Posted on | April 25, 2016 | 56 Comments
Most Americans have never heard of Jian Ghomeshi, but he’s a celebrity in Canada. Ghomeshi was apparently a serial harasser of women. He was accused of sexual assault, put on trial and acquitted last month. This touched off an endless carnival of pontification by Canadian feminists, who are arguably the most unhinged feminists on the planet.
The largest Canadian feminist website, Feminist Current, is operated by Meghan Murphy, a latter-day disciple of Andrea Dworkin, and Murphy’s reaction to the Ghomeshi verdict was classic:
What we know about Ghomeshi — that he is sadistic; that he is a classic abuser, grooming and manipulating his victims, painting them as jealous liars after the fact; that he is a bully and a narcissist — unfortunately didn’t come into play in terms of [Judge William] Horkins‘ decision. My opinion is that, whether or not the judge was able to determine, without a doubt, that the stories told by the complainants were wholly true, Ghomeshi’s behaviour shows, without a shadow of a doubt, that he is an abusive man. . . .
To me, and to most other feminists in Canada, the small details don’t matter. What Ghomeshi’s victims remember, what they discussed with others, and what their responses to Ghomeshi’s behaviour were don’t make a shred of difference in terms of our understanding of both what the victims went through and continue to go through, as well as in terms of our opinion of Ghomeshi. . . .
“Guilty” or “not guilty” is not a good enough conversation, in this circumstance. If my ex hadn’t backhanded me across the face one night, how would I describe his abuse to a police officer or to a judge, in court? What would he have been found “guilty” of?
The answer, of course, is: nothing.
Not only do we not understand that psychological, verbal, financial, sexual, and emotional abuse are always at play when there is physical abuse, but it also isn’t acknowledged that these things are generally unprovable to outsiders. We don’t understand that men manipulate women into “consenting” to abusive, traumatic sex all the time, to the point that we feel we “chose” it willingly and tell ourselves we enjoyed it.
In Murphy’s interpretation, Ghomeshi is transformed from a guy on trial for specific crimes into a symbol, and his bad behavior is generalized to represent the abuse that all men (collectively) inflict on all women (collectively) under the oppressive system of male supremacy.
Three years ago, Ace of Spades wrote this:
It occurs to me — as a skeptic and secularist — that if you seek to put away Magical Thinking, you put it all away. If you disbelieve in God, then you really ought to disbelieve in Transcendence as well, and Rightwing Sorcerers, and Magic Words, and Sustaining Myth-Lies, and all the rest of it.
One amusement to me, as a lonely disbeliever on the right, is noticing this about the Left: The Left imagines that their disbelief in God frees them from superstition.
In fact it does no such thing. The Left’s disbelief in God does not free them from superstition — rather, it frees the superstition to infect all other modes of their thought.
Ace was writing about the way liberals interpreted the JFK assassination to suit their own essentially religious purposes. The Left clings to myths that justify their commitment to politics as religion and, in doing so, they immanetize the eschaton, as Eric Vogelin would say. Pursuing secular salvation, they become heaven-on-earth crusaders. As fanatical advocates for utopian schemes, they convince themselves that all The Smart People share their beliefs, and accuse their opponents of ignorance and prejudice. Liberals refused to accept the obvious explanation of JFK’s assassination — the pro-Castro madman Lee Harvey Oswald — because this did not fit their conception of how the world works and therefore Kennedy’s death was reinterpreted to fit the liberal mythology.
Correct Opinions and Confirmation Bias
We see this kind of “Enchanted Crocodile” thinking (you really have to read Ace’s whole piece to get the significance of that phrase) whenever the media seize on some event and go into What Does It Mean mode, where the news becomes a didactic lesson, an excuse for liberals to treat us like we are children who need adult guidance to form the Correct Opinions.
Consider, for example, the Black Lives Matter movement that emerged in the wake of the death of Michael Brown in a St. Louis suburb. In her forthcoming book The War on Cops: How the New Attack on Law and Order Makes Everyone Less Safe, Heather Mac Donald tells how this incident was generalized and imbued with symbolic meaning:
The August 2014 police shooting of Michael Brown in Ferguson, Missouri, spawned a narrative as stubborn as it was false: Ferguson police officer Darren Wilson had allegedly shot the 18-year-old “gentle giant” in cold blood while the latter was pleading for his life, hands raised in surrender. After Brown’s death, rioters torched and looted Ferguson businesses. The facts were that Brown, a budding criminal who weighed nearly 300 pounds, had punched Wilson in the face, tried to grab Wilson’s gun, and charged at him, leading Wilson to fire in self-defense.
In the months that followed, the lie that Brown had died in racially motivated police execution was amplified by the media, college presidents, and the left-wing political class. The newly formed Black Lives Matter movement promoted the notion that black American males were being hunted down and killed with impunity by renegade white police officers.
