Tag Archives: kavanaugh

Daily Discussion with BQB – “Thanks For Not Raping Us” Column in Washington Post

Ugh.

Check out this column.

You know, 3.5 readers, what passes as journalism these days is abysmal.

I don’t really want to debate the Kavanaugh situation with you 3.5 readers.  Either you realize it was a bag job or you’re too dumb to realize it was a bag job or…oops.  Yeesh.  Thank God only 3.5 readers read this blog.  Anyway, moving on…

I’ve seen so many dumb columns written by women who talk about their own rage and anger over Kavanaugh and how that somehow applies to the men in their lives and I realize I’m expected to weep for these women but I feel like becoming a male Harriet Tubman – freeing these poor men who have to undergo getting kicked in the proverbial nuts in a shoddy piece of writing so their significant others can have their 15 minutes of fame.

Anyway, here’s what Victoria Bissell Brown, an honest to God history professor wrote, along with my pithy commentary.

BROWN: I yelled at my husband last night. Not pick-up-your-socks yell. Not how-could-you-ignore-that-red-light yell. This was real yelling. This was 30 minutes of from-the-gut yelling. Triggered by a small, thoughtless, dismissive, annoyed, patronizing comment. Really small. A micro-wave that triggered a hurricane. I blew. Hard and fast. And it terrified me. I’m still terrified by what I felt and what I said. I am almost 70 years old.

BQB: Hey husband of this lady.  On the off chance that you’re one of my 3.5 readers, please, for the love of god, get up and go!  You’re 70, man.  You’ve put 50 years in with this lady only to get yelled at as some sort of stand in for a frigging judge she doesn’t like.  Sir, you have done your time. Now please, go to one of those brothels outside of Vegas and score some primo strange before you die.

Seriously, man.  You’re old.  You could croak any time.  Don’t let your last experience with a woman be getting yelled at because you are expected at 70 years of age to dawn a superhero cape and literally apprehend all rapists before they even commit rape.  Yes, you must also be psychic and predict when rapists are about to rape and then stop them.  It is not enough that you, yourself, have lived a good life and been a good husband and handled yourself in a moral manner.

BROWN: I am a grandmother. Yet in that roiling moment, screaming at my husband as if he represented every clueless male on the planet (and I every angry woman of 2018), I announced that I hate all men and wish all men were dead. If one of my grandchildren yelled something that ridiculous, I’d have to stifle a laugh.

BQB: Honestly, lady, I talked to my fellow men and we all admitted that women have gotten us to the point where we all wish we were dead too.  Please, by all means, keep yelling us into early graves so we don’t have to be blamed for things we didn’t do anymore.

BROWN: My husband of 50 years did not have to stifle a laugh. He took it dead seriously. He did not defend his remark, he did not defend men. He sat, hunched and hurt, and he listened. For a moment, it occurred to me to be grateful that I’m married to a man who will listen to a woman. The winds calmed ever so slightly in that moment. And then the storm surge welled up in me as I realized the pathetic impotence of nice men’s plan to rebuild the wreckage by listening to women.

BQB: How did she know nice, non-raping men had a plan to defeat rape by listening to women?

It’s true. I’ve been to the man conventions and the man outdoor camping retreats where we sit around the campfire.  There, we roast marshmallows and say things like, “Hey fellas, just so we’re all on the same page, we’re against rape, right?”  And then the men would talk and then we’d be like, “Yeah, and when our wives want to yell at us as stand ins for judges they don’t like we should totally sit there and take it because to try to explain that we are not the judge they dislike seems like it would require a lot of effort.”

BROWN: I said the meanest thing I’ve ever said to him: Don’t you dare sit there and sympathetically promise to change. Don’t say you will stop yourself before you blurt out some impatient, annoyed, controlling remark. No, I said, you can’t change. You are unable to change. You don’t have the skills and you won’t do it. You, I said, are one of the good men. You respect women, you believe in women, you like women, you don’t hit women or rape women or in any way abuse women. You have applauded and funded feminism for a half-century. You are one of the good men. And you cannot change. You can listen all you want, but that will not create one iota of change.

BQB: Dude.  Seriously, husband, if you’re reading this, get the next flight to Vegas because it sounds like the only thing that will make your missus happy will be your balls in a mason jar.

BROWN: In the centuries of feminist movements that have washed up and away, good men have not once organized their own mass movement to change themselves and their sons or to attack the mean-spirited, teasing, punching thing that passes for male culture. Not once. Bastards. Don’t listen to me. Listen to each other. Talk to each other. Earn your power for once.

BQB: That’s pretty sexist, lady.  I’ll have you know my men’s club meets every Tuesday for a brunch of scones with lavender butter while we read feminist slam poetry and talk about how we all wish we could grow our own vaginas.

