Battleground
TITS W ASS HAVE LAUNCHED A THOUSAND HUMAN STRUGGLES
A man’s highest job in life is to break his
enemies, to drive them before him, to take
from them all the things that have been
theirs, to hear the weeping of those who
cherished them, to take their horses
between his knees, and to press in his arms
the most desirable of his women.
—Genghis Khan
Can’t you understand it if a soldier who has
crossed thousands of kilometers through
blood and fire and death has fun with a
woman or takes some trifle?
—Joseph Stalin
In a war, what you can’t use or carry off, you
destroy.
—Abimael Guzman, founder of Peru’s Shining Path
guerrillas
The rapes in the Serbian war of aggression
against Bosnia-Herzegovina and Croatia are
to everyday rape what the Holocaust was to
everyday antisemitism: both like it and not
like it at all, both continuous with it and a
whole new departure, a unique atrocity yet
also a pinnacle moment in something that
goes on all the time.
—Catharine “Hot Lips” MacKinnon
We were ordered to rape so that our morale
would be higher. We were told we would fight
better if we raped the women.. ..I was just a
soldier. Everybody does it.
—Serbian infantryman Borislav Herak
men get killed in war. Women get raped.
Wherever wars happen—which is
everywhere—gender roles tend to split along
these lines. And winners rape a lot more than
losers do. To the victor belongs the booty.
Shake that booty.
The enemy’s coming. Bomb after bomb,
the blasts so bright you see a solid sheet
of white in the back of your head. You’re
shuddering. Tanks are rolling. Bullets
spraying. Sperm squirting. Marching. Killing.
Raping. Dominating. Row after row of con¬
quering cock. Buckets of cum for our victory
parade. Huddled crowds of peasant women
bleeding between the legs. The busted cherry
of a new regime.
Anarchy, wonderful anarchy. Let’s drive out
of town, way past all the blown-out buildings,
and go to a rape camp. A thousand pale,
emaciated enemy women to choose from.
Take your time and pick a good one. No such
thing as sexual harassment when you’re the
winning army. Date rape? Fuck her dirty
enemy slit with the steel barrel of your AK and then shoot her in the head. Fuck and kill
two dozen of them this week. Who’s going to
stop you? There’s no law until the war’s over,
and then only if we lose. So fuck her in front
of her hunchbacked old father and fat mother.
Bind and gag her husband. But let him see
your dick going in and out like a moray eel.
Make sure he gets a slow, painful gawk at
what your “gun” looks like when it’s loaded
and cocked.
It isn’t enough to destroy the enemy’s
factories. You have to crush his will, too. Kick
him until he doesn’t want to get up again.
Seize both his means of production and
reproduction. Rape is the final act of
impalement, the last bayonet thrust. Like a
tomcat pissing on curtains, it’s a way of
marking territory. We’ve already torn apart
your social fabric. Now it’s time for your
daughter’s vulva. So while you’re humping
that dirty peasant bitch, tell her that her
family’s bodies are sprinkled all over the
countryside. I guess your brother and father
were too weak to prevent this from happen¬
ing. Everything your people have worked and
died for is now mine. I’ve taken your soil,
your railroads, your food, your language…
and you. It’s my country now, and I can park
my dick wherever I want.
Right now, the bloody Balkans are dripping
with Serb sperm, the primary detergent used
in “ethnic cleansing.” In the area formerly
known as Bosnia-Herzegovina, nationalist
instincts which had slumbered under commu¬
nism exploded violently the moment the
Soviets—pardon the entendre—pulled out.
The Serbs, who are currently dominating
the Croats and Bosnian Muslims, are skillful
terror-mongers. There have been reports of
soccer games where Serbs use severed
Muslim and Croat heads as balls; of gold
tooth fillings pried out of live prisoners’
mouths; of Bosnian men forced to drink motor
oil and then castrated; of live crucifixions; of
Serb tanks “plastered with pornography” like
an adolescent boy’s bedroom; of a hundred
mass graves; of screaming children thrown
into ovens; of a woman tied to a stake, her
pregnant belly sliced open, her unborn baby’s
arm torn off and stuffed into its father’s mouth;
of busloads of naked Muslim men with open
holes where ears, noses, and testicles used to
be—yet still ALIVE—paraded in front of their
wives and daughters.
