Recently, the third rate comedienne to your left got up in front of a coven of her sister feminists at the Ms. Foundation for Women’s “Gloria Awards and Gala” and told them this enchanting tale about some hot college boy who had never shown any sexual interest in her until one glorious morning when he finally called her up and asked her to come on over. Being hot to trot, young Amy races to her beloved’s quarters…
“Finally, the door opens. It’s Matt, but not really. He’s there, but not really. His face is kind of distorted, and his eyes seem like he can’t focus on me. He’s actually trying to see me from the side, like a shark. “Hey!” he yells, too loud, and gives me a hug, too hard. He’s fucking wasted.”
Let that sink in. This dirtbag female actually admits that the guy is totally out of it, drunk as a skunk. He probably would have fucked a walrus, or even Marcia Pappas, at that moment, which means unless he’s into bestiality he is in no shape to decide what he does and does not want to do. That is the whole point of the idea that you shouldn’t have it off with people who are wasted – even if they seem enthusiastic they are not in control of themselves, their own minds, or their genitals for that matter. This is one of the few sensible standards promoted by feminism and one they strictly enforce when the wasted one is a female. When the semi-comatose partner is a male, not so much. Not surprisingly, devoted member of the sisterhood that she is, Amy didn’t let her victim’s near-catatonic state deter her….
“He put on some music, and we got in bed… His alcohol-swollen mouth, I felt like I was being tongued by someone who had just been given Novocain…His fingers poked inside me like they had lost their keys in there. And then came the sex, and I use that word very loosely. His penis was so soft, it felt like one of those de-stress things that slips from your hand? So he was pushing aggressively into my thigh, and during this failed penetration, I looked around the room to try and distract myself or God willing, disassociate…He started to go down on me. That’s ambitious, I think. Is it still considered getting head if the guy falls asleep every three seconds and moves his tongue like an elderly person eating their last oatmeal?”
To answer rape-woman’s question, yes it is still getting head – but it is also rape. If a man gets into bed with a woman who is so wasted she keeps falling asleep while trying to blow him, then it is rape, no matter how many times the girl with the sleeping brain tries to ride his dick. The same applies with the sexes reversed, at least to the just and logical mind. Not surprisingly, there has been no feminist outcry over Schumer’s rape confession, no flood of calls to the police from the harpies present at the Gala asking them to come on over and arrest the rapist in their midst, no petitions urging the D.A to look into what is a very clear case of rape, nothing. What there has been is some defending of this predatory female from that least surprising of sources, Manslug, who has recently renamed his blog “We Hunted The Mammoth,” presumably because he has finally realized that a fat guy who runs a blog called Manboobz is just asking to be ridiculed. In a lengthy and morally and intellectually tortuous post, Manslug claims straight out that what Schumer did is not rape, describing it instead as “a regrettable sexual encounter.” This is to be expected from a man who, if looks are anything to go by, is so desperate for a shag that he will do or say anything, no matter how vile, to get some female attention. It is also more evidence that Manslug is the scum of the earth — may some giant kid soon come along and pour a truckload of salt on him.
From other feminist quarters the silence has been deafening. Whether this can be taken as a silent agreement that Schumer is indeed a rapist or whether it is merely an attempt to kill the issue by denying it oxygen, I do not know. What I do know is that the lines can often be blurred when it comes to alcohol/drugs and consent. How much booze is too much? One drink? Two drinks? Five? Yes, the line can be hard to spot, but much in the same way that you don’t have to know exactly when you crossed the state lines to realize that once you are flying over the Brooklyn Bridge you are now in New York, neither do you need to know where the line is to know it has been crossed when the affected person has reached the point at which they keep passing out – even if they do keep trying to fuck you they are in no shape to know what they want. By this, one of the few reasonable feminist standards, this woman is a rapist, Ms Foundation seems to be supportive of rape, and David Futrelle is a rape apologist.
Full transcript of the rapist’s confession here, where it is described as a “Powerful Speech About Confidence” Yes, confidence that if you are a rapist who is also a woman the sisterhood will simply look the other way.