Archive for the ‘Male bodies as objects’ Category

Hey–if anyone out there has mad computer programming skills, I need help actualizing the feminist word mangler machine, and feminist hangman.

The mangler has an input and an output, with lots of gibberish and psychobabble in between, with citations. [Here is the model]. Put anything that you want into it, but all results are ‘threat’ ‘rape’ ‘bad werdz’ and so on.

Then, there is the feminist hangman game: there are thousands of word choices, but all of them end in T, no matter what.

Hangman (game)

R_A_P_I_S__

The little guy on the noose starts the game with his head in the noose and all of his body parts drawn in already, except for a disturbingly large blank space for his weiner, underlined.

The letters ate the bottom that are already written in–very conspicuosly and permanently are R_A_P_I_S_ _.

It always ends that way, no matter what.Thanks for playing!

 

KW:strange machines weird ideas funny machines hangman game

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Do you hate getting beat up, raped, or otherwise physically assaulted as much as I do? (warning: the first link is NOT work or children friendly) If your answer is no–and you are a rape and bondage fetishist, or just curious go here.

But if you are tired of being afraid, try some Krav Maga–you can use more of what you learn with real actual self-defense in ten lessons of Krav Maga than you will EVER need to learn in ten years of Gong Fu, Tai Qi, or karate. Don’t believe me? Watch this video below.

There are defenses against hair pulling, bear hugs, chokes, and even being picked up off of the ground! Here is one example of a defense against a common assault: from behind, while loading groceries!

Did that look hard? It’s not! But the blogosphere is constantly buzzing with fearful dialogues about real, and often, imaginary rape, and women rally around rape anxiety, but how often do you spend the time to learn about self defense?

The best defense against rape is learning how to NOT get raped–how NOT to be a victim. Krav Maga can teach you more about actual self defense in ten lessons than any other martial art, and the last incredible Krav Maga instructor I met was a middle aged white woman.

Most of Krav Maga is based on techniques of actual street fighting–not theoretical martial wisdom, or ‘spiritual’ based disciplines. It is also one of the most adapted and adaptable forms of martial arts I have ever participated in.

And I bet you can do most of those moves you saw up there, too, but you just need to practice the more developed stuff with a trained instructor.

Well, if you live in the Minneapolis Saint Paul area, you will have a chance to do just that. Internationally renowned Krav Maga trainer Tamir Gilad , a Global Instructor for the International Krav Maga Federation, trainer to Israeli police and soldiers, women and children, is coming to Minneapolis on October 25th, but you have to register in advance, because his classes are popular.

Here below, Gilad talks about how he trains you–and the police that you call when you are in trouble as well.

The event is from 6 to 9 p.m., October 25th at Conga Nightclub in Nordeast Minneapolis!

For details call Gail at 612-558-2284, and tell her pornalysis sent you, or go to http://kravmagampls.com or send an e-mail to info@kravmagampls.com

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…

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]

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.

Graphic highlights Pew poll responses to questions on the military

Perhaps you were out navel gazing, or entertaining useless parrots in useful, constructive spaces,  as the leftern front fell off the right side of a cliff, or arguing about vaginas and penises, when a Pew Poll reported that 1 of 3 veterans of the Iraq–Afghan wars thinks war is full of shitand guts and splattered brains–and oh–that it was a waste of time as well.

More below:

WASHINGTON (AP) — One in three U.S. veterans of the post-9/11 military believes the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan were not worth fighting, and a majority think that after 10 years of combat America should be focusing less on foreign affairs and more on its own problems, according to an opinion survey released Wednesday.

The findings highlight a dilemma for the Obama administration and Congress as they struggle to shrink the government’s huge budget deficits and reconsider defense priorities while trying to keep public support for remaining involved in Iraq and Afghanistan for the longer term.

Nearly 4,500 U.S. troops have died in Iraq and about 1,700 in Afghanistan. Combined war costs since the Sept. 11, 2001, terrorist attacks have topped $1 trillion.”

In related news, Amy Goodman, an actual front-line journalist and heroine from Democracy Now, won a $100,000  settlement after being unlawfully arrested by police officers who can’t read the first amendment of the United States Constitution.

Huh? WTF is that? Your representatives of social order–‘ jus doin’ mah job perteckin’ freedum from jernilists, and there werdz.’

Regions of the brain affected by PTSD and stress.

