No news yet on the longed-for full-scale return of da GBFM(TM)’s official website– but in the meantime, the mysterious ghost of da GBFMz has left this paraphrase of an ancient eclogue at da Dalrock’s ewbtsie:
In my church
so as to please the women
the men make the sandwhiches
and the women
fell the trees for the coffin
the feminist lumberjacks process the wood
and dig the the six foot graves
designed and build the hearse
change its oil and tires
they cut the marble rock for the tombstones
in the feminist quarry
haul it in trucks to the feminist tombstone maker
who cuts and shapes and polishes it
they chisel the names in the tombstone
they mow the grass in the graveyard
and they put up and repair
the fence around it
and they carry the coffin
and gently lower it.
it sucks, and it is unfair
but such is feminism
that da GBFM now has to spread
mayonaise on bread
and put turkey and tomato and lettucsueus
dat i don’t even gets to eats!!!
(now and then when nobdody is looking i eat sums, but don’t tell bnobody lzozolzlozoz!)
–[Ed.: I detect something of the voice of Emily Dickinson in this one.] lzlzzzllzlzozlz Well, that catalog of implacable feminist tombstone carvers does have something of a snowed-out, sepulchral mystery about it. “Death kindlessly stopped for me”? “Resentfully?” Maybe “Death catfully”? “Cutfully”? Or–or . . . .
Hmm. I laughed really hard, but now I find myself full of irrational inchoate resentment at the world because I do not have any lunch meats. I do have bread and I do have chicken, and I stopped and went into the store; but I didn’t get any turkey or mayonnaise and I’ve used up all the chicken salad so now I am hungry and I am angry at the stone quarry and the fencemakers (fencecutters?) and all the patriarchal wood of the coffinfitters and the oppressive construct of pagination.
[Ed.: You could go back to the store.] –Man, talk about patriarchal conspiracies. It’s snowing and s**t! If men are so conscientious and hardworking, how come we still have weather?