Patricia Ireland must be an advocate of the “rhythm method” of
political contraception. Certainly her timing in abandoning the “bed of
state” and leading the NOW gang’s “coming out” party against Bill
Clinton is exquisite.
“I believe her,” Ms. Ireland said of Juanita Broaddrick, another one
of Bill Clinton’s endless string of sexual “conquests.” Ms. Broaddrick,
it seems from her television interview, required a bit more force than
many other women before she “consented” to Mr. Clinton’s advances. But
since she was physically weaker and ultimately dependent upon the state
of Arkansas for her nursing home’s Medicaid payments — and since Mr.
Clinton was the chief law enforcement officer of that state — the
likelihood of her “making a fuss” — some might call it seeking justice
— was remote.
Ms. Ireland, we now learn, has become horrified to learn that she was
sharing political bedcovers with a man who would force himself on a
woman! She has, it appears, gathered her tattered garments around her
body, and — after teetering, toes curling over the edge of the mattress
— finally jumped to safety.
Ms. Ireland and the NOW gang would have us believe their sensitive
feminine nature was deceived by Mr. Clinton. In turning upon Mr.
Clinton, they expect to regain their public virtue.
But cold and calculating — not soft and vulnerable — would be a
better description of those in the feminist movement. How else do we
explain individuals who have worked tirelessly for the genocide of
unborn children? Thirty-five million innocent young children who will
never know the warmth and touch of their mother — only the cold metal
of the abortionist’s forceps. Millions of young mothers now bear the
emotional scars of the feminist lie: it’s not a child, it’s only a fetus
(Latin for newly delivered; offspring).
Nor do the feminists’ virtuous deeds end on the ash heap of America’s
Auschwitz. Two generations of her young women have been force fed the
lie that their children would raise themselves — while mother was off
pursuing a “career” in the workplace. Two generations of Americans have
lived with the results: Latchkey children, raised by Hollywood’s inbred
elite. The result — for the vast majority of working moms — is a job
that moves the family into a higher tax bracket and enriches feminism’s
“State-supported childcare,” cry the feminists. “That is the answer.”
And so their statist bedmates are roused to new passion; emboldened,
they venture out onto the political battlefield, confident that their
victory will win the love of their latest “Lady Fair.”
But life on the battlefield is rough and unpredictable. Sometimes the
warrior is fatally wounded in his contest. At other times he is left to
nurse his wounds. And so it is with Mr. Clinton. His heroic feats on the
battlefield are not enough for feminism and its fickle leaders. For who
should be expected to endure caring for wounded? Who among the feminists
will give herself to a crippled king? Far more expedient to jump the bed
of state and make haste into that of his “heir apparent.”