I’ve Finally Realized We Live In A “Rape Culture”

I was eating my usual breakfast this morning—a bowl of Kellogg’s Rape Flakes swimming in the breast milk of female sex slaves chained in a basement—when I came across yet another headline about how we supposedly live in a "rape culture."

Being a white male in severe denial of the privileges the patriarchy accords to me, I rolled my eyes. We do NOT live in a rape culture, I said to myself, obviously lying. In fact, most people consider rape even worse than murder. Only child molestation is considered worse than raping an adult woman, and even that is a form of sexual assault. The only time it’s not considered repugnant by society is when a man’s getting raped in prison—in those cases, you mostly hear a laugh track instead of horrified gasps, even though statistics show it’s more than twice as common as females getting raped. There is not ONE WISP of evidence over the past couple generations that anyone of prominence in our culture encourages rape, much less the entire fucking culture.

What an ASSHOLE I am!

Then I turned on the TV, and there was yet another talk show where a bunch of knuckle-dragging cavemen were high-fiving each other while laughing about how it’s "cool" and "hip" to rape chicks. This was punctuated with TV commercials about how Cialis allows elderly men to rape women with confidence and how once you get her to guzzle about a dozen Miller Lites, it’s much easier to rape her.

I tried to push this out of my mind as I grabbed the keys to my 1999 Dodge Rape Van and headed to a local library named in honor of convicted rapist Tupac Shakur to do some research. Even though I tried hard to look the other way, aisle after aisle featured books that either instructed young males how to rape women or celebrated great historical rapists and incidents of mass rape such as the Rape of Nanking by Japanese forces and the two million or so German women raped by conquering Soviet soldiers at the end of World War II. I searched and searched for hours, and I could not find one line in even one book that said rape is bad.

Flustered, I drove to a local college and snuck into a Women’s Studies class. The male teacher was using a large pink phallic pointer on a female anatomical chart to illustrate the easiest and most effective ways to commit sexual assault against a woman.

Growing increasingly uncomfortable, I visited a local bar, only to see what I usually saw whenever I went there—a gang of men, including the bartender and the bouncer, were raping a young woman on a pool table. I turned away and quickly left.

As I motored home along Georgia Route 69—also known as the "Gang Rape Freeway"—I turned on the radio, only to hear that famous song by Journey. You know the one—"Don’t Stop Rapin’."

Then it hit me with the blunt-trauma force of an unlubricated fist up my ass—we do live in a rape culture. There’s no denying it. All the evidence proves it.

I only have two words to say: I’m sorry. I was wrong. OK—five words. But I think you get the point.