I started this post off in a much more restrained and civilized manner. I did. But it was wrong. It set the wrong tone; communicated the wrong message. So. Let me try again.
FUCK YOU, REPUBLICANS. FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU! I wish your mothers had, collectively, ABORTED your worthless fucking dick waving fucktard asses when they had the chance. The best part of you dried to the sheets on the unholy day of your conceptions. Fuckwit asshole fucks.
Last summer, I wrote at some length about Ledbetter v. Goodyear, in which the Supreme Court decided that in cases of pay discrimination under Title VII , a woman had 180 days from the day that discrimination took place (read: the first time someone screwed her over), not 180 days from the time she discovered the discrimination (read: when she realized she had an uninvited cock in her ass). Basically, continuing to underpay someone on the basis of their unfortunate vagina does not constitute a continuing intent to discriminate. I don't know what DOES, exactly, they don't get into that...because it's BULLSHIT.
Well, some members of Congress were paying attention. They realized that, well, that was NOT how Title VII was expected to work. That, as a matter of fact, using that method pretty much guaranteed that Title VII wouldn't work at all. Instead, they introduced the Lilly Ledbetter Fair Pay Act, which was intended to return the act to the reading that had long been embraced by juries and courts, that is, that each paycheck constituted a NEW incident of intent to discriminate. Basically, the clock doesn't start ticking until 180 days after the asshole employer stops screwing his unwitting employee.
Well, the bill made it out of the House. It arrived in the Senate, where it died on the vine. Under threat of veto (big fucking shocker there) 41 Republicans, plus Harry Reid for some procedural reason that I don't understand but whatever, decided not to vote for cloture--thus preventing a vote and leaving the bill to languish ad infinitum.
Among the reasons for this asinine act is the Republican's altruistic urge to protect women from the grasping claws of trial lawyers. Tell you what, guys. You continue to protect the interests of religious wackos and the filthy rich, and I'll mind my own self-interest, 'kay? 'Kay. More info with fewer profanities here.
So, here's to you, Republican Senators, for making a mockery of justice and equality. Hell? I hear it's warm, and hard to get ice for champagne.
And, just so you know, Fucking McCain didn't vote--which is the same as voting against cloture and for killing the bill. I'm sure there are those among you who might be considering voting for McCain. That's fine and all, it's a free country. But please, for the love of god, don't fucking talk to me about it. Me and my vagina are SUPER pissed off right now and will take it very, very personally.
Showing posts with label Feminism. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Feminism. Show all posts
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Monday, August 13, 2007
Post-Wedding Guest Wrapup
As expected, this past weekend’s wedding was quite nice. The bride and groom seemed appropriately smitten with one another. The groom’s mother, who has a bit of the control freak about her, managed not to stroke out. At no point did it look like the bride was about ready to kill herself or someone else, which at this jaded point in my life indicates to me that the wedding went off without any significant hitch. Either that or she had the forethought to partake of Lord Xanax, in which case she is a woman who is wise to the world and an excellent choice for a life’s companion.
The only exception I can take with the wedding was that there was a bit too much Jesus Cum-By-Yah shit for my liking. The minister/pastor/preacher/whatever was a brother-in-law to the bride. He seemed a nice enough fellow, if you ignore the excessive clean-cuttedness of his appearance, but for the love of a non-denominational god, I was left wondering if he had just learned the word “covenant” and felt compelled to use it in sentences so that he would not forget it. I’m not sure, but by the time all was said and done I think that all the guests might have been entered into a covenant with him, Cum-By-Yah Christ, the Holy Ghost, and perhaps the neighbors and the local mental health organization.
I for one have little tolerance for organized religion in general, and evangelical organized religion in particular. Although I am genetically Catholic (none of the faith, all of the guilt!), I refuse to partake in any religion that finds women to be unfit vessels for the word of god. If one accepts that Jesus was the son of god born to a virgin mother, then one accepts that a loving human mother allowed her son to suffer and die for the sins of all mankind. That counts as a pretty big sacrifice, methinks, and apparently indicates that god thought a woman was a fit enough vessel to bring his word to us. Otherwise, would god not have just sent Jesus, or built him out of sticks or something? And I’m having none of that original sin bullshit, either. I decline to believe that the stupid are god’s chosen.
