“Mostly, the Rude Pundit doesn’t give a shit what you have to say.””
My sentiments, exactly. Why? Because it is a hard freakin’ job to unpack all these thoughts in any semblance of reason, of order. You know what the web is? One big tangled snare of thoughts. Most of them boring, yes, but that’s because nobody thought them, they just sort of—laid them, like a chicken lays an egg. Oh sure, the hen is proud, damn proud. Keeping chickens is an education. Keeping any sort of animals in numbers is a farkin’ education, as is observing the behavior of your fellow keeper.
The worst damn thing you can do is say what you think. Especially if you are A: a woman, B: smart, and C: given to marrying stupid men. Men with lots of money who the very last thing they want to do is pay any to you. Who, if they find this blog and figure out who I am, will drag it into court along with the rest of their little kit full of Reasons I Am A Bitch. And should therefore proceed at a whole lesser standard of living? Well, that just goes without saying. Should in the very least suffer some sort of direct punishment, not from God, mind you, but from Little God.
Ah, wot the hell. Is there a woman alive who hasn’t watched some guy pull rank, and over her. I’m not saying anyone gets a pass, but you’ve got to be in a special position—weaker, smaller, sicker, poorer, littler or otherwise dependent upon—to know the the pissant will-to-power that is testosterone gone bad. Like turned milk. It’s curdled, in his head, so bad he doesn’t know it. If you call knowing, admitting into reality. What did I do? I went about my business. As a woman. An artist, a writer. What did he do?
Why, we know now. To keep our eye on the dollar. We learned the hard way: follow the money. This is the answer to every question that makes no sense, that is contrary to life, that fills the headlines. That built the house of Tom De Lay, that hid the evidence of Condoleezza Rice, that threw the flowers of Donald Rumsfeld, that waved the flag of Swift Boat vets, that … you know what? I don’t think I can take it anymore.
This is the house that lies built.
