Ammo Grrrll draws on her professional experience as she continues in GET A GRIP – A SERIES! Part 2: GRABBING AT STRAWS (One Sane Woman’s Take on Locker-Room Talk, from Boys and Sort of Grown Men). She writes:
Tens of thousands of women marched in Washington and other cities to protest the election of President Trump. Many wore little pink knit caps they called Pussy Hats. As we would say in Fargo or “up north” in Minnesota: “Oh, for clever.” What is it with left-wing women and their vagina fetishes, including, but not limited to, vaginas that talk to themselves?
Evidently these women have yet to recover from the universally condemned, horrible, no-good, very bad statement by Trump in 2005 that very rich men can have their way with women, including grabbing their lady bits. My problem with that endless hullabaloo was: Exactly what part of that would anyone who lives in the real world claim is untrue?
Trump didn’t even say he did it; he said he could, in kind of a “gee whiz, can you believe it?” tone. In private. Of course, nothing will be “in private” ever again for any of us. Remember that. Trump may or may not have gotten a grope; ladies, get a grip.
I was on the road for 30 years doing comedy. I witnessed hordes of women – waitresses, audience members, reporters – approach the “stars” with phone numbers, room keys, underwear, and equally subtle hints that they might be available for grabbing. And most comics approached were “nobodies,” like me, not major stars like Jerry Seinfeld or Larry the Cable Guy. Just average schlubs with a microphone, not billionaires.
Having never seen the Beatles live, the most egregious example of female hysteria I have ever personally witnessed – not counting MSNBC on election night – occurred in 1996 when I was emceeing a reelection rally for Democrat Paul Wellstone for Senate. (Yeah, I know…we all make mistakes.) Anyway, our big guest of honor at the rally was Robert Redford.
Imagine Mr. AG’s surprise when he opened the morning paper (“Red Star of the North”) and saw his wife’s picture right next to Mr. Redford’s on the front page, above the “fold,” promoting the event. I joked: “Does it say Hollywood leading man found in lovenest with local comedy icon?” In a word: No. Not even the “icon” part. Sad.
Robert Redford was 20 years younger then and so handsome in person that my driver and long-time friend, a divorced, robust heterosexual, whispered to me, “To the best of my knowledge, I have never had a single homosexual thought or impulse in my life, but I believe I could have sex with that man.” It was a funny line from a guy so secure that he could acknowledge how ridiculously beautiful the guy standing across the room was.
The rally proceeded and I introduced Mr. Redford, who was to speak briefly and then introduce Paul. The women in the auditorium acted like teenage lunatics, screaming and even shrieking out that they would happily sleep with him for a million dollars (the theme of a movie he had recently starred in). Nary a one would have been mistaken for Demi Moore any time soon, and I guarantee it wouldn’t have taken a million dollars for him to score. He looked disgusted and uncomfortable since he was serious and had come a long way to thank Wellstone for his work on the environment. He seemed, in fact, to be a very nice man.
When the rally ended, Mr. Redford and I were chatting near the back of the stage and a literal STAMPEDE of dozens of Democrat women – “feminists” one and all – rushed the stage, with the bigshots jockeying for position, knocking the lesser luminaries out of the way. As hired help, I wasn’t even a lesser luminary. The perfumed wave swept me aside, Mr. Redford disappeared into the tsunami of women behaving like drunks at a bachelorette party with male strippers, and I left.
Women are attracted to money, fame and power. It is a fact. The time-honored exchange has always been youth, beauty and sex for access to that money, fame and power. I am not saying it is right or fair, it’s just what IS. Even the ugliest male troll in Congress can get lucky with very little effort because of the “power” part. As for the money part, Donald spoke the truth, in what he thought was confidence to another rich boy eleven years ago.
My same limo-driving friend had once gotten serially lucky in New Orleans at a Super Bowl in which he told women in several bars that he was Sonny Jurgensen, whom he very vaguely resembled, and they believed him. Some football fans! See, that’s the “fame” part.
The ginned-up eternal outrage that followed Trump’s factual, if ill-advised, locker-room talk made me cringe far more than the sentiment he expressed. But that’s just me. Life has made me equally cynical where bad behavior of both men and women is concerned. I expect and await disagreement, but it won’t change my mind.
Though I have never been grabbed in the “pink hat,” when I worked with the 80 guys on nightshift, a co-worker from Italy pinched me on my bottom when I walked by. I said, “Please don’t ever do that again, Mario; I like you and don’t want to have to hurt you.” He apologized abjectly, almost tearfully, and it never happened again. Handled. No attempt to get him fired; no stupid lawyer-enriching lawsuits, no lifetime of therapy necessary. He was stunned to learn that, in America, bottom-pinching was not only unwelcome, but illegal! Mama mia! Several other guys then asked if they got one freebie pinch, too. No. But the request made me laugh. Why? Because it was funny; I’m not psychotic and can recognize joking when I hear it. How joyless the lives of those angry women must be! How tedious to be around them.
The decade-old “pussy-grabbing” statement is truly all the sore-loser women have got. So they have to keep returning to it again and again like sticking your tongue into a canker sore. Little pink hats today; what tomorrow? A little blue cap to represent the water the very married Teddy Kennedy left Ms. Kopechne to drown in? A little boat called the “Monkey Business” wherein the very married Gary Hart dandled Donna Rice on his knee? Or a little plastic ice cube pin for when Hillary’s pretend husband said, “Better put some ice on that?” And we haven’t even got to the despicable John Edwards yet. Be consistent, you silly, embarrassing hypocrites.