There is an element of confirmation bias involved here that was exploited by Black Lives Matter. Let us stipulate that the average black person encounters racism on a regular basis, in small, ordinary ways. Very few people are truly “color-blind” and, while outright racial hatred is not common, every black person can describe certain attitudes and behaviors they notice that are in some way prejudicial or discriminatory. More than 50 years past the triumph of the civil rights movement, however, no intelligent adult in America needs another “Racism Is Bad” lecture and yet the liberal media seems to believe we do. To watch CNN coverage of any story with a racism angle, you get the idea that the producers think of their network as a sort of church, and the rest of us are all sinners in need of liberal salvation. All the problems afflicting black America could be solved, if only we cared as much about black people as the CNN producers do. Read more
Posted on | April 24, 2016 | 33 Comments
Marina Lonina (left) and Raymond Gates (right)
An Ohio teenager accused of live-streaming the rape of her 17-year-old friend has pleaded not guilty to multiple charges stemming from the alleged incident in February.
Marina Lonina, 18, a student at New Albany High School, outside Columbus, was attempting to record the assault as evidence, her attorney, Sam Shamansky, said during a court appearance Friday.
“She’s in the habit of filming everything with this app called Periscope,” Shamansky acknowledged, according to ABC affiliate WSYX. . . .
(There’s an “app” called 911, you know.)
Her co-defendant, Raymond Gates, 29, also pleaded not guilty and his bond was set at $300,000, according to CBS News.
The pair has been charged with rape, kidnapping, sexual battery and pandering sexually oriented matter involving a minor, according to NBC affiliate WCMH-TV. . . .
Lonina and the victim — friends who attended the same high school — met Gates at a mall while they were shopping, Shamansky said. He bought them a bottle of vodka and encouraged them to meet the next day, which the victim wanted to do, he said. . . .
(Just a couple of teenage girls, shopping at the mall, accepting gifts of vodka from strangers. What could possibly go wrong?)
They were drinking at Gates’s home in Columbus on Feb. 27 when he began to sexually assault the 17-year-old and Lonina began live-streaming the violence using Periscope, Franklin County Prosecutor Ron O’Brien said, according to NBC affiliate WCMH.
A police report cited by WCMH accused Gates of holding the victim down using the weight of his body while assaulting her.
The report also says teenager can be heard screaming, “No, it hurts so much,” “Please stop” and “Please, no” multiple times.
Look, I hesitate to be judgmental about these things, but do neither of these girls have parents? And since we’re asking questions, what are they teaching kids at New Albany High School? Is it necessary to schedule classes in “Don’t Accept Vodka From Strangers”?
And what about Mr. Gates? Is it his habit to wander around shopping malls, offering bottles of vodka to teenage girls? How long has he been at this game, and how many other girls have taken him up on the offer?
Is this just what teenage girls do in 2016? “Hey, Marina, want to go to the mall and see if we can find a guy to give us vodka?” It’s all fun and games until everybody on the Internet watches you get raped.
Posted on | April 23, 2016 | 43 Comments
This may be triggering so *TRIGGERWARNING*. It was typed in one sitting, so might be a bit all over the place.
For a while I’ve wanted to write truthfully about an assault that took place close to 2 years ago. I want others to be aware of the perpetrator and what they have done, for my sake and others. I’m not ashamed to say that I’m shaking as I type, it’s bloody hard to do this.
Early on the 28th June 2014 I was raped by Jason Lee Weight who is the director/writer of Sam Sweetmilk. . . .
Her 1,000-word account of this incident is either (a) libel or (b) every young man’s worst nightmare in the age of social media.
Let us step back from the (alleged) details of of what (allegedly) transpired between Rosie and Jason on that June night in 2014. Because I am a professional journalist, I understand the risk of repeating what people write on their blogs without including the word “allegedly” and giving the accused party a fair chance to respond.
Jason Lee Weight’s Twitter account is currently locked and we haven’t heard his side of the story. For all we know, he’s got an alibi for the evening of June 28, 2014. Jason Lee Weight might claim he did not attend that party and never met Rosie, who explains in her Tumblr account that on the night in question she was (a) experiencing “withdrawal from my meds” for depression and anxiety, and (b) suffering from vaginismus, which made “penetrative sex” extremely painful for her.
Allegedly, I hasten to add.
As a professional journalist, I am aware of the risk of repeating what people write on their blogs, even what they write about themselves. Young people think they can use the Internet to publish all kinds of weird personal stuff — their herpes infections, for example — and that these strange revelations should never have negative consequences. (It’s “harassment” and “stalking” if you make fun of Ella Dawson’s crusade to “destigmatize” herpes.) Many young people have a Special Snowflake™ mentality, expecting the world to be treat them with deference and kindness, and then claim to be emotionally traumatized when they discover that the world actually doesn’t give a damn about them.
The Special Snowflake™ believes the world is supposed to be a “safe space,” and that social media is like a support group or a therapy session. A young woman can reveal her most intimate secrets on Tumblr or Twitter or Facebook, and what could possibly go wrong?
So here we have Rosie, telling the world that she lives in North East Bedfordshire, where she is suffering from depression, anxiety and post-traumatic stress disorder and — oh, by the way — she has vaginismus and was (allegedly) raped by Jason Lee Weight in June 2014.
