Monday, March 24, 2008

Amnesty Means Amnesty...

... according to the DC Police, who starting today are going door to door, politely asking that you give up any self-defense firearms you may have, and let them rifle (!) through your sock drawer looking for hash while they're at it. They really want to go through your children's sock drawers, though. Oh, and anything they find that can be tied to a crime will lead to, uh, charges and arrest. Not much amnesty, that.

Now look, I'm sure they mean well. Very few people try to take away your rights without first convincing themselves that they're really doing you a favor. But let's not sugarcoat this. DC has some nasty unsafe parts, and if you live in them, you should have a gun. Period. If you think that, when that burglar / nutjob /rapist breaks into your house, that that 911 call is going to save you, you're wrong.

But take this in context, too. Thanks to District vs. Heller, Columbians (?) are within weeks of being able to legally defend themselves with firearms again, for the first time in 30 years. Why would the district government suddenly, right now, be in a mad rush to gather up all the guns? Doesn't this seem like really odd timing?

Personal firearm ownership is a distinctly American right. It represents the confidence in the common man to be able to stand up against the tyranny of the mob and the tyrant. Without it we would be just another nation of serfs. I own a gun, certainly not because I want to ever shoot anything, but because I feel it's my responsibility as an able-bodied male of fighting age to do so. And I keep it in Virginia, where it is safe and legal.

When the MPD knock on your door, tell them this: "No, thank you, officer, brave Americans fought and died for me to have my rights, and I think I'll exercise them, thanks. But thank you for keeping us all safe, and have a good evening." Maybe even give them some hot chocolate. But they're drinking it outside.

Wednesday, March 19, 2008

Friday, March 14, 2008

The Oldest Profession For A Reason

Thanks to Eliot Spitzer, the media's ablaze with the subject of prostitution. But most people don't have a clue what they're ranting about.

Is prostitution about an uncontrollable desire for sex? Men are uncontrollable horn-dogs, starved to the point where they'll pay through the nose for the kitty, right? Hardly. There are very, very few cultures in the world where prostitution is even grudgingly accepted and sex out of wedlock (for men, at least) is forbidden or even difficult. The fact is, if you want to bang, there's always someone else out there who wants to bang. It's all a matter of a) how much you're willing to put forth effort towards it, and b) the standards you're willing to apply to your partner. This is why, near any military base, there will be at least one well-known dirty watering hole, whose only real purpose is to match up smelly, tired young single sailors who have neither the cash to woo a real girl nor the private room to bring her back to, with Brunhilda the ham monster, who thoughtfully has already put fresh blankets on the seats of her van in the parking lot.

So, is it about sex with really, really hot chicks? No, not really either. First of all, there's the long record of Hollywood stars, who can already bang hot bimbos at will, paying for sex from rather homely whores. Second, if you actually go down to the Red Light District, you'll see most of the girls, they're not exactly 9's and 10's. Let's face it; a serious knockout can get plenty of men to give them cash and shiny things without a contractual obligation to respond with blowjobs (although that sort of attitude predisposes them to become prostitutes - see below). And most of what you do with an everyday hooker is going to be in the dark, probably while drunk, and whether or not she could model in Vogue is not going to be the subject on your mind.

Then there's the meme that it's all about power. See, men get a thrill from the sex trade because of its denigration of women: he makes a call, she shows up, he shows the cash, she does the business. He owns her. Yeah, OK, no. It's a popular idea because it reinforces the feminist notion that all prostitutes, no matter how willing, are victims of gender slavery, subject to the whims of the stronger sex that keeps them subjugated. My, they're almost as trapped as stay-at-home moms. Look, you need to stop watching blaxploitation films. Read the Pajamas Media artlicle as it tries to defend this - it masterfully contradicts itself. Girls become prostitutes because they want to, not because they have to. They could make a living doing something else, but they don't want to. They like hooking. They generally enjoy sex, and they really like hoodwinking dumb men.

The reality is, it's about attention. Married men aren't running off to corner skanks (or college interns) because they're devolved sex fiends, drunk with the human form, or control freaks. They do it because their wives aren't paying any attention to them. It's not Jack Spratt, whose wife has always domineered him, looking to turn the tables on some unsuspecting floozy. It's Clark Kent, who knows Lois used to worship him in public and in the bedroom, but now only seems to want to talk about how the Parkers down the street refinanced their house to put in a new bathroom. It's not about getting fucked. It's not about getting fucked by a hot 20-year old. It's about getting a hot 20-year old to act like they think you're groovy. Ask any guy: which would you really rather be, Governor of New York, or college football star quarterback? You want to know why? Because hot chicks swoon over quarterbacks, not politicians.

And this is why the girls get into it. Girls a cut above have generally been snookering men to get what they want since they left junior high school. They didn't have to take it up the ass, they could just play with their hair a little, maybe invade personal space a bit, and once they got the concert tickets / diamond earrings / 3rd period math homework they needed, a giggle about being such a good friend and twirl on the heels and they were off to the next sucker. Think about the hottest couple you knew in school; the guy was in it because he got so much face time from a really hot chick, the girl really, really enjoyed her friends seeing her with a good catch. (This is a big part of why even young men sneak around and women almost never do.)

Prostitution, then, is just the distilled version; by pretending to be impressed and interested by the client, sometimes for as little as a few minutes, the hooker gets an immediate cut of cold cash. The highest cost service, almost without fail, is vaginal penetration, not because it is brings more physical joy than a masterfully played rusty trombone, but since its inherent risk of pregnancy lends the illusion of commitment the most sincerity. (Fun fact: if singing karaoke carried the same pseudorandom chance of dramatic, permanent life change as sex, men would pay girls to come up to dirty hotel rooms and belt out Showtunes. Ok, they might masturbate too.)

