You Could Die Laughing

I could stand in the middle of Fifth Avenue and shoot somebody and I wouldn’t lose any voters” – Donald Trump, January 23, 2016

I will probably vomit on the next Trumpologist who feigns surprise and pretends to condemn the terrorism and murder committed by Nazis in Charlottesville this weekend.

Who KNEW that the guy who bragged about getting away with murder might collect Fascist admirers?

Who could imagine that the guy who retweeted Nazi slogans and images of himself  would attract Nazis?

 

pepe-the-trump

 

It was all one big laugh riot when Trump said Mexicans are rapists, Blacks are lazy and Journalists should be imprisoned or murdered!

Wasn’t it a hoot when he said POWs aren’t heroes because they got caught, and how US soldiers with PTSD aren’t strong? Hey remember that lighthearted day he attacked the grieving Gold Star Parents of a dead US soldier because they’re Muslim?

Gosh – didn’t we all know it was just funnin’ when he said a woman questioning him has to be on the rag? Such a gigglefest to see a thin-skinned narcissist rage-tweet to his followers to watch a non-existent sex tape of the Venezuelan Miss Universe who had the temerity to complain about his fat-shaming. Calling women disgusting, fat pigs is just in jest!

 

Trump Inauguration

 

Oh, my, but how I laughed and laughed and laughed when Trump mocked a disabled reporter!! Although I *was* confused by the folks who lied to themselves and me in self-righteous fury at the pictorial proof.

I’m sure we all looked at his proposal of putting Syrians in concentration camps and deporting them as the jackanapes it was intended to be. And really, who *wouldn’t* chuckle deeply at the notion of Muslims being forced to register with the government and wear ID tags in public, while their mosques are closed by government decree? Trump continuing to lie about seeing ‘thousands and thousands of Muslims cheering in New Jersey on 9-11’ – despite an utter lack of evidence and the (Republican) NJ Governor & the head of the 9-11 Commission saying it’s an absolute fabrication – is really just an elaborate prank, doncha know?

 

Trump Protester Beaten

By gum – who thought Trump was serious when he encouraged crowds to beat up protestors? You’re reading FAR too much into it if you heard Trump say he’d pay the legal bills for those committing assault in his name.

‘Maybe he should have been roughed up‘. Donald Trump, Nov 22, 2016, on a protester

‘Knock the crap out of protesters, I’ll pay your legal fees’ Donald Trump, Feb 1, 2016

‘Go ahead and punch someone in the face and I’ll pay your legal bills.’ Donald Trump, March 13, 2016

Certainly NO-ONE could infer a message from those ratcheted-up statements, and to try to read into it the encouragement of violence and lawlessness, or look at his statements over the last 2 years and see an appeal to Nazis and Fascist is just horrible identity politics, and you should feel ashamed of yourself!

Who could have foreseen that encouraging THIS in March 11 of 2016:

 

Trump Nazis March 2016

 

Would lead to THIS in Charlottesville, August 11, 2017?

 

Nazi March in VA Aug 2017 5

 

Trump suporters can spare me their fake hand-wringing and denouncing this weekend’s terrorism as something coming out of the blue!

Trumpologists’ mealy mouthed denials of seeing Nazis in their midst are no better than Captain Renault from Casablanca standing in Rick’s Cafe collecting his winnings, while being shocked – SHOCKED I TELL YOU! – to find gambling in this establishment!

Fuck your False Equivalence, and Whataboutism with a side of ‘He was just joking’!!

 

Whataboutism

 

Is it REALLY that fucking hard to denounce the terrorism that killed peaceful protestor Heather Heyer?!!

If you don’t denounce the whole Nazi business – including Trump – you have Heather’s blood on your hands.

If you’ve ever wondered what you would’ve done during slavery, the Holocaust, or the Civil Rights movement…you’re doing it now.

Remember to Keep Laughing at the truth, Trumpologists, and Grab Them By The Pussy!!

