Sabrina Veroczi of Booby Hatch* is my new jam. Booby Hatch is an all-female sketch comedy group that recently performed their 3-woman, 1-man show, “Cone of Silence,” at the Upright Citizen Brigade’s Theatre in NYC. Sabrina tells me they are working on a TV pilot “about three funny women who do at least three funny things each.” She says, “It’s the lady version of Kids in the Hall or Monty Python or Human Giant or Mr. Show or Michael & Michael Have Issues.”

They’ve just launched their newest video “The Audition,” a sketch about a man auditioning to be in their group. There are two parts. The first part features genius lines such as:

“It’s not your fault, Katharine, men just aren’t funny.”
“Sure they are; they just haven’t been given the same opportunities as women.”
“Name one funny man.”
“Bea Arthur.”
“Incorrect! Bea Arthur is a woman!”
“Really?”
“Technically. Come on. What is with this equal opportunity bullshit. What is this, Cocks ‘R Us? What is this, COCKtail? Who are you Tom Cruise? What is this, Brokeback Mountain? Who are you, the horse watching us do it?”

Please watch their music video “Suck It,” where you will hear this: “I thought you might get lost, so I drew you a map. Here is your head, and here is my lap.” Actual map included in video.

*”The Booby Hatch is a new and exciting experience for married couples.”

You come to San Francisco to be a writer, just like everyone else. You are a writer. Say this while looking in the mirror. Say this when you aren’t invited out. Say this when trying to get a job but failing miserably.

You are young. You are young and female and brand new. Not new like a baby, but new like an untested product.

On your first morning in the city that is not New York, you devise some mental to-do lists for your new life and visualize your imminent happiness because you are doing it all on your own for the first time in your life. When you go to a coffee shop, you overhear people say things like, “I wrote a short story about it.” Mock them silently while writing a short story about your last relationship that you tentatively title “Other Than That, Mrs. Lincoln, How Was The Show?” Join a writers’ group and show it to them. The first piece of feedback is: “Some of your images are quite nice, but I hate the female protagonist.” Say nothing to them of your piece’s autobiographical nature. You get back to your subletted room, which is separated from your roommate’s by a glass door that allows her to hear you cry; in the privacy of your room, she talks to you through the wall as if there were no wall at all. She suggests you get a real job.

Instead of being a writer, you decide to work for writers. You are excited to begin. Exhilarated. This is your first opportunity to prove yourself as someone outside of an academic setting. You fantasize about the cool people who will share your interests and passions and work ethic. Perhaps your dream of becoming a writer will be realized at a non-profit organization. Congratulate yourself on your good decision-making skills. You knew you’d get here someday.

By 10:30 PM of your first day, you are on a bus home. You reconsider the word “job.” What you have is a non-paying internship at a non-profit. Two of your primary responsibilities are to take out the trash and improve youth literacy. Never forget that. No one will let you forget that.

You learn “intern” really means “degenerate social leper moron.” Your colleagues do not want to be your friend. It takes time and unanswered emotional e-mails to come to terms with this.

One particular night, you follow them to a bar and attempt to socialize. You hang out with a girl who sucks. While she talks, you look at a muted television. You think about transforming this demoralizing experience into a story. Then you can tell other people you are “working on something.” The girl asks if you are a writer. You say, “Sort of. I’m working on something.”

Sometimes you think about removing social distractions for a while. In the end, it’s not a choice.

You write fictional stories about drowning and lesbianism. You put them in a drawer and worry your genius has withered on the vine. You buy form letters that have multiple-choice sentiments so you don’t have to write your own. They have them for all occasions, including breaking up with a boyfriend or therapist or committing suicide.

Your dad suggests that you become a lawyer because your mother tells him you’re such a good writer. Tell him you’d just prefer to be a writer. Convince yourself he’s laughing with you.

You’ve been in San Francisco for a week. Some general observations you could make:

Everyone is gay.
Everyone is green.
Everything is too expensive.
Everyone is cooler than you are.
Everyone’s favorite color is rainbow.
Everyone is either a hipster or a hippie. You are neither.
Public transportation in San Francisco is the worst. Everyone hates it and hates you in it. All the waiting tests a sense of patience you wish you could cultivate. Since this is a time of growth, which is something you keep telling yourself, you think of idle transportation time as ideal for reading local literary magazines or Atlas Shrugged.
The city smells. When you come home, you smell of the city.

You are a bit lost in a different way during each moment of every day.

You try harder at the internship. Devote yourself to it. It is not hard to be the best intern. While consolidating the recycling, you mutter something to yourself about feminism. Your boss notices and appreciates your off-beat sense of humor. He asks if you know how to proofread. You say yes. He asks if you know how design books. You say yes. He asks if you’d like a real job. You say yes. You hope he’ll never know you lied about the first two things.

By week three, you decide you like working in book publishing. You get some money to act like an asshole. You are even getting used to San Francisco culture. Go to the Pride Parade. Try not to notice the people fornicating and defecating (and is that person doing both?) on the hill next to you. Later, at a house party, you find out what feltching is from a man in a pink dress. Observe everything and say nothing; do this because you are high from a brownie you bought on the street from a stranger carrying a big stick who twitches and clacks. Stare at the men in their tight underwear, proffering their junk out a second-story window that looks down at an orgy on Castro Street.

You go home stoned and sleep it off. Cherish the numbness. Thinking about your would-be lover no longer makes you want to stab yourself. Interacting with people who don’t interest you is nothing of consequence. Everything is perfect, if only for a little while.

Wake up the next day and briefly wonder if you’ll be alone for the rest of your life.  On second thought, chalk it all up to men wanting other men. This has nothing to do with your vagina. Leave your vagina out of it.

You haven’t had sex in two years, and before that you hadn’t had sex in 22 years. To have sex again you need intrigue. Here is your intrigue: no one knows who you are. You’re not a feminist or the girl who dated that guy or the person whose conversation opener has become, “You know, I was pretty cool in college.” This is good and bad. It forces you to think about who you are.

People tell you yoga is important on the road to self-actualization and acceptance; also, it will make you bendy in preparation for a time when you could be having sex with someone when and if you meet anyone at all, ever.

After two months, you have discovered how to spot a hipster. If you cannot tell whether the human being is a man or a woman, you’ve spotted a hipster.  Refute, yell at, denounce any friend who says you yourself are a hipster. After subtly observing people around you, embrace that looking like an idiot is the only way to dress here. This is due in part that winter and summer happen concurrently. If you think you look haphazard with a possible learning and perception disability, everyone in the city will envy your style. Too bad you can’t have ironic facial hair.

Resume communication with your ex-boyfriend, the one who showered with your best friend. Forgive him for now, even though he hasn’t apologized.

Get more and more distracted with long phone fights and still more unanswered emotional e-mails.

Your job suffers. Your boss wants to know what’s wrong with you. He asks if you are having boyfriend or girlfriend problems. Since when did he conclude you’re gay, or at the very least bisexual? Is it your hair? You tell him, “My mother has cancer.” You cannot tell him the truth. Or can you? “Can I tell you the truth?” you might begin. And he might say, “Sure.” And you would explain. . . .

You spend too much of your time slouched and preoccupied. Your boss brings you in for a meeting. He hands you a two-page document that begins, “You have failed to live up to expectation.” He says it is protocol to read the form aloud to you. Since he’s an author, you pretend like it’s a reading just for you, about you. “You have failed to show up on time.” “You have failed to meet FedEx deadlines.” “You are a poor communicator.” He makes two copies of the form, one for your personal records and one for your file. “File” is an anagram of “life.”

This meeting is worse than a break up. It is as if your best friend and ex-boyfriend brought you into a conference room with a 2-page list of why he doesn’t love you. “You have failed to make me happy.” “You make it impossible to achieve male orgasm.” “You are a poor communicator.”

You quit. Or rather, you tell people you’ve quit. You tell people there’s a thin line between quitting and being fired. Remain ambiguous about future plans. Say you have various projects lined up. 

Suddenly, you have time to write. You have a lot of material. You now go out with a non-Jewish person and replace the dead batteries in your cordless mouse with the ones in your vibrator. You consider this improvement. At cafes where you write, you order smoothies called “You Are Beautiful,” “You Are Elated,” and “You Are Energized.” You delve deep. You have a rich interior life.

Unlike anything else, you stick with writing. Experiment with the second person. It’s not filled with “I, I, I,” but rather, “You, You, You”–your boss’s form letter turned on its head—misery loving company, the lonely extending a hand to those who are alone.

Perhaps you’ll apply to MFA programs to hone your craft. You apply only to schools in San Francisco because you can’t handle the thought of moving to New York. That place sucks.

***

Original art by Ilyse Magy.

***

Please submit your own funny writing to funnywomen AT therumpus dot net. See first: Funny Women Submission Guidelines.

Related posts:

1. The Rumpus Funny Women Interview with Julie Klausner
2. Funny Women
3. FUNNY WOMEN #10: Season’s Greetings from My Mom

Here are a few things to know about Julie Klausner that will help you get the most out of this interview:
- She is a comedy writer and performer and has appeared in many shows at the Upright Citizen’s Brigade Theatre.
- She has written for VH1’s Best Week Ever with Paul F. Tompkins (see Toddlers and Tiaras), Saturday Night Live’s TV Funhouse, and The Big Gay Sketch Show.
- Her memoir evolved from her New York Times “Modern Love” piece, Was I on a Date or Baby-Sitting?
- View her Web site here.
- You know Eat, Pray, Love? I Don’t Care About Your Band is not like that.
- This is a book where the narrator says, “I’m not the first woman under the impression that her magical vagina will inspire a man to change.” No, my friend; you are not.

***

The Rumpus: You begin your book, “I will always be a subscriber to the sketch comedy philosophy of how a scene should unfold, which is ‘What? That sounds crazy! OK, I’ll do it.’” What is your sketch comedy background?

Julie Klausner: My sketch comedy background exists, first and foremost, as a comedy nerd, growing up obsessed with anything that even resembled sketch or variety, even if it was dismally unfunny, like Laugh-In. . . . [T]hat begat a lifelong infatuation with SNL, Second City Television, Kids in the Hall, Monty Python, etc. etc. Later on, in college, I began making short films and going to live comedy shows in NYC. Then, the UBC four [Upright Citizens Brigade] came to New York, and before they opened a theater, they did ASSSCAT shows in different venues. I saw one in which Andy Richter was doing monologues, and he was so great. He told this story about how he was living in Chicago for one year and was so poor that he only ate one burrito a day, until his fingernails started flaking off. That show made me want to get involved with UCB, and when they finally got their space on 22nd St., I began taking improv classes. That led to doing sketch shows at the theater, and being able to write and put up my own stuff, and then making videos. I love sketch comedy. I love wigs and characters and premises and 3-minute scenes and impressions and all of it. The patterns, the blackouts, the commercial parodies, the non-sequiturs . . . it never gets old to me.

Rumpus: You dedicate I Don’t Care About Your Band to your parents and say, “Next time, I promise to write a book you can read.” I feel this way about my parents and what I write. Do parents just not understand, or are we whores?

Klausner: Is there any question the Fresh Prince and DJ Jazzy Jeff have not already answered in rhyme? I have great parents who have been insanely supportive of me, but to paraphrase John Waters, allowing them to read my book would be a form of parent abuse. And yes, we are probably whores.

Rumpus: I thought so. Anyway, I know your hair caught on fire during a date, you had imaginary relationships with men you met on the Internet, and you have dated the mentally ill and tragically deformed. But you also perform a lot, write for TV, and have an enviable professional life. The fact is we all wait for the sex scene in any book we’re reading, and while sex isn’t love, it is a form of love (like how a rectangle isn’t a square, but a square is a rectangle), so I’m happy about your book. But why not write a memoir about how successful you are as a funny female writer and how you got there?

Klausner: Well, first of all, bless you. Secondly, what have people been telling you? I don’t mean to be self-deprecating to the point where it doesn’t look cute on me, but I don’t consider myself a successful comedy writer beyond the fact that I’ve gotten myself published.

Rumpus: I thought that was the definition of success.

Klausner: I’m able to write what I like on my blog, which is great, but I don’t get paid for that stuff. My TV-writing career is, at best, stop and start, in part because I’m such a stubborn New Yorker. I’m hugely lucky to be working in the editorial department of a tech company right now–I write blog posts about pop culture and do TV recaps. But in no way am I in a position to be like, “Let’s all look back at the scope of my Larry Gelbart-like accomplishments in the field of the comedy arts here at The Paley Festival.”

Rumpus: Maybe someday?

Klausner: I’ve written some web videos and worked on three shows, and four months ago, I’d turned in my final book pages and I was like, “Shit, how am I going to pay rent now that Best Week is canceled?” This book is very much a debut for me, not a blip on an otherwise established career. As for why I wrote about dating and what it’s like to be a smart person doing stupid things that come from an unapologetic desire to be in love, the truth is that it was something very much on my mind. The idea of writing honestly about [my dating life] happened to scare the shit out of me, which was a sign to categorize it as “book” material, as opposed to “blog” or “web video” material. I also feel like there are so many books on the market about love and dating, but none represented what it was like for me . . . [none represented] the stuff I kept coming up against when I was out there looking for somebody.

Rumpus: Like The Rules and The Game, how do you place your book within the “self-help” and “dating-advice” realm? And by “dating advice,” I mean “dating strategies that contribute to the fucked-up way men and women treat each other, beating each other violently on the path to happiness paved with gender constructs, harmful stereotypes, and blatant lies?” I think your book is more than dating advice, much more than that kind of book that feeds an imaginary binary between men and women that originated from wherever, but persists, insidiously and virulently, until we’re all piles of broken, seizing, twitching parts of a now very crazy whole. How do you think your book helps more than hurts?

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2. Funny Women Around the Web, 2/12/09
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“Neil’s Heavy Concept Album.”

More from the annals of advertising.

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He condenses the whole night: ”I think everyone had fun. I know I did. The main thing is to raise awareness of the site, I think, because I really am finding it more and more invaluable; and to raise money for Isaac, so the site can continue to grow and provide even more of a service to those of us who care about literary culture. . . .

“And, if you haven’t had a chance to check out a Monthly Rumpus yet, join me on Monday, February 8. Special guest Daniel Handler has just been announced.”

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2. The February Monthly Rumpus
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Elaine wrote back:

“Dear Elissa,

You have really written something besides a set of interview questions; this is more like a short story, a dialog you are having with yourself with me as a sort of half-fictional figure…”

After I cried, I thought: My God, what a brilliant idea.

She didn’t answer three-fourths of the questions I asked her—because I gave her over thirty paragraph-length questions, because I read seven of her books, because she is the leading feminist literary critic of our time and introduced women’s studies into college curriculums and makes me want to be her, inhale her, and impress her—when she didn’t answer all my questions and tumbled just short of my dreams, I stepped into her own persona, as per her implicit suggestion. What follows is Showalter’s actual responses (in quotation marks) and those I imagined for her (in brackets).

***

The Rumpus: You published A Jury of Her Peers in 2009, but I’m sure it took an incalculable number of years to dream up, outline, research, write, rewrite, get frustrated, battle depression, question your life, and settle permissions. Can you discuss what’s been happening in the literary scene since Jury went to press: which writers are becoming great sources of excitement via claiming contemporary feminist intellectual heritages? If you could have an addendum to Jury, whom would you spotlight?

Elaine Showalter: “If I could have an addendum to the book, I might add the recognition of Marilynne Robinson, [who won] the Orange Prize this summer.”

Rumpus: [I like Marilynne Robinson; reading her is like eating chocolate cake. To me, she is a symbol of evolution in novel writing. Magazine writing seems less evolved.] You say that at the turn of the 19th century, “[women] had begun to edit periodicals whose titles, [included] gender-marked terms like ‘Ladies,’ ‘Mother,’ and ‘Home.’” What do you think about women’s magazines today? George Saunders writes for Esquire; why aren’t his female counterparts writing for Cosmopolitan? You ask it better than I do: is “the feminization of the literary market a good thing or a bad thing?” (And why does “feminization” translate into beauty tips and celebrity-diet-poop secrets and doing [explicative deleted] to men?)

Showalter: “I am a voracious reader of women’s magazines in the United States and United Kingdom, and I think they are a lot more interesting than Esquire. . . . A lot of very good women writers can be found in magazines like O, Vogue, Elle, and English magazines like Red. Their range goes beyond fashion, sex, and diets, but I suspect that our cultural-internalized disdain for such topics is part of the problem, whatever the quality of the writing.”

Rumpus: Maybe it’s a question of money: what makes money and who makes money. In her review of Jury, Sarah Churchwell (who studied with you at Princeton) said you gave her “the single most influential piece of professional advice [she’s] ever received: ‘Write to get paid.’” Writing for money seems inconceivable to me; your advice encourages me, but most magazines and the Internet deflate me. If more writers are writing a) disposable content and b) for free, how can women find valuable writing work that pays?

Showalter: “I told Sarah Churchwell (and all my graduate students), ‘Learn to write so well that you can be paid for it, rather than so badly that someone has to be paid to read your work.’ Many graduate students in English deliberately make their writing so obscure and pedantic that it is unreadable. But actually getting paid as a freelance journalist demands hard work and luck, as you know, and these days the market is tighter than ever.”

