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Monday, October 29, 2007
You knew her.
You really did.
(Unless you're not 50)
You really did.
(Unless you're not 50)
Big
buttons, bad hair, and a worse attitude.
CAN WE TALK? It's not the prospect of a female president that's unacceptable. (I'd have voted for Jeane Kirkpatrick if she'd run.) It's the prospect of this female as president. Even women know there are nasty women who can't be trusted. Hillary isn't just an example of the nasty woman type, she's an archetype. They were absolutely everywhere in the sixties, and everyone knew who they were. Fortunately, there aren't as many of them around now. Which is both good and bad. The problem is, you have to be almost as as old as Hillary is to know who she really is. For example, this picture is meaningless or misleading to everyone under the age of 50:
She wasn't a rapscallion hippie rebel, full of fun and hormones. She was an arid Wellesley communist. She wore ugly shoes. She had no sense of humor. She was absolutely without charm. She smiled only because people expected it. She thought intelligence was about grades and board scores. She knew she was the smartest person she'd ever met. She didn't know that all the most charming and intelligent people avoided her. Except the ones who knew they could use her. She knew she was an ugly duckling, but she never connected that perception with behaviors and attitudes she could have changed. She was a bitch, whether you were male or female. When she didn't know she was being photographed, she looked like this:
The only guys who ever wanted to have sex with her were sick in the head. They wanted to rape her, to spew their contempt, hatred and rage deep inside her. She extrapolated from her experience of such men a view of the male sex that had nothing to do with reality. She learned to want the kind of power that can subjugate men and neutralize the charm of both men and women. She married the charm she most feared and hated, because she intended to use what she didn't have and work toward the personal victory of seeing her own obsession triumph over what she despised and envied most. No man has ever given her an orgasm. This is not because she lacks passion. It's because she won't give them the satisfaction of seeing her lose control.
But she's not a Lesbian either. In fact, she loathes women. Because they are so susceptible to the irrational feelings they experience in their breasts and cunts. She has those feelings, too, but she has learned to redirect them. Her only aphrodisiac is power. You'd think she'd be uncomfortable in photo opportunities like this, but she actually relishes them.
Using women makes her feel more like a man. She understands her husband's contempt for women because it mirrors her own. Not that she wants to be a man. She doesn't. Her ultimate ambition is to be without sex, as pure an expression of odorless power as Stalin, Hitler, Mao, or Ch'in. She has a reproduction of Hatshepsut, the only female pharaoh, in her living quarters. But she does want her daughter to regard her as a father. The psychological implications of this desire are almost infinite, but she doesn't think about them.
In short, if you're 50+, you know her. You met her in college, avoided her like the plague, and afterwards you pretended she didn't exist -- for your whole adult life. But she does exist. And she's even worse than the stereotype that dwells unexamined in your imagination.
Do you really want her as an American President?
What plans are you making?
[h/t to Michelle Malkin and Zombie for the pictures.]
A camisole would be appropriate, at the very least.
I don't. I'm getting ready. But my readiness plans are all about hiding for eight years. I don't hate her, but I'm pretty sure she hates me. I think it might be time to get scarce.
