Even Numbers are Good

First there was 1, and then there was 2.

Obviously, 1 was a terrible mistake.

Even numbers are so much better than odd numbers. Even numbers can be divided peaceably whereas odd numbers are difficult. To divide an odd number, either it must be divided by another odd number or, worse, it must be violently exploded into fractions. Therefore, we must eradicate odd numbers for a more peaceful world.

Goldyrocks and the Chateau du Ours

Once upon a time there was a little girl named Goldyrocks. She was quite the little dickens. Not only was she cute as a button but she had an extraordinary skill.

She was an accomplished cat burglar!

But that’s not all. She had her own You Tube channel. When she would go on her heists, she’d bring along a cameraman. What a gal!

She was quite the sensation.

Nothing could stop her.

After dozens of heists her fan base was huge. But still she was not satisfied.

It so happened that there was this sort of Holy Grail of heists—Jewels beyond imagination but stored within an impenetrable vault. This vault was located within the infamous Chateau du Ours.

Goldyrocks was determined that one day the Jewels du Ours would be hers forever.

There’s one more thing that is important to know about Goldyrocks. She would go on her heists completely nude!

Naturally, her videos were positively riveting. In fact, they were so riveting that she received thousands of messages from her fans every single day. Of course, she had a whole staff to respond to each and every one of those messages. Goldyrocks loved her fans!

One day a message came in of particular interest. Here is what it said:

Dear Goldyrocks,

I am a huge fan of yours. I just love your videos. I think that you are amazing. I would like to help you get the Jewels du Ours. I have just what you need.

Sincerely,

Count du Ours, III

Naturally, a message such as this had to be hand-delivered to Goldyrocks personally. The lucky staff member was only too thrilled to do just that.

“I would like to handle this message personally,” said Goldyrocks.

Here is what she wrote:

Dear Count du Ours, III,

Of course I am interested.

How do I know that you are real?

Yours truly,

Goldyrocks

A response was received. Here is what it said:

Dear Goldyrocks,

Meet me at the Chateau du Ours, at the Southeastern Gate at 2400 hours. I will get you in.

Sincerely,

Count du Ours, III

There was no time to waste! Goldyrocks had to wax, buff, and shine her magnificently girlish body! Well, to be accurate, she had to lie still while her staff did these things for her. But lying still was really hard! She was so excited about the evening’s events.

Against all odds, she and her cameraman arrived at the Southeastern Gate at the appointed hour.

There was no one there. But wait, there was someone.

“Oh my goodness!” cried Goldyrocks. “Is that not the cutest little bear!”

“Good evening,” said the bear. “I am at your service.”

Goldyrocks was so surprised she was momentarily speechless.

“Wait,” she began. “Are you the Count du Ours?”

“I am indeed,” said the bear. “I am the third Count du Ours. My father is, however the Count du Ours.”

“But of course,” said Goldyrocks. “But why are you helping us?”

“I need to talk to you in confidence, Goldyrocks,” said the little bear.

Goldyrocks impatiently waved away her cameraman who walked a distance just out of earshot but still keeping her in view.

“What is it, little bear, I mean, Count?”

“I am a virgin,” said the bear gravely, “I shall give to you all my family jewels if only you could be my first.”

“But are these jewels yours to give?” asked Goldyrocks, not that she actually cared.

“They will be,” said the bear just as gravely.

“Okee Dokee,” said Goldyrocks. “That’s good enough for me. Sure, little bear, I mean, Count. I’ll be your first. Where do you want to do it?”

“In the Chateau, of course. I shall lead you to my room.”

“Oh Count,” began Goldyrocks. “I’m going to need to see the jewels first.”

“As you wish.”

The bear produced a key and unlocked the gate. Goldyrocks beckoned excitedly to her cameraman who ran to meet them.

Goldyrocks had a few words to say to her cameraman, and then they proceeded up the narrow and winding stairs, at the heels of the young Count du Ours.

I don’t suppose that I need to tell you that the sight of the gorgeous, nude, Goldyrocks climbing those dimly lit stairs was nothing short of ethereal.

The first stop was the master bedroom.

The young bear produced a key to open the ancient and heavy oaken doors, and lit a lamp.

“Is anyone else home?” asked Goldyrocks excitedly.

“Just I,” said the young bear, “The Count and Countess are not expected back until 0200 hours.”

Calmly and with dignity, the young bear leaped into the air and tapped a stone high in the great stone walls. Like magic, a panel slid open. Inside were the magnificent Jewels du Ours.

Goldyrocks didn’t want to waste any time, she inclined her head toward her cameraman, who, unbeknownst to the young Count, turned off his camera. Quickly, the cameraman stashed all the jewels in his bag.

“OK, Countee, where’s your bedroom?” cooed Goldyrocks.

“Right this way,” intoned the sad little Count and proceeded down the long, dimly lit corridor. Both Goldyrocks and her cameraman failed to notice that the little bear was weeping as he led the way.

