The Hillary Bobbit Academy of

Liberal Masculine Dignity

One night, long after I'd gone to bed, an old friend came to visit me. I hadn't seen him for years, not that we'd fallen out, but because I moved out of the "big city," and he stayed. We had a city-mouse country-mouse relationship for a while, but then daily life made even that fairly rare. I was quite surprised to see him, and I took him to my library where I had about ten thousand books and more than several open bottles of good brandy, whisky, and the like. It was a warm, manly room, smelling of wood, leather furniture and book bindings, plants, old paper, animals, and beeswax candles. I lit a few of them, preferring the candlelight to any electric glare.

Avoiding the more stately seat, he sat in the comfy old cloth armchair where the cats liked to snooze when I was lax about closing the door. I offered him a clean pipe and some special tobacco, but he declined, refusing a cigar as well. I gave him a hefty glass of bourbon tempered with some rare caramel bitters, and he took a healthy sip. Then he sat back, his face radiating a serenity that I'd only seen on people like Timothy Leary and a UFO cultist I knew some years before. I noticed that he had an object of some kind concealed under his corduroy sportcoat with the suede elbow patches. It was in a paisley drawstring bag.

He was older, to be sure, but I could see that the ancient fire in his belly had changed into a deeper psychic glow, much the way a sword remains warm and tempered long after the forge has cooled. He and I had been radical students more than thirty years before, and there was more of his old self in him than there was of my old self in me.

Drink and pipe in hand, bottle at the ready, I settled into my big sturdy chair. "Well, ..... What's goin' on?" I asked.

With a voice like a windchime, he said "I've been transformed. I'm a whole new person. I'm on the bridge to the 21st Century." It was like we were outside in a cool breeze.

"Go on, go on," I prodded, " But start at the beginning." I was hoping for a good story.

"My political activism fell apart when the 60's fell apart. I was really sad. But I heard that Enlightenment could be found on the slopes of Mt. Shasta, so I spent a month trekking and meditating in the forest and above the tree line. One afternoon, I saw the weirdest lights in the sky. I followed them, and when it was dark and I was totally confused, I saw an inner light streaming out from a space between some big rocks in a huge pile of rocks, like some doorway inward. It wasn't an animal's cave, no tracks, so I pushed myself through.

"Inside, I followed the old volcano-vent into the core of the mountain. The light got stronger, and my mind became hallucinogenic, like on acid. My mind was bigger, better. I came upon a scene from another world. Inside Mt. Shasta, in a splendorous crystal cavern, meandering amid frightening creatures and demonic technology, I saw Hillary Clinton, that perpetual Mrs. Potato Head smile pinned on her face, talking freely and conspiring with Alien Beings!!

"It was like a dream come true. I raced into the light. "Me too! Take Me too!" I cried. I went into a swoon. It was like floating in the arms of angels. For a long time it was like heaven, foggy colors and diffuse music everywhere. When I woke up, my tool of oppression was gone, and I was glad. I sat up and hugged a long line of sweet, angelic Liberal Women.....like Jane Fonda, Judy Collins, Molly Ivins, Anne Lewis, Eleanor Clift, Ellen Ratner, Ruth Coniff, Barbara Striesand, Margaret Carlson, Judy Woodruff, Patricia Ireland, Patsy Mink, and Maxine Waters......., and.......Connie Chung.....and.......

"When this vision passed, I was taken to a room where I saw an equally long line of Liberal Men, their powerful members erect. My tool-wound was healed smooth, and my anus was the only hole remaining. I gasped with delight. One after another my noble victims took my yearning bottom...........Rodney King, Joe Conason, O.J.Simpson, Bill Press, Barney Frank, Charlie Rangel, Geronimo, Kunta Kinte, Mohammed, Leonard Peltier, Willie Horton........and.........my whole being was afire with the delight of guilt. I had caused all the injustice in the world, and I reveled in the joy of my punishment. I understood my evil, now extinguished.  I swooned again, this time with a new innocence born out of this celestial right of initiation and passage. 

"As if it were all a dream, I woke up the next morning wholly reborn, outside the mountain, right where I'd found the cave. But nothing had been disturbed, and there was no cave. I made my way down the mountainside, and ever since then I've been promoting Gay Rights, Eskimo and Indian Rights, Black and Brown preference programs, the Feminist Majority, Emily's List, Planned Parenthood, and Howard University,.......and the ACLU, and UFO's, .......and Hillary.........."

He fell asleep, happy as a clam. I knew what he'd found, I'd heard of it for years. No one ever really believed it existed, all the government spinfolk denied it, but everyone hoped it was true. My friend had found "The Hillary Bobbit Academy of Liberal Masculine Dignity," wherein evil white men happily castrate themselves on behalf of their victim groups whose interests the Liberal Activist Government places over their own. It was a Shangri-la for guilt-ridden Liberal men. Like the Tomb of Christian Rozencrutz, or the Mysterious City Of Gold, it was thought to be a psychic allegory. More an enlightening inner experience than a reality.........But his story meant that it was a real, genuine, though still very secret, magical place.

He jostled himself awake, and his serene look came back. I asked, "This is really intense, how can you be sure?.......maybe you were hit by lightning......"

"I've been wandering between space and time for years, spreading Liberalism, but always looking for someone willing to go back to The Academy with me. That's why I'm here, to take you there. Come with me........Please......I have proof ! I can take you to the stars!"

"Proof, you have PROOF?? Let me see!"

He reached under his coat and took out the paisley bag. Undoing the drawstring, he drew out a canning jar. On the lid was a picture of Hillary Clinton, and inside, clearly visible, were a man's sexual organs, neatly trimmed at their base. With a gleam in his eye, he asked, "Ready to go?"

I choked discreetly. "That's quite a trophy. I need a few minutes to think about this. Would you wait outside?"

I walked him to the door, closed it behind him, then went back upstairs to bed. It was a fitful night. Transcendental images spun through my mind. In the morning, he was gone, just like he was never there. To this day I still don't know just what to think about the whole episode. But when I see Hillary Clinton on TV, it becomes perfectly clear.

          

        

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