Category: Feminist Fun

When your 19-year-old brother refuses to watch a stand-up comedy special with you because he’s not “in the mood” for a female comedian you realize why you undertook this project in the first place.

Reasons he listed for why he doesn’t like female comedians:

• “They’re so sexual”
• “They’re too feminist”
• “They talk about things I can’t relate to”

Now I know some may think I’m overreacting because my brother doesn’t want to watch female comedians. I think I’m reacting just enough. Because after some badgering he more or less admitted that he thinks girls aren’t funny.

I know many people feel this way. I’ve experienced it firsthand and I’ve talked to many women who’s jokes aren’t laughed at until their male peers retold the joke. Some might say their delivery might have been wrong but we know the truth. This is the first time someone has directly admitted to me that they believe girls aren’t funny.

It became crystal clear when he said: “They talk about things I can’t relate to”. This makes sense. As a woman, I’ve sat through stand-up comedy shows, movies, music on the radio, all talk trash about women. Women are crazy, women are dependent on their male counterpart, women eat dick for breakfast, women are this, women are that. But because you have the privilege to decide whether you want to listen to someone else’s experience you can decide girls aren’t funny.

Women talk about having sex, about our periods, our body image, our ongoing fight to choose what we do with our body. And it’s fucking hilarious. It’s goddamn beautiful that in the midst of all the bullshit women deal with, we can still make people laugh. We can laugh together, at each other, with each other.

Of course, I love my brother and of course that hasn’t changed. I just immediately made him watch Sarah Silverman. However, this moment reaffirmed why I started this website.

My dream is that one day this website can retire because the idea that Girls Aren’t Funny is an archaic concept. My dream is that we can start with each other. Each time we make each other laugh we move a little in the right direction. We need to tell our stories. Our hilarious stories.

Because our story matters too.

 

I recognize I’m young. I revel in my youthfulness because it excuses me from having my life together. However, I have noticed a huge difference now I’m a couple years into my twenties.

I was on the bus from Dublin back to my Nana’s house when a toddler pulled herself up onto the seat next to me. She looked up at her mom and yelled “Mama sit!” and pointed at my seat. As if I was going to give up the seat for her precious mother! As if. I fought for this seat, bitch. This little girl thought she was cute but I knew better than to fall for her charms.

Did I mention I’m a horrible person?

The rest of the bus ride she played one of her baby apps on an IPad that made loud noises the whole bus cringed through. I’m not sure if this happens to all women but the closer you get to your peak as a baby-making machine you see them everywhere. Babies I mean, not IPads. Who buys IPads anymore? Babies.

They’re everywhere just reminding you of your ovaries. I had heard of this phenomenon from women older than me and through film classics like Baby Mama but I didn’t take their wisdom seriously. I’m years away from ever purposely conceiving but I recognize I have to make the decision at some point.

Your babies make me uncomfortable. OK, sometimes they’re cute when they’re dressed up as polar bears. Which is apparently a trend across Europe. It’s amazing.

Here is a baby in a polar bear outfit for your viewing pleasure:

Also, to feed your curiosity, this was also offered up to me when I googled babies dressed up as animals.

Does your baby stay up all night [and dig through your trash]?

Does your baby dream of living in Madagascar?

Or is your baby more of a party animal?

Well, forget about buying your kid a winter coat when you can wrap it in fake fur/jumpsuit!

Basically, I’m terrified of having kids so here’s my plan. I’m going to adopt a lonely 30-year-old when I’m in my 60’s. That way I don’t have to learn childrearing and THEN when I need someone to come over for Thanksgiving I’ll have a grown-ass adult bring over their best pies. Foolproof.

I know what you’re thinking, “There are so many kids who would love to be adopted!” Well, have you ever thought about the kids who weren’t adopted and lived their lives as an orphan and just want an old woman to bring pies to? Hmm? Did you think about that? I’m basically creating a charity.