Pieced together, the scraps of personal
testimony emerging from the Balkans
complement each other so well that you tend
to believe the rape stories are true. Or if not,
it’s one hell of a elaborately latticed lie.
No WONDER the Serbs were disqualified from the World Cup soccer finals.
The nightmare usually goes this-a-way—Serb tanks, full-color stroke-
mag centerfolds taped and glued to their exteriors, roll into badly
shelled Muslim villages. Serb troops delegate authority to tattletales
among local Serbs, who mark the houses of all Muslims and Croats.
Enemy men of fighting age are typically rounded up and either imme¬
diately slaughtered or shipped to the death camps. Women, children,
and old folks are left behind with the Serb soldiers. Then come the
rapes—day and night. Houses metamorphose into whorehouses, with
women’s screams pealing from every window. Mothers and daughters
are simultaneously fucked by hooting soldiers, one platoon after the
next, week after week, until the women show pregnancy’s visible
swelling.
At that point, the pregnant Muslims are typically set loose as
refugees, free to dodge the front line en route to safety zones. The
raped Muslim woman’s former village is now a ghost town. It is
cleansed. Enemy Serbs will soon move into the house where she was
born, the house where she was raped. Back among her fellow
Muslims, the pregnant rape victim will find herself ostracized, a
dirty whore carrying a half-breed fetus. Islam doesn’t cut the chicks
any slack.
This is, of course, a best-case scenario. She could have been sent to
one of the rape camps to be fucked and tortured under spotlights amid
the chicken wire, dysentery, parasitic water, and deep dirt craters
where they toss the dead people after shooting them. Her gang rape
and slow murder by guffawing Serb soldiers could have been video¬
taped—many of them reportedly are. The videocam lens could have
zoomed in on her face as she was shocked with electric prongs,
ass-fucked with a truncheon, and forced to sing Serbian nationalist
songs. The Serbs have even broadcast naked, uncut rape footage as
war propaganda on local TV stations.
Borislav Herak was a sex-crazed twenty-one-year-old Serb with a
big fucking rifle and a license to shoot Muslims. Amid the violent cloud
of civil war, he lost touch with his father. Eventually, one of his
comrades planted an idea in his head. He told Boris that the Muslims
had killed his dad. It may have been a lie. It didn’t matter.
Brought before a war-crimes tribunal in Sarajevo, Herak confessed
to killing twenty Muslims and was suspected of slaughtering at least ten
more. He stated that, compared to his comrades, his body count was
relatively low. Herak said he learned how to kill in boot camp, where
he practiced by slicing pigs’ throats. He testified that his superiors com¬
manded him to kill Bosnians “like pigs” and to rape their women as a
morale-booster. In a basement northwest of Sarajevo, Boris obeyed
official commands and machine-gunned a Muslim family of ten, which
included two elderly women and four children. He told of glutting
himself with food and drinking brandy after participating in the
close-range machine-gun slaughter of a hundred and fifty Muslim
villagers. When asked by a reporter whether he thought he deserved
to die, he replied yes and politely requested some cigarettes.
Borislav Herak reportedly kept stacks of cum-varnished porno mags
in his bedroom at home. Of the twenty murders to which he confessed,
ten involved raping and shooting Muslim women. He said he remem¬
bered all of his victims’ names.
Boris and his soldier friends procured their Muslim chicks from two
prisons-cum-whorehouses on Sarajevo’s outskirts. One of the jail
bordellos was known, with great elan, as the Sonja Cafe. It housed
roughly seventy Muslim women and girls. Turnover was rapid. After
picking a victim or two, Boris and the boys would force her into an
empty room where they’d rape her repeatedly, cheering each other on
as if they were taking turns at a video game. After they emptied their
nuts, it was off to the hills or forests, where their Muslim party girl
would be shot and dumped.
Borislav Herak was convicted of his crimes and sentenced to death.
Before his execution, he confessed that he never had sexual
intercourse until he became a soldier and raped his first Muslim.
You should never give a gun to a virgin.
Although there exists no scientific way to determine precisely how
many Muslim and Croat women have been raped in the Balkan
conflict (what would you use—a spermometer? Serbograms?), most
estimates flutter at around fifty thousand. Not bad for a postage-stamp
republic in the European beet belt, but significantly lower than the
quarter-million Korean and Chinese dames held as “comfort women”
to service the egg-roll-sized members of Japanese soldiers during
WWII. Or the estimated four hundred thousand Bangladeshi
broads raped by Pakistani soldiers in 1972. Or the two MILLION
German women forced to cram Russian cock as a vengeful Red Army
turned the tide against Hitler. To be fair to Hitler (we like his mustache,
OK?), his brownshirts had been eager rapists themselves when they
were winning.
