Archive for the ‘Devolution’ Category

–unless you are a publicity loving scandal engineer.

Every now and again the internet is like a diamond mine: you dig through mountains of crap, get caught up in dozens of useless flame wars, or bad videos, and the next thing you know, all that dirt and rock kicks up a gem. Like  mashriqq.com and its fresh perspectives on Somalia, or….

Like : The U.S. Christian Right and the Attack on Gays in Africa.

Click me to go to the Public Eye!

Absolute surprise, and joy: Such was the case when I was researching part of my thesis, which is that American culture wars, as dishonest, and  useless as they often are, spill over into other places and create actual wars, as well as–once in awhile–act to prevent them, or otherwise create actual productive dialogues.

Public Eye [dot] Org was one such diamond– a fifteen carat beauty that fell off the top of the mountain, without any imperialist, or slave labor involved in finding it.

Have a look yourself! [Public Eye Press Room Here!]

Three people in chains, probably somewhere in ...

Gratuitous reminder: three slaves in chains in East Africa. Africa, slavery, or other social problems didn't go away when slavery ended in the U.S. image from Wikipedia

 

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I love language, don’t you? And I hate very few things –but one of them is the word-police, who are all hypocrites, bullies, and control freaks.

Another is cultural imperialism–in this case, white American women trying to impose their politicized view of words on non-first world peoples. To white, middle class American women, the word cunt is a bad werd–regardless of the hundreds of positive meanings it has in other cultures.

But my first fun, un-fettered, sexxy thoughts came from the dictionary! And there are people in the world who would burn them, if they had half the chance.

The classic stereotype is always some prude, begging some scunt:  “talk dirty to me,” as she moans like a cow with a prolapse. We all know her, don’t we?

Then I guess she’s not the prude we thought she was…;-)

Then, after they get their clothes back on and leave the key at the front desk, that/those prudes march all about the world regulating bad ideas, and bad words, which leads to the further regulation of speech, ideas, and essentially, communication itself–which is the root of all commerce. Hypocrites.

Then, once they get you trained to see it and say it their way–  onward to imperialist wars for capital!–but there is no reason involved in emotional responses to words, only control impulses and repressed sex drives that cause conflict, while seeking to create herd behavior around buzzwords-simple as that.

But real Women Love Cunts, and so do I.  No, wait–that came out wrong. Maybe I should say–we tolerate them? Or: sometimes people who have vaginas act like real cunts.

No…that’s not it either. Hmmm…it’s hard explaining this conundrum.

Well, Sex Negative women are  women who act like cunts anyways…er, wait a minute…Cunts are vaginas, and sometimes, they are lots of other fun useful, productive things,  too. Sex positive men and women love vaginas, even when they are called cunts, or act like cunts.

Total vaginal prolapse, post-partum, cow, side...

HUGE RED FLAG: The whole dialogue about the word cunt has prolapsed. Any woman who hates the word cunt, is a big red flag for me, and I have known a few of them first hand...

Did that clear it up?

Well, you can do the thinking your self, if you would like to, but  language is the original aphrodisiac, and any woman who despises the word CUNT is a huge red flag.

The word is so full of history that it would be a shame to lose it–and the women that can’t pull their heads out of their emergency of dialectic prolapse long enough to realize that, have no clue what it really means.(See link below to Mathew Hunt)

Dialectically, word policing  is a tool of the middle and upper classes to control and manipulate the lower classes. It is the klitorisvorhaut that covers over sensitive dialogue, and it has even less of a purpose.

If you would like to see this prolapse in action, and how this dynamic of gendered class control works, go here, here, or here , use the word in any forum, and then, go here for the only uncensored opposition conversation on the internet.

Imagine that! Women and sex-negative ( they aren’t getting any) men all rallying around the word cunt, and using it to reinforce class boundaries and gender roles! They are actually trying to sound sex positive, but they really sound ‘sex negotiable,” as in “if you use words we tell you to use, you might get some vagina in our crowd.”

So–cunt isn’t the password to the magical kyriarchal pyramid? How about the holy giver of love fluid? No? Umm…the dark tunnel of deeper and deeper knowledge?  No? The  “pink padded room of sanity for the pre-negotiated benefit of the insane penis posse”? No…?

Got it! How about “twelve year old Coochie Snorcher?(1)”  Well, that one seems to make the ‘radical feminists‘ horny.

Why? Because that is what class is composed of–kyriarchical sliding doors of entrance, or denial of entrance, into the pyramid, depending on whether or not you use the right password!

The most humorous part of it is, that they say the word cunt “belongs to women.”

Try Telling that to Mike Hunt, or his brother Mathew…

But this is from Mathew Hunts compilation and etymology of the word Cunt.

The Etymology Of Cunt By: Mathew Hunt

The etymology of ‘cunt’ is actually considerably more complex than is generally supposed. The word’s etymology is highly contentious, as Alex Games explains: “Language scholars have been speculating for years about the etymological origins of the ‘c-word'” (2006). A consensus has not yet been reached, as Ruth Wajnryb admits in A Cunt Of A Word (a chapter in Language Most Foul): “Etymologists are unlikely to come to an agreement about the origins of CUNT any time soon” (2004), and Mark Morton is even more despairing: “no-one really knows the ulterior origin of cunt” (2003).

Also, from the same etymology, which I highly recommend, are these variants on uses of the word. Enjoy some cunt today!Well, no matter which cunt YOU choose to play with today, play with them nicely, have fun, and stay away from all those sex negative cunts!

1) In the original published version of Eve Enslers Vagina Monologues, she fantasized about having sex with a 12 year old girl. She later changed that girl character to a fourteen and then a 16 year old girl.

From Wikipedia’s sex positive feminism page ( the anti-academic citation source):

“Statutory Rape Laws

Also there is debate among sex-positive feminists about whether statutory rape laws are a form of misogyny.[6] As illustrated by the controversy over “The Little Coochie Snorcher that Could” from the Vagina Monologues, some sex-positive feminists do not consider all consensual activity between young adolescents and older people as inherently harmful, and there has been debate between feminists about whether statutory rape laws are misogynist.[7]”

