THIS BLOG POST was shared by a few people on my Facebook and I felt compelled to respond.
Dear Teenage Slores Girls,
Another Facebook Friday just came and went, in which we, as a family, gather round and stalk teenage girls’ profiles to weed out the harlots bent on tainting the thoughts and hearts of our special snowflake sons. Wow! Your selfie in the PJs, or maybe it was yoga pants and a tank, was shocking. Then one of my special snowflakes pointed out that you were in your bedroom and I lost it. POSTING PICTURES TAKEN IN YOUR BEDROOM?!?! Why don’t you just post a list of your rates in the pic description?! My husband and sons examined the picture pretty thoroughly and, SURVEY SAYS: You aren’t wearing a bra. It’s hard to tell just from looking but if you take the picture, upload it to picmonkey and blow it up 250X, focus the view on your breast area, pinpoint where the nipple should be anatomically, note fullness, shape and drop, THEN, upload another picture from school, any other place you would definitely be wearing a bra, repeat the above steps, compare fullness, shape and drop and BAM! We know immediately, or within a half hour, 45 minutes tops, which of you are using social media to titmatize our son. The caption says, “heading to bed, GN”, so why are you posing in such a way, with your back arched oh-so-slightly, making your buttocks pop up, seeming to say, “hellooo, there”, and your perfect, perky, upturned, breasts protruding forward saying, “haaaaaaaaaay”? Your head is cocked to the side at a 45 degree angle, which really highlights your cheekbones, and your full lips are pushed out into a very sultry pout, like a bad, bad girl who needs a spanking. What? Where was I? Oh, that’s right! When I put on my bedtime bra and PJs, that’s not a position I assume in my bedroom before heading to sleep!
Oh no! Did I just say something about me being in a bedroom? Why? Why, oh why? If any men or boys read that, they are going to picture me in my bedroom and have impure, lustful thoughts. CRAP! I just mentioned me in a bedroom again! I’m just another of Satan’s tools, put here to incite lust into the minds and hearts of pure, pious, good men, leading them into temptation. Please forgive me for any impure thoughts or impulses I may have caused anyone, even though I don’t know that I can forgive myself for leading you from the path of righteousness.
Back to my point, we aren’t saying that you girls are worthless whores. We don’t know you! That would be a ridiculous generalization! We’re just saying that any girl who takes pictures of herself in her bedroom is MOST LIKELY a worthless whore. Do you see the distinction? Point being, and this is a bummer, we are going to have to block you. I’m doing this because I care about my sons and I know, as males, they are incapable of separating their thoughts from their actions and controlling their urges. It is our job as women to avoid acting or dressing in such a way that could cause a man to sin, against themselves or against us. Men are just a slave to their urges. They can’t help it. Boys will be boys, you know. Did you know that once a man sees you in any state of undress that he can’t un-see it? It makes me weep for my husband who has the images of countless young girls and their bare shoulders, and legs, and midriffs, all trapped inside his head to suffer him for an eternity. You, you girls with your camera phones and mirrors and pajamas and come hither looks have put those images there but he is the one who will have to suffer and sacrifice. You don’t want my sons having sexual thoughts about you, do you? I hope not because there is no telling what they may do if you spark their sexual interest. They’re just boys. You are in control. Not them.
I know that sounds old school but that is just the way it is under this roof. We hope to raise men with a strong moral compass and, in this house, we know that men of integrity view women as objects; almost like an actual person but not worthy of any notable level of respect or dignity. We don’t trust our sons’ judgment in any sense of the word when it comes to the female persuasion. Girls will only cloud and impair their instincts, one selfie at a time, leading them down a wayward path of immorality that they have no ability or recourse to resist.
Here are a few pictures of our sons. I guess you can tell by the tan and the swimsuits that they were taken at the beach. The one with my husband, where they are all shirtless and flexing is my favorite. Here is another one of one of my sons, wearing only his swim shorts, looking off at the horizon. It is fine for me to post these pictures because girls aren’t actually capable of lust or sexual desire. Our sexuality is just a put on to make men feel good. Pictures of half-dressed boys, striking poses, are just good clean family fun. Boys being boys! It’s not like these pictures are taken in their bedrooms but, even if they were it would be different because boys’ rooms stink like cheese, so it cancels out any “sexy” that could be inferred otherwise.
Girls! If you act now, you may be able to fool some people into thinking that you aren’t a Jezebel temptress. Not me, but some people! I know better. It would be far too difficult to double back and teach my sons that women are people and, as such, are worthy of respect; respect that is not contingent just on their potential future benefit to my sons’ existence. It would be confusing for me to explain to them that modesty and self-respect work both ways and that if you are going to scrutinize girls for sharing pictures that show skin, they should practice what they preach. When it comes to the influence of peers on our sons’ lives, we know that the girls are the paramount threat. It’s the very reason that we only screen and filter out our sons’ female friends. Boys are just boys and are going to do silly stuff and post inappropriate pictures and YouTube videos but, hey! What are ya’ gonna do, ya know? Even when we are going through these girls’ pictures, we will see our sons or their guy friends in these pics, doing the same thing, flipping the bird, using vulgar language, or drinking but we know that they can’t help themselves. It’s the testosterone.
What I’m trying to say is that I don’t respect nor trust my sons, or men in general. For that matter, I don’t trust females either. I think that men are mindless slaves to their genitals, incapable of compassion, or reasoned decision-making. I think, and pass on to my sons, that if they falter, it is partly their fault, but mostly the fault of women (or a woman), guilty of infecting them with lust. I am teaching them to not trust their own instincts or emotions, in the way that I distrust them, because even if they think they’re thinking with their heart, they can rest assured that it is their penis, unless told otherwise. I want them to see women as objects, save their future wives, of whom I’ve set an almost impossible standard of beauty, piety, and influence over my sons’ happiness, satisfaction and overall quality of life that will only be achieved through a relationship with this one, special, specific person, that meets said criteria.
You’re really beautiful but I don’t see a bra strap in that picture.