The perceptive among us know that in a few years—not many years
at all—the whole world will be one big flamin’ Bosnia. As you read
this, comparable wartime situations—with the attendant mass rape of
enemy women—are flaring in Uganda, Myanmar, Liberia, and
Rwanda. As in Bosnia, both men and women are the victims of
sexual torture, with Liberian males privy to the sizzling experience of
having red-hot cutlasses applied to their genitals. If you doubt
that there will be rape camps in Des Moines one day, you’ll probably
end up in one. ■
Come up, black dad a nihilismus. Rape the white girls.
Rape their fathers. Cut the mothers’ throats. —LeRoi Jones
Any oppressed group, when obtaining power, tends to acquire the
females of the group that has been the oppressor.
—Calvin C. Hernton
When one group uses the trappings of authority to maintain power
over another group, there comes a time when some small thing—
a crime, perhaps—will become the spark that unleashes
long-suppressed passions.
—Theon Wright, Rape in Paradise
Hey, where are the white women at?
—Cleavon Little, Blazing Saddles
D espite Thomas Jefferson’s slave-fuckery and Bill Clinton’s rumored
Mulatto Love Babies, interracial whoopee-making in the U.S.A.
has largely been proscribed by an invisible code of genital apartheid.
Although apparently unafraid of an incipient
black intellectual takeover, Joe Whitey
has traditionally dreaded the phallically
phearsome “Horn of Africa” as if it signaled
his own genetic demise.
This isn’t to say that Japanese fathers don’t
beat their daughters when they date Koreans.
Or that Jewish mothers don’t tell their sons to
avoid shiksas. Or that in the mid-eighties, my
black girlfriend didn’t hear, “What are you
doing with that white boy?” from every
Ripple-tippling “brother” we saw on the street.
Or that in high school, my half-Puerto
Rican/half-Chinese paramour had to tell her
father I was her math tutor, because daddy
would never let his salted plum date a smelly
European. Despite my best miscegenatin’
efforts, I soon realized that the true “color
line” was the vaginal gateway, and that every
race employs border-patrol guards along its
females’ labia.
Because of our tense racial history, sex
between blacks and whites in America seems
to acquire a meaning which transcends the
mere salt-and-pepper coupling. The “mean¬
ing” of interracial sex, though, seems more
open to interpretation than the implications of
interracial RAPE. In the U.S.A., those
meanings seem predetermined. White-on-
black rape is linked to subjugation —keep ’em
down. Black-on-white rape tends to be viewed
as retaliation —get ’em back.
Any bean-pie salesman on any urban
corner will tell you that variations in black-
American skin color can be traced to the rape
of slaves by the horny li’l devils who owned
plantations. By force-fucking those cotton-
pickin’ African women, slaveholders created
mulattos, quadroons, octoroons, and possibly
even macaroons and nectaroons. The wanton
infusion of Caucasoid goo into reluctant slave
women is a familiar, if unpleasant, chapter of
the American saga.
As is the lynch mob. Innumerable dead,
swollen, charred, and de-balled black-male
bodies have floated down this country’s
rivers. Many of them were undoubtedly
innocent of the charge which most inflamed a
white crowd, that of raping some pale Dixie
belle. Sexual hysteria was typical of the
lynch mob, with a hallmark of many
lynchings being the removal of the victim’s
coffee-colored scrotum.
On January 31, 1930, a sixteen-year-old
white girl was discovered dead in a puddle of
water along a rural Georgia roadside. She
had last been seen walking down the road to
deliver a letter. The girl was found stabbed to
death, with deep hack marks around her tits
and throat. One of her eyes was missing,
apparently plucked out of its socket with a
Local whites—and you know how those
Jaw-ja locals can be—suspected James Irwin,
a black wagon-driver. An estimated
THOUSAND irate crackers abducted Irwin
and remanded him to the murder scene. Irwin
was chained to a tree. One by one, his
fingers and toes were lopped off and passed
around as souvenirs. His abductors used
wire-pullers to remove his teeth, one bloody
bicuspid at a time. When Irwin would cry,
his tormentors speared his mouth with a
sharpened pole.