  • Army Service Cunts’ (‘Army Service Corps‘)
  • ‘bargain cunt’ (‘person who claims to offer a discounted price via the grey market, though is unable to do so’, a pun on Bargain Hunt)
  • ‘beat the cunt out of’ (‘beat up’, a variation of ‘beat the crap out of’)
  • ‘big cunt’ (‘large vagina’)
  • ‘bucket cunt’ (‘large vagina’)
  • ‘bunt’ (‘fat female stomach’; a combination of ‘belly’ and ‘cunt’)
  • ‘bushel cunt’/’bushel-cunted’ (‘large vagina’)
  • ‘C’ (‘cunt’)
  • ‘c and c’ (‘clips and cunts’ television programmes)
  • ‘CGI’ (‘Cunt Gap Index’, ‘measurement-scale for vagina sizes’)
  • ‘CHODA’ (‘Cunt Hair On Da Ass’)
  • ‘coming the old cunt’ (‘being unkind’)
  • ‘cooint’ (‘vagina’, Yorkshire variant of ‘cunt’)
  • ‘cow-cunt’ (‘large vagina’)
  • ‘cunker’ (‘cunt’)
  • ‘cunch’ (‘cunnilingus’, ‘combination of ‘cunt’ and lunch’)
  • ‘cunnifungus’ (‘vaginal secretion‘)
  • ‘cunnimingus’ (combination of ‘cunnilingus’ and ‘minger’)
  • ‘cunnylicious’ (combination of ‘cunnilingus’ and ‘delicious’)
  • ‘cunshine’ (‘pornographic images printed on highly glossy paper’)
  • ‘cunt!’ (exclamation)
  • ‘Cunt Act’ (‘Deserted Wives and Children’s Act’)
  • ‘cunt and a half’ (‘very idiotic’)
  • “cunt-arse” (‘idiot’; Verne Graham, 2005)
  • ‘cuntbag’ (‘idiot’)
  • ‘cunt-ball’ (‘idiot’)
  • ‘cunt-beten’ (‘impotent’)
  • ‘cuntbitten’/’cunt-bitten’ (‘syphilitic’)
  • ‘cunt book’/’cunt-book’ (‘in the bad books’/’pornography’)
  • ‘cunt bread’ (‘vaginal yeast infection’)
  • ‘cunt-breath’ (‘halitosis’)
  • ‘cunt bubble’ (‘vaginal fart‘)
  • ‘cunt buster’/’cunt-buster’ (‘erection’)
  • ‘cunt butter’ (‘vaginal fluid’)
  • ‘cunt candle’ (‘outstanding idiot’)
  • ‘cunt cap’ (‘military hat’)
  • ‘cunt carpet’ (‘pubic hair’)
  • ‘cunt-chaser’ (‘womaniser’)
  • ‘cunt-cleaner’ (‘gynaecologist’)
  • ‘cunt-collar’ (‘pussy whip’)
  • ‘cunt cock’ (‘clitoris’)
  • ‘cunt cork’ (‘tampon’)
  • ‘cunt-cuddling’ (‘masturbation’)
  • ‘cunt-curtain’ (‘pubic hair’)
  • ‘cunt dentist’ (‘gynaecologist’)
  • ‘cunt down’ (‘pubic hair’)
  • ‘Cunt Dracula’ (‘idiot’)
  • ‘cunted’ (‘drunk’/’vaginal penetration’)
  • ‘cunteen’ (‘unpleasant quantity between thirteen and nineteen’)
  • ‘cunt-eyed’ (‘narrow-eyed’)
  • ‘cunt face’/’cuntface’/’cunt-faced’ (‘ugly’)
  • ‘cunt fart’ (‘vaginal fart’)
  • ‘cunt flump’ (‘tampon’, from The Flumps)
  • ‘cunt for hire’ (‘prostitute’)
  • ‘cunt-fringe’ (‘pubic hair’)
  • “cunt-fucked” (‘vaginal sex’; Jim Goad, 1994[d])
  • ‘cunt grunt’ (‘vaginal fart’)
  • ‘cunt guff’ (‘vaginal fart’)
  • ‘cunt-hair’/’cunt hair’/’cunt’s hair’ (‘tiny amount’)
  • ‘cunt-hat’ (‘felt hat’)
  • ‘cunt-hatred’ (‘misogyny’)
  • ‘cunthead’ (‘idiot’)
  • “cunthood” (‘femininity’; Jim Goad, 1994[c])
  • ‘cunt hook’ (‘car used to attract women’)
  • ‘cunt-hook’ (‘penis’)
  • ‘cunt-hooks’ (‘fingers’, a pun on ‘cant-hook’/’person’)
  • ‘cunt-hound’ (‘sex-obsessed’)
  • ‘cunt-house’ (‘venue populated largely by women’)
  • ‘cunt hunt’ (‘on the pull’)
  • ‘cunt-hunter’ (‘womaniser’)
  • “c[u]ntie” (‘little cunt’; Robert Burns, 1786)
  • ‘cuntikin’ (‘little cunt’)
  • ‘cuntinental’ (‘patron of an outdoor British cafe’)
  • “cuntiness” (‘the state of being a cunt’; Britain’s Biggest C**ts, 2008)
  • ‘cunting’ (intensifier, a variant of ‘fucking’/’knickers’, a pun on ‘bunting’)
  • ‘cuntingency plan’ (‘alternative source of sexual gratification’, a pun on ‘contingency plan’)
  • ‘cuntino filet with white sauce’ (‘cunnilingus’)
  • ‘cuntion’ (‘gumption’)
  • ‘cuntish’ (‘stupid’)
  • ‘cuntispiece’ (‘frontispiece of a pornographic book’)
  • “cunt-ist” (‘heterosexual man’; Jeffrey Merrick and Bryant T Ragan, 1996)
  • ‘cunt-itch’ (‘sexually aroused’)
  • ‘cuntitude’ (‘bad attitude’)
  • “cunt-jugal” (a pun on ‘conjugal’; Nick Gomez, 1997)
  • ‘cunt juice’ (‘vaginal fluid’)
  • ‘cuntkin’ (‘little cunt’)
  • ‘cunker’ (‘vagina’, euphemism for ‘cunt’)
  • ‘cunt-lap’/’cuntlap’ (‘cunnilingus’/’idiot’)
  • ‘cunt-lapper’ (‘cunnilinguist’)
  • ‘cunt-lapping’ (‘cunnilingus’/’disgusting’)
  • ‘cuntlashed’ (‘very drunk’)
  • ‘cunt-leg’ (‘penis’)
  • ‘cuntlery’ (‘utensil used to dilate the vagina’)
  • ‘cuntless’ (‘without a cunt’)
  • ‘cuntlet’ (‘little cunt’, a pun on ‘cutlet’)
  • ‘cunt-lick’/’give cunt licks’ (‘cunnilingus’)
  • ‘cunt-licker’ (‘cunnilinguist’/’idiot’)
  • ‘cunt-licking’ (‘cunnilingus’/’disgusting’)
  • ‘cuntlifters’ (‘old ladies’ knickers’)
  • ‘cunt light’/’C-light’ (‘pornographic film lighting’)
  • ‘cunt-like’ (‘vaginal’)
  • ‘cunt like a Grimsby welly’ (‘large vagina’)
  • ‘cuntlines’ (‘seams between the strands of a rope’; variant of ‘contlines’)
  • ‘cunt-lips’ (‘labia’)
  • ‘cunt man’/’C man’ (‘sexual athlete’)
  • ‘cuntmeat’ (‘women’)
  • “C[u]nt-mending” (‘gynaecology’; John Wilmot, 1680)