Yeah, let’s just put that on the Internet, and also publish photos of yourself topless, Rosie. Because what could possibly go wrong?
Here’s a word parents need to teach their kids: “Crazy.”
What part of “crazy” do I need to explain here? The Internet is forever, boys and girls. Go ask former Rep. Anthony Weiner what he was thinking before he started sending photos of his penis to women. My old buddy Andrew Breitbart turned that into the biggest political story of 2011, and you might have thought former Rep. Anthony Weiner would have learned his lesson, but no, he got caught again in 2013 having some kind of perverted Internet fling with a sleazy admirer named Sydney Leathers.
My teenage sons got an earful of warnings after that. While I was reporting the breaking developments in the second WeinerGate scandal, it dawned on me that kids (and obviously, too many adults who should know better) are simply not thinking before they hit the “send” button on their text messages and emails. They are not thinking about the possible consequences of clicking the “publish” button on their social media accounts. Nor are people thinking about what they are doing in the real world in an age where everybody’s cellphone has a video camera, where anything a guy does in his dating relationships may become the subject of an online rant by an angry ex-girlfriend, where a guy meets a girl at a party and has what seems to him a consensual hookup only to discover, nearly two years later, that she’s telling the world that he’s a rapist.
Rosie’s account of that night is a classic “he-said/she-said” situation. Her story of that (allegedly) “horrific” June 2014 encounter seems entirely plausible, and Jason Lee Weight’s (alleged) behavior is indefensible. Rosie says she filed a report with police “a long time after” this encounter, but a lack of evidence made prosecution impossible. Because I am not a prosecutor or a detective or any sort of “activist,” however, the question of Jason Lee Weight’s guilt or innocence is not actually relevant to my point. Discussing this allegation in terms of “rape culture” is above my pay grade. What I am trying to do here, as a professional journalist, is to convey the reality of what sex means in the social media age. And what I am also trying to do, as a father of six, the youngest three of whom are teenagers, is to explain to parents, teachers and other responsible adults why young people must be warned very strongly about these dangers.
This is not 1977, the year I graduated high school. This is not 1983, the year I graduated college. It’s not 1989, the year I got married. Heck, it’s not even 2008, the year I left The Washington Times and embarked on a career as a freelance correspondent and blogger. Social media has exploded during the past decade, technology has advanced to the point where rapists are livestreaming their rapes on the Internet, where mass murderers publish their “manifestos” online before they commit their deadly rampages. What does this mean for “casual sex”? To quote the recently departed Prince: “Party over. Oops! Out of time.”
Welcome to 2016, boys and girls. There is no such thing as “privacy.”
Also, we must realize that such concepts as slander, libel, invasion of privacy, harassment and due process of law — the legal means by which people might defend their reputation against such an attack as Rosie has made against Jason Lee Weight — are ultimately futile. Once such an accusation is published, it can never be unpublished. The Internet is forever, and so everything Rosie has published is permanent.
Does it matter, in terms of Jason Lee Weight’s reputation, whether Rosie’s accusation is true? No. Any reasonable person could read her account and, if you wanted to give Jason Lee Weight the benefit of the doubt, you might say Rosie’s story has an unreliable narrator problem. Here is a woman who, by her own admission, is afflicted with serious mental illnesses. She is emotionally unstable, the kind of woman who posts topless selfies on the Internet and she was off her medication the night when she allegedly met Jason Lee Weight at this party. Therefore, in the benefit-of-the-doubt reading of her story, we cannot be sure that Rosie’s account of this alleged encounter is strictly factual. Furthermore, if you’re arguing Jason’s case in defense lawyer mode, you could say he had no idea Rosie was mentally ill and he had never even heard of vaginismus, much less did he know that Rosie was suffering from this rare sexual dysfunction. By her own admission, says the defense lawyer, Rosie kissed Jason at the party, accepted his invitation to go back to his place, voluntarily went with him into his bedroom, removed her clothes and . . .
“Your honor, my client is an innocent man!” the attorney says in the dramatic courtroom scene. “He and this young lady had a very loving and entirely consensual night together, and there is no evidence at all to support her claims that he held her down and forced her to perform sexual acts. Besides which, your honor, that bitch is crazy.”
Well, this might win an acquittal in a court of law, and this would be followed by a press conference in which Jason Lee Weight and his attorney celebrated his legal vindication. But even then, you see, there is still Rosie’s version of events. She can’t prove it happened the way she says it happened, but neither can her account be disproven.
Ladies and gentlemen of the Internet jury, I am not here to argue in Jason Lee Weight’s defense. It is of no concern to me what you think of him or what you think of Rosie. Instead, as a journalist with three decades of experience, going back to the Dark Ages of newsprint before Al Gore invented the Internet, I am here to tell you that social media has made casual sex extremely dangerous, if not practically impossible, for anyone who cares at all about their reputation. A few months before this alleged June 2014 incident, Jason Lee Weight’s Kickstarter campaign to fund his series Sam Sweetmilk had failed, falling about $10,000 short of its original $33,000 goal. Since then, however, the Sam Sweetmilk team has managed to crank out its second episode and, we might suppose, Rosie has become increasingly enraged by the thought that some people believe Jason Lee Weight is a nice person who deserves success:
OK, Rosie, you wrote that and put it on the Internet.
