Posts Tagged ‘Politics of Sexuality’

What do John Wayne Gacy Jr. and Sufjan Stevens have in common?

Gacy as "Pogo The Clown"

That other John Wayne: Gacy as Pogo the Clown.mon?

No–it isn’t songwriting, or sympathetic followings, per se–it is secrets, hidden underneath their floor boards.  And their polar opposite reactions to being sensitive men or sexual men in a society that has a problem with sensitive, sexual men.

Is Sufjan Stevens gay, or just very very homo-romantic?  I don’t know–what really matters is that he, through the feat of human compassion,  brought my attention to an obscure fact about a serial killer, the effects of  labeling theory, and the self fulfilling prophecy of criminalizing male sexuality, and rendering men as demons–before they actually become demonic.

Sufjan Stevens’ Ballad of John Wayne Gacy

Another thing they have in common is that neither  men ever knew this other man, Harold Wayne Lovell,  who was long thought to be  one of Gacy’s eight unidentified victims. Lovell was recently found alive living in Florida, and his surviving family members are overjoyed at their reunion.

“Tim Lovell and Theresa Hasselberg hadn’t seen their brother, Harold Wayne Lovell, since he left their family’s Chicago home in May 1977 in search of construction work. At the time, Gacy was trolling for young men and boys in the area. He was a contractor, and he lured many of the 33 young men and boys he killed by offering them work.” More story here

Youtube is full of videos about Gacy, but here is one with footage that I actually remember from that time:

The Gacy story touched me directly when I was young, because I grew up in the windy city, not far from where he was stashing bodies like a squirrel stores nuts for the winter– young male bodies, underneath his floorboards;  and he was one of the first “boogiemen” that I was actually afraid of. The city went into ‘evil gay boogieman overdrive,’ when his victims were discovered.

But it was the song by Sufjan Stevens some decades later that made me LOOK AT Gacy differently, to actually see part of him that I was not even made aware of: Gacy himself was sentenced to ten years in prison, essentially for being a gay man, and it wasn’t until  later, after he got out, that he became a serial killer.*

Such are the effects of sexual repression and oppression of the rights of human beings to have consensual, or private  sex;  and the effects of social mechanisms that selectively enforce the way our bodies are categorized, objectified, labeled, used, and abused by society. Such are the effects of mis-directed rage.

If Gacy was wiser, maybe he would have just taken a shotgun down to the local police station and aimed for a few heads. Silent complicity is still silence when it comes to oppression.

And American prisons are rape factories, with some 216,ooo reported rapes or sexual assaults per year. American prisons are routinely cited for human rights  violations by Amnesty International.

I am not a criminologist, or anything other than an amateur profiler, yet neither do I trust the profiles in any sense other than confirmation bias, as the constructions or the constructors and their interpretations of social reality are almost always devoid of causal factors that deny us insight into the society that creates them. We give the jobs to those who uphold the norms, not to those who challenge them.

Mugshot taken of John Wayne Gacy, taken follow...

Gacy Before society applied the label of deviant, and ...

I do not condone homicide or rape, or the rape of men and boys. However, it is not a stretch that one could  imagine that Gacy’s crimes were preventable, had society not criminalized homosexuality at the time. And the deaths of 33 men and boys could have been prevented.

I remember the first footage I ever saw of the scene of the crime, and I remember thinking “that could be anywhere; I could have been under those floorboards.”

But, now, looking back, I realize that Gacy buried a piece of himself under those boards as well, because it takes quite snap of the mind and lots of rage to do something like he did. I also takes a society that criminalizes male sexual urges as well.

Oh: what did John Wayne Gacy look like in his last booking photo?  What did he look like after his wife left him, he was imprisoned, and he lost everything that he had ever worked for? What did he look like after being imprisoned for consensual sex? AFTER the label of deviant stuck?

He was smiling that last time, in his last arrest– a strange, ironic, almost relieved and painfully annoyingly smile–the smile of an ‘anti-social sociopath.’

