Over this morning’s coffee I had the pleasure of reading about the arrest of a Nova Scotia groper. And by “pleasure” I mean “blechy feeling.”
Oh, this groper isn’t any different from all the other gropers I’ve read about during my long career of groper-blaming: young Doug Schrader flits about the countryside feeling up women and jerking off in public. Gross, yeah, but what really curled the Twisty lip was this comment by prosecutor Christine Driscoll, who is apparently crippled with ambivalence on the subject of what to do with the little perv:
“We really want to see what’s going on with him, what’s leading to this behaviour.”
I’ll help you out, lady. Here’s what’s leading to his behavior: Schrader merely acts on the patriarchal mandate to view all public women as receptacles for his dudeliness. He is the logical result of rape culture.
Taking his cue from the slew of public Spitzeresque figures who’ve been busted for antisocial pervitude and are surprised to discover that they don’t live in a personal rape-is-OK bubble, Schrader has “apologized,” claiming, despite some rather damning evidence to the contrary, that he’s “not that type of person.”
Apologies have nothing to do with actual remorse anymore. Nowadays, when criminals apologize, what they mean is, “Fine. I got caught. Please don’t put me in prison.”
It’s the systemic misogyny exemplified by douchebags like Schrader that makes me weep brokenly for the tragic earnestness of women such as these, who are desperate to convince themselves that “all women’s bodies are beautiful and richly fantastic no matter what shape, size, age, race, or background.”
The 100 Idaho women to whom I allude have organized an exhibit of women’s self-esteem “art.” The project consists of plaster casts of their torsos, which they have decorated and put on public display “in celebration of all who choose to express their own unique selves through art.”
The heart bleeds for these women. Their task — like that of all who struggle against monolithic oppression — is of Sisyphean proportions. They may yearn to demonstrate that, with their painted boob-casts, they are “the subject, rather than the object of art,” but in our porn-based society — where the behavior of a common groper mystifies authorities — they haven’t got a spinster aunt’s chance at a Suicide Girls convention.