So there’s a frickin’ rape quilt now.
Remember the AIDS quilt? Back in the 1980s, gays swiped another quaint, wholesome, colorful thing (rainbows, anyone?) to trick us into thinking everybody could get AIDS, and not just stubbornly promiscuous male homosexuals (with heroin addicts who were gonna die anyhow sprinkled on top).
“By stitching our stories together,” say the rape quilt ladies, “we are creating and demanding a public space to heal.”
I demand the creation of a public space for me to puke.