...or in this case, closer to 10,000 reasons...
A post I had made late last week (you can read it here) elicited the following response from someone claiming they were a friend of an ex-girlfriend of mine.Here it is, unedited:
One of your ex girlfriends posted a link to this because she was horrified that you've become a right wing troll. She was right, anyone who calls those who disagree "libtards" is not worthy of a debate. I'd rather talk to an actual retard, not a retard who thinks he is smart.
To Which I replied:
I believe I know which ex-girlfriend you refer to, and believe me, there's a long laundry list of reasons as to WHY she is an ex. Her politics (such as they were when I knew her) was way down the list, primarily because she had the sort of shallow understanding of the subject one would expect from someone who used to jump out of my moving car just in order to have the childish satisfaction of appearing to have the last word in an argument...
...and then cry after she ran off into the streets of Hell's Kitchen at 3 a.m. about what (a) beast I was. Like I pushed (her) out the door, or something.
Incidentally, if I remember correctly, she did that on at least two occasions, and possibly three.
She also had a knack for managing to set anything on a dinner table decked out with candles aflame, including (once) her own hair. I can still remember the shocked look on her face when I literally smacked the flames with my bare hands out on her drenched-in-mousse-and-hair-spray-still-smoking coiffure, in the middle of a comedy club just as the first act was starting.
I'm sure she'll remember that.
Then ask me if I care what she thinks about my politics.
BTW, I find it laughable that you choose to debate me (as it were)on this subject anonymously. At least when I call people names they know who they're talking to, and where to find me.
I at least have the courage and good taste to give people who disagree with me the opportunity to make their case, or to exchange views via e-mail, instead of just posting garbage and then disappearing.
It's not (as if) this blog is hidden and obscure, after all: it's been out here since 2003.
People who use the internet anonymously to make a feeble argument that basically amounts to calling someone they disagree with a retard are childish. Which pretty much sums up the entire LIBTARD mentality.
If you want to know WHY I consider anyone who voted for Barack Obama a drooling doofus, you can search me out on one of the soon-to-be-ubiquitous bread lines. I'll be the one in the I TOLD YOU SO, ASSHOLE t-shirt.
I have, I think, indeed verified that it was that very woman! How do I know? For a start, there was a rise in traffic to the Asylum from a specific website (something called YouBeMom.com, which from what I can discern, is a website dedicated to the mental diarrhea of today's uber-liberal parent. You know, the ones who immediately scream 'Autism!' just because their toddler didn't learn Esperanto in six weeks, just like the expensive set of DVD's the Nanny pops into the machine for you promised).
Secondly, the original post on the website that inspired this bout of Girlfriend Solidarity sounds very much like the Woman in Question. While her diatribe online was well-written and exquisitely punctuated, it had all the intellectual heft of a soon-to-be-lost-to-history Twinkie.
But then again, what would one expect? She IS a Libtard.
But, the entire episode did get me to thinking about those days, when way back I had my head turned by an attractive, brown-haired girl, who would later cause me to have my head examined. She should take no pride in that achievement, because there are something like 15 others who can easily share the credit.
Let me tell you about Suzie (not her real name, as I don't wish to embarrass her publicly....unless her obviously-menstrual girlfriend is still reading and tells her about this), because it's a fascinating story of perseverance on my part, and a cautionary tale of the Modern Woman who, on a good day, might be able to find her own ass with both hands and a flashlight.
I first met Suzie when I was out drinking with a friend. Now, I need to make it clear that Suzie was not one of those alcoholic conquests that many men of a certain age seem to make regularly. She was not one of those slovenly drunk barflies that make for interesting stories despite the risk of chlamydia. She was, and for all I know, still is, a woman who seemed to have some qualities about her, at least at first blush; the just-under-the-surface neuroses were well-hidden behind a screen of physical attractiveness and my beer goggles, but it would not take long to discover them.
My friend and I were having ourselves a blast one rainy night in the old Alamo Cafe in Brooklyn. We were getting pretty tight, and as was wont to happen in those days, the steady supply of beer and shots got us all giddy and silly, and the Monty Python started flowing from our addled brains, complete with the funny voices and English accents. In walks Suzie and her incredibly ugly girlfriend, a committed Feminist Stormtrooper (and, I would find out later, ex-Israeli soldier), who, by the end of the evening was fetching me more beer just as quickly as I could peel off the $20 bills to buy the next round (this Lunatic had enormous cash flow in those days).
Suzie and her friend had been headed towards a concert that night (I believe it might have been the Grateful Dead, of all things) when their car had broken down. Somehow, they had made their way into the Alamo, as much to get out of the rain as to perhaps tie one on, themselves. I can remember Suzie in her wet t-shirt as if it were yesterday, for while she was not what one might call 'stacked', she was at least ample enough and the clingy wetness of the shirt was such as to leave little to the imagination, even if she was wearing a brassiere.
It's funny, the things you notice when you're young, male, and three sheets to the wind.
