From: "T.L. Kelly" <email@example.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.3.96.971201202924.2311Dfirstname.lastname@example.org> 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.