Essays in Idleness

Hell, from what I hear, must be a paradise for interior designers, as there are so many special places in it. There is a special place for people who prey on children, according to the theologian, Ivanka Trump; and another special place for Republicans who didn’t support Roy Moore, according to Steve Bannon. I am more with Ivanka on this one; though I did want Moore to win, for reasons quite unrelated to his sex life in the 1970s, whatever that was. (I am partial to his sort of lunatic.)

On the other hand, I should like to point to the special place in Hell reserved for women who falsely accuse men of “rape,” or “sexual assault,” or “sexual harassment” (terms now used almost interchangeably) — even if the man were guilty of some drunk and blundering lubricious act. (That’s when you slap his face, to sober him.) And then another special place, for men and women alike, who fail to speak up when they know that the facts of some case are being misrepresented. And these in addition to the special places for actual rapists, and psychopathic goons — accessible by noose under our auld arrangements.

(This is one of my arguments for capital punishment, incidentally. It helps us distinguish between the serious and the frivolous; wakes the jurors up.)

Oh, there are lots of places in Hell, and in the course of a life now extended into a seventh decade, I have watched so many make their selections. I have also had occasion to be drunk myself, and though I don’t recall sexually assaulting anyone, I have been decked by a jealous boyfriend. Surely I did something to deserve that.

I’m prepared to believe almost anything said about the denizens of Hollywood, on the evidence of their movies. I haven’t watched one in a long time, but I’ve seen a few trailers. (They show them on the Internet, whether or not you ask.) These are stewing in sex and violence (have you noticed, gentle reader?) and when the makers affect to be prim, I cannot help chortling.

I have further noticed that a lot of movie stars are content to be packaged as tarts. I find it especially amusing when a woman who puts her “sexiness” on aggressive display — in the absence of any other memorable quality — whines for being taken as a “sex object.” (It is an old adage that those who do not want lodgers should not advertise for them.) … Or, for that matter, when an utter sleaze of a don-juan poses as upholder of women’s rights. (Surely hypocrisy could be better concealed.)

The same industry that is currently awarding itself for a movie that celebrates man-boy sodomy, pretends to be horrified by child molestation. Similarly, participants in films wherein bystanders are cut down by the dozen, pretend to be scandalized by gun violence. I think there must be a special place in Hell just for movie producers.

Some of these special places must be here on Earth, for police departments in all the big towns are getting cloyed with sex investigations of the rich and famous. (Useful tip: avoid “success” and you will never be sued.) As the feminist rage swells, we will need prison camps, whole Gulags and Guantanamos, to house all the accused. And nine in ten of these will be the formerly self-adoring progressive types.

That’s the good news. The sexual revolution has now progressed to the stage when it eats its own. Thousands of scorpions in that “special place” bottle, but every day a few less.