The War on Women Just Got Literal

(Also, wearing a sombrero might get you kicked out of your sorority.)

On Cinco de Mayo, my daughter and several of her co-workers wore sombreros to their restaurant/bar jobs. The establishment in question encourages lively attire on the daily—literally, tutus and tiaras are customary anyday wear—so their regalia wasn’t extreme or even out of the ordinary. As you do when you’re an adorable, festively-dressed college co-ed, she posted some photos of her decked-out crew on Instagram.

And then basically this happened.

“SOPHIE, YOU NEED TO TAKE DOWN THOSE PHOTOS IMMEDIATELY,” the president of her then-sorority pecked out in a CLEARLY URGENT MESSAGE.

“um why” Sophie replied, intentionally forsaking punctuation and intonation to emphasize her disdain she’s literally me.

“Because wearing a sombrero is an act of cultural appropriation and stereotyping that’s offensive to Mexican people.”

I’m not positive, but that *may* have been the day she officially quit the cult sisterhood. (She *may* also have responded that she’s part-Mexican [she is not] and was simply celebrating her heritage [she was not] but okay.)

“Mom, what in the actual hell? It’s a hat! Is wearing a beret offensive to the French? What about kimonos and saris and kilts? It’s called appreciation, not appropriation! Are we even allowed to have Halloween anymore?”

The internet should actually come with this warning label.

Indeed, my daughter may not sport a Mexican chapeau for five hours for fun (no word yet from any ballerinas or the royal family), but grown-ass men can dress, act, and live as teenage girls and we’re supposed to applaud them? How is blackface routinely considered “a walking symbol of racism” on the same planet where joyfully celebrating the “Days of Girlhood” while also having a penis is praised as an act of courage and resilience? Isn’t the latter just someone from one group pretending to be from another?

All of this brings us to—at least in my twisted mind—the delightful proposed Democratic amendment to the National Defense Authorization Act (NDAA) which would require every male in the US between 18 and 26 to be automictically registered for the draft. The draft-draft, as in, “Hey kid, pack your bag and kiss your mama goodbye. You’re either going to war or jail. You pick.” (Since 1973, registration has been voluntary.) The amendment, which also would require women in that age group to register for Selective Service for the first time in history, was introduced by Congressperson Chrissy Houlahan (D-PA), the very same “woman” who even knows anymore? who’s argued for removing the word “male” from the act entirely. (Houlahan proposed a similarly inclusive amendment in 2022.) Neither amendment has passed… yet.

You read that right, by the way: women. As in more than one not ‘assigned-female-at-birth-person’ but woman—the term Associate Justice of the Supreme Court of the United States Ketanji Brown Jackson insisted she couldn’t define because she’s “not a biologist.”

Now that we’re in a serious military pickle, suddenly everyone knows exactly what a woman is! Crazy, right? It’s simple: She’s a not-man, but just like him she’s eligible to serve her country! She identifies as a man? No problem! The armed forces welcome transgender soldiers with open arms! See how they fixed that? As long as you’re able-bodied and of the right age, they can force you to fight! Of course, it’s fair to wonder if someone who’s had a prosthetic phallus fashioned out of some erstwhile forearm flesh would qualify as “able-bodied.” What about the soldier who’s tucking his (her?) junk up in his (their?) combat briefs? Since I’ve never tried to fold one of my body parts into another and try to secure it there while fighting a war, I can’t speak to how agile or mobilized one might be in this state—but it seems like it could be a distinct tactical disadvantage.

To be clear, I am 100% your-body-your-choice. If you want to hack off your hand and replace it with a hook, knock your swashbuckling self out, matey. Fancy an origami orifice where your manhood currently dangles? If you’re a fully-informed, consenting adult who’s been deeply debriefed on any potential dangers and drawbacks, I wish you sincere, unbridled joy with your new bonus hole. But gay, straight, or anywhere else on the nebulous rainbow, as I’ve explained in painstaking detail before, I don’t give a flying middle finger what you’re doing with your clothes off behind closed doors. I don’t want to celebrate it with a parade, I don’t want to see a kaleidoscopic reminder of your sexual preferences everywhere I turn, and I certainly don’t want you chatting about them with any children. We good?

It’s such a relief this is all hypothetical and we’re not quivering on the brink of nuclear war with two of the planet’s largest, most terrifying and strategically advanced superpowers at the moment! Can you imagine how anxious we’d be—those of us with military-age sons and daughters who could get scooped up and shipped off to die to make sure a bunch of warmongers could continue to profit off the military industrial complex’s insatiable greed, to further “causes” they don’t support or even understand? I don’t know how I’d sleep at night.

You read it here first: If my girls ever get a notice from Uncle Sam to report for combat duty, I’m going to start identifying as a psycho ninja faster than you can say you can stick your self-serving draft up your back hole.

Woohoo! Yankee Doodle Soup is now available for Kindle!

Or you can order hard copies right here.