We do not know what happened on June 28, 2014, and Jason Lee Weight cannot be compelled to say anything about this accusation.
Here in the United States, we have what’s called the Fifth Amendment, and the 1966 Miranda ruling requires that every suspect be informed when he is arrested that he has the right to remain silent, that anything he says can and will be used against him in a court of law, et cetera. Every young American ought to able to recite the Miranda warning by heart. Shut your mouth and lawyer up. You have the right to an attorney and to have your attorney present during questioning, see?
You’d be surprised how many punks never figure this out. They try to explain themselves to the cops and next thing you know, the punk has confirmed that he was at the scene of the crime at the time it went down, and the best the punk can hope for is a plea deal in exchange for his testimony against his buddies, and hey, “Snitches get stitches.”
Shut your mouth and lawyer up, because guess what? “Not guilty” is not a synonym for innocent, and lots of criminals are never brought to justice for their crimes. The charges were dropped for lack of evidence, or maybe a witness decides it would be a good idea to skip town before trial, and who knows what kind of legal errors a lawyer might be able to find in the way the police and prosecutors handled the case? So it often happens that a criminal gets away with his crime and, if he’s smart, he turns away from the outlaw life. He stops hanging around dopeheads and hoodlums, and he makes sure that he never again finds himself wearing handcuffs or locked into a jail cell. He becomes a law-abiding citizen.
Well, according to Rosie, Jason Lee Weight is a rapist who will never be brought to justice for the crime she says he committed in 2014. And I’m sure Jason is telling his buddies, “That bitch is crazy.”
True, perhaps, but “not guilty” is not a synonym for innocent, and the damage to Jason Lee Weight’s reputation is permanent.
The Internet is forever, boys and girls. Whenever I see my teenagers texting on their phones, I warn them to be careful. Never say anything in a text message (or any other digital communication) that you wouldn’t want to see screencapped and published for all the world to see. Never think you can get away with doing something wrong in secret, because you are living in an age where secrecy is never entirely certain and privacy is a fading memory of what life was like before the Internet.
Someone on Tumblr replied to Rosie:
i have reported this post to the person in question.
since you have no evidence of him being a rapist, this is libel / defamation of character and i have suggested he file suit against you.
To which Rosie replied:
it’s sad, that they ^ believe that’s the kind of action to take when reading a rape survivors experience.
And of course I have evidence of Jason Lee Weight being a rapist – HE RAPED ME
To which the other Tumblr account replied:
this is 100% the kind of action to take when you see someone libeling another human being, regardless of circumstances. your story could have been told without names, yet you chose to defame the character of this person.
i hope you have a legal case against him, because if not, he certainly has one against you.
anyway, forgive me if you saying that he raped you is not evidence in the criminal justice system.
You see? Everybody with a Tumblr blog is now playing Internet lawyer. You don’t need me for that. What you need me for is to explain the meaning of “crazy.” If a guy meets a girl at a party, how does he know if she’s crazy? Well, if he says “let’s go back to my place” and she says “yes,” that’s probably a sign she’s crazy. No sane girl would say yes to such an invitation. The dude might have herpes. He might be a rapist.
She barely knows this guy and she’s leaving the party with him? Crazy. Then she goes back to his place, goes to his bedroom, takes off all her clothes and thinks he’s not going to have sex with her? Crazy.
This is what I’ve explained to my sons. There is a direct correlation between (a) a woman’s willingness to engage in casual sex, and (b) a woman being crazy. As a general rule, the quicker she drops her pants, the crazier she is. Every guy is prone to believe that his own personal charm suffices to explain why this woman he just met is willing to leave the party with him for a quick hookup. “He shoots! He scores!”
Yeah, he’s a natural-born winner. The ladies can’t resist him.
That’s what he’s telling himself anyway, as he blazes past the flashing yellow lights and warning signs: “CAUTION: CRAZY WOMAN.”
The Greeks called it hubris, this arrogance that leads a man to destruction. Young guys who become accustomed to success in their romantic pursuits never see the warning signs. A guy like Jason Lee Weight — smart, funny, not bad-looking — might easily have been through a dozen such hookups by the time he was in his early 20s. In a culture that encourages shameless promiscuity, an attractive young fellow with an appetite for adventure will have no shortage of opportunity, and probably doesn’t realize he’s gambling in the Crazy Bitch Casino. Any man who keeps playing that game will eventually meet with disaster.