After an hour of torture, Irwin was still
alive. His captors then strung his fingerless
hands up to a tree and built a fire underneath
him, soaking the tinder with gasoline. Irwin’s
writhing body was peppered with bullets as it
burned. After the flames died, Irwin’s killers
let his body hang all day in plain view of
the roadside. His charbroiled carcass
became a tourist attraction for the rest of
the day, with entire white families making
pilgrimages to the site as if Irwin were the
Macy’s Christmas tree.
The lynch mob is still alive, if only in spirit.
Apprehension of the Sc/iwarz-colored
Schvanz still looms like a Stealth Bomber in
the minds of many white Americans. George
Bush won the presidency in 1988 by
threatening a black cock in every bedroom.
His campaign managers chose a sloe-eyed
honeydripper named Willie Horton to exploit
white sexual fear. Back in 1974, Horton and
two other men hacked a white gas-station
attendant to death in Massachusetts, castrating
the victim and jamming his cadaver into a trash
can. Horton received life without parole for his
crime. Ten years later, under a state-sponsored
furlough program, Horton began receiving
weekend passes. He dutifully returned from
nine weekends of freedom but vanished after
the tenth. Nearly a year later, in April, 1987,
Horton busted into a Maryland couple’s home,
raping the woman at least twice and using a
knife to carve patterns into her boyfriend’s skin.
Bush’s campaign managers adroitly used
the Horton case as proof of liberal “softness”
(note the penile implications) on crime. Bush’s
opponent, an autocratic morph of Richard
Benjamin and Leonard Nimoy named
Michael Dukakis, began to lose his lead in the
polls after Horton’s dusted-out face started
appearing in Bush’s TV spots. Dukakis also
shot himself in his Greek dick during one of
the presidential debates when he stammered
through an autistically cold answer to the
question of how he’d react if his emotionally
brittle, rubbing-alcohol-guzzling wife Kitty
were raped. Ironically, it wasn’t even Dukakis
who had sponsored the prisoner-furlough pro¬
gram which set Horton loose, it was his
Republican predecessor. But the mere
perception of what Dukakis had done, which
was to unleash the libidos of countless
Mandingo bucks onto unsullied Caucasian
squack, was what killed him.
There have been many Willie Hortons
throughout American history, black men
whose horrifying boners are held up as a
threat to the social order. But unlike Horton,
many of them were innocent of any sexual
crime. Names such as Emmett Till, Willie
McGee, The Scottsboro Boys, and The
Martinsville Seven should be familiar to most
American blacks, but to very few whites. They
were all young black men who were either
murdered or railroaded into long prison
sentences because they were victims of
whitey’s “rape complex.” It’s all true.
So is this story. On December 29, 1992, a
white woman named Melissa McLauchlin was
kidnapped in North Charleston, South
Carolina. Her abductors, all of whom were
black, took her to a trailer park. At least five
men raped her. McLauchlin was then forced
to scrub her vagina with bleach and peroxide
to remove any spermy evidence. She was
then shoved back into a car and driven to
a Charleston suburb, where she was shot
six times in the face and dumped along
the highway.
Under questioning, suspect Carl Matthew
Mack told police that he and two other defen¬
dants had made a New Year’s resolution to
kill a white woman in response to “four
hundred years of oppression.” Although that
statement is brow-raising enough, I’m amazed
that a man who’s over four hundred years old
would be able to achieve an erection and
rape someone. Detectives found a leaflet
belonging to one of the defendants entitled
“X-Man,” a black nationalist screed calling for
violent revenge against whites. Mack, who
was eventually convicted of McLauchlin’s
murder, said that he and his friends had
decided to pick a victim at random. “I said
any white girl would do,” he reportedly told
police. “We were just sitting around joking.”
Less than a month after McLauchlin’s
murder, a fifteen-year-old white girl was
kidnapped at a Brooklyn bus stop by two
black men in a car. “Why are you doing
this to me?” she pleaded while being forcibly
disrobed and having her eyes taped shut.
The answer should have been obvious:
“Because you are white and perfect.” ■
When I’m old and turning gray. I’ll only gang-
bang once a day.
—Fraternity rhyme (origin unknown)
We can rape whoever we want!
