john blumenthal's Open Salon Blog

Why Aren't Men More Outraged by the Oral Contraception Issue

Tue, 27 Mar 2012 11:03:23 -0400

For those men who take for granted the concept of oral contraception, let's pretend that it's 1958 and there's no pill. What were your contraceptive options back then?

First, there was the prophylactic. A disease preventative, yes, but also an exasperating hassle.

Back in 1958, just buying a package of condoms was unpleasant because you first had to endure the disapproving scowls of practically everybody standing behind you in line, not to mention the lewd chuckles from the pharmacy clerk.

Then, when the time came for you to actually use the damn thing, you cursed the folks at Trojan because you had to spend 15 minutes fumbling in the dark to rip it out of its secure little tea bag package before the mood subsided or she fell asleep or, to paraphrase Groucho Marx, you were suddenly faced with the humiliating prospect of having to shoot pool with a rope.

Then there were diaphragms, those little rubber thingies that kept slipping out of her hands like oily yarmulkes every three seconds while you quietly growled in frustration at the seemingly interminable delay.

For some guys, there was early withdrawal, which was not the kind you performed at a bank, and often didn't work anyway because your idea of early wasn't early enough.

Abstention? Forget it. Abstention is something Congressmen do when they don't know which way to vote. Or a method that the Palin family pretends to use.

There were gooey spermicides (which didn't really work) and the rhythm method (which didn't work either, even if you were a good dancer).

IUDs, though invented in the 1920s, became an option, although they were so complicated, your lady love needed a degree in engineering and an owner's manual to figure out what went where.

If you used nothing, you had nine kids.

Abortion was not an option.

Sounds like the 15th Century, doesn't it? It wasn't. It was only 50-some years ago. In the late 1950s, nobody took the pill. By 1962, 1.2 million women were on it. In 1963, it was 2.3 million; by 1964, 25 percent of all couples in American used oral contraception. And the rest is history.

History, that for some perverse and incomprehensible reason, the Republican Party seems intent on reversing. Republican men in particular. And their wives are okay with this?

Seriously?

If I were Roy Blunt's wife, I'd make him sleep in the garage forever.

If I were Rick Santorum's wife, I'd lace his Viagra with arsenic.

If I were Rush Limbaugh's wife, I'd do something unspeakable to him and not in the good sense.

And when Rush calls Sandra Fluke a slut, isn't he really calling your womenfolk sluts too? Shouldn't you beat him up for that? What happened to chivalry?

On top of that, do you really want some repressed guy in a lab coat probing your lady's private parts for absolutely no good reason whatsoever?

So here's the question, guys: Why is this considered a "women's issue"? Sure, it's about privacy and self-determination and a woman's right to control her own body -- and all men should appreciate and respect that. But in a different and perhaps more superficial way, it's also about our bodies. Sex and spontaneity make excellent, ahem, bedfellows. Fatherhood is great but not if you don't want children.

Do you seriously want to go back to the Stone Age?

Not surprisingly, polls show that a huge majority of women are really really pissed off about this nonsense. Duh.

The question is, why aren't you?

Courtesy: asapmfg.com, blog.sarcasmsociety.com

Yesterday I Was Just a Sperm Cell. Now I’m a Person!

Mon, 12 Mar 2012 11:03:39 -0400

God, I love President Santorum. Thanks to him, I’m a person now. A year ago ago, just embryos were people. But that’s not really fair, so now Rick has gone even farther and decided that I have rights too. I mean, I’m half the equation, right?

Free at last! Free at last!

Since I’m now a person, I’ve decided to call myself Vincent. I’ve always liked that name. A few of my sperm friends have started playing poker every Friday night. Sometimes we go bowling. I’m not that great at it, but an amoeba friend of mine named Bob is giving me some pointers.

It’s good to be a person!

Since the pro-lifers came up with this awesome personhood idea, I’ve been dating an ovum named Emily. She’s a babe. We like to sit by the fireplace at night and drink brandy or take walks on the beach at sunset (we met on Cellmatch.com.) Obviously, we can’t have sex because that would form an embryo, which is a no-no, but we can do… um… everything else.

