The mantras of “war on women,” along with “systematic institutionalized racism,” have been the cornerstone of Obama’s policy of divide and conquer. Barry the Omega Man has persistently strived to prove that he is just “one of the girls” in order to gain the coveted female vote. His propaganda machine exploits imaginary issues, which are dear to the hearts and minds of the most radical of the radical feminists.
You may remember how Mitt Romney’s phrase “binders of women,” said during a public presentation, was immediately explained as a sinister intent to “dehumanize” women (while all Romney meant was that his office at the time had the information about many women). An even odder choice was Sandra Fluke, a standard-bearer of Obama’s agenda, who became famous for demanding that other people pay for her contraceptives. Anyone who disagreed with her was fighting women. The supporters of that over-aged “student” failed to notice that the amount of contraceptives she demanded was enough to keep a well-staffed whorehouse in Reno running for months.
Now Ms. Fluke is forgotten or at best seen as a fluke in the campaign of an incompetent President. However, the propaganda machine is still running and it needs new heroes. It even becomes more aggressive and from a defender of women from imaginary attacks, it turns into a tool to fight men. The recent disturbing surge in false rape accusations, which are widely circulated as truth by the liberal media, are a proof of that disturbing trend.
Take for example Lena Dunham. She is a celebrity-du-jour, at least one step above the Kardashians, because she has her own real HBO show – “Girls,” which I haven’t seen (and that’s an unintended bonus from cancelling my HBO channel years ago). As it is often the case, the desire of the publishers to milk the fleeting fame of such young “starlets” results in horrible biographies or memoirs of people, who never had a life worth covering (the Olsen Twins and Justin Bieber anyone?). Lena Dunham is not an exception. Random House published recently her “memoirs” Not That Kind of Girl: A Young Woman Tells You What She’s “Learned”.
Soon after that the esteemed author got into trouble with Ben Shapiro from Truthrevolt.org. He noticed some disturbing parts in the book describing Lena’s relations with her kid sister. Putting it mildly, she described actions, which could land a person in a court of law defending himself or herself against molestation charges. Despite the fact that Shapiro quoted the exact passages, Lena was still furious and threatened him with a lawsuit. (Looks like the cutting-edge feminists are above the law.)
It turned out there was more – Breitbart revealed that the book also contained accusations of rape, committed by an easily identifiable person:
The man identified as “Barry One” in a Breitbart News investigation debunking Lena Dunham’s story of being raped in college by a “mustachioed campus Republican” named Barry, has made his first official statement since the release of that report. Through his attorney, identified as Aaron Minc, Barry One has set up a legal fund to cover current legal expenses, clear his name, and to potentially file suit against Ms. Dunham…
“All proceeds will be spent by Barry on legal costs and related fees associated with defending Barry’s reputation,” the statement reads, “including, but not limited to, potentially pursuing Lena Dunham and Penguin Random House for harm caused to Barry’s reputation from the publication and sale of Ms. Dunham’s memoir.”
At that point I decided that I had to read the book to form a fair opinion about Ms. Dunham. I admit – it was a torturous experience. Musings of an empty-minded girl with an empty life. Other than the escapades with her sister, she was involved in eating cold pizza; maintaining a messy room; turning to veganism; kicking out her father regularly from the family bed in the middle of the night to sleep with her mother and many other little things, which could hardly keep the reader’s attention. No matter how hard she tries to look disturbed, her boring privileged life can’t turn her into a new Holden Caulfield; neither can her (or her ghostwriter’s) lackluster writing make her a new Salinger.
She compensates for mediocrity by trying to be shocking, but that doesn’t help either. We are told that she learned about the concept of rape at an early age (sorry, no page numbers, I am quoting the Kindle edition):
When I was seven I learned the word “rape,” but I thought it was “rabe.” I pronounced it like the playwright, not the broccoli, and I used it with reckless abandon. One afternoon as I read on the couch, my two-year-old sister toddled over to me, her balloon-printed pajamas saggy in the butt from a dirty diaper. Oh, the injustice of having to live with a child. Grace, wanting desperately to play, grabbed at my feet and ankles. When that failed to elicit a reaction, she began to climb me like a jungle gym, giggling that baby giggle.
“Mom! Papa!” I screamed. “She’s rabing me! She’s rabing me!”
