Feminista Hunting

July 24, 2003

Get out your thesaurus along with your victimology handbook, and hop into the internet bitch blind I’ve set up for some feminista hunting.

Our target today is the familiar one of Maureen Dowd.  I hope in the future to tell of other excursions with more unusual prey.  Next time I’ll pick a less famous variety and you’ll understand why below. 

My letter to Miss Dowd the other day offered her an opportunity to hook up with my legendary friend, Johnny Q-bacca, but sadly, she completely ignored my harmonious overture.  I had a warm visualization of the two of them sitting around The Matchbox, which is John’s favorite Chicago bar.  I can see it all now; he’d get nine drafts of Becks and she’d pay for it with a shiny NYT credit card, perhaps one that bares the family cross, or anti-cross as the case would be, of former Editor, Howell Raines.  Back at his place they’d passionately spend the night together.  The next morning she could get an early start and begin paying off his voluminous bills. 

It would have proved a wonderful opportunity for the Dowdster to impress her radical feminist friends by taking advantage of an economically weakened younger man.  She could have bragged about how broke he was, before she flew into his life like a witch on a flaming broom.  The movie version of the story probably would have received a prime time slot on the Lifetime Channel.  I can see the headline now: “Famous Columnist Hitches Up with Outdoorsy, Bear-like, Debt Absconder!”  Yet, she would not let it be. 

Maureen refused to capitalize on the prospect I provided her.  John could have been an utterly meaningless encounter to her and meaningless encounters are at the very top of the radical feminist self-actualization pyramid.  Perhaps she could have nicknamed him “meat” as well.  Obviously Maureen’s not interested with putting her mouth where her mouth is (word usage intentional here).   Dowd could have disproved a primary tenet of evolutionary psychology, which is that women tend to look for older men with status as their mating partners.  John would have been younger and, as he is bankrupt, has no status.  Apparently, Maureen’s life is no longer driven by the bumper sticker she undoubtedly sports: “What Would Dr. Tatiana Do?”

I admit that her refusal to answer may have had nothing to do with revulsion at the thought of  Johnny Q-bacca as her mountain man plaything.  It may have to do with the invitation that it came on being sealed with the scarlet letters of “B Chapin” on its “From” line.  Perhaps she’s developed a sudden allergy to emails from her Uncle Bern.

I knew that the only chance I had to hear from her again was through the use of a secret agent.  Every successful stalker knows that camoflage does wonders for the hunt.  I decided to put my best spy on the job.  Her name is Jen Morganroth and she’s proved invaluable over the course of many covert operations with the feministas.  Jen Morganroth, as an alias, has always allowed me to sneak under feminazi radar.  The name was carefully selected.  I knew that “Morganroth” was ideal because of the names at the top of the pantheon of radical feminism.  It fits fantastically into the sequence of “Steinem, Friedan, Shulamith Firestone” and “Dworkin.”  In the future, to make it really official, I’ll end her correspondence with “Vassar Grad, Class of ‘98.” 

Quality bait was absolutely essential if Jen’s email was going to stand out as Dowd probably gets over 200 letters a day from transvestites alone.  I decided on the subject line.  It contained the simple phrase, “You’re Great.”  I ask you, what narcissistic spinster in the world could resist such a lure?

Then I hoped to disarm her by starting off with a compliment.  I had Jen say:

Maureen, your columns are my favorite. I love all the stuff you write.

Quaint but effective.  Then I opted for the old “drip, dry quotation” technique as a way to pose as a member of the sistahood.  Liz Phair was the perfect musician for the task [she just bragged to a magazine about her divorce and new hot mamma lifestyle].   I thought framing it in the context of asking for advice would be best.  I had Jen asked her:

Hey, as an expert, do you agree with the Liz Phair line ‘should I bother dating unfamous men?’  What do you think? Jen.

After I sent it I left the blind and went on with my day.  When I returned Jen had a message.  I was excited because she never receives spam.  I checked and it was from the Dowdster (or at least from her address).  Unfortunately my excitement was quickly dashed as she said practically nothing.  My only wish was that she’d be as laconic with her columns as she is with her responses.  All Jen could drag out of her was the brief and pointless,

“why not? Thanks”

Well hunting fans, I tried.  Let’s not blame Jen though.  It was probably a busy day in the news cycle for Maureen and she had little time to devote to her “fans.”  Who knows maybe President Bush misspoke or ate a wafer wrong?  Perhaps they’re planning on making a new Dr. Seuss series with Bushy and Rummy as characters and they needed her insight on how to make it devoid of plot.  Brothers, there’s always tomorrow.   

Bernard Chapin