A Casual Rapency

I'll admit I sometimes picture myself aiming a fleshy wand at the toilet. I can’t help wonder what it would feel like to have my genitalia on the outside...until I see a man vomit, roll around on the ground, and turn an unnatural shade of red after getting kicked in the dick. Then I don't wonder so much.

I wonder if Richard Mourdock ever pictures himself needing to sit down to pee, calmly tinkling the need to aim away. I wonder if he ever thinks about how it feels to walk down a street, alone, always on high alert. I wonder if he ever thinks about all his might being overpowered. About having a knife held to his throat. Foreign saliva dripping on his face. Having his body forcibly split, opened. I wonder if he ever thinks about being so scared he wishes for death to come.

I wonder if Richard ever thinks about how looking down at a swollen belly is a trigger. How a body splitting apart, again, pushing out God’s Good Will Baby, is a constant reminder of violence and fear.

I wonder if he thinks the way he talks about rape seems callously casual.

I wonder if he thinks at all.

Urban Legend: The Scissoring Lesbians

Everyone knows that lesbian intimacy revolves around fluffy pillows, Laura Ashley wallpaper, white cotton panties, vanilla scented candles, and rubbing our smooth private Barbie parts together, also known as scissoring. That's why sewing rooms--the lesbian equivalent to gay men's bath houses--are so popular in the Pacific Northwest.

The act of scissoring can be traced back to the late 1700s in Ireland. Fiona McDonnell couldn't fit on the bed on account of her family's kindness. After neighboring family, the O'Learys, lost their home in an unexpected fire, the McDonnells opened their home to the family of five. But bedtime posed a challenge. There were eight children but room for only seven on the bed. It was the eldest O'Leary son, Eoin, who suggested Fiona and his sister Shannon open their legs, just so, in order to fit in such a way that two bodies take up only one space. He said they could save even more space by taking off their nightgowns but failed to make a strong case to back his logic.

You couldn't blame him for trying. 

When the fiery redheaded Shannon suggested Eoin do the same with Thomas McDonnell, Eoin shook his head. He claimed it would look "too faggy." So it came to pass that Fiona and Shannon scissored night after night so neither had to sleep on the floor. 

Scissoring didn't become a lesbian sex act until the 1970s, after straight men decided it was a hot way for straight women to make "lesbian" porn together.

When my wife and get a hankering to scissor, we remember that scissoring is a straight person's idea of what lesbian sex is and stop before our legs go to sleep under the weight of the other person, an ankle gets rolled, or our hammies start cramping. Instead, we reach for our pillows and hit each other until one of them explodes and then we roll around in the feathers until we orgasm. To think we actually scissor each other is ridiculous.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Do not use this for any legitimate purpose as it is historically inaccurate. 

It is true that scissoring is a straight man's fantasy but, in all fairness, there might be lesbians who actually do scissor each other, though I don't know of any. 

Open Letter: Boy Scouts of America

Dear Boy Scouts of America:

Bravo, gents. Bravo. You sure showed that self-assured eighteen-year-old a thing or two. Who does he think he is, anyway? Flaunting his highlights when it's understood only natural roots are rewarded. He knew the risks. He knew there was no tolerance for the Gay and yet he chose to pursue his Eagle Scout award in spite of your caveman mentality. The nerve of some people.

But you, BSOA, you've got the nerve of an 80's movie Russian terrorist! I pity the fool who refuses to acknowledge you are one tough nut. You never sweat, never break rank, never give in, and, most impressively, you bitch-slap motherfuckers back down to size when they least deserve expect it.

Pardon my French. I'm sure it's against the sash to use such colorful language. I'm excitable; I can't help it. You just don't know how much it thrills me to watch a group of adults nana nana boo boo the fuck out of a teenager. Fred Phelps couldn't do it better. Actually, he could. He could make signs, "reason" gay Eagle Scouts are why American soldiers are dying in Afghanistan.

Come to think of it, you might want to step it up a bit.

I'm sure the world rests easy knowing there's a group of adults out there who never shy away from putting a teenager in his gay place.

From one adult to another, go stick your head in doo doo.

Gaily yours,

Whack-A-Muse

How to Family Plan Under Romney Rule

I haven't lost all hope, but given President Obama's abysmal performance in last week's debate I've started making what little internal peace I can by picturing Mitt Romney in the White House. Mitt sitting in the Oval Office, signing bills into law; Mitt repeatedly pointing out that his cup of coffee starts being a cup of coffee at the grinding of beans but refusing to drink it until it's been brewed in the coffee machine. If President Romney comes to pass, family planning could look a lot different. So, I'm here to offer solutions.

When your local Planned Parenthood is defunded and closes, cutting you off to affordable contraception, make sure there is plenty of aspirin in the bedside table drawer. Falling asleep with an aspirin between your knees is easy, but come morning, when that rascally aspirin is lost in the sheets and your boyfriend or husband wants to stick his penis in you, you tell him you have a headache and take two aspirin. You'll find plenty in the bedside table.

If that doesn't work, tell him, "Sex is for procreation only." That's what republicans tell gays and lesbians when we say we want to get married. (Republicans can pretend we haven't figured out their sophisticated coding system all they want, but it doesn't take a lefty socialist to figure out when they say marriage they mean sex.) The rule applies here. Wear a goddamn Snuggy--America's version of a burqa--and your oversized, stretched-out period panties 24/7 if you have to.

Go gay. Only until you're reproductively ready, that is. It's a choice so it shouldn't be too hard. Two sockets bumping into each other cannot a child make.

But if you and your man-candy find yourselves in a moment of uncontrollable passion, and I can't stress this enough, make sure you always have illegitimate sex. (I don't need to spell this out, do I?)

Or you could simply vote for the other guy.