I’m not saying you’re a slut, I’m just saying you look slutty.
I wasn’t prepared for the reaction but I laughed when people lost their fucking minds when the announcement was made that Dakota Johnson and Charlie Hunnum would play Anastasia Steele and Christian Grey, respectively. When the “official” announcement was made, disappointment, indignation, and outrage ensued because of these two people:
Evidently, these two people are not up to par. They are not aesthetically capable of pulling off these roles. I mean, Charlie Hunnum is “scruffy”. In almost all the pictures I’ve seen of him, he has a beard and is wearing jeans or biker gear. Christian Grey is clean-cut and wears a suit! How the hell are they going to reconcile those differences? Dakota Johnson is too old, for starters. Ana is 21 years old, NOT 23!! Who is in charge of this? NOT TO MENTION, who the hell are they? No one has ever even heard of them! “Sons of Anarchy“? “Queer as Folk”? “The Social Network”? Never heard of them! Are they going to be able to handle bringing these characters to life? Are they seasoned enough to carry off this advanced of a story line, or the complexity and intimacy between these lovers, the likes of which can only be compared to a penile enhancement drug commercial? Many people were under the impression that these roles would be filled by higher caliber actors, like Academy Award winners. Or, at least nominees. There were also a lot of people with lower, but still higher, expectations.
Many really thought Robert Pattison should have/would have been Christian Grey. I’m assuming Kristen Stewart was the Anastasia they had in mind too. These are the diehard “Twilight” fans that feel that the only details that their favorite vampire love story was missing was fisting and anal beads.
Others were expecting Ryan Reynolds or Ian Somerhalder. The rumors and wishes for Ana have been Emma Watson to Alexis Biedel, who is not too old at 32. At the end of the day ,one thing is sure, when you picture Christian Grey bending Ana over a sink and pulling out her tampon or whipping her ass to subconsciously punish his crack whore mother, this is a love story with standards that the fans will demand be preserved!
I’ve been casting actor and actresses that I thought had the chops for these roles for a while. In my head, of course.
Of course, you’ll have to be flexible with any of these. Miley as Ana will walk into Christian’s office, slap her junk and probably twerk. With Tara, instead of “down there”, Ana will just refer to her “pussy”. I think Kim K. would really be able to bring to life Ana’s completely annoying personality and catch phrases, like “JEEEEZ”. She’s already released a sex tape, so there won’t be any concern about modesty or inhibitions. Win, win.
With Christian, Nicholas Cage could really nail the quick to anger and psychosis of Christian Grey. With Dustin Diamond, aka Screech, you have the sex tape as proof of his lack of dignity or self-respect for the role. David Caruso could really bring an extra something to the role with the sunglasses and put some zazzle into the Christian Grey one liners.
(Preface: I forgot to publish this one last week! Doh! Sorry it’s a bit outdated.)
I had set my DVR that day, excited because I heard rumors that Hannah Montana was going to perform on the VMAs. Hannah, as you may now know, did not show up. No, no, she did not. Miley Stewart was not on stage either. This Miley Cyrus that hit the stage, though, has a lot to answer for after that showing. The internetz have been swarming. Miley is a slut, tramp, skank and a whore. She also has a disgusting flabby ass, which can be verified from a number of close up shots from multiple angles. She molested a fellow performer then pretty much sexually assaulted him right on stage. From what I’ve gathered, because of her performance, thousands of people died, marriages have fallen apart, 2 more wars have broken out, the stock market collapsed, women lost the right to vote, and baby Jesus cried. Miley Cyrus, single-handedly, destroyed lives–nay, civilization!
Miley Cyrus chose her path a long, time ago. At 12 years old, when she accepted the role of Hannah Montana, she sealed her fate as a role model. If my children can’t look to television for a role model to help them develop good moral fiber and a healthy self-esteem, who the shit is going to teach them? Riddle me that! Who do these Disney stars think they are? When you go on television as a child, especially on Disney, millions of parents are depending on you to do a good job of raising their children, for fuck’s sake. Britney Spears was so cute and innocent on the Mickey Mouse club and then the VMAs turned her into a horny slut too. These girls have to understand that they can’t just turn 18 and go rogue. What, like it’s my job to keep up with what my kids are watching and what they are wearing or what they are doing all the time? Okay, sure. That’s why I bought a fucking TV! That this happened on a family friendly network like MTV blows my mind. Every year, the family and I all get in our PJs and gather round the television for the, normally, wholesome Video Music Awards show. When Lady Gaga graced the stage with a shell bra, my family and I collectively wept at the poetic beauty of her thong nestled in her ass crack. Later, when Miley emerged from a giant space teddy bear, wearing a teddy bear or mouse onesie, with her tongue hanging out, and tried to dance to her song, I was startled. Her pelvic thrusts were not artistic. There were teddy bears strapped to people dancing. TEDDY BEARS! Do you think that when I tune into MTV with my children that I expect that they will be exposed to goddamn teddy bears? Is anyone thinking of the children? When the intro to Robin Thicke’s song, “Blurred Lines” began, I breathed a sigh of relief that the program was finally returning to a family friendly program. My kids and I LOVE this song. Call me a hopeless romantic, but there is just something so pure, loving and sexy about a handsome man crooning about the grey area that we call “consent” . Sigh. Swoon. Imagine my horror when Robin is standing there singing this love ballad, telling his lady if she backs her ass up, his dick can tear it in two, and that little harlot bent over in front of him and shook her ass on on his crotch! What is this world coming to when you can’t enjoy a catchy, rapey, serenade without some tramp trying to make the whole show about sex? I covered their eyes and told my babies just to sing along and try to forget what they saw. Did I mention that Miley is 20 years old and that Robin is a married father? That’s all the information I need to know that Robin was an innocent victim to Ms. Cyrus’ drug induced sex show. Sure, his wife laughed off the outrage, saying that it was a show, there was rehearsal after rehearsal, and there were no surprises. But, come the fuck on. Miley probably threatened her or drugged her or paid her off. There is no way that Robin Thicke, a family man, would agree to that. His “Blurred Lines” video is a testament to his purity. Despite all of the topless women, wearing only nude thongs, Robin Thicke and the other men remain fully clothed the entire time. Like gentlemen. I just felt soooo sorry for him during the awards. He’s just up there singing his song, about fucking hot bitches and Miley tainted the message. That little whore needs help. Bad. It’s like that time that Justin Timberlake and Janet Jackson performed at the halftime show, which ended with Justin Timberlake ripping at Janet’s top, exposing her decorated boob. Like the rest of the world, I was outraged and I knew that Janet Jackson must be punished. Sure, it was a dual performance and it was Justin that removed the material but it was Janet that had the breast and that was the part of the whole thing that offended me.