This is your brain on PTSD

[This happened last night actually. It takes time to reflect on such events. Read this as if it is happening, because these are my thoughts immediately after the event]

I was physically assaulted less than two hours ago and I did not report it to the police.  Is that a bad thing? I guess it depends on who engenders the dialogue…It depends on what I look like, compared to my perpetrator.

And hitting back is never an option if you are male–you just learn to take it–long after the fear of violence leaves your body, anger sets in, and then the numbness, and then the matrix of contradictions about women’s violence against men and children–and men who  were once children. Then depression.

But from my literal, lifetime of  experience, men who call the police are as likely as their perpetrator to get hauled off to jail, because violence against men is du jour, and profitable one way or the other to the police and state court systems, as well as to women’s organizations that depend on minimizing and marginalizing  this topic.

Men who break the norms, and the rules of being violated or bullied by women are a bigger threat to society than men who just shut up, and take it “like a man, “because shouldering the violence of America has always been a male burden, and always has been expected of us.

I spent over fifteen years employed in, or owning businesses, that were a cultural anthropologists dream of opportunities to observe situational violence, and served as training grounds for violent women to get away with violent crimes.

Then something kicked in: I had had enough of violence. It is a toxic poison that creeps into the center of you, and seeps out in all the wrong places.

But before I get all rhetorical, here are the facts of my assault, two hours ago:

1) I was walking home from a bar–not drunk, but buzzed enough to sleep. I like a few beers to calm recurrent PTSD, and I like to walk at late at night. But I am always prepared for violence.

2) I walked from the bar clutching a prime cut of flank steak, rare, nestled into a bed of fried yam fries. I looked forward to finishing my meal at home, over a cold one.

3) I walked one block towards home, and quickly noted the sound of loud voices. Loud voices are not uncommon at this time of night, but loud female voices, raucous, and ‘distressed’ in that way that females can get–all worked up over comments about hair or something.

4) I pulled my large canister of pepper spray out of my side pocket, and hid it in my hand, knowing full well that violent women travel in packs, and always have violent men beside them. I proceeded forwards at my green light.

Raucous womens voices late at night are very common, and almost always charged with violent or sexual energy. As a male, and trained to the sound of ‘women in distress‘ as most males are, I recognized one distinct female voice and then another–parties to the conflict, it turns out.

In my years of experience, the loudest females are usually capable of initiating the most violence,and their will to violent rhetoric is almost always a signal to actual violence to come–that violence which sucks others in.

Their vocal ranges were beyond ordinary, and obviating my caution.’

5) I proceeeded forwards, and encountered a large diverse group of males and females outside a bar. That bar, my memory told me is one that I recognized as being a former ‘hillbilly stomping ground’ or, a bar that was once predominantly full of white people

6) That bar is currently a  ‘wigger/nigger bar’ where everyone of all races calls each other nigger. “Wusup myNigga”,” Yo Nigga,” “You my nigga?” and so forth. Make of that what you will.

7) I paused ten or fifteen feet from the site of the violence, and looked at my options. People were flowing from the bar to the street. My experience has taught me that the Laden principle of street crossing does not apply for men at all, for various reasons too much to go into here, with this being one of the more extreme examples of what happens to men who disobey the rules [here]

So, engendered male, my options of walking around the violence were as good as my options walking through the violence–side note: if you have never been around violence, good for you. Stop reading here. You deserve a nice life, with your head tucked firmly up your privileged ass, and nice, fresh  clean, cloudlike white diapers every day!!

I grew up in the most extreme violence, and spent years climbing out of it, with varied success.

But I have never been so fortunate, and I have never been sheltered or or protected by any law, or entity, ever. So here is my reasoning during that moment.
a) walk around the violence–which had alreadyspread into the street, which meant waiting for a stoplight. If I immediatyely extricated myself, and walked across the street despite a contradictory stoplight, I could face police violence–which is always more scary that crowd violence.

b) walk through the violence at an opportune moment. An opportune moment is one wherein ‘friendly’ members of a mob recognize me, and my face as a face unaffiliated with that mob violence, and let me “pass”. This is a common occurence when an out-group member encounters in-group violence. ( Anthropology 101?).

c) wait till the violence passes, in which case I might become a witness to the violence, implicated in the violence, and also a further victim via police line-ups, witness statements, and other dirty cop tactics of social control/police authority–like arresting people who refuse to participate in the charade of informing the good officers what happened.

WWJD? What Would Jew Do? What do the good atheists and the good skeptics and humanists have to say?

I won’t wait long to hear that all violence is perpetrated by men, etc etc, ad nauseum.

