Feminism And The Raunchy Female Comedy

Feminism And The Raunchy Female Comedy

Why we need a side of over-the-top ridiculousness in our feminism.

A few nights ago, I watched A Bad Mom’s Christmas with my friends. This was only because we got to the theater too late to watch Thor: Ragnarok, but I didn’t ultimately end up regretting the experience. I’m a film student, so it’s often my instinct to look down on low-brow comedy as an art form, even if I enjoy it. However, I’ve always had respect for movies with mostly female casts that are shameless in their comic explorations of sex, friendship, and the struggles that come with being a woman.

This sub-genre of comedy hasn’t existed for long. We can probably trace it back to Dolly Parton, Jane Fonda, and Lily Tomlin in the classic 9 to 5. This movie is significant in that it’s a film that allows women to be funny in a non-romantic comedy context. In fact, the main storyline revolves around taking down a man who has power over the three women and abuses that power. It takes its themes from 2nd wave feminism, exploring sexual harassment in the workplace and the demeaning nature of “pink collar” jobs.

Bad Moms doesn’t have the same obvious feminist undertones, but there are some similarities to its forebearer. Both satirize the ridiculous expectations for women, whether in the office or at home. Both are about three women who are isolated and powerless alone because of these expectations, but through their friendships are able to gain strength. Bad Moms, however, explores mother-daughter relationships, which in many ways are more complex that boss-secretary. The main storyline involves a mother and daughter who both believe that their worth is derived from being perfect. Whether this perfection involves throwing a Christmas party or being a perfect mom, at its root it comes from pressure by society that a woman’s purpose is to make everyone else’s life “perfect” while ignoring her own needs.

There’s a scene in the movie when the three friends decide to not care about this ideal and do Christmas “their way,” which involves getting obscenely drunk at a mall and gyrating on Santa Claus, and I think that exemplifies the genre pretty well. We as a gender are still rebelling against the puritanical idea that women shouldn’t want to drink or have sex the way men do, and instead should be content shopping and wrapping presents at home for all of December. The main conflict of the story is between a mother who accepts these constraints and a daughter who refuses them.

Yes, the movie is formulaic, and probably the same basic plot as the first Bad Moms (I haven’t seen it), but it speaks to something deeper: our need as women to see parodied versions of our lives on screen. 9 to 5, Bridesmaids, Mean Girls, Clueless, et cetera all accomplish this purpose. Like these films, Bad Moms is absolutely ridiculous at parts, but that’s the point. The raunchy, over-the-top-ness of the comedy is what makes the viewer realize the insanity of the female condition. And seeing it in a theater reflected back to us makes it a little more bearable.

Cover Image Credit: Vimeo

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The End Of The Semester As Told By Todd Chrisley

Because we're all a little dramatic like Todd sometimes.

The last 3-4 weeks of every college student’s semester are always crazy hectic. We have last minute assignments, group projects, and exams all squeezed into the last few weeks before break.

Sometimes we all need a little humor, and sometimes we are all a little dramatic, so why not experience the last few weeks of the semester as told by the king of drama himself, Todd Chrisley of Chrisley Knows Best.

1. Sitting in class listening to your professor explain upcoming assignments/exams.

2. When your group project members refuse to do anything until the night before it's due or just show up the day of to present.

3. When you and your roommate try to cook with whatever few ingredients you have left in stock.

Because we definitely want to avoid going to the grocery store at the end of the semester if we can.

4. When your parents get tired of you calling them about every little inconvenience in your life.

5. Sitting down to work on assignments.

6. Your thoughts when the professor is telling you what they want from you out of an assignment.

7. When you've had about 30 mental breakdowns in 2 days.

8. Trying to search out the class for the right group members.

9. The last few days of classes where everyone and everything is getting on your nerves.

10. When your friend suggests going out but you're just done with the world.

11. This. On the daily.

12. When all you want to do is snuggle up and watch Christmas movies.

13. Studying and realizing you know nothing.

14. When your finals are over and it's finally time to go home for break.

You're finally back to your old self.

Cover Image Credit: Instagram

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The Breath of Solitude

A Poem With A Prologue // Polar Viewpoints.



She smacks your parted lips,

sucking the dry,

open cracks to a seal.

Pumping energy into your chest

and sending a continuous shiver

from lung to navel.

You can't help but cough,

as your lungs tighten and twist.

Ringing the frosty sensation out –

slipping through your parted lips.

The same parted lips that

allowed her deliberate fingers

to crawl inside

where she can escape her own dimension

of solitude.

The Breath of Solitude

All I know

is solitude.

We chat

every day

in conversations that circulate

behind the backs

of the present.

Solitude grinds my coffee beans,

as we sit

with our legs crossed,

waiting for dawn

to explode over our opaque landscape.

Solitude runs my bath,


as the Sun crashes

against the diminishing horizon.

But none of this is reality.

I am above

the dimension of reality.

Not theoretically,

but physically.

I am only a tool

to be used in the dimension

of your reality.

Drifting in and out,

twirling through your negative space.

My only purpose

is found through your breath;

but what do I do

when you stop breathing?

I wait for your fingers,

less deliberate than mine,

but filled with that

that I lack.

I cannot see the blood

that sloshes through the veins

in your innocent hands.

The blood that energizes

those fingers

upon which I wait.

But I know

the blood is there.

It isn't

what you do.

It isn't

the way you move.

Simply put,

it is

the way

that you exist.

The sheer fact

that you have a bursting burgundy waterfall


not only through your fingers,

but engulfing all of you

in its rich,



The only waterfall

that I encompass

is the waterfall

that you imagine.

I have no blood;

I have no way to exist.

And so I

wait for your fingers,

less deliberate than mine,

but filled with that

that I lack.

I wait for your fingers

to filter the heat

to a state of regulation,

a state of production,

a state in which I can exist.

The peach fuzz

that sleeps on the bridge of your nose

begins to rise

when your fingers initiate the flame.

The temperature reacts,

as would my heartbeat,

if I had a bursting burgundy waterfall,

or some type of life source

inhabiting my chest cavity.

As the heat

starts to melt

my metaphorical skin,

I become reality.

I don't have a face to smile,

or eyes to produce tears.

But I have thoughts.

I have words to say,

I have feelings to express.

I still can only drift,

in and out,

twirling through your negative space,

but now spiraling

into your positive space,

as well.


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