The Stranger, Seattle's Only Newspaper: Anonymous

Disarmed

Anonymous — Thu, 22 Mar 2007 04:00:00 -0700

The Bright Side of the Wounds of War by Anonymous

The Iraq War turned four this week.

If you're looking for streamers and party hats, you're either a moron or president of the United States of America. Four years later there's just not that much to celebrate. No weapons of mass destruction were ever found, we've created a safe haven for terrorists, and Iraqis remember the rule of Saddam Hussein more fondly with each passing day. Our budget is busted and nearly 3,300 American lives have been lost. There are no winners in George W. Bush's war.

Except for me. And others like me.

No, I don't own stock in Haliburton. And, yes, I'm just as mortified by the death toll—American and Iraqi—as any other thinking person. But I'm still getting something out of this war. Bryan Anderson, for example, the decorated Iraq war veteran who graced the cover of December's Esquire. Anderson is both a triple amputee and a smolderingly hot specimen of man. Sadly, he doesn't see himself that way.

"When you're looking for a girlfriend or a boyfriend, you have this mental picture," Anderson told Esquire. "Nobody's going to say that they're looking for somebody who's missing three limbs."

Well, Bryan, I've been masturbating to your picture for the last four months because you fit my mental picture perfectly.

Those in the know refer to people like me—people who dream of a roll in the hay with someone who had to roll himself out to the barn—as acrotomophiliacs, or amputee fetishists. Those of us who want to sleep with amputees are known as "devotees." Many of us are men, some are gay, and more of us than you might expect are women. And thanks to George W. Bush's war, acrotomophiliacs are going to have an easier time finding dates and masturbation material. We're the only "winners" of this war.

Now, I'm not a classic acrotomophiliac. I don't require my sexual partner to be missing body parts. I wouldn't kick an able-bodied Leonardo DiCaprio out of my bed—but if he accidentally sliced off a hand I would be a little more anxious for him to stay.

Where did this fetish come from? This is my best theory: As a teenager, my first crush was a man who happened to be in a wheelchair. He was different, and I found that sexy. I also liked the fact that, unlike my peers, he couldn't run away from me. Not because he was in a wheelchair, but because he was the greeter at Wal-Mart. He was paid to sit at the door and smile. I would sit in the food court and stare at this Brad Pitt on wheels as he welcomed fat shoppers in sweatpants. When the greeter finally caught me staring, he confused my lustful gaze with freak-show gawking. I felt horrible.

Ever since, I've been attracted to disabled men—and older men, chubby men, and guys with accents. For some, conformity is sexy (think typical gay men and the Abercrombie & Fitch ads that target them). For others, difference is sexy (think typical straight men and the American Apparel ads that target them). I always notice different; extreme difference catches my eye and sparks my interest. And isn't getting noticed the first hurdle we have to clear before we can find love?

Take, for instance, the picture of Army specialist Marissa Strock on the March 5 cover of Newsweek. Anyone can see at first glance that she's a good-looking young woman who—oh my goodness, she's missing both her legs! Now, this last physical detail will either titillate or repulse, but it will not fail to register. And it's okay to find someone attractive for his or her physical attributes alone, right? Nobody looks at Halle Berry and thinks, "I'd love to tap that I.Q." Initially, what makes Berry so attractive is her physique and willingness to go topless for her art. It's the same with my attraction to people with no thumbs. Maybe they're also Rhodes Scholars, but at first glance, they're thumbless, and I want them to fuck me. If that's objectification, then so be it.

This comparison is flawed, I realize. Berry hasn't lost a limb in a traumatic accident. (Though if she keeps drunkenly crashing into things she might soon. Remaining fingers crossed, everyone.) Anderson and Strock, however, have experienced life-altering traumas. But should that disqualify them from being seen as sexual beings? And should that disqualify those of us who find them sexy—as they are now—from seeing them as sexual beings?

And thanks to George W. Bush—and Donald Rumsfeld and Dick Cheney and Condoleezza Rice and corrupt Republicans and ineffectual Democrats—there are going to be a lot more amputees around for me to see as sexual beings. During the Vietnam War, two American soldiers were wounded for every fatality. Now, thanks to advances in body armor and battlefield medicine, 16 U.S. soldiers are wounded for every fatality. That means fewer depressing military funerals and more sexy disabled vets, more Bryan Andersons and Marissa Strocks.

