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December 26, 2013

10 Years of Nonsense: The Bernard Henri-Levy Guest Column

Originally published in May, 2011. As the site's ten year anniversary is coming up on December 28th, and because I sort of want to take off during these ambiguous off-days of Thursday and Friday after Christmas (and New Year's), I'm republishing some old stuff.

The background for this post is that French philosopher and journalist and public intellectual Bernard Henri-Levy rose to the fulsome defense of his friend Dominique Strauss-Kahn, after DSK was accused of raping a hotel maid in New York City. Despite another accuser coming forward to accuse him of attempted rape -- his own goddaughter! -- it actually turned out that Dominique Strauss-Kahn was innocent of the crime.

Although it then turned out that Dominique Strauss-Kahn was accused of being a client of an underaged-girl prostitution ring, arranging dozens of "orgies" for his high-ticket friends. This so-called "Carlton Affair" (named for the hotel in Lille, France where the "orgies" took place) is still an ongoing investigation, the last time I read about it.

However, at the time this post was written, it appeared to most, incorrectly, that Dominique Strauss-Kahn was indeed guilty of raping the maid in New York City. It certainly appeared that way to New York City prosecutors, who indicted him.

Bernard Henri-Levy's passionate defense of him turned out to be correct.

But at the time, his defense seemed very strange. Henri-Levy spoke about DSK as a man who lived life to the fullest, and who cut a sharp figure, and suchlike, as if these observations were proofs of his innocence (or worse, excuses for his rape). For example, he wrote a column called "The Dominique Strauss-Kahn I Know:"

: "And what I know even more is that the Strauss-Kahn I know, who has been my friend for 20 years and who will remain my friend, bears no resemblance to this monster, this caveman, this insatiable and malevolent beast now being described nearly everywhere. Charming, seductive, yes, certainly; a friend to women and, first of all, to his own woman, naturally, but this brutal and violent individual, this wild animal, this primate, obviously no, it's absurd."

I guess this post kind of illustrates the dangers of rushing to judgment. Whatever else DSK has done, or not done, it is now accepted as fact that raping a chambermaid was not among his sins. And however ridiculous and emotion Henri-Levy's defense of his friend seemed at the time, he was 100% right.

So this post was completely unfair.

Still, it was, I think, pretty funny. So pretend it's late winter 2011 and we're all still thinking that DSK is guilty and Bernard Henri-Levy is some kind of weird groupie justifying his hero's behavior.

BTW: Please don't comment on old posts, if you go looking back for other pieces. The system reads comments on long-dead posts as "Spam," and bans people for doing it. That's why I'm republishing these in a new, clean post.

Bernard Henri-Levy's "guest post" below.


Bernard Henri-Levy
Philosopher, Frog

My Good Friend Dominique Strauss-Kahn Has Forcibly Sodomized Me On Any Number Of Occasions And I Never Got All Crankypants About It

I speak in defense of my good friend and esteemed sodomaniac Dominque Strauss-Kahn.

The charge levied is preposterous: That talented overseer of the world financial system Dominque Strauss-Kahn raped a immigrant woman in a hotel room.

The defense is simple: Dominique Strauss-Kahn rapes everybody. Literally, everybody. Two days ago I was pleasantly surprised to receive a phone call from my most excellent companion.

"Hollah! What up, playah?," I greeted.

"Rape," was the singular reply, playful and piquant.

"Fo' shizzle?" I asked, wide-eyed and incredulous.

I knew Dommy to be a saucy fellow, full of jest and jape, so I could never be quite certain: Was he, in fact, fo' shizzle?

"For shizzle," Dogg SK confirmed. In background, I now heard the unmistakable creaking of a ligature being tightened around the wrists of terrified co-ed.

But this demonstrates the man's commitment to egalitarianism, as well as his irrepressible life-force, and by "life-force," I mean "ether bottle."

We live in a gray age, of weak shadows and indistinct reflections, of washed-out colors and blurry lines. Striding boldly across this dreary landscape of diminished ambitions and counterfeited intent is the vital power of Dominique Strauss-Kahn, a man who lives life to the fullest, a true bon vivant ne plus ultra, and when I say bon vivant ne plus ultra, I mean he rapes strangers.

And colleagues. And loyal friends. Essentially he's just a one-man rape machine, an indefatigable Terminator, except instead of being a futuristic war machine built upon a polyalloy battle-chasis, he rapes people.