My plan b involves having a kid and if I don’t like it I can drop it off at an orphanage. Hold on! Hold on! Put down the pitchforks, I’m not done yet. I’d come back when it’s 30 so it can bake me pies. Really it’s a win, win.

In all seriousness, I don’t know how to make the decision to have a kid (singular) or not. I can barely make my mind up about adopting a dog! Any thoughts?

Because I don’t want to tell my future kid/dog/30-year-old stranger that I chose them based on a pro/con list.

P.S. I saw this book cover and realized how much worse it would be to raise a zombie baby. You thought your kid gets messy with mashed peas? Try feeding it brains. Consider yourself #blessed.

Wait, pause.

Can I first direct your attention to the stock photo I’ve selected as the featured image of this post? It’s hilarious. What is she doing? I think she thinks in a crossover of Greys Anatomy and America’s Next Top Model.

Unpause.

AAHHHHHHH! That was my initial reaction on my 21st birthday. Not joy for the opportunity to be an open alcoholic but the knowledge I had to now undergo one of the last entrances to womanhood: the pap smear.

Wait, pause again! This is an “inappropriate” post (imagine air quotes because it’s more condescending) so please proceed with caution. I’m looking at you, Mom. You’ve been warned.

Unpause. Again.

First of all, why the word ‘smear’? It makes me think of a New Yorker asking for cream cheese. And I love cream cheese. I don’t love a person sticking their head between my legs for medical reasons. The reasoning is important people.

Please let me know if anyone else does this, but if a doctor asks me a question I cannot lie. I think I believe my life depends on it. Even if a doctor asked me if was currently fantasizing about what it’s like to have sex in the gynecologist stirrups I would tell them, “Yes, doctor, that is what I was thinking about. Does that help with your diagnosis?”

So when I had my first pap smear I was scared. I felt like I had to take an oath and share my testimonial with a court. Anything personal between my vagina and me was now up for grabs (literally).

It started out bad… it also was bad in the middle and towards the end. (Sounds like sex with a high school boy, amirite ladies? Oh god, I mean as a high schooler having sex with another high schooler! Like losing your virginity at 16! This is what happens around doctors. It’s like a truth-telling serum.)

Because I was cheap, young and without health insurance (still am), I went to my school’s clinic for a free women’s exam. The nurse practitioner who was to perform the exam came into the room and I immediately felt on edge.

She sounded exactly like my boyfriend’s mother. Similar mannerisms, same Boston accent. Now, there’s nothing wrong with my boyfriend’s mother! You just don’t want your boyfriend’s mother performing your first pap smear (or any of them for that matter).

“I’m with a student, do you mind if she participates today?”

This was my fear. I had a similar situation happen when I was getting birth control when I was 16. In a cramped doctors office, there was my mother, the doctor and a doctoral student all discussing my reproductive symptom. Not again.

“Well?” she said impatiently.

“Um, I’m not too comfortable with that,” I squeaked.

“She’s almost done with school,” she said exasperatedly.

“Sure…” I gave in like a pussy (with a pussy about to be smeared, freaking smeared.)

I had no idea the student was going to do the whole damn thing. The WHOLE thing, smear and all.

She came in looking hella nervous which of course made me panic. She shook my hand and sat down across from me while the nurse practitioner stood in the corner. She explained she had to ask me some routine questions. Understandable.

“What kind of sex do you have?”

I coughed, “Excuse me?”

“Vaginal, oral, anal?”

“Well, when it’s dark who knows what goes where?” I said to lighten the mood.

She stared back.

“Um, vaginal and oral.”

“So no anal?”

“Nope, no anal.”

“Seriously? You’ve never done anal?”

I didn’t know how to answer. Did she think I was lying? Did I look like someone who was on an anal rampage? Did she think I walked funny? Or was she so appalled I could be so boring in the bedroom that I wouldn’t even try anal?

We moved on and she asked me to get undressed.

“Buy me a drink first!”