Anyways, Suzie overheard the Monty Python racket from the table behind them and turned to ask if what we were indeed attempting was to recite an entire episode of Python from memory. This, ladies, is really all the opening a man with the gift of gab, ruggedly boyish good looks and an overabundance of alcoholic charm needs. Low hanging fruit. Had her hooked, and all that remained was to reel her in.
So, while my buddy performed the customary role of Wingman and sacrificed his public standing and reputation to divert the ugly feminazi, I went to work. It became apparent rather quickly that Suzie was at the very least an intelligent girl, as well as a pretty one, and by the end of the evening -- despite the disapproval shown by her girlfriend -- I had Suzie's number. I called her two or three days later, and the rest, as they say, was history.
The next...I want to say 'five', because I know it was a long time, but honestly cannot remember...years were mixed: there were a lot of good times, and almost as many incidences where I would have liked to have smashed her head in with a brick. For Suzie turned out to be two, and sometimes even three, people.
She was extremely clingy and needy. Some of that I can attribute to her being homesick. She was not a native New Yorker, for she had only come here to begin her career, and spoiled white children of privilege from the suburbs of rustic Uptsate New York often have a rough time adapting to life on the fringes of Harlem, even if all the yuppies and the New York Times did do their level best to convince everyone that the neighborhood was "Up and Coming" (even to the point of changing it's name, like any good marketing campaign would do, to fool the rubes). The Up and Coming days were still a decade away, in retrospect, and personal safety was often an issue going into and out of her apartment.
She quickly insinuated herself into every social aspect of my life; my friends became her friends, my hobbies became hers. On Friday nights, I was expected to finish my shift at work at 11 P.M. or so, and then drive the 90 minutes to Upper Manhattan just so that she didn't have to wait for me to arrive later on Saturday. If I didn't come as soon as possible, and then stay with her all weekend, life could become Hell rather quickly. If I had wanted to do something without her, and perhaps suggested that she see her friends every once in a while, I got the crying routine which was repeatedly punctuated with a phrase I began to hear in my sleep, and have hated ever since:
"Does this mean we're breaking up?"
Ultimately, every disagreement, every rough patch, every minor argument became a drama much in this vein.
Suzie also had a stunning lack of confidence in herself that manifested itself in her abrogation of just about every decision -- minor and major, but usually minor. It somehow became MY job to make decisions for her, because she was most certainly incapable of making them for herself. Oh, she was good at asking other people for opinions -- talk about flogging dead horses? Even a selection from a dinner menu could require the input of at least three or four people, if they were available -- and making great, looping, elongated arguments for or against any particular choice, before arriving at a convoluted conclusion...and then immediately second-guessing it. She didn't trust to her intelligence, and soon, I felt like most of the decisions -- whatever they were -- that would affect her life in some way were in my hands. It was a serious responsibility for someone who had trouble making good decisions for himself, let alone someone else.
She also had this knack for making the last idea she ever heard the best idea she ever heard. It is something I've noticed over the years as a character trait present in almost all of those who have just recently graduated college.
Suzie could also be extremely childish. She actually threw tantrums, and I swear once that she seemed ready to hold her breath until blue in the face as a means of breaking down my resolve. When she got this way, she could be awfully difficult to deal with; you had to watch what you said, lest something be misinterpreted. If you were direct and honest, you got tears and wails. If you tried to be gentle and patient, you simply invited more of the same behavior.
Suzie was also haunted by the enormous shadow of her sisters. She has two of these, and both, in their own ways, are brilliant. One is a scientist and the other I remember as this wanna-be tied-died Bohemian cunt with an emasculated husband, and a major talent for looking down her nose at others, just because they hadn't gone to the Ivy league like she did. That one had traded in what appeared to be a stellar career in advertising to marry a dipshit and become a professional student-cum-ward-of-the-state with pretense.
Somehow, one gets the impression that there was a great deal of competition fostered between Suzie and her older sisters as they were growing up, and some of her apparent inadequate feelings, I believe, stemmed from this. Her sisters both had PhD's, she just a garden-variety Bachelor's Degree. It was apparent that education, and the status that a higher-level degree brought with it, were valued very highly in that family, and that in some ways, the worth of each individual was tied up to a large extent in what degree you had, and where it came from.
It was a lot to deal with, and frankly, I'm not certain as to how I did...No, wait...I DO know how I dealt with it.
For a start, I used to drink. An awful lot. In fact,.drinking soon became the focal point of our weekend social activities. I figured that so long as I had to drag Suzie along with me, willing or not she was coming along, I might as well be having fun...or at least not remember any of it.
I also used to cheat on her. An awful lot. Never anything serious that threatened to upset the balance of terror between Suzie and I (I am convinced, in retrospect, that the reason I hung on as long as I did was because the Sex Was Great, as they say). It wasn't right, and I knew it wasn't right, but I did it all the same.