Nor will I wait in telling you what I did: I walked gingerly through the violence as I have attempted all my life, but only after I had made eye contact and shared facial expressions with members of the crowd who seemed to be relatively detached from the violence– like rolling my eyes, and signifying that such violence is ‘NOT any business of mine’, eye to eye with what appeared to be the most sober, humored people in that crowd.

But what was that violence, you ask?  Who were the violent people in the crowd? And what was my assault? What were the dirty bits?

I will tell you: after my WWJD moment passed, and I was affirmatively nodded through the crowd by seemingly detached participant A -a white male in Wigger gear, and participant B-a mixed female in college age clothes–I walked on by in the path that cleared like a parted Red Sea…

At which point the combatants–who had been pulled apart just before my entry–re-converged.

Two tall (5’10-11″), relatively attractive mixed and or black females, who had been pushed away from each other, lunged at each other, from 10 feet away, and despite being yelled at to calm down, insisted on throwing punches over the shoulders of their referees who were trying to hold them back.

And that is where the shit got funny.

Imagine now, girl A and girl B, and Guy A:

As I passed Girl A on my right–who was being pushed out of the conflict by Guy A–she began to punch guy A in the face; at which point, he gave her a hard shove in the center of her chest and told her to knock it off. She responded with full fingernails and fists in his face, and then, backing off, said

” I’ve already called 911.”  That, in my experience, has been  what any 911 call looks like anyways–some woman who digs a shitter deep hole with her violence, and THEN calls the cops FIRST. Female bullies always call the cops when they are about to get their asses kicked for what they do. ( ANOTHER STORY)

Needless to say, I moved forwards, past her, and out of range–or so I thought.

Having passed, as I turned to look back at woman A) AND THE MAN SHE WAS PUNCHING–and  I was punched squarely in my right kidney by combatant number two, Girl B, from out of nowhere.

Like a Myriam, not turned to a pillar of salt nearly, but definitely a man who was punched with a boxers rib jab by yet another woman, I was cowed, and gasped–my kidneys are my weak point, as I have only one, and I haven’t done a boxers sit-up in years!

Then, she rushed by me, slightly looking over her shoulder in my direction, made eye contact, and then hurled forwards towards girl A.

Ouch, I thought in that moment. My bad kidney!-my only kidney,  in the shape of a horshoe by defect of birth. I have no idea why she socked me there–a complete stranger hit my weak spot!! But I am aware that any good boxer knows the sheer value of a kidney shot can take an opponent out quicker than a good hook to the jaw.

Women seem to know your weak spots, and go for them by rote. I have learned that through a lifetime of being assaulted by women, and wondered if she had a brother who might have taught her the value of that shot; I actually marveled at her punching power!

And it got even weirder–I noticed her strong long legs going up to her ass like pillars; I refelcted on the years and years of knowing women’s violence first hand, that if I worked the game and acted a victim--I could probably even use that card to work my way into the crowd, and win approval as a victim–maybe even hook up with her at some point because ‘she owed me’ something–an apology.

I watched this sort of bar violence, and bar politics for years on end, enough to know its system, and work it.

Such is the perverse nature of enduring women’s violence.Now, I had to pause, and reflect–and also salaciously admire–these two comely
warriors that I had been caught in the middle of.  I also instantly recognized the value of my life experience–the value of knowing that most people–and certainly most white women– could not be so lucky to see what I have seen about women in general, and women’s violence in particular.

But women are egregiously violent, and more so when drinking.  And white people in general–detached as they are from the primal heirarchy, and reality in general–they don’t see or acknowledge it because they refuse to look–it scares them. It is a discussion that needs tobe had.

And most white violence takes rhetorical forms, and hides itself behind police and state structures.

They employ victim narratives that disadvantage some at the expense of others–white peoples violence is systemic, inappropriately examined, and malevolently applied via social tropes, and stereotyopes that uphold social orders, even while perpetrating violence elsewhere. The white power structure is not a valid representation of reality–but it works well  as a system of social control, and as  system of capital formation and  taxation.

Put another way, that system relies on lies, rather than truths to sell itself to you.

And white peoples choices to systemically refuse to discuss violence perpetrated by women? White culture decisions to marginalize stories of womens violence? That is the grease in the gears of such as system of social control.

Wanna’ know  the main tool of controlling boys, or turning them into state sponsored homicidal maniacs?

Tell the boys “never ever hit girls.” And doubly damn the boy who would sock her back–all social mechanisms are designed to uphold this sort of female violence.

