Look at them, troll mother said. Look at my so...

" Look at them" the troll mother said . Troll mothers often warn there kids about Evil trolls.Image via Wikipedia

There is a meme going around about da evil menz. It’s a meme that has been repeated more often than any meme ever, even more than meme’s about big bad witches!

It’s a troll, see, and trolls are always men–even when they are teen prom queens, and all their supporters–

THE TROLL, THE GOAT, AND THE PLAIN OLD POOPY FACTS ABOUT THE EFFECTS OF MARGINALIZATION:

There’s this creature, see, and it lives under a bridge. That’s what they say, anyways. Of course–well, you can’t truly see it, because you are always on top of the bridge ignoring the bridge entirely because you are always thinking of crossing the bridge to the greener pasture, and eating!

And anyone, or anything that gets in your way…well, you just watch out! Your horns will put them in their place!

But there are others–who we will get to shortly–who think about the other end of your meal. I will however give you one clue–it isn’t the farmer or his wife.

Or perhaps you are walking over the bridge, or blocking the bridge, or muddying up the water next to the bridge every time you choose to walk in the water, instead of using the bridge, which was designed for everybody, and is clearly marked with a sign, that says:

“Cross at your own peril.”

Not that anyone reads the signs–but they are there! “so you will have to trust me,” she is saying “I have known a few trolls in my day, and my herd even went off to foreign fields once to butt heads with trolls before you were born.”

Even though that sounds like second hand information, just nod your head.

“That’s why there is so much grass around you to eat and so many fields to wander in.,” said the large female billy goat, which was echoed by her one horned brother, who said ‘blahaahahhaaaat.”.

“I even lost my udder for your safety,” she said, lifting her rear leg to reveal a scarred stomach, and no teats. All of the goats knew she was too old, and too tough to eat, so the farmer and his wife generally just left her alone.

Now, the young goat listening was caprinious, to say the least, and not at all aware of the context of utter udderlessness, and also kind of grossed out because she had heard that story all of her life–from her mother, her aunt, and every other goat who had heard that story as well.

And so she had utter disdain for the old goats story, which may or may not turn out to be a bad thing, because time has a way of revealing that the more things change, the more they stay the same, and even then, medicine and science–the new Gods of modernity, post-modernity, post structuralist, and new era scientism–have invented prosthetic devices, and new dogmas that make old goats and old dogmas look new again.

But “that’s neither here nor there,” said the narrator, sweeping his arm widely from left to right, and spanning the entire set of fields surrounding the dialectic of the bridge, which was set at the very center of the panorama. What’s important is that the young goat fears the trolls!

“But what about the trolls??” said a group of young bessies, and baby billies, “what about the trolls??”

“I am getting to that–be patient, because backdrop is everything…” and the narrator receded into the woods with a flashlight–and the backdrop itself was actually a poorly painted canvass, hurriedly painted no doubt, and just beyond the fields of grass wafting their seed.

Well, either way time passes, doesn’t it?

Young goats become old goats more quickly than trees grow bark, or grass grows no more and forever; and goats become more and more head strong, and willing to fight their own battles, and find their way in the world all by themselves.

It happens so that on a moonlit night, while the herd slept, the young goat was feeling restless, hungry, and she looked around her at the herd. She stood up, and quietly, daintily even, stepped outside the boundaries of the resting spot, at once amazed, and also fearful of the direct lusciousness of the susurrous grasses around her, where all of her kin were sleeping.

And there was something else stirring in her, that which had no name. And that which had no name was stirring in her rather strongly! Frankly it aggravated her in an odd way which had no words–and most goats don’t have many words anyways, just bleating, farting and burping.

Oh, and the ‘swish swish swish,’ sounds their jaws make when they chew their cud.

So she took it upon herself to go about and find something to eat–even though she had been told that going forth alone is dangerous–and really, do any goats have any sense of danger? Ask a mountain!

“No, of course,” she said, sure-footedly, and off she wandered by herself into the moonlight. It wasn’t that the soughing grass surrounding her was unworthy of her munch, but rather, she seemed to crave the further pasture.

