Before we begin, a little mood music:
Ah. Thank you so much for that lovely music (and that uncharacteristic truthfulness), Mr. Limbaugh.
So, Rush…how’s it feel to be at the bottom of your own shit-avalanche for a change? Fun, eh? Yeah, you really had everybody going there, with your “absurdist” humor that isn’t fucking funny in the slightest. Suddenly no one is willing to give you any more benefit of the doubt. Your sponsors are pulling out in droves, Peter Gabriel doesn’t want you using any more of his songs, Dear Prudence at Slate has panned your insincere apology (as has Don Imus, of all the nappy-headed ‘hos), and best of all, Sandra Fluke just doesn’t give a shit, because your fauxpology isn’t gonna change a thing.
And of course, the lady is right. It’s not going to stop the exodus of sponsors, which is still snowballing away. It’s not going to stop the outrage among women and leftists; indeed, this left-wing feminist is even more outraged, because you put the blame on us instead of taking responsibility for being your customary piggish self. To me, that’s proof that you are not one bit sorry for what you said, nor was it really meant in jest. You were just doing your usual thing, Rush…which is projecting the very worst of the privileged white right-wing male id onto everyone else and then laughing while we stand here sputtering and mopping off your slime.
So no, Rush, I don’t buy your apology either. And I don’t buy your myriad lame excuses. You can stuff them all right back down the capacious orifice from whence they came, along with all the bile you hove up to grease the way.
I do, however, question just how much real contact you’ve actually had with women. I get the impression that it can’t be much. Because if you did, and if you knew anything about how the Pill works at all, you wouldn’t mistake it for condoms. We don’t pop it like you do with your Viagra or OxyContin, Rush. We only need one Pill a day. It elevates our estrogen and progestin levels, and keeps them constant, so our bodies are tricked into thinking they are pregnant. That way, we don’t ovulate. That’s how it works for birth control. And if we run one Pill pack straight into another without the customary 7-day break in between, we also stop getting our periods, which is good for those of us who would otherwise end up anemic from monthly blood loss. And these things are of benefit to all kinds of women, from suburban housewives and soccer moms to those girls down on the corner of the mean streets.
And yes, to me those girls are only girls. Most ladies of the evening are heart-breakingly young. When I was at journalism school in Toronto, in my late twenties, I found out that 18 is actually considered an old age by the local streetwalkers, who always came out in droves on the streets near my campus as soon as the sun started to go down. No matter what night of the week it was, you can see them there, just off Yonge St., plying their trade. Most of them are very underage. And the more underage they are, the higher the demand for their bodies seems to be. The creeps who cruise around and around the block shopping for girls (or boys dressed as girls, or boys in the process of becoming girls), all know this. It’s why they invariably gravitate to the “freshest” meat.
Have I got your attention now, Rush? Because it seems to me that you speak with the voice of sordid experience when you talk about porn and prostitution. I distinctly heard you sucking up your own saliva at the prospect of seeing Sandra Fluke in sex tapes. I get the impression that you haven’t had a lot of unpaid sex in your life, Rush. Maybe you haven’t had any. It wouldn’t surprise me; your personality is so repugnant that no amount of your filthy cash could buy the time of day off me. I can well imagine that no woman would voluntarily get naked with you, or for you, unless you pay her to doff her dignity first.
So of course you had to jet off to a known sex-tourism hotspot, one famous for its underage girls and boys. You didn’t go alone; you had several buddies with you. And in your baggage was a bottle of Viagra that, it turns out, your own doctor supplied for you in HIS name.
Now, why would he do a thing like that? To cover your big sleazy ass, no doubt. To spare you a considerable amount of embarrassment. But certainly not out of the goodness of his heart, eh Rush? No. You probably sent over your housekeeper with a cigar box full of “cabbage” for his trouble (and his twin violations of law and medical ethics), just as you did when you were trying to score some of that ol’ hillbilly heroin that killed your hearing. After all, a doctor can’t risk his reputation and medical licence just doing favors for his fat-cat patients.
And certainly not when those fat cats are jetting out to the Dominican Republic on a private plane, with a bunch of rowdy buddies, and no women in the group. Who needs to bring women along to a known sex-tourism hotspot when you can just buy a local girl (or boy, or several), eh Rush?
No, a grown-ass woman would only cramp your style. Especially if, like all conservative women, she has a big pair of moralistic judgy-pants on underneath her sparkly evening gown. Lady ‘wingers can be real battle-axes, if the ones I’ve met are any indication. Going to a tropical destination with them would be like a constant cold rain falling down your neck every day, I imagine.
So I’m not a bit surprised that you have yourself a dose of that old madonna-whore complex, Rush. Right-wing men generally do. Unlike leftists (who see people as people first), they’re inclined to judge and compartmentalize women a lot. They grew up around religiously repressed females, so they think that any woman who isn’t like that, must be for sale. You, I see, are no different. So it’s no wonder you made those sleazy cracks about Sandra Fluke, reducing her to a commodity and denying her the right to be a full-fledged person. Personhood is only for corporations, pimps and johns. Isn’t that right, Rush?
Only here’s the thing, Rush. You’re undoubtedly used to buying impersonal sex from commodified humans, possibly underage ones. But did you know that you’re not just a john, or a propaganda pimp, but a whore yourself? Think about it. If corporations are persons under the law (and in the US, they are), and you work for a corporation, providing oral servicing and fucking over your listeners for pay, then you are by definition a prostitute.
That’s right, Rush: You are no better than those street-corner ladies you so love to deride and degrade.
No doubt you do it for better pay than they. Heidi Fleiss looks like a rank amateur next to you. Poor dear, she is in the wrong profession; if she wanted to peddle ass for the really big bucks, she should have gone into right-wing talk radio! But all the same, the two of you are colleagues. You should compare trickbooks some time. You might need a few fresh introductions for when your radio career goes into the tank for good.
No, wait, Rush, I take that back. That was a terribly insulting thing for me to say. Not because I don’t believe you really are a whore, but because I shouldn’t insult actual sex workers by lumping them in with the slimy likes of you. Under less fortunate circumstances, I could easily have been one of those girls myself, and under more fortunate ones, those girls would all be me. And there’s not a girl in the world who harbors a childhood ambition to sell sex for a living, let alone to the skeezeballs who most often line up to buy it. But there are more than a few permanently immature wingnut males out there who wish they were you, Rush, and if they knew what you really were, they might just prefer to put on miniskirts and high heels and stand on a street corner trawling for tricks instead.
It’s a much more honest living than what YOU do, by far.