Frankly, I don’t buy any of the major articles of Christian faith except that Jesus was a swell fellow with some pretty good ideas. I have been known to chat with Mary from time to time, but that has more with the limitations of my own ability to cope with reality than actual faith.
Now back to our regularly scheduled blogging, already in progress.
There were in attendance any number of people with whom I went to high school. All but one either ignored me or didn’t recognize me. I’m guessing the former because, well, I don’t really look that different. Frankly, I don’t care so very much because my butt was smaller than that of their wives. I try to pretty up that fact however I like, but I’m not one for lying. In the river of any life, are there not shallow patches? Yea, verily.
The romantic history of the bride and groom was sweet and poignant and all kind of Lifetime Movie Network. As I was departing, I had a chat with the groom’s mom, who summed it all up, “He’s loved her forever.”
Well, that’s something, isn’t it?
But not everything. In the end the test isn’t the love he’s had for in the past, it’s the love that he has for her tomorrow and 10 years from now and beyond. That’s what a marriage is, isn’t it? The decision to love someone today despite the occasional desire to strangle him or her?
Bleh. Enough with the mush. We will endeavor shortly to return to our regular schedule of complaints, rants, and wild speculations.
The only exception I can take with the wedding was that there was a bit too much Jesus Cum-By-Yah shit for my liking. The minister/pastor/preacher/whatever was a brother-in-law to the bride. He seemed a nice enough fellow, if you ignore the excessive clean-cuttedness of his appearance, but for the love of a non-denominational god, I was left wondering if he had just learned the word “covenant” and felt compelled to use it in sentences so that he would not forget it. I’m not sure, but by the time all was said and done I think that all the guests might have been entered into a covenant with him, Cum-By-Yah Christ, the Holy Ghost, and perhaps the neighbors and the local mental health organization.
I for one have little tolerance for organized religion in general, and evangelical organized religion in particular. Although I am genetically Catholic (none of the faith, all of the guilt!), I refuse to partake in any religion that finds women to be unfit vessels for the word of god. If one accepts that Jesus was the son of god born to a virgin mother, then one accepts that a loving human mother allowed her son to suffer and die for the sins of all mankind. That counts as a pretty big sacrifice, methinks, and apparently indicates that god thought a woman was a fit enough vessel to bring his word to us. Otherwise, would god not have just sent Jesus, or built him out of sticks or something? And I’m having none of that original sin bullshit, either. I decline to believe that the stupid are god’s chosen.
Frankly, I don’t buy any of the major articles of Christian faith except that Jesus was a swell fellow with some pretty good ideas. I have been known to chat with Mary from time to time, but that has more with the limitations of my own ability to cope with reality than actual faith.
Now back to our regularly scheduled blogging, already in progress.
There were in attendance any number of people with whom I went to high school. All but one either ignored me or didn’t recognize me. I’m guessing the former because, well, I don’t really look that different. Frankly, I don’t care so very much because my butt was smaller than that of their wives. I try to pretty up that fact however I like, but I’m not one for lying. In the river of any life, are there not shallow patches? Yea, verily.
The romantic history of the bride and groom was sweet and poignant and all kind of Lifetime Movie Network. As I was departing, I had a chat with the groom’s mom, who summed it all up, “He’s loved her forever.”
Well, that’s something, isn’t it?
But not everything. In the end the test isn’t the love he’s had for in the past, it’s the love that he has for her tomorrow and 10 years from now and beyond. That’s what a marriage is, isn’t it? The decision to love someone today despite the occasional desire to strangle him or her?
Bleh. Enough with the mush. We will endeavor shortly to return to our regular schedule of complaints, rants, and wild speculations.
Sunday, July 22, 2007
They Don't Like You, Either
So Friday night, I went with The Boy to his younger brother’s wedding reception. The wedding proper had taken place 10 days earlier in Jamaica. The reception was a reception. The bride and groom were good enough to trot out their wedding finery for us—they looked lovely. There was food and dancing and, best of all, little girls in fluffy dresses who were all twirly-whirly as little girls at weddings ought to be.
And, like any wedding, there were representatives from the contingent of People Who Were Raised by Coyotes.
I am constantly amazed at people’s inability to comport themselves appropriately. It’s not about knowing which fork to use, it’s about knowing that one ought to make sure that one’s thong isn’t showing before one leaves to go to a wedding. And men? You haven’t been forgotten, this one’s for you. It also means that one ought not to converse with a woman’s chest.
