Stop Harassing Me!

Every so often I’ll deign to give expert advice to the subhuman oppressor-pigs who call themselves “men”. According to feminist ideology, somehow these idiots managed to effectively oppress us wymyn seamlessly for thousands and thousands of years because of their motiveless evil. But a few decades ago, quite suddenly, these ultra-competent, ultra-clever oppressors became too stupid and inept to do anything right. Isn’t that an astonishing turn of events? And that’s why those bungling yet masterfully-oppressive men need the sublime gift of female advice… although they clearly don’t deserve it.

Yes, you men are all a bunch of drooling, low-IQ losers who nonetheless manage to oppress us females using diabolically invisible methods of mind control that only us feminists can discern. But I’m optimistic that not even you are so dim-witted and vile that you can’t comprehend a bit of simple-worded advice from your intellectual betters. (See? I’m not a man-hater. Perish the thought!)

We womyn are your equals, but we’re also your moral superiors because we believe in equality. And we womyn stopped evolving the instant we hit perfection back in the mid-70s, but you swine still have a long way to go before you can reach our dizzying heights of flawlessness. So the advice I’m going to give today is how you clueless fuckwits can avoid being the sexual-harassers that you usually are. (Go get a dictionary because I’m going to use words longer than 8 letters. I know you guys have trouble with those. *smirk*)

To be a vigorous and carefree male today is dirty and wrong!

You are always enjoying improper thoughts and you might occasionally be doing bad things when our backs are turned. Frankly this pisses us righteous womyn off to no end. That’s why we do everything we can to make sure your happiness and ease of mind in the workplace can never come to fruition. So a team of wonderfully prickly, heterophobic and censorious feminist jurists cooked-up a very convenient entrapment-scheme called “sexual harassment”. There were two assumptions on which sexual harassment is based:

First, Male heterosexuality is based on domination and violence but female heterosexuality is based on rainbows and happy thoughts. Therefore females are horribly oppressed by your speech but you are not harmed or bothered by the same speech when it comes from a female. This assumption is necessary to guarantee equal treatment for both sexes.

Second, There are increasing numbers of hard-edged, savvy and self-confident career-womyn entering the workplace and the possibility of you having any heterosexuality at all is absolutely terrifying and beastial to them. It turns out that the hard-edged, savvy and self-confident career-womyn around you are also fragile, easily-hurt orchids who could spontaneously combust from overhearing a risqué pun.

And because we love to politicize personal conflicts (especially conflicts which are not easily solved by intrusive political means), it is your behavior that needs to be reigned-in. For the sake of equality. The fact that feminist lawyers and feminist harassment counselors profit mightily from the resulting suspicion and dischord is a total coincidence.

Are You A Sexual Harasser?

Of course you are, nitwit!

Have you ever made an off-color remark in mixed company? Have you ever stood close to a female in an elevator? Have you ever gestured with your hands in ways that might be interpreted as obscene by a paranoid onlooker across the room? Have you ever dated a co-worker or unsuccessfully asked a co-worker on a date? Did you ever say something that was offensive to an eavesdropping prude? Well I’ve got news for you, buster: THAT MAKES YOU A FILTHY HARASSER FOR WHOM HANGING IS TOO KIND! You are required to change your speech, habits and behavior immediately.

(Special note: if you ever expect me to ever “tone down” my potty mouth or change how I dress or act, then it means you’re a misogynist who is forcing me to wear a burkha. Self-control is for YOU, never for me. Expecting me to adjust my behavior is absolutely outrageous.)

Sexual harassment is not about sex, it’s actually about power. (Special note: SEX is not about sex either, it’s actually about power.) And sexual harassment is not only the making of unwanted sexual advances, but it’s also the failure to make advances when they are wanted by me. Similarly, if you and I were to have a short fling in the workplace (unlikely, but bear with me) and you decide to end the relationship without my consent, then it proves that you were just using me and THAT is a form of sexual harassment. In fact, any behavior I don’t like is harassment. Got it, jerk?