Likely, also that the moon caught her eye. Moonlight itself can make you weep drunken tears, and lose your way with it’s intoxicating and illusory clarity; make you find yourself in a larger mirror..

Suddenly she realized that she was at the bridge–all by herself!! And she was scared–very scared. She remembered the story of the troll! The story that her mother and her 5 aunts and her 7 older sisters, which of course, they shared with 47 cousins and so on ….

She didn’t know what to do! She looked for her mother, her aunt, her cousins, and her cousins cousins cousins, and the billies that were always supposed to be there, because that is what billies are for!

–she looked at her shadow between her legs, and looked at how long it seemed to be growing in the transient moonlight– And then, suddenly, from the shadows underneath her shadow, from shadows underneath the bridge, she saw–another shadow!

And it was growing bigger than her own! And it was growing underneath her own belly shadow!!!!!

She was petrified, and she tried to run–but her legs wouldn’t let her! All she could do was ‘bleat-blaaht!….’and “bleat…’ but very quietly–as if her voice had gotten itself stuck in her own cud! All four of her hooves were like pillars of salt, poking down into internecine, ancient oceans, now gone dry!

She worked her jaw furiously and stopped. She swished her jaw again–and then stopped( because that is what goats do!)

And the shadow was suddenly not a shadow–but a form–some kind of human-like form that slightly resembled her keepers–her owners, the herders–the round, fat, old woman and the drunken old man that came to the pasture every day to take her mothers milk, her five aunts milk, her seven older sisters’ milk, her one brothers testicles that time, her 47 cousins milk, her….

This is an announcement from the narrator to the audience: “In case you are unaware of how herd animals view themselves, they view themselves exclusively in direct relation to their bodily functions of reproduction, it’s subsidiary functions, it’s commodious by-products, and indirectly–they are all situational and relational sexists.”

Oh! But the troll!!

And–The shadow! It appeared; was like them herders–but not the same at all! IT had brown and white splotched skin that sparkled in the moonlight; it had a pot belly; it’s hands were gnarled like worm-trailed knotholes on old oak trees, and it’s back was hunched over; it had long, pointed ears, not at all unlike her mothers!

And bessie-goat worked her jaw, and chewed her cud, blinking hers eyes, and twitching her ears like a deer in the headlights

“Oh never mind!”, said the narrator, briefly poking his head back in, highlighted by his flashlight underneath his chin–“that’s a whole ‘nother story too!”

And then! Form took even more shape, and stood fully erect, and the goat could see something about the form that seemed out of place: despite its gnarly hands, and its protruding, distorted back; it was wearing knee high rubber boots—but otherwise, fully naked!

Her mind flashed back to all that she had heard about trolls “They will eat you,” said her mother, her aunt, and most of the goats on her mothers side of the family.

“they will poke their long knives in you, all the while smiling at you with their bad teeth, and mocking your udder helplessness. They will sniff at you, and creep toward you in your sleep, and if I still could, I would ram my head at their…” said the uddereless one–who could never finish her story before the other mothers, aunts and cousins–the sensible ones at least–started bleating, loudly.

They will “take out your brain until you are nothing but a piece of meat hanging in the herders barn!” said most of the herd, who mostly heard their information from others in the herd, but who also knew the farmer’s wife could really throw down when it came to proteins.

All the billies, to a horn, no matter how long their beards, always said “I will kill the troll with my big strong horns, if it ever even looks at you,” and young and old, they all confirmed that desire, and that impulse, not realizing how dull and redundant they sound when they say that, or how more often than not, their breath smelled like cheese.

And yet “IT” spoke to her suddenly, somewhat gruffly.

It said “Hello goat–do you realize how late it is? And what are you doing out so late at night?”

Needless to say, she was petrified! The hairs on her back were standing like needles (and anyone who has ever seen a petrified goat knows this is true, and anyone who hates needles knows what they could feel like when they are all on your back!).

Her eyes flashed on the sign at the bridge which said:

“Cross at your own peril.”