“Wait,” said Goldyrocks. “What’s in this room?”

“That is the Countess’s room,” said the young bear.

“Can I look?” asked Goldyrocks.

Without a word, the young bear produced a key to open the ancient and heavy oaken doors, and lit a lamp, then another, then another, and another.

While the young bear composed himself, Goldyrocks stood in amazement.

“What a magnificent room!” she said.

Opulence was an understatement. Everything shone from the heavy, gilded silk drapes to the heavy, gilded silk bed covers to the rich, thick silk velvet rug. Tiffany lamps, leaded in gold, shone everywhere. A magnificent chandelier sparkled. For a moment, Goldyrocks forgot herself and just stood and stared. It was amazing!

“Shall we go to my room now?” whispered the little bear excitedly and now fully composed.

“Wait,” said Goldyrocks. “What is in here?” she asked, tapping a smaller heavy oaken door.

“That is the Countesses’s wardrobe, dear Goldyrocks,” responded the little bear.

“May I see?” asked Goldyrocks.

“As you wish,” said the little bear and kicked a stone at the base of the great stone walls. The door opened and the room lit automatically. “But we haven’t much time.”

“Yeah yeah,” responded Goldyrocks. “I just want to see.”

The array of gowns, cloaks, and shoes was absolutely dazzling. Goldyrocks stuck out her hand to touch the most sumptuous fur, vicuña, cashmere, silk, and linen.

The little bear was starting to get nervous.

“Could we please go to my room now?” he asked plaintively.

“Sure,” said Goldyrocks. “Let’s go.”

<Intermission>

“Good job,” said Goldyrocks to the cameraman as they sped out of sight in his sports car.

“No problem,” said the cameraman, “I just have two questions.”

“What’s that?” asked Goldyrocks.

“Before I burst into the room, what did the Count do when you yelled the magic word?”

“Which Count?”

“Both of them.”

“They were speechless with terror.”

“What did the Countess do when you yelled the magic word?”

“She fainted, of course.”

Can you guess what the magic word was?

I’ll give you a hint.

It starts with an “R”.

It ends with an “E”.

It’s only four letters long.

And now Goldyrocks has everything she’s ever wanted, and so, of course, she lived happily ever after.

The End.

Copyright 2014 Caprizchka

Postscript: This article basically makes the same point but for adults: http://www.avoiceformen.com/gynocentrism/rape-culture-culture-and-creeps

Thoughts on the oppression of sexual conformity

Not all women are the same (but being the odd woman out means no end of persecution from the “sisters”). Not all men are the same (but try telling that to the conformity police—it’s those darned sisters and their white knights again).

The notion that men want sex and women have it is more of that conformity-police language again. That said, I’ve got nothing against sex workers of all stripes—negotiation is just as necessary in relationships as it is in business and any fool can tell you that to be a good businessperson, one had better pay attention to the individuality of one’s customer/peer/colleague. However, I tend to be partial to the barter system myself.

Women my age (I’m not “allowed” to say how old because women are supposed to be so youth-obsessed that it defies rationality and traitors are similarly persecuted) are starting to realize that pussy isn’t a rare commodity after all, that women like me have been quietly defying the embargo since the Sexual Revolution. Of course they do realize—in private and behind closed doors—hence the beauty industry is doing just fine, with its trail of tears and broken dreams. But is that men’s fault? Or is that propaganda‘s fault?

In my view (and what I learned in public school), the elephant in the room is the supposed homogeneity of “class” in our “class-blind” society as if there’s such a thing as class-mobility amidst the broken dreams of celebrity, and that all we need are schools of indoctrination to magically produce that elusive commodity known as opportunity.

So, let’s see, we’re all the same gender, age, class…that means none of us have any individual value whatsoever! That’s bogus! Might as well just fuck a machine—they’re getting more and more sophisticated every day. Whereas fucking an actual human being? That has real value and it has the potential to create the most powerful force in the universe (in my humble opinion): an alliance. But it can’t be patented or homogenized. There’s no way to monopolize it or game the system. I like that! Not even with religion anymore. Not even with “science”.

If such an alliance consists of one leader and one follower I’ve got no beef. If it is all the same to me however, I rather prefer a world where the men—who tend to value individuality more than materialism in my little world—are the leaders. Naturally, that makes me a minority as it makes leadership-driven men a secret society of individuals—an oxymoron. But I’d rather be lonely than part of a herd.

If that means that my sex life consists of quality not quantity, so be it. Making sacrifices for values and ideals is what ideals are all about. Want to know something really funny? Many of my “sisters” think I’m terribly “oppressed” because I am grateful for the attention of a man who they all secretly want. I protect him simply by my presence and the general assumption that I “got my hooks into him” simply for being “beautiful” and I’m “selfish” not to reveal my “secrets”. Some “sisterhood”!

I’m so grateful for the attention of my hero that I don’t confine him to monogamy and he is indeed a generous soul. But it is true that I worry about him out there and he worries about me. But “security” is just another word for “shackles”. Ain’t I oppressed?