I have the right to go to work without ever getting uncomfortable in any way and everyone else has got to make accomodations to suit my ever-changing emotional hang-ups. Thems the rules, boys. Deal with it. For the sake of equality.

And even though us womyn are equally rough and tough as men, we’re also frail and delicate enough to collapse into quivering heaps of fainting Victorian jelly if you make saucy double-entendres or ribald witticisms. We’re equally strong and aggressive as men but we’re also weak and helpless and need protection from men. Yes, perhaps sexual harassment rules create many opportunities for cynical abuse by unscrupulous and vindictive females due to office politics or personal grudges, but unscrupulous and vindictive females simply DO NOT exist!

Honest, they don’t.

Trust us.

In any sexual-harassment situation, it’ll be my word against your word, and my word ought to carry more weight. Because you, as my equal, lack the sense of fair play and human decency that come so naturally to me.

Always keep these simple rules in mind:

1. Your behavior may create a HOSTILE ENVIRONMENT for female co-workers. A “hostile environment” is defined however the most hypersensitive, Puritanical and erotophobic ice-queen in the office chooses to define it at that particular instant. The burden is on you to figure-out when that is. The victim might not decide she was harassed until several weeks after the fact.

2a. Do not make sexual jokes around me. If another man tells a sexual joke, do not laugh and tell him to stop immediately. However, you must be a good sport whenever I choose to crack a sexual joke or a penis-based insult. Especially the jokes and insults that I make at your expense. Those are hilarious.

2b. Special note: If you’re a gay man, every sexually-charged thing you say is automatically cute and witty.

3. Do not tell me about your love life, I am not interested. If another man tells you about his love life, stick your fingers in your ears and tell him to stop immediately. But my love life is always extremely interesting and it deserves to be heard by everyone within earshot of my booming, throaty voice. Disallowing me to do so would deny me my freedom of expression, so it’s imperative that you let me tell you in graphic detail about the one night I propped my ankles on the couch and had my cat lick Tender Vittles from the folds of my coochie.

4. Do not send me mixed messages. Only I may decide when you are sending them. And I may send-out as many mixed messages as I like. Only I may decide when I am sending them. I can flirt as much as I like, as often as I like. I can squoosh my boobies into your back, rub my hands over your chest, nibble your ear, come-on to you like Madonna in heat. But I also reserve the right to suddenly turn cold and be deathly offended if you respond in a fashion that I don’t care for.

5. Do not wear pants that are ill-fitting lest I see the outlines of your disgusting rape-tool. I may dress however I please. This hot bod of mine is far too gorgeous to keep covered-up, but you mustn’t look at it. Just avert your gaze or gouge your eyes-out or something, I don’t know.

6. Your behavior can and will be placed under a microscope. Almost anything can offend me at any instant, and you have to figure out what I find offensive before I know it myself. My behavior will never be placed under a microscope, for that would be blaming the innocent victim. Anything I do that offends you is proof that you’re a spineless wimp with no sense of humor. Learn to “take a joke”, numb-nuts. I should never have to “take a joke” if I don’t want to.

7. Do not try to date co-workers. Do not ask me out for coffee after work. I have no interest in your putrid loins and the poisonous rape-yogurt contained within. I, however, may date whoever I choose. NO ONE tells this grrrl what to do. That would be sexist.

8. If we ever have an office romance that goes badly, I can seek as much vengeance as I want. You, however, would be an uncouth bastard to do the same.

9. Womyn ought to be allowed to be just as sexually aggressive and lusty as you are– but YOU shouldn’t be allowed to be as sexually aggressive and lusty as you are.

10. Do not put sexually-titillating pictures on or around your desk. (”Titillating” pictures may include head-shots of your wife.) An image of an attractive model in a short skirt is exactly as offensive as a swastika but my Jude Law calendar has got to stay– what a hunk!

