Monthly Archive for November, 2009

Hugs, Twisty: fan mail from a flounder

Published by Jill on November 30, 2009. 40 Comments

Email from David Finnigan to twisty.faster
Sun, Nov 29, 2009 at 5:10 PM

[Dear Twisty,]

paragraphs like this:

‘Compulsory feminism, unlike the heartwarming compulsory capital ‘M’ misogyny the shoving down of which our throats are all accustomed to, is apparently nothing short of child abuse. One nervous misogynist, Australian Family Association spokesman John Morrissey, blurts with swaggering bravado that “strident feminist propaganda won’t wash with boys,” but he nevertheless vigorously opposes the program; apparently his confidence in the red-blooded Australian boy’s natural aversion to strident feminist propaganda is not 100%. He is anxious that some strident feminism might work its way in through the chinks. The “feminisation” of boys is already a Number 1 red-alert crisis situation, given the declining population of male teachers in schools. The fear that oppression-sensitivity training will pussywhip boys into a class of oppressed autobot pansies is not confined to Australian Family Association spokesman John Morrissey.’

are why IBTP is one of the best things on the web.

That’s really more to do with what an arid wasteland the rest of the internet is than anything else, but you know, good work.

Dear David Finnigan,

Thank you for taking the time to evaluate my paragraphs in terms of the rest of the Internet, and for sending the results of your evaluation to me. I don’t know when I’ve received so lukewarm a compliment!

No, wait, I think do know. It was the last time a dude emailed me.

I’m so grateful to you for your acknowledgment of my paragraphs, I just really wanna fuck you. Ya know, when women email me, it’s like my paragraphs don’t even exist. They’re all “I love your giant brain and I would so make out with you.” What a bunch of sluts!

Hugs,
Twisty

Posted in Hugs, Twisty. Bite me, Chad.

OzWatch ‘09: Misogyny on Parade

Published by Jill on November 29, 2009. 46 Comments

Displaying an astonishing capacity for patriarchy-blaming, somebody in charge of public education in Victoria AU wishes to implement anti-violence-against-women training in a couple of schools. It’s called “Respectful Relationship Education.”

Possible classroom activities include students acting out scenes of sexual coercion after which students would suggest more appropriate behaviour. [...] They would combat common attitudes among boys such as young women are either “good girls or sluts”, the report said. [...] It said feminist theories were best at explaining the link between gender power relations and violence against women, and must underpin the programs.

You go, Victoria! Sounds great, right?

Wrong! Because it’s “shoving capital ‘F’ feminism down their throats.” It’s — brace yourself — “compulsory feminism.”

Compulsory feminism, unlike the heartwarming compulsory capital ‘M’ misogyny the shoving down of which our throats are all accustomed to, is apparently nothing short of child abuse. One nervous misogynist, Australian Family Association spokesman John Morrissey, blurts with swaggering bravado that “strident feminist propaganda won’t wash with boys,” but he nevertheless vigorously opposes the program; apparently his confidence in the red-blooded Australian boy’s natural aversion to strident feminist propaganda is not 100%. He is anxious that some strident feminism might work its way in through the chinks. The “feminisation” of boys is already a Number 1 red-alert crisis situation, given the declining population of male teachers in schools.

The fear that oppression-sensitivity training will pussywhip boys into a class of oppressed autobot pansies is not confined to Australian Family Association spokesman John Morrissey. This knob at misogynist dudesite Mensnewsdaily puts it this way: “Beware boys! The female Taliban is coming for you!”

And then he says — I’m not even kidding — “Don’t such programs send the grossly incorrect message that all boys need to be ‘educated’ about how to treat women?”

That’s right. Apparently men spring from the womb fully enlightened. It insults them sorely to insinuate that they are in any way responsible for violence against women. Any attempt to suggest otherwise merely represents another diabolical tactic in the feminists’ bid for “global dominance.” Educating boys about the culture of domination will strip them of their ability to form “a single original thought on any subject.”