In the very recent past—that would be before March of 2003—prosthetic limbs were found mainly on little old ladies who ate too much sugar. But, now, thanks to George W. Bush, there's no shortage of strapping, fit, healthy amputees, limbless men and women in their physical prime. Most of the soldiers sent off to Iraq are just barely old enough to vote, so people like me can look forward to lots of barely legal, legless porn. It's enough to make me believe in God. Hell, it's almost enough to make me vote Republican.

George W. Bush has been feeling underappreciated, particularly by the Iraqi people. Where's the cake with four candles? Where's the gratitude? Well, on behalf of my people, George, I offer our thanks. You get an "A" for Effort. Stay the course, Mr. President. You're the Decider. What, you have another plan for victory? Wonderful! The more young Americans you send off to fight this immoral, illegal, and already lost war, the more will come back half the men or women they used to be. And I, for one, am not complaining.

Because as a proud, loyal, fucked-in-the-head American citizen, I would give my right arm for just one night with anyone who gave his right arm to Operation Iraqi Freedom. And the longer this war goes on, the likelier that becomes.

Hail to the chief.

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Fuck the South

Anonymous — Thu, 11 Nov 2004 04:00:00 -0800

A Disgruntled Massachusetts Voter Gets It Off His Chest by Anonymous

Fuck the South. Fuck 'em. We should have let them go when they wanted to leave. Fighting for the right to keep slaves--yeah, those are states we want to keep. And now what do we get? We're the fucking Arrogant Northeast Liberal Elite? How about this for arrogant: the South is the Real America? The Authentic America. Really?

'Cause we fucking founded this country, assholes. Those Founding Fathers you keep going on and on about? All that bullshit about what you think they meant by the Second Amendment? Who do you think those wig-wearing, lacy-shirt-sporting revolutionaries were? They were fucking blue-staters, dickhead. Boston? Philadelphia? New York? Hello? Think there might be a reason all the fucking monuments are up here in our backyard?

No, No. Get the fuck out. We're not letting you visit the Liberty Bell and fucking Plymouth Rock anymore until you get over your real American selves and start respecting those other nine amendments. Who do you think those fucking stripes on the flag are for? Nine are for fucking blue states. Get it? We started this shit, so don't get all uppity about how real you are, you Johnny-come-lately "Oooooh, I've been a state for almost a hundred years" dickheads. Fuck off.

Arrogant? You wanna talk to us Northeasterners about fucking arrogance? Maybe I wouldn't be so fucking arrogant if I wasn't paying for your fucking bridges, bitch. All those federal taxes you love to hate? It all comes from us and goes to you, so shut up and enjoy your fucking Tennessee Valley Authority electricity and your fancy highways that we paid for. And the next time Florida gets hit by a hurricane, you can come crying to us if you want to, but you're the ones who built on a fucking swamp. "Let the Spanish keep it; it's a shithole," we said, but you had to have your fucking orange juice.

The next dickwad who says, "It's your money, not the government's money" is gonna get their ass kicked. Nine of the 10 states that get the most federal fucking dollars and pay the least... can you guess? That's right, motherfucker, they're red states. And 8 of the 10 states that receive the least and pay the most? It's too easy. They're blue states. It's not your money, assholes, it's fucking our money. What was that Real American Value you were spouting a minute ago? Self reliance? Try this for self reliance: Buy your own fucking stop signs, asshole.

Let's talk about those values for a fucking minute. You and your Southern values can bite my ass because the blue states got the values over you fucking Real Americans every day of the goddamn week. Which state do you think has the lowest divorce rate, you marriage-hyping dickwads? Can you guess? It's fucking Massachusetts, the fucking center of the gay marriage universe. Yes, that's right, the state you love to tie around the neck of anyone to the left of Strom Thurmond has the lowest divorce rate in the fucking nation. Think that's just some aberration? How about this: Nine of the 10 lowest divorce rates are fucking blue states, asshole, and most are in the Northeast, where our values suck so bad. And where are the highest divorce rates? Care to fucking guess? Ten out of 10 are fucking red-ass, we're-so-fucking-moral states.

