I didn’t see this yesterday, and for which I feel a mixture of regret and gladness that I had one day more on earth without knowing that Maureen Dowd prefers to masturbate while thinking of douchebagy frat boy types over the sexy nerds. Not that I judge her preference, of course. Part of me is pleased that feminism has reached a point where women are free to express their trashy sexual fantasies instead of always insist that their libidos line up with the social expectations of who they should mate with. Dowd clearly has felt a lot of pressure throughout her life to nest with some skinny nerd with an Ivy League education, and she’s rebelling by having dreams that shockingly resemble this:
To each their own, I say. This is the sort of sexual fantasy that Scott Brown inspires, but good on Dowd for having such a darlingly tepid one.
However, for many of us, this sexual fantasy sounds as appealing as having jalapeno juice rubbed in your eyes. This is no judgment of what gives Dowd a squish, of course, but just noting that people are diverse, and not everyone shares her sexual fantasies. So why does she insist that everyone does share her fantasies?
Obama’s Oneness has been one-upped. Why settle for a faux populist when we can have a real one? Why settle for gloomy populism when we can have sunny populism? Why settle for Ivy League cool when we can have Cosmo hot? Why settle for a professor who favors banks, pharmaceutical companies and profligate Democrats when we can have an Everyman who favors banks, pharmaceutical companies and profligate Republicans? Why settle for a 48-year-old, 6-foot-1, organic arugula when we can have a 50-year-old, 6-foot-2, double waffle with bacon?
Dowd’s fantasy life is all-encompassing, it seems. She seems to forget that neither Scott Brown nor Barack Obama is pounding down her door for some afternoon delight. Since this is strictly a fantasy world, Maureen, why not both at once? Hell, didn’t they teach you about the endless bounds of imagination in elementary school? You can, if that’s what turns your crank, imagine Brown and Obama leading a circus into your bedroom. Let your imagination run wild. But seeing as these two are married men who’ve expressed, as far as I know, exactly no interest in Dowd, its seems a little premature for her to explain her decision-making process to the public at large while assuming we all share her sexual preferences for guys who drive pick-up trucks over guys who intimidate you with their cool. I assume she insists that America as a whole shares her sexual preferences because she feels a little ooky and guilty. After all, she notes that Brown is pro-choice. (He’s not really.) She’s like the girl who digs douchey dudes, but insists that this specific douchebag isn’t like all those other douchebags—he won’t insist that you ask your sister to have a threesome after a few beers! He’s a good guy!
The real question you might be asking is this: So fucking what? It’s a good question. The issue is not that Dowd has sexual fantasies that embarrass her and that she seeks validation. The issue isn’t that she can so vividly imagine both Obama and Brown at her door with bouquets of flowers that she forgot that this never happened and she doesn’t have a choice to justify. The issue is that these matters are her private business and not the business of the NY Times. If she wants to publish her erotic musings on LiveJournal, or try her luck with Penthouse letters, she should feel free, but the NY Times political pages are about discussing political matters, not Maureen Dowd’s tepid sexual fantasies of doing a former centerfold in his pick-up instead of the President in his Prius.
Not that she doesn’t make a half-assed effort at trying to make her sexual fantasies relevant political opinion, but if I can sum up her argument, it seems to be: Scott Brown makes me hornier than Barack Obama, so screw this election shit and give Brown the Presidency.
The only question left is: Why isn’t Scott Brown delivering the State of the Union? He’s the Epic One we want to hear from. All that inexperience can really be put to good use here.
But even then, she can’t help but make it clear that she finds the clumsy fumblings of a douchebag not used to making an effort sexier than the presumably more practiced hand of one of those boring liberal dudes who has always thought sex was some sort of shared experience. I fail to see why Dowd’s editors thought that anyone wanted to know that Dowd believes Real Men Don’t Go Down, much less that this opinion has anything to do with evaluating whether or not we should throw over the system to indulge Dowd’s momentary infatuation. Perhaps they should have handed her a vibrator and told her that she shouldn’t write until she’s calmed herself down.