Nazi March VA Day 2 Car 2

Fake Men and Angry Women, Part 2

 

It’s been an interesting couple of weeks in Fake Men and Angry Women Land.

Fake Man got himself an honest-to-gosh viral Tweet while Real Me got back a stalker I thought I shook 15 years ago, *plus* I got a private message from a total stranger who thought it was perfectly fine to swoon and ponder over my ability to give him a blow job.

I’m curious, David Thomson from Houston, Texas: What did you think would happen when you sent me that message? Did you think I would be wet in the drawers because some anonymous chump thinks the way to compliment a woman is to tell her that she’d probably be good at gobbling your knob? Were you expecting cyber-sex from a desperate, thankful sperm receptacle? Did you honestly think I’d hop on a plane to show you my prowess in choking on your pubic hair? Sigh!

Or, perhaps you thought I wouldn’t say anything at all, that I’d be embarrassed, or most likely ashamed?

Did you mistakenly think MY part in your tableau was to silently endure ONE MORE asshole reducing my value to sex?

Boy did you think wrong.

Let me be perfectly clear, Dude-Bro David Thomson from Houston Texas: I wouldn’t play your withered skin flute if it was the very last instrument on Earth.

Big Dick and the Twins will NEVER go to the Moist Drive-In Movie. Baloney Pony is not on the Menu. The Crotch Cowboy won’t be riding into the Canyon. Your Disco Stick has no Partner. The Kipper Ripper has nowhere to play Hide-And-Go-Seek. The Flesh Submarine will not be descending into the Cave.

To put it in a way you’re SURE to understand, David Thomson from Houston, Texas: I wouldn’t suck your dick with YOUR mouth.

Have I made myself perfectly clear Brosephus Andronicus?

Super.

Stalker (2)

Now let’s talk about my stalker.

Less than a day after publishing Part 1 of this piece, where I detailed the excessive abuse a woman with an strong opinion gets online, I received a Facebook friend request from a man who stalked me at the turn of the century.

Phred seemed like a harmless enough fellow when I met him at the Denver Press Club some time around 1997, assuming he was a journalist. He wasn’t, though – he was a bus driver hanger-on who had a small amount of money to spend at the then-struggling club.

We were mildly friendly in a club with a few hundred members. I knew he had a thing for me, but I was not interested in him in the least. He asked me out a few times (Okay, MANY times) and each time I declined politely. My built-in true-to-life excuse was that I’d sworn off dating until my son was old enough to go out with friends, himself. I had 2 failed marriages and thought perhaps the best thing to do was re-evaluate my priorities: I knew I only had so many hours in a day to work, sleep and do mom stuff. If I started dating then that time would only be able to come from my son, and I didn’t think that would be fair.

One afternoon, during the summer of 1998 (if memory serves), Phred approached me as I was leaving the Press Club, clutching a fist full of gift certificates for the Denver Broker, a restaurant that passed for swanky back in the day. It was famous for being situated in an old bank vault and for an all-you-can-eat bowl of iced shrimp to start the meal of red meat. It was the epitome of Denver in the mid-80s oil boom, but it was now the late 90’s tech bust and the old lady was a bit frayed at the edges. They tried to offset the lack of upkeep by dimming the lights, but that just made it drearier.

Swag, gift certificates, concert and sports tickets were a stock and trusted non-taxed item in the journalism trade – it’s what made us put up with with endless shit deadlines and asshole bosses. The only thing more certain than the sun rising in the east is that the Press will show up for free food and booze.

“Hey, you wanna go spend some freebie gift certificates with me next week?”

“Umm.. Well… Are other people going to be there? This isn’t a date, right?”

“No!”

“Will other people be there?”

“It’ll be a party!”

“But, not a date.”

“Not a date. In fact – I can even be the designated driver. I can pick you up after work – I work really close to your condo.”

I was in a rush, and gave him my number so that we could finalize plans.

I was halfway home before the obvious question bubbled to the surface: “How does he know where I live?” I told myself he must have heard me say at some point I had to drive to Golden, and it’s not a big town after all, and I put it out of my mind.

