NIDRA POLLER: WIKIPISHER THE PUBLIC DESERVES TO KNOW….HILARIOUS!
Published by New English Review
may circulate freely
Wikipisher: Let It All Hang Out
by Nidra Poller (December 2010)
Does Wikipisher have balls? I mean real balls, not the virtual kind that flap around in cyberspace pretending to know it all. How big is his pisher… at rest…and in action? What color is it? Probably pink, but we deserve to know for sure. Does he smell like fish or yeast? How long does he last, how fast does he explode? I have my suspicions but in these days of transparency the public has a right to full disclosure. Does he climax with a squeak, a whimper, or a howl? What’s his religion on positions? What’s his rhythm… jazzy syncopation… jerky determination… mechanical pumping? I bet it’s not tropical or tamtam.
Why are those high class media that sucked up Wikipisher’s purloined letters with such gluttonous enthusiasm not the slightest bit curious about his Swedish adventures in transparent sex? According to the trans-European arrest warrant currently hanging over his head and other organs, the man forced two Swedish women in separate incidents to accept the penetration of his naked pisher. And, if we read between the lines, he may well have subjected one of his victims to the ultimate outrage.
Is all of this is speculation? Or, worse, a twisted political plot to stem the tide of Wikipisher’s uninterrupted ejaculation of state secrets… of certain secrets of certain states? Let’s recapitulate: Julian Assange is above suspicion. His sleazy, lowlife, opaque, selective, specious operation is an international public service but the complaints of two Swedish women are politically motivated. If the complaints are legitimate—remember women’s liberation, our bodies ourselves?—then it’s the Swedish authorities that are cynically hounding the avenging Assangel instead of telling the bitches to keep their thighs closed if they don’t want to expose themselves to minor inconveniences like unprotected sex with a dude they hardly know.
Where’s the investigative journalist who should be sniffing out the bedroom secrets of the Savonarola of transparency?* The journalist is sitting in an armchair, lapping up agency dispatches and signing them, like bad checks, for public consumption. Not even curious! Well, he’s sadly mistaken, because the bedroom secrets underlying those captured messages would shed a revealing rose hued light on the thought process, excuse the exaggeration, that underlie such diplomatic insights into the workings of the world. Your corner state department doesn’t really believe that Iran wants to join the concert of nations? The Saudis are funding jihad, but they want Uncle Sam to snip off the tip of Ahmadinejad’s jones? (Not, to be sure, in the interests of peace on earth. They just want us to eliminate their arch rival for the caliphate.) Arab-Muslim potentates are not losing sleep over the construction of Jewish homes in Jerusalem? Thank Wikileaks for these and thousands of other revelations that will enlighten—or break the hearts of—those who believe in Santa Claus. Big deal! What you want to know is: who is your ambassador sleeping with.
Leak us some of that, and you’ll see the masses suddenly getting interested in international relations.
What if it turns out that Julian Assange is a premature ejaculator? Or, on the contrary, a merciless stallion who rides roughshod over any unfortunate damsel who allows him into her boudoir. Is he the kind who pops off his nuts in the lady’s velvety channel without a thought for her share of the fun? Some guys, you know, talk a good game but when push comes to shove it’s over so fast you wonder why you bothered to undress. I’m not accusing the Grand Revelator of anything, I’m just taking him and his groupies at their word. Monday they’re gurgling over the virtues of transparency and Friday they want to draw the curtain over the juiciest tidbit of the whole Wikileaks saga. Their hero goes to Sweden—on the generous donator’s dime—and spends time sniffing under skirts. As if that weren’t enough, he mishandles the operations to a point that two women swallow their pride, come forth and blushingly reveal, yes reveal how they’d been had.
But that’s a distraction, right?
Oh! I just remembered Berlusconi. Scandalous! Dirty old man, sex fiend, salacious fornicator betraying the trust of citizens. Newspapers didn’t turn their eyes away from those bleached blond revelations. But they aren’t interested in two Swedish ladies—maybe they’re green party activists, who knows?—who have seen Mister Wikileaks in his birthday suit, and could tell us everything we need to know about his pisher.
Ken Loach, John Pilger, Jemima Khan and lesser known misguided spirits were willing to post bond so that Julian Assange could run off somewhere and seduce other chicks while pursuing his treasonous enterprise. Press freedom, coos Jemima. Of course, dahling, freedom of the press means stealing secret documents and slathering them in public places like so much excrement. Al Capone defended our freedom to come and go into banks. The Ground Zero mosque project is about religious freedom. The courageous 19 of 9/11 fame were champions of freedom of transportation. And the jihadi beheaders stalking our streets are defending the freedom to separate mind from body.
One step for Julian Assange and a giant step for the New Feminism. Wrapping women in niqab is a gift to humanity. Snipping off half of their genitals is multicultural chic. Mutilating, bashing, or murdering them to assert the honor of the dishonorable is not to be over-dramatized. A decade ago the likes of Jemima would have been praising Scandinavian women as top models of liberation. Today they’re politically manipulated whores for daring to assert their legal right to say no at any point in the intimate procedure. Wrong, sweetie. It’s not a yes or no question, it’s multiple choice. If I remember correctly they draw up dating contracts in politically correct American universities. Or has that gone out of style?