The whole scene was awful. She grabbed her crotch. She used a foam finger and simulated masturbation for at least a second. Maybe a second and a half. She bent over and her legs were shaking a bit. I thought she might be having some sort of syncope episode or perhaps a seizure but, apparently, she was dancing, or” twerking” to be specific. I laughed. Mind you, I have no idea how to twerk, which is precisely why I don’t demonstrate the move. Something to consider, Miley. Something to consider. Like I was saying. Crotch grabbing, thrusting, revealing clothes, vulgar, sexual gestures and dancing. APPALLING!
I just want to go back to the good old days when it wasn’t about sex and skin and the VMAs was perfect family television, like Madonna simulating masturbation and sex while performing “Like a Virgin”, or Prince wearing assless pants while singing “Get off” When my children and I nestle on the couch together for some sing-along time, I don’t want them to be exposed to twerking, much less in hot pants. I want the programmers to think about the youth of this country and roll it back to the days when I could turn on the VMAs for my kids and leave the room, comforted by the fact that all they were going to see was kid friendly acts like Prince in ass-less chaps, or Madonna making out with Britney Spears and Cristina Aguilera. Or, even better, in the times when rock and roll was all about the music. Just a bunch of men, in skin-tight leather pants, simulating masturbation or sex with microphones or other objects, BUT MOSTLY SINGING!!
My main concern throughout the performance was Miley’s tongue. Has anyone suggested that she see a neurologist yet? It might be a good idea.
The champagne will be nicely chilled when the big day arrives. I am counting down the minutes. I thought this day would NEVER get here. But it is almost here. Only 6 more days. 6 MORE DAYS!?! I don’t know if I can hold out that long. I think I can. I think I can. I can. I will. The champagne reminds me that our time is near. In 6 days, Number One and Number Two will walk out the door and I will bid them adieu with ticker tape and a champagne toast to the back-end of their school buses. The first day of school is a magical day.
Yes! I do have other kids. I’m like that goddamned woman who lived in a shoe. I’ll take what I can get and you don’t have to be a statistician or a child care expert to understand that less kids=less stress. From Monday-Friday, 8AM-3PM, there won’t be any fights over what TV show to watch. I won’t be questioned every 39 seconds, “Is it MY turn to play Minecraft?” I will only have 2 kids here to tear shit up, so my house will be 50% less messy.
Of course, their teachers will provide my children with the necessary materials to piss on my parade in the form of a mountain of paperwork for me to fill out. I think this year I’m just going to send a note back with them. To whom it may concern: I filled out all this shit last year. And the year before that. And the year before that. We haven’t moved. We are still married. No names have changed. Those listed as emergency contacts in previous years haven’t changed, nor have their numbers or their relationship to our children. You have my permission to take all those files and forms that I filled out last year, or any year prior, and stick them into a folder with a tab displaying the current school year. You can scratch off or white out the dates on the old folder for all I care. I give you complete administrative and creative license on that decision.
Here’s to a great school year,
Queen of the Couch
P.S. Number Two is in 2nd grade, He is 7. Let’s not assign these projects that require anything more than crayons and safety scissors, mmmmkay? If you wanted to analyze and grade a solar system constructed from molding clay, model paint, wires, wood, and a suspension system, elementary school is probably not your niche. This may come as a surprise to you, but most of those projects were not done by your students, but by their parents. The ones that are really, really shitty and look like they were made by a 7-year-old with construction paper and Elmer’s glue, those were probably done by the student. I’m not saying it is out of the question that even those were done by the parents because that is what it would look like if I had to do it. Just sayin. Remember and repeat: I teach 7 year olds. I teach 7 year olds. I teach 7 year olds.
I know there are those parents out there that think I’m awful because I should be desperately trying to cram my children back into my vagina at a time like this. Look, I love my kids. A lot of times I even like them. School time is so important for our bonding. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, AMIRITE?!?!
This is going to be the LONGEST WEEK EVER. I’m going to need wine.
Like all good things, Winesday had to come to an end. My friend and Winesday guest, Tammy, along with a delicious bottle of Cabernet and a few toys strewn about my yard, inspired me to make one more video for my video-sharing friends as we neared the end of our Winesday festivities. By popular demand, I’m sharing this one with all of you as well.
**Disclaimer for the humor impaired: No actual driving occurred in the making of this video. The vehicle used in the making of this video is a TOY and remained stationary, in my yard, the entire time. No actual turtles were harmed during the making of this video. I do not condone drinking and driving, nor vehicular slaughter of turtles, especially ninja turtles. No children were left home alone, as I was in my own backyard, and I don’t even have Cheerios. Even if I did, the dogs would get to them before the kids.
Yesterday, in a fit of boredom, some friends and I decided to amuse ourselves and each other with funny selfie videos. Hilarity ensued, especially when several, including myself, went the extra mile with costumes and exaggerated accents. After shellacking on a couple of pounds of makeup, throwing on my party wig and drinking a couple of glasses of wine, “Winesday chat” was born. A few of my friends suggested I parlay this into a vlog so, even though my beautiful makeover had begun melting off, I hope you enjoy my debut WINESDAY vlog:
Stay tuned for the After Dark video I made later that night. COMING SOON! I’m considering a makeup tutorial but I hate to give away all of my secrets.
