"Boy, these conservatives are really something, aren’t they? They’re all in favor of the unborn. They will do anything for the unborn. But once you’re born, you’re on your own. Pro-life conservatives are obsessed with the fetus from conception to nine months. After that, they don’t want to know about you. They don’t want to hear from you. No nothing. No neonatal care, no day care, no head start, no school lunch, no food stamps, no welfare, no nothing. If you’re preborn, you’re fine; if you’re preschool, you’re fucked." .. (George Carlin)
Yes, poor little old you. There we were, discussing rape, violence against women, systemic oppression and other manifestations of sexism, and you had to jump in to remind us that “not all men” do these things. Why don’t you really say what you want to say? “I HAVE NEVER RAPED/HIT/ASSAULTED A WOMAN!” Right? Isn’t this what you really want to say? Yes, make a discussion that is about the plight of MILLIONS of women about poor little old you. I mean, millions of women are being assaulted and oppressed, but you’ve never done it, so why are we making you uncomfortable with these discussions?
Brenda Wambui breaking down the ridiculous “Not all men!” phrase over at Medium. Top-notch work. (via itmac)
Brazilians are angry. Their government for is spending millions of dollars on an eight-week, World Cup event. They are angry that the money is desperately needed for education, sanitisation, hospitals and the eradication of violence, drugs and weapons from their streets.
"F*** FIFA" graffiti is appearing all over the city and just goes to show what the residents really think of the international sporting extravagance. Powerful.
A few weeks ago, my wife and I went for a walk down on the beach at twilight. It’s something we do every so often, because it’s the best time of day for such a thing, and the uninterrupted activity makes for better discussions. In Long Beach, the ocean is down 15 to 20 feet from the city proper (it’s why the collapse of the Antarctic Ice Sheet is NO BIG DEAL here), so you have to climb stairs to get back to the street once you’re done with your walk. On this particular evening, I emerged at the top of the stairs—chest heaving with breath, because I am still hideously out of shape, despite my current diet and exercise regimen—only to find a woman there, out for a run, waiting for a traffic light to change. She had a rape whistle wrapped around her right hand, and when she sensed my arrival—not hard, given my panting—her fingers tightened around it instinctively. She didn’t even look at me. She just did it.