Excuse my vulgarity but people who don’t know when they’re being f___ed over should at least not be proud of their dismal ignorance. There’s nothing complicated about the Wikileaks issue. Julian Assange is a traitor and should feel the full weight of retaliation from sovereign states protecting their citizens. Newspapers that received and published the stolen material should answer for their irresponsible behavior. Have we forgotten that these same knights in shining armor wouldn’t publish the “Danish” cartoons? And that’s just the tip of the iceberg. They are gradually slipping into de facto respect for sharia law, but ever so smartass when it comes to publishing secrets of democratic states. Wikipisher takes us for dhimmis. He’s the ur-victim, offended by whatever itches his crotch, and supremely self-appointed to do justice on his own terms. He’s a tyrant not a whistleblower. He’s the Net version of those black-clad anarchists who set fire to bank buildings (with people inside), attack the police, and then squeal when law enforcement exerts its democratically validated power.
The issue is not whether some benefits might be drawn from the revelation of certain state secrets, the issue is that a lone mediocre wolf, elected by no one, working with an army of unidentified elves, should decide for all of us. By fiat. By fait accompli. That is tyranny. And it would seem that the ideologically motivated online tyrant is also a hormonally loaded sexual tyrant.
His acolytes are threatening to reveal even more damaging secrets if… If what? If law-abiding nations use duly established courts to protect citizens against their guru, online and in bed. That’s blackmail. Doesn’t that make it easier to believe that Mr. Wikipisher operates with a heavy hand, forcing the female to submit to his will rather than enticing her collaboration in a mutually profitable enterprise?
It sometimes seems that our populations are ensconced in a sort of mental niqab. No value of civilization escapes the twisted rhetoric of the glitteringly benighted. Peace, justice, equality, tikkun olam, charity, Zionism or the Iranian bomb…they can debate any question from the bottom up… and not very far up at that. We are paying dearly on an every day basis for their thoughtless transgressions. We are worn out weary of trying to write their wrongs. So let’s try another tack. Let’s take them at their word. Freedom and transparency for all. Forget about diplomatic cables, let’s do some real git-down spying. Through the keyhole! Today, when no one is ashamed to broadcast retrograde notions draped in self-righteous sophisms, let’s see how they react when we reveal that they don’t know the first thing about sex! Will we finally hit their shame button?
* Thanks to my amiga Ruth S. King I learned that Richard Pendlebury, writing for the Sunday Daily Mail, did bother to get background on the sex scandal. [http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-1336291/Wikileaks-Julian-Assanges-2-night-stands-spark-worldwide-hunt.html?ito=feeds-newsxm#]
If his words are to be believed, Pendlebury trekked all the way to Enkoping, a small town near Stockholm, where Wikipisher allegedly slept with the second of two plaintiffs. It sounds like the age-old groupie story. Cute little things, dumb with admiration, trip all over themselves to get the boyz in the band into their pads. More often than not, either seduced and abandoned or downright disappointed, they click on the icon and turn the page to a new adventure. Pendlebury has his own bucket of leaks. Twitter gossip, first and second thoughts, hair color and outfits…it seems that Assange made the Enkoping chick (“Jessica” to protect her identity) pay for his round trip ticket to her distant abode, claiming he didn’t want to use his company credit card for private business. As for the first hit (“Sarah”) Pendlebury has evidence that she is a militant feminist lawfarer. This, plus the fact that in the immediate aftermath both ladies maintained friendly relations with the alleged sex offender–Sarah threw him a party, Jessica had breakfast with him—leads Pendlebury to conclude that their stories “don’t ring true.”
If his words are to be believed, Pendlebury trekked all the way to Enkoping, a small town near Stockholm, where Wikipisher allegedly slept with the second of two plaintiffs. It sounds like the age-old groupie story. Cute little things, dumb with admiration, trip all over themselves to get the boyz in the band into their pads. More often than not, either seduced and abandoned or downright disappointed, they click on the icon and turn the page to a new adventure. Pendlebury has his own bucket of leaks. Twitter gossip, first and second thoughts, hair color and outfits…it seems that Assange made the Enkoping chick (“Jessica” to protect her identity) pay for his round trip ticket to her distant abode, claiming he didn’t want to use his company credit card for private business. As for the first hit (“Sarah”) Pendlebury has evidence that she is a militant feminist lawfarer. This, plus the fact that in the immediate aftermath both ladies maintained friendly relations with the alleged sex offender–Sarah threw him a party, Jessica had breakfast with him—leads Pendlebury to conclude that their stories “don’t ring true.”
Isn’t that the point? As long as it buzzes, who cares if it’s true… that is, who cares if the offended honeys are sincere grapes or sour? Mr. Assange is so busy setting traps for the American government, wouldn’t it be funny if he stupidly fell into one hidden in silky underthings? Any number can play at truth and consequences. Too bad for us if our government can’t keep its mouths shut? So too bad for Wikipisher if he’s in the hoosegow for the lesser of two evils.
At least he can’t claim he’s the victim of a sting operation! He’s the one who was doing the stinging. With a Wikileaky condom … Provided by one of his informers? Bought with generous donations? Or stolen from an automatic distributer?
The people have a right to know.
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