In an age when so many are ennervated by the leveling effect of a drably corporate world culture, homogenized, bland, and empty, Dominique Strauss-Kahn embraces the world in a great bearish hug of vim, and bonhommie, and a contact erection, which is usually fair warning that the raping is about to commence.

My very good friend Dominique Strauss-Kahn will not take "No" for an answer from our colorless prison of a world.

He will also not take "You're hurting me," for an answer, nor "Stop or I will call the police," nor even "Rape! Violeur!"

Actually, I must confess, it is a little off-putting when he gets like that. He gets a glazed, empty look in his eyes, glossy and vacant, like the eyes of a demonic fortune-telling automaton in some forsaken carnival of sexual evil, filling you with a sense of dread, and also, filling you with his penis, because, just like that, with a click and whir, you're getting raped.

Shortly after my fourth rape at the hands of
Dominique Strauss-Kahn. I got over it. It's no big deal.
Why is everybody being such babies?

What can be said of a man who refuses to accept anything less than life's full measure of passion, of a man who lives boldly and outrageously, of a man who has diligently built up a tolerance to pepper-spray and chemical mace, as well as to blows to his genitals, so that he simply cannot be deterred from rape?

Well, you can call him a rapist, I suppose. If your mind is possessed of a crudité.

Or you can call him what I call him: My beloved friend. My lively comrade. My trusted confidante.

And also: My frequent rapist.

I first met this affable cyclone of aggravated sexual assault at a book party hosted by the always ebullient Mme. Simplesse-Callie, in her delightful Alice In Wonderland themed topiary garden. He was resplendent in a closely-tailored suit by Vivienne Westwood, which was all the rage that wine-soaked summer, and carrying an elegant rape-kit, especially designed for him by Louis Vitton, which, as I would find out later, was not merely an affectation, because he had handcuffs and a cattle prod in there, in the handcuff compartment and cattle-prod convenience pouch.

From almost the moment I saw him, I was arrested by his eyes, his manner, his undeniable intellect; I was also arrested by his brutish arms and iron grip, because within moments, I was up against the March Hare, being raped.

So, he raped me. Film at eleven! LOL. No big deal.

It happens. Let us have some perspective here. I have been raped numerous times in my life. Granted, these rapes were all at the hands of Dominique Strauss-Kahn, but I'm sure if he didn't rape me someone else would have, because, frankly, I'm asking for it.

I mean, look at me.

Directly after my seventh rape by Dominique Strauss-Kahn.
As you can see, it's just a "Here we go again" thing at this point.

Shit, I'd rape me if I saw myself trying to pull that unbuttoned shirt look off. And not even because I look hot. Just because it looks like I need an attitude adjustment, post-haste and on the snap.

As a philosopher, I live life by several dicta. Carpe diem is not just some cheap doggerel to be found on a poster in the room of a college freshman, who, according to the statistics, is probably being raped by my good friend Dominique Strauss-Kahn.

No, it is moral imperative, a Commandment superior to any of the expressions of petit bourgeios restraints as concocted by superstitious Jews 3000 years ago. It is not a slogan; it is a manifesto.

And a legal defense to rape.

And it stands, singularly, as the summa of human philosophy, along with its perfect corollary, the irrefutable axiom that keeps our society tolerable:

Snitches get stitches.

Snitches get stitches. We all know this, implicitly, as we have always known it, since it was first elucidated by Immanuel Kant in 1802, and first foreshadowed by Jean-Jacques Rousseau thirty years prior.

So who is the "victim" here?

The actual victim, you reply?

Well, uh, okay, that's a pretty good answer and I see where you're going with that, but let us also keep in mind that sometimes things get weird, and shit happens, and.... Who ya gonna call?

That's a Ghostbusters reference. I was told that would fly with an American audience.

"He slimed me"? No? Nothing?

"Don't cross the streams?" Is that something? I was told that was something.

Okay, look, fine. "Be that way," I believe the expression goes.

There's no arguing with you. Be a little bitch if you want.

It's no big deal. Seriously. After eight or nine times you barely even notice anymore.

By the way, is Ghostbusters any good? It is? All right, I'll Netflix it. Now that Dominique's under house arrest I have a bit of extra time.

digg this
posted by Ace at 01:51 PM

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