Far beyond being motionless now; far beyond being merely voiceless–she was dropping poop pellets like a pasta machine cranking out gnocchi, but from beneath her tail!

Because that is what goats do–anyone who has ever spent time around…

At each plitter, and each plop of pellet, she noticed the face of the creature frown deeper and wider, looking further and further down, until the creature was staring at it’s feet. She could feel her poop drop as its head dropped. At some point it occurred to her that there was some sort of rhythm.

But the goat–being a goat–moved her head lower as well–but she didn’t know why! But anyone who knows goats, knows that is what goats do! They cannot help themselves. Because…..

The creature noticed as well, and, finally, lifted his head: “Why are you pooping at my doorstep? Young she-goat, does it occur to you that this bridge–this bridge that you and your herd clatter over daily just after sunrise, and stomp across just before nightfall–is where I live?

“That your hours of existence, and and my hours of existence are in conflict? That there are others in the world who don’t stomp across bridges, or leave poop everywhere they go? That I hear every sound? I cannot help myself but to listen–generation after generation, to the sounds of the crap, and the clatter, and the rattle of your cloven hooves over my head?

And I really have no other place to go, where such does not occur,” he said. “I am bridge cleaner by default, and a sleeper by necessity.” Noting the cud chewing look on her face as she blinked, he asked “Or didn’t your mother tell you someone lived under the bridge?”

The young bessie, was suddenly amazed, and oddly, ashamed of herself. She was also slightly surprised, and said, reflexively–“I didn’t realize that someone lived here. I had heard only trolls live under bridges. And, after all, this is public property.”

She was even more surprised to hear her own voice–her ears stood up like she had heard a baying wolf! Or like she was a wolf, but didn’t know it. She had grown so used to her voice being mixed in with the bleating dialogues with other goats, that she surprised herself.

“Well, in fact I have lived here for thousands of years,” said the creature. ” And so I ask you again: did your mother not tell you that someone lived under this bridge?”

Sheepishly, the goat said “Um, yes, I guess she did…she said it, and my aunt said it, and my cousins and my…and the old udderless billy goat told me about it too; my cousins all heard it, the billy goats all told me they wanted to kill it, the old billies would pee all over it, and the young billy goats said…”

It,” said the troll” is me. I have heard what your herd has said. Over, and over, for generations. It is impossible to not hear them, and you–day in and day out, clattering over the bridge, like armored vehicles, chattering on and on about the danger of trolls.”

“Armored vehicles?” asked the young goat.

Narrator: Poop. Armored vehicles…That is a whole ‘nother story….!

The troll continued: “But I would appreciate it if you would drop your pellets further uphill, or perhaps even over the hill so that they don’t roll down to my feet.”

She was instantly ashamed of herself. She was embarrassed. And just as quickly, she felt, in an odd way, violated that the troll had noticed her butt. And violated at the thought that private space–her, sunning herself in the moonlight–was actually, public space!

And so, she turned her nose uphill–and was suddenly running back toward her resting place when a thought occurred to her–she HAD been rude!

Presumptive, and not at all sensitive to the troll, or its world. And she didn’t realize that she was pooping, even when she was pooping! And worse, she felt remorse because–well because of something she had no idea what it was–because goats don’t have big vocabularies, and though they are
often wowed by the words of the herders, they soon forget what words they heard. Mostly because of the constant bleating of other goats.

Either way, she stopped in her tracks. She looked back, and the troll was gone! She had an odd lump in her throat–and it wasn’t cud, either, and suddenly, a strange almost physical feeling rolled across her lips! And then she bleated–“Hey! Troll! What’s your name?”

A distant voice, that sounded like an echo from under the bridge said, just loud enough for her to hear:

“They would call me Booger. But you can call me Boogie if you would like–all my friends do.”

And, of course, he was lying, because no one, in several thousand years had ever actually talked to him before, or really wanted to know his name, or why he was on such a weird, contradictory schedule.