Did nobody warn Jason Lee Weight? Or had he beaten the odds so often that he didn’t mind pushing his luck a bit? It doesn’t matter. We are talking about unverified allegations here, and I am speaking of general principles, rather than attempting to defend a guy I never met. But you can imagine that a guy leaves a party with a girl, they go back to his place and she gets naked in his bedroom, he’s thinking, “Score!” He’s never heard of the word vaginismus, nor is he cognizant that this girl is mentally ill and off her medication, so when the consummation of their tryst proves difficult (trust me, you don’t want to know the alleged details), our doomed protagonist is not prepared to cope with this unexpected problem, which he has never previously encountered. He can’t even spell “vaginismus,” OK? He barely knows this girl, and has no idea what kind of mental health issues she’s got. How is a guy supposed to know what to do when he hits the Jackpot of Insanity in the Crazy Bitch Casino?
Perhaps no jury in England would convict Jason Lee Weight of any crime, because there are plenty of guys who can tell stories of the time they hit their own Jackpot of Insanity — off the record, of course.
You have the right to remain silent, and the Internet is not the proper venue to hear testimony about your ordeal in the Crazy Bitch Casino, but lots of guys talk off the record to a professional journalist.
A week after Rosie published her accusation on Tumblr, the Sam Sweetmilk account on Twitter sent out this message:
Can we guess what this was about? Yeah, I think so.
Benjamin Franklin said, “Experience keeps a dear school, but fools will learn in no other.” More than two centuries later, fools are still being schooled, and we can see the lessons on the Internet every day.
My sons have been warned. Have yours?
— FreeStacy (@Not_RSMcCain) April 22, 2016
— FreeStacy (@Not_RSMcCain) April 22, 2016
THIS IS WHAT A FEMINIST LOOKS LIKE! https://t.co/p52N67UzWf
— FreeStacy (@Not_RSMcCain) April 22, 2016
Posted on | April 22, 2016 | 303 Comments
Posted on | April 21, 2016 | 69 Comments
Never Take Advice From Feminists, unless your goal in life is to become a Crazy Cat Lady. Everyone with a modicum of common sense should understand why seeking advice from failures is unwise. If you want to get rich, you probably wouldn’t ask a homeless drunk on the park bench for advice on how to do it, and neither would any sane woman seek romantic advice from Jaclyn “I’ve Gone Down and Dirty With Strangers” Friedman.
Want to get herpes? Feminists are experts at that, but if you’d like to avoid incurable viruses, maybe you should seek advice elsewhere — Mom, Grandma, any adult with common sense who actually has your best interests at heart. This category excludes Jess Zimmerman:
Jess Zimmerman . . . is by all evidence a World-Class Fool. Nothing is ever her fault, you see. Bad things just happen to her because the world is a vast patriarchal conspiracy to make pudgy girls feel sad. She deserves to be loved. She is entitled to admiration (as “the woman who doesn’t prioritize appearance” and exercises her “ability to reject patriarchal standards”) so the failure of others to provide Jess Zimmerman with love and admiration is a social injustice. If you don’t love Jess Zimmerman, you have violated her civil rights.
That was a year ago, when Jess Zimmerman was arguing that men should support “man-hating” feminism because it’s actually good for men to be constantly insulted by deranged ideologues. Or something.
Of course, I don’t really want to make a living giving men false hope. But what if I wanted to make a living yelling at them about why their false hope is dumb?
This is a thing I do frequently now for free. Somehow, despite increasingly noisy misandry, I have amassed a small cadre of men who think I’m a good person to confide in. These are friends and partners, so it goes without saying that they are generally not confiding f–ked-up attitudes about women, but they’re also straight men with feelings; consequently, I’ve seen my share of “how do I make her fall back in love with me,” “how do I make her regret rejecting me,” “how do I change her mind.”
The answers are “you can’t,” “you can’t,” and “you can’t,” respectively, but I’ve come up with enough different ways of saying this that occasionally one gets through. It’s something I’m happy to do for the people I care about, but it is not effortless. I’ve fielded hundreds of late-night texts, balanced reassurance with tough love, hammered away at stubborn beliefs, sometimes even taken (shudder) phone calls. I’ve actually been on agony aunt duty for male friends since high school, so if it’s true that it takes 10,000 hours of practice to become an expert at something, counseling bereft dudes may in fact be my only expert skill.
Who are these “straight men with feelings” who can’t navigate their relationships without consulting Jess Zimmerman? Look, I remember what it was like to be clueless at 15, but eventually you get the hang of it. Careful observation, trial and error, a commitment to excellence — by the time you’re 18 or 19, maybe you are not yet an acknowledged Master of the Art of Love, but you’re not the kind of hopeless amateur who would seek advice from someone like Jess Zimmerman.
Losers. This is the only word to describe any guy past the age of, oh, let’s say 25, who doesn’t realize that once a woman decides it’s over, it’s over. You had your turn at bat, and you struck out.
Could I tell you stories? Yes. Should I tell you? No.
As far as you know, my life has been an endless series of spectacular triumphs, each one surpassing the one before. Lose? Me?
Never happened. This here cowboy walked away from the rodeo wearing that big championship buckle, so to speak, and never mind how many times I got thrown off and stomped during my years on the circuit.
