One time, TJ fell asleep and I stuck scissors in her hair. I opened and shut them a little bit.
When TJ woke up, she groggily walked to the bathroom but emerged running.
“What did you do to me?” she cried. “I look like Andy Warhol!”
WELCOME TO MY BEAUTY SALON, VALERIE SALON-ASS!
Valerie Salon-ass, lesbeing, attempted murderer, but most importantly, WRITER, wrote, in her S.C.U.M. Manifesto that, “Life in this society being, at best, an utter bore and no aspect of society being at all relevant to women, there remains to civic-minded, responsible, thrill-seeking females only to overthrow the government, eliminate the money system, institute complete automation and destroy the male sex[!]”
I have a very hardworking friend, Griselda, who could do this in a Saturday. Afterwards, she’d go tend her garden.
In preparation for a Valerie Salon-ass art tribute I’m going to be staging on April 25 at my local Redbox, Redbox represents both wimminkind and the automation that Salon-ass predicted, I’ve been re-reading S.C.U.M. Manifesto, and a copy of it that’s been living in my thrashed Marc Jacobs tote slipped out as I was digging around in it while driving three youths to go perform some community service.
I was serving as their feminist chaperone and intellectual leader.
The male youth riding shotgun grabbed the manifesto and read from its first page and then babbled irately about how Salon-ass needed to be roughed up. I thought to myself, “I think emphysema, pneumonia, and the patriarchy did a pretty good job of that.” As if it was burning his fingers, the youth tossed the manifesto into the backseat, where a female youth caught it and took up the task of reading from it.
“This makes sense,” she said in a tone I’ve heard others use when discussing gospel and operating instructions.
“Really?” I asked.
“Yeah. It matches my thoughts about evolution.”
To salvage the impression that the two male youths, there was another one riding in the backseat behind me, were developing of Salon-ass, I explained, “Solanas believed there was hope for men. Find the part about the Turd Sessions,” I instructed the female youth.
She flipped to this portion and read about the Men’s Auxiliary of SCUM: “Men in the Men’s Auxiliary are those who are working diligently to eliminate themselves, men who, regardless of their motives, do good…”
The female youth went on to detail Salon-ass’ suggestion for aiding the Men’s Auxiliary in doing good and as she did this, shotgun-riding male youth aggressively critiqued my driving. Imagine this sound collage, “…SCUM will conduct Turd Sessions, at which every male present will give a speech beginning with the sentence: ‘I am a turd, a lowly abject turd,’ then proceed to list all the ways in which he is…” over “God, Gurba, drive faster,” over “I’m driving the speed limit, I could just let you out here and let you walk the-” over “SHUT UP WOMUNN.”
Capping off this collagial exchange, the male youth behind me shouted at shotgun-riding youth, “QUIT ACTING LIKE A TURD!”
And that is how you have an accidental turd session.
The shotgun-riding youth and I enjoy arguing with one another, and while performing community service, we jousted with shovels like the bros we are.
I am such a