The dirty diaper stopped Lena from responding in her proper way. Her obsession with rape rears its ugly head a couple of years later when she is with her Irish nanny Noni coming back from school (Lena feels compelled to tell us that Noni couldn’t open properly her mouth due to jaw damage in a car accident). When a newspaper vendor looks at Lena, she whispers at Noni: “I think he’s trying to rape me.”
Though she claims she is attracted to jerks, they still need to have something “progressive” in their views:
Mike was the first person to go down on me, after a party to benefit Palestine, on my dorm room rug. I felt like I was being chewed on by a child that wasn’t mine.
Who could’ve suspected that a PLO weapon-buying party could induce such a powerful desire for oral sex? Though Lena digs jerks, her positive feelings don’t extend to creepy guys on the wrong political spectrum, like “Barry,” who was already mentioned:
Barry, Audrey and I agreed, was creepy. He had a mustache that rode the line between ironic Williamsburg fashion and big-buck hunter, and he wore the kind of white Reeboks last seen in an ’80s exercise video. He worked part-time at the library, and I would often see him skulking along the aisles, shelving books in the wrong places. In social settings, he commanded attention with his aggressively masculine physicality and a voice that went Barry White low. There was a story about him punching a girl in the boobs at a party. He was a Republican. All reasons to avoid him and to wonder why they let him into the living room of Renson Cottage so much.
I can almost imagine the OTHER Barry – the Oval Office Barry – reading the description and nodding approvingly with a toothy smile.
Still, Lena can’t resist him after a party (just a regular debauched party, not a gathering in the name of a holy social cause):
Barry leads me to the parking lot. I tell him to look away. I pull down my tights to pee, and he jams a few of his fingers inside me, like he’s trying to plug me up. I’m not sure whether I can’t stop it or I don’t want to.
She doesn’t specify whether he jammed his fingers in before or during the peeing process – regardless of the sequence, this is a picture you can’t unsee, no matter how hard you try. Then she brings Barry to her place:
Now Barry’s in my place.
Now we’re on my floor, doing all the things grown-ups do. I don’t know how we got here, but I refuse to believe it’s an accident.
Now he’s inside me, but he’s only sort of hard. I look onto the floor, by his pale bent knee, and see he’s taken off the condom. Did I tell him to wear a condom? The condom came from my first-aid kit. I knew where that was, he didn’t, so I must have crawled for it. A choice. Why does he think it’s okay to take it off?
I come to a little, realize this is not a dream. I tell him he has to put the condom back on. He’s not hard, and now he’s going down on me, and he’s pushing his dick in my face. It feels like a finger without bones.
I moan, as if to say, I like this, so much.
He calls me baby. Or says, “Oh baby,” which is different.
“Do you want to make me come?” I ask.
“Hunh?” he asks.
The next day Lena shares the experience with her friend Audrey, who expertly whispers: “You were raped.”
Lena is not sure about what exactly happened, but is inclined to find the statement credible (as would be any man-hating radical feminist). Since this is a memoir and her life chronology could be checked easily, the Oberlin Barry can be easily identified. The legion of dimwits, who worship Lena, could make his life miserable (not to mention the authorities that could open a rape investigation). So when Barry starts to fight back, the defamers grudgingly react:
She then goes on to describe the incident in a good deal of detail, and as a Breitbart story by John Nolte notes, there is an easily identifiable Oberlin conservative from that era named Barry; indeed, that Barry has already been identified as the person from Dunham’s book by many people. But the Breitbart story also notes that many other details don’t add up, and that the allegations about Barry may thus be inaccurate…
TheWrap now reports that Random House has put out a statement exonerating this Identifiable Conservative Barry, and saying that the alleged rapist wasn’t really named Barry at all:
“As indicated on the copyright page of Not That Kind of Girl by Lena Dunham, some names and identifying details in the book have been changed. The name ‘Barry’ referenced in the book is a pseudonym. Random House, on our own behalf and on behalf of our author, regrets the confusion that has led attorney Aaron Minc to post on GoFundMe on behalf of his client, whose first name is Barry.
We are offering to pay the fees Mr. Minc has billed his client to date. Our offer will allow Mr. Minc and his client to donate all of the crowd-funding raised to not-for-profit organizations assisting survivors of rape and sexual assault.”
Naturally, the publisher will try to keep cashing on the controversy for as long as possible. But the whole thing is confusing – if this actually was a memoir, the events and people (though under different names) need to reflect accurately reality. If Lena’s life was so boring that she had to pad it up with phony stories like the Seinfeld’s J. Peterman, that speaks volumes about her and her publisher’s “integrity.” The big problem is that an innocent person suffers due to the desire of that useless woman to be interesting and original.
