“You Can Go As Far As You Like In My Great Big Oldsmobile!”
Greetings you old so-and-sos! Welcome to another scintillating Sexist Saturday.
This week finds us in the gaping maw of Valentine’s Day; we’re all putting on a brave face like lion-tamers, sticking our damn heads into the beast’s jaws and pressing on like February 14th won’t devour our pretty heads in a blur of cheap chocolate and carnation-ed carnage . . . but we’re all scared shitless it might.
I don’t care how blissed out in love you are — the get-romanced-or-else attitude that accompanies Valentine’s Day is overwhelming and sad-making even for the most sentimental saps on earth. Like myself. Moonlight, breathy sweet nothings, two hands holding my face for a way-too-long eye gaze, expensive dinners in short dresses — if it’s a romantic cliche I am pretty much drinking the shit out of that Kool-Aid. Seriously. I love it.
But even I — a self-proclaimed love-junkie — can’t stomach mandatory mooning over one another.
To offset what might be dread, crushing loneliness, or merely a vague sense of irritation, I offer you a deeply offensive cartoon, hailing from the sexist bowels of 1932.
There’s Peeping Toms — one of which is a clock! — casual break and entry, oh-so-cheeky gropings under duress, a fist fight, euphemistic candy licking, and a good ol’ fashioned damsel-in-distress rescue. (Although to the cartoon writer’s credit, at least our heroine gets to hurl a few insults and glass objects at her tormenter. . .)
The best part of all? All this tumultuous romance is merely a foil for Oldsmobile! Naturally. Oh, and there’s a sing-along too.
Anyway, here’s hoping that however you celebrate — or don’t! — on Sunday, you’ll find yourself the Queen of a Gas Machine one way or another.