Lena Dunham’s rape-libel catches up with her

This has been a bad week for the Feminist-Rape-Media Complex.

The Rolling Stone story of a vicious gang rape at the University of Virginia, which is now looking like the manipulation and betrayal of an emotionally fragile young woman by a grasping and amoral journalist, has melted down into a seething, effervescing puddle of molten #FAIL which will, if there is actually justice in the world, consume several careers.

The second incident may lack the dynamic storyline of the UVA case but could turn out to be more signficant in the long run. Many of you have heard of Lena Dunham. She is the chunky, lumpy, promiscuous chick who has parlayed being chunky, lumpy, and promiscuous into a career. She burst upon the national political stage in 2012 with her vapid ad encouraging her equally vapid fan base to vote for Obama because it was a lot like date rape deeply unsatisfying sex. Recently she released a “memoir,” not that someone of her age or accomplishments has much “mem” to “oir” about, called Not That Kind Of Girl. It has drawn attention for a couple of reasons. First, Dunham outs herself as a someone how behaved as a predatory pedophile with her younger sister:

One day, as I sat in our driveway in Long Island playing with blocks and buckets, my curiosity got the best of me. Grace was sitting up, babbling and smiling, and I leaned down between her legs and carefully spread open her vagina. She didn’t resist, and when I saw what was inside I shrieked. “My mother came running. “Mama, Mama! Grace has something in there!”

My mother didn’t bother asking why I had opened Grace’s vagina. This was within the spectrum of things that I did. She just got on her knees and looked for herself. It quickly became apparent that Grace had stuffed six or seven pebbles in there. My mother removed them patiently while Grace cackled, thrilled that her prank had been such a success.

As she grew, I took to bribing her for her time and affection: one dollar in quarters if I could do her makeup like a “motorcycle chick.” Three pieces of candy if I could kiss her on the lips for five seconds. Whatever she wanted to watch on TV if she would just “relax on me.” Basically, anything a sexual predator might do to woo a small suburban girl I was …read more    

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