I love my life. Most of the time. I love my kids. Most of the time, I even like them. Most of the time, I wouldn’t want to be anywhere but home with them. Okay. That one was a flat out lie. Life as a stay at home mom can be awesome. I get to witness every milestone. I watch my kids grow, centimeter by centimeter and inch by inch. I get to be with them for every triumph and comfort them when they are disappointed or in pain. I wouldn’t trade that for a minute. Well, I would trade it TEMPORARILY! AMIRITE?! They are loud and they don’t get along. Ever! Every day, I’m cleaning shit off of little asses and, the big asses are clogging the toilets every other week. They may or may not mention that the toilet overflowed because they used an entire roll of toilet paper and hopefully, I’ll notice the shit handprints all over the walls before company does. They want to eat, like EVERY FUCKING DAY! Several times a day! Give me! Give me! Give me!
“I need lunch money!”
“My creeper shirt is dirty and I want to wear it”
“She ate the LAST piece of bread and I wanted it!”
“It’s my turn!”
“He just had a turn!”
Look, sometimes my castle can feel like a prison. It can be so mundane and, at the same time, so stressful. The kids aren’t the best conversationalists, unless you’re into My Little Pony, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, play-doh, paw shaped clues, or zombies. The conversations are long winded but are anything but intellectually stimulating. They’re such lightweights, they’re no fun as drinking buddies. (for all you humor impaired readers, before you go calling CPS, that was A JOKE) The only thing that, aside from drinking wine over adult conversation, that I fantasize about is silence. Total silence. Not the kind of silence that makes your heart pound in your throat when you hear it, because the only explanation is that the kids are fucking shit up real bad or they are dead. I mean the relaxing silence that means you can pee or bathe with the bathroom door open because the silence is safe. I long for those times when I don’t have to drink a bottle of wine to relax enough to enjoy a glass of wine. I just want to sit in it. Unafraid. I want to do nothing but think random, pointless thoughts. The thoughts that usually pop up around 11PM when I’m laying my head down to go to sleep, but can’t because my brain has been saving up shit all day and opens the flood gates, resulting in me lying awake for hours, obsessing over what I should have said in the course of an argument 20 years ago.
So, here comes Mother’s Day! All over, husbands and children are preparing for Sunday. They’re going to get the same old shit they always get and moms are going to have to fake smile and act like they are so excited about the cliche gestures and bullshit gifts. Stop listening to Hallmark. Don’t listen to the television. Don’t let the radio DJ tell you what I want. Tell your friend or the neighbor or anyone else that gives you advice to cram it in their cram hole. Get off teh Google. All wrong. Now, I want you to listen to ME. I’ll explain some dos and don’ts for this Mother’s Day. Pull up a chair:
– Buy flowers. This also applies to birthdays and anniversaries.** This is a colossal waste of money, for starters. Why, why, why, are you going to spend $100 on a gift, so that I can watch it die over the next week? I can’t wear it. They serve no real purpose. As it dies, the leaves and petals wilt and fall off and, want to know what that “gift” has turned into? Another fucking thing I have to clean up. Thanks.
– Buy clothes or shoes. Unless you have been instructed specifically exactly what to purchase and what size, do NOT attempt this purchase. For starters, it’s very likely your style palette is very different from hers. Second, if you don’t know the correct size, beyond a shadow of a doubt, you’re playing with fire, son. Don’t think that you can just walk into her closet and grab something to get her size. Are you fucking new here? Unless she has never gained a pound during pregnancy, this is NOT a reliable system. Those pants may be the right size or they may be that pair she is hoping to fit into one day, probably in vain, or, worse, they’re her fat pants that she wore while pregnant, when she was too big for her own clothes but too small for maternity or the ones that she wore right after giving birth when she didn’t want to wear maternity. It’s a crap shoot. Walk away from this idea if you value your life.
– Get her a gym membership. Even if she has expressed a desire to join a gym, you DO NOT give a woman a gym membership as a gift. EVER! You might as well call her “Bessy”, throw some hay at her and start trying to milk her.
– Gift her cleaning gear/appliances. Yeah, I think that washer/dryer set with the steamer and drying table is pretty sweet. If you get me that as a gift, I’m going turn all of your shit pink and teeny tiny. Mark my words.
– Make a huge breakfast surprise. Unless you’re going to clean it up, which we all know you’re not. You’re really just dicking me with this “gift”. Serve me Shipley’s donuts in bed.
– Take the kids. Out of the house. Away. For HOURS. Maybe even the day. Hell, the weekend! That’s all. Best gift ever. Here is what I’m going to do while you and the kids are gone:
Not a fucking thing.
As a bonus, while I’m doing nothing, I’m going to do crazy things like:
– Eat all my meals and snacks without having to share a single bite or solitary sip of my drinks.
– I’m going to lay in bed, watching television or sleeping or playing on my phone, without listening for feet or fighting to signal when to hide under the comforter.
– I’m going to go to the bathroom, while NOT refereeing arguments and/or answering questions about why I won’t buy another phone app, which ninja turtle is the best or what happened to my penis.
– I’m not going to make cereal, pour a drink, make a sandwich or blow on food for anyone.
– I’m going to eat my meals and snacks without being interrupted and having to take a break to go get someone else a new drink or a condiment or to blow on a plate.
– I’m not going to have to play “find the poop smell”.
– I’m not going to clean up any shit (which reminds me, you need to take the dog too).
– I’m not going to watch any Dora or Blue’s Clues and worry about going to movies in the future, with a generation that has been taught that yelling answers and opinions at characters on the screen is normal.
– I’m going to have two free hands. With two hands, I’m going to be able to do so many activities!
Now you have the key to the perfect gift. These rules apply to any occasion. This is not to say that actual gifts are not acceptable. Feel free to leave the gifts on the table or in the bedroom prior to your departure. Anything along the lines of a case of wine, a Tori Burch bag, a Visa gift card, or spa treatments are all welcome additions to this stay-cation.
