Did you know you have a freckle down there? It’s kinda cute!” said the girl in the salon, peering down at me. Why no, no I didn’t. But thank you very much. And I immediately thought of the Republicans which, frankly, I don’t often do when I’m lying on my back with my dignity round my ankles.

This is because determining the, er, coverage of my hoo-hoo may be one of the last acts of control I have over an area that the Republicans are showing a more than unhealthy interest in. From Texas to Virginia, Arizona to Pennsylvania, Republican lawmakers are legislating to stem the freedoms women have enjoyed to make choices about their bodies (best to read those articles with a cheeky beta-blocker-and-tonic chaser unless you want your head to explode straight off your shoulders and into next door’s garden).

For those of you who have been in a coma for the past few weeks, media coverage here has been saturated with this, and particularly with talk radio host Rush Limbaugh and his crass insults towards a woman who called for her university health insurance plan to cover birth control.

Is this, as many claim, a Republican war on women? Conservatives will say no, it’s about defending the religious freedom that is the bedrock of American democracy. Liberals will say yes, and I fear they have reason to and not just because it’s election year. The evidence does suggest an erosion of women’s rights with the purpose of redefining the American lifestyle in accordance with particular moral principles, conducted by people who seem just plain ignorant about women’s bodies.

And where, in all the arguments about contraception and abortion, is mention of the other party in this equation? I know some men like to give their dicks cutesy nicknames, but He Who Must Not Be Named is generally not one of them. I find it amusing (and slightly pervy) that male commentators bang on about these issues whilst their sex are in fact the silent partner in this debate; when Rush moaned about us dirty whores needing the state to pay for our contraception so we could have masses of sex every single day, he made no reference to the men apparently receiving relief on the state for free. Guess what, conservative commentators! You need a dick to dick about. You of all people should know that.

So, that happened. And will no doubt happen again and again over the coming months. Oh, and Mittens won Illinois this week. Apparently this means that the idea of a brokered convention is now less likely than me becoming a swimwear model and getting on the cover of Sports Illustrated.

Coverage of the primary was downbeat even, dare I say, a little boring. Mitten’s speech was a bit better this time, but he still persists in riffing like a second-rate stand-up at a holiday camp, his delivery punctuated with hopeful little facial tics to direct his audience when to laugh, boo or cheer. Santorum, surrounded by his kids in what looked like a school gym decorated for a goth’s sweet sixteen, sounded flat and defeated and tired.

Newt and Ron Paul are both out, although not officially. And that makes me sad. The fewer candidates, the less material. And then I’ll have to start writing about actual policies (and I’m sure you don’t want that, I give you Exhibit A above), or go back to writing about DC which is, by the way, looking rather beautiful at the moment. The cherry blossom is out and the tulips are blooming on my mini-front-balcony-garden. The only spoke in the wheel is the insistence by DC men to wear clothes in this lovely weather that would only be trendy if worn ironically. Admittedly I can sometimes look like I’m going to volunteer in a summer camp rather than to work, but at least I have the decency to hide in my office on those days. Men of DC: your trouser hems should reach your shoes and not just your ankles. Get a grip.

Right. Louisiana this weekend. Really hope Newt does well enough to warrant a speech and then I can marvel at someone more spiteful and angry than a cat with a firework up its arse.

About hebe in dc

British Girl in Washington DC @hebeindc
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One Response to frankly

  1. Just when you thought it was all over, fate delivers Etch-a-Mitt.

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