We’d like to get married one day, but we can’t decide where to live. She says the ovaries are cozy, but I like the gonads better. Cheaper housing. Besides, the gonads are kind of my hometown and I have a lot of friends there. Maybe one day we could move to a more upscale neighborhood like the prostate, but it’s not that stable there. I’m sure we’ll figure it out.

Too bad we can’t have kids.

Unfortunately, we sperm cells don’t have much of a life span, so I’m keeping an eye on my cholesterol and jogging back and forth twice a week up and down the Fallopian Highway and lifting weights.

Legally, since I’m a person now, I can even vote. Can you imagine? But, since the economy sucks, I don’t have a job, so I’m kind of poor and the Republicans have made it sort of difficult for us poor people to vote. My minority sperm pals have the same problem, as do some of the older members of the sperm community. That sucks.

Also, some of my one-celled buddies are gay, but the Republicans won’t let them get married. That sucks too.

One day, I’d like to meet a corporation since they’re people now too just like me (thanks Supreme Court!), so we’d have a lot in common. I hear Citicorp is very nice, but a little greedy. I think I’d get along pretty well with Exxon-Mobil or Chevron or General Electric. But they’re all rich people, so they’re kind of out of my league.

Maybe one day I’ll get rich too. In fact I’m pretty sure I will. When I am, I sure don’t want to pay a lot of taxes. Taxes are evil. Go Republicans! You rock.

One of the things I don’t like about being a person is that now I can be drafted and go to war. I don’t really get that. I mean, the pro-lifers are crazy about fetuses (and now sperms cells and ova too, yay!), but once you’re an adult, they don’t really give a damn if you get killed in a war or executed in prison.

What’s up with that?

Anyway, so far I have no complaints. Well, maybe a few. Mail delivery is kind of slow and the cable guy never shows up on time.

But I can live with that.

Images courtesy of healthyl;ifesolutions.com, kimball.stanford.edu, squidoo.com

A Diatribe Against Self-Promotion

Thu, 26 Jan 2012 11:01:26 -0500

Hucksterism has gotten way out of hand in America. It’s downright sickening. Take Herman Cain. Please. This is a guy who ran for President to promote a book!

Or take Donald Trump. Please. His campaign was a promotion for his pathetic TV series. Nobody except Lawrence O’Donnell seems to realize that Donald Trump is broke. The last thing he wanted was to be President – it doesn’t pay enough.

Picture Abe Lincoln in a log cabin hawking Shamwows. Or George Washington on the banks of the Potomac demonstrating a Popeil Pocket Fisherman.

Of course, self-promotion has a long history in America. We’re a nation of salesmen. Yesterday’s P.T. Barnum is today’s spammer. Has everyone become a carnival barker in this country?

The Internet has only made things worse. Between Facebook, Twitter and the millions of blogs, ezines and websites, it seems like everybody is selling something.

“Share” me, “Like” me, “Tweet” me. “Nauseate” me.

What really rankles me is when bloggers promote their books in a not-very-clever way by sneakily sticking in a few mentions of their new title in posts like “How to Get an Agent,” or “What Publishers Are Looking For.”

Or slyly mentioning the new CD their band just cut. Or their new series of photographs of ceramic lawn ornaments which sell for $250. Or whatever.

If you're selling something and you're doing it under the radar, it's spam.

Personally, I find this sort of subterfuge revolting. Come on guys, you’re not fooling anybody.

Really.

You're not.

How can you be so shameless?

So sneaky?

Why don't you just be up front about it?

Kind of like this...

Not that I’m promoting it. I just think the cover is pretty. I mean, who doesn’t like cherries?

Newt Gingrich's Match.com Profile

Fri, 30 Dec 2011 12:12:57 -0500

Screen name: TiffanyGuy$$$

Age: 68

Married, Divorced, Widowed or Single? It's complicated.

Religion: Not a Mormon.

What Are You Looking for in a Woman? I’m searching for that special woman who will understand and appreciate that I’m cheating on her for purely patriotic reasons because the fate of the nation depends on my infidelity. Also, she should be healthy. Very, very healthy.

