Always outnumbered, never outgunned

So a few sciffy-sissies still have their panties in a bunch over the fact that I said that “no women write hard SF” when it would apparently be more precise to say “nine women write hard SF”. (Bloody hell, I should have written that, just because it would have actually been much funnier to spell it out like that.) Although it’s hard to be precise, as not a single Electroloon was able to answer what I thought was a simple, straightforward question: how many women are writing hard SF? How many women published a novel best characterized as hard SF in 2004? But amidst all the hissy-fitting, they did come up with around nine names, so nine out of three billion is 0.000000003, or as those of us who are capable of normal human interaction would say, zero.

Since they consider me a vile bigot and I consider them to be sexually repressed, socially retarded lunatics in dire need of an exercise regime, but we belong to the same organization, the answer is obvious. They need me. They need my leadership. I need to take these poor neurotic souls under my wing and help them. Unfortunately, it is too late to declare my candidacy for the SFWA presidency in 2005, but next year – assuming I haven’t completely forgotten about it, maybe someone can try to remind me – the campaign begins! Bane, Nate, it’s time to step up. Get published, join, and be my wingmen. I’ll need a Vice-President and a Secretary of Defense. They don’t have that office yet? No, but they will…

After a year of suffering through the stewardship of a nice, painfully well-intentioned gentleman who all but promised to lead the organization to new heights, (with a straight face, no less), I figure that they’ll turn to me like Italy turning to Mussolini at the moment of its greatest need, at which point I will institute the following program:

1. Weight-training for all the scrawny math guys. How can you expect respect from your publisher when you can’t kick his ass? You want to see fear on the other side of the desk, or at least an awareness that you can crush his throat in your hand if you’re so inclined.
2. A forced exercise regime for all the carbohydratively challenged. The first time I did a book signing, this kid looked at me and said: “you don’t look like a writer, you’re not fat.” It’s a Fashion Emergency! We’re changing our look and my good friend Giorgio will be hired to handle the designs. Yes, it will use up the entire Poor Writers Insurance Fund, but we’ll make it back 4x on licensing the knock-offs within three years.
3. All beards and goatees will be subjected to the newly established Facial Hair Committee, and all whispy tufted chin and cheek growths will be shaved. This goes for the women too.
4. The extensive SFWA lesbian collection will be required to participate in Jenna Jameson Hits the Books, the first in a series of SFWA adult entertainment DVDs. (Great, now I’ll end up winning the stupid election and someone will expect me to go to meetings.)
5. All agents will be taken out and whipped, receiving five strokes for each host upon whom they’ve been parasitically feeding, then exported to China. That should slow the bastards down a bit in their construction of the Greater Co-Prosperity Spere Part II: Bend Over And Smile, Tanaka-san. A good word from a former host will reduce the sentence to re-education at a vocational school in an attempt to reclaim what could eventually turn into a useful member of society. Actually, this could work for stockbrokers too, come to think of it.
6. A Nebula Award Ridicule Jury will be established. Its job will be to examine the Nebula ballots and throw off any novels, novellas, novellettes, short stories or scripts and throw out any that don’t pass the laugh test. Great, so you’ve got ten little friends, go have lunch with them and they can vote you queen of the prom. Now go home. Only individuals who never bother to nominate anyone for anything will be permitted to serve on this jury, which will be liberally supplied with alchohol.
7. Speaking of scripts, Nebula Awards will no longer be given out for scripts. I’m sure Peter Jackson is keeping the week of April 28th free just so he can fly into Chicago on the off-chance he wins the big trophy. Who are we kidding?
8. Joan Rivers and Isaac Mizrahi will be flown in to comment on the fashions worn by attendees at the annual Nebula awards weekend. “And this year, aged brown corderoy jackets with leather patches on the sleeves appear to be all the rage!”

That should do for starters.

UPDATE – I almost forgot. I told a woman “you can’t front on that” after she demonstrated a failure to understand non-Webster English, some dude named Steven Gould wrote: “What language is this guy speaking? Is he from this dimension?” Right, I’M the one on the fringe.

UPDATE II – Also, when I first looked up the guy, I spelled his name incorrectly, and the web site indicated rather strongly that he was dead. My first thought was, well, no wonder he’s so out of it.