Under observation
What would ET have to say about farming women for men?
Greetings, Friends.
This website is now under construction, and things are not going well. After speaking with a consultant about merging all my work here from the past eight years into one site with one name, and being told starting over wasn’t a good idea, I tried to do it anyway, and all hell broke loose on the back end. It’s a mess. A big mess. So, now I have to hire a tech person to help fix it. Thanks for your patience.
Meanwhile, speaking of back ends, they were much in the news this week. There were the sex workers (whores? prostitutes? I’m having a George Carlin moment here) at Sheri’s Ranch in Pahrump, Nevada who seek to unionize. And no, I did not make up the name of that town.
Among the demands of the United Brothel Workers, which naturally are represented by the Communication Workers of America, is that they have control over their depiction in marketing materials, and that they have the right to protect their intellectual property. If a reporter asked the specifics on that last part, I have yet to read about it. We’ll just have to leave it to imagination.
“This is how you end up the face of a Japanese lubricant company without ever having signed a document. This is how you end up finding yourself on a website offering AI companionship without ever seeing a penny.”
~Jupiter Jetson, sex worker at Shari’s Ranch in Pharump, Nev.
The Ranch sounded vaguely familiar. I seemed to recall the time my then college-age son told me that on a trip to the Sierras, he got off the bus at a brothel on the Nevada-California state line. So, I looked it up, and yes, it was a ranch, but a different one. The Cottontail Ranch.
In fact, there are so many such ranches in Nevada, it would appear they breed women there the same way gypsies breed draft horses: durable, ready for anything, always made to work. There is the Moonlight Bunny Ranch, the more cowboyish sounding Sagebrush Ranch, the deceptively named Chicken Ranch, and the more prosaic Mona’s Ranch, unless you’re into onomatopoeia.
Donna’s got herself a ranch, as does Kit Kat although hers is schmancy, ‘cause she calls it a Guest Ranch. There’s the Love Ranch, the Stardust Ranch, and the Big 4 Ranch, which sounds thrilling until you come upon the Mustang Ranch and then you really know you’re riding hard.
There are many more women ranches, including those that have dropped the word “ranch” from their names, even if that is what they still are. So many ranches, that it brings to mind the monthly livestock auctions that are also common in Nevada. Are the women branded on their pahrumps?
Then of course, news of the man with the bizarrely large chin and his international chain of tropically located girl ranches will just not go away. This week the ghost of Jar Face even found his way into a hearing on Capitol Hill, featuring a screaming blonde woman named Pamela, who probably hasn’t been ranched, but sure did need some schooling. And manners.
Why was she screaming, anyway? The mention of Jar Face sent her into paroxysms of loud non sequiturs.
Listening to her grow shrill about pedophilia, the old trope, What if aliens landed and (fill in the blank about ridiculous human behavior) made them turn back immediately, never to bother with us weirdoes again? came to mind.
First of all, for aliens to think that it’s weird to farm humans for the pleasure and profit of other humans, they’d have to value freedom. Is it possible there is a world out there that understands democracy means humans are not widgets? I’d like to live there.
Yes, of course, the ranched women chose to be ranched. The fact that I recently listened to a BBC call-in show where a London porn star, who is thrilled to be frequently recognized by her fans when she is out for a stroll with her hubs, called in to say adult actors loooove their jobs notwithstanding, I doubt that most women, given more options, would choose to be farmed for pleasure.
And anyway, if the evidence around the inanities and activities of Jar Face’s circle is any indication, men in power seem to have short attention spans which they fill with the delights of women and girls even if that is not what the women and girls want. What I am saying is that regardless of whether or not prostitutes dig their tasks, powerful men are going to see them as nothing more than livestock anyway.
Which calls to mind another trope about aliens: that, should they come, they only want to enslave us for access to our resources.
In that case, maybe the aliens are already here.
Peace,
Whitney