What else do you need to remember? Plenty: Watch your mouth. Watch your hands. Watch your filthy mind. Stand-up straight. Clean your fingernails. Tuck-in that shirt. Don’t wear your hair in an offensive way. Don’t breathe so loud. Those socks don’t match that tie. Don’t eat garlic. Wipe that grin off your face, mister. Only YOU can stop sexual harassment. Us womyn can’t be bothered so don’t ask. The snows of suspicion and censure around you will never melt.

And as for the ladies…

No rules for you! Isn’t equality great?

For you, working at the office should be as relaxing and fun as a day at the beach. But how can you protect yourself from harassment? Well my dears, your angelic behavior is always de facto perfect and divine and you don’t have to adjust your habits at all. Not one smidgen. You are the hottest, sexiest most erotic creature in town and everyone ought to know it. Sway those hips after making your PowerPoint show, honey! Be the filthy-talking office-clown who gets lots of laughs. Why not “casually” push your breasts together when asking for a raise? You deserve it all, you goddess-diva you. And us feminists will always deny that you ever act this way.

Hell, why not go to work wearing something like this? SHP
Us feminists will always turn a blind eye to your shenanigans and defend you, no matter what you do. You’re a victim!

Yes, being a flirty little sexpot is a great way to rise to the top without having to work too hard. Although you love being hot, you hate getting burned. So if the wrong fellow stares at you, sue the company for gobs of cash. And if someone suggests that your clothing and behavior might’ve “sent signals”, then that’s blaming the victim– which makes you a double-victim.

You can be a sexy-talking, sultry femme fatale when it helps you get that big promotion. You can be a weeping, wounded naif when you want an annoying rival to get fired. And ideally, you should sobbingly make charges that are impossible for the man to disprove. Let’s practice right now:

“He- (Weep!) called me ‘BABE’ when no one else was around! Boo hoo! My virginal ears are bleeding! I’m SO humiliated! I’ll NEVER recover!”

See? It’s easy!

Yup, equality lets you have your cake and eat it too. You can’t lose in this racket, girlfriend.

I’m Back

Well, I’m back at F.U.C.K.Y.O.U. again after a really awful couple of months trying out a data entry job I found in the paper. It was an increase in salary from what I was making at F.U.C.K.Y.O.U., and I could tell because the hourly wage was printed in the ad.

Now, I know that women earn 75% to the dollar for the same work that men do, and I was the only woman there in an office full of men. Since the wage I was getting was the wage that was printed in the ad, I can only assume that all these men were offered SECRET pay increases after they got the job. Bastards.

Here’s what really pisses me off: I made it very clear on the first day of work that they are NOT to treat me differently just because I’m a woman. If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s people having sexist preconceptions about me – something which is assured in an office full of men.

Anyway, I could tell they didn’t take me seriously, because in the break room one day they started saying lewd things to me. Well, not actually TO me, but I overheard them making crude jokes about penises, and it was obvious that they were just trying to make me feel uncomfortable because I’m a woman. Well, I gave them a piece of my mind and told them to shut the fuck up, and that if they did that again, I’d report them to my boss and get them fired for sexual harassment.

I’m sure you can tell that didn’t work well at all. Since I’m a woman, they had no respect for me. And since I made it clear I’m a strong and independent woman with opinions of her own, then they REALLY started trying to make me feel excluded. From then on, sometimes I’d hear them in the break room laughing about something, and as soon as I’d go in there they’d get quiet, just to show me that I wasn’t welcome in there.

So I’m back working at F.U.C.K.Y.O.U. now. It only pays 75% of what I was making at the data entry job, but as a woman, money isn’t my top concern anyway. I’m more concerned with fighting injustices in the world, such as the wage gap.

Grrlcott the Oppressorwich!

Systyrs, a visit to the local food-mart has once again turned into a terrifying and humiliating slog through hell.

