Ashley Judd Reflects On Last Year’s Women’s March Performance, And It’s Completely Bonkers

It’s been exactly one year since Ashley Judd recited a ridiculous poem about bloodstained bed sheets in the US capital.

One year later, the woman who encompasses everything wrong with modern day feminism is still convinced it’s one of the most noble things she’s ever done.

She wrote an op-ed for Glamour, and holy crap. I’m reaching the up with which I cannot put.

She begins:

The night before I spoke at the Women’s March, I chose to sleep on the floor of a house I’d rented with friends in Washington. I’m a backcountry backpacker at heart, and I knew I needed to simulate being in my church, the cathedral of the woods. There was a sense that something sacred was building from the moment we arrived.

She chose to sleep on the floor, because she’s so down to earth and just like you, plebs. (You guys all sleep on the floor, right?) She’s just a country bumpkin, that Ashley. She needed to simulate being in her church. The cathedral of the woods. She felt something sacred in her bones.

Can you even with this garbage? I’ve never seen someone with their head so far up their own a$$. This is the most severe case I’ve ever witnessed. Surely, she’s inching toward her small intestine.

The next morning, right before we left for the march, I asked to be alone. In a bedroom with hardwood floors, where I thought the acoustics would help me practice the projection I would need, I boomed out the poem I was planning to read, “I Am a Nasty Woman” by Nina Donovan. It electrified the entire house for all of us. We were crying, and we hadn’t even left yet. That was the first whisper of the roar.

She actually practiced her projection. She knew she needed lines like “We do not like throwing away our favorite pairs of underpants” to sound POWERFUL. UNDERPANTS (Can someone please explain to me how a poem about bloodstained bed sheets touches you to the point of crying? That’s a sign of mental instability, if you ask me.)

Backstage at the march, standing in line for the porta-potties, I bumped into Callie Khouri, my director from Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood. I recited some of the poem for her, and she began to weep too. At one point I hopped onstage to look out over the vast crowd, staring out at that gorgeous sea of pink. I pulled a technician aside and asked if I could do the poem for him. He cried and said, “Thank you.”

Notice how Judd continues to drop in little reminders about how down to earth she is. She was standing in line for the porta-potties. That’s what normal people do, right? They sleep on hard floors and use outhouses? Is this how you middle class?!

Judd also wants us to believe that everyone she recited the poem to cried, because they were so touched by her performance. She’s just so talented.

Eventually, Judd talked about the moment she delivered the speech. It changed her world forever.

When I stood in front of thousands of people in Washington, D.C., there was a collective gasp at the first words: “I am a nasty woman.” And then the roar went totally quiet. The more I let loose Nina’s poem, the quieter it got. In that silence I could feel the parts of the poem that resonated in very specific ways: “I am not as nasty as a swastika painted on a pride flag.” And then later: “I am not as nasty as…electroconversion therapy, the new gas chambers shaming the gay out of America, turning rainbows into suicide notes.” I heard grief in that silence.

Orrrrrrrrrr, maybe the feminists in the crowd were actually in shock that you looked and sounded like more of a lunatic than them? You topped their crazy, and it took a few moments to digest that. That’s my best guess.

Then it really started, a 360-degree rumble from way, way back in the crowd. I knew I had only a few minutes to speak, but I had to pause now and then because of the roar. And at the point in the poem that talks about bloodstains and tampons and pads being taxed while Rogaine and Viagra are not, the crowd went nuts. They couldn’t believe that finally, in this huge public space, on all the television channels from C-SPAN to Fox, we could talk about menstruation.

YES. That’s what we’ve all been waiting for. I KNEW there was a reason I didn’t feel completely free until Jan. 21th, 2017. I needed a woman to talk about throwing away underwear in the nation’s capital for all to hear! NOW WE ARE LIBERATED!

Of course, I was wearing white because that’s the color of the suffrage movement.

Of course.

And I did that thing we do when we turn around to see if we’ve seeped through our clothes. It was amazing. The roar was a rumble, a wave, a crescendo, an aria. There was a visual element to it as well. I could see the crowd react physically just as I could feel myself throwing my body into the performance. That roar was personal, political, and spiritual. It was special.

Pretending to check for a period leak was a spiritual experience for Ashley Judd. Please take a moment to soak in the absurdity of that statement.

For the record, she doesn’t care if she was called mentally ill. It was worth it.

In the year since, and especially now as we find ourselves in the midst of a reckoning about the treatment of women, I’ve felt an incredible deepening in my sense of belonging, and in my safety and security in society. I feel more deeply known in my soul. I’ve shared my most intimate self with incredible numbers of people—emotionally, intellectually, and spiritually—and it feels extraordinary. Even as girls and women remain at risk for sexual and gender violence, it’s clear that our society is changing at a breathless pace. This phenomenon is very dear to me, and I feel exponentially empowered by it. Let the world hear us all. 

She feels more deeply known in her soul, you guys. Whatever that means. Buncha psychobabble.

It just blows my mind that she continues to act like that hideously awful performance was so momentous. Need I remind you of some of the “inspiring” lines in that poem?

“I’m as nasty as a man who looks like he bathes in Cheetos dust.”

“I am not as nasty as a swastika painted on a pride flag, and I didn’t know devils could be resurrected but I feel Hitler in these streets. A mustache traded for a toupee.”

“I am not nasty like the combo of Trump and Pence being served up to me in my voting booths.”

“I am nasty like my bloodstains on my bed sheets. We don’t actually choose if and when to have our periods.

“We do not like throwing away our favorite pairs of underpants.”

“And our p*ssies ain’t for grabbing. There for reminding you that our walls are stronger than America’s ever will be.”

“Our p*ssies are for our pleasure. They are for birthing new generations of filthy, vulgar, nasty, proud, Christian, Muslim, Buddhist, Sikh, you name it, for new generations of nasty women.”

It’s embarrassing.

I have no desire to be a filthy, vulgar, nasty woman. Thanks but no thanks.

If you need to cleanse your mind of that feminist junk, read this. You’re welcome.