The little goat licked her upper lip, wiggled her ears, and ran back to her sleeping camp, thinking about how she never ever even noticed thatthe noise she made on the bridge affected others who are not goats…

[to be continued]

Comments
  1. Now, THAT’S how to do fictional-styled writing! More, please, you left me hanging…. :)

  2. pornonymous says:

    Hey SN: I have part two coming soon! Wanna know s/th interesting? It’s all fiction! Even the true parts, b/c the narrative is at one moment inclusive of some truth, and exclusive of other truth. Or, put another way, the truth lies…

    Kind of like the truth of EV guy….

    But the troll narrative is almost always directed at males–as if males make up the wider part of the bad behavior, but I find it quite interesting how many of the actual trolls–who do some of the worst stuff–are actually female.

    On other topics, I agree with your assessment of violence and bullying–I generally see it thew way the old stats documented it, as nearly a 50/50 thing.

  3. pornalysis says:

    [...] What did she do? Says the narrator in clipped tones, rapidly recounting the wrongs of the right litt… [...]

  4. pornonymous says:

    Thanks Scented.

    I wrote it because the whole idea of a troll is way out of whack. What they call trolls are actually differing opinions. Kind of like how an awkward comment is rapeflated into an assault, etc.

    Remember the good old days of the internet? Franc routinely points to the real definition of trolling as an artform;-)

    That is the mindset I am arguing against, and my oh my did those guys show themselves to be controlling, and violent really.

    However Stephanie, as hard headed as she is on dogma, can write well when she wants to.

    How did you like the end BTW? I am open to criticism.

  5. I liked it a lot. Quite rivetting. Although, ending with a dot dot dot did confuse me a bit. I wondered if it meant the meaning it had or was there more. I went with the former. :)

  6. pornonymous says:

    “was there more”

    There’s always more, silly;-)

    Also–I checked one of your videos, where you were laughing at some Sarah for her pronunciation of MowGun DayVidd. Very funny. And also thanks for that sunrise (sunset?)

  7. [...] was trolling the internet, wondering why women mate with cavemen. Deep in the dregs of a cave called [...]

  8. That was the infamous Diana Boston (AKA SaelPalani AKA GirlonFilm1969) from YouTube. She, along with Nuclear Night (AKA IreMythPurr), used to be one of yt’s worst radfems. Her and Nuke have now had a fight though, and Diana’s trying to get her narcissistic supply from jew vs whoever these days. She’s actually of an Italian catholic background, but she’s pretending to be a full blown jew these days. It’s not working out too well for her as there’s not enough drama, but it’s too late. The other radfems want nothing to do with her, so she can’t come back to them for her drama fix.

    The very best and funniest vid I did ever was about her. It’s Of Mice And Madwomen at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4076iLRZcPA
    In that one, I pretended she was over for a visit and I spliced the sound from 2 of her vids together. Hilarity ensued when I replaced her “microwave” with her “cunt” from another vid. You MUST please go see it. I guarantee it’s knee-slapping hysterical.

    Also, I recommend Diana’s Walking In The Rain And Packing Heat at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d5CRXgSAKbw
    It use 2 excellent songs, one by Grace Jones and one by The Talking Heads, and it picks on her mercilessly for wanting to kill harmless homeless men, who, you know, really were just wanting to rape her or something when they look under her umbrella and grin at her. Stuff from both the song vids accidently lined up perfectly at a number of spots as though Diana in her little frame inside the main music video frame were meant to go together.

    I think I’ve made 6 or 7 in total about that irritating bitch. :)

    • pornonymous says:

      “Diana’s trying to get her narcissistic supply from jew vs whoever these days. She’s actually of an Italian catholic background, but she’s pretending to be a full blown jew these days”

      It is the flavor of the day isn’t it? Almost as if they smell da money’s ;-) I can’t stand those fakers. But I think it indicates a “selective pressure” in an evolutionary sense. Even Naomi Wolf was longing for the comfort of a kibbutz and a hair cover not long ago ( here recent writings on porn being bad for men’s brains).