Nothing, I got nothing in response to that.

When I finally got up on those stirrups the woman was sweating she was so nervous. Was it too hard to ask for her to appear mildly pleased to have the opportunity to go where few had gone before (very few ok! Enough with the jokes)? I looked back at the nurse practitioner and questioned this decision with my eyes. Are you sure you want to give this woman access down there?

To add salt to the wound, the nurse practitioner was standing behind me yelling, “Relax! Just relax”. This would be fine if she didn’t sound like my boyfriend’s mother. Remember? Do you know how traumatizing this was?

Also, I craved a bagel and smear the whole time. Dunkin’ Donuts should team up with women’s health clinics. Except it would be even more likely that my boyfriend’s mother would be there because she loves Dunkin’ Donuts. I told you she has a Boston accent, where did you think she bought her cawfee?

Soon it was over and I was left to get dressed and gather my dignity.

The student came back in to give me a form to give to the front office.

“Seriously though, you should give anal a try,” she said before closing the door.

I’m kidding she never said that but it would’ve made the whole experience totally worth it if she had. Oh well, what are you gonna do? Pap smears.

Can I be honest? I’m freaking out a little and Oprah told me vulnerability is sexy.

Ok maybe she didn’t say that verbatim but you can’t quote Oprah directly or your soul will explode from too much goodness. Can you tell I’m freaking out?

I feel like a giraffe birthed from its mother. I fell five feet just to look up and stare into the heavens/vagina. And I’m like, what the hell just happened? And now everyone expects me to just stand up and walk around like everything is ok. It’s not ok! I was just metaphorically birthed out of a very tall vagina!

Nick said my metaphor is hardly helpful and this is why San Diego Zoo won’t hire me.

I started this blog a couple of weeks ago and I don’t know what I’m doing. I feel like an old person when it comes to social media and all my friends are graduating soon and getting real adult jobs. I was clicking through a job search earlier and I had the option to apply to a company called, “Crazy Racoons” or “Dog & Rooster”. What is with all of these animal omens?

Being 22 is scary. Where’s my romantic comedy soundtrack that is lighthearted and makes the movie funny and not tragic?

My sister, Abigail, saved the day of course. She had to choose a famous person to write a biography on and she chose me. I was surprised mostly because the only thing I’m famous for is the one time I triple-dog-dared my crush in sixth grade to lick an ant pile. It’s never in your interest for me to be hot for you.

Straight from the interview packet itself:

• What was their first job? Her first job was at the local grocery store where she was sexually harassed incessantly. It was like the ‘what not to do’ version of an HR video.
• Did they marry? Did they have any children? Who are you, my mother?
• Where did they live? All over the freaking place, it was annoying and she never got her mail. But she was fine. Kinda. Except for that time when she may have lived in an illegal shack in someone’s backyard. Lots of cockroaches. Lots.
• What was life in their hometown or country like at this time? Pre or post Trump?
• How did they feel about life in their hometown or country? Pre or post Trump?
• How did they first become interested/involved in this area? Well, she owns a vagina. So… yeah. And she’s funny. Melanie is. Not the vagina. Well, maybe the vagina too. Those things get into trouble.
• When did they first become well known? I’ll keep you updated.
• What were the most difficult times? This interview.
• Life at the moment (if this person is still alive) Yes, she’s alive and kicking.
• Where is the person living now? Currently, couch surfing but in a glamorous way, not in a homeless way. There’s a difference.
• How old are they now? 22, but who’s counting? Taylor Swift. She’s always watching.
• What is their life like now? A hot mess. But more hot than messy.
• Later life (if the person is no longer living) I’m still alive. You’re scaring me.

Anyway, I’m proud to say Girls Aren’t Funny has had its first press coverage (in a sixth-grade classroom) (I’m expecting a call from her teacher):

Melanie had an idea in college and was hoping someone else would do it. No one did. So she stepped up and created a safe place on the internet for women. But sexier. So, Girls Aren’t Funny, a submission-based blog for humor essays, was born.

