I own many women. They may hate me. They might love me. Who knows? Who owns the past? I live in the today world even though my mind often travels to the past. I seem to get blamed for things that have nothing to do with me. Feminists tend to call up past injustices, but we live in a new world. Every male can claim as many female ancestors as any woman and you can add a gender switcheroo to those claims. I’m sure many women have more rapist in their family history than I do, as far as I know, I don’t have any. Many call the “damsel in distress” trope sexist, but it at least aimed testosterone toward a worthy target. Where do want the testosterone to go? We need to learn from history, not convict. I’m sure many girls have lousy dads, but the way some women apply Feminism makes me feel sorry for their sons. Maybe I should just enjoy the misery put to Feminist blood. I just want to clarify some stances, so people know the intent of my fiction and don’t apply too much about my main character to me, the author.
Horned out sailors often see Lay Lady Lay; been there done that. Lorelei, the siren in the rocks becomes the rock. Rocks mean danger, but they often save you. The hymn, “Rock of Ages,” speaks about the salvation in the rocks. You can see rocks as natures monument and they give you landmark when you find yourself lost. See beauty in every rock. Barrier islands like Amelia on the right give us protection from the storm. Mom is a rock, too. Throwing a small rock at a lover’s window means on thing and a big rock means another. Do I throw a rock when I see a rock on a blog? Yes, but I hope it lands soft. I think knowing your rocks is a good thing. Likes may inflate ego, but they don’t inflate talent. Rocks do. They called me Rocky in the Navy, part squirrel and part bashed up boxer. I know my rocks.
Percilla the Monkey Girl wins my heart. The supermodel, on the left, looks a bit ugly to me even when she waxes. The Percilla and Emmitt Bejano offer a unique love story. My lizard brain responds to supermodels, but it demands much less. Women make the rules and standards; men just go, “Doi-ng!” Feminism has two factions, those who exploit and those who hate exploitation. The first type has power enjoys their power over lizard; the other type wants to crush lizards. Lizards have a purpose, so have mercy on the lizard. Supermodels respect the less purrr-ty and have mercy on the lizard, too. People are animals and superficiality hurts all types of animals. PETA needs to stop the hypocrisy. Feminists go easy on the lizard; the lizard can’t help being a lizard. Think about all the baby lizards.
When you do it alone; you miss things. We try to play every role these days, only the rare birds can. I fail at detail and I need a Mary; some fail at the big picture and need a Lou. When I am weary and close to a dream state, I can create. Even when I’m wide awake, the where to put a comma escapes me. See the woodpecker, you can call him Elvis, he’s a rare bird. They call him a grail. Even people who may not care for peckers may want this one. The link does go to an Ivory-billed woodpecker; I’m not a Weiner politician.
Before the little blue pill, women had to charm the snake. Man had to see a woman as a sex object; it is how we made babies. Feminist talk about sexual objectification does leave out the obvious; men are just simple critters and women are simply complex. The Big Bang is popular because it shows even intelligent men behave off simple drives. I show Christina Aguilera because she has talent, money, and once played an innocent Mouseketeer. She’s not the first and not the last to perform such a photo-shoot. Is Ellen, the High Priestess of women now that Oprah stepped down? Is it politically correct for a straight man to ask a lesbian for a playbook? Who knows? First base.