This was a painful, lunacy-worthy lesson in contradiction for me most of my life: being bullied, and battered by girls and women from infancy into adulthood. But it’s there, and it’s real. My kidney will tell you that tomorrow.

Now here’s the really, really fucked up part–the really demented part–about the specific, and differential effects of women’s violence against people in general, and men, specifically, AND ME THREE HOURS AGO, that sits in my craw: despite having been assaulted by a complete stranger; and despite a crowd of witnesses seeing it–seeing me, a mere passing stranger– being literally punched in my back! by a woman I have never known–is unthinkably wrong, unspeakably demented–and strangely, according to girl/boy politics–acceptable to my society!!

If I were to call it in as an assault against my person, there is no doubt in my mind that I would be brought into a jail, or a mental institution–because womens violence is condoned, encouraged, accepted, and validated by police culture, and society at large. Any member of team female violence would no doubt concoct some derailing minimalization of that woman’s violence against me.

And, as those things most certainly always work out, the officer on the scene–being a fem-trained dolt, woul say ” Well, I gotta bring one a yuh in, or both of yuh,” because police are trained like everyone else to conceive of women as “victums of mail viuhlince,” despite decades of studies to the contrary.

It blows my mind.

I had been “tapped” by that violent female as a potential ally, witness or partner in her crimes of violence; and by my experience, and by inference, as a potential sexual partner by my willingness to “protect her” should the police actually come, or she loses her shit too deep in some trouble she started, or chose to participate in.

Or maybe, I was merely assaulted, again.

And after a lifetime of enduring women’s villence, i know it quite well. Sounds strange, doesn’t it? Sounds like Stockholm Syndrome, or trauma based bonding, right? Learn to love women, learn to love women’s violence.

But see, it was ME, engendered male, and well aware of such a discrepancy within my culture–many men would kill to be her hero in that moment (and I have not discussed the males in this crowd at all), who wasn’t about to have any part in it.

That I had endured random female violence from her out of nowhere was a gift, so the rhetoric says–lucky me, another chance to NOT open my mouth and condone it, or open my mouth like a playa’, and discuss my sexual opportunity! A chance to be a hero!

See, the trick with female violence is that they are daring you to ask for an apology–and on that basis they decide if you are a “good man or a bad man.”

Upholders of female violence are hero’s in a fascist culture–becuz theres always bigger trouble ahead in a fascist world full of perpetual war, and perpetual victims.

Sad, but true: women’s violence against men–and men remaining complicit through silence–is what encourages further acts of violence. Violence and stress caused by violence has a cumulative effect and it begins in childhood.[ .pdf here]

Story of my life–literally. Women tapping out of the battles they get themselves into–me ‘saving them’, really, from their own violence.

My reward? Pussy in my face–if I play my cards right…but is that really a reward? I don’t think so–because I realize that every woman I cover for could well be using that violence against children–and, if so, she needs to be stopped.

I wish my father was so wise….

And women’s violence against men and children–It has to stop being taken lightly.

Sadly, I do not have it in me to do what white women have been doing for years, and getting away with: I will not call the police; I will not call my mother (she’s been dead for over a decade now); and I will not relegate that anonymous woman’s violence into the realm of imprisonable deviance–because I know, and expect, that women are, and always will be violent.

What I WILL do is open the door to discussions about women’s violence, and open my ears as well to how we can solve this cyclical, circular problem. The only thing I know for sure about four hours ago? Not one man threw a punch at anyone, while two women duked it out, and over twenty bystanders looked on.

But no one did anything but laugh at that punch to my sole kidney. Not a damn one–even me. I will wait, and listen, if anyone has suggestions.
But the simple truth is, women who abuse, abuse those furthest from having an immediate voice in their rhetoric of violence–and the least power in any situation of women’s violence–and their victims seldom prosecute.

As the threat of police coming was in the air, the crowd pulled it’s consecutive heroine’s apart, and enabled them into the safety of running automobiles, and hurried away from the scene of their crimes.

The girl who struck me, looked at me and smiled sheepishly as she was ushered past me–and then she turned, and began to yell at her co-conspirator who drove her away ” I would have killed that bitch…”

Rainbow flag flapping in the wind with blue sk...

Who cares about ACTUAL police brutality, that kills defames,and rapes actual people, when words are so mean hurtful, and harmful!--and way easier to get all worked up about!