Pain? Cowboys don’t feel pain. And they sure as hell don’t go whining to some idiot feminist “friend” because they couldn’t finish the ride.
Here’s a clue, young men: Women know you are vulnerable. They know they can hurt you. Some women enjoy hurting men. There are women who are unspeakably cruel, remorseless sadistic monsters whose idea of amusement is ruining men’s lives. These women are called “feminists.”
Used to be, we had other words for these monsters, but nowadays they prefer to be called feminists. They have organized a political movement based on dishonesty, selfishness, and cruelty. They call this “equality.”
Guess what, guys? You are never going to win the “equality” game.
You know why? Because feminists decide what is or is not “equality.”
Feminism is a game in which the rules are designed to ensure that men always lose. A feminist will humiliate a man for the fun of it, mock him behind his back, and celebrate his destruction as social justice.
If a feminist walks into the room, guys, this is your cue to exit. Avoid feminists to the greatest extent possible. There are plenty of good women in the world. Why associate with heartless, lying, evil witches?
Did you know Jess Zimmerman slept with her college professor?
We used to have other words for women like that.
Now we just call them “feminists.”
Never take advice from those sadistic monsters.
Posted on | April 21, 2016 | 9 Comments
Poe’s Law, that is:
BREAKING: Social Geometry Justice Warriors agitating for car axle diversity, screaming: "Fight cishet circularity!" https://t.co/dWR2Dbg1Au
— IGotOverMachoGrande (@smitty_one_each) April 22, 2016
— Grandes Medios (@GrandesMedios) April 22, 2016
Posted on | April 20, 2016 | 110 Comments
Does that sound right to you? Read it again:
What does “high maintenance” mean? This isn’t a phrase I often use, because I got married in 1989 and the phrase “high maintenance,” used as a pejorative against women, wasn’t commonplace when I was dating. However, from the way younger men use it, I’ve always thought of “high maintenance” as roughly synonymous with spoiled. To call a woman “high maintenance” is to imply she is a certain familiar type.
Years ago, I began to notice this type — the Suburban Princess — who at an early age becomes accustomed to being pampered and indulged. She’s good-looking, or at least not bad-looking, and she learns to exploit this to her advantage. Because so many men are willing to kowtow to her, to placate her demands and tolerate her tantrums, she develops an imperious attitude. She is the Princess, every man is expected to serve her, and woe unto any man who finds himself in a relationship with such a woman. She seldom stays with any boyfriend longer than a year or two, but she’s seldom alone, because she has a cunning eye for the next fool in the parade of men eager to try (and inevitably fail) to make her happy. We encountered this type a year ago, when ESPN reporter Britt McHenry melted down in a tantrum:
Everybody knows her type, and everybody hates her type. A good-looking girl gets all the breaks, especially if she’s a rich good-looking girl, and our universal contempt for the spoiled-rotten Suburban Princess isn’t because we’re sexists, but because everybody who’s ever had to deal with one of those high-maintenance brats knows what vicious, selfish sadists they can be.
McHenry only got suspended a week for her abusive behavior — she just had “an intense and stressful moment,” she said — when anyone who wasn’t young, blonde and beautiful probably would have been fired. She’s in the TV business, you see, and TV needs beautiful young blondes, a market demand that confers lucrative advantages on those who are the supply of this valuable commodity. At any rate, I cite the example of Britt McHenry merely to point out that to me, the phrase “high maintenance” has a connotation, describing a certain bratty personality type. So when I encountered Charlotte Shane claiming that “high maintenance” refers to “a woman who puts tons of effort into her own life,” I was puzzled.
Charlotte Shane? Oh, wait a minute! Yes, we remember her:
Charlotte Shane (@CharoShane) is a slut who writes about sex. There are a lot of these around lately. I blame Sex and the City, or maybe let’s go back further and blame Helen Gurley Brown. At any rate, the ambition of every young female English major nowadays is (a) to have sex with dozens of men and (b) get paid to write about it. It’s journalistic prostitution, really — exhibitionism justified by the excuse that the Let-Me-Tell-You-About-My-Sex-Life racket is about feminist empowerment.
There is an interesting 21st-century double-standard about the sexual memoir genre, namely that men aren’t allowed to engage in it. A man who boasts about his sexual exploits is condemned as a misogynist, as [pickup artist] Daryush “Roosh V” Valizadeh could testify. Everything we are allowed to know about sex, it seems, must be filtered through a feminist lens, and men’s perspectives on sex are therefore unwelcome. Feminism is the belief that men are always wrong about everything, especially sex. And so the question of what guys enjoy sexually is never asked, let alone answered, because feminism is not about making men happy.