I don’t know what Husband’s deal is, but for the last week, he has been really pissing me off. He is doing it on purpose, too. He isn’t even trying to be subtle about his consistent attempts to irritate and upset me. The minute I wake up in the morning, he starts and every time he walks into the room, he starts again. I’ve told him in no uncertain terms to cut the shit out. He gives me this blank, deer-in-the-headlights, stare and acts all innocent, like he has no idea what I’m talking about. Okay, because I’m fucking stupid or crazy or something? He knows what he is doing. I know he knows what he is doing. Then he says, “you’re crazy”, totally projecting on to me because, obviously, HE is the crazy one since he takes such pleasure in driving me to the brink of insanity. It’s downright mean. Want a few examples of what an asshole he has been this past week? My pleasure!
– He comes and sits beside me on the couch the other day, so we can watch a movie. If he was breathing any louder, drywall would have been snowing from the ceiling and the police would have been at our door to issue a noise violation. He insisted he was breathing like he always did, but I’m pretty sure I would have noticed something like that in the last 13 years. He was breathing in AND out, every few seconds. I mean, COME ON!!
– He came home from work the other day and, when he walked in the door, he smiled and said, “hey, babe”. Can you believe him? I just said, “fuck you”, then he stands there acting all innocent and confused.
– I bought a few candy bars and put the bag on top of the fridge. He ate one. The motherfucker ate one. Obviously, he thinks I’m fat. JUST SAY IT TO MY FACE!
– The other night, he and my best friend admitted to me that they were sleeping together, had been for a while. and that he was leaving me to be with her. I cried and demanded to know how they could do that to me and they just laughed at me. Want to know what he says every time I try to talk to him about it? “OH MY GAWD, It was A DREAM!” Oh, okay. So, just because I dreamed it, that makes it okay?
– He brought me a Coke instead of a Dr. Pepper. Why does he hate me, right?!?!?
– He is constantly trying to convince me that sperm is a mood stabilizer and headache cure. I’ll try it if he does.
That’s just the tip of the iceberg. When I get upset, he plays the innocent bystander and acts like I’m overreacting. In a week, he’ll start acting normal again. He’ll just sit on the couch and breath like a normal fucking person. He won’t say things like, “is there any more pot roast left”, in that tone that makes it very clear that what he means is, “you’re so fat, you disgust me”. Then, in about a month, he’ll start at it again I could almost set a clock by it. Did I mention that he always pulls this shit right before I start my period? Like he makes it a point to make the 4-5 days leading up to shark week a living hell. I can’t figure out why he continues after all this time. This game seems to make him as miserable as it makes me.
I know that when two people fall in love, it is so easy to get caught up and carried away. When you feel that connection, that love and that intimate bond that you’ve never felt before with any other person, you just know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that you’ve found the one. You get engaged and, sure, your family and friends are all really happy and you’re looking forward to committing your lives to one another in front of all of them and blah, blah, blah, but none of that can compare to how it feels to break the exciting news of your nuptials to the government! When I reflect on my marriage and what it means to me, it’s the tax benefits and inheritance rights that make me feel nostalgic and gushy. I’m just a hopeless romantic, I guess. I really value the sanctity of marriage and I know that if we, as a society, have any hope of preserving that, we are gonna need some more fucking laws. I can’t believe that people would think the government should just be issuing sanctification certificates (aka marriage licenses) to any pair of adults that holds out their hand. I’m tired of hearing all the whining about “equal rights”. This has nothing to do with rights! Marriage is between a man and a woman and GOD, end of story! Well, I mean, pending government approval, and proper government licensing and filing, and, also, correctly recorded on all of my income tax documents and filings, and some other shit, but other than that, MARRIAGE HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH POLITICS!
You want more reasons? FINE! I’ll give you reasons:
The Bible says it is an abomination.
We have to defend traditional marriage.
The majority of Americans don’t support it.
It’s a slippery slope. If we allow this, brothers and sisters are going to want to get married next.
Good enough? You can save all the arguments. It’s just gross to even think about. I don’t care what they said in the Loving v Virginia case; you will never be able to convince me that interracial marriage is acceptable! Wait, what? Oh, you were talking about gay marriage? Oh, my bad. Okay, HA, I got confused on the part where you were saying something about civil rights and then I saw that cute, little puppy go by and wasn’t paying attention for a second and that was when–anyways, that’s hilarious. You’re talking about gay marriage and I’m talking about interracial marriage…LOLerskates. Anyways, so you were saying about gay marriage? Oh—-well, NO! They don’t need to get married! God made Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve! Of course, I have reasons!
The Bible says it is an abomination.
We have to defend traditional marriage.
The majority of Americans don’t support it.
It’s a slippery slope. If we allow this, brothers and sisters are going to want to get married next.
The government needs to make laws, NAY, a constitutional amendment, as protection from any union that threatens to defile the institution of traditional marriage.
Presumably, if I asked most people that now espouse these same reasons to oppose gay marriage, if they think it would be okay to ban interracial marriage again, they would say no. I’m sure it would be answered as if it were a ridiculous question, then they’d tell me that this is apples and oranges but it isn’t. It is the same thing. When even the arguments against it are the same, the best you could argue is that I’m comparing Galas to McIntosh. One of the main arguments made to oppose both scenarios regards the claim that marriage was established for the benefit of procreation. It is frequently invoked that, since same-sex couples can’t produce a biological child, it negates claims of any right to marriage. Should we apply this logic to heterosexual couples as well and make issuance of the marriage license contingent on medical documentation proving fertility? Persons found to be infertile or women beyond menopause are ineligible for consideration. Sorry.
Most opponents of gay marriage get up in arms about “redefining marriage” and espousing its merits, and importance of the government’s responsibility to uphold the principles of “traditional marriage”. Some are willing to compromise and are willing to allow gay couples to have “civil unions” but just refuse to share the word “marriage”. I think this is fair and reasonable because “separate but equal” has never let us down. Oxymoron, shmoxymoron! AMIRITE? So, like I was saying, one major hang up people have is the designation of “marriage” to be used in reference to an abominable union. This position is typically predicated on an implied trademark of divinity, contained in the part(s) of the Bible that provide the framework for traditional marriage.
