Sandra Fluke's America: War on women, by whom?

At the three-day abortion festival also known as the Democratic National Convention, that party’s celebrity victim du jour, Sandra Fluke, echoed the famous “Robert Bork’s America” speech that was once given by that founding member of Neanderthals For Choice, Ted Kennedy.

Fluke’s vision of a Republican-led American future was briefly stated, but nevertheless riddled with lies (“an America in which access to birth control is controlled by people who will never use it”), bigger lies (“in which politicians redefine rape so survivors are victimized all over again”), and dog-whistle code language (“in which someone decides which domestic violence victims deserve ‘help’” [i.e., abortion]). Well, if you find Fluke’s forecast alarming, just imagine what things will be like if she and her party prevail instead.

In Sandra Fluke’s America, women’s political opinions will be assigned to them by the news media and pop culture. A politician will be said to have a “good record on women’s issues” if he is pro-abortion, despite the fact that not even a plurality of women share that view. Tiny bands of shrill, logically-impaired activists will be called “women’s groups,” as if they represent 51 percent of the population, when in reality they might not even have 51 members.

Fluke’s friends will enable the serial abuse of women by politicians who support their cause. In defense of the Chief Neanderthal, “women’s groups” will invent a “one free grope” rule, which entitles a man to initiate any uninvited physical contact with a woman, up until the point where she manages to blurt out the word “no.” Women who bring accusations against him will be insulted, threatened and lied about, with the wholehearted cooperation of the liberal media.

Violent crimes, including murder, committed against pregnant women by their boyfriends and husbands will become common news stories, but the motives for these acts will go unmentioned. That’s because a story about a woman defending her unborn child from a man does not fit into the phony narrative of abortion as a conflict between female freedom fighters and their “anti-choice” male oppressors.

So-called “women’s clinics” will, as standard operating procedure, lie to women about the health risks from abortion, and about the development of the children they are carrying. They will decide that the contents of a woman’s own womb are none of her business, and therefore try to prevent women from seeing their sonograms. These clinics will routinely serve as accessories to statutory rape after the fact, because if they started blowing the whistle on the rapists, they would lose them as customers. Instead, they will help the perpetrators dispose of the tiny, living, human bundles of evidence.

The president of Sandra Fluke’s America will oppose the banning of sex-selection abortions, a common practice among people from certain cultures, which disproportionately kills baby girls. Fluke’s party will defend adults who transport minors across state lines for abortions in circumvention of parental consent laws. They will assume in such a case that the girl is “choosing” abortion, while basically being kidnapped by her rapist, or else by the parents of the boy who impregnated her.

The abortion issue will create a tacit alliance between these “women’s groups” and the most vile, misogynistic pigs in America. Fluke’s party will not even try to distance itself from an infamous publisher of violent pornography, who works on the party’s behalf to conduct opposition research on its Republican enemies.

Not only will women be expected to condone horrors like these, but they’ll be told to confine their political interests to a narrow range of issues assigned to them by their Neanderthal superiors. Women will be relegated to the political equivalent of the Thanksgiving kids’ table. “Leave issues like the national debt, foreign policy and homeland security to the grown-ups,” they’ll be told. “We’ll let you have your little ‘women’s issues’ to play with, just as long as you adhere to the assigned opinions, which conveniently relieve us of accountability for recklessly splashing our DNA all over the place.”

When women who object to this treatment turn to Fluke’s friends for help, they will only subject themselves to scorn and ridicule. That’s because in Sandra Fluke’s America, the women who presume to speak for all other women never fail to obey their male liberal masters.

If this whole scenario sounds familiar, it should. You see, we don’t need to imagine the “war on women” that would exist if Fluke’s Democrats ever implemented their social agenda, because they already have, and it already does.

-- Daniel Clark is a writer from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. He is the author and editor of a web publication called The Shinbone: The Frontier of the Free Press, where he also publishes a seasonal sports digest as The College Football Czar.

What’s with this War on Women crap? How about Obama’s bro and fundraiser Jay-Z? And Obama had this misogynistic scum bag in the White House. Check out the beautiful ballad below. Can you imagine what the press would do to Romney if he had such a fundraiser? And yes, Obama listens to this “art” on his iPod.