And then he says — I’m still not even kidding — “Who made feminists the experts on explaining violence in relationships?”

Seriously! Apparently misogynist schmuckwads, not women whose lives are devoted to the study of oppression dynamics, are the only persons capable of such intellectual nuance.

Fucking moron.

Posted in Dear god what about the men?, Knobjectivism, Lobe-blowing, Men Hate You, Strawfeminism, The Spinster's Finger on the Pulse of Today and The megatheocorporatocracy. Bite me, Chad.

Spinster aunt reads amateur op-ed piece

Published by Jill on November 28, 2009. 49 Comments

Every morning Google sends urgent feminist alerts to my inbox. It’s hilarious, the contexts in which writers of Internet crap chuck that word “feminist” around.

– Rihanna has a new album; she left her abusive boyfriend, so she’s a feminist icon now.
– You can wear false eyelashes and still be a feminist.
– What should we do if feminists try to take over the world?

Here’s a dude who says he became a feminist because his daughter has “big brown eyes.” Those dreamboat peepers of hers caused Walter Backstrom, writing in the Tacoma, Washington News Tribune, to look into the whole global women’s rights dealio, that he might gain some insight on what the future has in store for his little princess. What Daddy finds is patriarchal oppression out the wazoo, but sadly he ignores the obvious conclusions, preferring instead to recite a predictable and xenophobic list of injustices of which everyone on earth is already well aware and, as has been well-documented, doesn’t give a flying fuck about.

In some African countries, sexual slavery and sexual mutilation are still the norm. In some Arabic countries, young girls can’t go to school and woman [sic] can’t drive a car.

The bad men, they’re all over there.

“Doing my research, I discovered myself becoming a feminist.”

Hello, God? It’s me, Walter.

Too bad Walter didn’t research “feminism”; if he had, he might not have written this knucklehead crap:

“A feminist is a person who believes in equal rights for men and women.”

Oh, Walter. Walter, Walter. That’s not a feminist, that’s a marketing gimmick. A feminist is an activist who seeks liberation from sex-based oppression.

[Omigod, Jill did not just define feminism! Who died and left her in charge of gurgling out feminist ideology on her own website! Feminism is about whatever ya want it to be about, such as the right to make your husband do laundry, in return for which emasculating sacrifice you agree to wear porn drag in bed.]

Walter continues:

“[...] I realized that women are not paid at the same rate as men, that domestic violence is still a fact of life in the U.S. and the rap music that young people listen to on the radio denigrates women by using the “B” word.”

Well, stop the presses, Walter!

It kind of turbulates the innards to contemplate that old Walter claims he is just now noticing this shit for the first time. What kind of “research” did he have to do before coming into possession of these tired old pop culture factoids? The village idiot could write a 1000-word essay on this with one lobe tied behind his back. The sex-based pay disparity is, and has been for 40 years, the single most highly publicized “feminist” talking point; “domestic violence” is the central theme of about 47 popular TV cop dramas, 47 more popular TV true crime shows, all local newspapers, and Oprah; and no godbag honky dude who has drawn a breath over the past 3 decades has failed to get bent about rap music (“rap music” means “all black dudes;” rampant misogyny in other pop music genres never sparked the same outrage). Where has Walter been lo these many years? Maybe he spends all his spare time, when he’s not gazing raptly into his daughter’s limpid pools, in church.

“When I started researching the status of women, especially in the Third World, I felt the tears of angels on my shoulders.”

How does that work, exactly? Are the angels teeny-tiny, perching on him like parrots? If so, why wouldn’t Walter say “I felt the feet of angels on my shoulders”? I aver that the effluvia of such tiny shoulder-perching entities would be unlikely to stream out in quantities observable by a human shoulder. Or are these angels very large, floating above him, so that when they weep over Walter’s research, it sort of rains? If so, what physical properties do angels possess such that everything about them except their tears is immune to the Earth’s gravitational pull? And why would Walter feel these tears only on his shoulders? Does he wear an angel-tear-repellent hat? Do the angels have spray bottles that they aim at whatever body part they think might make the most sentimental impact?