  • ‘cunt mumps’ (‘woman’s excuse to deflect chat-up lines’)
  • ‘cunt-munchers’ (‘cunnilinguists’)
  • “cunt-mutilation” (‘vaginal mutilation’; Jim Goad, 1994[e])
  • ‘cuntock’ (‘idiot’; abbreviated to ‘ock’)
  • ‘cuntocks’ (‘labia’; abbreviated to ‘ocks’)
  • ‘cunt of all cunts’ (‘incredibly stupid person’)
  • “cunt-palaces” (‘attractive vaginas’; Raymond Stephanson, 2004)
  • ‘cunt-pensioner’ (‘pimp’; abbreviated to ‘cp’)
  • ‘cunt pie’ (‘vagina’)
  • ‘cunt plugger’/’cunt-plugger’ (penis’)
  • ‘cunt plugging’/’cunt-plugging’ (‘sexual intercouse’)
  • ‘cunt positive’ (‘liberal feminist’)
  • “cunt-pounding” (‘sexual intercourse’; Media News, 2005)
  • ‘cunt-power’ (‘female energy’)
  • ‘cuntprick’ (‘idiot’)
  • ‘cunt-rag’ (‘sanitary towel’)
  • ‘cunt-rammer’ (‘penis’, an extension of ‘rammer’)
  • ‘cunt-rats’ (‘tampons’)
  • ‘cuntrified’ (‘public houses converted into wine bars’)
  • ‘cunt ruffler’ (‘provoker of women’)
  • ‘cunt rug’ (‘pubic hair’)
  • ‘cuntryside’ (‘large vagina’)
  • ‘cunt’s blood’ (‘idiot’)
  • ‘cunt-simple’ (‘sex-obsessed’)
  • ‘cuntsman’ (‘womaniser’)
  • ‘cunt smoke’ (‘no problem’)
  • ‘cunt scratchers’ (‘hands’)
  • ‘cunt-screen’ (‘pubic hair’)
  • ‘cunt-shop’ (‘knocking shop’)
  • ‘Cunts In Velvet’ (‘City Imperial Volunteers’)
  • ‘cuntsmith’ (‘gynaecologist’)
  • ‘cunt splice’ (‘partially spliced rope’; variant of ‘cont splice’/’cut splice’)
  • ‘cunt-stabber’ (‘penis’)
  • ‘cunt-stand’ (‘sexually aroused’)
  • ‘cunt-starver’ (‘errant ex-husband’)
  • ‘cunt-sticker’ (‘penis’)
  • ‘cunt-stirrer’ (‘penis’)
  • ‘cunt-stopper’ (penis’)
  • ‘cunt-stretcher’/’cunt stretcher’ (‘penis’)
  • ‘cunt-struck’ (‘sex-obsessed’)
  • ‘cunt stubble’ (‘constable’)
  • ‘cuntsucker’/’cunt-sucker’ (‘cunnilinguist’)
  • ‘cunt-sucking’ (‘cunnilingus’)
  • ‘Cuntsville’ (‘hometown’)
  • ‘cunt swab’/’cunt-swab’ (‘knickers’)
  • ‘cunt-teaser’ (‘a man who sexually excites a woman’)
  • ‘cunt-tickler’/’cunt tickler’ (‘moustache’)
  • ‘cunt torture’ (‘sadomasochistic sex’)
  • ‘cunt trumpet’ (‘cunnilingus’)
  • ‘cunt tug’ (‘pubic wig’)
  • ‘cunt-up’/’cunt up’ (‘mistake’, variation of ‘belly up’)
  • ‘cuntuppance’ (‘punishment for male infedility’, a pun on ‘come-uppance’)
  • ‘cunt wagon’/’cunt-wagon’ (‘passion wagon’)
  • ‘cuntwank’ (‘meaningless sex’)
  • ‘cunt warren’ (‘brothel’)
  • ‘cuntweep’ (‘vaginal fluid’)
  • ‘cunt-wig’ (‘pubic hair’)
  • ‘cunty’ (‘idiot’/’worthless’/’feminine’)
  • ‘cuntyballs’ (‘idiot’)
  • ‘cunty booby’ (‘confusion’)
  • ‘cunty chops’ (‘beard’)
  • ‘cunty Italian’ (‘Italian-American woman’)
  • ‘Cunty McCuntlips’ (‘idiot’)
  • ‘decunt’ (‘withdraw the penis from the vagina’)
  • ‘dirty cunt’ (‘unclean vagina’)
  • ‘doss cunt’ (‘stupid idiot’)
  • ‘double-cunted’ (‘large vagina’)
  • ‘dumb cunt’ (‘stupid idiot’)
  • “encunten” (‘to call someone a cunt’; Britain’s Biggest C**ts, 2008)
  • ‘eyes like sheep’s cunts’ (‘hangover’)
  • ‘fish-cunt’ (‘woman’)
  • ‘flatter than a cow’s cunt’ (‘horizontal’)
  • ‘full cuntal lobotomy’ (‘male sexual arousal’, a pun on ‘full-frontal lobotomy’)
  • ‘get some cunt’ (‘male sexual gratification’)
  • ‘go cunt up’ (‘go wrong’)
  • ‘gunt’ (‘fat female stomach’; a combination of ‘gut’ and ‘cunt’)
  • ‘ICBM’ (“Inter Cuntinental Ballistic Missile”: ‘penis’; Roger Mellie, 2005)
  • ‘KFC’ (‘Knob Filled Cunt’)
  • ‘kipper’s cunt’ (‘very smelly’)
  • ‘knock the cunt out of’ (‘knock out’)
  • ‘lazy cunt’ (‘menstruating vagina’)
  • ‘LC’ (“LOW CUNT” and “LAP CUNT”; James van Cleve, 19–)
  • ‘make a coffee house of a woman’s cunt’ (‘coitus interruptus’)
  • ‘make a lobster kettle out of someone’s cunt’ (‘coitus interruptus’)
  • ‘mouth like a cow’s cunt’ (‘talkative’)
  • ‘petit-cunt’ (‘petit-bourgeois idiot’)
  • ‘pox-ridden cunt’ (‘diseased vagina’)
  • ‘pushing the cunt envelope’ (‘taking idiocy to new limits’)
  • ‘RCH’ (‘Red Cunt Hair’, ‘hair’s breadth’)
  • ‘scabby cunt’ (‘diseased vagina’)
  • ‘scunt’ (‘idiot’)
  • ‘siffed-up cunt-hole’ (‘diseased vagina’)
  • ‘silly cunt!’ (‘stupid idiot’)
  • ‘sluice-cunted’ (‘large vagina’)
  • ‘smelly cunt’ (‘malodorous vagina’)
  • ‘stick it up your cunt’ (‘get stuffed’, a variation of ‘stick it up your arse’)
  • ‘stinky cunt’ (‘malodorous vagina’)
  • ‘sweet cunt’ (‘lovely vagina’)
  • ‘talking cunt’ (‘verbal seduction’)
  • ‘that’s not cunt it’s peehole’ (‘underage girl’)
  • “three cocks to the cunt” (‘with gusto’; Profanisaurus, 2007)
  • “Treecunts” (‘tree branches resembling female genitals’, in Just Sluts And Cunts photographs; Jan Willem Verkerk, 2007)
  • “Two C’s in a K” (‘two cunts in a kitchen’: two housewives in an advertisement; Stephen King, 1981 [also “2CK”; Sam Delaney, 2007])
  • ‘WRAC’ (‘Weekly Ration of Army Cunt’