Jay-Z love song - Caution dirty lyrics.
[Jay-Z]
Uhh, uh uh uh
It’s big pimpin baby..
It’s big pimpin, spendin G’s
Feel me.. uh-huh uhh, uh-huh..
Ge-ge-geyeah, geyeah
Ge-ge-geyeah, geyeah..

You know I - thug em, fuck em, love em, leave em
Cause I don’t fuckin need em
Take em out the hood, keep em lookin good
But I don’t fuckin feed em
First time they fuss I’m breezin
Talkin bout, “What’s the reasons?”
I’m a pimp in every sense of the word, bitch
Better trust than believe em
In the cut where I keep em
til I need a nut, til I need to beat the guts
Then it’s, beep beep and I’m pickin em up
Let em play with the dick in the truck
Many chicks wanna put Jigga fist in cuffs
Divorce him and split his bucks
Just because you got good head, I’ma break bread
so you can be livin it up? Shit I..
parts with nothin, y’all be frontin
Me give my heart to a woman?
Not for nothin, never happen
I’ll be forever mackin
Heart cold as assassins, I got no passion
I got no patience
And I hate waitin..
Hoe get yo’ ass in
And let’s RI-I-I-I-I-IDE.. check em out now
RI-I-I-I-I-IDE, yeah
And let’s RI-I-I-I-I-IDE.. check em out now
RI-I-I-I-I-IDE, yeah

Chorus One: Jay-Z

We doin.. big pimpin, we spendin G’s
Check em out now
Big pimpin, on B.L.A.D.’s
We doin.. big pimpin up in N.Y.C.
It’s just that Jigga Man, Pimp C, and B-U-N B
Yo yo yo.. big pimpin, spendin G’s
We doin - big pimpin, on B.L.A.D.’s
We doin.. big pimpin up in N.Y.C.
It’s just that Jigga Man, Pimp C, and B-U-N B
[ Lyrics from: http://www.lyricsmode.com/lyrics/j/jay_z/big_pimpin.html ]
[Bun B]
Nigga it’s the - big Southern rap impresario
Comin straight up out the black bar-rio
Makes a mill’ up off a sorry hoe
Then sit back and peep my sce-nawr-e-oh
Oops, my bad, that’s my scenario
No I can’t fuck a scary hoe
Now every time, every place, everywhere we go
Hoes start pointin - they say, “There he go!”
Now these motherfuckers know we carry mo’ heat than a little bit
We don’t pull it out over little shit
And if you catch a lick when I spit, then it won’t be a little hit
Go read a book you illiterate son of a bitch and step up yo’ vocab
Don’t be surprised if yo’ hoe stab out with me
and you see us comin down on yo’ slab
Livin ghetto-fabulous, so mad, you just can’t take it
But nigga if you hatin I
then you wait while I get yo’ bitch butt-naked, just break it
You gotta pay like you weigh wet wit two pairs of clothes on
Now get yo’ ass to the back as I’m flyin to the track
Timbaland let me spit my pro’s on
Pump it up in the pro-zone
That’s the track that we breakin these hoes on
Ain’t the track that we flow’s on
But when shit get hot, then the glock start poppin like ozone
We keep hoes crunk like Trigger-man
Fo’ real it don’t get no bigger man
Don’t trip, let’s flip, gettin throwed on the flip
Gettin blowed with the motherfuckin Jigga Man, fool

Chorus Two: Bun B

We be.. big pimpin, spendin G’s
We be.. big pimpin, on B.L.A.D.’s
We be.. big pimpin down in P.A.T.
It’s just that Jigga Man, Pimp C, and B-U-N B
Cause we be.. big pimpin, spendin G’s
And we be.. big pimpin, on B.L.A.D.’s
Cause we be.. big pimpin in P.A.T.
It’s just that Jigga Man, Pimp C, and B-U-N B.. nigga

[Pimp C]
Uhh.. smokin out, throwin up, keepin lean up in my cup
All my car got leather and wood, in my hood we call it buck
Everybody wanna ball, holla at broads at the mall
If he up, watch him fall, nigga I can’t fuck witch’all
If I wasn’t rappin baby, I would still be ridin Mercedes
Chromin shinin sippin daily, no rest until whitey pay me
Uhhh, now what y’all know bout them Texas boys
Comin down in candied toys, smokin weed and talkin noise

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