I know this will surprise many of you but, believe it or not, I want to help, which is good because you need my help. You’re going about this all wrong, you see. I am, honestly, moved by your passion, respect and desire for traditional marriage. On the basis of religious freedom, if you feel that the word “marriage” should be reserved for those that subscribe to and emulate traditional marriage, as ordained in the Bible, your fight is justified. If you want to silence dissent, if you want to dominate the debate, if you believe the biblical tradition of marriage to be a protected institution and want irrefutable proprietorship of the term “marriage”, to be used only to refer to a relationship that meets the strict criteria outlined in the Bible, we have some work to do. I don’t know if you know this but we have gone so far away from the gold standard of traditional marriage, it is practically unrecognizable. Don’t worry, though! We’re going to write our congressmen, stage protests and write petitions and we won’t rest until TRADITIONAL MARRIAGE is the only kind of marriage.
Anyone unwilling or unable to live by the standards set forth in the Bible, NO MARRIAGE FOR YOU!
MUST PROVE AND PROFESS A BELIEF IN GOD:
Currently, any couple sporting opposite genitals and no more than a few common alleles, can go get married tomorrow. No one asks them about their religious beliefs or lack thereof. Atheists can get married. Even a Satan worshiper can enter into marriage! I think this is a huge problem and I’m stunned it has never been addressed. People are getting MARRIED in courtrooms and parks by JUDGES! Appalling, I tell ya.
No God? NO MARRIAGE FOR YOU!
SINNERS NEED NOT APPLY:
Obviously, we can’t expect people to be completely infallible, much less completely without sin, so we can allow for some wiggle room. However, if we are going to make the assertion that the sin of homosexuality disqualifies their right to marriage, we should probably consider spreading out the sin restriction. I mean, for fuck’s sake, if you’re a rapist, a pedophile, or a serial killer on death row, marriage is yours for the taking. We will draw the fucking line at a gay serial killer getting married, though? See! Bigger fish, people! Bigger fish!
You break a BIG commandment? NO MARRIAGE FOR YOU!
WHAT’S LOVE GOT TO DO, GOT TO DO WITH IT?:
Traditional marriage wasn’t built on love. One of the major overhauls to traditional marriage happened when people fought for the right to marry someone of their own choosing, of their own volition. Traditional marriages were arranged marriages, motivated by men wanting to secure social and/or political rank. Reinstating this aspect of traditional marriage will really hit home the next time someone makes the argument, “homosexuals just want the same right as you, to be able to marry the person they LOVE”, because now you can say, ‘Wrong, bitch” as you tell them all about your TRADITIONAL marriage and how you met your spouse on your wedding day all those years ago and that you’re pretty sure that, one day, you might even learn to love one another. Maybe you won’t. Who cares, though! That’s not what marriage is about. This is business!
You want to marry for love? Too bad! NO MARRIAGE FOR YOU!
WHO NEEDS A SISTER WHEN YOU CAN HAVE A SISTER WIFE!?:
Traditional marriage doesn’t restrict men to just one wife. What kind of life is that? Traditional marriage permits men to marry as many women as they can support. Hey, if they can’t take on any more wives, they have the option to keep an unlimited number of concubines. Abraham had two wives and Solomon had 700, not to mention an impressive army of concubines. Adultery is a sin committed by women. Men have an eternal “hall pass”. Don’t ask questions.
You want a monogamous marriage? Well, you can roll the dice but you don’t have any guarantee, nor any recourse if you end up disappointed. Which brings me to my next point…
YOU GET ONE SHOT AT THE SHOW:
Divorce will be made illegal, immediately. Exceptions may apply but are at the discretion of the court. Any persons granted a divorce will be ineligible for future marriage.
You left your previous marriage because of abuse, infidelity, addiction, or general misery with one another? NO MARRIAGE FOR YOU!
The following items will also render persons ineligible for MARRIAGE:
Premarital sex. Virginity, in the form of an intact hymen, is a requirement of women entering into marriage. If, upon consummation of the marriage, there is no physical evidence of hymen rupture, the marriage will be voided and the women will be imprisoned and face the death penalty. Women who’ve engaged in premarital sex can seek companionship via concubine status (*this prohibition does not apply to men*)
If you’ve ever put a penis in any other orifice than a vagina, NO MARRIAGE FOR YOU!
Incest, though, gets a green light.
Or, another idea is, maybe we could just live and let live. If Joe and Henry want to get married, how does it threaten the sanctity of your marriage? How does it hurt you? I’ve never heard anyone demanding a law be passed to prohibit celebrities like Britney Spears and Kim Kardashian from being allowed to call their record-setting unions a “marriage”. I’m going to let you in on a little secret: The government CANNOT sanctify your marriage. I’m dead serious. You don’t need a death certificate to get into heaven, either, in case you were wondering. If your moral code makes no allowance for anything other than baby making sex, in the missionary position, why do you think you are obligated, much less allowed to impose those sanctions, religious or otherwise, on others? I don’t know if you’re aware but a man and a woman can achieve great levels of immoral kink that would make some people’s heads spin. A penis and a vagina are not, or rather should not be, how we measure the social value or implications of the family unit. I don’t know about any of you but, when I applied for a marriage license, no one asked me or my husband if he had intentions of putting his dick anywhere other than my vagina. We could use sodomy as birth control and we’d maintain the right to use the term “marriage”. Truth be told, I have no idea why the government is in the marriage business as it is. I’d happily support the argument that “marriage” apply only to the religious institution if, and only if, the government weren’t involved. That means, no government licensing, no tax benefits, no special legal recognition or treatment. If two people want to enter into a legally binding civil union, they don’t need the government to set the terms and make a contract. I’m sure people will read that and think its weird, even though they don’t think it is weird that it is no different from how marriage is currently handled, it just removes the third-party that only serves to tax your relationship, for better or for worse.
