From: "T.L. Kelly" <room101@teleport.com>
Newsgroups: talk.bizarre
Subject: Madonna's World
Date: Mon, 1 Dec 1997 20:30:10 -0800
Organization: Teleport - Portland's Public Access (503) 220-1016
Lines: 42
Message-ID: <Pine.GSO.3.96.971201202924.2311D-100000@user2.teleport.com>

I want to live in Madonna's video world, a world where men and women are
not equal. I want the whole king size bed to myself and all the covers. I
want to borrow his shirts and never return them and I want to complain if
he leaves his socks on in bed. I want to cum again in five minutes and
again in five more minutes. I want him to be on top every time, doing all
the work, and I want him to fetch the tissues every time. I want him to
sleep in the guest room if he snores even just once, or if I feel like
sleeping alone, or if I'm mad at him for no reason. I don't want him to
understand my feelings. I want my feelings to remain an ancient mystery
older than the gods, older than dirt. I want my way or no way, and I'll
know he'll come around to that eventually, because a hot wet screamer
always gets what she wants in the end. Let men manage the wars. Let men go
forth and conquer, move up the ladder, sign on the dotted line, manipulate
the hostile takeovers, fix the elections and retrieve the holy grail. Let
men earn a living and pump their paychecks into the national defense. In
the end, they will be defenseless against the whims of the president's
mistress. Let men bring home the bacon, fry it up in the pan, and then go
back to the store because they forgot the tampons and Midol. Let men be
afraid, be very afraid, for five days a month while women rage and bleed.
And while men run up and down the world, defending it to the death, let
women eat cake. Let them eat chocolate cake with butter pecan frosting.
Let them eat fettucini alfredo with lots of garlic on a first date, and
French vanilla ice cream and Taco Bell super beef burritos with extra
cheese all day, in bed, watching soap operas until they can diagnose every
social disease. Let them eat and eat without ever gaining a pound, with
their lipstick perpetually even and moist and their breasts eternally
perky. Let women with cold feet fall back into bed again and again to turn
up the electric blanket no matter how hot it gets, and let women who sweat
too much lay naked on the kitchen linoleum with the air conditioning
turned up high in the dead of winter. Let women hold the remote control
every second of Super Bowl weekend. Let women hold the secret keys to
Madonna's video world so that the truth will never be revealed to men, the
truth about Madonna, the truth about women, the truth about orgasms, the
truth about ice cream. Let women change their minds about the truth
whenever it suits them, so that the fulcrum of power forever rests on a
pair of hooters.

wenchpoet

copyright 1995 T.L. Kelly. All rights reserved.