Will our culture never reach the “Peak Slut” moment? Honestly, I was weary of the sexy tell-all genre long before the Monica Lewinsky scandal broke, two months after I arrived in D.C., and editing all those transcripts, affidavits, etc., during the subsequent impeachment proceedings certainly satisfied whatever morbid curiosity I had previously retained — which wasn’t much, honestly. Nobody wants a man to tell what he knows about sex or how he learned what he knows, so never mind the details, but I could never be fairly accused of ignorance, inexperience or naïveté in such matters. Being a conservative (and a married father of six) requires me to disapprove of sinful depravity. However, I was once a young Democrat and just because I exercise my Fifth Amendment right to remain silent doesn’t mean I have no stories to tell. You probably wouldn’t believe some of my stories, even if I were being compelled to testify under oath which, thank God, I’m not. But I digress . . .
The Lewinsky scandal should have taught us to be skeptical toward what people tell us about their sex lives. The phrase made famous by Bill Clinton’s defenders — “Everybody lies about sex” — is not true, because most people have enough common sense not to talk about their sex lives. When accused of sexual wrongdoing, of course, people can be expected to deny they have done anything wrong, but if it weren’t for Linda Tripp and the DNA evidence in the stain on Monica Lewinksy’s blue dress, we could not be certain that Bill Clinton was lying about sex. Without evidence or corroborating testimony, it was entirely possible to believe that she was just a crazy fat girl who had imagined all those weird sexual trysts with the President of the United States.
OK, so what are we supposed to believe when we encounter women like Charlotte Shane who talk, talk, talk about sex, sex, sex? Pardon my skepticism, but I am always dubious about such people, and that was before I discovered that “Charlotte Shane” is a pseudonym. What would you like to bet that, if a bunch of hackers ever got interested in finding out who “Charlotte Shane” really is, we would be able to compare her tales to her actual life and discover glaring discrepancies? She is a skillful writer, but this doesn’t mean she is a particularly honest writer, and there are aspects of her various stories that lead me to wonder, “Is she telling the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?”
What is “Charlotte Shane” omitting from her biography? What would we learn if we learned the whole story? Who was “Drunk Client”?
Not that this is necessarily false, you understand, but how is it that in 2013, she was hiring herself out for such, uh, services? We search her body of work for some kind of biographical clue:
The moment my breasts appeared on my body, I recognized them as the enemy. When I was growing up, Winona Ryder, Gwyneth Paltrow, and Kate Moss were the go-to glamour girls of teen magazines, and all of them are lithe in a way that cannot be imitated if your boobs are big. As a top-heavy pre-teen — tall, pudgy, and busty from puberty onward — I was doomed to remain outside the circle of the mid-90s’ most desirable women. . . .
I grew up in a part of the country full of chicken farms, where my babysitter hunted deer with a crossbow, and my mom made us scrapple at least one morning a week. So you might think a “heartland” American sense of style would be my saving grace. . . .
But at the age when I started taking a more active role in what I wore, I was a bookish introvert who most wanted to emulate the look modeled by my private school peers: that of the preppy, casually rich. Unfortunately, I had neither the body nor the budget to pull it off. . . .
Larger breasted women, from Marilyn Monroe to Scarlett Johanssen and Kate Upton, are usually relegated to the realm of pin-up, a man’s object of desire but not a figure for well-bred woman to emulate. I blamed my boobs from keeping me from ever looking truly skinny, my ultimate physical goal, and from looking rich, my ultimate style goal. They were the biggest — no pun intended — obstacle to achieving my vainest dreams.
This description — a “tall, pudgy . . . bookish introvert,” attending a private school in the “heartland,” and envious of her “preppy, casually rich” classmates — makes it difficult to understand why, at age 30, she was working as an escort, her clients including a kinky drunk who enjoyed spanking her and having her urinate in his mouth. We keep searching and find this story from 2012:
When I was in junior high, my friend Julia (not her real name) told me over the phone that she’d just lost her virginity to a neighbor who’d found her crying at home alone over a breakup. She was home alone, crying, when he’d knocked on the door and she invited him in. They’d sat down on the couch together as he comforted her, and then he f–ked her there. She was 11. The neighbor was 19.
To whatever extent we can trust my memory from 17 years ago, I remember Julia sounded ambivalent, a little surprised and a little uncertain. She wasn’t outwardly distressed nor did she seem like a numbed zombie. When I asked her if she’d wanted to have sex with him, her answer was inconclusive. She didn’t give me details, and I didn’t press for them, partially because I was 12, and a virgin, and I could not imagine what such an experience would entail.
Again, we have no actual reason to think her story is false, but in this particular article, “Charlotte Shane” also includes the helpful detail that, by 2012, she had already spent “eight years as a sex worker,” a career she began by “providing so-called sensual massage” in her early 20s. So from her being a pudgy introvert, envying her rich classmates at a private school in the heartland, where 11-year-old girls fall prey to roaming rapists, we flash forward a decade to her doing “sensual massage” by age 22. What happened to “Charlotte Shane” that led her on this journey from introverted virgin to sex worker? From 2011, we have her Salon.com column “To all the girls who envy my life,” in which she describes how, ever since she started blogging (circa 2008) about her career as an escort, she has received a steady stream of emails from young women “somewhere between the ages of 17 and 25” who wish that they could be sex workers, too. Musing about the “complex” causes for the “glamour of prostitution,” she draws a predictably feminist conclusion:
It’s the persistent symptom of a society that still insists sexual desirability is a woman’s duty, and wealth is the most important hallmark of success. A young woman who is desirable is a young woman who wields power, and that power is often bestowed in the form of cold, hard cash.
