Ever wondered why there are so many scantily clad cops, firefighters, and nurses on the street each Halloween? It is to mark the founding of the Sexy Municipal Workers Union (SMWU) on October 31, 1995. Prior to that day, inappropriately dressed civil servants were dismissed and denied the respect they deserve, simply because they weren’t wearing enough clothing. History has shown that this gathering was as important to the labor movement as the Homestead Strike and the protests following the Triangle Shirtwaist factory fire. The following is a transcript of a speech given by a Sexy Union Organizer, marking the founding of the union.

My fellow Sexy Municipal Workers it is time to stand up together, in our impossibly high heels and short skirts (or shorts), and unite for better working conditions and pay. I propose that from this October 31st onward, we commemorate the sacrifices that sexy cops, firefighters, nurses, construction workers, and librarians have made to society. You toil away in your jobs, just like your non-sexy, male counterparts, yet in low cut and flimsily constructed uniforms. You put up with the leers and the looks and not being taken seriously because you have bravely chosen to do your job well, but seductively. You are dismissed as vapid simply because you show some-to-a lot-of cleavage. Enough is enough. It’s time to unite.

Norma Rae, Sexy Union Organizer

We demand more pay, simply because the cost of living a sexy life is expensive. How else will we fund our waxes, our blowouts, our mani/pedis? We demand shorter hours so that we can go to the gym in order to keep it tight. And we demand workdays that will allow us to take breaks throughout the day to blot away our shine and reapply our lipstick. Without our contributions, male fantasies of civil service would be based entirely on women wearing baggy polyester uniforms and flats or those ugly rubber clogs. Continue reading →

The knock on the door sent a chill through my spine—we had turned off the lights an hour earlier, signaling the end of trick-or-treating at our house. The sound was at once ominous and familiar. Hadn’t we answered too many knocks already? Hadn’t we done enough?

I opened the door and stared into my worst nightmare. “Oh GOD!” I screamed, both in terror and as a prayer, in reaction to the contents of my doorstep. Then I realized they were costumes—they had to be, right? Yet I had never seen such likenesses. For before me stood an unholy trinity indeed: President Barack Obama, David Axelrod, and Stephanie Cutter. And for the life of me, I could not detect wig lines or mask shadows anywhere.

“Trick or treat,” they murmured in unison, and I chose humor as my weapon.
“I don’t have any money left—you took it all from me in taxes!” I cried, holding my hands up in surrender.

They didn’t laugh.

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