Not one, but two men preferred to carry on their conversations with my tits than with me. They were not subtle, quite the opposite, in fact. Indeed, they drew attention to their admiration of my breasts through their conversation. Not that I could follow what they were saying, forced as I was to watch the top of their heads as they gazed longingly into my cleavage.
What planet are these men from, where apparently there are no breasts? They reacted as though they had never seen anything like it.
I, literally, could not think to do. On one hand, I wanted to embarrass and shame these men. Why would they so obviously impose themselves and their sticky, yellowed eyeballs on me? Whatever would make them think that would be okay. On the other hand, though, I was not raised by lichen. I could not bring myself to risk a scene at another woman’s long-awaited wedding reception.
Besides which, what can you really do to affect someone who would act that way? Mace his ass? I’m at a loss.
And, like any wedding, there were representatives from the contingent of People Who Were Raised by Coyotes.
I am constantly amazed at people’s inability to comport themselves appropriately. It’s not about knowing which fork to use, it’s about knowing that one ought to make sure that one’s thong isn’t showing before one leaves to go to a wedding. And men? You haven’t been forgotten, this one’s for you. It also means that one ought not to converse with a woman’s chest.
Not one, but two men preferred to carry on their conversations with my tits than with me. They were not subtle, quite the opposite, in fact. Indeed, they drew attention to their admiration of my breasts through their conversation. Not that I could follow what they were saying, forced as I was to watch the top of their heads as they gazed longingly into my cleavage.
What planet are these men from, where apparently there are no breasts? They reacted as though they had never seen anything like it.
I, literally, could not think to do. On one hand, I wanted to embarrass and shame these men. Why would they so obviously impose themselves and their sticky, yellowed eyeballs on me? Whatever would make them think that would be okay. On the other hand, though, I was not raised by lichen. I could not bring myself to risk a scene at another woman’s long-awaited wedding reception.
Besides which, what can you really do to affect someone who would act that way? Mace his ass? I’m at a loss.
Monday, June 25, 2007
We Can't Even Have Words
*sigh*
It’s official. I’ve reached the unfortunate conclusion that it is not a particularly good time to be a woman in America. I’m not sure if there has EVER been a good time to be a woman in America, frankly, but things seem to be taking rather a turn for the worst.
I no longer know why any of this surprises me. I suppose it is because I have made such a concerted effort not to surround myself with typical meatheads, nor do I spend time with misogynists (who can and do hail from both sexes). The downside of that, though, is that I tend to forget my vagina means that I will forever be a second class citizen.
In a fresh and interesting approach to insulting women everywhere, a judge in a Nebraska rape trial declared that no one in the courtroom could use any of the following words or phrases during the trial: rape, sexual assault, victim, assailant, or sexual assault kit. This gag order not only applied to the lawyers, police, or experts in the case, but it also included the woman who states she was raped.
The defense, who asked for this linguistic somersaulting, feels that using words like “rape” implies guilt. They argue that allowing the woman to say “That man raped me,” will make the jury will be unable to rationally look at the evidence and decide if, in fact, that man did rape her.
So the logical conclusion is to require the woman to use the exact same words to describe non-consensual sex as one would describe consensual sex. Of course. That makes perfect sense.
I’ve had a decent amount of sex. Good, bad, and indifferent. I am fortunate in that I have not ever been raped. There but for the Grace of God go I. That said, I cannot imagine being required to describe a sex act in which I was unwilling participant in the same words I would describe sex that I wanted.
Words have meaning. Sex and rape are not the same things. Period. Never. Never. It is an insult to everyone everywhere to even suggest anything different. And that is what this judge’s ruling does. By insisting that this woman describe what she perceives as a physical assault in the same words she would use to describe a consensual act, the judge takes away her ability to accurately talk about the truth as she knows it. Suddenly, the words to describe what really happened to her just aren’t there.
And that, my friends, is seriously fucked up.
Of course, the judge should admonish the jury that what a witness says or how she says it does not constitute a legal conclusion. After all, you might have a random complete idiot sucking air in the jury box who doesn’t realize that a trial is meant to ferret out what really happened. To say that the lawyers and other professionals mustn’t actually use the word “rape” might not be horrifying. “Rape” is a word that carries an immense emotional charge—as it should—and what the cops and the doctors and fuckall knows who else in this situation need to convey can probably be communicated through more exact and less charged terms.