You shouldn’t be demanding laws to protect the delicate sensibilities of others. If you’re offended by gay marriage, don’t get gay married. Easy, peasy. I’m not exactly excited about anybody with functioning reproductive organs being allowed to breed but you don’t hear me calling for a government licensing requirement pending a moderate screening process, do you? If Adam and Steve or Ana and Eve love each other and want that magic government certificate, who the fuck cares? You don’t legislate the personal, intimate, consensual relationships of adults. If you want to get married once, 5 times or never, I have zero fucks to give. It doesn’t hurt me, it doesn’t even affect me. If you’re a pitcher or a catcher or a scissoring expert or celibate, if it doesn’t cost me money or get me pregnant, knock yourselves out or up. Have a fucking blast. Don’t steal my shit, don’t hurt my kids, don’t kill me and I’ll do the same in return.
I remember the cop, visibly annoyed with being burdened with the task of taking my statement, leading me into the tiny room and I remember the panic bubbling up when he shut the door behind him. I think he typed 5.5 words a minute. I told him the whole story. It seemed like we were in there for hours. Maybe because he took that long to type or maybe because the designers of that tiny room, with the door closed, made no allowance for personal space. It didn’t help that he was so obviously agitated with being assigned the duty of taking dictation from me. At 20 years old, the last thing I wanted to be doing was sitting in that shrinking room giving some strange man a detailed, minute by minute, account of the night that started out at a bar with friends and ended with two of those “friends” raping me.
The only time he spoke to me was to tell me to “hold on”, “go ahead” or to repeat something, except for when I got to the part about the blood running down my legs as I ran from the apartment. Without looking up, he asked, “were you a virgin or something”. I said “no” and he kind of shrugged, which made me feel like I had to defend myself and I started explaining how I’d only been with one person but he just said to get back to the story. I wasn’t prepared for the interview after he finished taking my statement, not that being informed of it would have prepared me for the line of questioning.
Were you drunk?
What were you wearing?
If the rest of you are wondering, I was wearing a mini pencil skirt and a black v-neck tee. The police took it at the hospital as “evidence”.
You didn’t have on underwear when you were seen at the hospital. Why?
I guess that “M” and “C” pulled them off of me in the process of raping me. When they decided they were done and let me go, searching for my underwear completely slipped my mind.
Have you ever slept with either of them before that night?
No. Evidently, though, if you sleep with a man once, he maintains the right to plant his flag when and if he feels like it and it isn’t really rape.
Have you ever flirted with them? Were you flirting with either of them that night? Were you dancing provocatively at any point?
The reality of this “investigation” really began to set in at this point.
If you were drunk, why would you go home with two men?
I told him that they were my friends. They saw that I wasn’t in any condition to drive and told me just to come back to their place for a while, get something to eat and they would bring me back to my car after I sobered up for a few hours. I missed the fine print. I took the invitation at face value. Fuck me, right? You still want me to disregard the notion of rape culture?
The thought of calling the police didn’t even cross my mind when I ran out of that apartment, bleeding and crying, without my panties or my purse. Even when “M” chased after me in the parking lot, asking me if I was okay and apologizing, I just told him to leave me alone. I just wanted to go home and sleep and never think about it again. I was even wracking my brain about who I could get to cover my shift in the morning because I couldn’t deal with work and I didn’t know if “M” or “C” was scheduled and I didn’t want to see them. At this point, you see, the logic of the rape culture was well ingrained into my head, unbeknownst to me. I realized that what had happened in that apartment was rape but I didn’t know who, if anyone, would believe me. Would they blame me? Hell, even I wasn’t sure if it was my fault. Why did I do those shots? Why didn’t I just drive home? What did I do to make them think it was okay? I said no. I said it over and over. I pleaded for them to stop. I was crying. They were holding me down. I’d never known anyone that had been raped (or so I thought) and so had no first hand knowledge of what it was like to report a rape. My biggest fear was that no one would believe me. The only reason I did report it was because they wouldn’t even talk to me. much less do STD testing on me, at the ER unless I filed a police report. I conceded and then my fears were proven to be right. “M” and “C” were given the benefit of the doubt from minute one. They had all the rights throughout the process. I was the one on trial. I was the one that was guilty until proven otherwise. The onus was on me to prove that I didn’t want to have sex or deserve to be raped. The focus of the “investigation” was my history, my character, my personality, my personal style, my social behavior and alcohol intake.
The minute the story of Steubenville went viral, I was–actually, there isn’t a word strong enough to describe my disgust. It is the standard treatment of rape victims by the media and society, insofar as the scrutiny and indignation being targeted to the victims. The biggest difference with this case and other rape allegations that get the attention of the media was the indisputable evidence against the accused, though. There were pictures of them carrying her seemingly lifeless body through parties. The rapists and their “audience” tweeted the photos and even details of the assault. There were videos from the party that showed this sixteen year old girl, naked and passed out as her peers assaulted her and, literally, pissed on her. Others parts showed witnesses sitting around, talking and laughing about the assault. The town didn’t rally their support for the sixteen year old victim. They didn’t plea for the public to grant respect and privacy to the person who was violated, debased and humiliated in front of her peers, who did nothing but, best case scenario, turn a blind eye, and, worst case, cheered it on and laughed. No one asked what upbringing or influence could result in these boys being capable of such a public, notorious show of misogynistic, callous, disregard for the 16-year-old victim. No one asks what influence would provide these two boys with such an emboldened sense of entitlement that would be required to publicly rape a girl, videotape it, make jokes, and share it all via social media? Or, how could all of the other teenagers at this party stand by and watch this happen and not speak up? Why didn’t anyone help her? Why didn’t anyone intervene or, at least, sneak away and call the police?
The media and the public consistently deny that there is any such thing as rape culture within our society. The assertion is dismissed on the grounds of our “civilized” society and the modern normalcy of women’s rights. The dissenters point out that we have laws and if they think really hard or have google access handy, they might cite cases in which those laws were even enforced. Many will condescend with the “you ingrate” tone and tell you to go live in the Middle East, “then talk to me”. The dam broke when the guilty verdict was handed down this past week. Trent Mays and Ma’lik Richmond reacted to their sentencing, breaking down into tears. The media responded with unmitigated pity and sympathy for the now convicted rapists. They might as well have fallen to their knees, sobbing and wailing, as they mourned and bemoaned the implications the conviction and sentence may hold for the future of the rapists.