Abbie Smith is a female scientist, and she is being bullied. By other women.

Do you like science?  Want to do a fun, easy social science experiment?  Your Yahoo search engine must be set to auto complete in order to do this.

1) Go to Yahoo. 2)  type in the words resources for women. 3) stop. 4) read through all the entries. Are there any resources for women?  Write down your answer.

Now, repeat that experiment, but at point number 4, type in the word men instead. Write down your answer. What did you find?*

Imagine if you were being bullied by a woman or a girl?  Statistics tell us that it is far more common than you think, and women are far more creative when they bully. Well, the same result is even more true for men trapped in domestic violence situations.

Women bully people all the time, and right now, Ms. Smith, a  blogger who writes about viruses, vaccines and HIV is under attack by some other bloggers who call themselves feminists.  Most of the bullies, trolls, and the worst of those calling for boycotts and censorship are women, but there are a few manginas, with vagendas  involved as well.

Stop by http://scienceblogs.com/ERV and lend your support to fight female bullies.

Dear-Abby

Abigail Van Buren say's NO to female bullies. Dear Abbie advises us to "run!"when we are stuck in the presence of violent women. But I ask: what if there is nowhere else to go?

WE know there is next to zero social support for men or boys who are being abused and bullied by women–so where do women go when they are abused by women?

Dear Abby, alone, is not enough to stop female bullying.

———————————–

Big Man Abused By Girlfriend Fights To Turn The Other Cheek

By Abigail Van Buren | Dear Abby – 10/19/2011

DEAR ABBY: I have been dating “Carmen” for a few years, but in the last year she has started becoming violent when we are having an argument. I think this is domestic abuse, but she claims it isn’t because I’m a man.

I’m not someone who can take abuse without repercussions. I’m like a mirror. If someone brings violence into my life, I reflect it back on them. So far, I have restrained my instincts — but eventually I know Carmen will cross the line and I’m going to snap. I have the potential to hurt her badly.

I have tried everything to make Carmen understand how I feel, but she continues to insist it doesn’t matter because I’m so much bigger and stronger than she is. When she hits me, it doesn’t hurt physically, but the anger I feel is indescribable. I’m at the end of my rope and considering breaking up with her before I hurt her.

I don’t want to end the relationship, but I think it’s the only way to make her see things from my perspective. Or should I call the cops the next time she hits me? — BRUISED AND ABUSED BOYFRIEND
——————————————————————————————————-

Men are abused by women all the time, and there is NOWHERE for them to go when things get out of control. Men are taught that women don’t do these things, and if they do, to shut up about it. Fortunately, there is Abigail Van Buren–but that’s about it--unless you are willing to defend yourself.


For more on Dear Abby’s response to the letter above, go here

*If your results are anything like mine, almost all of your results for men returned some form of phrase that inferred mental illness, or some other thing that infers mental issues?

Your results for women returned “women in leadership, business, entrepreneurs, web design, women and children, etc” and every other sort of opportunity. What does that tell you about language? What does that tell you about words, and Yahoo? And what does that tell you about resources for men?

And what does that tell you about “social engineering?” Repeat the experiment with Google. Have fun!


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Boadicea Haranguing the Britons

Boudica, wherefore art thou, Boudica?

[Warning: This post contains links to a story of old goats bullying young goats. Also, I am writing under high stress due to the fact that I am surrounded by a herd of 5 human females–one of them obscenely stuffing  her boob in a little persons mouth! Appalling, really…*]

Ophelia Benson writes books. That is how she makes her money.  And she is a misandrist, a sexist, and a snob who uses violent words, the repression of words, and tribal politics to stir up violence against other women.

Female’s bullying females is autocachthonous** within the chemistry of a war-like culture.

She advises her friends to target, and bully others. ( I won’t cite that because I am against encouraging violence, and hesitant to send any onlookers to her site, but I recommend learning self defense at every opportunity.)

Well, one of her recent targets is Abbie Smith, a virologist by trade, and a blogger who is one of the few on the internet who does not censor speech–which is really the censorship of ideas, and criticism of ideas. These types of people who are bullying Smith claim that they are battling trolls, but really, that is a hollow argument–they are actually pushing political agendas, and actively silencing dissent.

Abbie Smith has stood against the assaults of an entire internet community of misandrists, and bullies who demanded that she “get in line” and “know her place” in a social hierarchy of white middle class values.

And Ms. Smith didn’t do that. So they all piled on her–like a gang rape. I won’t link to their vile posts and blogs, but I will point to Ms. Smiths bold and unusual method of resistance to female bullying.

The thread I point to is worth the time to read, and often hilarious; and quite likely an actual evolutionary bang–the place of the abiogenesis of a new way of looking at old wormy, worn out issues that have proven themselves to be false narratives.

Many women are bullies the way that Ophelia Benson is a bully.  Part of my thesis is that this female bullying  largely goes unnoticed by the wider society–and this combines leads to other related behaviors, which are seldom studied in terms of female specific forms of social violence.

Feminist criminology is itself exclusively devoid of terminology to deal with female crimes and actual bad behavior, which  leads to larger, bigger forms of bullying–not least of which is what you see in action at the ERV blog, and those who call for censorship against it.

In fact, the lack of examination of women’s violence against women, and women’s violence and aggression against children, is the central part of my thesis. I believe it leads to war. I also believe that by not discussing, critiquing, or analyzing female violence outside of the feminist paradigm creates and perpetuates a dualistic male/ female paradigm wherein violence is more likely to occur.

I thought I had a friend, once,  an aged old silver back who was cannibalized in the feminist culture-wars and who was blind to the female half of imperialist actual wars,  who told me something about evolution which I have never forgotten–well, most of it anyways.

My former imaginary internet friend said: “There are four F’s that describe all of animal behavior; which leads to gene transfer; which leads to evolution. ”

1. Females. 2. Food 3. Fighting 4. Fucking.

I am sure there was another one or ten F’s in there but those are the basics of how it all happens. And it is also the basics of how violence begins in a herd as well. ( I mean, sure, there’s feeling, friskiness, finagling, flippant face farting and so forth that all figure into it , but they aren’t the big ones.)

No–don’t EVER presume that violence begins  merely over food–quite not. In fact, violence is a herd behavior  that is a constant, and bigger violence, which begins like a spark in a herd that is composed of females of varying ages foraging for food ( picture goats with their butts in the air, tails twitching, circled around a haystack), leads to male competition for the females–a sexual–and dialectical resource.

(male violence is a whole ‘nother issue, but most often in a herd it is one on one.)

But most conflict almost always begins when an older female initiates some form of aggression or violence against a younger female–or, in simple terms, old goats bully young goats.  And, in this case, Ophelia Benson, et al, is bullying Abbie Smith–not that the goat analogy fully fits humans mind you; we are more like chimps, or gorillas, or…ahem.

Well, you can read through it if you want to and figure out who is who. Go here for a primer.

Oh! if only women would be the actual warriors they claim to admire! Boudica, wherefore art thou? Why hast thou forsaken the white middle class feminist woman?

Ms. Benson goes on and on ( you know how they do!) about the oppression of women, and so forth. Despite the fact that she is clearly middle class, well off, and some kind of atheist or another, she still believes in demons–men are all  demons to her, and her friends.