—Phrase chanted by Princeton University
counter-protesters during a 1987
“Take Back the Night” march
Date rape, I assure you, lies in our medium-
term future.
— P. Jay Fetner, of Yale University’s Skull and Bones
Society, on what would happen if women were
admitted to the club
I can’t help the anatomy God gave me.
—Convicted campus rapist David Caballero of
Lake Superior State University
The college years occur at a frustrating
age when men are most likely to be horny
and women are most likely to protest against
horny men. So while the boys jack off,
the girls stage sit-ins. Lesbian folk singers
majoring in Eastern philosophy take
melodious coffeehouse shits on linebackers
who are flunking business administration.
The radical feminists control campus
discourse because their natural enemies—the
dumb dudes—are too busy getting chicks
drunk to show up for debates. The girls win in
a no-show. So with their braless breasts
swinging proudly beneath the school’s bell
tower, their armpit hairs lightly blowing with
the winds of change, raging anti-rape activists
organize porn boycotts. They form discussion
groups. They paint picket signs, sell bumper
stickers, and hand out leaflets.
They’re going to stage a soy-milk-only
hunger strike to protest the fact that every
Board of Trustees member is a man. And that
most of their teachers are men. And that the
library, which is named after a dead man, is
stacked with dusty history books, all of them
written by men. At their last consciousness-
raising session, one of the girls suggested that
they protest the bell tower itself, because its
design is phallic and therefore oppressive.
For next Friday night, the women’s group
has planned a candlelight vigil to mourn all
their sisters raped and slain on campuses
nationwide. They’ll light a candle for Laura
Hefley, who in 1969 was sexually assaulted,
killed, and hidden under a rowboat at the
University of Louisville. They’ll mutter a prayer
for Elaura Jeanne Jaquette, a choir girl
whose half-nude body was stuffed under a
University of Colorado pipe organ in 1966.
To properly honor beauty queen Carolyn
Nevins, whose raped and snow-encrusted
cadaver was found behind some U. of
Omaha bushes in 1955, they’ll sing a medley
of Helen Reddy songs.
And they’ll offer a special moment of
silence for all the college students being
raped and murdered today, because the
sisterhood agrees that the problem’s much
worse now. In the past, campus sex-killings
had the power to shock because they
appeared to be aberrations. Nowadays, if
people hear that Danny Rolling slaughtered
five U. of Florida students during one humid
August week in 1990, decapitating one
victim and leaving her head on a bookshelf,
they’re bored. What—no cannibalism?
The college fembots have attempted to com¬
bat such frightening apathy with their own
scare tactics, expanding their definition of
“consent” to the point where a man can’t
have a wet dream without being pegged as a
rapist. College cunts can get nasty. In 1990,
women’s bathroom walls at Brown University
were blanketed with felt-pen-scribbled lists
containing the names of alleged campus
rapists. The girls at Carleton College did
much the same thing, calling their Rapists’
Social Register a “castration list.” At Duke
University in ’91, pairs of female rape
activists made a habit of pouncing on male
students who were walking alone at night and
then slapping orange “GOTCHA” stickers
onto their shirts. Trying to instill a small sense
of empathy—and a whopping dose of guilt—
they’d then hand their orange-stickered victim
some leaflets describing women’s fear of
sexual assault.
That was sort of clever for a small-scale
cunt-stunt. But last year, in a move admirable
for its ovarian audacity alone, University of
Maryland art teacher Josephine Withers and
her female pupils designed a billboard
with the headline POTENTIAL RAPISTS.
The rest of the billboard consisted of a list of
the school’s sixteen thousand male students.
Angry “potential rapists” responded with
picket signs reading, WITHERS MIGHT BE
A WHORE.
Over at the frat houses, they can’t hear
all the theoretical clamor. That’s because
Pearl Jam is cranked up too fucking loud. The
Enemy Men, lost in an orgiastic landfill of
empty beer cans, crushed pizza boxes, cheap
speed, used rubbers, and Cliff Notes, are too
drunk to care about sexual politics. It’s
frightening, even to me, to think of all those
marketing majors at the height of their sex
drives. All those pink-bellied guys awash in
dudethink. Shirtless WASP boys jockeying for
position of Head Rooster. Homoerotic
bonding rituals in which they slap each
other’s asses and chug suds like pitchers of
sperm. They all have straight teeth and good
connections. They’re going to split the world
wide open.
