Itty Bitty White Boy Dick

It’s that time of the year, my pretties. Summer: when tabloids take zoom photographs of starlets’ cellulite-lined thighs. “Guess Whose Ass This Is!” The Nationalist Speculum screams. All manner of butts line the cover. Fat butts, skinny butts, butts from girls on coke. Black butts, white butts, even butts from boys sometimes. But(t) you know it’s mostly us ladies who are the tail-end of this joke.

Why are people so fascinated with who has cellulite and who doesn’t, when cellulite is a naturally occurring phenomenon on all women’s bodies? All women, after a certain age, have cellulite unless a) they have it liposuctioned away or b) they are Olympic track runners, whose bodies are in temporarily unnatural states of being anyway – these women often don’t menstruate.

A certain amount of lower-body fat, as I understand it, is necessary for a human being to sustain other human life forms inside it, which most women – if they choose, and if there are no medical problems preventing them from doing so – can do. A brief tangent. This leads me to another annoying Nationalist Speculum headline: “Starlet Du Jour Drops 35 Pounds! Her Secret for Losing Pregnancy Weight.” Um, wouldn’t that “secret” be “having a baby”?

To sum up: cellulite’s presence can be an indicator that one is, in fact, a woman and not a) a plastic Barbie, or b) a South Beach drag queen. An aside: while I do think there is indeed something wrong with being a plastic Barbie, I do not think there is anything at all wrong with being a South Beach drag queen. We need much more of that kind of gender bending in the world. I’m not sure who said this, but I read it somewhere (if anyone knows, please help me out!): If you want to eradicate the category of gender, multiply it exponentially. Sounds like Foucault. At any rate, that’s what drag queens do, and that’s why I like them. Even ones that look like plastic Barbies. What I’m saying is that you can usually tell girl butts from boy butts by the cellulite, if you’re trying not to be surprised by whom you’ve picked up on the beach in Miami. Then again, maybe some surprises are not too unwelcome. Remember that Kinks song, “Lola”?

Back to the point. I wasted a lot of time as a young woman worrying about my ass wrinkles when I could have been plotting the revolution. Leg lifts, Nautilus equipment, brisk walking, thigh creams, you name it. Why didn’t someone tell me back then, as I am telling you now, that harping on cellulite is a patriarchal plot against women? It seems obvious to me that The Nationalist Speculum’s editorial staff is dominated by straight men heavily invested in women’s oppression or else they would devote equal front-page space to critiquing men’s packages.

Oh my pretties, can’t you just see the captions? “Who brought that kielbasa to the picnic?” “Looks like we’ve got some shrinkage here!” Who’s the white guy with the Big Bamboo?” Or, worse, “Who’s the gangsta with the itty bitty white boy dick?” No wonder he’s so “hung” up on hos and bitches. Maybe his fear of inadequacy prompts him to put women down. Maybe no one ever shared that line with him about it not being the size of the boat but the motion of the ocean. Welcome to Jamaica, Mon, Have a Nice Day, my ass.

Which brings us around, of course, to a comparison between the ocean and my ass. Quit staring at my butt’s ripples and waves as if they were anything less natural than those on the water and the sand that everyone is there to enjoy. Thank you, and Have a Nice Day, Mon.