The rise of pussy power?

I confess. I stuck my head in the sand for a couple of  days. I simply could not acknowledge the fact that an anus-mouthed narcissist was the President of the United States. I got off Facebook as soon as the first bad news story was shared. I decided against going to the Saturday women’s protest on the island where I live. (People would be talking about what a menace President Dickhead was and I simply wasn’t ready to admit he existed.)

Yesterday I realised the very thought of turning on the news no longer made my stomach clench, so I did. It was, of course, still mostly all Dickhead related, but that was – more or less – okay. Apparently I have come to terms with the fact that Dickhead is the President of the United States. (Even as I write the words I find myself mentally adding “for now” to the end of the sentence, because I genuinely cannot believe this idiot is going to make it through four years.)

What’s this I hear? General Flynn has been playing footsie with Putin? Dickhead wants to lay claim to all the oil in the middle east? The CEO of Exxon has been confirmed as the new secretary of state? Marco Rubio, who looked as if he might stick his head above the parapet to make his bid as a credible candidate in 2020 by voting against Tillerson, chickened out? No surprises there.

I can’t remember when Dickhead’s transition and now first week in office lost its ability to shock. Actually, I think the shock was over on election day. Once Dickhead took his lead in the electoral college, all bets were off. And now we are all watching the most ludicrous – and dangerous – reality show ever created. The brakes have stopped working on the rollercoaster and we’re all just holding on for dear life. (Tune in tomorrow, folks, to see what new and unexpected havoc Dickhead and his venal band have created!)

Meanwhile, on a much brighter note, this photo and others from Saturday’s marches around the globe can’t help giving me some hope. (Seriously, click on that link.)

I defy you not to laugh out loud at the scientist’s placard.

I don’t regret my decision not to go to the gathering on the island where I live on Saturday. Rightly or wrongly I was in denial. I simply wasn’t ready for President Dickhead. But these women – and men – on all seven continents were.  One pussy-grabbing misogynist may have been the spark that lit the fuse, but these women – and men – in North America, South America, Europe, Africa, Asia, Australia and, yes, even  Antarctica were marching and gathering about so much more.

Is this the beginning of a long overdue global uprising? Of women around the world saying enough is enough? As much as I’d like to think so, I am far from sure. There is, however, one thing about which I am certain. The next time some man attempts to harass or demean any of the tens of millions of women who were out on the streets on Saturday, she will make him wish he’d kept his gob shut and his hands to himself.

And that is a pretty powerful beginning.