You might recall the last time I was horribly harassed while innocently walking too close to the delicatessen, right? You’d probably think that my victory would have finally made the world a safer place for us oppressed and gorgeous victims of Patriarchy.

But alas! Men, the craven worms that they are, always manage to sneak their Patriarchal brainwashing devices into every nook and cranny. Despite being inept and pathetic Neanderthals who can’t think beyond the next lay, men are also manipulative super-geniuses when it comes to bending the minds of us wymyn and compelling us to do their bidding.

So unsurprisingly, I was offended anew at the supermarket today by a heinous and sinister “product” which appalled my tough yet delicate eyes:

manwich

Manwich? More like the Oppressorwich!

To the untrained gaze, this may seem to be a savory sloppy-joe. But to the finely-tuned paranoid gaze of a feminist it symbolizes none other than the subjugation and maltreatment of wymmin.

To wit:

sloppyjoe

As seen above, Oppressorwiches are rife with the imagery of violently butchering defenseless animals, cowboy machismo and forcing womyn into the kitchen. The Oppressorwich suggests that us wimyn are but THINGS to be thrown onto bread, onto plates, into microwaves and CONSUMED at some male’s whim! We are to sit on shelves until PURCHASED, to have men drooling and slavering-over us!

The sandwich itself even LOOKS like a phallus. Don’t you see it? Of course you do!

Making an Oppressorwich requires not such innocuous-sounding ingredients as “tomato paste”, “sauteed onions”, “ground beef” or “shredded turkey” as a possible low-cholesterol substitute. No. The main ingredients are RAPE, RAPE and MORE RAPE with a dash of SEXUAL HARASSMENT!

Systyrs, there is only one possible solution. I, Amynda the Ass-Kicking Feminist Diva, hereby decree that you must all march to your nearest food store, swarm through the canned-good isle and rip the offending products from the shelves.

You must fling the Oppressorwich containers to the floor and shout “No longer will these wicked, mind-warping progenies of the Patriarchy continue to befoul the places where womyn and children gather! We shall see to it that males, a truly lesser breed to whom we are equal, shall no longer menace us frail and easily-victimized yet comparably tough and powerful womyn with their sinister canned-good contrivances!”

The above must be chanted several times for the full effect.

I, for one, vow to never again allow an Oppressorwich to pass through my gorgeous lips and into my gullet. Never again, systyrs! Never again!

Harassed in Public– AGAIN!

Today I was innocently walking through the supermarket on the way to its pharmacy to get my bottles of prescription ointments refilled, but I was immediately affronted by the most fear-inducing spectacle that you can imagine. In an eyeblink, the blood rushed to my face and turned it from a veiny cherry-red to a veiny deep crimson as I began to quake with primal rage.

There was a portly middle-aged man in a white hat and apron standing behind a glass-fronted counter. Strategically arranged at crotch-level, the counter was filled with hideous, OFFENSIVE things which were calculated to intimidate, threaten and humilate poor innocent womyn!

sausages

These filthy tools of harassment were diabolically masquerading as things like “All-beef Genoa salami”, “Polish Kielbasa”, “Garlic bologna”, “Pepperoni”, “Bratwurst”, “Cheddar-wurst” and “Lil’ smokies”.

The array of psychological weaponry was vast and varied. There was row upon row of so-called “Frankfurters”, “Thuringer Summer Sausage”, “Andouille”, “Chorizo”, “Bierwurst” and “Braunschweiger”!

It was a heinous vision right-out of my wildest recurring nightmares!

“HOW DARE YOU!” I hollered as I jabbed an accusing finger of righteous scorn towards his pusilanimous face. “How dare you intimidate me and remind me of my inferior social status!”

“What?” He oozed.

“YOU ARE ONE SICK FUCKER!” I exclaimed. “Trying to compensate for your inadequate member and hatred of womyn’s liberation! You surround yourself with phalluses and foist them upon my eyes in an obvious attempt to brag of your fecundity and advertise your patriarchal power!”

