Posts Tagged ‘Victim blaming’

Read this as if it didn’t happen this morning. Read this as if it didn’t happen to you, or me. Or, read it as it is written. Your choice. I just wish it didn’t happen.

Yet it didn’t take too much time for things to heat up in my world ( you know what I mean).  The right wins, because they own the left in America. Crypto-fascists cannot be trusted. I will write more on that when myhead is more clear.

Do you believe in coincidence? I don’t.

united states currency eye- IMG_7364_web

They are everywhere. And watching. Listening, but not hearing; looking without seeing. And don't even think they have feelings--they don't.

But two people that came here to live the American dream, who ‘rode across’ in gasoline tanks, and walked across deserts, and mountains with a liter of water and worn out shoes–people who came,  and worked hard, and  lived nearly free in a foreign country are no longer amongst the ‘free’ in the ‘land of the free’.

They are at INS-ICE lockup, down  in […]. I can’t tell you the all the details of how they actually get here,  as I  do not want  to add to their misery with more useless ‘facts,’ which are always ‘ammunition’ for right wingers, crypto-fascists and ‘officials’ of government.

This morning at8:30 a.m. I got a call–the INS had come to round up a few “illegals” who were living in […].

My caretaker says ”  They wanted to know if […] and […] live here.”

I said “Don’t open the door. They can’t come in without a warrant.”

He said ” It’s too late. They had some serious looking papers. They came earlier, and your phone was turned off. They took […] and […] and they even asked me for papers. But they were here specifically for those two. They had pictures, and some papers.”

I said “But they can’t do that–she is here seeking asylum! She filed papers and …,” and I stewed about how ignorant people are– of the warrant requirement.

He said “They took her anyways. I don’t know what she was saying because I don’t speak […], but she was crying, and had papers in her hand-and[…] was crying too, and he tried to explain that she was here as an asylum seeker. They left a card and a number for you to call.”

I was outraged. I was pissed–in fact, there are no words to describe what I am feeling now. Flashbacks maybe, or just fucking pissed. And I never imagined […] could cry–he is such a stoic.

For the record, I am not  ‘family’, and I cannot speak with them unless I am their lawyer, advocate or other legally appointed representative.

Both of them are people that I ate with; played volleyball with; shared language, and learning with, and planted flowers with all summer long; and people who i cooked for, who always acted overly polite when offered it  ‘small portions, only  please,’ (!), but who always gave me huge plates of theirs saying ‘”try this. I used to serve it in a restaurant back home -try it”.

And i would eat, and never ask for seconds because it was worth thirds. It was THAT good.

“Did you get any paperwork at all?”

“No,” he says, ” It was all so fast…she was cooking breakfast …and…”

“The law says they have to leave paperwork,”  I said, not sure of the law and immigration or myself at that moment. I remembered that they put their names on the mailbox: “he” was giggling, her future husband was teasing “her” about having a home…

Turns out he–my caretaker- let them in–so, no paperwork required. See what happens when everybody doesn’t know the rules…?

I had been trying to drum up money to buy them a restaurant–my thought had been to buy an old house, and start it as a soup and coffee shop. Their idea was far more humble–they only wanted a stand in a market. They could hide easier amongst others in similar situations.

Both of ‘them’ were driven off in ” a big white van” this morning. Name it shame it, tame it–then claim it,  mother fuckers, but this ain’t even started yet, was my first thought.

Time will tell, was my second–and my third thought? Refer to the first thought if time don’t open it’s mouth pretty damn quick.

‘He’ was a fry cook, and ‘she’ was fleeing a country that was recently on the U.S. ‘watch list’ of potential terror ‘supporters’.  She was also a domestic violence victim: her husband told her that he would chop her into pieces and cook her if she ran away.

And when she told me that story, she would laugh, and then, look away nervously, or at her new mate, who, as it turns out […] was her ‘old love’ as well; her lover back home, and itwas he who paid her way here, too. They planned to get married…

So she ran away anyways, against her husbands ‘will’.  ‘Welcome to America,’ I remember telling her with an odd ‘paternal’ happiness–happy that I could provide a home.

She and her would-be-future-brother-in-law will be flown ‘home’ after a hearing or two, I am told, to live once again next to a trembling volcanoe. Her love–the man she ran away to be with, will remain here, because he has the right paperwork.

Or: he or  I can pay for a lawyer, and be told the same thing i was told last time: they can extend it by a year, and then, maybe, she will be able to stay–but, like last time, if experience is any kind of teacher, she will be sent back anyways, and right quick.

But likely, she will be dumped just across the Mexican border, in Juarez, like so many are these days, as the U.S. refuses to accept some forms of paperwork from ‘illegals.’

But fuck you, and anyone who shits on ‘the little people’: capital FUCK, littler you, and anyone who condones this, or pushed for it to happen–team ‘community snitch’ ala the Patriot Act. The problem is, it’s always the ‘wrong’ people getting shipped out of here, and the ‘right’ ones remaining.  And when I say right, I mean–that was really, really wrong.

Well, anyways–I needed a break away from ‘white people‘, and all of that violence, and political bad touch that they bring with them. It always precedes one kind or another of  their wars.

