Who's afraid of a beautiful woman?

There's some exhibit at a museum in Pittsburgh featuring never before seen photos of Marilyn Monroe. Now, I'm not some retrograde star fucker who pines for the golden age of Hollywood when all the men were either latent homosexuals or confirmed rapists and all the women were hopped up on pills. But seeing Monroe's ethereally beautiful mug plastered all over this city quickly became one of a few bright spots on my otherwise dreary morning commute.

To my horror, this morning I saw that someone defaced one of the billboards touting the exhibit. Under the copy, in awkward, sloppy lettering, stood the hastily spray painted profundity 'women are not objects' followed by some bastard amalgam of an anarchy sign and the symbol for female. I guess the self defense class let out early last night and someone was feeling frisky.

I'd like to address the trog that wrote this, or in the very least some of her proxy sisters. You. Janeane, or Betty, or Andrea, or Gloria, or whatever the hell you call yourself at the height of orgasm; you, the joyless, festering hold out to old timey feminism, who still believes and asserts to whomever is listening, in no uncertain terms, with a straight face no less, that American women are oppressed; you who believes that admiring a picture of a long dead Hollywood icon is akin to objectifying women; here is what you should have written on that billboard: "Beautiful women make me uncomfortable, as I am not beautiful."

Because that's what it is. Today we prefer puke splattered terminal cases like Lindsey Lohan and Paris Hilton, women who are almost attractive and personable enough to be cocktail waitresses and are wholly undeserving of the masturbatory acclaim we afford them. And that's OK, because you can look at them and know you are better than they are. They only exist to amp up our collective self esteem. But a gorgeous, desired woman only serves to remind us what we are not.

Well, some of us, anyway. I regard those snaps of Monroe the same way I do a sunset; something to be admired for its beauty and something that hopefully afforded a modicum of joy to the viewer. But not to this woman, who was so beset by the picture that she felt compelled to risk life and limb just to give some unhinged freelance writer fodder early in the morning.

I've never truly been able to understand objectification as a concept. Much like catholicism, I find it to be full of holes. For instance, if I ogle greased up Turkish wrestlers, am I objectifying them? If yes, did they at least enjoy it? If I am raped by the gaze of a lesbian, am I still being objectified? This has happened to me several times and I need someone to tell me if I should be offended. At which point do I turn into an object? Do I need hallucinogens to facilitate the process? Because that sounds alright.

I was once witness to a feminist's argument where she cited an experiment that somehow deduced that when men looked at a picture of a woman, they behaved as though they were studying an object. It was quickly pointed out to her that they were indeed studying an object, as a picture of a woman and an actual woman are two entirely different things. This apparently never occurred to her, nor the people who had undertaken the study, who were going to the trouble of measuring brain waves and response times when they could have just ask someone less confused than your typical feminist.

And that anecdote is a pretty good description of the reasoning failures of most feminists; an emotional, cunt-centric reaction to what is wholly obvious to everyone else. That a picture is just a picture. That calling a woman beautiful doesn't mean she is also stupid or weak or subservient, or that she can't also be strong and smart and capable. That being beautiful is a plus, not a minus, and that it's also usually a freak occurence.

More and more, feminism looks like a coping mechanism for women who can't get their shit together. Because the truly strong among us don't feel the need to shout it from the roof tops, nor do we feel threatened by every little thing, like a billboard. Sometimes a picture is just a picture.