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Title : The Reckoning
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The Reckoning

I don’t think they get it.

Or at least, no one is really talking about this explicitly, though I rage-tweeted about it yesterday. But with yet another alleged victim of Justice Steff McKee’s frat boys-will-be-frat-boys Animal House drunken gang-rape shenanigans coming forward, it bears repeating:

This is bigger than one man, one job, or one assault. It’s about women’s justified rage. We are fucking DONE being the expendable vessels for rich assholes’ hands, jizz, condescension, entitlement, and regulations of our most intimate parts and experiences while these same men simultaneously leapfrog over our intellect and hard work to dizzying heights of unearned power.

The lost-to-treason opportunity of an over-qualified female president to a self-identified sexual assailant and incompetent, illiterate sociopathic 80’s brat pack cartoon villain in our supposed “equal opportunity” meritocracy was one thing. But we’ve all marched to and fro on that, haven’t we?

And now he advances to one of the nine most powerful jobs in civic life this guy. LOL! THIS GUY. We all know THIS GUY, don’t we?

It’s laughable in its draining predictability. We can hope he’s fat, bald, and divorced by our 20th high school reunion, but no such luck.

Brett (Because of course, his name is Brett)—and the clinical narcissist who threw him on the pyre of public discourse—is every rich, dipshit jock in high school with Good Hair™ who snapped your bra, talked shit about you behind your back, sexually humiliated you while backed by a group of sneering, leering, cheering hangers-on, tweaked your boobs, yanked your backpack, and cheated off of you in every class—all because he could.

Every woman knows THIS GUY. If she wasn’t his victim, she was his inside joke. If she wasn’t his inside joke, she was his trophy. And if she was his trophy, she was replaceable. For me, he’s the guy making obscene hand-job gestures with a baseball bat during co-ed softball. Or the Brown University football player who’s screaming at me during my seven-hour shift that his burger isn’t cooked to perfection. Or another one of twelve million of these dudes.

So it’s not about one Brett.

It’s about ALL the Bretts and the Biffs and the Treys and the Kipps and the Briggs and the Brocks and whoever the fuck else it is who was born in post-war America to rich white parents with obscene amounts of money that they stole through white collar robbery, who steam-rolled over everyone in their path to run home when they started out between third base and the plate.

It’s about a victim of sexual assault being questioned by a “female assistant” lawyer because the rich white dudes who want a woman's accuser installed on the Supreme Court with all due speed are too chicken shit to do it themselves.

It’s about the preposterous, staggering entitlement of suggesting that allegations of sexual assault should somehow NOT be automatically disqualifying for a seat on the United States Supreme Court. As if these Congressional hearings are a criminal trial, rather than a job interview, in which your prospective employer decides to try your accuser for some reason because it’s not YOUR burden to show you’re fit for this job. It’s a WOMAN'S burden to show that you’re NOT. 

Because that’s not ass-fucking-backwards, or anything. Or, as Kavanaugh would call ass-fucking, "boofing?"

So there’s a cognitive dissonance here that women are rightly done with. A gaslit gulf of lies and bullshit between what America allegedly provides in terms of opportunities and what the actual reality tells us is happening: that our bodies and minds and efforts and free will don’t mean shit. Especially— oh yes, ESPECIALLY—if we have brown skin. Then, we’re lucky to be found in a ditch after we’re assaulted, murdered, and/or ejaculated upon.

It’s not lost on any of us here in Alaska that in a state with the highest rate of sexual assault in the nation--of which indigenous women bear the brunt--the lone female Senator who is still "on the fence" with this guy has the power to make history and vindicate us all.

And you’d better fucking believe we are forcing her to reckon with that.

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