BROWN: Pay attention people: If we do not raise boys to walk humbly and care deeply, if we do not demand that men do more than just listen, we will all drown in the flood. And there is no patriarchal Noah to save us.

BQB: Is it me or did she just simultaneously diss the patriarchy and then also demand that the patriarchy do something?

She ends on that note.  Honestly, I have no idea what she was trying to say other than husbands who are kind and decent and loving to their wives and cater to all their needs and whims aren’t doing enough and somehow they must stop bad men from becoming rapists and somehow when men goof on each other and slap each other in the ass with towels and engage in bro speak and drink beers and do manly things this is somehow causing men to become rapists.

Is it me or if a man were to write a column about some famous woman who was alleged to have done something wrong and he wrote that he yelled at his wife for 30 minutes as a stand in for what the famous woman had been done, he’d probably have to lock himself in a cage to protect himself from all the angry protesters, am I right?

I have no idea what this column was trying to say other than apparently it isn’t enough for men to be good men themselves and somehow they must be in charge of all men and all I know is that I do my part as I hold weekly tea parties where I invite all the men I know to eat peppermint cookies and hold hands and sing songs about how we will be nice and share all our feelings and emotions because women love it when men tell their feelings and get emotional.

 

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The Salem Witch Trials – 2018 Reboot

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Salem, MA – 1692

Prudence Goodhope sighed and lamented her fate as she struggled against the ropes that held her tight against a wooden pole buried in the earth.  Villagers came and went, dropping off handfuls of twigs and kindling at her feet.  With each drop, the pile grew larger and larger until it reached her waist.

The stern looking Reverend Cotton Snerdway approached with a lit torch in hand.  “Right then, time to send you to hell witch.  Have you got any last words before I set you ablaze for the committing the crime of witchcraft?”

“Yes!” Prudence shouted.  “I’m not a witch! Please believe me!  I swear I’m not a witch at all!”

A hushed gasp overtook the crowd of villagers.

“She just accused her accusers of lying!” a random farmer cried.

A random old woman swooned and was about to fall when her fellow villagers caught her.  “Fi on thee, witch!  Your words cut my ears like knives! How dare thee mistreat thine accusers so!”

The reverend held up his torch.  “Now, see here, you dirty witch.  If your accusers say you’re a witch, then you’re a witch and that’s all there is to it.  So shut your gob and enjoy your burning.”

“Please!”  Prudence said.  “Good reverend, allow me to plead my case.”

“Sorry,” Reverend Snerdway said.  “Once you’ve been accused, that’s all there is.  If we let people start denying accusations then people who make accusations will get their feelings hurt and then the next time someone sees a witch they’ll just shut their traps and not tell anyone because they won’t want to feel as bad as your accusers will when you start runnin’ your dirty witch face about your so-called innocence of witchcraft and then before you know it, the whole bloody colony will be overrun with witches, flying around on their broomsticks, turning children into newts, cackling at all hours of the night.  We can’t have that.  Not on my watch.  Come on, now.  It will just hurt for a minute.”

“But I can prove I am not a witch!” Prudence said.  “I have, at all times, been in the company of my family and if they had seen me dabble in witchery, then surely they would have said something.”

“They’re probably all witches too,” the reverend said.  “Fear not.  We’ll burn them next.”

“Wait!” Prudence said.

“What now?” Reverend Snerdway asked.

“I’ve never flown on a broomstick,” Prudence said.  “I’ve never turned a child into a newt.  I’m not green.  I don’t know any spells.  You can search my home top to bottom and you’ll find nary a wand or a book of incantations, not even a single potion…”

“My hands are tied,” Reverend Snerdway said.  “If your accusers say you’re a witch, then you’re a witch.  But rest assured that your imminent burning is most assuredly deserved because if you hadn’t been a witch, then surely, your accusers would not have accused you of being a witch.”

Prudence’s eyes grew wide with shock.  “Wait?  Reverend, you mean to say that accusers never get their accusations wrong?”

“Not at all,” the reverend said.  “Since the dawn of time, not one single accuser has ever made a false accusation, either on purpose or accidentally due to a misunderstanding of the pertinent facts relative to the issue at hand.  You were called a witch and ergo, you are a witch.  If you weren’t a witch, then you would have never been called a witch, so which witch is a witch?  That’d be you, witch.”

Prudence sighed.  “I can’t argue with that impeccable logic.  You have convinced me, sir.  I must be a witch.”

“Finally,” the reverend said as he leaned down.  He was about to set the kindling ablaze when Prudence called out.  “Wait!”

“Blast!” Reverend Snerdway said.  “What now, witch?”

“What if there’s a tiny, absurdly small chance my accusers are wrong?” Prudence asked.