Melanie said, “I noticed from a young age only the boys got to be the class clowns. There was this unspoken agreement that girls aren't funny,and this blog is here to combat this”.

Melanie has been traveling around Europe with her boyfriend Nick, and writing about those… embarrassing moments such as when she started speaking broken Spanish to a Polish woman. In my opinion, these relatable stories (kind of), make her unique. So, right now she’s collaborating with other women who want to submit their own work. 

Here are a few things I think about Melanie. In my opinion
Melanie is so full of energy and truly takes action. Nick said, “I think Melanie is very brave for starting this blog.She’s very passionate about her work and puts a lot of effort into
it”.

If you believe girls aren’t funny Melanie must be a guy.

-Abigail Whyte

Let’s talk periods, baby. Let’s talk about you and me. Let’s talk about all the way we bleed together, yeah, baby. Let’s talk about, periods.

Wow, I totally sound like that sex ed video we all had to watch in 5th grade where the boys and girls were put in separate rooms and the boys emerged holding deodorant sticks and the girls emerged with the realization that they’re literally baby making machines.

Did your video have a sleepover where the mom made pancakes in the shape of the female reproduction system (like the whole thing, the whole thing)? I think she may have been their school nurse and/or pancake competition winner because that thing was detailed and looked delicious.

Anyways, well while I’ve been traveling for the last few months I had to take on a new approach to my special time of the month. Drinking alone. Oh and my period.

Before I left on my trip I was having dinner with some friends and someone brought up her Diva Cup (was I accidentally in a commercial?). Another friend agreed she loved hers and we all leaned in to hear their magical experience with a menstrual cup.

First of all, I had a weird problem with the name. Diva Cup. I absolutely hated that feminine products were constantly trying to come off as princess and sparkle themed. I wanted a tampon that had flames printed on the side of the packaging. Fire crotch! Yeah!!!

Enough of that.

Anyways, as my friends discussed the benefits of the Diva Cup I was brought back to the time I first used a tampon. I must’ve been around 12 or 13 and my friend really wanted to go swimming. Goddammit, why do kids always want to go swimming?

I was on my period at the time and didn’t want to see my pad try to absorb anything else. She basically told me to grow up and shove in a tampon. So after that pep talk, I snuck into my mom’s bathroom and stole a tampon. I looked at it, looked at my crotch, looked at it again and gulped. Audibly.

Five minutes later my mom was drawn to her room because she heard her daughter running (more like waddling) around screaming, “I’m never having sex, I’m never having sex!”. (Naturally, I assumed anything shoved up there would be painful and awkward. That’s what I call effective abstinence-based education.) Once she calmed me down I went back into the bathroom to remove the tampon that was half hanging out of me.

Like a bomb squad, both my friend and mom talked me through the process from the other side of the door. I emerged triumphant with the string dangling between my legs like a freaking pull-string doll.

Did we go to the pool? God, no, my friend moved on to apple slices and peanut butter. Did I finally enter into the world of womanhood? Hell yes.

Now, I was looking down the barrel of a very long trip, traveling to countries I didn’t speak the language of. I was still embarrassed to buy tampons at the local pharmacy. I make strange small talk and the cashier frowns at me with concern.

But I decided to do it. I’d buy a Diva Cup, it just made sense. However, I did pack an entire box of tampons as a back up in case I chickened out. Well, I basically used the whole box the first period so my back was against the wall. Also, it cleared a bunch of space in my carry-on.

I took the cup into the bathroom and stared at it for a while. I looked at it, looked at my crotch, and looked at it again. Gulp.

But I did it! I squeezed that sucker in there and it worked like a charm. Plus, I didn’t have to change it for like 12 hours (I really pushed it to its limits) which meant I only had to change it once in the morning and once before I went to bed.