Pimping Bitches For Money: The Misogyny of Mocked Misogyny

Articulating why I despise White Knights a.k.a. Male Feminists.

American Idiocracy

So, I wrote this piece a few days ago and AVfM published it. It is about (among other things) how male sexuality is demonized/devalued. It is about how men need to learn self-respect and to value their selves in totality—including the importance of valuing their sexuality.

I wrote that men should stop giving away cock like it’s worthless. Perhaps if men valued their sexuality, they’d be less inclined to inundate women with emails, messages, and pick-up lines. Perhaps if men actually valued their sexuality, the ladies at Jezebel wouldn’t be so inclined to complain about all the free-cock oppression. Perhaps if men actually valued their sexuality, men wouldn’t degrade themselves by harassing, begging, and inundating women with dick pics and pleas for their attention and affection. Just sayin’…if men had self-respect, this wouldn’t happen. No self-respecting man is going to do such things.

It wasn’t a too terribly…

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Some thoughts on epistemic responsibility

I would like to personally thank the anonymous man who sat with an hysterical woman even if she herself is an idiot and ungrateful. I want to thank all the heroic men who have been there for me my entire Penelope Pittstop existence. Thank you! If I have ever seemed in the least bit ungrateful it was doubtless because I was clouded by my own mysterious and heady powers of being in the midst of my peak fertility years with no compelling female role models showing me the way. I had no idea that I wasn’t just a charming human being that men fell over themselves to assist and protect. What a fool I was. I believed all the lies.

What a nightmare it would be if women like “Themistokleia” were to replace real philosophers who aren’t necessarily ruled by the ruthless vagaries of biology.

What a nightmare it would be if there were no longer any men interested in being protective out of the misguided sense that women like “Themistokleia” are actually universal thought leaders.

Feminist Philosophers

[Trigger warning for discussion of assault]

Throughout my time as a philosopher, I’ve heard quite a bit of talk regarding ‘epistemic responsibility’ when it comes to discrimination, harassment, and assault. I’ve heard it much more frequently over the last few weeks, and so I feel compelled to say a few words about it. As it happens, I think I have a very different view of the nature of epistemic justification and the conditions under which agents can be said to have it than those who bring up epistemic responsibility in these sorts of conversations, but I want to address a slightly different question: What does moral responsibility require of us when allegations of discrimination, harassment, or assault are made? To be clear, what follows is not an endorsement of a presumption of guilt—rather, it’s an endorsement of action, sympathy, and compassion in the absence of certainty. It seems to me…

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Economic Imperialism a.k.a. International Feminism Explained

Once upon a time in a beautiful unspoiled land, far far away, there lived three little pigs.They were uneducated and underprivileged.

The first pig was a herdsman. All of his capital was tied up in…well…cattle!

However, once the international mining company moved in, all wells dried up or became contaminated and so he lost his entire herd. <Sad face.>

All he had left in the world was his young daughter (her mother had died of malnutrition), and some bales of straw. So, he built a house out of it for him and his daughter, who became the primary household wage earner.

One day, however, there was a knock on the door (as best as straw can knock).

“Who’s there?”

“Taxman.”

“I have nothing.”

“In that case, I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll take your house away.”

And so he did.

The poor little pig and his young daughter quickly ran to his friend’s house.

His friend had been a wheat farmer; however, when the mining company came to town, they brought with them a kind and benevolent NGO who brought tarpaper and wheat so that no one would go without shelter or be hungry. Thanks to the largess of the NGO, this man now had a house (sort of) made of tarpaper. His wheat however was worthless and so he lost his land. He therefore joined the army and lost his legs.

However, one day, a knock came on the door.

“Who’s there?”

“Military recruiter.”

“I have no legs.”

“In that case, I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll blow your house up.”

And so he did.

The first little pig picked up his friend with no legs and he and the young daughter quickly ran to their friend’s house.

Their friend had been the town leader; however, when the mining company came to town, they installed a benevolent dictator. The friend, very wisely, had gone to work for the mining company. Although he worked very long days and had very little money, he had managed to save up to buy some rocks from the mining company, which of course, had been deducted from his paycheck. He therefore built a very strong house!

However, one day, a knock came on the door.

“Who’s there?”

“Social services. We understand that you have a young girl living there who is not in school.”

“She doesn’t need school.”

“In that case, we’d just like to talk to her.”

And so the pigs opened the door and let in the Social Services.

They arrested all the pigs, except for the little girl who they wisely took into custody.

The next day, the poor little girl was raped and beaten.

Fortunately, there was a photographer from the benevolent NGO. He took her picture and sent it all over the world. She looked so sad and hungry, abused and confused about all the horrible things that had happened to her. It was a fundraising bonanza. Of course, the fundraising effort was underwritten by the mining company. They put their brand right on the fundraising letter. What a good company!

And they all lived happily ever after.

 

So what does this story mean to you?