The bastard blinked. “Come again, miss?” He burbled in a sickeningly easygoing voice.

“Oh, you’d LIKE TO COME AGAIN, wouldn’t you?” I screamed, attracting a small crowd. “You’d like to COME AGAIN in my velvety-smooth vagina with the arsenal of fascistic rape modalities before you!” I was so shocked by his impudent hate-speech that I was now beside myself with fist-clenching apoplexy.

“What, the olive loaf?” He blinked and gestured downward, forcing me to choke-back my bile anew. His tone of voice suggested he was so accustomed to having his way with poor female passers-by that he was genuinely surprised the instant a “mere girl” dared to turn the tables and speak-up for once.

Little did this crass patriarch know that I was no “mere girl” but a strong liberated GRRRRL who takes no guff from no one!

“I bet you can’t even GET IT UP now that you’ve been confronted by a tough-talking, firey, fearless, independent bitch who has a brain of her own! The game is up, stop the pathetic ‘innocent sales-clerk’ routine, I know exactly what you’re thinking!” I suddenly turned to face the crowd. “This ASSHOLE was sexually-harassing me! I haven’t been this offended since I walked into that cigar-shop last week!”

The crowd murmured. My victimizer feigned shock, as if he didn’t even know what I was talking about- the swine! The ape! The animal!

I immediately tried to lead the crowd of shoppers with rousing chants of “One, Two, Three, Four! Take your penis out the door!” to no effect.

I stormed-off to the store manager’s office. Thank Goddess, it was a female manager. I pounded on her desk and thundered that a foul patriarch had viciously humilated me with his calculatedly offensive gestures and lied dirty lies to get himself off the hook. The manager expressed puzzlement that a so-called “model employee of nineteen years” would act in such a fashion.

I instantly began screaming that she was a “cock-whipped, servile stooge of the oppressors” who was blaming the victim. I also refused to stop smashing the trinkets on her filing-cabinet until justice was served.

Within five minutes, the harasser-dipshit was fired. And quite deservedly so! Score another point against the oppressors! Tally-up another victory for all womyn worldwide!

Sisters, let me tell you– it’s becoming far too dangerous for us vagina-warriors to go-out in public. We’ve got to TAKE BACK THE DELI!

Little Bastard Gets Just Desserts

I am SO glad that such a dangerous predator has been disciplined!

Feb. 7, 2006 — A first-grader was suspended from Downey Elementary School in Brockton, Mass., after school officials said he sexually harassed a female schoolmate. The young boy is accused of touching a fellow first-grader’s skin underneath the rear waistband of her pants.

The child’s mother, Berthena Dorinvil, said he was too young even to understand the accusation. “I said, ‘My son doesn’t know anything about sexual harassment. What are you talking about? He’s 6 years old,’” Dorinvil said.

Dorinvil, 38, said she got a phone call from the school’s principal, Diane Gosselin, last month, asking her to come pick her son up from school.

“I feel terrible,” said Dorinvil. “He feels terrible. He keeps telling me ‘Mommy, are the police going to arrest me?’ He’s very emotional.”

The boy was supposed to return to school on Friday after a three-day suspension, but his mother refused to send him back after her son told her he felt uncomfortable returning there. She is trying to get him transferred to another area school.

In a statement, Brockton Superintendent of Schools Basan Nembirkow said the district takes “all allegations of sexual harassment very seriously. An investigation is always conducted when reports of sexual harassment arise. Principals are trained to handle these difficult situations and they are assisted, as needed, by the district’s sexual harassment officer in handling each situation.”

Recounting the scenario in front of her home today, Dorinvil said, “The girl said my son touched her waistband. That’s what the girl said to the principal. My son said, no, he touched her back, just on her shirt, because the girl touched him first.

