"Woman Needs a Man Like a Fish Needs a Bicycle . . ."

I was the summer of 1985, and I was diving in the ten-knot current of the Cedar River, near the Main Street Bridge in Cedar Falls, Iowa. My efforts that day, as they had been for several days previous, were to find a handgun purportedly thrown from the bridge after an armed robbery. It was utterly exhausting work, inasmuch as I had to fight the river while diving with a metal detector, holding myself against the powerful current with the long blade of a sharpened screwdriver driven into the river bottom. Holding myself in place there with the improvised piton like a mountaineer scaling a rock escarpment and breathing through a long snorkel tube, I swept the bottom with the detector.

Each dive found something, all right, but always the “something” was just debris. No gun. It was frustrating, exhausting work requiring frequent rest, and when the exceptionally well-built woman in white short shorts and a halter came into view along the beach and from under the bridge, I was glad to stop – to watch her undulating stride as she approached. R-r-r-r-r-r-f! Damn - what a body!

The Cedar is perhaps fifty yards wide at that point, and having made my way there, I was standing in the shallows on the opposite side of the river, or my oversexed male nature would surely have made me call out a hopeful greeting. Apparently lost in thought, the object of my fascinated interest had not seen me where I stood observing her arrival across the swiftly running water. Neither had the three men who suddenly popped out of the trees and blackberry bushes that covered the river bank alongside the beach behind her. Watching, I saw at once that there could be no doubt as to their intent.

“White shorts” had just dipped a toe idly in the water when the biggest of the three men grabbed her from behind in a bear hug. Her startled scream drowned out by the noise of the rushing water and traffic over the bridge, the woman’s struggles against the man’s grasp were futile.

Already deciding and in motion, I yelled “hey” at the top of my lungs as I shed my gear and elected to swim the river, rather than run to and across the bridge. That would both mean losing sight of the quartet, and take just too damned long. As I watched, the man holding the shapely woman in what seemed to be one supremely powerful arm ripped off her clothes like an ape peeling a banana. I yelled again, then, seized by the powerful current, decided to save my breath for swimming.

The rest of the story is just another of the “war story” sort, and beside my point. Suffice it to say that by the time I had swum the river, to be swept far downstream and land a couple of hundred yards from the bridge, then run to where the object of my efforts was happening, the woman had been carried under the bridge and thrown to her back by her captors. With his two friends holding the still struggling woman’s arms and assisting him in controlling her legs, the third had mounted her and was humping away.

As I say, that there was a fight should be obvious, and both description and the fact that I won it is likewise obvious and not relevant here. Free of her attackers, the woman accepted my arms, to be held sobbing for what seemed a very, very long time. I’m something of an empath, and this kind of animal pain and terror sometimes seems to hurt me more that the person of thing I’m being sorry for. Can’t help it.

Finally, though, the woman came to her senses and, in the very brief discussion that ensued, I explained how I had happened to be there, and how – I suppose – she came to be sitting naked in my lap and in my arms. Her further horror at realization was kind of funny, actually, and when I laughed at the way she bounded off my legs and to her feet, she seemed to have another epiphany. She laughed, too.

Briefly, again. Very. Cowering now under my male gaze, and I suppose suddenly aware that her clothes had been thrown into the river and carried away, she started crying again. When I had succeeded in calming her enough, I clambered up the river bank, sprinted to my nearby car, and returned with the warm-up suit pants and jacket I had just remembered were there. Dressed, “Sue” – let’s call her – started to flee the scene of her travail only to be intercepted by me.

In the somewhat heated conversation that followed, “Sue” got her wits finally about her. Obviously, for one thing among others, I was not her enemy, and not dangerous – not to her, at least. Still, it took some doing to convince her that I should take her home, or at least to her car in order that I could follow her. I didn’t have much luck, for some reason, until I also insisted that she see a doctor. She didn’t want to do that, either, and seeming to choose the lesser of evils, she finally let me escort her to her car. Pushing my business card into a pocket of the jacket she now wore, I instructed that if she couldn’t bring herself to get help from anybody else, she could get it from me. I, after all, already knew what had happened. Now, see a doctor, I said in letting her go – the bastard may not have come in you, but he damned well might be diseased.

Having followed “Sue” to a dormitory at the one of the local colleges, I didn’t see her again for a couple of days. Then, I looked up from my desk one morning to see her walk shyly into my reception room. That’s where the discussion relevant here took place, and as Bill Cosby used to say, “I told you all that, so I could tell you this.”

Accepting her thanks tersely and once having been assured that she had received the medical attention I’d recommended, I let myself become sternly avuncular. What I should do, I said, was take her over my knee and whale hell out of her backside. What in hell would prevail a woman who looked the way she did – especially one her approximate one hundred and ten pounds (I underestimated by seven) – be doing all by herself and dressed as she had been in that locale?! My god, I groused, taking her the way those low-lifes had was like picking fruit from a tree.