It was a warm afternoon when we went to the Broker a week later. My son was spending the night at his Grandma and Grandpa’s, just a few miles away. Phred showed up about 10 minutes early, and when I answered the intercom instead of buzzing him up he insisted we needed to go NOW! because the cab was waiting.

The cab?

The Cab?!

There were about 14 cabs in the entire city of Denver at the turn of the century, and they all did a loop between the airport and downtown. I don’t think I had ever seen another cab in the foothills of Golden in… well – EVER. I hadn’t ridden in a cab since I lived in New York City 20 years before.

The phrase, “Hurry up – the cab is here,” mentally felt like the ‘Vweeep!!’ of a needle screeching across a record.

It was a ridiculous extravagance for a 15 mile ride downtown (in rush hour) that I never would have agreed to under any circumstance had I known in advance, one that put me in a place where I felt vaguely obliged to him for spending the money I didn’t want and didn’t ask him to spend.

Clearly Phred didn’t think this was a date: It was something much bigger.

I stood outside my building looking at the yellow cab. Every instinct was telling me not to get in that cab. My lizard brain was yelling ‘Run, you fool!!’ I almost turned around, and maybe I would have saved myself a bucket load of stress and fear. Probably not. People like him don’t take no for an answer.

Instead, I bent to the pressure of the cabbie tooting his horn, and allowed myself to be manipulated into feeling bad that Phred would get stuck with the cost of the cab if I backed out. I wouldn’t admit it, but I was nervous and felt like I was being backed into a corner. And on top of all that was the youthful certainty, “I got this. I can control the situation.”

The meal itself was inconsequential, except to say I insisted several times we weren’t out on a date, and he nodded at the middle distance. Do I need to say no-one else was there?

Perhaps the highlight of this intimate tête-à-tête happened between the too-rinsed-to-be-slimy bowl o’ shrimp and the cold prime rib: It was him taking the red linen napkin and blowing his nose into it vigorously, and then handing it to the server. I nearly vomited.

Yes, the meal finally ended. Yes, I straight armed him as he tried to get cuddly in the cab back. And, yes, he was VERY angry I did not invite him up, mentioning all that money he spent that I hadn’t asked him to.

I jingled my keys, and told him I had to pick up my son, and nearly left skid marks on the way out of my own place. I sat in the 7-11 parking lot not knowing if he would still be in front of my building when I got back. I decided to park in front of a different building and took the back way in.

After that things started to get weird.

Just as I got home from work a few days later he called, the hale-and-well-met-fellow, acting like he hadn’t been pissed when I turned him down on our Not-Date. I was relieved he was being jovial and ended the call as soon as I could.

I saw him in the weeks to come at the Press Club, refusing his drink offers and doing my best to avoid him. I voiced my concerns about him to a few of the bartenders. The linen-napkin-as-a-handkerchief story never failed to raise a gorge with loud protestations.

When I continued to avoid him at the club he began to sit in front of my condo, waiting for me to get home, and calling when I turned on the lights. It took me a few week to figure out what was going on. “Damn! He sure has good timing. Why, I just got home and turned on the lights—-Ohhh.”

On a hunch I came home one night and I didn’t turn the lights on for 15 minutes. When I turned them on he called seconds later. He was calling from his cell phone in the lot below me.

I felt sick. He knew my schedule.

I began parking in another lot in the complex, leaving my lights on always, so he would not know when I was coming and going.

He began to call incessantly.

I got caller ID

For months I avoided him and his calls.

Finally, in a fit of pique he stole my Day-Timer calendar out of my latched bag at the Denver Press Club, pretending to find it on the floor just after I’d left. Several people – including the bartender – tried to stop him from removing the book from the club, but he pushed his way out the door. An hour later he left a message on my home phone, “I have your Personal Planner. I guess NOW you’ll have to talk to me and see me in person.”