But no one understands a frat boy’s sense
of humor. That’s why the killjoy feminists at
L.A.’s Occidental College sent bloody tam¬
pons to the puckish party boys over at the
Alpha Tau Omega fraternity. The only thing
the frat brothers had done was distribute a
flyer inviting “buddies and slutties” to a
bowling party. It also included some harmless
limerick about “Buffalo Pete,” whose huge
penis makes women scream when he
ass-rapes them. Another frat-party flyer, this
one advertising a “war-games” soiree at Cal
State-Northridge, listed rape as one of the
war games. And lyrics in a fraternity song
book at UCLA’s Theta Xi extolled chopping
women into dice-sized pieces.
I’m a cat who in all of my nine lives could
never understand why anyone would want to
go to a frat party. But some girls won’t listen
to me. And if they don’t want a group of
stocky, hairy, rugby-shirt-wearing mules to
poke at them with stubby cocks, they’d better
watch what they drink. Studies have shown
that liquor plays a role in nine out of ten cam¬
pus rapes. So go easy on the firewater,
ladies. You don’t want to pass out and wake
up naked in a strange dorm room, surround¬
ed by four varsity swimmers who laugh as you
puke into a bucket.
Stay away from the frat boys if you don’t
want to get raped. And stay away from
Antioch College if you want to get laid. Last
year, bowing to the blistering steam iron of
feminist pressure, the Ohio school enforced
dating regulations which made it nigh impos¬
sible to fuck someone without a lawyer and a
notary public present. The Antioch rules not
only require consent, they demand the
woman’s verbal approval at each level of the
seduction process. You have to ask her per¬
mission from the first kiss all the way up to the
act of donut-threading. As a logical extension
of feminist illogic, the Antioch rules seem
designed to prevent campus rape by causing
potential rapists to slowly lose their erections:
Can I kiss you?
Sure.
Can I unbutton your blouse?
OK.
I’d like to knead your left nipple between
my thumb and forefinger—is that alright?
Yeah.
How about if me and eight of my dorm
buddies anally invade you with a lacrosse
stick?
That might be pushing it, sweetie…. ■
If a woman is raped by a stranger, she has
to live with the memory. If she’s raped by
her husband, she has to live with the rapist.
—David Finkelhor of New Hampshire’s Family Violence
Research Program
Wives die the most. Husbands kill the most.
—Maria Ines Serreira, Center for the Study of
Violence, Sao Paulo, Brazil
But the husband cannot be guilty of a rape
committed by himself upon his lawful wife,
for by their mutual consent and contract,
the wife hath given herself up in this kind
unto the husband which she cannot retract.
—British jurist Sir Matthew Hale, 1736
But if you can’t rape your wife, who can you
rape?
—California state senator Bob Wilson, 1979
He’s had an abominably bad day at work.
The boss was at his throat all afternoon.
Car overheated in traffic on the way home.
Poodle is barking. Kids are screaming. Phone
is ringing. The TV game show makes his ears
bleed. I want my turkey pot pie served HOT,
I want my beer COLD, I want the kids in
CLEAN clothes, and I want your legs to
spread open like an electric garage door
whenever I press the button. Get in the
bedroom and give me some pussy or I’m
going to smack your ass into the backyard.
Not tonight, honey, I have a headache.
Well, guess what—now you’re gonna
have a migraine.
I’m really not in the mood.
I don’t give a fuck if you sleep through it.
To his bloodshot eyes, you aren’t much
more than a remote-control device. He thinks
he can channel-surf you whenever he wants.
Pop you open like the tab on a can of Old
English 800. No more kisses, no foreplay, just
spread ’em and BLOPI—zzzZZZZZ. He’s
asleep and snoring like a leaf-blower. The
cum dribbles onto his swollen belly, where it
will congeal into dull white flakes. A shit stain
graces his underwear, which he flung on the
floor before he raped you. Ah, bliss….
On an average day, twice as many women
are raped by their spouses than by strangers.
One in seven wives can expect to be raped
by their horny hubbies. Ever since our pro¬
truding-foreheaded forefathers began slipping
ankle rings around cave women and drag¬
ging them away—a tradition symbolically
honored with the modern wedding ring—men
have acted as if they owned the title deed to
their mates’ genitalia.
