Posts Tagged ‘Equity and gender feminism’

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.

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

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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.

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.

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…”