Well, needless to say, she is also a white woman–which fits my thesis: no single group, social class, caste, race, or identity has ever made more money, or profited in one way or another from the violence of the world than white women.

If hearing that bothers you–run along! There is nothing we can say to each other. And, if in some way, you agree with that statement ( and of course there are exceptions indeed) continue to follow along if you want to. I promise I won’t hurt you 😉

But no single class race, or gender has ever avoided more prison time, been raped fewer times, or been sold less often, much less been held accountable for their aggression than white females. And their core belief is always to start shit, and then run! Let the police, and the soldiers do the fighting for them! You know–the little people who uphold the privilege.

Her thesis, which is odd coming from someone who claims they are a humanist.  Ah–but therein lies the rub–she was a feminist first!  Which explains why she makes her money through aggressively pursuing other women, and policing their behavior.

Old feminists in the herd ALWAYS means violence is just around the corner…Don’t say I didn’twarn you.

For more on females bullying females, click me!

* The obscenity is that they are a book club talking about how appalling the conditions in Africa are, with (totally puking now) a copy of Alice Walker in their hands–but the little guy on the boob seems to be hungry enough (I mean–he’s on the breast, not just on the boob discussing Walker’s worn out, quasi-truthful, misandry riddled account  of male female interactions). But the epitome of actual appalling is not drawing age appropriate boundaries between mother and child.

**autocachthonous is my big word of the day. It means originating where it is found.

Trollet som grunner på hvor gammelt det er, 19...

Image via Wikipedia

When bessie got back to the resting place, the moon was dropping just below the  rise of the first  hill. In herder time, it was probably 4:30 a.m.

Bessie was met by an angry faced, udderly humorless billy goat named Bully. And Bully was in no mood to hear anything about what she had been doing. Bully lowered its head, and butted her back to bed.

Because that’s what bullies do to little goats who break the rules of goats. And in every herd, there are lots of bessies and billies named Bully.

To this day, she cannot remember for sure which bully it was that butted her to bed that night, because in a herd, they are always butting heads, and seeking each others attention to prove which one is more hard headed than the other one. And of course, she wouldn’t tell them what she was doing, because she could lose her place in the herd.

They would lecture her about the troll, or shame her for taking such risks–or worse, talk about her like she had put them all at risk, by being a late night goat. But somehow, that made her feel comfortable, in an odd way. She felt protected by big bullies and by the herd.

Well, anyways, the next day was like any other: the sun was shining, the herd was bleating, and the journey across the bridge was the same as any other day, which always went like this:

After pulling all the milk from the teats of the she-goats, and soundly beating and shaming the he-goats for their horn headed rancid odors,  the old drunken farmer opened the gate and pushed the herd towards the bridge; his fat, old wife sat on her bicycle at the edge of the herd saying
“excercise does a body good,” in the general direction of all the goats, with a big smile on her face; but aimed at, and waiting for, just one look in her direction from the farmer.

But every morn’, just as the farmer got past the feeding trough, the old farmers wife turned back, saying “Oh dear! I left the coffee pot boiling! Would you like some?”

The farmer always rolled his eyes, and without looking back, told her ” I will be making cheese the rest of the afternoon, and I had coffee before you were awake,” and pushed the herd over the first hill towards the bridge–where he would then pull a flask out of his overhauls and take a big sip, and recline in the shade underneath a big oak tree, where, most days, he slept till nightfall.

Even the goats knew that the farmers wife was having a second breakfast--that’s what any good goat would do if they could–and although some of them wanted to tell this to the farmer, they had no words–while others would always turn back, and try to run outside the herd to tell the farmers wife that he was drinking!

Such is the nature of farmers; husbands, wives and herds. But they always made it across the bridge, and ate all day long till their bellies were bulging, their horns and hooves were honed,  and their teats were nearly sagging and full again.

Well, about our young goat? She noticed something odd. Something was missing this day on her journey across the bridge, and even though she looked left and right and left again? She could not put her goat finger on it.

What could it be? She was a goat, so she could only, really, think about her hunger! No matter, she bleated out loud, as she stomped across the bridge with the herd. No matter at all–if they move forward, I move forward!

Have YOU ever followed a herd? I have, said the narrator to himself. And following a herd leaves a trail of POOP behind it. And that trail is even more poopy when it rains! But that’s another story, for other herds…

The billies would spend their days trying to mount the bessies, the bessies would rub their rumps on the other bessies, and the older bessies would marvel at how they were always able to butt the young bessies out of position in line, and rub their rumps against the younger AND the older billies; and the billies would butt heads all day long and put on a show for the whole herd–as if they were the main attraction!

Then, they would all lie down around noon each day to chew the cud. The old goats would regale the young goats with bleatings about the big bad wolf, and how that wolf killed some piggies several farms down the county–or how that wolf chased a poor little white haired red hatted herder around in the woods, until she outwitted the old wolf–and the wolf had not been seen since then, and so forth.

They would marvel at the little happenings of nature: the singing cats that wandered by; the mother goose and her goslings gandering at the stream beneath the bridge–it was said that “they lived in a shoe!” And that was always controversial, because some would say they got the story wrong, or that there is no way you can raise goslings in a shoe, without a gander at government assistance, and so forth!

Still others would always bleat out “no, geese live in the water! The sky! While others would maintain Nope: “definitely a shoe–here is proof” and then they would whip out some old comic books to prove their point–which, of course, is futile–because the instant you whip out comic books in front of goats? They eat them! Because anyone who has spent any time around goats knows they eat EVERYTHING up!

On very rare occasions, some dumb billy would mention the old witch who eats children–and all the bessie goats would grow silent, and look at each other with ‘the knowing, silently bleating  eye’ of goats. Then they would change the topic–and if that wasn’t possible? They would bleat quite loudly in fact:

“There is no such thing as witches!”

And then of course, inevitably, one she-goat or another would mention the troll!! The troll lives under the bridge!! Stay away from the troll!! The troll is dangerous!!!

This effectively, ALWAYS took the little herds mind off of witches, which were waaaaay too scary to think about–especially when it was close to Halloween and the fallen red leaves were so tasty!

And, predictably, of course, the tone and pitch of their bleating made it quite possible that every goat was suitably nervous, and they would all begin bleating loudly, but together. Which had the net effect of causing them all to get restless,hungry, and then, to stand up and begin grazing again ’till night fall–with the thought of the evil troll lurking in the back of their minds!

What is important in a herd–and most of the old goats–was that they agreed that the troll was dangerous–and that he would eat them. Occasional hushed bleating could be heard breaking out, with the youngest goats wondering if such a thing exists, because no one had actually seen one; no one would admit to having known It, even if they did, and so forth.

But the old goats would lower their horns, and the bleating would stop–there is comfort for some, in being bullied by those they know. Well, where do you think this left our hungry little night wandering bessie?? Of course, in the midst of such a view of trolls–from ALL of the ‘older, wiser, and experienced’ goats in the herd, she could not even imagine bleating out “His name is Boogie!”

Because, if only because that would get her soundly head butted, and silenced; but also because it would infer that she had done something that not a single one of them had EVER done!

