Paul Bunyan Clinton
Friday and Saturday nights were a special time around our house. Aunts and uncles would start filing in around 5:00 pm., carrying bags of food, cigars, many packs of cigarettes, bottles of whisky, and cases of beer (Altes and Carling's Black Label. They were both quite good.). The men would sit in the living room and talk about working in the car factories, and the women retired to sit around the kitchen table and discuss children, recipes, or the relative health of their internal reproductive organs.
When everyone was fairly lit, around 7:00 pm., the women marched into the living room carrying platters overflowing with homemade snacks like sandwiches, sliced cheese on crackers, scallions, sliced green and hot peppers, braunschwieger, kielbasa, salami, garlic baloney, olives, pickles, sauerkraut, chili sauce, and a tasty treat called "potato chips." Shots of whisky were passed around, the women gingerly sipping them and the men belting them back like sailors.
Then, with everyone primed and ready, the lights were dimmed, the radio was turned on and tuned in, and it was Friday Night at the Fights. Or Wrestling; or on Saturday it was the Baseball Game. In the Fall it was the Fights or Football, then Hockey. Sides were taken up and the family roared and rooted like soldiers. It never really mattered what particular sport or combination of sports it was, the obvious point was to get loaded, consume food and tobacco, and yell for or against some imaginary friend or foe.
One night, inclement weather delayed the game, so they shopped around the dial for something to pick up the slack. Unfortunately, they settled on the Democratic Spin Station, Nitwit Propaganda Radio (NPR). There were people laughing and clapping at the counterfeit countrified wisdom of some Liberal with a thick Southern accent. He was extolling the fictional, superhuman virtues of the perjurious criminal known as Slick Willie Clinton, spreading even more Leftist mythology about the honor and value of this disgusting, pathologically adulterous, serial sexual-harassing congenital liar and accused rapist who heads up the Democratic Party. His slow, reverent hillbilly soliloquy went something like this:
"Twenty-foot tall he wuz as he strode, manly and triumphant,
out of the Republican forest, twelve long years dark with the
evils of Reagan and Bush. Close by his side wuz his big cottage
cheese butted ox, called 'Hillary,' which he named for the very
man what had conquered Mount Everest itself.
Raised by wild negroes, he wuz, to stand tall aginn' the Republi-Klan church burners.
He walked up to me, and as I looked up into his handsome, noble, radiant, yea compassionate face, I knew just what he wanted: A blow-job from my youngest daughter. I said, 'Great Sir, that's the least we-all can do for the brave Third Way hero what drove the evil Capitalists from our shores.'
Hillary nodded, then looked the other way, as was her wont.
When it was over, and my daughter was smackin' her happy lips, he walked off into the bright dawn of a new and glorious Third Way day. He never looked back, but I could hear him muttering under his breath to Hillary, 'Y'know sweetheart, it ain't a sin if you don't stick it in!'
And the great ox grunted her
approval!!
Thank yuh, thank yuh ladies and gentlemen, thank yuh very much."
The audience clapped and cheered for what seemed like five minutes.
Then, in some weird parody of a sporting event, my aunts and uncles took up sides over this flagrant display of insulting political folklore. The men were flabbergasted, furious at the implication that they'd be stupid enough to believe such obvious political manipulation. Oddly enough, the women not only believed every word, each one of them fell into a near swoon at the thought of being ravaged by that big Democratic slick willie. They fell in love with Paul Bunyan Clinton. Just like they were supposed to. Even when they finally saw the lies for what they were, they didn't care. They even liked the lies. How cleverly they were spun, how creative. Who wouldn't love such a charming, daring rogue?
Inside of 60 minutes, the men and women were on opposite sides of the room, yelling and screaming at each other, throwing the food around. Hate began to rise. The insults became more barbed and personal. The men were outraged that the women would expect fidelity and respect from their husbands but admire the adulterous, perjurious, rapacious philanderings of their president. The women forgave and defended every horrid behavior with the same illogical rationale, "So what? Boys will be boys! Everybody does it! It's no big deal!" But they would in no way forgive or "understand" their own husbands should they dare to do the same things.
The evening degenerated pretty quickly into bile-and-venom-filled soul-murdering arguments in which things so vicious were said that they couldn't possibly be taken back. Feelings were permanently hurt. Attitudes were fixed in stone. Many of these people are still estranged.
The weekend sports parties became a thing of the past.
And
so it is in many households across the land: Bill Clinton, his
incredible lies, his horrific disrespect for women, the shameless
Democratic defense of the indefensible, have spread the
"Gender Gap" wider than any one other factor on the
political battlefield. Women, all too often represented by the
organized, professional Feminists, will love (adore) Slick Willie
while he's still with us, and 'way long (geologically long) after
he's gone. Men are profoundly insulted by the hypocrisy which
condemns their trespasses yet applauds and defends the
criminal transgressions of some big thick pud from Arkansas. How
can something so dirty be spun clean?
