High life
Reader, I raped her
Taki
Ihave a terrible confession to make. While flying to the Bagel last Sunday on the Concorde, I noticed a woman in the back of the airplane who was almost attrac- tive. She had long, white-streaked hair, a horsy face but an interesting one, and she looked incredibly neurotic. Her attire was one of contrived dishevelment, as female would-be-academics tend to affect. But her legs looked fine, so when the stewards were called to the front of the plane, I went back to her seat and raped her. I did not hurt her, just stifled her screams and raped her. C'est tout.
The airplane was one-third full, so nobody noticed. People who fly on Con- corde are too self-obsessed to keep their eyes glued on things other than their bank statements anyway, so I got away with it. I then threatened her with the complete works of Edward Heath — all his speeches included — unless she told me her name. Catharine MacKinnon, was the answer. For any of you, however appalled you may be by my actions, who have never heard of her, la MacKinnon is a professor at the University of Michigan, an ardent feminist, as well as author of Only Words, and, according to Bob Tyrrell, editor-in-chief of the American Spectator, the worst book of the year. The nonsensical thesis of her opus is that words are deeds, ergo, bad words are the same as bad deeds.
The reason I say I raped her is because another reviewer, this time from the Nation, already raped her, in words only, of course, and the old bag has been screaming 'rape' ever since. Here in Lalaland, it has become a cause celebre. A male, left-wing reviewer of her book tries to illustrate how ridiculous her argument is, writes that he raped her — when in reality he has never met her — and all hell breaks loose. What MacKinnon wants is to abbreviate freedom of speech, and her boyfriend, a Freudian by the name of Masson, threatened the so- called rapist.
Masson is the psychiatrist who sued Janet Malcolm of the Tina Brown (New Yorker) for having invented quotes when she interviewed him. He is also a man who was a compulsive womaniser until, yes, you guessed it, he met MacKinnon. The reason I write that I raped her is to try and have Sir Galahad send a threat my way. One of the reasons these phonies try and deny the meaning of words is that they then can
dominate and bully their way with jargon. It works in Hillaryland, but it won't wash in Takiland. Come on Masson, I'm easier to find than a hooker. Come and try me.
The reason I loathe such people is that it was they who encouraged the fall of stan- dards back during the dreaded Sixties. MacKinnon rails against pornography — as I do — but it was then that people were arguing that obscenity had no meaning and that pornographic literature and Milton were one and the same. Now the chickens have come home to roost, as they say back on my Greek farm, and I hope Mackinnon gets raped regularly from here on.
Otherwise, the trip was hunky-dory. I have now crossed the ocean more than 40 times since my daddy died, and I have had an incident every time I've been on board the fast bird. No, it's not the service, that's perfect, nor the plane, it's the people that fly it. Hollywood cretins dressed in jogging clothes, Arabs with servants on board who go up and down serving them and bother- ing yours truly, and insider traders speak- ing loudly and ungrammatically. The only friend I ever met was Lord Hanson. Twice. This time it was even better. I saw Mick Flick, the man I wish to see become the next King of England, Lord Rothschild and Ralph Goldenberg, my fellow investor in Christopher's. It was a perfect flight, and needless to say, all three also raped the woman.
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