What did she do? Says the narrator in clipped tones, rapidly recounting the wrongs of the right little bessie:

She had asked the name of the troll, instead of giving the troll a name, or the name that others had given it–and in that sense, learned things that went beyond the narrative…which, in any herd, threatens every other member of a herd! It would mean that she had violated herd behavior, and
a)not trampled the troll

b) not hated the troll

c) actually talked to the troll, and said her own words to it’s face!

d) taken a risk that was hers alone!

e) challenged the voyeuristic impulses of an entire generation of voyeurs who demand that trolls be exposed and defamed–( far from the herder paradigm of trolls as flashers, perverts and rapists….but I digress! said the narrator)

AND:
She humanized the troll in her own mind!…..which is always waaaaaay worse than re-imagining a narrative, a witch, or warlocks—but we digress….*

*she had actually broken the narrative of fear that is always directed primarily at young female goats!

And of course, in a herd full of ungodfully painful head butts, who could possibly imagine that  type of “heresy” ? Sure–after the wolf was chased away, and everyone was happy, what then!? What could possibly guide a narrative….er…a herd, without an evil wolf, troll or…anything at all to be fearful of?

Such was the life, and intellect of the herd! What is important to a herd is that they all agree that the troll belongs under the bridge; that if the troll were ever to come out from under the bridge, they would all butt their horns at it; maul it with their cloven hooves, and soundly send it back where it belongs, humiliated, and soundly disenfranchised!

Narrator, with cheezburger in hand: No, we do not mean Ben and Jerry’s, Taco Bell, and certainly not McDonalds Corporation franchises!

Well, either way, when nightfall came, the herd was largely, always, too tired by then to even worry about the troll, and they clattered, and splattered their way across the bridge, which usually woke the farmer, who began to hurry about in an authoritative manner, and walk the herd back to the first field, over the big hill.

But every night they made it across. And every night they crossed the bridge, was like any other to the goats.

Clatter, plitter, plit plit, clank; a splash here, a splash there. More clattering; splattering ( depending on diet) and lot’s more plittering.

Just another end of the day in the life of goats! There is indeed, great comfort in the baaahHHaaaing, the plitter and the plop–the warmth of a herd. And you know what? Not one single goat ever gave any thought to who might have built that bridge?

Or who really lived under it?

Strange; but then again, scientists building bridges is even more strange to think about for goats–after all, bridges are marvels of science. Big beams, tall timbers, creatively resilient cross members, alchemy and algebra, luscious loads, spiffy spans,and so forth.

But who did the heavy lifting? Who put beam for beam, and timber end to timber end? And who guided the goats to it in the first place?

Why, such questions seldom even cross the mind of goats, or scientists…and even then, to goats, mythical creatures still live in the woods and the sky, and probably made it all happen. Either that, or their nursing mothers, and their milk filled aunts, sisters, cousins…well, you get the idea–such is the mind of a goat to whom all things are relative!

Who can remember anything bigger, or more important than the generation we live in? Goats memories are not equipped for remembering anything but nibbling time and again at the flowers you told them not to eat!

But that very night, the troll was hard at work, with curled, aching fingers.Now one thing you must understand about trolls: there IS A REASON they are trolls–and I am not saying all trolls are created equal–certainly not. In fact, I would wager one breakfast, and a flask of vodka that not all trolls are alike.

That’s a standing bet.

But one thing IS for certain about trolls: they are deformed in some way; they are not average, or ordinary, or even superficially like any of the goats in the herd; or like the drunken farmer and his fat wife, or the great engineers who built the bridge.

And each troll is something OTHER than a troll as well. Each troll is, for whatever reason, living under a bridge somewhere; a bridge that spans a stream, a river, or even an ocean!

And all water is connected, and supervised by the air, the wind, and the clouds, the sun, the…well you get the picture. It might be convenient; expedient; and even possibly well intentioned–but it really is not a good idea to preach that all trolls are alike, because in doing so, you deny yourself the opportunity to understand why water is important to trolls, and why they are never far from it.

In fact, if any of the goats had ever even actually known one troll? they might have noticed the broken fingers; the hunched backs; and certainly, the odd manners and looks of those who build real, actual, and often times, sustainable bridges without timber, tangible math, or even tall tales of power relationships.

But not all goats are created equal either, and that’s a fact! Anyone who has ever spent time herding goats knows that.

So, in-as-much as our young goat had that feeling that something was missing? She was not able to identify it, nor voice it to herself, much less voice it to the larger herd, which is always so extremely hungry, competitive, hierarchical, and bullying.

But Boogie was getting busy on that , that very night, filling in the blank spots that were left after one goat in the last several thousand years actually had asked his name–which of of course even he didn’t know fully well, because he was learning new parts of it every day!

Now, though she sensed it; and though she wished to voice it, our poor young goat was not able to put her goat-finger on what caused her to wake up at night–at least not THAT night. And she was usually good at putting her goat finger on what bothered her, despite admonishments from the kin in her clan.

And also, despite her hunger in her belly–there was indeed something else that was hungry as well. But she slept on this, after remembering the head butts she had received from a bully in her herd.

Yet Boogie clutched his pencil. He carved out words. He hammered at his brain like a mad man, with tortured knuckles to find what it is he needed to write.

And his mind was an empty page–thousands of years under bridges had taught him only one thing: no one really reads between the lines. Ever–even if they say they do. Readers are just not equipped for blank spaces. They can cross over a bridge a million times, and still not know what is missing.

And he hammered at the sign in his hands, which he had removed from the bridge just the night before, and it read

” Cross at your own peril.”

Which wasn’t actually an empty sign at all. In fact, it was ominously full. Too full, of something he knew quite well. But full of what? He had slept the night as best he could, and revised the sign two or three times already!

At one point, he wrote: “The kingdom is not your personal cash cow!”

And then quickly realized he was talking to goats, and how eerily unaware the herd is of what kingdoms are or, were. So he scribbled that over, and wrote: “This bridge does not go to Russia”--and then quickly rethinking it, realizes that it well might go there, or to its next door neighbor, and relatively soon.

He was truly stumped. He wrote “It takes a bridge to raise nations of goats” and then decided that was decidedly Hitlerish. Frustrated, he scribbled over all of it, and wrote

” I came across a child by a raging river, that was balling its eyes out. I soon realized that his parents had likely drowned in the torrents. I looked up at the coming frost, the blowing leaves, and looked back down at the child. I gave him what food I had, and left him as I had found him.”

Which seemed entirely appropriate, considering the life expectancy, and sometimes, the abiogenesis of trolls, and the fact that many trolls are river rats anyways with nowhere else to go–that the river is often the birthplace of civilizations.

Which led the troll to a remarkable realization– that most goats don’t read Zen poetry! So, he furtively erased and then wrote over that sign,:

It was then that the troll had an awakening–a catharsis, if you can imagine such. But Boogie realized something important.
Most goats only read at a fifth grade reading level; and that disappointed him greatly.

He wrote: “Goats beware! this bridge is built to last; you are not!”

He threw down his sign, and felt very old, and very tired. His sign sounded so preachy, or pedantic.

