a real daddy’s girl. He taught me how to fix cars and do that thing where you explain liquor back to someone like they’ve never thrown up Taco Bell and plastic-bottle tequila in a CSUN bathroom at 3AM after Cinco de Mayo.
No, my mom’s not dead. I just don’t talk to Deborah.
Yes, they’re still married.
Look, I’d love to stay and chat but me and my one female friend, Sam, and I are going to ride our hogs out to Joshua Tree and take one picture with a caption like, “Girls cry in Priuses, Real Women rub one out on Harleys”.
Stay cool, you tampon-ad “Before” pictures.
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