      I will check out your vids when I get a moment–I really don’t know a whole lot about that sub-culture as I should. I could barely get past Dworkin ( there’s a pun in there somewhere).

      Scented, why do these women hate? I mean–why did you hate? As much as I have at times been absolutely repulsed by monolithic women,as well as individual women, I could never find it in me to hate them as a group.

      But in case you don’t know, I find you’re willingness to engage as an individual to be a very solid quality in a person. Notwithstanding, I am realizing that individuality is a threatened species. Is the world really that scary?

      I don’t think so–I think what the fear is, is losing entitlement and privilege–in the case of Dworkin, I think she was a bald faced liar whose parents coddled her rather than calling her on her shit. But I don’t claim to know–I only see the hate and wonder where it comes from–and that, coming from a guy who has been literally murdered before! I couldn’t even hate my murderers.
      Also, did you ever read that piece I wrote about cherryblossomlife?

      It’s the one called female pedophile found! She is a nasty radfem who writes ” I bonded over the trauma of seeing a chiropractor’ and then all the radfems whine in ” you were raped…” etc. Then, we discover that the guy she is accusing of rape? He ” healed her when ten others could not….”

      Absolutely whacked; dangerous, and hateful. I can only imagine that their kind of ugly goes all the way to the bone.

      • Yikes, I can barely look at Dworkin. She’s the poster child for birth control. No one would want to have a kid that looks like her! :)

        The hate that radfems have is pretty much like any other group. There’s the exhilaration of having a group focus of hating the same thing (men in this case), the easy focus to blame all of one’s own problems on, as well as the world’s problems, and a little something else too, in the case of radfems.

        And that was that many of them are living, eating and breathing confirmation bias, having had some bad experience or another. Everyone else hears the tales and thinks, wow, was I ever lucky to only have had a minor little thing happen. The big awfuls must be the norm, the majority, the rape culture instead of the rape as the exception.

        At least half of the women I knew back then had a rape or incest event that fucked them up. But rather than move on, as one might if one gets beaten and robbed, they hold onto the anger and fear far after any physical trauma is gone. They indulge in the victim status. It’s rewarded by the admiration and example made of them by other feminists. It turns from something bad into something perversely good and rewarding to parade around with.

        And those of us who were not in some state of maintained trauma, were gullible. I read the books and heard my friends’ tales and believed (on faith, not evidence) that things were truly worse than they were. I figured that it was only a stroke of luck that I hadn’t had such traumatically horrible things happen to me. I figured I was the exception rather than the majority norm. I also took on the belief that it was always men who were bad and women who were good. Even if I read that a woman did something bad, it was due to patriarchal damage and not really her fault.

        What yanked me out of the cult, was similar to what pulled me in, though – sexual attraction. Two things pulled me in initially, one of which hasn’t changed (being against sexism – although during that decade it was obviously one sided). I developed a sexual attraction to women so it turned out I was bisexual. During that decade though, I only acknowledged the novel (at the time) lesbian side of me. I immediately took on the expected lesbian-only mindset. The problem with that though, was that after the novelty wore off, I had to eventually acknowledge that I was bi and that the hetero side was like 99% of that bi-ness.

        For the last 5 years or so of it, I still believed that the het side was due to what they (Dworkin et al) taught me, a residual brainwashing of my pre-feminist patriarchy ruled days. It was something to be ashamed of, suppressed and not admitted to. I even had a secret stash of straight very-hardcore porn mags, all the while speaking out against such things.

        Finally, in 1989 at some point, with an opportunity to get together with a man who I was strongly attracted to, I had to ask myself why the fuck am I not doing what I want? Is it really some bad brainwashing thing, or the more obvious non-harmful physical attraction? So, I went for it, and at the same time left the cult totally except for just two friends who were not so radical as to have the usual reaction to someone having straight sex.