Walter, with his touched soul, aching heart, and moist shoulders, doesn’t make much sense in this weird essay, particularly when he appears to sort of fleetingly comprehend that women’s oppression is a humanitarian crisis, but only, apparently, in the “third world,” and although we need to “help” those miserable third world women, he himself, most assuredly, “won’t be joining any feminist group such as the National Organization for Women, and certainly [not] Planned Parenthood, since I am a conservative and pro-life.”

Well, now it all falls into place. Walter hates women after all. The idea of helpless foreign sex slaves makes him sort of sad, but if they get knocked up old Walter doesn’t mind laying claim to their personal bodily sovereignty. No wonder Walter’s essay is irrational. No argument in favor of feminism can make sense if its author can observe irrefutable evidence of patriarchy while simultaneously maintaining that godbag asshole dudes should be able to string women up by the uterus with this churchy compulsory pregnancy crap.

O Walter! Walter, Walter. Those aren’t angel tears on your shoulders! It’s spinster aunt spit!

Posted in Compulsory pregnancy, Godbagism, Knobjectivism, Magical Mysteries from Godtown, Mass Media, Men Hate You, Private Business of the Secret Feminist Society and Ways in Which the Internet Is a Hoot. Bite me, Chad.

Update from the spinster compound

Published by Jill on November 26, 2009. 26 Comments

At Thanksgiving I usually let some steam whistle through my kettle of disgust regarding the holiday’s shameless celebration of domination culture, but this year I’ll confine myself to remarking that this ubiquitous euphemism “Turkey Day,” though it makes the spinster skin crawl, is at least a step in the right direction towards secularizing these godbag holidays.

I know a couple of turkeys personally. They bear no resemblance to the poor mutant albino carcasses commonly referred to as “turkey” by urban consumers. Why does everybody act like the world will come to a fucking end if they don’t roast one of those things? Who actually even likes eating that shit? This senseless clinging to violent tradition. I ask you.

Meanwhile, Franny got spayed two days ago, and is pitiful. She has already chewed through 2 e-collars. Against all odds, she hasn’t blown out any sutures yet.

In other news, it will amuse the Blametariat to hear that my debit card got hacked by some asshole perv who used it to open not one, not two, but three Internet porn accounts. As anyone who has endured this indignity knows, the aftermath is bloody. For the next three days — not counting the superfatted “Turkey Day,” since nobody answers Internet porn phones when there is excessive gorging to be done — I will be on perma-hold with endless automated customer “service” systems in a maddening attempt to rectify this way-bogus turn of events. I spoke to one human porn site guy who told me I was “paranoid” in thinking some total stranger had nicked my card number. He was positive that if I double-checked the house I would certainly find some pornsick husbands or sons slavering away in the dark.

I’d like to tie that asshole perv’s nuts in a bow.

Posted in Announcements, Heartwarming Nature Crap, Morsel Institute, Oppression Culture, Pre-recorded Twisty and Sexploitation. Bite me, Chad.

A Face in the Crowd

Published by Jill on November 21, 2009. 42 Comments

Heather Havrilesky has a quasi-jokey column that precisely illustrates the reasons for my long-held view that Oprah is the opiate of the (white middle class female) people.

Yesterday, when word got out that Oprah will be wrapping up “The Oprah Winfrey Show,” which has been on the air since 1986, so that she can focus on her new cable television channel, the Oprah Winfrey Network (or OWN), a nation full of women collapsed into the fetal position. Our husbands or roommates or dogs found us in a crumpled heap on the rug, mumbling through tears, “I want my imaginary black mommy! I want my imaginary black mommy!” Will we be like this for almost two years, until Oprah is really gone? Probably.