Eventually, it all wears on you. This person is omnipresent. She's always in your ear, in your bed (well, mostly hers), on the phone, in your leisure activities, constantly emitting an aura of desperation, not satisfied until she has poured herself into every nook and cranny of your existence, convinced that everything eventually becomes about 'the state of our relationship'. The final straw came one late evening when I had picked her up from a trip she had recently taken, and this is where the shallow understanding of politics which I assume led to the original exchange above, stems from:
Suzie had been 'convinced' (probably more like 'bullied') by her older sister to accompany her (and her jackoff husband) to Washington, D.C. where there was to be one of those massive NARAL marches where women you otherwise wouldn't fuck with a stolen penis go to put their vaginas front-and-center before the television cameras. They say it's all about 'Abortion Rights', but it isn't; if feminism stands for anything, it stands for the contradictory ideas that a) having a vagina gives you incredible power over time, space and men, and entitles you to all the riches of the Universe, and b) that having a vagina makes life a Dickensian existence, a chore, a deadly threat to life and liberty, that makes you a target for rapists and Fundamentalist Christians, alike.
Anyway, she went with her sister. And for two days or so they did their thing; they shouted slogans, they carried signs, they showed their 'solidarity' with their sisters, they bought a lot of cheap merchandise which supposedly goes to fund 'The Cause' but in all reality goes to fund some liberal democrat's campaign, after being washed through three layers of 'non-profit' bureaucracy.
Suzie came home all full of herself. She had done something important. She felt 'empowered'. She could suddenly leap tall buildings in a single bound, split atoms with a thought, and perhaps even cook a Three-minute Egg (Suzie could not cook to save her life. Which is why we always went out). She was so hyped up with this smug sense of self-righteous, back-slapping, giddiness that she wouldn't shut the fuck up about it. It became tedious, annoying, and really, who gave a fuck?
So, when the question -- as it simply HAD to have been -- was finally asked, I gave her a truthful (as I saw it) answer that burst her fucking bubble. I don't remember the exact words, so I'll paraphrase them to the best of my ability. as well as approximating something of the tenor and atmosphere of the conversation:
Suzie: Don't you think I've done something important? Isn't it wonderful to take a stand on something so important as abortion rights/? What do you think of me now? Aren't I great? Isn't this the bestest thing, EVAH? I'm so sophisticated and political and shit now, right?
The Lunatic: All you did was travel to Washington, repeat a few slogans, and hold a sign up for two days.What, exactly, do you believe you've accomplished? Abortion was legal before you went there,it still is, two days later. You spent two days in an echo chamber with people who already agreed with you; you didn't change any minds. You went to a rally that was supposed to be about an issue which you believe to be 'intensely personal', and did nothing but call public attention to your privates. Apparently your hippie sister and brother-in-law didn't spring for a hotel room with a shower, because you smell of pot smoke and patchouli oil. Just what, exactly, are you expecting a fucking medal for?
At this exact moment, my car was beginning to slow at a red light at 10th Ave somewhere in the 40's, and before it stopped rolling, Suzie had leaped out of it and was running towards 9th Avenue. Being in the extreme left lane, and blocked by vehicles that had arrived at the same light on my right, I could not make a U-turn to go after her, so I instead went around the corner, hoping to find her exactly where I had left her.
And she was gone. At 3 a.m. in a dark and dangerous neighborhood. So, I drove around looking for her, and when I finally found her -- it might have been 15 or 20 minutes later -- I got the "You're an uncaring dickhead" routine, and the last piece of silage had indeed ruptured the dromedary's lumbar region. When I finally got her home, I let her know that I had had enough. The jug was broken, and could not be mended.
This does not mean I think Suzie is a bad person, or a retard, but it does mean that I thought at the time that she was a major pain in the ass, and clueless. More aggravation than she was worth. Sometimes, I regret having done what I had done, and then I get a missive like that, and all regrets vanish as if they had never existed. I sometimes thinks of Suzie, somewhat fondly, and she has, indeed, even made an appearance on this blog recently.
So, you can see why I'm not exactly caring what she -- or her girlfriends -- think about my politics, or my opinions, and I'm not exactly all busted up over their impression of me as a pompous ass who hates kittens. The Truth will always be the Truth, and while I don't expect everyone to agree with it, I do expect you to at least be adult enough to admit that when the Truth can no longer be denied that you must accept it. Instead, Libtards everywhere would like to live in a land where truth does not exist as something inviolate, but is instead subject to interpretation according to their whims and mental deficiencies.
That was the purpose of that original post in the first place; to illustrate just how an alliance of the delusional came together to re-elect the worst President in American History, not, as some would have it, to allow others to continue to stew in their own stupidity without interruption by rational thought.
Now, who is the real retard; the person who sees things clearly, unclouded by romantic notions of the leftard political claptrap that has been shown by actual experience to be complete rubbish, or the person who can cut through the fog of bullshit and make a judgment that will, certainly, be vindicated by history?