Dear Attila: Your post about icky girl stuff was very amusing, in the "a-ha" smile-of-recognition way that only a man who has been married for 20 years could be amused.
My bachelor friends are mystified by my assurance that they don't know what love is. When your wife sends you to the store, when you stride boldly into the feminine hygiene products aisle in search of the specific brand and style, when you find it and then go to the cashier and purchase that package of Always[TM] Ultra Thin Regular without embarrassment or explanation -- well, that, my friends, is love.
And let's talk hormone-induced mood changes, shall we? I realize we're already well past National Offend A Feminist Week, but doesn't this inescapable biological reality argue strongly against the kind of sexual "equality" (identical and therefore fungible) that is the basis of feminist ideology?
As blatantly reactionary as it was for my friend G. Gordon Liddy to discuss Judge Sotomayor's nomination in this light, it's not as if the G-Man was just makin' stuff up. We're talking about a genuine, biologically-based difference, are we not?
Even a wise Latina from the South Bronx could have a bad day or two every so often. If one were disposed to entertain dramatic hypotheticals, what might happen if one day Associate Justice Sotomayor decided, mid-conference, to put an end to an argument from Chief Justice Roberts by . . . well, putting an end to Chief Justice Roberts?
Even if her aim were imperfect, an 11-round clip in a 9-mm Glock semi-auto would give her sufficient margin of error that the next ruling surely would be issued by a uninamous court, because the deceased Associate Justice Scalia could not write a posthumous dissent (in which the dearly departed Chief Justice and the late Associate Justice Thomas would certainly concur from The Great Courtroom in the Sky).
Well, as I said, if one were disposed to think hypothetically, such a ghastly scenario could be imagined, just as a hypothetically-minded person might ponder what might happen if one day a PMS-afflicted female pilot at NAS Pensacola decided to download the GPS coordinates for Rush Limbaugh's home in Palm Beach and . . .
Fortunately, I never entertain hypotheticals, nor do I have any imagination. And shame on those who do!
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