And there’d the point of my essay today. For last several years – no for the last several decades – the news media has reported again and again, the disappearance of children, and of women young and old. Almost invariably, the stories seem to have the same script. In a while, the body is found, brutalized, raped, and discarded like garbage. Used. It’s maddening.

It’s maddening, and I’ve written about it before. In a book I wrote in 1990, I related the true (names changed, of course) story of “Becky,” the beautiful young aerobics instructor who walked home from work each night wearing tight-fitting spandex, that through an area where as many as a thirteen (I think) rapes had been perpetrated in a short period. When the inevitable happened, I reported further, there was all the usual. Feminists raged that the crime was not sexual, it was violence. The attack was a violation not only of a woman, but of her constitutional right to go and to do as she liked. Et cetera. We’ve heard it all.

We’ve heard It all, matter of fact, ad nauseum. What we have not heard is any retraction of the blizzard of pseudo-intellectual bullshit that has so much to do with our being in these asinine straits in the first place. Feminists and the sycophant wannabe males who pander to them continue their propaganda seeking to further things like female police, female fireman, and women – as utterly insane as it is sounds - in the military! Not once in my reasonably circumspect experience has any of these bubble heads had the common decency to moderate their nitwit pronouncements, or admit that they were wrong. “A woman can do anything a man can do,” “a woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle” (remember that one?), and the absolutely nonsensical, demented like.

The result is that the nation’s women go about publicly today as though they were doing so within the confines of their own houses. One can only wonder, as did I that day along the Cedar back home, at the utter stupidity of the society that provides and encourages an act so oblivious of reality. I use again, as I did recently when discussing the miserable scholastic backwardness of our children, the sponge analogy. When a thing designed by nature to be a certain way, and to do a certain thing does not, reasonable people look for a reason. The knowledge sponge that is the human brain, like the real sponge put in water, can be expected to soak up a certain amount. When it doesn’t, there is a reason.

What explains the shear stupidity of the “American” female? How can anything rational be so oblivious? At this writing, there are as many as 144,000 women missing in the United States. Estimators like the FBI and Interpol say that between 700,000 and 2,000,000 women in the United States are yearly sold into sexual slavery, and further estimates say that 120,000 of these women are “trafficked” into Western Europe alone.

Mexico, of course, that supremely lawful, well-regulated and orderly nation on our southern border, is famed as a society for its exemplary respect for women. Of course, on the other hand, kidnapping also happens to be a major industry there. Then, too, there is the fact that Mexican newspapers report sexual abuse of women and children with a frequency that happens to give the wrong impression to a simple mentality like mine. With literally tens of thousands of sexual criminals pouring into this country from that source alone, and with a U.S. government and commerce cynically dragging their feet about prevention, a nation of women go nevertheless on cavorting about like burlesque queens, doing as they like, and dressed as they damned please . . .

Time was, parenthetically, that a women who went about publicly without a man in immediate attendance was looked at askance. A society that knew well the dangers for a woman alone in public tended to believe the obvious inevitability of such behavior was somehow desired by any women who so ignored her own safety. I make no further comment, except to point out how video tape recordings like that recently of a man like Joseph Smith simply walking up to a girl coming across a parking lot all alone, Carley Brucia, to take her hand and lead her away to be raped and murdered, can be so totally ignored by women and the parents of children is simply beyond me. Some form of insanity is the cause of this, that’s certain.

While statistics on the subject and related subjects are very uncertain (and if you don’t find the reasons for that as obvious as what I’m discussing otherwise, you aren’t paying much attention), the United States has become the “Happy Hunting Ground” for white slavers – men, and women, who kidnap and sell women and children for sexual exploitation. The slaver finds and takes victims as easily as the girl in the video I have described was taken. That while a society only takes measures like “Amber Alerts” (that kind of tactic was once referred to as closing the barn door after the horse has escaped).

And, yes, you’re damned right there’s a reason the sponge for knowledge that is the brain has been turned to stone where it all is concerned. The reason is the bubble-headed blandishments and nostrums of modern feminism. What else in our society can explain things as insane as women – like one hundred pound Jessica Lynch, for instance - in mortal combat? What else explains women walking alone - unarmed even with awareness, - it seems, in an environment where known – that’s convicted and registered – sex offenders abound (literally hundreds of thousands of them)? What else explains women police officers? Firemen?

It is high time for the people whose emotion-driven over-reaction to obvious wrongs and inequities led them to wild-eyed and militant ideological excesses to recant and moderate their extreme views. Ironically, the people most being injured by radical feminism and its hysterical pronouncements are women. Reality sometimes is as cruel as testosterone is powerful and decisive. A one hundred and ten pound human being deprived all but totally of nature’s super-fuel does not have a chance – any chance at all – against a two hundred, twenty pound human being saturated with it. That is reality, reality that make any kind of rhetoric to the contrary absurd – and, perhaps, lethal.

The time, ladies, for a return to the real world is now. Otherwise, there will be many, many more Carley Brucias – sacrifices to the twin goddesses strident rhetoric and impudent ideology.