I went to the police where he lived to report the theft, and they said “the crime didn’t happen here”. I went to the police where I lived and they said ‘It didn’t happen here.” I went to the police in Denver, where it happened, and the rotund desk jockey suggested, “Just go out with him a few times. It’s all he wants. It’s not like he’s hurt you.”

Yet.

I went to the management at the Denver Press Club, where the club manager, Carmen, said “Eh… It’s a He-Said She-Said thing.” He-Said She-Said? The son-of-a-bitch had my address book, calendar, bits and pieces of writing and my sketches in a book he refused to give back unless I met with him in person – and I HAD IT ON TAPE!!!

I stopped going to the club.

I will only say the situation was resolved nearly a year later when a former club member, who, upon retrieving my Day-Timer, suggested Phred make himself mighty scarce when he saw my car in the lot, and to never ever call me again. It was only when another man ‘claimed’ me (in his mind) that he backed off.

I couldn’t bring myself to touch the thing when my planner was given back to me, and a dear friend bought me a new brown, leather checkbook wallet I have to this day.

Fake Men Real Women Wallet (2)

 

It was good for a couple of years. He didn’t call, I never saw him at the club.

Then, one day, just before I left Denver for a decade, I was having dinner and someone sent over a drink. I asked the bartender who my benefactor was and she pointed down the bar to Phred: 5 years older, 40 pounds heavier, and waving like an old friend.

In a rage I leaned over the bar and poured the drink into the service sink, and handed the empty glass to the bartender, all the while giving Phred the stink eye. He looked confused.

In a ball of fury I went up to him and dressed him down at the top of my voice in front of a bar full of people, “I don’t want your drinks or your smiles, you Fucking Freak!! You stalked me nearly 2 years! I had to move! I had to change my fucking phone number because of you, you pathetic psycho! FUCK. OFF. LEAVE ME ALONE!! NEVER, EVER CONTACT ME EVER AGAIN!!!”

You can imagine my delight at finding his friend request after a searing piece about on-line abuse.

That crazy son-of-a-bitch saw that piece about being harassed, and in *his* mind he thought, “Hey – remember that women I got told in no uncertain terms to leave alone? Looks like she could use another aggressive male in her life.”

So – to be clear, Phred Riggs: The next time you see my name on Fabebook scroll past. If you see me at the Denver Press Club – walk on by, asshole, and do not attempt to interact with me. I am not interested in you in any way shape or form. You are crazy, and the shit you did 20 years ago? I will make sure you go to jail if you try half of that shit today. If you ever, ever trespass on my property again you will live to regret it. These are promises I will keep Phred.

 

 

McCain's Conscience 1 Week Twitter Activity (2)

While Real Me was getting stalked and offered the treat of a stranger’s One-Eyed Trouser Snake, Fake Man was knocking it out of the park by averaging nearly 30,000 views a day on a week where I only bothered tweeting on 4 days.

In his first month Fake Man garnered 70% of the followers it took Real Me took a year to get. Fake Man says all the things without repercussion that once caught a ration of shit when Real Me said it. Fake Man has not gotten called a name ONCE. Not once.

But, I took it further. I began posting the same things on Fake Man’s twitter account and on Real Me’s Facebook page.

Perhaps you recall this throw away comment from my feed?

McCain FB Message (2)

 

Facebook was whole-heartedly ‘Meh’ for Real Me, with 25 likes off 5 shares from my 332 friends.

On the other hand, Twitter fucking LOVED it from Fake Man!

Tweet Activity McCain_LI (2)

Fake Man got 2,040 likes, 329 re-Tweets, and 84,000 views off of 60 followers.

If you squint real hard you can see the difference in the numbers.

Fake Man saw his Twitter followers raise by 50% in 3 days, and got ridiculous traction for saying ‘Oh, fuck him’ regarding Bernie Sanders possible run in 2020. Really, internet? 71 likes for ‘Oh, Fuck Him’?

Oh Fuck Him Tweet 1_LI (2)

It’d be funny if it wasn’t so pitiful.