But he could not sleep–in fact, the next day came and went, and Boogie heard the clatter and splatter of the goats across the bridge; the bumping and humping of it all; to him, was what he suffered from the most–it was all so redundant, so repetitive, and made him feel like he was thousands of years old–which, in fact, he was.

The sun came, the sun went, the moon waxed over the fields like rice paper filtering a shadow show, the moon waned like a dog past heat, and tired.

And finally sleep set in like a floating rock. Boogie was exhausted. His last waking memory was what felt like a goats nuzzle on his cheek, and a vague remembrance of hammering poetry to the town pillory in an odd, Puritan place of bad waking dreams.

It could have been a thousand years; or maybe the next day when he awoke, to the sound of something other than plitters, plotters, and splatters. But the sounds in Boogies ears were like magical things–ear pancakes with eyeball sauce! Glitter and sparkles, broken by sunlight, rippling downstream, and not at all like ringtones, circumscribed on his inner thoughts .

It was the sound of an Ooooh and then an aaAAah, broken by a whoo–ooo, and a wheee, oh! every now and again.

In fact, he could not at that moment remember his days covered in the rain soaked shit of goats; the torrential rains that made him despise the task of being a living sponge, cleansing scientifically structured structures; but in fact, he awoke refreshed, regardless.

He rolled over, and ‘splash!” discovered he was next to a river. Yes, it was still his river. He looked out from underneath the bridge. Yes, it was still his bridge–or at least, it was his bridge, much older, and slightly less structured. His bridge in so much as he remembered the shit that fell off of it onto his head, when others just used it, or thoughtlessly clattered along it.

And climbing the embankment, he looked upon something he had never seen before: the farmer was holding his wife, from behind, like a goat, mounting a goat or baby ridng piggy back on the warm shoulders of it’s mother; the wife was smiling at the farmer, and he, at her.

Either way, her dress was up past her thighs, and she was nowhere near as fat as she once was–the farmer, far from drunken, far from rolling his eyes, was kissing at her from around her pink cheek, and meeewling like a singing cat, and she, playful at his lips, and giggling like a clucking spring chicken.

And the sunlight was brutal–magnificent, AND chandelier sparkling, but brutal none the less. After his eyes adjusted, he found himself face to face with a sign, well hung, but crooked, and written upon that sign? Were the words:

“She who asks receives; He who looks AND listens, gets’” and one particularly bright red rose was hung at the bridgepost, and it said “Hey drunken farmer, Pick me and give me to the hungry lady with the big eyes.”

“Goats who ask my name, may  well be surprised to learn that I not what your mother told you.”

And “I am not your mothers troll–but I AM often in need of sleep, and a good bath.”

And every where else you looked? There were more signs! Lots of them, nailed to trees, and posts, and flowers; missives smeared with strange slogans, and bad poetry.

Like:  “To the man who will choose strong drink, choose also strong companions.”

And “To the Girl who cried wolf–knock it off. You scare me into action too often so that I don’t believe you when it’s real.”

And “There are armies of war dogs with all of our names on their collars, and you can practice your voice in other ways.”

“To everyone and everyone–being kind first is the kindest of all kindnesses.”

“To the boy in blue? Try red today, or something else. To the boy in pink–you go girl [snap]” Oddly, someone had already written over that one and said ” That’s so passe'”

And, most absurdly, there was this:

“The man in the Bound Worm suit probably has hands. They’re just tied up at the moment.”

Juxtaposed next to this was written:

“B.S.is an actual college degree”.

Then there were really perplexing messages–stunning, complex, inhumane, and odd ones like:

“Eye contact can lead to interesting encounters.”

“Love one another, but without the Holy Joe.”

“Laugh, it won’t kill you.”

“Die for something? Let it be speech. But then shut up.”

“Learn to listen between the lines.”

“Listen and Learn. But, also, Laugh, often, at the humorless.”

Then–out of nowhere– a breeze rustled forth a leaflet past his feet that said

“Butterfly wings have a larger purpose to serve than being venerated as glorified pincushions.”

And worst of all? Most profanely? A sign that said

“There comes a time when you drop duty, and grab sleep.That time hasn’t come yet.”

And then, there was more perversity! Despicable, strange and alienating prose! Most oddly performed and deranged–revealing of the deviance of whatever troll had written such hateful missives.

Even for fifth graders, such things are thought wrong, and immature in the least–deviance, untamed, corrupts the minds of children! But I will tell you one of the worst:

There was an arrow painted on the side of the bridge, and next to it the words:

“Shit rolls downhill. Period.”

Well! How smug.

No matter where he looked, there were signs, which he interpreted as symbols of some kind, but he didn’t know what those symbols were.

Several of the tree leaves had bright yellow smiley faces painted on them, with big hands attached to the sides of the head instead of ears–so that every time the breeze blew, they all waved at you!

And nearly every single, silly flower had a little fuzzy necklace, made of yarn, tied to little notes that hung gently on their stems, and over their leaves like ribbons,  which read things like:
=========================
” Beauty is in the Eye of the Beholder,” and “Not every flower knows how to beheld…”
=========================

A daisy said: “Some are more tragically beholden than others”

and a  lily spoke  “Often, the tragically beholden do not hold you back. But it’s the herd mentality you need to be careful of”

And hung at the foot of the bridge was a sign that said “Please don’t pick the flowers–pick your nose instead!”

Other flowers said ” I may be beautiful, but I really actually don’t smell that good, and make you burp if you eat me.”

and

“I attract bees.”

There was a huge, almost obnoxiously large sunflower that had managed to escape the cud swaddled nips of the herd too–and around it’s neck was a larger sign, that said “I may be huge and obnoxious, but I promise you something good to eat if you don’t nibble at me quite yet.”

He was pretty obvious.

And then, in the place of the sign that used to say “Proceed at your own peril” was one crafted from a found object–an old faded flag! It said:

“Not everyone is equipped, knows how to be picked, or be held, while some  are tragically beholden, yet others smell more fragile than flowers; and still others have way too many noses in their butts. Most of all, some are scared, and scarred, but still deserve our patience, not our judgement–because judgement should begin in yourself.”

Which was the strangest sign of all, considering that the troll was several thousand years old, bent over, yolk-backed, and saddled next to a herd of constantly bleating creatures that were always somewhere off in the distance, bleating and pooping, sleeping and wandering; muttering under their breath about witches, wolves, and scary, oddly formed creatures under bridges.

And this other little yarn yolked sign was draped everywhere there was a bent up flower! He should have known better than to have noticed. Still, he looked towards the farmer and his wife, the milling, pooping herd; he looked at his crumpled hands, and he read the sign which asked

“Who could possibly sleep next to that?”

But it was spring yet again, and one little goat pranced just above the hill, paused, and made a motion for the bridge. There was the slightest hesitation, as if the little goat had encountered one of the many signs left for it, draped around the neck of a flower–goats only eat the flowers that you like–but the hesitation was at the sign, at the flower, rather than a hesitant fear of trolls.

No doubt, Boogie thought, the whole herd will follow this time, if only to the bridge to see what their shepherds are up to. And that, all in all, isn’t a bad thing.

Anyone who has ever been around goats knows that…

Occupy Wall Street is Coming to Minnesota.