Which isn’t to say the women who e-mail me are power hungry. Rather, I think they are recognizing the ways their culture tells them to achieve.
You see? It’s “society” and “culture” which gives young women the idea that being a prostitute is glamorous. There is no more perfect formula for avoiding personal responsibility than to blame “society” or “culture” for whatever is wrong with your life. Bad ideas are imposed in your mind by the “culture,” and then “society” more or less forces you to comply with these messages. Next thing you know, you’re 22 years old doing “sensual massage” and by the time you’re 30, you’re getting spanked by a drunk client who wants you to urinate in his mouth. Just another day in the harmless sex-for-money business, and if anyone thinks this is a glamorous career? Blame society!
The girls who e-mail me are not lacking internal resources. They’re educated, sensitive, observant, and they have the complex sentences and insightful wording to prove it. But they are living in a world where a woman’s worth is constantly equated with her sex appeal. Is it any wonder that many women might find it compelling to take that equation to its logical end?
These women are also often insecure, which I recognize because I was (and am) insecure, too. When I first started working in the sex industry, I thought my motivation was purely curiosity, but I see now that while curiosity gave me courage, insecurity was wearing the spurs. I was so highly self-critical as a young adult that by the time I was 12 I vowed I’d have breast surgery. (I wanted a reduction, since natural large breasts meant I’d never look truly skinny.) I struggled with an eating and exercise disorder, both of which were so common among my peers that they were unremarkable. I talked my parents into paying for medically unnecessary braces to close the gap in between my front teeth, which was easy since most kids my age were having cosmetic orthodontic work as well. While I was sexually ravenous — I was a teenager, after all — I couldn’t stand the thought of any boy seeing my body. So I was not quite a born natural when it came to selling myself for sexual consumption, but entering the industry quickly taught me that femininity is all performance, and it became a performance at which I was adept.
What. The. Hell.
Gosh, it’s so weird that none of my kids developed an eating disorder, nor did they demand my wife and I pay for “medically unnecessary braces.” Evidently, these problems were ubiquitous in the “heartland” where Charlotte Shane grew up during the 1990s, where her junior high school friend got raped at age 11, and an insecure introvert became a “sexually ravenous” teenager who couldn’t stand to have boys look at her body. While I do not assert that any detail of her narrative is specifically false, there seems to be something basically wrong here. There is something missing, some plot twist omitted from the story.
Words mean things, and when a woman tells me (a) she attended private school, (b) she was “sexually ravenous” as a teenager, and (c) she began “selling myself for sexual consumption” in her early 20s, my hunch is (d) she got involved with The Wrong Guy at some point.
Your parents could afford private-school tuition and “medically unnecessary braces,” and yet by the time you’re a senior in college, circa 2003, you’re “providing so-called sensual massage”? Yeah, life is hard for liberal arts majors, but not all of them end up as whores, ma’am, and I’m not buying any of your “culture and society” explanations, either.
What is she asking us to believe?
“Oh, look,” says the bookish and insecure 21-year-old English major. “There’s a ‘Help Wanted’ sign in front of that massage parlor. Sounds kind of interesting. I think I’ll go apply for a job. Purely curiosity!”
No, ma’am, this is not the whole story. Former prep-school students don’t just randomly go to work in the “sensual massage” business. Whatever happened — dumped by a boyfriend, busted for dope, flunked your finals, whatever — there must have been something that put you in a very low place, with a rather desperate need of cash. There’s no way a middle-class girl from the “heartland” starts doing hand jobs to pay her bills without something in her life going badly wrong to explain how she got there.
Excuse me for belaboring this point at such length, but the pseudonymous “Charlotte Shane” is always talk, talk, talking about sex, sex, sex, as if (a) none of the rest of us know anything at all about sex, and therefore (b) we need a whore to advise us on this topic. Whereas it might actually be helpful if she would write something honest like, “How I Screwed Up My Life So Bad I Became a Whore and How Other Women Can Avoid This Miserable Degrading Life of Shame and Infamy.”
She's a feminist role model. Hugely popular. Think about that. pic.twitter.com/tT9NOJh7tc
— FreeStacy (@Not_RSMcCain) April 20, 2016
Existential question from an aging prostitute. pic.twitter.com/jbDwvat4tK
— FreeStacy (@Not_RSMcCain) April 20, 2016
Is anything more ironic than a hooker quoting Shulamith Firestone? (I'm so "parasitical"!) pic.twitter.com/aOFb9W6Kef
— FreeStacy (@Not_RSMcCain) April 20, 2016
Putting “tons of effort into her own life.” Right.
Bad enough to be a whore. Why you got to be a lying whore?
— FreeStacy (@Not_RSMcCain) April 19, 2016
Posted on | April 20, 2016 | No Comments
— compiled by Wombat-socho
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