I won’t lie, the first time I removed it, it was like a horror scene. But I’ve gotten the hang out of it since. Now I never have to be that girl who’s wandering around asking people if they have a tampon with desperation in her eyes (that was me, that was always me).

It felt like a hefty investment but it will save me so much in the long run. This isn’t an ad, but seriously give it a try. Then please send in a story of how it went down for you because I bet it was hilarious. Please include the curse words that rang out from the bathroom.

Or don’t send in a story, but research wonderful organizations like Femme International and their Feminine Health Management Program. Or donate because everyone loves money and you get to feel like a good person and everyone will hate you at the dinner party because you’re the cool kid who supports women.

I was trying to put on a bra this morning (wow, it sounds like I’ve never done that before), but I got distracted and was walking around with one strap on my shoulder and the rest dangling like a purse (as you do).

And that’s when I realized how much more I’d enjoy my bras if they were multi-purpose. What if my bra actually had a pocket instead of shoving dollar bills in there willy-nilly? Also, and this is a stretch, what if I had a dildo protruding from my chest, but, and this is crucial, it’s not a dildo, but a hanger for my jacket (or a dildo, if you prefer). Besides, bras already feel like a strap-on, amirite ladies? No? No one?

Then I’d have a unicorn bra or a uni-boob! Wait, that’s something entirely different.

On another note, now that we’re on the topic of bras (No, Melanie, you were the only one talking about bras), can we break down how easy that lady who is a construction worker by day, dancer by night, who has big dreams, was able to remove her bra in that one scene from that one movie that one time?

When I googled the name of the movie, all of these images of construction workers working a pole came up. Here you go, you’re welcome.

FLASHDANCE! That’s the movie. Well, do you know that scene where she takes her bra off under her sweater? And it’s sexy and cool and totally unrealistic? Let me break down what happens when I try to do that.

I get stuck, I basically just get stuck. Like every time.

Oh wow, I looked up the scene name and its called, “Alex gets comfortable”. That’s amazing. So relatable.

I HATE WEARING BRAS! I just had to put that somewhere. Below all the fun stuff about a woman following her dreams. It feels like you’re going into battle when you start the day selecting a bra.

Bralette – Will I be cold today and my nipples will spring out and possibly poke someone in the eye?

Sports bra – Will I be running (maybe from something?) and my boobs will become out of sync and one will stray from the usual rhythm and slap me in the face?

Razorback – Why is this an option? Bras are already hard enough to get on. Now I have to wiggle my way through this contraption just so my racy straps won’t be seen by the public eye under this complicated tank top.

Strapless – Should I wear this knowing this bra will slowly slip down and eventually land around my belly button giving me the “You have a tumor” look which will lead to the “You have a tumor” talk. Not again, my friends.

The Seducer – That’s what I call any bra that isn’t really functional but is what you wear on a date or when you run out of other bras because you never do laundry so you lounge around the house sipping martinis and feeling like a Bonds girl.

The Push-Up – Did anyone else covet this bra in middle school because Sarah had huge breasts and tissue stuffing wasn’t cutting it? Now I hate them because I feel like I’ve strapped foam-based weaponry to my chest. Someone cut me out of this thing.

The Classic – Just your run of the mill bra. The bra you wanted when you walked into Victoria Secret before someone from the sales team convinces you that you need one that sparkles and shoots fireworks from your nipples. You love to hate it but at the end of the day, it protects you from chaffing and wandering eyes.

Someone invent something better. We’re literally one step away from the corset and breast bags. That was actually a thing. Breast bags. Look them up.

I don’t have time to, I’m still trying to put on my bra.

Has anyone ever heard of don’t talk to strangers? You get a cookie, you get a cookie, you all get cookies!

Well, apparently it doesn’t apply to talking to me (I’m very good at being strange, I might add). I have been approached so many times for directions, to take photos, to watch laptops and just for a leisurely chat.

While I’ve been traveling Europe this has happened all over. I don’t even speak the language most of the time and I’ve still held entire conversations with just nods and smiles.