But isn’t it a bit early for Halloween? Oh, that’s right: Modern feminism is really clown feminism anyways. And EVERY day is Halloween for a clown!! Yaaaayyyy, time to play dress up, says Mommy Dearest

———————————————

Sluts Need Money–only you can fill the sick, hungry, starving vaginas of the world–with HOPE!

Donations needed for SlutWalk Minneapolis- ALMOST THERE! 🙂

We really need your help.
We have $1,742 in donations right now, and that means we have paid the permit for the Park Board. YES!
We have an additional invoice of $402 for the rentals for the road barriers for the Walk. The total is $2,137. We are only $395 away from paying for the Walk. So close, we can hardly stand it!!

Slutwalk’s started when a Toronto police officer said that the way women dress contributes to their chances of being sexually assaulted. The rationale goes: “If you don’t dress like a slut, your chances of being victimized or raped goes down.”

Why, that kicked off a worldwide movement for women to be able to dress any way they want ever, all the time! A war against the word SLUT!!

Only bad icky creepy menz would be against that! Because all men are potential rapists, they say, and all women potential victims.

Never mind actual victims of horrendous, and systemic rape, or actual police assault, like Kelly Thomas. These Sluts don’t speak for them, or devote their time to actual issues of violence.

While the girls and the gays were getting all frothed up at the bad policeman’s use of words, an actual victim of Toronto’s police violence, Dorian Barton, a photographer, was fighting through the actual system for his right to be heard after the police broke his shoulder in a vicious assault–because he was taking pictures of actual police brutality.

And police are killing, maiming, mauling and defaming people everywhere, without a peep out of the PeePee panderers–but the Sluts could care less–too busy getting gussied up; buying fishnets and painting their faces and painting signs with ‘bad werdz’ like “SLUTT” on them–and parading around as the clowns of civil rights, rather than activists for change.

It’s only a violation of civil rights if it makes my own PeePee hurt, right?

Clown feminism at it’s best–all costume, no substance, and always a diversion from the real show.

And, meanwhile, I bet you never heard of Dorian the photographer, or Kelly, the homeless mentally ill man, because of all the hoopla about vaginas, and clown feminist causes.

OH! the fun that can be had by walking around with the breeze blowing between your thighs, or your mangina’s! No need to worry about those man-pigs whjen you are on the same team!

Police Officer Manuel Ramos, one of the officers who beat Kelly Thomas to death: why do so many pigs actually LOOK like pigs?

Or you will you be too busy hanging out with these other Minneapolis sluts, feeding the poor ( in which case you are absolved of having to read any further vitriol, here)

The net cause –the goal–of the Slutwalkers? Reclaiming the word SLUT–or so they tell us. But if I were Joseph Goebbels?  I couldn’t possibly dream up a better job of covering up real issues of police violence, and actual police brutality, any better than women’s groups, and  women’s clown feminism causes actually do.

They work so hard to subvert true protest and dissent in their war against words, that the net effect is civil rights have taken the biggest hit in the history of America on the watch of feminism, than they ever did during the civil rights era.

It’s almost as if they work together–Toronto police were busy covering-up and actual case of gross violence–police brutality, and clown feminism was running diversionary tactics away from actual brutality.

We already know that women everywhere, much less in Minnesota are coming in ever greater numbers, and Slutwalks are just the right showcase for that phenomenon. After all, Nordic and European-descended mothers have a historic pattern of empowering their daughters, as per the paradigm discussed in  this post here. [supporting evidence here, and here as well.]

There's something fishy about clown feminism

Naughty Nurses, stripper pole clowns,dirty doctors, and stinkie Little Nemo over here:

Lizzy Brice says “Somewhere along the way we seem to have gotten confused. Author and columnist Ariel Levy puts it likes this in her 2006 book Female Chauvinist Pigs: Women and the Rise of Raunch Culture: “Only thirty years (my lifetime) ago, our mothers were “burning their bras” and picketing Playboy, and suddenly we were getting implants and wearing the bunny logo as supposed symbols of our liberation.”

And, women in Minneapolis are maddeningly, overwhelmingly and historically white as well, so it is the natural place for this sort of organizing.

It is also overwhelmingly gay, in every sense of the word, so SlutWalks are a crucial way for the LGBT and feminist movements to continue to subvert the real issue of police brutality. After all, Sluts can set their own prices in such an economy–and theiy’re way better to look at!

But ACTUAL police brutality? More icky dead men on death row?? Killing the mentally ill???

Priceless!

Clown Feminists call for the death of more white men, like formerly white male Kelly Thomas

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