Neither side will give an inch any more. It's become like two angry teams facing off, growling at each other, deliberately taking opposing points of view on any topic, just to provoke a fight. And let's not forget the role of the Democratic PR Spin Machine, which runs on the same principles that tell American women which ketchup to buy: Pleasure and Daring. Risk and Love. Lust and innocence. Take me Paul Bunyan! Gimme that ketchup!
This
gender-line split over lust, rape, sex, lies, shame and forgiveness
trickles down to the more mundane "party issues." Men
don't want homosexual marriages, so women like the idea. Women
hate guns, so men like them. Men are brutal Capitalists, Women
are inclusive Socialists. Men want nuclear war, women want to
hold hands, sing peace-songs, hug trees, and comfort the
oppressed. Men like money, Women like Bill Clinton. It's as
simple as that. Money, Sex, Power. The three political constants.
Pick three.
Men are obviously too stupid to understand that "women" and Democrats are just plain above the rules that they create for others. There's no Liberal woman in this country who, if Slick Willie walked into her living room, wouldn't tear off her clothes, hike her butt into the air, and scream, "Give it to me big boy!!" Yet this same woman will badger her husband for the rest of his natural life if they go to a party and he looks overly long at some bimbo's juggs. Fidelity is one of many situational ethics that fly out the window when the opportunity for Liberal passion arises.
Leftist women are obviously too stupid to see that the act of defending the perjuring, alleged rapist Clinton simply confirms for men their most deeply and constantly-held insecurity: that their women will cheat on them in the blink of an eye when the right man comes along. In this way, the "female" defense of Big Willie becomes both a blanket rejection of normal men and a clear immoral preference for what women see as a super-man.
P.B.
Clinton's hold on the minds of American "women" really does
have a supernatural element that men just "don't get,"
or "can't get because they're men." Liberalism is set
so deeply in the feminine heart that it's just like a religion
for most of its believers. It has its own gods, saints, and
heroes. For females, Clinton is the upgraded reincarnation of
JFKennedy. A handsome demi-god among adoring mortals. His movie-star looks
and apparent good nature elevate his virtues (which are lies,
remember?) to Olympian proportions. His lusts, appetites,
foibles, faults and falls are Olympian as well. To gobble and
gulp the golden genetic goop of the God is so intimate, so wonderful and
divine that it's like a Sacrament, a Liberal Eucharist. Monica
Lewinsky is the most envied woman in the Liberal world. How many
Feminists would settle for just chewing the stain on the blue
dress? How many more would kneel to slurp the DNA off a
dog-dirtied sidewalk? How many Feminists can dance on the head of
a cigar? It's a holy passion, freely offered and accepted. A
bond, a mystical union, never voiced but always understood:
Worship.
There
is no better way to make a woman defend a rogue than to tell her
he's a bum. A weird and wonderful blend of counter-intuition and
reverse-psychology. There's no better way to make most women openly admire and
defend Bill
Clinton than to point out his illegal, immoral,
intimidation-based criminal-conquests of so many subordinate women. That
just shows them how powerful, and wonderful, and super-masculine
he is. The law can go to hell, Godlings are too few and far
between. They can't pass up the chance to score the golden
genetic goo. Girls just wanna have fun. Decency be damned, just
gimme that gorgeous pepperoni, my big barbarian President!
Clinton walks through the world like Maturin's "Melmoth the Wanderer," spreading disease and depravity in every direction. His footprints scorch the earth and he leaves smoldering ruin in his wake. Yet America's women swirl around him like flies around roast beef. Is there any greater (or more disgraceful) disservice that America's Feminists can perpetrate on our national sex life: to rage that everyday men are evil, oppressive sexists and domestic-rapists, and then slurp hungrily on the evil, unsanitary tool of the Rapist-in-Chief? To jealously guard (and openly desire) an outright monster?
The
passing of Paul Bunyan Clinton's obscene, libertine stormcloud leaves a
nation so politically divided along gender lines that it
resembles a tree struck by lightning, split by a malodorous
celestial shock. Both sides will be galvanized against each other
for years, maybe forever. Men and women have seen too deeply into one
another, too many awful things have been said.
At
least we know who to thank: Bill, Gennifer, Patricia Ireland, Cokie Roberts, Monica, Gloria Stienham, Kathleen, Betty Friedan, Elizabeth
Ward-Gracen, Kate Michelman, Kiki Moore, Judy Woodruff, Celinda Lake, Eleanor
Clift, Ann Lewis, Ellen Ratner, Patricia Schroeder, Juanita, Margaret Carlson, Paula, Katie
Couric, Dolly, the farmer's
daughter, and, of course, the Great Ox Hillary.