I predict that, without a daily national TV audience to monitor her, as Oprah continues to marinate in Oprahnality (a proprietary blend of gold, frankincense, myrrh, Hawaiian real estate, and empowerfulized consumerous tabloidism), she will become increasingly weird. We have seen this in Howard Hughes, Elvis, Michael Jackson; the descent into eccentricity is an immutable rule of megacelebrity.

I look forward, after she cracks up, to the collapse of American femin-o-capitalism predicted by Havrilesky as the only possible outcome of Oprah’s abdication from the National Women’s Moral Compass throne.

Posted in Mass Media, Not Altogether Depressing, The Entertainment Industrial Complex and The Spinster's Finger on the Pulse of Today. Bite me, Chad.

Funny sexism: harms outweigh benefits

Published by Jill on November 21, 2009. 43 Comments

The No Shit! Department at Spinster HQ brings you breaking news from 2007: Study shows that sexist jokes induce actual sexism!

Two long years ago psychology researcher Thomas E Ford et al authored a paper revealing that when dudes sit around guffawing at dumb blonde jokes, they are more likely to cut funding to women’s organizations than are dudes who are forced to listen to non-jokey statements that depict women neutrally.

The research indicates that people should be aware of the prevalence of disparaging humor in popular culture, and that the guise of benign amusement or “it’s just a joke” gives it the potential to be a powerful and widespread force that can legitimize prejudice in our society.”

You know what else Ford found? Dudes who bust a gut over sexist jokes create cultures of misogyny with other dudes who bust a gut over sexist jokes.

We believe this shows that humorous disparagement creates the perception of a shared standard of tolerance of discrimination that may guide behavior when people believe others feel the same way.

The paper was published way back in 2008. Yet, astoundingly, despite these scientific findings, joke-based sexism — to say nothing of bigotry, violence, and hatred — remain! No government task force has stepped up to recommend that sexist jokes, which clearly cause women to experience anxiety, degradation, and unnecessary funding cuts, be phased out of pop culture.

Where’s that task force?

[Thanks, Susan]

Posted in Men Hate You, Number 1 Science Information, Oppression Culture and The Spinster's Finger on the Pulse of Yesterday. Bite me, Chad.

American boobs used as political football, part 472

Published by Jill on November 19, 2009. 92 Comments

Regular readers know that, news-wise, CNN confuses me, and that I have all but kicked the NPR habit (it seems fantastic, but El Rancho Deluxe gets only one radio station, and it only plays one song: that Red Hot Chili Peppers slow dance where the dude yodels in that weird accent about how he doesn’t ever wanna feel like he did that day), with the happy result that pop culture’s gnarly substrate — urgently breaking news — rarely filters down to the lab here at Spinster HQ until a week or two after everyone else has moved on to the next closeted gay Republican outing. This programming suits me and my eccentric recluse lifestyle perfectly. Seriously, must I know about every deranged serial killer’s murderous rampage? One deranged serial killer is very like another. Once a person has apprehended that serial killers serially kill, the philosophical implications may be considered grasped; reviewing a continuous stream evidence of the phenomenon is not only unnecessary, it’s prurient.

But, out of the loop though I be, even I have heard about this no-mammograms-until-you’re-fifty malarkey, and it probably won’t blow your lobe to hear that it blew my lobe. The report made particularly gikky reading in view of the recent Stupak craptacity. America just feels like taking a big old televised crap on women’s basic health care this week, I guess. If, after reviewing the stunning and sweeping misogynist antics our government has pulled over the past couple of weeks, a person could stand up and announce with a straight face that patriarchy doesn’t exist, he’d have to be a complete imbecile.

I allude to the absurd recommendations, released Monday by the U.S. Preventative Services Task Force, concerning the age at which women should begin queuing up at the old mammogram machine. They used to say 40. But now they say 50, and only every other year.

Check this out: the “harms outweigh the benefits.” Not just for under-fifty mammograms, but for over 75 mammograms, and — this one really kills me — breast self-examinations!

Wha?