        That usual reaction was that the group went “ewwwww” and ostracised the woman, or felt sorry for her, or tried talking her into coming back to women. I knew exactly how we had treated others, so I knew I had to just walk away from the entire group I’d been hanging out with (other than the two I mentioned). The shunning of straight sex was so extreme, we used to say we’d never have sex with a bi woman because she had probably touched/been tainted by sperm too recently. That same sperm that before becoming a radfem, I had no problems with touching or having inside me (those were the days when all you needed was the pill! everything else was curable at the doc’s – no condoms needed).

        As I got rid of that part of the ideology package, the rest started falling apart too. I remain against sexism, but it’s got to be real sexism now, not imagined, and not exaggerated, and also, no longer only seeing when it was against women, but men too.

        The funny/sad thing about my years in the cult, was the difference in how easy it was to find sex. I feel sorry for straight men and lesbians because sex was much harder to find among women than among men. Too many hangups, too many expectations (love, commitments, only after some arbitrary time period of dating, etc), and also too many damaged ones. That cult attracts more sexually damaged sorts than not, so there were only a few of them I was sexual with where things were pure fun. The others had ‘problems’ and dysfunctions.

        One friend of mine who I knew for the whole decade, never had sex with anyone. She had some opportunities but remained asexual. I suspect that she was straight but in denial the whole time, due to her politics and hatred of men. A political lesbian who never actually got physically aroused by women, just intellectually aroused.

        I haven’t read the chiropractor article yet, but none of them back then would have gone to a male one. That touch would have been seen as sexual, an assault even, even if the chiropractor was repulsed by them. Any female pedos, if even believed by the cult, would have still been blamed on men, like maybe she was copying what she learned from them or something. Any explanation that blamed men and excused women.

        Oops, I seem to have written a little book here. If the page loads slower, please don’t accuse me of DDOSing you. :)

  9. pornonymous says:

    SN: Feel free to write a book here if you would like. I find what you have to say to be valuable, and interesting, and I read what you write.

    “I even had a secret stash of straight very-hardcore porn mags, all the while speaking out against such things.”

    Yeah, I suspected as much!I can hear them now:

    “Shame, shame, and more shame! You contribute to the denigration of women; porn is ritualized rape! It is slavery, codified in print! Every orgasm a woman has in porn is one that is capitulation to her oppressor–a moan and a sigh of anguish, not pleasure! It is bgrrggablleeeebbdd” ( sound of me stuffing poopy underwear down it’s throat). These women lead to violence, and lead us to war.

    I actually think that imagery is everything, and I would have no problem with that kind of woman being silenced forever–or actually opening her mouth about things that REALLY matter. ( this last sentence is a word image that will live on into internet-y as my contribution to violence against women–some of them need it for a reality check).

    I have seldom known a lesbian who does not watch porn, or have a stash somewhere. I have seen lesbian couples advertise for a man in the newspapers; seen lesbians who fetishize straight sex, etc. I have slept with my share of lesbians as well;-) I remember one in particular who very specifically told me “I just want to see if I am wrong about being a lesbian.”

    I doubt that one drunken night convinced her;-)

    I have a question for you: I am working toward a thesis of sorts, which involves several theories all at once. My question is–do you think it is possible that there is something that is NOT being discussed? And specifically, is it possible–based on your experience with that cult, that some if not all of them have endured something that they do not talk about?

    Specifically, I suspect that many of them had “boundary issues” with their mothers, or aunts, or other older women when they were younger, and as far as I can tell, they work hard to contain or control this dialogue, both in academia, and in the literature of abuse. It is a social taboo to discuss female perpetrated child sexual abuse.

    As we once discussed, it also costs them the ‘upper hand’ to concede as much.

    I will tell you why I have this idea: In my experience, some of the lesbians that I have known would discuss their odd feelings about men in various ways, and then reveal even more odd boundaries with their mothers, grandmothers, etc.

    One had a grandmother who pinched or pulled at her vagina when she had reached puberty; another had memories of her grandmother fondling her genitals as she slept, or snuggling naked with her; another at the age of 35 would actually show her mother her vagina if she thought ‘something was wrong’ and so forth ( she was actually bisexual).

