Thoughts from the ammo line

8 mins read


Ammo Grrrll chronicles the FEMINIST BLUES, AND A SHORT HISTORY. She writes:

I am sure I am not alone in being sick to death of Antifa. Do not let the name fool you. “Antifa” has exactly as much to do with fighting fascism as “Planned Parenthood” has to do with bringing babies into the world. You can name a group or charity anything. I used to end my act with: “Ladies and gentlemen, as you leave, kindly donate to the Susan Vass Wildlife Fund. Remember, if you don’t give, I can’t lead a wild life…”

To avoid writing another word about Antifa/Democrat violence and anarchy, we will pick up our discussion about Feminism begun here two weeks ago. Feminism was never really about doing much for women – especially working- or middle-class women. Feminism was always about four things: first, a way to destroy every family as thoroughly as The Great Society had destroyed the black family with particular emphasis on the right to kill the unborn, what you might call “Planned Non-Parenthood”.

Two: It was meant to be a camel’s nose under the tent to lead to socialism. And third: A nasty power grab. It was a way to punish men, basically, for existing. Lastly, it was also a way for already privileged women to get a “leg up” in lucrative careers, instead of the time-tested old-fashioned Kamala way, which involved both legs. I know. I was there near the start. And radicals and leftists were behind it all.

One time, the assigned feminists from my socialist branch dragged me to a “consciousness raising” meeting at a rich San Francisco lady’s beautiful home. Our hostess seemed like a nice enough person. She raised a point in kind of whispered tones: “I think we have to be mindful when we have these meetings that not all women can attend. I understand some poor women cannot afford to put gas in their cars.” To which I blurted, ”WHAT cars?”

Even my “comrades” – for that is what we truly called each other – were embarrassed by me. I was a Breeder, married to The Enemy — An Icky, Outspoken, Large, Manly Man — and, in a group of many trust fund babies, we stood out for not owning a car. Or anything else. Grocery shopping had to be done on foot, trudging up the hills with a cart. And a baby.

This is absolutely not to say that there was no discrimination in America based on sex, no wrongs that needed righting. There were, and to an amazing degree, those wrongs WERE righted. And in quite short order. Once all legal barriers for women were erased and females surpassed males in admission to law school, med school and graduate school, the next generation of women activists turned their attention to expanding abortion through the ninth month and beyond; to utter trivialities called microaggressions; and to redefining every sexual encounter, consensual, drunk, stoned, or decades old, as either “rape” or “assault.”

Even while I was still nominally a Democrat, the disgraceful high-tech lynching of Justice Thomas appalled me and lost me most of my liberal women friends. At one get-together with most of the professional feminist divas in The Twin Cities, everyone else was wearing “I believe Anita” buttons. I refused a button. I said, “Oh, I believe those trivial events HAPPENED, they just should never in a million years be defined as ‘harassment.’ He made a stupid joke about a Coke can and asked her out? She turned him down, she wasn’t fired, she followed him to another job. Grow up! How was she harmed?” Well, I never! The room exploded, but like, the late great Tom Petty, I stood my ground. And I didn’t back down.

I recently saw a compilation of kinda-creepy Chris Matthews – he of the tingly leg; me, not a fan — egregiously coming on to pretty guests. He complimented a whole bunch of nice-looking women who had gone to great pains to PRESENT as nice-looking. Mother Mary, WHERE IS THE HARM? A simple “thank you” would have sufficed, and then moving on.

There was a time when newsreaders of the female persuasion were okay-looking, smart, tough broads, a word I use with great respect. In extreme cases, some were even actual JOURNALISTS. Some were classy looking, some severe, some a little overweight. Except for Helen Thomas, a miserable, crazy old anti-Semitic bat whose unfortunate looks matched her ugly soul, the women journalists I remember from my childhood and young adulthood were serious adult women, dressed like professionals.

But as the society degenerated, the women got younger, thinner to the point that it killed at least one of them (see: Jessica Savitch), and clothing became more and more clingy and revealing with robust cleavage absolutely de rigeur. Cleavage! Boobies hanging out! It’s so normal now, we either think nothing of it, or think it’s great.

Wait a minute, Ammo Grrrll, are you saying that women dressed like trollops “deserve” to be “harassed”? Well, define “harassed.” They certainly should not be surprised when men notice them, which is the sole point of cleavage. As the great, brave Dave Chapelle says in re “mixed” messages: “You may not be a ‘ho’, but you’re wearin’ the ho’s uniform!”

Susan, you just don’t know the terrible burden of being so good-looking that men are after you all the time. Well, yes, that is true. I so stipulate. Especially at 73! However, do not flatter yourselves, pretty girls. My experience on the road was that most men will try for what looks POSSIBLE rather than what is clearly out of their league anyway.

When I traveled for comedy, I would sometimes go to the hotel bar after a successful gig to celebrate a great show and wind down. After a very short experiment with this, I gave up. A woman alone in a hotel bar is a walking invitation to trouble. And probably the reason that Room Service and later, the in-room mini-bar, were invented



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