Raped chicks are damaged goods.
Let's pretend:
You are at the store and see a big hairy motorcycle dude drop a carton of eggs on the ground. The dude returns the eggs to the shelf.
Question: If you aren't allowed to inspect the contents the package, but you are in the mood for some eggs, is it immoral for you to pick a different carton?
Let's face it, chances are there's going to be some broken eggs in the carton. Once you get home and open up the package, there's going to be egg shit all over the place. Your faeux granite countertops, your linoleuom floor, and your credit card statements will all be smeared with the greasy residue of partial chix aborto-birth.
It's not the girl's fault, but there's going to be baggage there, due to the overreactive nature of our modern society to the victims of the crime.
Ever seen a little kid fall down at the mall? Nine times out of ten, the brat is perfectly fine, and it isn't until his mom starts smothering him with TLC that the kid is lulled into this idea that something is wrong with him. Only then does he start to cry. The crotchfruit was hunky dory until he was pussified by the societal expectation from his helicopter mom.
Fast forward to the 2008 elections:
Your choices are:
A) A black senator with a poor, disheveled muslim upbringing.
B) A white upper crust male who was born silver spoon in hand and groomed for the presidency.
C) A femme-nazi with a chip on her shoulder, who has had something to prove ever since the private details of her home life gracelessly fell into the public eye.
Who do you pick?
Answer: By process of elimination, you pick A.
B is scum of the earth.
C is damaged goods.
A teeters on damaged goods (being black and all), but goddamnit the fucker is charismatic.
You are at the store and see a big hairy motorcycle dude drop a carton of eggs on the ground. The dude returns the eggs to the shelf.
Question: If you aren't allowed to inspect the contents the package, but you are in the mood for some eggs, is it immoral for you to pick a different carton?
Let's face it, chances are there's going to be some broken eggs in the carton. Once you get home and open up the package, there's going to be egg shit all over the place. Your faeux granite countertops, your linoleuom floor, and your credit card statements will all be smeared with the greasy residue of partial chix aborto-birth.
It's not the girl's fault, but there's going to be baggage there, due to the overreactive nature of our modern society to the victims of the crime.
Ever seen a little kid fall down at the mall? Nine times out of ten, the brat is perfectly fine, and it isn't until his mom starts smothering him with TLC that the kid is lulled into this idea that something is wrong with him. Only then does he start to cry. The crotchfruit was hunky dory until he was pussified by the societal expectation from his helicopter mom.
Fast forward to the 2008 elections:
Your choices are:
A) A black senator with a poor, disheveled muslim upbringing.
B) A white upper crust male who was born silver spoon in hand and groomed for the presidency.
C) A femme-nazi with a chip on her shoulder, who has had something to prove ever since the private details of her home life gracelessly fell into the public eye.
Who do you pick?
Answer: By process of elimination, you pick A.
B is scum of the earth.
C is damaged goods.
A teeters on damaged goods (being black and all), but goddamnit the fucker is charismatic.