And the white women!! OMG!!  They scare even me with their desire to lift up women’s burqa’s, and peek under the skirts of culture.

No man–no PUA or MRA– could ever dream up a plan to get between women’s legs that is any greater, or more diabolical, capitalistic, or more invasive than the white women and ‘feminists’ have done to get a peek at Somali‘s and their clitorises.

So I went out and got hammered last night, bummed out. But really, my thoughts  started a few weeks before, when  I was talking to Skinny, in Somali. And we were talking about Moqtar, Aayan Hirsi Ali’s cousin.

The Somali’s I know like to gossip. No big deal, we do it every time we meet, and this time it was just me and Skinny talking about Aayan. But I was trying to clear a few things up in my own mind about who she is, and I couldn’t remember her.

Then Skinny,* the film maker  says  ” You remember when we were sitting at[…] that coffee shop? It was me and you and Moqtar?”

“Nope,” I said. “I know too many Somali’s–and they’re all Moqtars too.”

“No, no, you would know this guy, He’s  handsome guy. You know,”  he says, pointing to his HP computer screen.

“This one.”

Oh! The picture is from Vancouver, and he sits with a lovely long nosed girl. Then I remembered him. Moqtar is very distinctive, and very handsome from what I remembered–and in my way of remembering, or categorizing Somali’s, he looks more Isaaq than Darod.

Well, I say to Skinny,”Lots of atheists are talking about Aayan these days,” and in my mind I couldn’t remember why she was filed in my mental Rolodex at all. I can only remember something about her “passport, a scandal, or the Dutch Parliament.”

An atheist took me to task on that awhile ago [ @19 and onwards] , and virtually called me a cunt over my response. But I am a forgiving sort, well aware of the cunty sensitivities of some cunty atheists–especially the white, middle class female ones who have so little to grasp at apparently, that they can only hate you with their vaginas, despite their padded bank accounts, new cars, and Macy’s points cards…

I remember now where my thoughts about Aayan came from to begin with–from Moqtar and Skinny, the last time I saw them.  We were talking about a film.

And I remember how tall she  seemed last time I saw her; but many Somali women are tall, once you learn how to talk to them.

“You remember,” Skinny says. “She made the film.”

Well anyways, we sure did share a laugh about how white women rapeflate everything; how they try to get close to “other women”–and how the cultural practice of FGM is conflated with ‘religious practice’ by the white folks from the ‘west’–even if their rapeflation often misses the ‘nuance’ of how corrupted culture’s that themselves are slaves to religion, view THEMSELVES.

And we laughed about how rapeflation causes many Somali’s to distrust the latest form of western cultural imperialism–feminism.

After all, Africans are used to cultural Imperialism defining them, and defining their bodies as property–no one has anyything on Somali’s in the discussion of slavery, except maybe, West Africans.

Africans are used to having scientists quantify them in some bizarre Linnaean system of social order: measurements of their character, viewed through binoculars and microscopes, and reduced to the status of bugs.

No big deal. Just me, and Skinny, and Moqtar, chatting about Aayan, and western cluelessness.It became nearly a decade long conversation that shined a lens into a culture that desperately seeks affirmation, yet struggles with the mechanics of self governance amidst a climate of western projection.

And all of the recent scrutiny of their bodies, their practices, and their ‘selling points’ is coming from females–western females, with western concepts of power, not least of which is sexual in nature…

And we laughed about the Tanzanian word firconi…[to be continued…]

Nicking Clits, and Slippery Slopes: Aayan Speaks about inept western Medicine, and its genital references.

BTW: Fuck the American Association of Pediatrics–they are the folks who allowed America to whack little boys penises in half with circumcision for the last 100 plus years ( and counting)

* He has a Somali name, which has been changed into the English, to confuse the informants and the spooks whose dialect begins and ends in Mogadishu.

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One of my all time favorite movies is Midnight Cowboy, for reasons that go beyond being a mere devotee of the acting of Dustin Hoffman, or  the music of Henry Nilsson, a fan of the young Jon Voight, or practitioner of  deconstructionism. Or the fact that  it only got a showing at the seedy theaters in my town when it came out.

It is one of the best, most insightful scripts I have ever read too, and in fact the background guys–like song writer Fred Neil, and script writer Waldo Salt, who survived and thrived after being blacklisted during the red scare of McCarthy–are more incredible than the actors .

Here’s the intro clip:

Midnight Cowboy is the only X rated film in history to ever receive an Oscar. Maybe it was the “gay theme” or maybe it was because it was one of the rare films in all of history to examine the issue of women who sexually abuse young boys; and how women are complicit, if not instrumental  in shaping the sexuality of children (no pun intended–but you will see what I mean). Here is a bit of Joe Bucks nightmare:

Zoom close-up -- Anastasia screaming soundlessly...
... thermometer under Little Joe's tongue... 
... Sally Buck shoves chocolate in her mouth... 
... bewigged poodle licks her fingers... 
... Sally Buck hangs enema can on bedpost... 
... Ratso leads ratpack chasing naked Anastasia... 
... corona of flashlights...

