The other day I picked up a newspaper and found, page one, above the fold, that a three-star generalette in the Army, name of Claudia Kennedy, has her skivvies in a knot. It's because an unnamed he-general groped her years ago. Yep, he did. She says.
...Next day, so help me, another page-one piece: They had discovered the identity of the groper. Yes, there he was. Guy named Larry Smith. This revelation was treated as a great astonishment, as if the press had found Clinton in bed with his wife. The obvious question--"Who cares?"--eluded capture.
Now, why do you think Kennedy (some now call her Attila the Hen) is doing this? She's likely to destroy the guy's career, heterosexuality being in disrepute in the military, and she knows it. Groped? At her age you'd think she'd be grateful. Do we have overkill here? Revenge against the patriarchy? Generalized resentment against the unsatisfactory nature of life?
Who knows?
What vile act did Smith perpetrate? Did it involve a cattle-prod? Farm animals? Dunno. The papers did report a definition of harassment once given by Claudia the Combat-Ready: "His hand lingers on your back. He touches you on your upper arm and you can't tell if he's a touchy-feely person. All you know is that he gives you the creeps."
The horror.
Me, I'm trying to figure out the whole concept of sensitivity in generals. Generals are supposed to be warriors. I read that in a book somewhere. Here we have one coming unglued, positively delaminating, over something that middle-school girls handle every day.
I'm trying to picture a generalette at war. It's not easy. Historically women have not been warriors, but booty. (Why do you think all those guys with the swords and shields wanted to break into the city? Not to steal the crockery.) But I'm trying to be modern. It's not going well.
Let us say that Pyong Yang decides to acquire Seoul. Massed artillery cuts loose in January. Wind howls along those bleak Korean valleys with paddies frozen to steel. Bullets whine, wounded scream, arms and legs fly through the air like migrating birds. Remorseless North Korean infantry run around with those pointy things on their rifles.
And here comes General Kennedy charging across the landscape, yelling, "Squeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaak! Don't touch me!"