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The Origins of Anorexia
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I’m dreaming of army ants. Big, nasty ones, like pliers with legs. I’m going to feed all the feminist-psychologist ladies to them.

First I’ll get a bodacious nest of ’em from Brazil, the kind that strip a bull moose to the bones in 4.3 seconds, or could if Brazil had moose. (It did, but the ants ate them.) I’ll breed them in a swimming pool till they’re twelve feet deep, and spray them with rum ’cause not even an army ant will eat a feminist if it realizes what it’s doing. Then I’ll wrap those gals in bacon and tip them off the diving board.


The other day one of these harpies told me something else that men are guilty of. I was surprised, figuring there wasn’t anything left, but there was: Bulimia and anorexia. Yep. Men. Me. I did it. It’s my fault.

It’s because my male patriarchal linear-thinking hierarchical gender-hegemonic colonial objectification of women got their self-concept out of alignment, like when the front end goes bad on a ’53 Chevy because you drove it across a corn field. See, the bulimic gals watch TV, which is my fault, and TV tells them that men want bony wrecks without hips. Personally, I’d rather have infected warts, but never mind. Anyway, said this psychological vampire bat, women “perceived themselves” as fat. So they decided they had to starve themselves silly so men would want them.

That’s what causes anorexia. And I thought they were just nuts.

Actually, the psychologist lady was mad at me, because when she got growly and said, “Do you know anything about eating disorders?” I said I’d never eaten a disorder, but I reckoned that if you pan-fried one and sprinkled vinegar on it, it would be pretty fair. That isn’t funny, she said. I told her it was the best I could do.

Now, she was right: Men don’t understand about eating disorders. We’ll gobble donuts and drink beer till we look like petroleum bladders, but we won’t starve ourselves for love or money. It’s just not something we do. And most of us have never heard of eating disorders.

When I was a kid in the countryside of Virginia, we didn’t have any. Girls ate when they were hungry. So did boys. When they weren’t, they didn’t. It seemed to work. We mostly weren’t fat because we walked around a lot, the way people do in the country, and probably played basketball. The girls were pretty, which a young woman has to work at not being, and no crazier than the baseline for the sex. The boys sure liked them, because feminism hadn’t yet turned women into giant shrews. They seemed happy. So they didn’t need eating disorders.

I guess I’m just slow, and don’t understand things. When my daughter told me about gals that ran into the girls’ room to upchunk after lunch, I reckoned it was food poisoning. And the girls doing it weren’t the ones that needed to. You got some bodacious mamas out there that look like inflatable boats with eyeballs, mostly working in talk-shows, and you’d think that if there was a market for anorexia, they’d be it. Naw. They’re gobbling pork chops dipped in mayonnaise. It’s gals that don’t need to lose weight that want to.

It didn’t make sense, bulimia especially. If you’re just going to upchunk something, why eat it in the first place? I figured an anorexic was just a bulimic with foresight.

Do young men, or any men, really want spindly funny-looking girls with bulgy knees from not having any meat on their bones? Of course not. This stuff is sheer malignant fantasy, one of our intermittent national hysterias, like Hula Hoops or Prohibition.

If you want to see what college boys want, pick up a copy of Playboy. You will find gorgeous airbrushed bimbos, who say non-threatening things like, “I’m studying Cosmetology Science and I want to be an actress some day, but right now I just need to learn about life, ooooooooooo.” (Actually, lots of them aren’t bimbos. But it wouldn’t do to say, “I’m majoring in astrophysics at CalTech and I’d rather have weasels in my bra than date a retarded preppy with bad skin.” The college boys would all commit suicide.)

Anyway, the Playboy girls aren’t flat-chested stick figures being fed intravenously. They are shapely, as in curved, and run the mammary range from reasonable to Georgia watermelon patch. Try Penthouse, which is Playboy with real women. Same thing: Curved and breasty, but less air-brushed.

So who does like stick figures? Easy. Homosexual fashion designers in New York. They’d really like little boys for runway models, but people would notice, so they use linear flat-chested freaks as surrogates.

But men do yet worse things. While some girls starve themselves till they look like overcooked ribs, others shove baggies of silicone into themselves. I guess they really want to be taxidermists, but can’t find a sailfish or a duck, so they stuff themselves. This too is my fault. It’s because men want rounded curved women, and this makes gals spend thousands of dollars in search of cantaloupe-hood.

Starve or stuff, men do it. It’s kind of sad, because what most guys want is a reasonably cute gal who’s fun to hang around with.

I’ve got a theory. Maybe it’s wrong, but you can’t be a columnist unless you have theories. Best I can tell, women these days are just bewildered, but don’t know it. Not all of them, but enough to bewilder men too, because we can’t make a grain of sense of any of it. (I know, I’m going to get mad letters. Send them to Antarctica.) I swear it’s true. Women can’t decide whether they want to be bombshells or stockbrokers, sirens or SEALs, and keep landing in between.

In Washington, the fashion uncapital of the earth, women dress for the office like Brooks Brothers mannikins so they’ll look like the city’s browbeaten men, and grow chips permanently attached to their shoulders (which actually show on x-rays) because they aren’t going to be oppressed. Then they complain that men are afraid of commitment. Next they wear push-up bras and tight sweaters so men will look at them, and then sue for harassment when it works.

If that ain’t puzzled, I don’t know what is. And, you know, they don’t seem real happy, though they won’t admit it.

Granted, we men don’t amount to much, and don’t clean up after ourselves real well, but at least we know who we are, or don’t care, which is just as good. It let’s us eat.

(Republished from Fred on Everything by permission of author or representative)
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