|"When the dike breaks, fingers are of no use."|
(Quotation from the sayings of Hope Loewenstein."
Good for you, E. Jean Carroll, for suing Donald Trump for rape.
But lotsa luck collecting.
According to the New York Times, Carroll — a journalist who these days writes for Elle Magazine — me-tooed The Trumpster this past June, saying that over 20 years ago, he raped her.
The deed, she says, happened in a dressing room at Bergdorf Goodman, a posh department store within spitting distance of the Trump Tower where The Trumpster lives. Pardon, where he used to live, now that he claims he has given up his New York residency. (But note, he hasn’t given up the apartment.)
If you want all the alleged sordid details, suggesting that if you’re a woman alone in a department store and you see Donald Trump, you want to run like hell in the opposite direction, just go here. I’ll only quote one paragraph to you. (The “she” referred to is E. Jean Carroll.)
The sex scene in Bergdorf’s
He suddenly lunged at her, pushed her against a wall and kissed her, she said in the lawsuit. She pushed him away and he then pinned her against the wall, pulled down her tights and raped her. The attack she said lasted up to three minutes.
Sounds consistent with the now-famous “Grab ‘em by the pussy tape,” but what do I know? More interesting to me is that the entire act lasted “up to three minutes.” Which brings to mind the old joke involving the ditched boyfriend’s furious complaint:
“She said I was a lousy lover. How could she possibly know after only three minutes?”
I will not linger on this matter long enough to speculate on Melania Trump’s sex life with The Trumpster. So let’s wrap up this matter in the next paragraph.
I sorely, deeply, passionately hope that Ms. Carroll prevails in court, but I suspect the same dabblers in legal alchemy who insist that the President of the United States cannot be arrested for a crime will claim he also cannot be sued for a civil offense. (The criminally-prosecutable part of the alleged offense has passed into the Never-Never Land of the Statute of Limitations.) And now on to the terribly depressing fashion news.
If you ain’t always nekkid,
you’re polluting the atmosphere
Hey, that’s not my opinion. This comes from an author named Elizabeth L. Cline, writing in the Op-Ed Section of the Times. “Making, washing and tossing apparel has a big environmental cost,” said says the subhead over Cline’s article, summing up her thesis.
Alas, when you think about it for a bit, it’s pretty hard to disagree. Are you wearing wool? All those sheep that grow it for you are farting tons of methane. And then there’s the energy you need to burn when you truck the wool, and card the wool, and clean the wool, and weave the wool, and sew the wool, and truck it off to the store, and keep the store’s lights on so that Donald Trump has less of a chance of grabbing you in the dressing room, and…well, you get the idea.
Nylon? Rayon? Sooner or later when you throw it out, or you give it away to somebody, who gives it away to somebody else, who then throws it out…Plastic in the ocean! And before that, says the Times piece, some of those synthetic fibers were trees in the Amazon.
Cotton? You know how much water it takes to grow a T-shirt? Thousands of gallons, Cline reports. So much for organic clothing.
And when you wash your stuff — well, there’s the electricity for the washing machine. The water drained from the water table. And then the polluting detergents put back in the water table or a common waterway, and…well, it's all just too depressing.
So what’s a person to do? Winter’s coming. You can’t walk around in the raw, even if the cops would let you. And summer? The sun would turn your skin to cancerous crepe paper.
Here’s where I come out on that.
All we have to do is
get rid of people
None of this would be a problem of any significance if the human population of the planet were, say, 10 million. We, and our cows, and our sheep, could fart our heads off and nature would cover for us. We could drive gas guzzlers that get 15 miles to the gallon, and the trees in the no-longer raped Amazon would suck up and sink the carbon. We could pee in our local streams, smoke up the skies, and warm ourselves around roaring fires, and the Arctic ice shelf wouldn’t give a diddley-damn. Not if there were only 10 million people.
So all we have to do is reduce the human population of the planet by, oh, 90 percent or so, by lowering the birth rate. But of course, we won’t. So how can the problem be solved?
Trust Mother Nature. She’ll either unleash a massive plague, the Mother of All Ebolas, the Bubonic of all Bubonics, so rapidly, so unexpectedly, and so horribly murderous that we’ll all dissolve into a great mass of suppurating protoplasm before we can ask, “Which way to the disinfectant hose?"
Or she’ll keep unleashing Donald Trumps on us until half the Trumpsters fire nuclear weapons at the other half, and then vice-versa, resulting in the rapid depopulation of humanity.
It’s coming, because we humans can’t help doing what we do. And I’m not saying this just because the latest polls indicated that, even with declining support, The Trumpster could still win the Electoral College.
In fact, Donald Trump may be nature’s plan to destroy humanity. Just sayin.'