“He was crying and said, ‘Mommy, why this is a big deal? What is this? I thought we were all sisters and brothers in class.’”

She says she hasn’t tried to explain sexual harassment to her son because she believes he is too young to understand.

According to Dorinvil, the school’s supervisor said “sexual harassment” is the term the school uses for this kind of behavior and promised to “work things out.” Dorinvil said the school reported the incident to both the police and the district attorney’s office.

He TOUCHED HER WAISTBAND???? She must have been so traumatized! How will she EVER recover from this??? Thank Goddess that this young girl has learned a lesson important to so many feminists: she is weak and oppressed and needs strong, coercive organizations to act as parental substitutes in order to protect her from nasty males. And males have cooties.

As for this so-called “boy”: his ignorance of sexual harassment is no excuse! Pardon my language, but this fucking little shit-eating sack of turds-for-brains needs to have his damned fingernails ripped-out.

HOW DARE HE?!?!?!!?

Why didn’t the school alert the FBI immediately? No petty slight of this magnitude should go unpunished!

This little terrorist is never too young to learn a valuable lesson in equality: girls are precious sugar and spice while boys are blobs of inky-black evil who ought to be penned-up in basements like Morlocks and slowly strangled with rusty barbed wire.

Girls are your equals, you little bastard– SO DON’T PLAY WITH THEM!

Goddamit, Raped AGAIN! Maybe it’s me…

So I was in a party mood a few nights ago, and I went to this bar. I met this guy who seemed like kind of an asshole, but he kept buying me drinks, so I wasn’t going to complain. I told him I had a boyfriend, even though I don’t, and he said that that was okay because he just enjoyed talking to me. He asked me what my favorite drink was, and I told him it was a Long Island Iced Tea, so he kept buying me more of them. I mean, shit, I’m not saying no to a free Long Island.

So naturally I got pretty hammered, and he asked if I wanted to crash at his apartment. I guess I could have taken a cab back to MY apartment, but I said sure, whatever, and we went back to his place. So we were both pretty drunk, and we started making out. He was actually a pretty good kisser. And I’m not sure what happened next, but I remember telling him that I wanted to fuck him. He said that was okay and took his clothes off, so I took my clothes off too, got on top of him and started humping away. To be honest, he was kind of small and my vibrator feels a lot better, but whatever. Anyway, I’m there humping away, when all of a sudden I feel kind of a warm sensation, and he’s making weird noises. And much to my horror, I realize that he JUST CAME IN ME! WHAT THE FUCK?

He gave me permission to fuck HIM. I did NOT give him permission to fuck ME. Who the fuck does he think he is ejaculating in me without my permission? Why is it every time I go out to a bar and meet some random guy and go back to his apartment and we start making out, I end up getting raped?

So anyway, I though I’d better go get Plan B, but the nearest store was Wal-Mart, and I’m not sure if they carry it yet. Jesus fucking Christ, and here I am full of spunk. Who the fuck do they think they are telling women what drugs they can and can’t take?

They should make a birth control pill for men and force men to take it. Yeah, they have birth control pills, but WOMEN have to take them. The whole thing is just so one-sided it makes me want to puke. Why do I have to live in such a man’s world?

Anyway, I passed out on the way home because I was so drunk. And then when I woke up I was covered with my own vomit. Not only did this guy come in me without my permission, he did it when I was drunk. I wonder if that makes it count as TWO rapes? Jesus Christ, that would be just my luck.

Well, fuck, I was so emotionally distraught that I completely forgot about getting the morning after pill, and I think it’s too late now. So I guess I just have to pray for my period.

Jesus fucking Christ, this is all his fault. I should sue.

I Have Been Potentially Raped Hundreds of Trillions of Times

My systyrs, we live in a rape-culture!

Rape is a cultural norm. Even though it’s considered socially deviant behavior and is outlawed in every state and is regarded as one of the most heinous crimes, it’s still a social norm.