An NBC correspondent opined, “In many ways, tonight stands as a cautionary tale to a generation that has come of age in the era of social networking.”
What the what? Evidently, Lester Holt thinks that the biggest mistake these boys made that night was logging into twitter.
CNN’s Poppy Harlow, I shit you not, said: “incredibly difficult even for an outsider like me to watch what happened as these two young men that had such promising futures, star football players, very good students, literally watched as they believe their life fell apart.”
Am I supposed to squirt a fucking tear, here? If anyone wants to watch where their lives fell apart, a good starting point would be the video and pictures of them raping a girl and then work backwards from there.
Candy Crowley contributed her sympathy, saying, “A 16-year-old just sobbing in court; regardless of what big football players they are, they still sound like 16-year-olds. . . . When you listen to it and you realize they could stay until they’re 21, what’s the lasting effect, though, on two young men being found guilty, in juvenile court, of rape, essentially?”
Rape, essentially? I want to punch a baby seal. Why don’t you ask yourself about the lasting effects this girl might suffer after, not just being raped, but being raped in front of all of her peers, having it broadcast across the world-wide fucking web and being relegated to drunken whore status by the media and court of public opinion.
The dialogue, in the aftermath of the sentence, was woeful, angry and ripe with indignation. What kind of world do we live in when studious, promising athletes can’t just go out and rape a girl without consequences? It seems every major network is talking about how much this will hurt Richmond and Mays. I’ve heard over and again that they were good kids, they made good grades, praise for their athletic prowess, and the potential ramifications these sentences hold for their futures. Conversations on the victim, who was also 16, might I add, revolves around the fact that she was intoxicated and descriptions of her provocative attire. I haven’t heard about her grades or her character. Any mention of her is basically a thinly veiled summation of a drunk slut. The boys were football players and good students. They are relevant. They had a future. It’s not that the victim doesn’t matter at all; it’s just that Mays and Richmond matter a lot more. The victim, on the other hand, has been dehumanized and objectified, by her attackers that night and, since then, by the media. She’s a nowhere bound party girl who woke up with a hangover and buyers remorse. One major flaw in this treatment of rape victims by the media and the public is that it perpetuates the notion that a situation in which, for instance, two boys carry a semi-conscious, inebriated, girl around, strip her naked, sexually violate her, and piss on her, all in front of a crowd and a camera, is motivated by sexual attraction and desire, rather than to completely demoralize and debase another human being for no other reason than they could. They performed for the crowd, they documented the assault, they blasted jokes, pics and details across social media. They acted with hubris. Now, the tears that are shed are shed, not for the child that was violated and assaulted, but for those who considered her and her body to be their entitlement. The moral of the story that these kids and others, including your children, will take from this, is that girls are responsible for sexual aggression employed against them. Despite the videos, the pics, the jokes, the bragging, the distribution of the photos and video of the rape between their peers, the victim is cast in the role of the villain and her attackers are the victims; led into temptation by her feminine wiles. It was out of their control, they were powerless to resist raping her when they saw her passed out in tight clothes. Yeah, I don’t know why anyone would be concerned with any so-called rape culture.
We indoctrinate our children into the rape culture, just as we were indoctrinated. Our daughters are told that they are responsible for controlling male behavior. In a rape culture, we don’t actually empower girls; we teach them that their sexuality makes them powerful and then we call them sluts and whores if they dare entertain the thought of wielding it. She will learn to, not only, accept being objectified but to be flattered by it, to seek it out, in search of empowerment. We teach her that female sexual agency is almost non-existent, except to satisfy the sexual agency of men. Girls will learn that they can give consent just by what they choose to wear. They will, one day, join the chorus of society, shaming female sexuality and sexual agency as immoral, abnormal and an invitation to rape. Rape culture romanticizes rape by treating it like an act of uncontrolled passion and sexual desire. In a rape culture, women are advised on measures they can take to prevent being raped. It covers things like hairstyles, fashion choices, and even goes so far as to suggest urinating or vomiting on herself, or telling an attacker that she has an STD. I’ve never gotten an email on “robbery prevention, with advice like, don’t wear expensive clothing or nice jewelry, don’t drive an expensive car, don’t purchase pricey electronics or have too big of a house. The message is simply, “don’t fucking steal” but, in a rape culture, a message of “don’t fucking rape” just never got off the ground. Rape culture teaches us to inquire about and critique what a rape victim was wearing. We learn to scrutinize a rape victim’s sexual history. We will judge her if she consumed alcohol or did drugs. We rationalize and justify rape on behalf of the offenders. We absolve them of responsibility and project it on to the victims by analyzing her history, behavior and choices. In a culture of rape, we don’t blame the rapist for raping, we blame the victim for the series of decisions and actions that ended with being raped. We perpetuate this culture when we say things like, “yeah, it is sad that she was raped but she shouldn’t have put herself in that situation”. Anytime you accept that there are choices women can make in which rape should be expected or accepted, you are part of rape culture.
What goes almost unnoticed is, if we accept all of that as fact, then we are also implying a belief that rape is a normal function of the male psyche. The urge to rape is part of a boy’s inherent nature, and they must make a consistent, conscious effort to stifle their propensity to commit sexual assault.
Say it with me:
Women have unmitigated, irrevocable governance over her body. If she is drunk and topless, she isn’t asking to be raped. There isn’t a situation or scenario that exists in which rape should be considered and dismissed as an acceptable or expected consequence. I have the right to walk down a fucking alley. I have the right to go to a party and drink. No one has the right to rape me. Men are not slaves to their sexual urges, void of conscience, humanity or empathy. They do not have to fight against a natural inclination to rape, abuse or dominate women.
Some new rape prevention slogans:
Real men get consent
Consent is sexy
That’s a good start.
This was a previous blog but I’m linking for relevance: