Nothing is more painful for a man than to admit he was the victim of female sexual assault, but I can remain silent no longer: In 1980 on an airliner somewhere over Arkansas, I was forcibly groped by the current Democratic nominee for president.
Traveling in my police uniform on official business, I’d been bumped to first class in Atlanta by a kindly desk agent who said her son was also a cop. An hour later we briefly stopped in Little Rock, Arkansas, and a woman in her early 30s took the empty seat next to mine.
I quickly introduced myself, but she hesitated before replying: “I’m, ahh, Pillory,” she said. “Pillory Minton.” The nightmare had begun…
I fell asleep immediately after takeoff – only to be jolted awake sometime later by a violent tugging on my…well, that private and sacred organ beneath my belt buckle. I think you know what I mean.
Pillory, wild-eyed and sweating, had covered us with a blanket and was muttering “Hot-diggety-dog, hot-diggety-dog!” as she went vigorously about her sordid business.
“What the hell are you doing?” I managed. “Shut up, big boy!” she hissed. “I love a man in uniform and I just can’t help myself!”
Bewildered, confused, I refastened my zipper, flung the blanket aside and stumbled from first class in search of a flight attendant.
“You don’t look well, sir. Are you all right?”
“That woman next to me, Pillory Minton, she just…”
“Oh, you mean Hillary Clinton, the First Lady of Arkansas. She’s the governor’s wife.”
Oh, what to do, what to do? Who were they going to believe – an ordinary cop or the First Lady of Arkansas? Trembling, traumatized, I took a seat in coach for the rest of the flight.
When we deplaned in Miami, Hillary Clinton caught my eye, put a finger to her lips, then passed the finger over her throat in a cutting motion.
Bruce Jenner has six kids by three wives, is worth $100 million, has loaded up on estrogen while having his Adam’s apple shaved, is considering having his testicles cut off and his penis transformed into a vagina and told us to call him Caitlyn when he came out as “a woman.”
And God help anyone who suggests there’s something funny about it.
God help me. I think it’s funny.
Bruce, Bruce, Bruce…If you want to spend your last decade or so on Earth as a woman, sort of, have at it. But why all the publicity? Why the cover photo on Vanity Fair as a glamour girl?
If it’s all that personal and sacred and important, why not just shut up and do it?
You want to spend your last few years as a woman? Hell, I’d like to spend my last few years as an African lion. A male African lion, which would allow me to keep my balls and my whanger.
I could even put on a lion suit and get on the cover of some magazine and tell the world, “Call me Leo – Leo the Lion.”
But I’m not gonna do that, Bruce, because I’m not a friggin’ African lion! I’m a human male with human male genitals and no matter how much I spend on the lion suit, nobody is going to call me Leo and really mean it.
What they’ll call me is a silly old man who should sit down and shut up and live out his life in the costume God gave him.
Except for a fleeting fascination at age 12 with “the gorilla woman” in a circus sideshow, I’ve always been more attracted to women who shave their legs, underarms and – when necessary – their backs.
The thing with people, however, is that we always go too far: Fully 50 percent of young women and young men said in a recent survey that they also remove or radically trim their pubic hair. (To limit damage to the gene pool I hope these men and women mate exclusively with one another.)
Humans may be at the top of the intellectual and food chains, but our animal roots are undeniable. We are going to have some hair, and our pubic area is as good a place as any to display it.
But did we stop with hair? Oh, hell no.
What began as an innocent and fairly ancient desire for whiter teeth has become an absurd obsession.
There are people, particularly in TV news and entertainment, who nearly blind us
when they open their mouths. It is as if the sun lives in their stomachs and rises in their throats, back-lighting and illuminating their choppers in an unearthly glow.
I’ve heard, that at an impromptu press conference with reporters accompanying him on his Hawaiian vacation, President Obama said he believes Christmas should no longer be called Christmas.
“Unfortunately, the word Christ is in it,” Obama said, “and many Americans – Muslims, atheists, witches – find that word offensive. C’mon, people, we’re better than that!”
The fear of giving offense, Obama said, is why his family does not exchange Christmas presents and rarely attends church.
“Look,” the president continued, “if we can call Thanksgiving ‘Turkey Day’ – which I strongly recommend – why can’t we call Christmas ‘Ham Day’? Muslims might find that offensive also, but it’s better than throwing Jesus in their faces every December 25th.”
“What about Easter, Mr. President?” a reporter asked.
“Easter? Oh…you must mean The Festival of Bunnies,” Obama said. “That’s a really fun holiday, and I love my hard-boiled eggs with lots and lots of salt.”
The president conceded that eliminating theword Christmas might be controversial,
especially when he issues an executive order banning it from all government publications: “But like I said, shoving Christ down the throats of Muslims, atheists and witches is just not the American way.”
The press conference ended moments later when Mr. Obama boarded the presidential helicopter for a flight to a nearby golf course. But reporters heard him exclaim, ere he flew out of sight…