And although it would be truly aberrant for a screaming woman to be attacked in full view on a public street in the middle of the day while random passers-by take turns brutalizing her as the police refuse to intervene, we feminists believe that this is exactly what happens all the time. And the fact that you don’t see that happening outside your window right this second only proves that it’s too commonplace to even notice.

The rape culture is all around us, my systyrs. Always implicitly hanging over our heads. And we feminists are hated merely because we question it. Some bastards out there even accuse feminists of believing that all sex is rape. Lies!

No, we don’t think that “all sex is rape”. We just believe that heterosexual sex is inherently coercive of women. And we believe that any ambiguous sexual misunderstanding is de facto rape. And we believe that a woman’s ‘yes’ can actually mean ‘no’ if she changes her mind several weeks after the fact. So the stupid “all sex is rape” canard has not even a grain of truth.

It’d be more accurate to say that we believe acts of rape to far outnumber acts of consensual sex, with the latter being truly rare because most females are brainwashed into stupidity by patriarchy so they cannot give reasonable consent.

Look: sex is only rape whenever a heterosexual man is in the room. Okay? Simple.

But now I must to get to the heart of this entry. As I have testified in the past, no cock is big or hard enough to create a pleasing friction within the hallowed, haddock-scented hallway between my legs. And yet I am deathly afraid that an act of penetration by such a terror-inducing organ will one day maim me beyond repair and rob my hot juicy cunt of its pristine magnificence.

Just the other night I was drunkenly staggering down a darkened alley in a crime-ridden, crack-dealing part of town while wearing a “FCUK ME!” t-shirt because it is my right to avoid common sense while expecting my absolute safety to be guaranteed at all times.

Suddenly, I heard a noise. I whirled-around and… there was no one. Nothing happened.

But… something could have happened!

I had been POTENTIALLY raped!

And the following realizations came quickly: every second in which I am not raped is a second in which I was potentially raped by the world’s 3 billion potential rapists.

And I did the math: since there are over 86,000 seconds in a day, I am potentially raped a minimum of 256 trillion times per day! Ever since then, I have started to keep track.

Some bastards out there will say “Amynda, you’re talking nonsense.” But that refuses to acknowledge the latest findings of feminist philosophy: there is no fundamental difference between being raped and not being raped. Here is why:

“Not being raped” means to define one’s situation as having an absence of rape. Or to put it more accurately, it is to live in a state of non-rape. Non-rape is defined by the default state of being raped, so the state of rape controls the boundaries of the state of non-rape. Rape is a form of control and the definition of non-rape is controlled by rape. Therefore, being raped is not fundamentally different from not being raped. (I got an A on that paper, can you tell?)

Because we live in a universe of unlimited possible outcomes, the billions of rapes that didn’t happen to me a minute ago were exactly as damaging as the trillions more which haven’t happened yet but could potentially happen. Potentially.

And once you have been potentially raped in a ridiculously enormous number of instances like I have been, the scars remain invisible. And for you to suggest that I might’ve asked for what I didn’t get is blaming the potential victim who didn’t get something against her will which she didn’t ask for.

And it potentially happened again just now!

Every time I blink my eyes is yet another occasion on which I could have been raped. An occasion which was fundamentally no different than any other occasion in which I was not actually raped but could have been. And no one noticed, as if this were ‘normal’.

Even more frightening are the statistics which I can pull-out of my butt: 1 out of every 1 womyn will be potentially raped tens of billion of times every second of her life. That’s a 100% rate! And this holds true regardless of race, sexual orientation, socioeconomic status, eye color and shoe size. Age is not a factor either: potential rape can potentially happen at any instant between birth and cremation.

The worst part of being potentially raped is that my potential rapists, all 3 billion of them, walk around without punishment, free to potentially rape me again and again. And again and again and again. And again.

They know that they can potentially get-away with potentially raping me and no one will ever try to stop them from doing something that they’re not doing but might conceivably do. And our potential rape-culture calls me unreasonable for objecting to the fact that all potentially guilty men are not being punished for what they have not actually done but might do some day.

