Surface Over Self

I’m attending a sexual assault defense class, somewhat less officially referred to as Defense Against the Dark Arts. Intended for women, these courses are a rollicking mishmash of foot-stomping, crotch-bashing, and other pain delivery systems pioneered by America’s Funniest Home Video’s.

Through the magic of mandatory training, I’m often reminded that a man is about as likely to be sexually assaulted as a woman. Since I’m a docile, emaciated, boy-man, I run a pretty high risk of being on any sexual predator’s menu. However, that’s not my only reason for attendance – I’m concerned that this class may be harboring a sinister threat. If you haven’t already connected the dots, I’ll do the honors.  A class teaching women to incapacitate violent rape artists is wide open to any clever female sexual imperialist to hone her sinister skills.  But fear not, if my helpless, string-beany physique manages to lure out any fe’malefactors in training, they will be toe-stomped and crotch-shotted to a pulp (by the rest of the class). Some may call me a hero, but like all heroes, I must casually remark, “No, its just what anyone would have done in my position.”



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