There's nothing that I enjoy more than deconstructing some piece of feminist blather. Except for drinking while deconstructing some piece of feminist blather.
Actually, it's pretty much mandatory. Herewith, a (3-beer minimum) blatherama by one Leah C. Wells, who is something called the Peace Education Coordinator for the Nuclear Age Peace Foundation:
Iraq, the religious and historical cradle of civilization, is a potent metaphor for femininity. It is the Fertile Crescent, the great mother womb which gave birth to inventions like the wheel, the art of writing and three of the world's far-reaching religions, Islam, Judaism and Christianity which share a common Abrahamic lineage. It is the home of archaeological treasures buried deep in the vast desert sands. It is the home of unheard weeping, suffering borne disproportionately by grandmothers, mothers and children.
The invasion of Iraq is a crime against all women, against all that is feminine and sacred.
Around the world, countries amass arsenals of weapons like the testosterone buildup in prepubescent males. Bombs and missiles gather tension as they lie in wait of evacuation from planes which vanish from their targets quicker than absentee fathers evading child support. Barbara Hope, in her essay "Patriarchy: A State of War" recounts the U.S. Army basic training jingle, "This is my rifle (slaps rifle). This is my gun (slaps crotch). One is for killing, the other for fun."
Uh, yeah. You get a bit carried away with that crotch-slapping bidness, though, and the only fun you're going to be having is rolling around in the dirt cursing that cruel rhyming bastard of a drill instructor.
All together now: This is my signup/This is my discharge/That's the last time I take the advice/of dear old fucking Sarge.
I will let the rest of Ms. Wells' blather pass uncommented (I've run out of beer), but I must note her clever use of parallellism in the phrase
planes which vanish from their targets quicker than absentee fathers evading child support.
In the hothouse field of Women's Studies, this is what qualifies as a "swifty," and I felt it necessary to bring it to a wider audience than the cackling lesbian chorus who will chew their crayons long into the night striving to toss off something so apropos.