But to say that they can’t use the phrase “sexual assault” is absurd, and to say that the woman can’t describe what happened to her as she perceives it is preposterous and a continuation of a terrible and terrifying victimization. Further, the jury was not even told that the forbidden words were, in fact, forbidden. What must those people have thought as everyone including the complainant tap danced around every term that would reasonably be used to describe the incident they were all supposed to try? A normal person might guess that the woman was, alas, batshit crazy.
I do find myself asking if Judge Cocksmack would have reached this same legal conclusion had this not been a date rape. If this woman were, say, out jogging or selling fucking bible subscriptions, would he have taken her words right out of her mouth? Methinks not. What the fuck do I know, though? Maybe my
uterus is wandering.
Of course, this would never happen in a robbery or a homicide. Rape, though, happens primarily to women. So, what does it fucking matter anyway? I should just be grateful to be out of the kitchen.
It’s official. I’ve reached the unfortunate conclusion that it is not a particularly good time to be a woman in America. I’m not sure if there has EVER been a good time to be a woman in America, frankly, but things seem to be taking rather a turn for the worst.
I no longer know why any of this surprises me. I suppose it is because I have made such a concerted effort not to surround myself with typical meatheads, nor do I spend time with misogynists (who can and do hail from both sexes). The downside of that, though, is that I tend to forget my vagina means that I will forever be a second class citizen.
In a fresh and interesting approach to insulting women everywhere, a judge in a Nebraska rape trial declared that no one in the courtroom could use any of the following words or phrases during the trial: rape, sexual assault, victim, assailant, or sexual assault kit. This gag order not only applied to the lawyers, police, or experts in the case, but it also included the woman who states she was raped.
The defense, who asked for this linguistic somersaulting, feels that using words like “rape” implies guilt. They argue that allowing the woman to say “That man raped me,” will make the jury will be unable to rationally look at the evidence and decide if, in fact, that man did rape her.
So the logical conclusion is to require the woman to use the exact same words to describe non-consensual sex as one would describe consensual sex. Of course. That makes perfect sense.
I’ve had a decent amount of sex. Good, bad, and indifferent. I am fortunate in that I have not ever been raped. There but for the Grace of God go I. That said, I cannot imagine being required to describe a sex act in which I was unwilling participant in the same words I would describe sex that I wanted.
Words have meaning. Sex and rape are not the same things. Period. Never. Never. It is an insult to everyone everywhere to even suggest anything different. And that is what this judge’s ruling does. By insisting that this woman describe what she perceives as a physical assault in the same words she would use to describe a consensual act, the judge takes away her ability to accurately talk about the truth as she knows it. Suddenly, the words to describe what really happened to her just aren’t there.
And that, my friends, is seriously fucked up.
Of course, the judge should admonish the jury that what a witness says or how she says it does not constitute a legal conclusion. After all, you might have a random complete idiot sucking air in the jury box who doesn’t realize that a trial is meant to ferret out what really happened. To say that the lawyers and other professionals mustn’t actually use the word “rape” might not be horrifying. “Rape” is a word that carries an immense emotional charge—as it should—and what the cops and the doctors and fuckall knows who else in this situation need to convey can probably be communicated through more exact and less charged terms.
But to say that they can’t use the phrase “sexual assault” is absurd, and to say that the woman can’t describe what happened to her as she perceives it is preposterous and a continuation of a terrible and terrifying victimization. Further, the jury was not even told that the forbidden words were, in fact, forbidden. What must those people have thought as everyone including the complainant tap danced around every term that would reasonably be used to describe the incident they were all supposed to try? A normal person might guess that the woman was, alas, batshit crazy.
I do find myself asking if Judge Cocksmack would have reached this same legal conclusion had this not been a date rape. If this woman were, say, out jogging or selling fucking bible subscriptions, would he have taken her words right out of her mouth? Methinks not. What the fuck do I know, though? Maybe my
uterus is wandering.
Of course, this would never happen in a robbery or a homicide. Rape, though, happens primarily to women. So, what does it fucking matter anyway? I should just be grateful to be out of the kitchen.
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