GreenasSky A gambol in the goodies by Sloan Nota

Low-Hanging-Fruit Basket – Men Assaulting Women

 

 

“A congressman grinding against a staff member on the House floor, while sticking his tongue in her ear.” This description is from an OpEd in the New York Times, not from a steamy novel. This is from reality. And the staffer felt, a) wildly aroused, or b) licked and ground against and YUCK. Have you taken a look at the Congressional line-up recently? The paunches, the postures, the absent once-were-buttocks? Really Congressman? What horny fantasy were you working off of? This, sir, is real life.

You think a Harry-and-David-in-the-Sky sends every man a low-hanging-fruit basket in the form of women? His for the plucking until it’s freshly and piquantly replenished next month with seasonal fruits? Each breast and bottom, paper-wrapped for you to fondle. The thrill of playing “How far can I go?” without some eagle-eye attached to a mouth squawking “I see you!” Because you have them trained not to look. Nor see. What goes on in plain view. What they do see.

Who do they think we are?  Theirs.

A bonus pack just for them.

 

Men see the obvious superiority that the Bible guarantees them. Depending on which part they choose to read. Depending on their familiarity, or lack of familiarity, with biology and ethics. And Christian charity.

The question for us is how to break men of this illusion. Women don’t flock to fill your fruit baskets. That’s a compete thing. A “I can pee farther” thing. We pee down, utilizing gravity, and don’t need to waste brain power on aim or force. We just do it and we’re done. No need to fondle the urethra, no feelings wasted on where it ranks. Imagine we start comparing urethras!

The Congressional staff member above felt helpless. Used. One-upped. The recipient of some gender joke. Har-har-har. Tell it in the cafeteria to other Congressmen, use her name and main descriptors. Dark, blond, redhead, short, long, and exaggerated breast size. The men laugh their asses off.

Men. They believe they’re superior.

 

So what will we have to do till that low-hanging-fruit basket illusion finally blows away —  with its smell of burning flesh?

   

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Faux Holies

 

 

The Faux Holies are out in droves nowadays. Not only Christians — Buddhists killing people?  But in America it’s the Christians who are the fauxiest.  They defend pedophilia like that was their God-given right. A god who condones child abuse ain’t worth spitting on. One Faux Holy got so worked up he declared his pedophile was truer than Christ.

They will have ways of justifying that for you.

Hence their name, Faux.

Their Fairy Queen is Kim Davis of marriage license fame. She’s kind of like Queen Mab but she wears her hair strictly skinned back. (She suspects it of pubic tendencies.) And she likes  the wimple effect, purity of intent. She rides around on a lighted Sparkler like a broom, because it calls attention to the ever-shining face of her holiness.

And the Sparkler is perpetually lighted — she is a fairy after all.

She’s a scourge on homosexuals. Even took her fight to Romania. Yes, Romania. She loves to get mad like bubbly sugar stuff, How dare they? Bubbly sugar stuff is dangerous — it can leap out and scald you.

Queen Kim likes to scatter candy kisses wherever she goes. They look like chocolate but taste like vinegar and toothpaste.

If God was a hater He’d hate Queen Kim. She gets fired up like a backwoods preacher, damning folks left and right.  She has Righteousness!  God grants her the right to damn in His name. Just ask her followers.

And we ask, How faux can you go?

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Undressing for Our Attention

 

Laughing face.

Laughing woman, Pexels. To the model, if my usage offends you I’ll swap for another — but it sure says the right thing.

 

Chicken Little was right. Chunks of solid blue have begun pelting down like enlarged raindrops. Some are big as Volkswagens. The world as we knew it has changed.

Remember the Blue Meanies?

No one ever told us they sauntered around in nice company with no clothes on.

Which would be fine in a like-minded group. They could rub elbows all they wanted on a nude beach or at a champagne mixer. Adults. But we’re talking about men who spring it on unsuspecting women. To see how they deal with it.

Not with equanimity, especially a newly bonding female group, no one’s got anyone’s back yet. Come to a meeting, chairman of the horse’s ass department decides to display his. Nice girls haven’t been taught to deal with such a dogleg in etiquette. How I wish at least one was a comedienne who could have broken into belly laughs. That would shrivel his ambitions for a good long while.

That would steal the narrative from his assault of privates to the joke of his privates. Imagine it ladies, a whole group of us laughing our demeanors off.  High-pitched and unladylike ho-ho-hos. Because girls, this cock-of-the-walk is hilarious. Trying to dominate us with a naked penis! Try with a rattlesnake if you dare to fondle it.

We’re dressed, dude. What’s the matter with you?

This is the only answer, women. Laugh your asses off. We’ve been taught to not-see, not look. What if we just look? At a male undressing himself to get our attention.

Laugh!

It’s liberating!

Laugh!

He’s ridiculous!

Laugh, laugh, laugh.

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Sleeping Boychild

It was not long ago that a woman like me felt she was swimming along like a dolphin in waters making instinctive sense to her every swimming muscle. Then there was a sound like when God announced “Let there be light.” Suddenly there are women’s voices coming from every corner calling abuse, abuse, abuse!

What surprises me is that men never knew this. We all did — why didn’t we tell them? Our husbands, our brothers? We were so schooled in being nice? Frail answer to a troubling question. Do we have an answer yet?

My dolphin self feels stuck on a sandbar I’d never have missed before. I flail my tail but can’t break free of sucking sand. Mother! Why didn’t you prepare me for this?

But our mothers are silent. Lucky us, we’re the first generation to open our eyes.

Exceptional women stirred us. De Beauvoir, Friedan. But now we find ourselves on the open plains of war. What am I doing here? I am a Valkyrie in spirit but no one said anything about picking up a broadsword, lopping off heads.

At no time in history have so many been outed by the female voice. This is what we were raised to not see.

The Mage Who Makes the Rules has cursed womanhood, said if we actually looked at misogyny then we’d be damned. Guess what? We already were. And now we’re in the historically rich act of unmasking our eyes. And mankind’s too.

Look at what misogyny has done to humans’ ability to advance. It’s had the bright boys joining up with the bleepin’ mouth-breathing boys, against the other half of humanity’s eyes and ears and beneficial hormones. Imagine how much science would advance with the full participation of all of us. Cinema. Technology. I invite you to invoke a single endeavor that would not advance with the abolition of the myth of male supremacy.

Sure the groping goosing bad apples would get outed. Smart women coming right along to take their places.

Misogyny is an insult. So is racism. Get it? White supremacists. Male supremacists.

Some good ol’ boy with years less education laughing at me because I’m a woman. And other men laughing right along, cause men gotta bond, don’t they?

Laughing at me because I’m a woman.

‘Scuse me, good ol’ boy? May I call you Dumbo?

May I call your peers of all educations Dumbo, too? Because you all are. Every male of you.

When invoking womanhood invokes laughter, that’s misogyny.

It’ll be our job to open Sleeping Boychild’s eyes, which seem mainly sealed shut with super Tapioca. The power of hearsay! Sure, men are better than women. Sure you are, boys.

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