When I was in Spain an American woman ran up to me and asked me to take a photo of her and her friends “por favor”. I took the picture and she said slowly, “gracias” as if I was both deaf and/or Spanish? I just nodded and backed away slowly.

This has been going on for as long as I can remember. (Well, maybe after the braces and headgear were removed.) 

I graduated college in December, but before I finished I would study at one of the tables outside my school (so magical) but really I’d spend a lot of time in Chick-fil-a (bubble burst).

One time a guy asked me to watch his things and I agreed. Easy enough. He returned and asked if he could sit with me while he ate his lunch. I agreed. We got along and he asked if I’d want to meet for lunch on campus again. I agreed.

We met at Subway (romantic) (no, definitely not). In my naivete, I assumed we were hanging out to discuss literature like a dweeb. He thought we were on a date, to both our disappointments.  At the time of said accidental date, I was dating my current boyfriend, Nick (who also, I might add, encouraged me to make friends with this guy).

Basically, I told him about my family in Ireland, he told me about his lifelong dreams, he found out I didn’t want to go out with him and it blew up all over my footlong (no, that wasn’t a dirty joke, it was a Subway reference).

I kicked myself for talking to strangers and we parted ways. But the story doesn’t end there. I bumped into him a few months later at a cafe. I said hi, he said hi, and we both went along on our merry ways. Right? Wrong. He asked about my family in Ireland (aw what a nice guy) and when I planned to visit them.

Then, you guessed it, he asked me to make him a Tinder account. No? You didn’t guess that would happen? Neither did I!

He wanted me to make him dating profiles when I next visited my family in Ireland so he can start dating Irish chicks long distance. Are Irish fetishes a thing? Should I cover up my freckles and resort back to tanning lotion? (My middle school self-disagrees).

So this is when I finally learned my lesson and practiced my bitch face to no avail.

You may think, “Well, hey, that’s not fair. These people are just trying to be nice or you should take it as a compliment that you look so trusting.” Or maybe you’re thinking about asking the nice looking girl next to you to watch your things while you go to the bathroom. Jokes on you, it’s me. And I hate you.

But yes, I’ll watch your things because I’m so freaking nice.

This is my first post, can I get a whoop, whoop! No? It didn’t work at my middle school dances either. This is it guys, I’m finally launching the blog of my dreams and I want you to be a part of it.

Really though, I will be sharing tons of stories about my normal and occasionally unusual mishaps from day-to-day, but I want this to be a community of funny women.

Girls Aren’t Funny is a safe space for women on the internet. But sexier.

Don’t be intimidated by the word ‘funny’ it’s all subjective. I think I’m hilarious, but if I’m not your cup of tea don’t leave mean comments like a loser (no offense, loser) but send in your own submissions! My hope is eventually I will be so flooded with humor essays that I will barely be able to share my own stories. I’m just that selfless.

I don’t want it to be too vagina-heavy (not a term I thought I’d post on the internet), so my dudes (oh god, I’ll regret that) please participate! I will admit this is a place for funny female writers, artists, creators, etc. but if you have a heartwarming/hilarious tale of your strong mama jama doing something badass and inspiring send that shit in!

I started GAF because I was tired of hearing the phrase, “girls aren’t funny”. It’s that simple. Don’t you love proving people wrong? Or is that just me? I love rubbing things in. It’s therapeutic no matter what my therapist says.

A little bit of background on myself before I start publishing all my deep dark secrets. I’m currently traveling with my best friend & lover, Nicholas, and my most recent adventures will probably be in random countries with him. I am not a travel journalist, I just journal about travels. It’s a cute journal, leatherbound, actually.

I also talk about my childhood a lot when I’m drunk or feeling especially like a celebrity who deserves a memoir. I’ve lived in several states in America and my ENTIRE family lives in Ireland. It’s complicated, I’ll get to it eventually.

Let’s get freaky together.