But two guys making out is going to fucking ruin marriage for you? Yeah? Seems like you're ruining it pretty well on your own, you little bastards. Oh, but that's okay because you go to church, right? I mean you do, right? 'Cause we fucking get to hear about it every goddamn year at election time. Yes, we're fascinated by how you get up every Sunday morning and sing, and then you're fucking towers of moral superiority. Yeah, that's a workable formula. Maybe us fucking Northerners don't talk about religion as much as you because we're not so busy sinning, hmmm? Ever think of that, you self-righteous assholes? No, you're too busy erecting giant stone tablets of the Ten Commandments in buildings paid for by the fucking Northeast Liberal Elite.

Well this gravy train is fucking over. Take your liberal-bashing, federal-tax-leeching, Confederate-flag-waving, holier- than-thou, hypocritical bullshit and shove it up your ass.

And no, you can't have your fucking convention in New York next time. Fuck off.

The above rant is from the website www.fuckthesouth.com. The author is a member of the Northeast Liberal Elite and is fucking done being a scapegoat for the Republican Party.

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Open Letter to a Cokehead

Anonymous — Thu, 02 May 2002 04:00:00 -0700

You're No Mick Jagger, Buddy by Anonymous Dear X,

I'll get right to the point.

You have a telltale crust of white powder around your nostrils, and everyone in the room is a little too embarrassed (or a little too high) to say anything about it. You're slinking off to more and more bathrooms and backstages these days, and returning with that red sting around your watery, shifty eyes. You're scanning the room to see if anybody knows. Guess what: Everybody knows, and no one but you is laughing.

Cocaine has become Seattle music's open secret, the affectation of choice among the hipsters, hacks, and hangers-on who are so desperate for glamour that they'll recycle just about any tired-ass rock cliché you can name if it'll buy them 10 minutes of feeling authentic. Like booze, crystal, and any number of other trendy intoxicants of years past, blow is simply the snack of the moment for all the lonely little fashion slaves rolling down the Pike/Pine corridor. That's not how I like to think of you, but you're making it difficult to see you any other way. Seattle loves to fetishize its addictions and frailties. It won't be long before you see people wearing spoons around their necks again, just you wait.

And ultimately, who cares, right? I'm not one to moralize about drugs, and I'm not crying for you, Argentina. Everyone likes to get loaded, and I'm certainly no different, as you well know. I'm all for people getting as high as they like, as often as they like, on whatever drug they like. We're all adults. We know what we're letting ourselves in for. Drugs are addictive, and they can kill you--it's all in the manual. No one's forcing anything on anyone, and some people can handle it and some can't and blah, blah, blah.

It's not like cocaine hasn't been here all along, anyway. It's just, now that everyone's doing it all the time, everywhere you look, it's getting harder to ignore the fact that more and more of my friends and acquaintances are turning into paranoid wrecks right before my eyes. Is it sad? Probably. Tragic? Please.

If heroin is a selfish drug, cocaine is an asshole drug. This doesn't mean that everyone who does it is an asshole. It just means that everyone who does it by force of habit seems to turn into an asshole--and I mean a complete, insufferable, obsessive, paranoid asshole. You can already see it happening--they're getting gaunt, short-tempered, ugly. The fact that some of those assholes are/were talented, or sweet-natured, or even just fun doesn't really mean that they'll warrant sympathy when the inevitable wave of addiction, recrimination, and rehab starts to crash. Cocaine doesn't choose you. You choose it. And you can keep it, frankly. If I sound biased, I am. If I sound like a prig, go fuck yourself, because I'm right. You're not dying as slowly as you think.

As cocaine has re-emerged, so has the lingo, and so have the rationalizations. I know you believe you wear it well, but every time I see you cut and snort a rail of cocaine, or talk about having done so the night before, or exchange knowing giggles with a friend before slipping into a toilet stall, I can only think one thing: How quaint... just like my parents.

My parents were cocaine addicts, back when people believed there was no such thing. Some of my earliest memories are accompanied by a soundtrack of scrapes and snorts, wild parties, and bitter tears. The memory catalog also includes hysterical arguments, bankruptcy, and firearms. They both came out the other side, as most people eventually do. All they lost was their marriage, their 30s, their house, and their dignity. All I lost was my ability to trust happiness, my childhood, and my willingness to see cocaine as just another drug. To me, it's a virus that sucks all the interesting out of people.

The problem isn't the drug. It's the culture that surrounds it, the fashion--because fashion is always the problem. Dear cokehead, you aren't glamorous. You aren't Mick Jagger. You're not even Mick Fleetwood. You're Jackson Browne. You're Charlie Sheen. You're George W. Bush. You're my parents.