women humour

Okay so I’m working on the femslash story about the Falcs and Aces twitter people for @omgcpwomenfest! Here’s the first 500 words.

The Providence Falconers @ProvidenceFalcs
10 minutes before the #StanleyCupFinalSeries Game 1! Got your towel ready?

@ProvidenceFalcs Yeah, better have something to cry into.

“Hey Kendra!” A large woman in a burgundy dress appears at the end of the row, towing the Aces’ social media intern. “Before we start, I wanted to introduce you two and maybe get a picture for Twitter.”

Kendra smiles, because Kent Parson’s girlfriend is influential and knows a ton of people. “Sure.”

The girl Andy Scarlatti gestures to sit beside Kendra is a delicate-looking black girl with hunched shoulders who smiles at Kendra like an apology. In contrast to Kendra’s jersey, she’s wearing a white dress with long sleeves and frilly high neck that reminds her of a stylish nightgown, but with little black bows and glittering black skull buttons.

“Show me your Tweeting thumbs,” Scarlatti commands, and snaps a couple pictures of them grinning and giving the camera thumbs ups. She lets them look over the three pictures she took, agreeing the second one is the best, and read over her tweet: Tweeters behind tonight’s battle of wits! The Aces’ Shanique Christian and Falcs’ Kendra Lafontaine ready for #stanleycupfinal game 1!

“I’m n-not sure,” the other girl stammers, almost inaudibly. “If I’m ready.”

Scarlatti immediately sits next to her, rubbing her back. “I don’t have to post it, honey. I’ll sit on it unless you feel comfortable, okay?” She pauses and says, “Want me to take the last names out?”

“Yeah,” Shanique says immediately, and Kendra’s honestly kind of staring. This is… not the kind of thing she’d expect from someone who talks as big a game as the Aces have since Eric handed off his Twitter duties at the start of playoffs. Though maybe she should have. Maybe she just doesn’t want to live up to the shit she says.

“I want you guys to get credit.” Scarlatti’s moving her cursor back, erasing Christian and Lafontaine. “But not more publicity than you’re ready to deal with. Okay. Looks good?”

Shanique nods, and Scarlatti uploads the Tweet, squeezes Shanique’s shoulder, waves to Kendra, and bustles out of the press box.

“That was nice of her,” Kendra says noncommittally as she keys up her draft tweets about the pre-game You Can Play dedication the team captains are doing. Shanique seems to have decided her chair is as good a place as any to tweet the first period from.

“Andy used to do my job.” Shanique sounds shyly proud. “She was the PR intern five years ago.”

“Mmm, and now she’s Kent Parson’s girlfriend.” Kendra can’t help but be a little bitter about the way this goes. “Feeding the image that we’re all glorified puck bunnies.”

As she starts thumbing through an album of on-ice images of the dedication ceremony, looking for one to tweet, she can feel Shanique looking at her sidelong. They stand up for the national anthem, but when Kendra sits down again, Shanique doesn’t. She goes to the bar, busy on her phone as she stands on line, and sits in the back of the box for the rest of the period and somewhere else for the rest of the game after that.

They spend the rest of the game in rivalry, tweeting shit at each other, but even as she has extra elbow room Kendra can’t help but feeling that the empty space beside her means she’s done something wrong.

I am a feminist. All this means is that I am extremely hairy and hate all men, both as individuals and collectively, with no exceptions.

Feminists never have sex and hate men opening doors for them, even into other dimensions.

Christmas is banned in the “feminist community”, along with birthdays, wallpaper, nuance, giving people the benefit of the doubt and all music. Feminists only ever listen to one song, on a loop: kd lang’s Constant Craving.

All feminists are lesbians. There is not a single heterosexual woman in the world who believes that women should have equal rights. Not one. If a feminist says she is heterosexual or bisexual or asexual, she is lying. They are all lesbians.

Feminism is the sole cause of the recession, global warming, terrorism, pandemics, cancelled flights, volcanos, delayed trains and overly pedantic health and safety regulations. You can’t have hot drinks at work now because of feminism, or climb up small stepladders in libraries. You can’t eat a lobster without safety goggles now because of feminists. You can’t even open a door now because of all the feminists. You have to hurl yourself through plate-glass windows to get in and out of buildings now because of the feminists. All doors have been bricked up now because of feminists. It’s like the window tax of 1696 all over again, but with doors.

All feminists do all day is burn bras. Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, without eating, sleeping or taking toilet breaks. A feminist would rather wet herself than leave a bra unburned. If you read the CV of a feminist, under “Occupation” it would say: “Bra-burner.” And under “Skills” it would say: “Very good at burning bras.” And under “Hobbies and interests” it would say: “Finding bras and burning them.”

I am a feminist. This means I think that all men are rapists, without exception. Even paralysed men, who can only move one eyeball. All rapists. Even my seven-year-old son is a rapist, and that is how I introduce him to people. “Have you met my son? He’s seven. Rapist.” That’s what I think, because I am a feminist.

Even half the French language are rapists, all those masculine words, raping all the feminine ones. That’s what I think, because I am a feminist.

Feminists never laugh at anything…If a feminist is made to pull a cracker at Christmas, she quickly eats the joke so that she doesn’t have to tell it.

So that’s feminism. I hope I’ve cleared that up for you.


Bridget Christie, 

A Book for Her (and for him, if he can read).