When he pushed your face through that
sliding-glass door, he was letting you know he
feels strongly about you. Understand that
when he slams your head into walls and fucks
you with a car antenna, it’s because he
LOVES you. Couldn’t live without ya.
Paul Snider loved his wife, Playboy’s 1980
Playmate of the Year Dorothy Stratten, very
deeply. So deeply, in fact, that he couldn’t
bear to share her with the rest of the world.
He made Dorothy a celebrity, but the
ungrateful little bitch tried to divorce him. On
August 18, 1980, surrounded in his apart¬
ment by naked photos of Dorothy, he raped
her in the cunt and ass, blew her face off with
a 12-gauge shotgun, and then blasted
himself, making sure he’d find her in heaven.
How’s that for love?
Dennis Patrick Murphy’s wife Judith wasn’t
nearly as famous as Dorothy Stratten, but he
loved her anyway. Even so, the fucking whore
left him after only nine months of marriage
and focused her affection on a mixed-breed
pit bull puppy named Boozer. So on April 29,
1985, Dennis forced his way into Judith’s
apartment and waited for her to get home
from work. When she did, he whacked her in
the head with a baseball bat. Then he tied
her up, smeared her body with Crisco oil,
and forced her to blow Boozer. He then
stepped up to the plate and fucked her with
the baseball bat.
Donald Brown of Columbus, Ohio, was
another Mickey Mantle of marital violence,
swinging at his wife Jacquelynn with a
Louisville Slugger, beating her almost every
day over a thirteen-year marriage, making
her face swell so badly that she once had
trouble drinking a glass of water. Like Paul
Snider, Donald hated to be separated from
his wife. There was a week-long stretch in the
late eighties when he kept her as a prisoner
of love, fitting her with a dog collar and
chain, raping her asshole, cumming and
pissing in her mouth while forbidding her
from pissing or shitting herself, whipping her
with a coat hanger and a wooden stick,
shitting on a plate and cramming it down
her maw….But still, she didn’t love him.
She left him.
And he kept chasing her. Donald caught
up with Jacquelynn at a Greyhound ticket
window in Canton, throwing her against a
wall so forcefully that one witness thought the
bus station would collapse. Jacquelynn ran
out into the parking lot. Donald darted after
her. She jumped into her car. He started
pulling her out. She turned around and killed
him with two quick .32 slugs. Because he
was dead, Donald found it difficult to
continue beating and raping his wife.
Comprende, ladies? Force only succumbs
to greater force. The easy availability of lethal
weaponry provides women with the physical
prowess which evolution cruelly denied them.
Aided by pistols, Mace, and stun guns,
women can now bully themselves toward
sexual equality—or even supremacy. Good
luck to all parties involved. I’ll enjoy every
minute of the blood bath.
I only admired my father once, on a
bright spring afternoon when he goofed on
my pussy-whipped uncles. “Theresa won’t
even fuck Arnie unless he mows the lawn,”
he grumbled as we rolled through suburban
Philly in his plumbing van, which resembled
a crushed-up beer can on wheels. “All of
your aunts are that way. They tell your uncles,
‘If you don’t take out the trash, you don’t get
in my pants.'” Dad sniffed with distaste and
continued. “That’s disgusting. I’d never swal¬
low my pride just to get some pussy. I’ll go out
and get a hooker before I stoop that low,” he
said with stern resolve. It was a rare and
oddly beautiful moment of father-son bonding.
And it’s probably the only crumb of wisdom I
ever gleaned from the old cocksucker.
I don’t think my soused pere was saying
that women deserve to be mistreated. To me,
his slurred sermon preached the opposite, that
NO ONE should accept abuse, male or
female. If you take it once, you’re a victim.
Twice, you’re an idiot.
Love often turns to poison. It can go from
hickeys and footsies to ambulance stretchers
and CPR. As they haul you into the meat
wagon, think back to your first kiss. That first
breezy summer night together. Your perfect
honeymoon. The first time he broke one of
your teeth. When you stood at the altar
pledging “for better or for worse,” I’m sure
you didn’t picture his bulging cock rammed
down your throat at four a.m. Or the time he
raped you while you were on the toilet trying
to shit.
Things usually get worse. People break their
promises. Love fades, but the passion doesn’t.
When his gloved hand muffles your screams as
he squirts his gunk up your bleeding asshole,
try to remember the good times.
