Let’s Hear It for Violence Against Women

Women are only good for fucking and beating.
When you get tired of fucking them, there’s only one thing left to do.
After you fuck them, they start talking.
That’s when you beat them.
They all talk too much, especially when you don’t want to hear it.
And what do they talk about?
Violence toward women.
But they fail to realize that their whining is what provokes most of the violence.
They don’t understand what their eternal screeching does to men.
Shut up! We don’t need to hit you. Just shut your mouths.
One simple rule, guys—the first time she gives you some lip, bust it open WIDE.
She won’t talk shit again.
Not if she’s smart, she won’t.
Smack her mouth so hard, she won’t be able to open it for a month.
It’s difficult to bitch and moan and nag with a broken jaw, isn’t it?
Your fists are a judge’s gavels.
When she’s in contempt, pound down on her until there’s order in the court.
Don’t let her get away.
Make her pay for being a woman.
Such a sweet little girl.
So annoying.
Daddy’s little snookums.
Now you’re wiping the blood off your mouth.
What would your father say if he saw me smack the snot out of your nose and onto the walls?
Would he cry?
Would he call the cops?
He’d better not—I’ll snatch that wooden cane out of his hand and beat him to death.
Your brother says he wants to kick my ass? Let him try it.
Let him just fucking TRY it.
Tell him to bring his friends, too, ‘cause I’m in a killing mood. Oh—you want to start shit yourself?
Very funny.
You’re a woman.
You hit like a girl.
I like to punch women and kick them and shove them up against walls.
I like grabbing them by their pretty hair and swinging them
into door frames, rubbing their noses in the carpet like they’re
puppies, dragging them into the bathroom and half-drowning
them in the toilet.
Sinks—either bathroom or kitchen sinks—are real good, because you can knock out a whole row of teeth when
you slam a woman’s face into one.
Watch all the gooey blood dripping on the white porcelain.
It’s a real treat.
I destroy everything that’s important to women.
I smash their glass figurines and rip the stuffing out of their teddy bears.
Then I shred their love letters into little ribbons as they watch and cry.
The only solution to the female problem?
Loutish, piglike, male FORCE.
Ain’t nothing wrong with women that a good backhand won’t solve.
Punch her in the stomach until she doubles over and wheezes. Crush her nose with one shot.
Throw her up against your fish tank.
Break things.
Break everything.
Smash telephones, destroy appliances, and kick down doors. Neighbors will call the cops.
Shout threats to her as they hustle you into a squad car.
She takes out a restraining order.
That won’t stop you.
Women are on the RECEIVING end, and we all know ‘tis
better to give.
Females are egg-bearing brine shrimp.
Sex objects.
Men are the nouns.
Fucking is the verb.
Women are the direct objects.
Two-dimensional.
Why kid around?
Women are defined by those cunts and nothing else.
They were fashioned by nature as achingly beautiful mannequins, dead girls in store windows.
Victims.
See all the dead lilies in the trash can behind the flower shop. Fragile blossoms.
Used.
Decaying.
Women.
Weak.
Very pretty in their weakness.
Ugly otherwise.
Don’t give her power—she doesn’t know how to handle it.
Women are intriguing little house pets, but they need to be tamed.
Keep her chained down.
Break the chain, and watch her walk all over you.
And you’d deserve it, because you gave away your power for free.
Women say they’re looking for nice guys, but they don’t respect passive pussy-men.
Women want their lovers to be killers.
Give them what they want.
Women get beaten because they’re so EASY to beat.
Hear them crying in a hundred thousand trailers all over America tonight.
Get a police scanner and listen to all the domestic-violence calls.
Blasts of static.
Street addresses.
Ages and races of suspects.
What they’re wearing.
Do you need backup?
Police dispatchers always have a flat, flavorless tone in their voices.
They don’t convey the VIOLENCE.
The desperate, vicious couples.
The shirtless, sweaty men with their mouths hanging open.
The sobbing women holding paper towels to their bleeding, matted scalps.
The screaming, tear-streaked kids running around in shitty diapers.
The lacerated emotions.
Such a scene demands violence to restore order.
The cops can’t beat everyone; domestic violence picks up the slack.
All the battered women in all their battered women’s shelters. Swollen eyes, fat lips, cracked ribs.
Fractured illusions.
Love’s sweet promise broken a million times over.
Crying that they still love him.
Keeping it together for the kids’ sake.
He says he’s sorry.
She forgives him.
He finds a job.
They get back together, and it’s nice for a while.
Then he beats her with a tire jack until her ribs puncture her lungs.
Dead promise.
Dead wife.
Two teenagers wander into the woods, away from a keg party. They stop in the mossy darkness.
I’ll love you forever, she tells him.
They lock tongues together.
He reaches down and unzips her pants.
She asks him to stop.
He doesn’t.
She struggles. He pulls a knife from his boot and slices a deep red notch running from her throat down to her pussy.
She falls to the forest floor, splashing blood onto the autumn leaves.
He covers her mouth and fucks her ass.
He blows his jam up her fudge hole as she dies.
She asked for it.
That’s how he sees it, anyway.
And his opinion is the only one that matters.
You wouldn’t listen to a woman, would you?