    Many female bisexuals I have known had deep “mommy issues”, on one side or the other: mom overly sensual/mom ice cold sorts of things. I even remember a family of girls ( the one boy in the family turned out to be a pedophile) who were all bisexual with memories of a mother who was a “medical mommy” whose abuse took the form of ‘helping’ the girls.

    It seems to me that the subtext of ‘man hate’, and the fetishization of rape and rape anxiety has it’s foundation not necessarily in the rape and rape culture–but rather in the unexpressed, socially forbidden dialogue of sexual experience in childhood. I suspect that this experience is based on the differential nature of the ‘approach’ of males versus the ever present female presence.That is compounded if there is sexual contact between the young girl and an older woman ( any dyke bar will show you the allure of that paradigm).

    Females are ‘comfortable’ for these women, and sexual/intellectual expression with other women is just easier than viewing the issue as one of incest, or boundaries that are inappropriate.

    Is it possible that I am right about this?

    I actually fully accept the idea of a rape culture, but I differ in its very selective definition and prosecution of rape and incest. I also am not ‘anti-feminist’ for the most part, but rather, I distrust their basis, and view them as a dishonest dialogue of power. I also view them as dishonest because I believe that some of them are covering up child abuse, maternal or other female perpetrated incest.

    Sounds whacky huh? But there is evidence in the literature. Often, we hear about abuse perpetrated on them by men, and we hear about it quite loudly, and repeat it often. But much later, in therapy, many of these same women will discuss earlier sexual abuse from their mothers and so forth.

    But I highly suggest that you get over to that radfem post, and have yourself a look at the sheer insanity of it.The contradiction; the bizarre adulation of non-suffering–while being finally healed– is astounding!

  10. pornonymous says:

    p.s. Scented Nectar is DDoSing me!! Stop repressssssing my blog!

    p.p.s. Aside from your lookist bias against Dworkin–what have you got against the clinically obese? JK;-)

    But actually, she was a good writer in her weird, confabulatory and deceptive way. I have another theory about that…. And you might find this stunning, but I actually agree with her in some things! I would have to sit down and remember what, but….it’s tere!

  11. What? That long comment didn’t bring down your website and server? I’ll try harder next time. :)

    I think in that crowd, from what I could see, there wasn’t any weird maternal stuff, other than turning any and all things into a religion celebrating women. I didn’t notice any weird mommy issues. There was one woman who had a thing for older women, but I don’t think that was connected to her mother any more than a same age attraction would have symbolized her siblings. It was all just a hate-men-fest that they had in common.

    As for Dworkin, even if she had some magazine perfect figure, she’d be the poster thing for ‘ugly’. Yikes! Did you look at her face? Now, there’s an image that could use some unseeing! Back in the day though, I did enjoy her books, absorbing her ideas as solid fact. We didn’t need no stinking evidence, and evidently, neither do the radfems of today!

    • pornonymous says:

      “As for Dworkin, even if she had some magazine perfect figure, she’d be the poster thing for ‘ugly’. Yikes! Did you look at her face? Now, there’s an image that could use some unseeing!”

      yeah– the current science surrounding pornography posits that the image once seen cannot be ‘unseen’…what poppycock.

      Well, I wonder what level of intimacy you shared with those girls then? Maybe it is the fact thatI am male–for some reason they decided to tell me all of that weirdness. But from that, I defintely decided there was something more to the story.

      After all–projection is the larger part of perception after all…

      • Could have been just a different set of women we were exposed to, or maybe they did feel more comfortable talking to a man. I don’t know. There were a few who I got to know well, but those ones didn’t seem to have any of that kind of problems with their mothers. It was more other stuff, like one was worried that she’d someday develop the schizophrenia her mother had (she didn’t) or other ordinary stuff like that. It’s hard to know for sure about others. They never told me, but I guess it could have been the case. Mostly it was all complaints about Teh Evil Menz, but in those pre-internet days, it was not spelled like that. Same meaning though. Slurs like ‘gomer’ meant the generic bad man here in Toronto during the 80s, as in “some gomer at the store did this or that bad thing. Fucking gomers!”

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