Yes, I put the blame where it belongs: squarely on men’s shoulders. Because of their failure to make potential rape into a non-existent thing, it means that all men are potentially complicit in potential rape. Except for the gay ones (and I don’t fully trust them either because the potential still remains.)

And what, society is going to blame me, a slut, for being a potential rape victim? Play the old game of blaming the potential victim who potentially brought it on herself? Oh yeah, how typical. Gee, I sure wouldn’t want something small and trivial like trillions of potential rapes which aren’t actually happening to me this very second to interrupt your important business. Maybe I’ll spread my legs to make it easier for all of you to potentially rape me another 3 billion times sirs?

Well this slut refuses to remain silent about the impossibly huge numbers of fictional things that have not happened to her!

Potential rape can take more insidious forms as well.

Whenever my ears could be penetrated by a masculine voice, it is potential aural-rape.

Whenever my eyes could be assaulted by visions of ugly men with too much hair on their backs, it is potential visual-rape.

Whenever carbon dioxide molecules exhaled by a phallocrat could brutally force their way into my delicate lungs, it is potential respiratory-rape.

Whenever I might catch a glimpse of a uterus-enslaving man on tv, it is potential tele-rape.

Whenever I could get an unwanted E-mail from some penis-owning manpig, it is potential E-rape.

The list goes on and on, compounding the trillions upon trillions of tragic things that never happened to me but might have happened in my most fevered nightmares. Not only does this amplify the scale of the crimes, it deepens the pool of sisterhood because we are all potential victims, my systyrs. Every last one of us.

But I consider myself to be lucky: I am a potential survivor of the many googolplexes of tragic things that might get inflicted upon me as I sit here alone in this locked room.

My systyrs, the astronomical amount of stuff which didn’t happen to us a second ago must not be allowed to happen to us ever again.

How Have YOU Been Oppressed Today?

It is quite true that I live every day of my life being gorgeously oppressed. But today I was slightly more gorgeously oppressed than normal. I am now using a university library computer to type this entry; it will soon become clear as to why.

Earlier this afternoon, I was sitting in my apartment. Of course I was being a feisty feminist hellcat as I always am. Suddenly… the lights went out. As did every appliance. Had I been electro-raped?

“Damn you, Patriarchy!” I screamed at the ceiling. “If it weren’t for men, there wouldn’t be any darkness!”

Snatching-up the phone, I dialed the customer service number for the electric utility. After pushing some buttons to summon the service rep, I was unpleasantly surprised by the voice of a vile manpig.

I instantly demanded to know why the lights had gone off. The moronic penis-lugger mumbled some crap about me “not paying” some so-called “bill” blah blah blah. Bullshit, all.

MEN! Always with the cold-blooded “explanations”.

“Enough!” I shot-back. “This is another Patriarchal conspiracy to oppress my tits and make my pussy feel bad about itself! But I see through your plan and refuse to tremble before the destructive forces of your cock!”

So devestating was my wit, the voice went silent. Perhaps he was stunned by my exposure of his dastardly little plot. It was at that point that I hung-up without further ado. And the creepy rapist-wannabe was probably jacking-off to my voice anyway.

I have no need for Patriarchal electricity. How many womyn have been victimized by MEN’S high voltage lines? Too many!

Without missing a beat, I dug-out my scented candles and lit them. They were hand-dipped at a lesbian wicca commune, making them full of that lesbiany wiccany goodness that we all need so badly to counteract our penis-dominated lives.

But this tale has a happy ending: I had become a survivor!

So I invite you all to post in this thread about how YOU, a white middle-class college womyn, has been ever-so gorgeously oppressed recently. Did you recover from it? Or do you need a support group to offer succor and sympathy about all the grievances which you’ve suffered at the hands of men in the last 30 minutes?