This is why the kinkier stuff, even if it's devoid of any recognizable sexual content, makes sense. Sure, you can use the power argument for men that pay to be tops. But what about the ones that want to be bottoms? What about the ones that want a handjob from a girl dressed like a panda? What about the ones that want to have belts pulled tight round their necks while hot wax is poured on their nuts? It all boils down (literally, in the last case) to having a girl so willing to please you that she'll go to those lengths. Well, except for the furry stuff; that shit is just wrong.

So is prostitution wrong? I'd still say yes, but probably not for the reasons you'd think. Prostitution still tends to bring the charming halos of drug abuse, assault, child kidnapping and slavery (especially outside the US.) But then again, those are vices of the girls themselves, or between the girls and their pimp/madam, not between the girl and the client, and the enabling factor for such evil behavior is not the sex, but the fact that it is illegal and unregulated. Go to Rotterdam (or even Vegas) and try to pick a fight with a call-girl, and it's not the pimp's enforcers you need to worry about, it's the Long Arm of the Law, which is far, far more effective. Prostitution being illegal, or even stigmatized as immoral, lends more to the actual negative consequences than any amount of paid ATM does.

Really, the biggest downside to prostitution is that it is a youth-limited industry, as much as professional sports, pop singing, and acting. There are no genuine, long term marketable skills involved. Sure, some people get really good or really lucky and can make a career out of it, usually by branching into management and coaching. But for most, as discussed in the Pajamas article, after a while, their physique and their charms fade, and even if they can hit a baseball 300 yards, or cram it in their cooch, no one's interested any more, and their career is over. And any industry where most of the participants are doomend not to stagnation but to abject failure is inherently stupid. Then again, prostitution actually is excellent training for an acting career, although I think it usually works the other way 'round.

Plus, let's face it, the total insincerity of it nullifies the benefit. If the same amount of cash gets the same treatment, regardless of the man involved, then the woman's not really paying any attention at all. In the end, prostitutes really are just for virgins in a mighty hurry to back up their lies.

(Oh, and sailors on shore leave. But let's face it, after a few months at sea they're subhuman anyway, and you should be happy to have any of them boosting the local economy at the brothel, and not out crudely humping your daughter, your wife, or your mailbox.)

Thursday, March 13, 2008

Perverts From The Future

Gizmodo is nice enough to link to a video of what they call a robotic White Boy Dance:

Apparently, they didn't notice the bulging, swirling, uh, midsection. Sure, you could say this was just the simple drive mechanism for what really is a pretty crude automaton. Or you could see it as the inevitable precursor to the terror of the Rapist Robots.

Sunday, March 09, 2008

God, I Love This Country

Chinbeard FTW.

Edit: for the record, I posted this -before- Instapundit, thank you very much. I was apparently behind the Manolo on the Ukrainian Army chicks meme, though.

Saturday, March 01, 2008

Dance Of December Days

In the dream she’s 12, which would have to make me barely 11. I can feel the grass tickling my ears; she has my arms pinned to the ground with her knees. At this point she’s got me by six inches and more than a few pounds, so it wasn’t a fair fight from the start, but I don’t care. I’m looking up at her, with the evening sun filtering through her disheveled hair, and it’s like looking at a goddess.

“I can’t believe you said something like that, “ she says, rolling off of me so we can brush the lawn clippings off our clothes. It’s been so long I can’t remember what I said, but it was good. Something about having centipedes in her snatch or something along those lines. The shiner I can feel already beginning to swell was well earned.

“You know I was just trying to get your attention,” I reply.

“No, I know that, I just forgot we were already talking like that.” She’s giggling as she tries to tie her hair back up. Stupid girl.

It’s the point in the dream where I climb the playground set, so I walk over and make my way to the top and lean over the railing to face the sunset. She follows behind, of course, throwing her arms around me. She’s got a white short-sleeved shirt on with goofy puffy shoulders. If I remember right that’s what I started making fun of her for in the first place. Now the cotton has grass stains. I can feel the silly little lace on her sleeves and her loose hair on my neck.

“It worked, you know.”


“It got my attention. All your stupid games. I hated you so much I couldn’t stop thinking about you. You’re the reason I got that C in French class.”

“I thought it was because you sucked at French.”

“Shut up,” she laughs, and gives me a little kick in the heel. She’s got me pinned the railing, so it’s not like I’m going anywhere. Not like I’d ever try.

“It’s so romantic up here. It even makes me horny.” She presses up on my back and wiggles.

“Cut it out,” I scowl. This is not that kind of dream.

When the sun goes down we’ll get down from the playground. I’ll walk her home and think about holding her hand. She’ll give me a playful peck and joke about how I taste like dirt. And then I’ll go home myself. We know how this plays out, that evening, the next day, the years to follow. It’s OK to remember only if you know where to stop.

“I would’ve married you, you know.”

“What?” This isn't the normal script. I turn around in her arms and see how serious she is.

“If you had asked me, back then, I would have married you. In a heartbeat. I wanted to spend my whole life with you.”

“And what would I have proposed with, a ring from a cereal box?”

“I would have taken it. Besides, we would have promised, and that would have been enough.”

“Bullshit. We were children. And besides-”

“I know, I know.” She’s shivering now and I’m forced to hold her to keep her warm. “I want to believe it, though. It’s so lonely here if I can’t believe it.” But little kids' promises wouldn’t have made a bit of a difference, and we both know it.

Her head’s on my shoulders and I can smell her hair. The scent of grass, but not the grass of the playground scuffle. It’s the scent of the grass we found her lying in, long afterwards, when she decided she’d had enough. I don’t want that smell in my nostrils, but I can’t pull away. I never could abandon her when she got like this.

Some days you thank God for the alarm clock.