Nancy Drew Feminism

I woke up a few mornings ago to the utter perplexing news that Red State founder Erick Erickson was in trouble for calling the speeches at the Democratic National Convention the "Vagina Monologues."

Apparently, the truth is no defense anymore. I can’t offer a line-by-line fact check because I have successfully avoided the Broadway version of vagina dentata for the whole of its 11 years. But anyone with even passing knowledge of the dreaded Monologues knew it when they saw it, as it were, unfurling in speech after speech at the DNC.

For one brief, shining moment in the mid-1980s, feminism meant that you could actually do something about the Stop & Shop promoting a pot-smoking teen boy over a dozen older, more competent women with decades on the job.

Feminism now means that a 31-year-old woman with a Georgetown Law degree gets five minutes on the stage at a national political convention to whine about having to work six minutes a month to pay for her own contraceptives (which could be reduced to three if she asked her boyfriend to pay for half).

Which, she should.  If feminism means anything.

I can imagine the cries of protest that Ms. Fluke was speaking for women who earn considerably less than a Georgetown Law grad, or that Fluke herself will not earn as much as Georgetown Law grads of the past because the economy is tanking (future Sandra Flukes may have to work upwards of seven or eight minutes a month to pay for the pill). But the Democrats did not put Sandra Fluke on the stage to talk about the economic crisis, or any other complex issue.

They put her on the stage to mutely embody government-funded contraception.

Feminism also now means that all those Teamsters and drill press operators who allegedly forge the backbone of the Democrats can no longer attend their own convention without hearing far more than they’d like about the endometrial travails and contraceptive minutiae of women who might be 25 or 35 or 45 but seem frozen at the age of "college girl."

The funniest moment of the convention, for me, happened when yet another attractive young embodiment, Elizabeth Ann “Libby” Bruce, unleashed a gynecologically detailed yet otherwise vague anecdote about nameless doctors who allegedly failed to diagnose her health problem until she found solace and vindication in the arms of her local Planned Parenthood empaths. As Libby proceeded to vastly over-share, a cameraman zoomed in on one guy in the audience who looked as panicked as a raccoon caught in a trap.

Buddy, this ain’t your father’s DNC.