Rumpus: Back to novel writing, which depresses me less. You say, “The Awakening, which Chopin subtitled ‘A Solitary Soul,’ may be read as an account of Edna Pontellier’s evolution from romantic fantasies of fusion with another person to self-definition and self-reliance.” My friend asked me, “Can I be a woman without reading The Awakening?” I said, “No. The answer is no.” Do you agree?

Showalter: “The Awakening: certainly one of the most important feminist novels about romantic illusion, although not so good on what comes next.”

Rumpus: Like Edna, I’ve learned the main thing is a make fuss. Susan Sontag taught me this (indirectly). Through reading you, what she believes becomes clearer: 1) “Ironizing about the sexes is one step toward depolarizing them”; 2) “Writing comes from a kind of restlessness and dissatisfaction”; 3) “I never thought, ‘There are women writers, so this is something I can be. No, I thought, There are writers, so this is something I want to be.’” I think of Susan Sontag as one of my enduring teachers. Who do you consider your teachers?

Showalter: “My teachers—dozens, including critics and scholars and journalists as well as literary artists. I admire a number of contemporary British newspaper journalists, columnists, and book reviewers, including Simon Jenkins and India Knight, and literary essayists including Michael Holroyd. The most inspiring teacher/scholar/writer in my life was the British historian Roy Porter who died very young. I think Joyce Carol Oates is a brilliant book reviewer.”

Rumpus: [I think Joyce Carol Oates is a brilliant six-word memoirist: Revenge is living well, without you.]

Showalter: [Mine would be: Born with vagina; wrote; changed world.]

Rumpus: It has not been easy for us. Even Edith Wharton and Willa Cather were “against women’s writing.” You discuss “their commitment to an art beyond the limitation of gender. . . . Paradoxically, American women’s writing could not fully mature until there were women writing against it.” Today we have “chick lit.” Do you believe this is the evolution of a Brontë/Austen tradition, or is this genre more like a parodic side effect of a new women’s media (one that extols the sexy new zeitgeist who is precocious yet mature, strong with weakness, and alone but never lonely)? Is “chick lit” hurting the integrity of women’s writing?

Related posts:

1. The Rumpus Interview with Michael Showalter
2. I Hate to Make My Bed
3. Writing the Imaginary Novel

Friedman is reliably witty, sharp, and someone with whom I’d like to grab a drink. I imagine if we did, it would go something like this (her responses are real quotations from her articles):

Ann: “AP nominates two horses for ‘Female Athlete of the Year‘! The Associated Press recently published the vote tallies for its Female Athlete of the Year, in which 158 sports editors around the country weigh in on which of these ten female athletes deserves the title.”

Elissa: Among them are Serena Williams, Zenyatta, and Rachel Alexandra. The last two are horses.

Ann: “Was it really so hard to find ten athletes who are women?”

***

Ann: I am against the Lysistrata approach.

Elissa: Rock the Vote is running a campaign asking young people to pledge to not have sex for some crazy reason. What does the video say?

Ann: “‘We pledge ourselves to the health and liberty of young Americans and to government for the people… and to never fucking you if you are against us… We will vote against you, work against you, and once again, just in case you forgot, never ever, never ever, never ever, never ever fuck you.’”

Elissa: Never ever.

Ann: “At its core, this is basically the Lysistrata approach–a reference to the Greek comedy in which women withhold sex until men negotiate peace.”

Elissa: Yeah, I saw Lysistrata performed in college. Withholding sex until men did something I wanted/needed didn’t do much to improve my dating life or the government.

Ann: “With varying degrees of seriousness, I admit I have advised friends not to have sex with people who don’t believe they should have reproductive rights… Which is why, despite having some pretty strong personal beliefs about the required political views of my sexual partners, I can’t get behind any effort (tongue-in-cheek or not) to use sex as a means of widespread political leverage. Especially when it comes with bonus pro-abstinence and anti-trans messaging like the Rock the Vote campaign.”

Elissa: Similarly, I can’t get behind any effort to do tongue-in-cheek sex.

Season’s Greetings everyone!

Traditionally holiday newsletters are what gentiles write to make their year seem significant to everyone else, but the Bassist/Chapman/Friedman/Schulman/Greenbergowitzenstein co-production was feeling a little left out, you know, like all holiday seasons, because very few people really stop to think about the Jews. It’s all Santa, Santa, Santa, Obama, Obama, Obama. Jesus!

This year our family kept expanding, no thanks to Elissa’s lackadaisical efforts to get married or otherwise have children, so I thought it would be wonderful to update everyone I know about our personal lives.

