from the pages of December 1995

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ICI

By Lydia Sargent

I’ve just returned from the most fantastic event -- The March of Gals Who Look Like A Million Bucks. Let me tell you all about it.

The Hotel Satire gals recently decided to have a Gals March because we had been feeling the loss of male leadership in our families and communities. I don’t know about you, but I really wouldn’t know how to raise kids, shop, drive, eat, clean, or get through each day without my man around taking charge. Clearly, if there were no guys, we gals could never manage. Who would take out the garbage once we gals had collected it, sorted it, bagged it, and put it by the door for him? Who would speak at the rallies once we gals had leafleted, phoned, and publicized them? The mind boggles. By the way, I don’t know if you realize it but that’s why the Soviet Union collapsed: too many gals taking power, shoving guys around. Take a look at the attached photo (figure 1) of commie lawmaking gal Yevgeniya Tishovskaya punching Vladimir Zhirinovsky during a debate in the Soviet Duma. Frightening. See what would have happened if the commies had invaded the USA?

While that kind of thing could never happen here, still we Satire gals welcomed recent shows of masculinity marching to Washington (Million Man March) and flailing in an Oakland sports stadium (Promise Keepers) -- especially as these events were sponsored by God/Allah, the quintessence of testostoliness.

In fact, we were so inspired we decided to have our own gal march and rally. Well, not so much a march as a saunter. Not so much a saunter as a shuffle. And not so much a rally as a gathering. Not so much a gathering as a coffee klatch, Tupperware party thingie. The purpose of our march was to atone for our existence (i.e. male bashing and castrating) and to recommit to following His leadership as determined by Him. Also, to get a makeover, so we gals can stop looking like commie lesbos and start looking like a million bucks.

So the call went out to come to Washington. Soon gals were arriving in bevies from all over the USA.

For entertainment we brought in Oksana Baiul who ice skated on the reflecting pool which had been frozen for this event. She did her Swan Lake number followed by Nutcracker on Ice. She had just had a makeover so she could be a typical American teengal (figure 2) i.e., engage in such teengal pastimes as "shopping for clothes and makeup." After Oksana skated, we got down to the serious speeches.

First, we heard from the Absolut Gal (figure 3) who spoke to us about the joys of being a decorative, sexy scarecrow. She shared personal tips on where to stuff the straw, and on how to stand immobile in a field for hours on end, and still keep the makeup looking fresh.

She was followed by the Godiva Liqueur Gal (figure 4) who revealed what we, as gals, have always known: that "women desire only two things, romance and chocolate." The gal-crowd erupted with spontaneous applause and cheering when she added: "Though not necessarily in that order."

After that, we heard the moving and lesson-filled story of the Hooter Gals’ struggle to keep men from becoming Hooter Gals. It seems that four men had sued Hooters for being in violation of the EEOC guidelines. There wasn’t a dry eye in the place when Phil Jamieson, Hooters regular, spoke on behalf of the Hooter Gals (Boston Globe, 11/16/95): "Hooters guys is like a hot dish of ice cream -- you don’t want your ice cream served hot." And when Mike McNeil, vice president of Hooters, said, "A lot of places serve good burgers. The Hooters Girls, with their charm and all-American sex appeal, are what our customers come for," the gal-roar was deafening. Many of us felt this was the high point. Comparing Hooters Gals favorably to burgers is what this March was all about.

Then we had a wonderful presentation by two gal track stars, Katie Webb and Kim McKenzie, who shared with us the importance of wearing long evening gowns when competing in any track and field event (figure 4). Why be able to run your fastest when you can just look good?

Then our keynote speaker, George Gilder, spoke to us about how all gals are to blame for our economic woes, particularly black gals for black poverty. Here’s how. According to Gilder (Wall Street Journal, 10/20/95) "The chief cause of black poverty is welfare state feminism. Thirty years of affirmative action have artificially elevated black women into economic power over men. This regime prevailed over the highest levels of the economy . to the underclass.It prevailed on college campuses.It dominated government job training programs.It even invaded such male bastions as the cockpits of fighter planes, police squad cars, fire stations, construction sites, and university athletic teams.

"It is an unpopular fact of life that in all societies and in all races monogamous marriage is based on patriarchal sex roles, with men the dominant provider. Welfare state feminism destroyed black families by ravaging the male role of provider."

A hush came over the crowd. His words rang so true. The mostly white gal-crowd was surprised to learn how well black gals had been doing. We felt our racism was justified because it was clearly the black gals’ fault.

Then, Gals, the most beautiful thing happened. A waif of a gal, in knit cardigan with taffeta skirt, stood quietly while a crew of men placed some cushions right behind the microphone. When they were done, she walked forward, looking gaunt, malnourished, and sooo sexy. She straddled the velvet cushions, put a finger to her lips, and spoke so softly the gal-crowd had to crush forward to hear (figure 5): "What becomes a woman.? Letting the little girl shine through now and then. Bullocks." There was silence for a moment, then gals as far as the eye could see began weeping softly, sharing the pain and the realization that we had been responsible for the near destruction of civilization through our annoying attempts to actually grow up.

But this day was not just about atonement, it was about solutions. A spokesperson from the laser industry led us in a pledge to join the profitable frontier of cosmetic surgery. "When you return to your homes," he said, "go to your nearest skin care center and erase those liver spots and tattoos, shed those spider-like leg veins, get rid of red skin blemishes, hairy legs, armpits and upper lips -- all with a flash of light." Moved, some gals started a chant, "What do we want? Brow lifts. When do we want them? Now." And "2-4-6-8, both our breasts please augmentate; "3-5-7-9, laser zap our lipstick lip lines." The demands became so militant, that the laser industry had to bus in some doctors to perform laser surgery on the entire march right there by the reflecting pool. Once this was done, all the gals present resembled either the Absolut Gal, the Hooters Gals, or the anorexic Gal/Girl straddling a stack of cushions.

Then the couple from the "Ici" perfume ad (figure 6) were wheeled out on a couch -- the "Ici" gal draped in the most beautiful of all gal positions -- on her back, throat exposed; the "Ici" man in that most beautiful of all male positions -- sniffing in mid-mount. The couple shared with us the all important information that "Ici" means "here" in French. Then he turned to her and whispered the most beautiful thing a man can say to a gal (and the words used in the "Ici" commercial): "Put it where you want to be kissed."

Moved beyond words, we wept, we hugged. We purchased bottles of "Ici." We watched the "Ici" gal dab "Ici" behind her ears, in her cleavage, on her wrists, and elsewhere. Then the "Ici" man began sniffing frantically, trying to locate "Ici" so he could kiss the exact spot where she had applied it. Some time later (this took a good half hour), they demonstrated how the "Ici" ad slogan could reflect the spirit of the Gal March by simply replacing "kissed" with "kicked."

And so we did. We sprawled on our backs all along the reflecting pool, in full view of our government buildings and national monuments, gals who looked like a million bucks (thanks to lasers). Led by the couple from "Ici," as well as George Gilder and the Absolut Gal (who were hitting it off real well), we dabbed perfume on our bodies, while chanting "Ici. Ici. Ici. Put it where you want to be kicked." Then various malenesses (cops, Senators, visiting tourists) surged forward, sniffing our bodies, feet at the ready, searching for the perfumed spot.

Some of them were having a hard time. I had to grab the guy hovering over me by the shirt, point to my ear lobe and yell, "Ici, you nit. Ici."