After the label stuck: The Smiling Sociopath

Personal notes for later thought: 1) The name John Wayne carries a lot of masculine baggage 2) False expectations on men cause sexual deviance , re: the diathesis stress model 3) society has a need to create a criminal class, and then, to police that class. 4) scapegoating males begins early, and often until they become monsters 5) I am against the death penalty even more now.

Below is a short list of how normal deviance is pushed by ‘normative’ social forces into becoming abnormal deviance.

* From Wikipedia: “On December 3, 1968,[27] Gacy was convicted of sodomy and sentenced to 10 years at Anamosa State Penitentiary, located in Jones County, Iowa.[27][28] The day Gacy was sentenced, his wife petitioned for divorce[29] and requested possession of the couples’ home, property and subsequent alimony payments.[30] The Court ruled in her favor and the divorce was final in September 1969. Gacy never saw his first wife or children again”

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Wayne_Gacy

When feminist  blogger Jill Filipovic opened her suitcase after the TSA had been sniffing through it, she discovered a note, which said “Get Your Freak On Girl!

They had found an item related to something that always raises a huge red flag:

“The item in question was a small, inexpensive silver bullet vibrator from the sex toy chain Babeland, chosen because Filipovic thought it “wouldn’t raise any flags at TSA.” Now “I’m grossed out,” says Filipovic, “but it’s also hilarious.” The TSA says it’s investigating the incident.”

Ahhhh….those western women and their sex robots

Note found after the TSA had sniffed through her luggage, and found her vagina massaging robot.

Holla Mom

HollaMom, from Not For Pink Hats echoes my thoughts exactly:

Holla says ” What if maybe, just maybe…  she made the whole thing up??   Of course I do not know this woman but to me it’s a brilliant plan.  Everyone hates the TSA and wouldn’t put anything past them, so she planted the note at some point.   Because there are worse things to get harassed over then a $15 dildo and judging from her website she certainly wouldn’t be embarrassed about having this kind of thing made public.  So perfect plan right?  She’s the latest TSA victim, gets to yak and talk about it all week and her only crime is what… the fact that she brought a cheap drug store toy over to Dublin, big deal.

Genius!!

Well I guess we’ll never know.  But if she did plant the whole story, it’s a good one and it’s getting huge press today, which means she’s getting huge publicity for her blog, and mission accomplished….”

Yup. And Filipovic bought that vibrator in Dublin, apparently, which has recently  gained notoriety for Rebecca Watsons elevatorgate stunt.  Bunch of scandal engineering blog-runts…

In the age of the internet, feminists have taken to orchestrated publicity stuntsthat involve their…um….hunt for a wider audience. And the credibility of anyone who calls themselves a feminist is a huge red flag against credibility.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Did that clear it up?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Etymology Of Cunt By: Mathew Hunt

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

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

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

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

“Statutory Rape Laws

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

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

Today is Love Your Body Day, sponsored by the National Organization of Women. It is a day for blog carnival’s celebrating the female body.

A woman swats away the stork which has brought...

Love Your Body Day is a good time to reflect on dorks.

Chloe, from feministing.com says:

“Love Your Body Day is a project of the National Organization of Women, which runs a Love Your Body poster contest every year. This year’s winner bears the message that “you are a masterpiece,” and you can send it to your body-loving friends as an e-card if you want. NOW is also running a blog carnival.

When we talk about loving our bodies, we often talk about loving what we look like. “Do you love what you see when you look in the mirror?” asks the NOW campaign.”

NOW says:”Calling All Bloggers! Are you ready to sound off on unrealistic beauty standards and the effects of advertising on women and girls?”

—————————————————————————————————————————————

My ears hurt already from all that choreographed sounding off. Well, when you’re done navel gazing, look at this advertisement ( never mind the Ebul MRA message–even when, as in this case they get it right.)

Love Your Body Day, 2011

"If YOU didn't want IT why did you put IT in me then, huh, huh?"

72% of African American Children are born and raised in single mother homes. For the first time in U.S. history, Latino’s outnumber all other categories children born into poverty–and marking the first time in U.S. history where white children did not comprise the largest group of kids born into poverty.