I’ll start with the good news first. Elissa has a boyfriend!!!!!!!!!!! And he isn’t one of those San Francisco transgenders either. He is real and he is from Iowa and his last name is Christensen. Not a Jew. Which is fine. Really, we’re all fine with it, as long as she’s happy and having fun and nothing more.

My husband Jay, whom Elissa has nicknamed “Husband No. 3,” and I visited her in San Francisco this year, and we had such a fabulous time! My ex-husband, whom I’ve nicknamed “The Emotional Abyss,” and his wife also visited her, and they stayed in the Ritz Carlton. We did not, but that’s fine. Anyway, during the trip, the four parents were lucky enough to meet Elissa’s boyfriend (Hi, Kevin!) the very same night those mashugana kids got drunk and stoned, and I had to buy Elissa Plan B at Walgreens the next day because she was too much of an emotional mess to get out of her bathrobe. The whole situation was really a bonding experience for the two of us, and it got me thinking about what an amazing mother she’s going to make someday (someday soon if she’s not careful!). She was so good with our dog while growing up. As she swallowed that tiny but expensive pill, I said, “Honey, I can’t wait to be a grandmother!” We were both crying.

I think whatever Elissa does is great, what can I say? Some of you may be wondering about her appearance lately. No one really knows why my precious little one put pink and blonde in her hair. I think Elissa’s beautiful and smart and such a great dancer, and I’ll always think she looks great no matter what, but why’d she do this to me? And right before her cousin’s bar mitzvah? Does she not love me? I don’t know what I did to her besides love her so so so much and give her everything she’s ever wanted. But you know what? Everyone makes mistakes and has regrets and everything happens for a reason. After all, when her hair wasn’t pink, she didn’t go out on any dates. None at all. Not one. For years. I was worried she’d have to move to New York to get a man who might love her. J-Date is really popular in New York. Few people know I invented J-Date back when I was single.

And now the bad news, everyone: after more than 50 years of operation, the family bridal registry business is the latest victim of this economy. For so long we’ve been a fixture in the rich white shopping district of Denver, so this is the hardest for our loyal shoppers who will be forced to register at places like Crate & Barrel. What’s worse is that Elissa will never be able to shop at our store for her wedding. I’ve done the only thing I can, which is buy everything for her now: wedding china, stainless 65-piece flatware, 12 place settings, 12 crystal wine glasses with long stems, pretty platters, a fabulous set! It’s darling, I mean darling! These will be for her when she marries, which she will (Hi, Kevin!!). I had very similar pieces when I married her father, and now look at me, married three times and still have the same china!

In other family news, my step-grandson was recently in a school play about Shakespeare. He didn’t have any speaking lines, but that’s okay because the only part I liked was when I saw in the program that one of the actresses was named Elissa!!!

Happy holidays to all our friends and family!!!

May the lights of Chanukah bring you happiness,
-The Bassist/Chapman/Friedman/Schulman/Greenbergowitzenstein Family

P.S. Hi, Kevin!!! Think you’d ever consider converting?

**
Original art by Miranda Harter.

**
Please submit your own funny writing to funnywomen@therumpus.net. See first: Funny Women Submission Guidelines.

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2. Failed Algorithm: Beautiful Women Aren’t Funny
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The important National Review recently discussed D.E. Rasso and her feminist ideals/emotional causalities at the hand of a commitment-free sex-having abusive man child:

Perhaps part of the reason these women fail to find commitment-free sex liberating is that they continue to harbor desires for monogamous love, marriage, and children. D. E. Rasso relates how, after weeks of repairing to the room of an older college classmate for sex that left her ‘bruised, scratched, and — one time — bleeding,’ she finally mustered the courage to inquire of him if they were ‘going out.’ His reply was, ‘No. Of course we aren’t. . . . I’m at a point in my life where monogamy isn’t my style.’ She was crushed.

Yes, my whole problem with finding liberating commitment-free sex, is all the harboring I’m doing. Rasso and I have so much in common. I often repair men’s rooms for weeks and allow them to scratch me until I muster the courage to ask if all of this means we’re officially monogamously en route to love, marriage, and children.

Rasso responds, “I really would’ve liked it to also say something like ‘She is the Antichrist,’ but I don’t mean to sound like an ingrate.” She must be at a point in her life where being an ingrate isn’t her style. The National Review would be crushed.

**

Send your links and submissions to funnywomen AT therumpus.net.

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