And I’d suck their dictatorships all night long.
Our political, societal, and theatrical salvation has arrived and she’s in the form of two deceased battleaxes, posthumously duking it out on the boob tube. Which, for myself and millions of others, means that for the next 8 Sundays at 10pm-- breastmilk is the soup du jour.
“Feud: Bette and Joan” is Ryan Murphy’s latest FX creation and it evokes the lady-ocracy (less than) half of Americans (hysterically) feared but are now desperately in need of. These HBIC’s rule as only mamauthoritarians could as they brazenly hold the screen hostage with their fallopians of steel.
Susan Sarandon and Jessica Lange (as Bette Davis and Joan Crawford, beyond respectively) mince no words as they ruthlessly infect each and every chum they encounter with a catastrophically heavy flow of manopause. A mere glare from either of these two powerhouses all but insists that the entire male reproductive system anatomically rearrange itself into a mangina.
Is this show political? Not in the slightest. So why am I drawing such parallels and celebrating the denunciation of manhood these ladies so effortlessly demand? Because it’s my party-- and I’ll decry if I want to.
In this pre-apocalyptic global climate, feminism has re-emerged as our shining light. We may not have gotten the Ovum Office we hoped for in 2016, but these broads are a searing reminder that nasty women have, are, and will continue to command our attention until they engender the respect they deserve.
“Feud” is not about rivalry-- it’s a celebration of what women can accomplish when they put their perfectly coiffed heads together and imprison those who dare infringe. These dames represent all the badassery of the women who’ve blazed trails both before and after them: they’re Rosa and Harriet; they’re Buffy and Xena; they’re Hillary and Michelle.
But, alas, they’re Bette and Joan: two Hollywood legends who teamed up to deliver an onslaught of female hell-yestrogen in an age dominated by testosterone. Brought back to life on the silver screen, it’s the hostile takeover we’ve waited for-- the coup d’etits of our wet dreams.
Point being-- regardless of your sex, give this show a shot. It’s women’s lib done with style, grace, and grand(ma)eur. It relentlessly drills us with diva, and I can’t stop myself from screaming “harder.”
Recommendation: Adjust your television sets accordingly, get on all fours, and take it like it man.