That’s right, the U.S. Preventative Services Task Force says women shouldn’t be taught to touch their own boobs. The harm outweighs the benefits!

The dreadful harm from which they seek to protect us?

Anxiety.

Anxiety is bad for ladies. Worse, apparently, than blowing off the timely diagnosis of life-threatening illness.

Anxiety! Are they fucking kidding me? Does the U.S. Preventative Services Task Force think women pass their days carefree, lounging on puffy clouds of pink velvet laundry eating Boston cream pie-flavored Yoplait? For fuck’s sake, I don’t know a single woman whose lobes aren’t fucking soaking in anxiety just as a matter of course. I slurp down a couple of Ativans every morning with my Bloody Mary or I can’t leave the house. Anxiety is pie for women. It’s death that tends to slow us down a little.

Here’s an anecdote. One time I came down with breast cancer myself. I had the impertinence to come down with it at the age of 46. How did I know I had cancer? I happened to be giving myself one of those harmful self-exams and found a tumor the size of Guam up in that mug, that’s how. Did I subsequently experience anxiety? Hell yeah, I did. Do I prefer anxiety to death? Hell yeah, I do.

Of course, nobody really gives a crap whether women suffer anxiety. That’s just a lot of smoke up your ass. If they did give a crap, they’d make rape illegal or something. What they’re really so concerned about is that mammography can have false positives, which means expensive biopsies that insurance doesn’t want to pay for. But for crying out loud. Wouldn’t you rather have a biopsy that turned out to be unnecessary, than not have a biopsy that turned out to be necessary?

If I’d followed the U.S. Preventative Services Task Force Recommendations, I would be dead. Dead, dead, dead. As it was, I was pretty fucking sick.

So I’d like to shove my entire 46-year-old malignant tumor up the U.S Preventative Services Task Force’s entire ass.

Note: mammography is stunningly imperfect. It’s only useful in detecting cancer that’s already there. Which is to say, it’s a cure-based tactic. This makes it vastly inferior to preventative measures — vaccines, elimination of environmental carcinogens, etc — that might preclude cancer in the first place. Also, mammography is, as are all cure-based measures, useless for women who can’t afford subsequent treatment.

You know what else? Everyone should have access to free genetic testing to determine whether they have the breast cancer mutation. If you’ve got the mutation, your chances of tumoring out before age 50 are, like, 80%. Currently that test costs like 4 grand, and good luck getting your insurance company to cough up for it.

Posted in Crazy sexy cancer, Men Hate You, Politics, The Spinster's Finger on the Pulse of Today and The megatheocorporatocracy. Bite me, Chad.

Spinster aunt has puerile episode

Published by Jill on November 16, 2009. 77 Comments
Attic black figure wine stompers, ca. 600 BCE

Attic black figure wine stompers, ca. 600 BCE

My sidekick Stingray is a professional wino. She can tell you the names of about 87 different species of fungus that grow on grapes. She speaks reverently of the Moldavian terroir. She goes around telling people what wine to drink with their fire-roasted frisée frittatas.

Lately she’s been on this kick where she quits her job, shoves a few necessaries into a bumbag, and biffs off to some distant vineyard or other to toil in a cellar for months on end. I’m not sure what, exactly, this cellar work entails, but I get the impression that it more or less involves attaching lots of hoses to lots of tanks for about 12 hours a day in an ultra-misogynist environment for next to no pay. Stingray stresses that it absolutely does not involve picking or stomping grapes. Stomping grapes, she says, has fallen out of vogue. She thinks it maybe isn’t even legal in the U.S.

Anyway, Stingray is lately returned from one of these indentured servitude binges, this time in the Douro River Valley in Portugal. The winery was apparently picturesque in every respect. Rolling hills, winding river, ancient vineyards, and yes, human grape treaders.