I still remember the run-down, dirty white theater fronts that had it up on the marquee in blue letters, or red; and everything about cowboys fascinated me in that era.Certainly everything about the forbidden letter X fascinated me too.

Being stoic, self reliant, silently suffering  cowboys was what they taught boys to be back then, and to think about being when we got older–little men running around with guns that go *BANG!*,  fighting the bad Indians, and the ‘bad men’ who were-apparently-everywhere. And certainly, we were taught to always tip our hats for the ladies–even if they were sticking enemas in our asses.

But by the time I was old enough to watch it myself, some fifteen or years later, it showed me some things about cowboys that John Wayne and the other cowboy as uber-man posturing of that era never did, and I liked that too.

But I like Midnight Cowboy because it’s just plain old, incredibly good film, full of stunningly complex images that are explained to us with remarkable simplicity.

Midnight Cowboy

Original Movie Poster

Very few films address sex and gender imbalances in ways that are inclusive of the recognition that men are engendered in certain ways that women cannot, or will not understand, even when they see it in action. Women as a rule are either not equipped to understand the male experience, or because of the nature of woman is equipped only to stare at herself, and issues that reflect herself constantly–or something like that…;-)

In the case of Joe Buck, the intrepid male prostitute, our character learns that the world is not equal, and we, as an audience, learn a bit about what creates false constructs of sexuality in the mind of a young boy. And how those constructs lead to poor choices.

In one scene we have the gang rape of a woman who could aptly be called “the town pump”, and Joe Bucks inability to stop that rape–of the woman who he thinks he loves; in another scene, aptly a nightmare, we have Joe Buck being anally raped by his grandmother; and the all too obvious conclusion that male sexuality is undervalued, or disposable to women.

It’s a film about the awakening of America to issues of  the human body as a commodious object, and the reality of under-valued male love. It’s a gay film in as much as it has a theme of men, loving each other, or men who are used by other men, but it’s a human story beyond that.

If you haven’t seen it, rent it, and if you have seen it, rent it again. Or just have a good read tonight--here’s the script.

 

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

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.

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…

Regions of the brain affected by PTSD and stress.

This is your brain on PTSD

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that is where the shit got funny.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It blows my mind.

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

Or maybe, I was merely assaulted, again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I wish my father was so wise….

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Donations needed for SlutWalk Minneapolis- ALMOST THERE! 🙂

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There's something fishy about clown feminism

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

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

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

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

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

Priceless!

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

Have you heard of the Dear Woman campaign, which stems from the Manifesto for Conscious Men? The idiocy of a generation of middle class white people who are suffering from gynorhea after consorting with the feminist monolith, is palpable only when I watch this crap.

Here are some middle class, sensationalist gender panderers; the Oprafied, nutless mangina’s responsible, from Franc Hoggle’s site greylining.wordpress.com

  • Gay Hendricks, Oprah Winfrey regular and founder of the Hendricks Institute, who abandoned academic life for the goldmine of the self-help industry for the feeble minded. Also a pioneer in Radiance Breathing Meditation, which has earned him a series of honourable mentions at Quackwatch.

At first pass I was fully expecting the queen of man haters, John Stoltenberg2, to have been the captain of this ship, but he is not credited.”

I couldn’t have said it better myself.

The campaign is a bunch of men apologizing for all men for the stuff that men do–even if they didn’t do it: “I may not have done bad things to you myself, many of the men who abused you may not be living; on behalf of my gender, I apologize for what religions created a thousand years ago have done to you….I apologize to you…” blahblahblah.

*puke* puke* puke* Franc Hoggle is still wiping up his dungeon floor after this vomit soaked male-apologist B.S.

The only thing more pathetic than this kind of sabotage of reality, and real human centered activism IS MAYBE A PICTURE OF FABIO ON THE COVER OF A ROMANCE NOVEL, LAYING NEXT TO A DILDO ON OPRAH’S QUEEN SIZED JACUZZI.

But fortunately, Will Ferrell is there to give us hope.

And the reply from fake guru Ardagh to Ferrell:

I can’t add anything other than what has already been said by others. Here is a good from someone responding to the video above:

“Oh yea, anger and resentment. Let me tell you what this really is about….dollar dollar bill y’all…The next step in the strategy of the “Dear Woman” campaign would most likely be to capture as many of the audience and convince them that through a modest contribution they would be absolved of all past transgressions as an authorized “Conscious man”. for a mere 19.95 + tax and shipping….gimme a break. posted by: chameleoncass”

Below is yet another reply from Ardagh and Hendricks, milking the Will Ferrell connection for all it is worth:

Comment: “thanks Will Ferrell for your ability to recognize the humor in this con.”

And here is the actual video–try not to laugh at the asinine whining of these idiots, and have an airplane bag ready for the barf afterwards.

“Based on the “Manifesto for Conscious Men,” a collectively-written document from a number of men who feel deep appreciation for the gifts of the feminine as a balance to those of the masculine. This document acknowledges many thousands of years of dominance of masculine power, and offers an apology for the suppression of women, in the spirit of a fresh start. The authors do not advocate the domination of men by women or feminine energy, but feel that a balance and equal respect for both energies will allow for a new wave of evolution on our planet.”