Most reputable studies report significant developmental and behavioral problems in children raised by single mothers.*

I wonder: Do the bodies that birth other bodies give as much thought to the bodies that come out of their vaginas as they give their own bodies? Or are some bodies just less worth thinking about?

And why is it that in the age of birth control and abortion clinics, women don’t use the resource? My guess is that somewhere along the line, spmeone is making money using children as a tool.

I can just hear all of the recovering Catholic women who replaced the Virgin Mary with the pill, and Vagina Monologues now : ” Well if you didn’t want a baby why did you unzip your zipper? Why did you put it in her?  Huh? Huh?”

 And, I have heard also heard the opposite idiocy of every clueless MRA, and every naive young fellah who has ever been tricked reply ” She told me she was on birth control..! She said she was on the pill! The condom broke….”

Poppycock, emphasis on both poppy, and cock.  If one man or woman could sue the birth control industry for every unwanted child, and the effects of that failed birth control,**the results would make the tobacco settlements look like small change.

I wonder where the middle ground is at…because we know there is no male pill–by design; and according to the last five decades and the laws of social engineering.

*I am completely avoiding the loaded discussion about the phrase ‘single parent families‘ because it is a laughably inept phrase to describe the complex, disheartening situation of family courts, social policies, and social engineering that describes the situation on the ground about single mothers, and women’s  choices that affect men.

** The common trope that I have often heard is that “the condom broke; the pill failed; my doctor switched me to a different pill which failed.” If this is true, I smell a potential HUGE lawsuit against the birth control industry.

If this is not the truth, and there is ‘something I might be missing’ about these self reports of failed birth control, then please explain to me why no lawyer has yet sued that industry.

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!


Related articles

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]

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…”

Martin Van Maele - La Grande Danse macabre des...

Moral Campaigns always have wide-legged white women at the center.

“Organized walks are usually meant to promote a charity, but that’s not the plan for a walk this weekend in the Twin Cities, James Schugel reports (2:06).”

MORE HERE: Twin Cities ‘SlutWalk’ Protests Sexual Violence Against Women.

SlutWalks, in case you haven’t heard, are a tool of police state feminism . They are controlled opposition that focuses women and girls on a war against words, rather than focusing them on a war against war.

While eradicating the world of “slut shaming” sounds like a good idea, it consumes the resource pool of dialogue to the point where this type of mis-directed sexist rhetoric effectively killed the abnti-war movement.

And none of it–none of it–will stop them from sending men–potential allies– to prison because men are framed in the dialogue as threats to the privileged white female social order. That order seeks alliance with police and state mechanisms of power, while demonizing men who do not venerate such an order. This challenges white female privilege in discussions of constructionist social intervention.

Their reply to the challenge? Sluts shouldn’t feel objectified! It appears that sexism is a two way street, and this sort of dialogue drives on both sides.

Yet prison serves only one purpose: it serves as a rapist’s training ground, and incarceration of male voices does little to end global violence against women and men of color by white people.

SLUTWALKS ARE  A DISTRACTION BY DESIGN, AS WHITE FEMALES HAVE ALWAYS BEEN THE FOCAL POINT OF CENTRALIZED WHITE POWER AND DIFFERENTIAL POLICE PROTECTION.

This march will host more angry white women than you will ever want to lay eyes on again. If you want to end rape, forever, don’t have white children–but also, don’t  leave children in the care of child molesters, and angry violators of social norms that affect children.

White women have the ugliest hearts you will ever see–and no matter how you dress up the piggy, put apples in it’s mouth, fishnets on its legs, or barbeque it, it is still pork.

Pigs of a feather, fly togetheR, when it comes to the Motherland. This version of feminism is just more of the same: white women running diversionary plays against society at large ever witnessing  the real picture of police brutality–and more feminist rapeflation, and proto-fascism in action, attacking straw men, instead of real people, institutions, and organizations that  make the wortld a less pleasant place to live.