Do you remember this blast from a few weeks ago?

Nick Cage What Have I Done

That meme I made along with 2 comments got 60,000 impressions on Twitter and a total yawn on Facebook.

I’m not saying Facebook should clap hands better – I’m saying Twitter laughs its collective ass of at the jokes they think a man is making. To be certain, not every one-liner I make as Fake Man gets traction on Twitter, but not one post I’ve made on Facebook has achieved anywhere near the traction that Fake Man gets on Twitter daily with the same material – and Fake Man has only ¼ the Twitter followers Real Me does on Facebook. What does that say about how we’re willing to hear things from men that we aren’t from women?

Ever thus it was to the woman who learned it was better to sell my jokes to men and have them be told and laughed at, rather than trying to tell them myself and have most of the crowd look at me like I was showing a dog a card trick.

Now? It’s not so much about anyone laughing.

In the space of 2 years men think it’s okay to shout down a woman – most especially if the man doesn’t know a damn thing about what they’re spouting off upon. It really didn’t used to be that way.

Men have come to believe that demanding and screaming and pretending they are in charge is the same thing as actually being in charge. Their justification for continued abuse is more about the need for rage and control than about anything intellectual.

The worst thing you can do to a man like that is ignore them and make them feel unimportant – unless maybe you laugh at them. Laughing is cause for primal rage.

The day after I published part 1 of this piece I started to have people post to my wall the story of the woman beaten to death in front of her children by her husband on their anniversary, while on a family reunion cruise in Alaska, just 6 hours after the trip got underway. The reason why Daddy brained Mommy with a blunt object, the young child who fled the cabin in mortal fear told the crew? Mommy laughed at Daddy.

“Men are afraid that women will laugh at them. Women are afraid that men will kill them.” Margaret Attwood

Post Script:

Real Me is keeping screen shots of Real Abuse and plain old dickish behavior that is happening with alarming frequency that I’ll address in Part 3.

Keep Resisting. Please.

It’s the only thing we have.

The Frogs Have Come Out To Play

pepe-the-frog-nazi

There is quite clearly a link between the election and a sudden rise in cyber-harassment, which I have personally experienced. In the four days after the election I received more hate-tweets and garbage posts on my Twitter feed that I have in the previous 7 years combined.

My FaceBook wall has been rummaged through by Trolls, Frogs and hateful, spittle-flecked shrieking strangers who tell me to grow up, get over it and to leave the country.

‘Frogs’ is my label for the hate-filled Men’s Rights Activists (MRAs) mostly found on 4Chan who are proudly racist, bigoted, homophobes that think women who have been raped have been done a favor. They are open Nazi supporters who use Pepe the Frog as their mascot: An image designated by the Anti-Defamation League as a hate symbol alongside swastikas and burning crosses.

In short: The people who embrace this image are Trump’s red meat base.

Frog is my ‘Fetch’, and I’m trying to make it happen.

It is not a pejorative – because it’s based on something people have control over: Their embrace of hatred, and the willingness to disenfranchise marginalized minorities and women.

pepe-the-frog-kkk-nazi

A no-longer-silent dog whistle was blown when Trump was elected, and now the Frogs think the internet belongs to them.

I had one rude crazy woman go to my FB page and assume my post about a rude crazy woman was about her. She became incensed – took a screen shot. Demanded… I’m not sure what. But, she seemed to think that screen shot was something valuable. It seemed an oddly appropriate metaphor to what has been happening on Social Media these last few days.

I’ve been physically threatened posting in a general forum, being told my mouth was writing checks my ass couldn’t cash – when I was reciting facts. (not ‘truths’)

I’d call them Poor Winners – but that  would imply that there isn’t REAL violence going on right now across the country.

pepe-the-frog-confederate-flag

Regarding my Twitter account, some quick research shows that this is a targeted attack to specific high traffic websites. Yesterday I tweeted 10 times (before the shitstorm – and NO I’m not proud I fed the trolls), yet I received some 50-odd tweets back regarding an original post on that had only received 60 views  in 12 hours. (96 views 24 hours later) That site? The New York Times. The Tweet for which I received the second biggest hate-spew was to USA Today, whence I was told to delete my account, take benzodiazepine, fuck myself and leave the country.

