R. Kelly found guilty on all counts as America awaits its next sexual supervillain
In one of the most famous episodes of The Simpsons—recently named the greatest sitcom of all time by one of these publications arrogant enough to make all-time lists but who, in this instance, actually knows what they’re talking about—Waylon Smithers betrays Mr. Burns; his employer and secret crush, because the dastardly old man tried to block out the sun with a giant piece of machinery so he could run a monopoly on the giving and selling of light to the city of Springfield. Smithers betrays Burns because “when he planned to steal our sunlight, he crossed that line between everyday villainy and cartoonish super-villainy”. Sad to say, several rich, powerful, successful, prominent, men have given Mr. Burns a run for his money. Trafficking and raping young women is too icky and perverse a practice for The Simpsons to make jokes about it, though I’d venture the less endearing, lower quality, and horribly cynical Family Guy has taken one or two stabs. So let’s spend a little time checking some of these sexual supervillains off:
I have to feel guilty forever now if I watch and laugh at The Cosby Show, A Different World, Fat Albert, I Spy, Ghost Dad, or Jack. Actually, I watched Jack and didn’t laugh at it. My apologies to the memory of Robin Williams.
Miramax made some wonderful filmsؙ— I’ll never forgive the Academy for gypping Saving Private Ryan in favor of Shakespeare in Love, though—under the management of a man who is so ugly, his only choices were to be rich and rapey for a long time until an open Hollywood secret finally became a police matter when desperate actresses had had enough or a normal man of normal socioeconomic status who would have gotten away with maybe one or two instances of rape before he got the police on his tail.
I’m sure the man/men who committed Jeffrey’s Epstein’s suicide are on the phone right now with their bosses, ascertaining whether or not R. Kelly is connected to any prominent politician who’d rather let sleeping dogs lie by taking a life than go through the hassle of being held accountable for their actions.
Hyperactive virtue signaling brothers; Andrew and Chris Cuomo, weren’t about to be outdone by their father Mario when it comes to getting all handsy with female coworkers and subordinates.
Louis C.K., along with abbreviating his last name like some sort of perverted frickin’ mutant, got in trouble and lost his TV show for tugging on his plug like some sort of even more perverted frickin’ mutant when his female friends just wanted to talk shop.
Too many politicians, rock stars, CEO’s, professional athletes, movie stars, and additional men of status and influence to count and make jokes about in short essay form.
You spotting a theme here? One is inclined to wonder if a certain percentage of men chase money not for money’s sake but because money is the precursor to getting the chance to commit crimes against half of humanity. Some men are go-getters and use their money to open doors professionally. Some men are go-getters and go get women, even those who aren’t really into being gotten. Abnormally high status apparently comes with the panging desire to dangle your ding-dong at inappropriate times. Thrill seeking and boundary testing are the emotion at work here, maybe? We guys who have our moral fortitude somewhat centered just drop a hard $125 for a day pass to Cedar Point and ride a few coasters, but you do you, Masters of the Creepiverse.
Despite the men who bump into each other at each other’s ivory tower-warming parties, we can all rest assured this’ll turn into lecturing, finger wagging, and scolding of we salt-of-the-earth men who know how to stifle our inner Viking. When Oprah announced that time was up at the Golden Globes she was more talking to the camera than she was the crowd.
And that’s the crux of the matter, beyond women in vulnerable situations being able to breathe a little easier (just a little). In a blatant display of hardcore narcissism, the problems common of Hollywood and obscenely rich elites who look down from their penthouses over gargantuan coastal cities and only can think of how to get more are projected onto middle Americans hacking out a quiet living in flyover country who only consume the goods and services of these degenerates. Leave-me-be Conservatives and Classical liberals (basically the same people at this point) want nothing more to do with them than affordable cars and good movies. It’s why they call these folks “out of touch”. The problems and culture of rich coastal American aristocracy types are not the problems and culture of everyday capitalists who attend high school football games after a long week of building small businesses so they can leave something to their children. And that goes for Republicans as well. The party of “family values” gets to eat a very specific amount of crow and be all “that’s not what we meant by family values” when a Republican is found to have been maintaining a secret family up the road a short hike.
And yet, the next time one of these sexual supervillains rears his ugly head—feel free to shudder as you consider the fact that he’s out there right now, escaping justice as he tests the boundaries of evil—and fills the void of high-profile sexual supervillain du jour (nature abhorring a vacuum, as it is wont to do), chances are we mere mortals of tolerable masculinity will have to absorb the business end of preachy time from the Feminist News Hour. C’es la vie, as the people from that country which has its own stereotypical share of sexually aggressive men are fond of saying.
So let’s get back to Bob Kelly. I’ve got some more rotten comedic juice to squeeze from this moldy, horrific orange of a situation. I would promise to not derive a cringeworthy pun from one of his hit songs, but I’m a dad and I. Am. Certain. I. Don’t. Know. How. To. Do. That.
I’d ask Dave Chappelle to follow up on his brilliant I’m Gonna Piss on You parody but I’m Gonna Lock You in a Small Room for Several Years and Make You Crap in a Bucket just doesn’t seem as grabby, brevity being the soul of wit and all.
This is a perfect opportunity to release I Believe I Might Cry; a soulful sequel to his Space Jam…jam, written from the perspective of a convicted convict getting pegged in the showers by other convicted convicts who despise rapists and pedophiles because even convicted convicts have a code and pegging in the showers is their way of letting convicted rapists know what time it is. Told you I didn’t know how to not make a pun. That one’s on you for having faith I could.
We’ve only known R. Kelly to be a creep for about twenty five years ever since he married a fifteen-year-old Aaliyah and micturated on another underage girl like, a second later. We need to be more slow, deliberate, and cautious in the pursuit of justice, folks. We’re liable to make mistakes with all this rushed and frenzied forensic activity. Slow down, justice system. You’re bound to pull a hammy.
“America’s Next Sexual Supervillain” would be an efficient game show pretense for outing creeps before they’ve had to chance to create a whole new slew of sexual assault survivors.
I’ve got a couple questions for the aforementioned justice system. I’ve read a little about what he did in between vomit sessions. No man can get away with the sheer volume of tom-foolery that warrants a RICO case without an entourage made up of opportunistic hangers-on with questionable scruples. Where’d they scatter off to? What are they doing and how’d they escape Lady Justice? I know she’s blind, but come on. Even a blind woman can squish a few roaches as they skitter away from the light. Did they drop dime and turn on R.? When can we expect their trials? Inquiring minds want to know.
OF COURSE there were fans of his outside the courthouse protesting the hammer of justice as it falls because OF COURSE there are those walking among us who will deny Reality no matter how hard Reality is knocking on the door in a last-ditch effort to rub our stubborn noses in irrefutable evidence. I’d like to know who these people are so I can cross the road to avoid them in public, private, and anywhere in between. I’m super-hardcore-omega-level against using social media to dox others, but even I have my limits.
That’s about all of my own writing on the matter I can stomach for now. Need a shower? Me too. (see what I did there?)
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Image taken from:
https://www.complex.com/music/2019/08/r-kelly-new-york-trial-experience-day
