This movie is best enjoyed with   hallucinogenic popcorn.

I am sitting in a café, resting my weary lats and delts after having them pounded by my new trainer—what I mean is, from the workout she provided; I would have to pay extra for an actual beating—reading about vermin, one of my favourite topics. Here is a learning highlight: during the 1960s, entomologist Paul W. Riegert observed the mating habits of grasshoppers, noting that ‘virgin females laid several egg-pods even though these eggs had never been fertilized. In keeping with other insects about five per cent of these unfertilized eggs hatched, the embryos being formed by a process known as “pathenogenesis.” All of these hatchlings were female.’ Oh fuck yeah, an Amazonian race of lady grasshoppers! Send that script to Joan Collins right now! What a dystopian nightmare for the men’s movement though, confirming the irrelevance of male parts and man fluids. While those Robert Bly guys are in the woods shaving each other Continue reading →

So what does Feminist Figure Girl do on a Friday night? Inquiring minds want to know. Is she out cutting a rug with 2DO—such a good influence—or testing her straightdar with Fitbabe? Is she showing off her reinflated breasts in a low-cut dress that also reveals mosquito-bite thighs, quaffing a shandy in a pub setting? [Aside: I love the word quaffing because it sounds filthy.] I’m afraid, my friends, that the answer is no. Firstly, I save all cleavage displays for the gym, which I’m sure you will agree is the only good and proper location for that sort of thing. Secondly, I am too busy to indulge in quaffing. It is 6 pm and I have already donned jim jams—a soft cotton négligé from Target ensures that I am both comfy and sexy, just in case Stephen Colbert decides to drop by—and am seated at my desk, working away. My tasks include course prep, applying to teach in Cortona next year, and producing an editorial in the hopes of getting even more publicity for FFG. Perhaps you now have another pressing question: Am I going to mention Colbert in every post from now on, pathetically attempting to catch the roving eyes of his internet-geek producers? I’m afraid, my friends, that the answer is yes. But it is not my fault; it’s a condition I have. I am metamotivated.    

Metamotivation is a new concept for me, introduced by a comment sent to my blog site by a 60-year-old man. After implying that I am a crazy nut-bar, he made a rather heinous accusation: ‘You are obviously too high on the Maslow scale!’ At least I think that is what he wrote, for with a flick of my wrist I immediately sent that piece of negativity into the trash. Fuck freedom of expression! This is my site and I am the all-powerful master of it. After laughing maniacally while hitting the delete button, I paused to enjoy a moment of bafflement: What is the Maslow scale anyway? Imagining something like the psychopath test, I headed straight to the well documented and highly scholarly wikipedia [Sarcasm alert! Here I must pause to remind all students that they are forbidden from using this source. Pushing the send button does not constitute research. Oh, and you should also stop reading this blog because it might undermine my carefully crafted ‘I’m about to snap’ authoritarian style in the classroom]. Back to wiki: there I discovered that Abraham Maslow was an American psychologist best known for his 1954 publication called Motivation and Personality. He was also known for wearing cuddly sweaters to compliment his jack-o-lantern smile. He boldly swerved away from studying the mentally ill and instead focused more optimistically on human subjects who were successful and had great minds, like Frederick Douglass and Albert Einstein. Drawing from the lives of these mature men, Maslow created a hierarchy of needs scale, imaged below in the form of a delightfully gay-positive triangle. 

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‘Oh, you’ll do it again. After competing for the first time, you’ll be hooked, unable to stop.’ A number of competitive bodybuilders delivered this sage prediction to me, when I was in the midst of dieting down and training for my show. They grinned knowingly and winked slyly. ‘Absolutely not,’ I insisted. ‘I am participating in the world of bodybuilding for research purposes only, and do not give a rat’s ass about performing on stage.’ I made such declarations in a defiant voice, filled with bravado, but I was never completely certain. Would I become a figure addict, repeatedly drawn to the allure of sparkly tits, slippery muscles, and a purse full of cold, cooked egg whites? Now that my competition has passed—has it already been three weeks?—I have my answer. No. I will not. I did not enjoy my moment under the bright lights, wearing hard plastic shoes that squeezed gel toe nails. At the same time, I relished being backstage, meeting a diverse range of other figure girls and hearing about their sense of accomplishment as they became ‘stage ready’ despite obstacles that included recent car accidents, relationship breakdowns, and chronic illnesses. Perhaps that is why I volunteered to shine and sheen the athletes at the Alberta Bodybuilding Association Provincial Championships this past Saturday; I spent the day placing my plastic-gloved hands on the fine buttocks of numerous ladies and even a few men. I have to admit, however, that when a a couple of cheeky individuals challenged me to a pose down, I could not resist strutting my stuff down the cloth covered hallway at the Winspear, while bikini girls and ripped boys wearing stained thongs shouted the odds, betting on their favourites. I Iost every time. My main rivals were: 

Feminist Figure Gopher. My nemesis.

I was also beaten by Lamp.

Nice side pose, you illuminated hussy.

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