The Best Quotes From Kathy Shaidle’s “Confessions of A Failed Slut”


All these quotes come from Kathy Shaidle’s Confessions of A Failed Slut, which was a short, fun read that I’d highly recommend.

Look at Glenn Closes’ character Alex in Fatal Attraction. Except, like Nurse Ratched, she’s one of the most misunderstood females on film. In her murderous rage, Alex is actually clawing backwards toward a sanity of sorts.

At my last cubicle farm job, one of the other girls made the mistake of asking me brightly if I ever watched Sex and the City. “Those women are whores!” I heard myself bellow.

Plus I suspect today’s Catholic girls receive even fewer lessons in common sense, let alone chastity, than I did. So I doubt they’ll heed an old broad like me, telling them to keep their legs crossed and their shirts on.

In my day, “all sex is rape” was the prevailing radical feminist wisdom. Now it seems to be “drunk sex is rape” — or not. Is this latest pronouncement just a spread eagled straw-woman reeking of tequila, one of those outrageous sexual-politics “rules” that everyone is convinced everyone else is trying to shove down society’s throat (as it were.)

On his podcast, Adam Carolla asked female comedian Nikki Glaser what she thought of the new “rule” that “drunk sex is rape.” Blindsided, she chirped back, “Wow! I’ve only ever been raped! I just realized that.” (“I’ve raped myself,” Carolla deadpanned.)

I’ve even heard tell of equally indifferent American college boys who now prefer to collect nude photos of young women they meet, rather than their phone numbers. Forget “pics or it didn’t happen.” These guys just want the “pics.” Who can be bothered with “it”?

Sex sells, all right — everything but sex itself, that is; nobody pays for porn anymore.

I’m not the first to make the unfashionable observation that — all those jabbering Nostrodamii to the contrary – our lives really haven’t changed that much in the last fifty or sixty years. Ah, yes: “Where’s my flying car?” jokes every barstool bore ever. We already have “flying cars,” moron. They’re called “helicopters.” Personal aviation technology isn’t what’s lagging – it’s the infrastructure of chopper-friendly landing pads and fuelling stations (and reams of new legislation, regulation and insurance underwriting) that would make them feasible automobile substitutes.

We started mocking this personal style as “metrosexual” almost twenty years ago, but that word was always problematic. The “metro” prefix is utterly apt; it’s the “sexual” part that’s off. These nominal heteros are consciously or subconsciously mimicking gay twinks, and those fellows usually want to get laid. Their fragile straight counterparts, in contrast, don’t look like they could manage it, or even want to.

Online dating still seems awfully faddish and desperate, even though almost everyone knows one couple who “met” that way. (That said, that oft-quoted “one in five” stat is merely marketing table magic, cooked up by… match.com. Anna Harte at 21stCenturyLoveTriangle.com did the math on the company’s oft-cited survey and came up with the more realistic-sounding ratio of one in twelve.)

And I lived in Toronto’s Boystown, so lots of the real drunks were gay, bi-, trannies, lesbians of convenience and even “two-spirited” (a.k.a, gay Indians.) Despite all this, I never drank after my first meeting, worked the Steps, got a new job, and ten years later, looked around at all the people in the rooms who still hadn’t done any of those things and thought, “I didn’t get sober so I could spend the rest of my life with these losers.

Fine, then: meet the “otherkin.” Unlike cosplayers, these dudes genuinely think they are animals trapped in human form. Literally. They’re serious. How’s about “headmates?” We used to call these “imaginary friends,” but they’re not just for kids anymore. (Cuz that would be age-ist!) Next? “Multiple systems”

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