Note from Aniche- You won’t be hearing from me for a few days. And that’s not because I’ve run out of topics to talk about after twenty-five consecutive columns on various socially relevant issues like Angelina Jolie’s tits or Michael Jackson’s foreskin. It’s because I’m a magnanimous person. And I want to give an opportunity to somebody else to talk about a story that they have, an issue that they want to bring to your attention. So, ladies and gentleman, and that really smart beaver who reads my columns, I present to you Phyllis.

                My name is Phyllis Reily Gudinbed. I’m an archaeologist—which basically means that I like going through trash. It’s not a very lucrative profession barring the occasional discovery of oddly shaped chicken bones which I pass of as dinosaur fossils consequently earning a cool fortune. Recently I got married. And not surprisingly I came across my husband, Fred, on one of my archaeological trips. No, I didn’t run into him or casually bump into him; I actually came across him buried half-alive underneath a pile of ruins. To date, I’d have to say, he has been my most profitable archaeological find. He’s 75 and barely breathing but the important thing is that I love him and he’s in possession of a much healthier bank account that I love even more. Not more than a couple of days ago I made a startling discovery. Funnily, it was neither near the inverted pyramids in Egypt nor the dancing forests of Africa that I made this discovery; it was right up in my attic. My seeking hands came across an old, dusty, moth eaten book—a book that held the life of a woman that very few people in my family dared to talk about; it was my Aunt Polly’s Personal Journal. Even the bones of the most ridiculously disfigured chickens wouldn’t have aroused the kind of excitement in me that Aunt Polly’s Journal did. Five hours of unperturbed reading found me happy, sad, angry, violent, sympathetic, empathetic, guilty, and, at times, even highly aroused; however, this unprecedented mood swing had more to do with the fact that I was pregnant —and am still—than with the content of the journal. But that is not to say it didn’t have some of the weirdest stuff ever. Now for the first time I’m divulging to the world a few of the most disturbing excerpts from my Aunt Polly’s Journal; it tells the sad story of a woman broken down by the slow but steady assault of the incurable affliction that is known to the world only as ‘feminism’.

April 20th 1902- Dear Journal, Polly cried a little bit today because Polly’s brother was bad. He tore Barbie’s head off and put it on Action Man. Now Polly’s Barbie has 24 inch biceps, a hairy chest, and thighs the size of canoes. Polly wonders if all girls should look that way.

April 27th 1902-Dear Journal, today Polly saw Polly’s mom kick Polly’s dad’s behind because he didn’t cook our dinner properly. Polly wonders if all marriages should be this way.

April 30th 1902-Dear Journal, Polly has realized that referring to herself in the third person is really lame so she’s going to stop it.

August 19th 1903-Dear Journal, today was my first day in third grade. I don’t like my class. The girls there are horrible and ugly. They have smooth silky hair, they are not out of shape, they have rosy cheeks, they have blue eyes, they dress in expensive beautiful dresses, and they all have great personality. I hate them all.

P.S- I wish I was like them

February 13th 1905-Dear Journal, it’s Valentine’s Day tomorrow. I have my eyes on a number of boys in my class. I’m hoping I get lots of valentines because I’m class topper with incredible scores.

February 14th 1905-Dear Journal, I got one Valentine’s Day card. It was kept inside one of my notebooks. It’s a wonderful card. I love it. I don’t care about the rest of the class; the girls can go to hell and the boys can accompany them.

P.S- I was the one who gave me the card

January 29th 1906-Dear Journal, a boy talked to me today. I love him.

January 30th 1906-Dear Journal, he talked to another girl. He’s cheating on me. All men are cheaters and I hate them all.

October 5th 1908-Dear Journal, the girls in my class have all blossomed into gorgeous women. I, on the other hand, am looking like a train wreck, with no noticeable knockers.

July 18th 1909-Dear Journal, I have come across a few poor pathetic souls who think that I’m a big deal because their faces look like the underneath of mud-stained boots as opposed to mine that has no mud. Also my grade is A++ compared to their A+. I feel superior and powerful.

June 14th 1910-Dear Journal, the other losers and I have formulated a technique to deal with our unattractiveness. We are going to label all the pretty girls vain and mean and dumb. We are not ugly; we merely have depth of character.

November 25th 1912-Dear Journal, all the hunks are after the pretty girls. The losers and I feel bad.

November 26th 1912-Dear Journal, all the nerds are after the pretty girls too. The losers and I feel even worse.

March 10th 1913-Dear Journal, I have convinced myself and my gang that the pretty girls are more popular only because they have loose moral values. It’s got nothing to do with their positive attitudes, confidence, or their beauty.

P.S-The truth is that my moral values are looser than a lasso around a pencil. I just am not presented with the opportunities.

June 10th 1914-Dear Journal, I think I have a mustache.

June 11th 1914-Dear Journal, it’s true, I do.

TO BE CONTINUED….

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