The reverend shrugged his shoulders.  “Unlikely, but no matter.  Most assuredly, you are a witch, and so when I set you on fire, you will die a painful death, shrieking in agony and being justly punished as the witch that you are.  But, in the unlikely event that you are not a witch, you’ll still die and just get to Heaven that much sooner, enjoying all the rights and privileges thereto that a good Christian death can offer and I’m sure our Lord will be there to offer his condolences for the mix-up.”

“Hmm,” Prudence said.  “Well, I should very much like to meet the Lord.”

“And meet him you shall,” the reverend said.  “Unless you’re a witch, and then you’ll go straight to hell.”

“Now I’m very uncertain of this whole ordeal,” Prudence said.

“Woman,” the reverend said.  “Please stop questioning this for in the end, the important thing is that your accusers not be offended.  If I don’t set you on fire and allow hot flames to lick the very skin off of your bones, then they will think I do not take their accusations seriously.  If I ask them simple questions like, ‘Say, accusers, why do you think Prudence is a witch?’ or ‘Did you even see Prudence ride around in the night sky on a broom?’ then your accusers will be cross and their feelings will be hurt and do you have any idea how inconvenient it is to make an accusation?”

“OK,” Prudence said.  “You make a fine point, reverend.  It would be easier to just burn me than offend an accuser with basic lines of inquiry.  Have at it then.  Lord, here I come!”

And so, Reverend Snerdway burned over 100 accused witches without even bothering to find out if they had ever even owned a broomstick because, holy shit, you can’t ask an accuser a question, you un-woke sack of crap.

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To Kill A Mockingbird – 2018 Reboot

EDITORIAL NOTE: I’ll just leave this here, for no particular reason.

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And so, gentlemanly country lawyer Atticus Finch did call his client, Tom Robinson, into his law office.  Tom Robinson, a black man, had been falsely accused of rape and since it was the Jim Crow south, no lawyer other than Atticus was willing to help the poor man.

“I swear I didn’t rape that woman, Atticus,” Tom said. “I swear, I didn’t.  Do you think you’ll be able to save me at trial?”

“Well,” Atticus said as he sipped a mint julep. “I’m just a simple country lawyer who likes to sit on his rocking chair and enjoy a nice cool breeze on a summer’s evening, but I say, I do declare that whether we should save you is not the proper consideration but rather, the appropriate issue is should we save you?”

“Should we save me?” Tom asked.  “But sir, I have been falsely accused!”

“Sir!”  Atticus said.  “Lower your voice!  I shall not have such triggering hate speech in my office.”

“What?” Tom asked.

“You see, Tom,” Atticus said.  “It doesn’t matter if you were falsely accused or not because all accusers have the right to be instantly and automatically believed.  Why, if you don’t believe an accusation without further question or inquiry, then you are not just insulting the individual accuser in this case but anyone and everyone who has ever dared to stand up and accuse someone of anything.

“But Mr. Finch,” Tom said.  “I’m not trying to tarnish the reputation of anyone who has ever made an accusation.  I realize that for the world to keep turning that people need to be able to stand up and say when something bad happened.  I’m just saying that in this case, when my accuser makes a false accusation, I need you to present my case and prove the truth.  I didn’t do it, sir.  I’m innocent and that fact must be presented to the jury.”

Atticus brushed a piece of lint off his clean, white suit.  “Sir, I say, I do declare I’m sorry but I just can’t go on with this hateful discussion.  All accusers are to be believed, sir and frankly, whether or not you are guilty or innocent is immaterial.  If you do not skip this trial and skip straight to hanging yourself then your accuser’s feelings, as well as the feelings as anyone who has ever made an accusation against anyone since the beginning of all time will be hurt and we can’t have that, so please, go hang yourself now.”

Tom stood up.  “Sir, if I may be so bold, if you’re not going to defend me against an accusation then why are you here?”

“Why, I do declare I’m just here to sip mint juleps and look good in this white suit,” Atticus said.  “Good day, sir.  Please go see the proprietor of our local mercantile and acquire a length of rope.  I’ll see to it that your estate will handle the bill just as soon as you hang yourself promptly.”

Tom shook Atticus’ hand.  “Very well, sir.  You make a fine point.  I don’t want accusers to feel bad and even if the accusation against me is false, my life must be over now because if it isn’t then people with true accusations will feel bad and true accusers just won’t be intelligent enough to be able to figure out that in this particular case, the accusation was false.  I will go hang myself posthaste.”

“Glad to hear it,” Atticus said.  “Enjoy your hanging, Tom.”

Tom left the room.  Atticus’ young daughter, Scout, had been playing with a doll in a corner of the room the entire time.

“Daddy?” Scout said.

“Yes, dear?” Atticus replied.

“The world sure has gotten fucked up, ain’t it, Daddy?” Scout asked.

“It sure has, Scout,” Atticus said.  “It sure has.”

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