A Cry For Help

People. And you gals. I almost didn’t write my column this month. Why, you ask, bereft at the thought of no Hotel Satire? Because I am emotionally drained. I know you’re thinking my drainage must be caused by two recent events: (1) The infamous murdering bitch nanny trial; (2) the overlooked trial of the wonderful, but desperate man who was forced to kill his live-in girlfriend and her two children (the younger one may be his) because she was pestering him to leave his wife.

But no. They are not the cause of my excessive drainage. The nanny case is clear cut. It’s not about the nanny—all nannies are murderers and abusers, just by definition. It’s about the Mother. All mom gals (they are legion) who abandon their babies in order to selfishly pursue careers are therefore psychotic lesbians; they are to blame for everything bad that happens—including murder, no matter who did it. Put the moms in jail—for life. That should teach them to stay home, take care of the kids, and be a sounding board for their husbands. Nuff said.

As regards that poor man, Peter Contos (Boston Globe, November 12) who lived part of the time with his wife and kids and part of the time with his girlfriend and her two children), what can one say? According to Contos, the girlfriend   was bugging him to leave his wife and kids. (It’s called the Fatal Attraction defense.) He had to kill her. Any time a man kills a female family member or loved one, it’s justifiable homicide. Our hearts go out to him. We have started a defense fund. I’m going to cry. I can’t write another word. Excuse me a minute.

Okay. I’m back. The reason for my emotional drainage is: trying to answer the age old, deep philosophical question all gals must answer every day, but especially during the holidays: "What should I wear?" (see above)

But I decided to bravely write through my tears, thanks to the young Fetish nail polish gal (see above). Last weekend, I was making a nice soup and sandwich for my man and his 400 business associates (they’re all listed in Forbes, by the way). The phone rang. It was the Fetish ad gal. She was crying. She said, "Oh, Hotel Satire gal, I need help. I’m a senior in high school and I’m being pressured on all sides to become a feminist, therefore a psychotic lesbian. What do I do? I try to be the reactionary, dependent bimbo the Hotel Satire gals have taught me to be. I try to obsess about my nail polish. But it’s so hard. How do the Hotel Satire gals stay true to their beliefs?"

Well, I didn’t know what to say. After I hung up, I was so upset I could hardly wash my husband’s feet, which he likes me to do before eating a nice soup and sandwich.

I realized I had neglected an important part of the Hotel Satire mission. I had never shared the basic gal creed that keeps me the dependent decorative sex object I have worked so hard to be, because it’s genetic.

Since December is a time when we celebrate the birth of baby Jesus, which is really about how men are the sons of God, and gals aren’t, what better way to commemorate this beautiful sentiment than to share my creed with the gals out there.

Gals, if you’re tempted or pressured by today’s feminist onslaught to stop obsessing about your nail polish or to stop asking searching questions like "What should I wear?" stand firm. Join three of our Satire gals (pictured on the next page) in reciting the "I Am Not A Feminist" creed out loud, with your man, and all will be well.