When 1 DIK … is too many

Funny is how 100% of the people I showed this bumper sticker to did not describe it, a photo of which I took a couple of weeks ago after tailing the vehicle into my own workplace car park. What luck!

And clearly I needed to write this blog, because I still can’t get the shitty contents of this graphic art triumph out of my head.

So why is it still bothering me?

Because 100% of the people I showed it to were just as offended as me, responding with either the word itself, or simply with an offended, uncomfortable grimace.

So why isn’t this creepy sticker as funny as the stickee believes it to be? Isn’t it a light-hearted dig at women/girlfriends/wives and their secret desire to be sex slaves within the consensual (oh, yeh mate, of course) confines of a loving hetero relationship? No, if it was, you wouldn’t need a bumper sticker to declare such a personal thing, surely.

But then we are dealing with a man’s ego here, as immature as the day it likely first reared its ugly head, during boyhood perhaps, when praised for not running like a girl or told to stop playing with dolls, because, only girls play with those. A pretty awful generalisation, I know, but so is this image.

Interestingly, the sticker was firmly adhered to the rear bumper of a family Toyota 4WD (another reflection of inadequate appendage size?) complete with window sock and baby seats.

Part of the time, this unnecessarily large car is very possibly driven by a woman – to whom this ‘innocent’ joke applies – and perhaps she has her reasons for condoning it. But on her behalf, I’ll call it out as redundant and inept in its crass, one-dimensional demonstration of how women deserve to be regarded in the community.

The driver was a husky man of about 30, wearing a baseball hat and keenly glued to his mobile phone as I spied him struggling up the stairs, probably to an appointment at a nearby private business – I doubt he was on his way to the adjacent library or seniors centre; I fear his intellectual offering may fall short of this demographic.

A gross reflection of base male thinking this sticker is, but is its grubby content an example of ‘toxic masculinity’?

No! According to US Emmy winning animator, author Mark Greene (don’t confuse him with the fictional yet infinitely more realistic television doctor character Mark Green of ER fame), it’s a product of a ‘toxic culture of masculinity’, not just ‘toxic masculinity’.

Talk about splitting hairs and sticking your head in the suffocating sand of men’s ancient history of inappropriate behaviour towards the female gender. Greene believes the term ‘toxic masculinity’ is likely further damaging men and we really shouldn’t speak this way! Because calling it out is rude and clearly not working.

Greene has recently penned an article called ‘Why Calling It “Toxic Masculinity” Isn’t Helping” at https://tinyurl.com/y77t7dcx or at medium.com

It pleads with us not to use such hurtful language because it is wounding our already terribly damaged and fragile men, who need compassion in these dark times of murdering female partners and mass shootings of innocents, often children.

How about ‘misleading masculinity’ or ‘consent-averse masculinity’ or ‘murderous masculinity’? I think ‘toxic masculinity’ is quite polite in terms of the damage some members of the male gender feel it necessary to inflict on society, daily.

But hey, we know you mean well Greene, just so long as the source of the compassion comes from the slavish section of society we like to call women. Who according to some of Greene’s other articles, if you read between the lines, are at least partly responsible for withdrawing physical contact from their sons during childhood, which causes them to need, nay demand, sex on tap from their wives later in life. Read this beauty here: https://tinyurl.com/yayrh7v2 or over at medium.com.

But back to the sticker – is this a typical display of how men with a bad case of ‘toxic masculinity’ see women/their girlfriend? Either as their mother (a boring A-line dress-wearing servant) or their slave (compliant and exciting, yet disposable)?

Well, now that I’ve been reminded of my place in our non-toxic patriarchal society, it’ll be so much easier to fit in!

I’m hoping as many women as possible see this wonderful piece of contemporary hieroglyphics, along with their sisters and daughters, as an edict of what’s expected in the potentially painful years of heterosexual partnering ahead, if that’s your jam.

But most of all, I hope as many young hetero-normative lads as possible store this little gem of wisdom away for future days, as they search for the pleasure-providing little women of their adulthood.

The rego plate beginning with the prefix 1DIK, is in no way to be misconstrued as the male driver’s true identity, even so far as the state’s transport authority is concerned.

jerk car sticker 3

Advertisements

Giving the colour pink a bad name

I am pink with irritation.

Not all women like pink or consider themselves denoted as female by the mere use of the sickly colour.

Not all women appreciate being singled out as such, by being told they can now park more safely in their own special pink ‘female-friendly’ car bays, where the security lighting and CCTV coverage is better.

And not all people are stupid enough to have the woolly fairy floss of laziness pulled over their eyes by a council trying to get away with not spending money on decent car park security for everyone – regardless of gender, age, ability or whether or not you have children and a pram in the back of your wagon.

Here, in the marshmallow-scented capital city of the nanny state of Western Australia, the City of Perth has employed a sugar-coated marketing ploy to encourage women to park in the few car bays that do have proper night lighting and CCTV coverage.