I got pretty excited about this last feature. Grape stomping, as anyone who has watched I Love Lucy can tell you, is an iconic motif in the ancient European rustic narrative. It’s Bacchanalian. It’s bucolic. It’s barefooted. How soothing to know that, persisting through the mists of untold millennia, in some faraway Arcadian paradise, human feet yet aspire to this high moral purpose, squishing the crap out of grapes for the enbiggenment of all humankind.

Naturally I subjected Stingray to an extended debriefing on this foot treading theme.

“I can’t believe they still do that!” I said. “Did you stomp grapes?”

“Uh, no. Why does everybody ask me that?”

“What! How come?”

“Well,” said Stingray, adopting the weary tone of an evolutionary biologist addressing an audience of feeble-minded Intelligent Designers on the meaning of the word theory, “they asked me once if I wanted to, but I didn’t feel like taking off my –”

“Are you mad? How could you pass up a primo local color experience like that?”

“I don’t know, I was like up to my elbows in wine all day, and I just didn’t feel –”

“This is a travesty.” I was sorely disappointed by this bloodless disinterest in grape-stomping. “Who goes all the way to Portugal, works in an idyllic ancient vineyard where idyllic ancient rituals flourish, and suddenly declines to stomp grapes? Grape stomping’s a fucking archetypal theme!”

We went back and forth like this for a while. Eventually the facts emerged.

Fig. 2b. Photo by Stingray, 2009.

Fig. 2b. Photo by Stingray, 2009.

Apparently, as a wine professional, Stingray is immune to the romantic lure of the grape stomping mythos. A further, even more shocking revelation: grape stomping is actually considered lowly. It turns out that the most popular insult around the cellar was “Why don’t you go stomp some grapes, you miserable grape stomper!” In Portuguese this colorful sentiment is expressed somewhat more poetically by the phrase peez ah pee. Or possibly pizza pie.*

Stingray produced some photos of the Douro Valley grape treaders. They didn’t look miserable to me. But the longer I contemplated the pictures, the less nostalgic I began to feel toward stomping. I began to formulate in my lobe a hypothesis I’d never considered before. You will observe in Fig. 2b that the treaders are not wearing sterile disposable latex long-johns.

They’re wearing Speedos.

“Sometimes,” noted Stingray, “these people are up to their crotches in grapes.”

Coincidentally, my fridge happened at that moment to be full of Portuguese wine, so my next question was exactly what you think it was.

Stingray delivered a detailed speech on the subject of filtering practices, albumin, the antibacterial properties of alcohol, and other hygiene-related crap. Unsoothed by this, I pressed her for more. She mentioned the alcohol thing again, and something about a sort of screen on a spigot somewhere. I remained dubious. Finally she admitted the truth: that although the odds are pretty well stacked against it, it’s not 100% impossible that a bottle of wine might contain a pube.

A bottle of wine could contain a pube! A bottle of wine could contain a pube!

____________________________

* Portuguese speakers are invited to improve my phonetic treatment of the phrase with actual spelling.

Posted in Easy Persiflage, Lobe-blowing and Morsel Institute. Bite me, Chad.

Same stupak, different day

Published by Jill on November 15, 2009. 70 Comments

Stupak

I Blame the Patriarchy marches to the beat of a different news cycle, so this may be ancient history to you, but,

Stupak!

I propose that “stupak” be incorporated into common usage as a verb meaning “to ensure political victory by means of screwing women over bigtime.”

My mind is not boggled that the health care “reform” bill passed the House only because it contains an amendment (the aforementioned Stupak amendment) that would make it illegal for private insurance companies to offer abortion coverage, even when women pay for it out-of-pocket, if those women are also receiving federal insurance dough. It isn’t the least bit surprising that 64 Democrats voted for the bill [view the lip-curling list of politicians who hate you], and that 12 of those were women. It’s scarcely a blip on the Patri-O-Meter that Nancy Collaborator Pelosi was described by HuffPo last week as “triumphant,” and that Barack Godbag Apologist Obama looks forward to signing the bill into law.

Why am I not surprised?