The saga continued (h/t BCF):
On November 3, National Review’s Kevin Williamson published a profile of Dunham that included a short interview with Barry One. Williamson writes:
It takes me about two minutes to discover a Republican named Barry whose time at Oberlin coincided with Dunham’s. A few minutes later, I know a great deal about him: Where he works, where he lives, what he majored in, his high-school-prom plans, people we know in common, and other surprising intersections between our lives. When I call him at his office, I get the distinct impression that I am not the first reporter to have done so. “I don’t have anything to say about what I know you’re calling about,” he says. We speak very briefly, and he is concerned that I will use his name.
Dunham was aware of Williamson’s piece. Incredibly, rather than exonerate this man, Dunham took to twitter to attack Williamson.
Lena Duhman knew.
Lena Dunham said nothing.
Instead, she let this poor man twist in the wind for more than six weeks until the threat of a lawsuit finally forced her People to do the right thing. Minc told THR that for two month he’s been asking Dunham’s representatives to clear his client’s name.
Lena Dunham is not an isolated case – she is simply a very public face of the fictitious “war on women” and its equally fictitious main element – the “rape culture.” In the sick mind of the militant feminists, the latter permeates every fibre of our society and is displayed in everything men do. Even the 9-year old Lena felt that the newspaper vendor was trying to rape her with his eyes.
The problem is that those delusions don’t simply reside in their heads – they crawl out and poison everything through imposing absurdities in our daily lives. The obsessive search for micro-rapes in the “oppressive Western patriarchy” blinds us to the horrors of the real dangers. The old-school feminists (yes, they still exist) have been warning us for decades about the plight of Muslim women, but the militants see that as one of the charming features of their culture. In such environment, it is naturally that the systematic rape of 1,400 children in the UK city of Rotherham by Muslim savages would go unnoticed.
It’s no wonder that the typical Western male has no chance in that war. Many still remember the Duke University case, when a psychotic black hooker falsely accused three of its lacrosse team players of rape. The university and the local judiciary turned against the students and it took them years to clear their names. The old racist extortionist Jesse Jackson even promised scholarship to the hooker, whether her story was fabricated or not.
Recently Rolling Stone magazine tried a similar scam, publishing a leading story about “Jackie,” a student, supposedly gang-raped at an UVA fraternity. They didn’t even bother to check the story of the other side, because everything “sounded right.” After publicly humiliating the unfairly accused, the magazine was forced to admit grudgingly that no rape took place. That didn’t stop the warring feminazi – they maintained that every accusation should be taken at face value and the accused men must be considered guilty until proven otherwise, as the following “bright mind” explains (h/t BCF):
This is amazing. Even as Rolling Stone’s alleged gang-rape story falls apart, and The Washington Post published several articles on Saturday putting the facts out that collapse the allegations, the Post website still contains an article titled “No matter what Jackie said, we should automatically believe rape claims. Incredulity hurts victims more than it hurts wrongly-accused perps.”
Feminist and MSNBC analyst Zerlina Maxwell doesn’t care about the facts, only about the quote-unquote larger picture of a rape culture. This is the triumph of ideology over evidence, emotion over science. All these people who lectured about McCarthyism and Arthur Miller’s play on the Salem witch trials are chanting that the evidence is less important than the allegation…
[She said]…This is wrong. We should always believe, as a matter of default, what an accuser says. Ultimately, the costs of wrongly disbelieving a survivor far outweigh the costs of calling someone a rapist. Even if Jackie fabricated her account, UVA should have taken her word for it until they could have proved otherwise.
The accused would have a rough period. He might be suspended from his job; friends might de-friend him on Facebook. In the case of Bill Cosby, we might have to stop watching, consuming his books, or buying tickets to his traveling stand-up routine. These errors can be undone by an investigation that clears the accused, especially if it is done quickly.
That stupid woman is beyond salvation (that’s why she works for MSNBC) – she considers Facebook de-friending a harsh effect and fails to notice the devastating consequences from the fake accusations on the accused and their families. People like her practically call for abandonment of the judicial principles established by our civilization. They advocate the return to the worst medieval practices of witch hunting with the only difference being that instead of witches, the targets are men. And in the brave new feminazi world that is perfectly normal.
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