Yesterday’s provocative tweet?  “Yay for Gerrymandering and Voter suppression”, in response to an article about our deeply divided nation that is half conservative and half liberal, but nearly all levels of government are run by the GOP.

That’s pretty normal for me – I’ve been tweeting like this for years with a collective yawn by the internet. Yet, amazingly I’m getting all kinds of negative attention, and the only thing that has changed is the President-elect.

pepe-the-frog-massa

This morning I got up to find a ‘friend’ of a childhood friend has tracked shit on my wall because he didn’t agree with an opinion that I left on my friend’s page – FWIW she and I are horrified at the results. He felt the need to mock and belittle a total stranger. There was no attempt at dialogue or even arrogant fact reciting. It was just pure vitriol: Being an asshole for the sake of being an asshole. I’ve had it happen with at least 5 total strangers in 4 days.  Not to mention said crazy woman above.

I had a peer seek out my page to start an argument after I walked away from her utter lack of compassion regarding my taking Trump at his word when he promises to end the ACA, and with it my pre-existing condition exclusion. After telling her in great detail how this would mean bankruptcy, divorce (sign away assets to get Medicaid) or become a medical refugee, her sentiments (if not exact words, because I refuse to bugger myself by going back to that awful conversation to quote her exactly): Your insurance is not my concern.

I refused to engage further with someone who could reduce that situation to: Not My Problem.

I decided to unfollow her for a few weeks until things calmed down – that way she wouldn’t see my posts, I wouldn’t see hers, and we could go back to being civil. Instead, she decided to take the fight to me by seeking out my page to read what I was writing so that she could be offended.

As is habit with these folks, when faced with something they don’t like they change the subject at the top of their lungs. I don’t play the Red Herring game, though.

Her Waterloo was a post where I said that Trump voters fucking OWN the KKK Victory Parade celebrating Trump’s victory. Without irony – this woman who supports a candidate that blames all Muslims for the actions of a few – took umbrage at holding people accountable for voting for a man who campaigned on racism, bigotry, homophobia and misogyny.

She refused to defend any of the dozen or so direct Trump quotes that show what a horrible shit-bag he is – including the one where he pretends he doesn’t know what the KKK is. She sidled right up to an Ad Hominem attack, and decided calling the *conversation* stupid was more diplomatic than outright calling *me* stupid. She then did the most adult thing she could think of to do – she unfriended me.

That should be a comfortable meeting the next time we show up for the advocacy group we both volunteer for and donate to. With her being in a position on the board I don’t worry at all that she’ll be punitive. Nope. I don’t worry that the woman who couldn’t let a disagreement go and needed to turn it into a full-fledged drama complete with unfriending will hold a grudge.

pepe-the-frog-nazi-shirt

I don’t ever remember the trolling ever being this bad. These hate-filled pus bags have been emboldened and their racist, bigoted, anti-Gay MRA agenda has been validated. They emulate the bully they voted in.

Not everyone who voted for Trump is a Neo-Nazi -But, they ARE totally okay with belonging to a group that not only tolerates, but encourages them.

The hate speech will continue because Trump refuses to say during his 3 am Rage-Tweet sessions: “I don’t want the support of the KKK and renounce racism and bigotry.”

He’d still have 72 characters left to tell us how big his hands are or “Grab Them By The Pussy!!”

But, he won’t – and that’s why the Frogs have come out to play.

It’s going to be a long 4 years.

“I don’t know what group you’re talking about. You wouldn’t want me to condemn a group that I know nothing about. … I will do research on them and certainly I would disavow if I thought there was something wrong.” Trump on the Klan 2/28/16

pepe-the-trump