I’ll tell you why.

Patriarchy is a big, boily ass lounging on two fundamental butt-cheeks, without which cheeks it would develop abscesses and go septic and die. Those two butt-cheeks are: sex-based dominance, sex-based submission, and the rapeability of women. OK, three butt-cheeks. Dominance, submission, the rapeability of women, and an almost fanatical devotion to compulsory pregnancy. Four. Four butt-cheeks. Although dominance and submission, as two sides of the same thong, should really only count as one cheek. So make that three cheeks total. Although when you think about it, since the rapeability of women and compulsory pregnancy are merely the practical applications of domination ideology, they’re all really pretty much the same thing. So, for the sake of clarity, let’s just say there is one big honkin butt — the state ownership of women — lolling in a louche manner upon the two cheeks: the rapeability of women, and compulsory pregnancy.

What I’m getting at is this: my lack of surprise at this Stupak shit proceeds from irrefutable evidence that state ownership of women is among the most beloved of our violent culture’s violent traditions. Social conservatives appear to believe that God made patriarchy in his own image, and that he will withdraw his complimentary concierge services and cancel Christmas, NASCAR, and life everlasting if the state stops oppressing women for even one second. So-called progressives just want uninterrupted access to pussy.

Also, people just plain like oppressing women.

That’s why, as part of the ongoing effort to keep women rapeable, rapists are generously protected by the law. Convictions are a joke. They are such a joke that 60% of victims never bother to report their assaults. They are such a joke that at least 20,000 rape kits are sitting around untested in various crime labs across the country. According to RAINN, only 6 percent of rapists ever see the inside of the hoosegow.

“Somehow all we can do is take the statement from the victim. Take the statement from the alleged perpetrator and then throw up our hands because they are saying conflicting things,” quoth this U Mass rape scholar.

If people genuinely wanted to see the end of rape, which they don’t, they’d rescind the Global Accords Governing Fair Use of Women, replacing it with the following: if a woman says she was raped, she was raped. If that’s your DNA, Chad old boy, you’re a rapist. That’s it. The end. “Throwing up our hands” would be discontinued as a law enforcement technique.

So you know that stipulation in the Stupak amendment which would except pregnancies resulting from rape? Happily for fans of the status quo, since 94% of those will never be proven as rapes, denial of access to abortion can continue to oppress all but the wealthiest women.

Although our violence-loving society sort of pretends to pooh-pooh rape, it thinks nothing of claiming state ownership of women’s personal internal organs. Everybody’s fucking ecstatic about this health care “reform” bill. It’s “answering the call of history.” Which history, as usual, calls for women to take it up the butt and like it.

Posted in Compulsory pregnancy, Men Hate You, Oppression Culture, Politics, Rape Culture, The Spinster's Finger on the Pulse of Today, The Spinster's Finger on the Pulse of Yesterday and Women hate you. Bite me, Chad.

Raper’s Delight, Part 3

Published by Jill on November 14, 2009. 24 Comments

Remember back in December of 2005, when Canadian rapist Jan Luedecke got a free pass because his lawyers had successfully argued that their client’s “sexsomnia” is a legitimate medical disorder that renders the “sufferer” incapable of refraining from assaulting women in his sleep?

Nothing, it will not surprise you to learn, has changed over the past four years.

A review board convening this week to consider Luedecke’s future has declared that he should run free, free, free to float on the ocean breeze, because he has apparently not sexsomnulated anyone but his official partner in 6 years.

That they know of. I don’t suppose that old Jan Luedecke would exactly pipe up about it if he had fallen off the ex-rapist wagon, and it goes without saying that his subsequent victims would have seen clearly the futility of trying to press charges against the poster boy for institutionalized juridical misogyny.

Naturally, nobody calls this bullshit “rare sleep disorder” what it really is, i.e., drunken blotto rape.

[Via Feministing]

Posted in Lobe-blowing, Men Hate You and Rape Culture. Bite me, Chad.