So there’s been a lot of uproar on the Internets about this Double X “Friend Or Foe” guest columnist, Lucinda Rosenfeld. Double X, for the uninitiated, is the “feminist” version of Slate. As with most anything published by Slate, it’s a lot of inane contrarianism masked as insight. So no, it’s not feminism. It’s anti-feminism. And it’s written by women!
Long story short: the advice seeker writes in to “Friend Or Foe” saying that she was slipped a mickey at a bar and woke up in a gutter. She subsequently called her “friends” from the gutter to ask for help, her “friends” said “No dice,” and she ended up going to the hospital in a cab. She then called her mother (2,000 miles away) who called these people again, and they still wouldn’t go to the letter-writer’s side. Even Though She Was At The Fucking Hospital. The next day they picked her up grudgingly. As the name of the column implies, the question is whether the writer should regard these assholes as “friends” or “foes.”
Here’s Rosenfeld’s response, with my commentary in brackets…
Wow, that’s a tough call [No, fuckhead. This is not a tough call.] A spouse or even a boyfriend? Yes, it would be his or her duty to haul ass to said hospital at 4 a.m. [This is the only sentence in your entire response (which continues for two more paragraphs) that I even come close to agreeing with. But I don’t agree with it because it just sets you up to be all contrarian. Plus, it’s heteronormative, you dick.] But your single female friends who are already, presumably tucked in their beddy-bies? [How the fuck old are you, you heartless beast, to be calling your ‘bed’ a ‘beddy-by’? By the way, I despise you.] I have to admit that, if I got a call like yours (or your mother’s) in the middle of the night, I’d do what I could from home, but would be hard-pressed to jump in my car until morning. [Because I’m a self-absorbed cheesedick who lacks the capacity to empathize.]
Hahaha! This woman writes an advice column!
Oh, the humanity.
True story: I once smashed into a car while I was biking home from a show at two in the morning. In doing so I split my chin wide the fuck open. I didn’t have a cell phone, so I walked to a bar down the street with my broken bike and bloodied face and borrowed their phone to call my friend Kate, who promptly got in her car and drove my ass to the hospital. I don’t know if she was in her ‘beddy-by’ or not, but she came regardless, because that’s what friends do for one another–they, you know like, act like friends act.
(Thanks again, Kate.)
True story: The other night I fell asleep on a train and woke up twenty miles north of where I needed to be. There was no train back, as it was midnight, and the only cab outside the depot had a passenger in it. I had talked to a man on the train about how fucked I was, and lo and behold, five minutes of standing around on the platform with my thumb up my ass later, that guy (Bob, a true saint) came back in his car and offered me a ride home. It was inconvenient for him, but it was a godsend for me, and I thanked him profusely when he dropped me off. He was a human being, and that’s what human beings do for one another: they help out when they can. Even complete strangers.
In conclusion, don’t read Lucinda Rosenfeld’s advice column on Double X, because she’s a sociopath.
In conclusion 2, don’t read Double X.
In conclusion 3, probably don’t read Slate, either, just to be safe.
That is all.