But before you go look at video’s of the Occupy Wall Street Movement, please take a look at this video below, which shows you how the police infiltrate, wage violent campaigns, and co-opt peaceful, social movements with the Black Bloc, or this post, about how the police falsely arrested a journalist who won a 100,000 dollar settlement.

And the best piece of advice anyone ever gave me about waging peace? Anyone stranger, or semi-friend who discusses violence, or asks you about violence, or asks you to commit violence, is likely a police officer, undercover.

Here are Police infiltrating a Peace march, and then smashing a camera–bring your camera’s!! Camera’s and cell phone are your best protection against police who break the law. And police ROUTINELY break the law. This is what happens when the police are not policed.


“Saturday September 26 2009: Three undercover officers attempt to infiltrate a March Against Police Brutality at the University of Pittsburgh, but fail miserably due to their horrendous disguise attempts. During the march, one of them breaks a photographer’s camera. This is just one example of a larger pattern of attempts to silence the media during the G20 protests

The main tactic that police use to defeat any social movement is to keep you too scared to speak up, by wiretapping your phones in advance.

if you are a serious organizer, use a no-contract throw away phone from Net 10, or any no-contract carrier. Because after they listen in on your plans, they  conflate your peaceful intentions with violence. Any simple phrase will do, because police all speak pig latin UckFay ouYay becomes ” bomb hidden in a word package.”

And the police, more often than any group, or organization–initiate violence in and between any group of peaceful protesters.

Now–wanna have some fun? Go to youtube, and look up “police brutality G20”, or ‘ police infiltrate peaceful protest.’ I still have not been able to fully download or watch this video below!

 

I bet your internet connection slows down, or your videos don’t load right. Now go have a moment, and think about what your rights are really worth. But one of the personal “prices” that I have paid for my freedom to download videos of police brutality? The madness of a clogged, re-directed internet connections that time out, and make my screen flash. Crazy> Try it yourself a few times–especially on the eve of peaceful protests.

Bare Naked Violent White Women Always Get Off. Amanda Knox--Foxy Knoxy-- 'innocent' like only a white female can be.

What do you get when you combine sexual desire, racist white women who fetishize ‘othered men’ and unexamined privilege? Amanda Knox, getting off a on a murder charge, of course–and really, really bad–almost terrifying–feminist discourse about the non-existence of white female privilege.

—————————————————————————————————–

By Sarah Stillman – Special to CNN

There is something about pretty white girls, bloody knives and the slightest whiff of sex that gets the international news machine humming like nothing else.  All three factors merged explosively Monday in a crowded appeals court in Perugia, Italy. There, before several hundred journalists and other spectators, American college student Amanda Knox, 24, was cleared of murdering her study-abroad roommate, Meredith Kercher, in a sexually-motivated crime four years ago. 

Read More Here.

Meanwhile, when white women aren’t busy implicating black men for their crimes, they are still training in the next crowd of upholders of WFP, with ‘under-hijabid’ tactics–those white women can’t help themselves, they just have to get their socially concerned hands on them othered women!

Back in your home town, othered women are getting used to being not white womenagain. AND getting a taste of police hands all over their bodies. Why is it that the real rebel spirited women are all wearing burqas these days?

But Amina Farah Ali was wiretapped for ten months by the FBI, arrested and charged with crimes of terrorism– because she is NOT white.

Amina Farah Ali, wiretapped for ten months by the FBI, and arrested because she is not a White female.

And the white ones who actually kill, maim, molest, or otherwise do harm, get off all the time with a slap on the hand, or…? But here is a rare face in any booking room, in any city, anywhere–white women have been imprisoned in American jails less than any other racial, gender, or class of people–including white men:

Amy Senser, of Minneapolis, isn't talking about her hit and run homicide charges.

Imagine what we could learn if we tapped white women’s phones for a ten month stretch, like we do to the ‘other’ people?  Oh the crimes we would hear about!

But that will never happen because the FBI is full of white women; and feminist criminology, and examinations of women’s deviance, are centuries behind the times.

Maybe the other girls just need bigger tools to defend themselves with, or better lawyers. Or, these “othered” women should just grow lighter skin, if they want to get off like the rest of the girls.

Notice the word “little” in this woman’s video commentary about Asian women, and her thoughts on men. That is “objectification in action.” Diminishing the identity of a race class or group begins with diminutive terminology.

And notice how she subtly turns a discussion about robots into a discussion about sex robots that challenge her concept of intimacy.

Ana Kasparian from the Examiner, and  Cenk Uygur, from the Huffington Post)

Then, notice how, after she turns the discussion about robots into a discussion about men’s lack of intimacy ( one of the primary complaint’s that women have about men), she turns the commentary over to a man, her co-host–who then proceeds to blather as if her hand was stuck up his ass like a puppet.

This is how projection works. This is how women use men as tools to voice things that they are too insecure to say about sexuality.

Who needs a robot when you have men around who act like them–and are controlled by them–and speak the words that they are too afraid, to say?

Men are tools, which is demonstrated by the fact that men represent 92% of all workplace fatalities, and machinery related job tragedies.[ 2010 stats here]

This is how some women use men, and those women will use you, too,  as a sock puppet,  parading their insecurities for them, instead of being accountable for what they say and do, or conflating a false sense of morality or imperative  into statements about sex.

Notice how Kasparian subtly ( the commentator, not the robot) infers that men prefer sex with inanimate objects, and in motherly concern-tones notes that it is a “problem” with men in Japan and elsewhere?

Why is it that western women are afraid of Asian women, and robots?

Actroid-DER, developed by KOKORO Inc for custo...

Most American women own vibrators, but fear robots--why is that? Image via Wikipedia

I mean, after all, women have been using vibrators since the fifties at least. Sex toys for women are du jour, poke, prod and click me for fun, and profitable, but for men? A whole ‘nother dialogue of shame.

I bet Ana Kasparian–if she is truly a western woman– has a drawer full of dildos, and a 10-speed vibrator–one she got from her mother for Christmas; and she snuggles with her poodle all night.

And Uygur–well, as above, a male tool.

This is where objectification begins, and projection takes its form–in the minds of women who compare, and compete for personal power. Who aren’t accountable for their own sexual impulses; and the tools who uphold them.

The white, western woman is blatantly co-opting an Asian  dialogue, or subtly race baiting to minimize our insight into her own racism, and sexual anxiety. Never mind that an It begins and ends with women who compete to breed, as they market themselves to you, or compete to control men in general through sex shaming rhetoric.

The real objective of some women is control of other women’s choices, and bodies in the disguise of “all women are this and all women are that” dialogues about feminism, using male bodies as tools of conquest. The  sock puppet of ‘collective women’  is actually a mask to cover in-group female anxiety over the  ‘othered group’ sexuality–an attempt to own the other through dialogue.

Western women are at the very core, afraid of being outsourced, or of having to  face the same fears that men have every time women’s rhetoric ‘others’ people and thins as objects.

Oh, that and maintaining the western woman’s right to parade in SlutWalks, and buy bigger, better, sweat-shop made vibrators. Imagine, comparing yourself to a robot…says a lot for where these women are at in their heads.