Slap Her Down Again, Pa...

It feels good, doesn’t it, guy? Your knuckles smashing into her face, bloodying her nose or mashing her lip. You love the sense of supremacy and domination your strength, your violence gives you over her. It’s gratifying to see her cower, tears streaming from her eyes, sobs shuddering through her body. It makes your heart sing and your ego blaze. She’s weak and YOU are mighty. All powerful. YOU have the control over YOUR world. No one can touch you as you loom over her, your fist raised, your eyes burning with fury.

And what’s even better? Now you can step in and hold her, tell her, “There, there, everything’s gonna be all right. I love you, babe, and I’m just trying to teach you. I’m just trying to show you your place.” YOU are her hero, goddammit. Her protector. No one can hurt her.

Except YOU, of course.

And don’t stop there. No, no, no. Why not make sure any ember of her self-esteem is drenched in the icewater that might have once been your compassion for another human being? A woman you once said and still say you loved. Forever. Why not make certain her friends and family don’t give her any highfaluting ideas about independence and self-worth. Good God, no, you can’t have her head filled with THOSE despicable notions. You can’t let her be her own person, because that would make you, well…irrelevant. She might actually think she can get along without your “protection.” So isolate her. Tell her to make excuses about that black eye or those bruises. Damn clumsy of her falling and hitting her face on that coffee table anyway. And make sure you buy her little presents, trinkets to show her how much you care and get her thinking, well, maybe you’re not such a bad guy. Because you aren’t, right? You’re just protecting her from the big bad world. From the guys who would let her be herself and all that lofty garbage. But, hey, don’t those bruises have a lovely purple color to them?

And while you’re at it, hell, don’t forget the kids. Get in their faces and scream obscenities at them. Call them names and destroy any chance of them ever getting any of that horrible self-esteem crap. Oh, and set that fine example while you can. Make sure your son knows how to treat his woman. HIS woman. Make sure he carries on the respectable family tradition. You’re the MAN, and so shall he be. And your daughters? Well, they need to know their place. No opinions, no backtalk, no equality. Those things are evil and those bitches should realize they are here for one purpose only—to please their man. Hit them a few times just to make sure. Ruin their lives before they start. Make damn sure all the innocence is purged from their soul. With your fists.

And if they want to get away from you? Why, hurt them some more. beat those silly notions right the hell out of them. Show them the error of their ways. Stalk them. Call them a hundred times a day and work your magic. Please forgive me, honey. I won’t do it again. I’ll change. I’ve gone to church. I’m not the man I used to be. I’ve learned.

But you didn’t learn, did you? You had the only knowledge you needed all the time, though it’s not the one you profess. You had the gift of the lie. The story. You have the ability to wear them down, like an incessant drip of water wearing away a brick.

What or who gave YOU the right to do all this? Was it maybe the dysfunctional family you came from? Or was it your God, who spoke to you in blood and self-righteous fury and told you how powerful you had the right to be?

What perverted your soul so obscenely you determined abusing another was justified? No, not justified: OK, even. Necessary. Demanded.

You feel pretty good about yourself, because you always win, always get them back. And always satisfy your cravings for controlling your skewed little world by abusing them, emotionally, physically, again.

Big man.

Big mean, indeed.

Powerful? No. Your woman’s savior and protector? Hardly.

There’s only one word for you.

Coward.


Chloe's a gal usually in trouble--the supernatural kind...
A cursed locket, a child's rhyme and monkey with an attitude lead to terror...
In trade paperback: The Chloe Files #1: Ashes to Ashes
From Golden Perils Press http://www.lulu.com/goldenperils
Author homepage: http://www.howardhopkins.com

Driving Miss Crazy

I’ve seen some weird things in cars lately. I mean people behind the wheel, driving, whilst doing something else. The other day I was stuck behind a teenaged girl trying to parallel park—while she was yapping away on her cell. Was she asking OnStar for instructions on how to squeeze into the space? Um, yes, miss, two more inches to the right, now straighten your wheels…nope that grinding sound was nothing to worry about…yes, you are definitely s’posed to have two bumpers…

I don’t know about you, but parallel parking is tough enough with two hands and all my attention. I have also seen people on cells backing out of spaces, paying no attention whatsoever to anything behind them. Really, surgery to remove a cell phone embedded in you ear because someone creamed your rear isn’t really something to aim for. And if you hit my car, well, that cell phone is going to be embedded somewhere else…

Then there was an older woman I used to work with. She liked to apply makeup in the rearview—while she was driving. No surprise she went through five cars in the two year space of time we worked together. Maybe a face lift would have been cheaper.

And a few weeks ago? I look up into my rearview to see the woman behind me reading. Yep, book propped up on the steering wheel, her eyes going back and forth from the road to the book. Now being a writer it does my heart good to see folks reading…but behind the freaking wheel? And worst of all it wasn’t one of my books. Sheesh.

And lest you think I am picking on women drivers…I actually saw a guy trimming his mustache while driving. I had no idea those tiny trimmers plugged into the cig lighter. I mean, thank God it wasn’t beach season. Because a male bikini bottom wax and driving just never does anyone any good…

If you enjoy this blog I hope you'll consider picking up one of my horror or western books..like this one!

Chloe's a gal usually in trouble--the supernatural kind...A cursed locket, a child's rhyme and monkey with an attitude lead to terror...
In trade paperback: The Chloe Files #1: Ashes to Ashes
From Golden Perils Press http://www.%20lulu.%20com/goldenperils
Author homepage: http://www.msplinks.com/MDFodHRwOi8vd3d3Lmhvd2FyZGhvcGtpbnMuY29t

Peanut Butter and Other Cups of Interest...

Have you ever noticed how the best things in life come in cups?

You know where I’m headed with this, right? If you’ve read any of my previous DBs you probably think you do, because I am addicted to certain things that come in cups.

And this can apply to either sex, in a way, so not to worry. But of course my focus is on those two wonderful mounds of goodness I can’t seem to get enough of. Such luscious creamy smoothness. You know what I mean. They come in pairs, of varying sizes.

That’s right…

Peanut Butter Cups.

Now, c’mon what did you think I was gonna say?

I ate an entire huge Peanut Butter Cup bunny left over from Easter the other night. My niece had left it on the counter. Her bad. I can’t be trusted around anything that comes in cups. Except cup of soup. I leave that alone. And protective cups…no thanks.

And for all those who thought I was going elsewhere with this cup thing…yes, Peanut Butter Cups are my second favorite thing that comes in cups. My first?

Well, I’m sure no one will need 36 guesses to figure it out…