Mary Poppins would recognise this as a cynical attempt to spend less on security, spit spot!

It is a spoonful-of-sugar attempt to provide better protection, but glaringly it’s aimed at only one section of society.

A small article in Perth’s daily newspaper today states the bays will be easily identified by pink signs, walls and poles during a three-month trial close to exits in one council car park.

But here’s the real icing on the cake. The article also states, without attribution to anyone, that the bays are “the same size as regular bays”.

If that statement isn’t a slight on women drivers, I don’t know what is – the size of the bay will not influence the behaviour of would be attackers any more than the colour pink.

So why was this information even in the article in the first place? If it is a question that has been asked by several, prompting that line of enquiry, then whoever supplied the response should be quoted, at least.

If statistics do exist somewhere showing women as the main culprits of at fault bingles, scratches and crashes in car parks, it’s probably because they are usually the ones that drop off children to school/childcare on their way to work before parking the family car, and again later as they are slowly irradiated by fluorescent lighting while foraging at the supermarket.

There are statistics that show men are just as vulnerable to attack in public places at night, with many ending up in hospital after banging their heads on kerbs and bitumen as terrible proof.

At its worst, the pink-ifying of parking bays almost accepts that there will be attacks on women in car parks because they are vulnerable targets. No – that behaviour is not acceptable in society, for any gender.

Yes, women do like it when someone is kind, or thinks of our comfort and/or safety. But so do men. So why can’t the City of Perth be nice to everyone and provide secure parking for all? Not just those born with ovaries and a stereotypical matching obsession with the colour pink, or the men who love the delicate shade and can park carefree in the knowledge that they will not be fined for doing so and will be safer for it.

Now, that would be just supercalifragilisticexpialidocious!

Going round the Benz

 

It’s morning peak hour, just as harried working mothers are ferrying their children to school in the nick of time, up and down already congested roads, when the unthinkable happens.

Your car conks out right at an insanely busy intersection to an arterial route linking to the main freeway of the capital city in which you live.

This was me today. I apologise to everyone behind me in the metal line-up that stretched as far as the eye could see as cars, trucks, bikes, taxis, utes, SUVs, limousines (ok, that might be stretching the truth – ha! See what I did there…), did their best to steer around my forlorn 1975 Mercedes-Benz as it languished in the turning lane.

A remarkable woman for her age, the white automatic I’ve dubbed Ida – because she’s my private Idaho, not after the popular Germanic woman’s name – decided to have a little nanna nap at the lights.

Yeah, tell that to the frustrated, previously on-time drivers, doing their utmost not to erupt in road rage as they attempt what they do least best – merge.

Thankfully, as I fumbled in my purse for my gold RAC card, which I couldn’t find, then Googled the magic phone number and dialled it, only one fellow road user honked in desperation. But I was very focussed on trying to get myself out of a pickle so there were probably multitudinous birds being flipped, and looks trying to kill.

Finally, after what seemed like an absolute century, I successfully made contact with roadside assist who would send a tow truck forthwith to pull me off the road, freeing up the congestion I was sure must now be part of every commercial radio station’s droll 8am traffic report.

“A silly wild-haired woman is stranded in her posh (near) vintage petrol-guzzling Merc at one of the most used intersections linking to the City’s only congested freeway system, otherwise known as the carpark. Will someone give her a hand to push the clapped out piece of art onto the bloody median strip! Doesn’t she know we’ve all got deadlines to meet and rubber to burn at this time of day!!!”

Then, just as my stress levels peaked, a knight in shining armour pulled up beside me in a deep cherry red 90s Landcruiser, having logically mounted the kerb to do so, and offered to pull me off. What! That’s two offers in the space of three minutes! Maybe my luck was changing.

Michael ‘The Practical’ said he would happily attach a rope to the front of his car and the back of mine, before reversing up onto the generous, grassy median, removing me from harm’s way, and letting morning peak hour catch up with itself.

I couldn’t have been more overjoyed, especially when he mused that someone really should have offered help well before now, shading his eyes as they gazed into the distance at the endless snaking vehicular centipede.

Resolved to take action, I looked down at my gearstick and realised, sheepishly, that it was sitting neatly in ‘drive’…possibly the reason for my ignitionless ignition…oh, ooohhhhhh.

I gently put her in ‘park’ and turning the ignition again, Ida’s rhythmic pistons sparked into throaty life.

While she had stuttered on take-off due to her customary flat spot on acceleration, she probably would have started again quite quickly had I put her in park before trying to turn her over.

I admit it. Sometimes I am a silly wild-haired woman. But I guess you’ve figured that out by now.

So, why, when I have a perfectly serviceable 2010 Nissan sitting in my garage, was I driving that dinosaur, you ask?

Just to keep the motor ticking over 🙂