Do You Have or Want Children? I have two great kids. I love children, especially if they’re well-rounded. I think it’s important for kids to know about history and geography and literature and furnaces and mopping floors and fixing stopped-up toilets.

Where Do You Live? I don’t mean to sound like an arrogant, inflated, egotistical blowhard, but right now I’m looking at carpet swatches for the Oval Office.

Education: Ph.D from Tulane University,

Profession: Former House Speaker, author, presidential candidate, close personal friend and admirer of Donald Trump, bank historian and lobbyist. (Sorry, that might be redundant –- bank historian and lobbyist are actually the same thing, except if you’re a bank historian, you have to go to meetings and blurt out non-sequiturs like “Millard Fillmore,” or “The War of 1812,” every now and then to earn your salary.)

Hobbies: Oh my goodness! There are so money…er… I mean many. Being a historian, I love to read biographies of the greatest men in world history –- people like Plato, Julius Caesar, George Washington and Ronald Reagan. Did I mention that I have a Ph.D from Tulane University?

I’m a romantic at heart. On those special evenings, I love to sit by a fireplace with the woman I love and drink root beer. I also love to take long romantic walks on the beach in my Speedo, my favorite black socks and my flip-flops. (Oops. Did I say flip-flops? Sorry Mitt.)

Favorite Word: Presidency.

Least Favorite Word: Ethics.

Courtesy: the-reaction.blogspot.com,

I’m Mitt Romney’s Hair Stylist

Wed, 7 Dec 2011 11:12:15 -0500

I’ve been doing Mitt’s hair since he graduated from college. He tried a chic Beverly Hills hair stylist once – Raoul -- but the guy took too much off the top and Mitt had to go into hiding for a month. Mitt's very particular about his hair. Once, when he had a cowlick, his wife had to put him on suicide watch.

Gels and dyes are the most important factors in styling Mitt’s hair. Over the years, we’ve experimented with hundreds of gels and dyes, but eventually I had to concoct one myself. Sometimes the simple stuff works the best. The one I finally came up with is a mixture of black shoe polish and kindergarten paste. Epoxy was too strong and it made his hair stick to the pillow every night. Giving a campaign speech with a pillow stuck to the side of your head is never smart politics unless you’re campaigning in San Francisco on Halloween.

Speaking of politics, I often give Mitt campaign advice. He trusts me. I’m also his fashion consultant. Mitt never knows what to wear when he’s campaigning.

Like he asked me the other day, “Joe, I’m campaigning in rural Iowa tomorrow. What should I wear?” I thought about it for a second. “That’s easy,” I said, “we’re talking serious hayseeds, so a flannel shirt is probably a good idea. Roll up the sleeves. And lose the jeans with the creases in them. Wear overalls. What are overalls? Google Image it. Get a tractor and stand next to it, but don't sit on it -- remember what happened to Dukakis and the tank?"

“How about Mississippi?” he asked once. I thought about it. “If I were you, Mitt, I wouldn’t even go there,” I replied. “They’ll never like you down there, no matter what. But if you’ve got to go, wear a white suit. It’ll make you look like God. God dresses in white.” Mitt nodded. “So a Confederate uniform with my brown Gucci loafers would be too much?” he asked. I nodded. “You don’t want to pander, Mitt.” Then Mitt said, “I don't?”

One day, he was supposed to eat with some voters at an IHOP in Scranton, PA. “Remind me, Joe,” he said, “do I like blueberry pancakes or waffles?” I had to think about that one. “Well,” I said, “you liked waffles when you were governor of Massachusetts, but now you like pancakes. Pancakes versus waffles is a powerful issue. You should probably play it safe and just order eggs.”

“People think I’m robotic,” Mitt complained one day. “They say I’m emotionless.” I shook my head. “Nonsense,” I opined. “I saw you smile once at a debate.” Mitt tried to recall. He shook his head. “No, that was a grimace,” he said. “I had to pee really badly.”

“Look, just be yourself, Mitt,” I told him one day when he was sitting in my barber chair for his hourly sideburns tune-up. Mitt swiveled to face me. “Okay,” he said, “that’s good advice. But who am I?’

Courtesy: boston.com, 24ahead.com