Let me start off by saying that I don't have a vagina.
Therefore, my feminist critique of Sex and the City should be taken with a grain of salt. Okay, more like mounds of salt.
An entire bottle of Morton Salt, in fact.
But Newsweek writer Ramin Setoodeh's likening of Sex and the City to a feminist screed borders on sheer idiocy.
Yes, men are not likely to watch Sex and the City at the local cineplex. And the movie itself presents a paradox for feminists. It's empowering to see single women throwing off the labels of slutdom and embracing their sexuality.
But at the same time, Sex and the City the Brand languishes in crass commercialism and ultimately, Carrie & Co. are not fulfilled without a penis inside them or a ring around their bony fingers.
And then, hordes of bumpkin women absorb this tripe of metropolitan singledom and think to themselves, "oh, my life in Boonsdaggle, Tenn. must be a pretty shitty existence. I can't afford designer clothes and clunky high heels. I probably should go drown my sorrows in a Perfect Margarita at Applebee's."
Jesus, Sex and the City pisses me off.