Bat Whistles and Night Vision Beer Goggles

Setting aside for the briefest moment the Jeremiah Wright media circus, we turn our attention briefly to another entertaining sideshow in the spectacle that is the Democratic Party Primary Race of Anno Domini 2008. That is the pitched battle between the Feminist American and the African American factions in the Party, said battle being over the right to pose with the greatest moral outrage over political incorrectness.

To catch up: back on March 14, Amanda Marcotte posted that her new book was for sale. The book, It’s a Jungle Out There: The Feminist Survival Guide to Politically Inhospitable Environments, features Sheena of the Jungle on the cover and in the book's artwork.

Someone eventually noticed that peppering the drawings in the book were Aftrican warriors, symbolizing the evil male influences that the heroic feminista must battle as she meanders her way through the workaday world. Of course, these depictions were decried as racist.

Ace picks up the story after the epic battle has already produced several double-hulled tankers full of guilt.

Amanda Marcotte's All-White Country Club Publishing House: as silly as I think this is -- I certainly don't think the dumb comic-book pictures are intended to be racist, or can even be viewed as racist without really, really, really wanting to find "unconscious racism" wherever one fixes one's gaze -- it's quite obvious the goofball left takes this nonsense seriously.

So Amanda, and her publisher, and the publisher's pastor, and someone the publisher knew in junior college, all were required to apologize, show fealty to the Dream, say three Hail Gaias. And now once more, with feeling.

Up to speed?

Now Maximos asks us to compare and contrast Marcotte's little pickle over comics with some evangelical anti-Catholic tracts from Jack Chick. And no, I have no double entendre with "little pickle" -- sometimes a pickle is just a pickle. And I really don't think Jack Chick chose his surname to contrast with Amanda Marcotte's use of hot jungle women as feminist icons.

Which brings us, finally, to the point.

The moonbats on the left are highly adapted at picking up the slightest sound and interpreting it as an intentional, malicious, deeply offensive stake pointed directly at the heart of their most holy movement. Any mention of skin color, or even any image of a person of color, will be interpreted as the malevolent prelude to a lynching. Any female figure shown cooking, or cleaning, or cast in some other traditionally female role, will give rise to objectification and gender subjugation.

But by being so hightly attuned, they are forced to focus on just the tiniest of chirps to the exclusion of the rest. Like the sound of birds calling along the shore below the thundering Niagara Falls, to most of us these unintended slights are covered over by what the person speaking or writing actually intended to say. Focusing on the chirps doesn't allow the use of their other senses; feminists are so focused on winning the battle of the sexes that they fail to see themselves belittling others for their skin color.

And in having their ears attenuated so closely to pick up the slightest twirp, the false positives begin to bore the rest of us to tears.

Or as in this case, the tears are of laughter. Because all of this is so ... so ... dramatic. It's group narcissism, the reveling in the belief that one's own opinion and situation is paramount. That it really is all about you.

This election season is, without a doubt, the most fun I've ever had watching politics. I just hope no one gets hurt. Much.

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