We need not concern ourselves with how or why Bush killed our beloved Andrea Dworkin. If he didn't murder her with his own hands, then the mere existence of the soft, dangly collection of objects in his trousers was sufficient to sap away her feminine juju until she was nothing but an empty husk.
To those of us who loved her, Andrea was both enigmatic and complex. Yet despite her divine brilliance, she led a simple, unpretentious life, devoting herself to an ordinary daily routine. Just like everyone else, she'd get up early, brush the tangles out of her long, flowing armpit hair, dress like an insane street person, and then spend the day desperately trying to survive in a male-dominated world where the subjugation of womyn has become the accepted norm.
As she'd step out of her Washington, DC flat each morning, she'd often pass some devoted grrl fans camped out on the front steps. Some would follow her as she walked along, a small entourage of shaved heads, combat boots, and permanent sneers trailing behind her like militant lesbian ducklings.
Andrea preferred to travel by foot, for buses were built by men, maintained by men, and driven by men. Mass transportation was nothing more than another means for men to assert their dominance over womyn. Sometimes, when she was feeling especially frisky, she enjoyed stepping onto a bus, then stepping off again, then getting back on and off repeatedly until the driver complained. "HOW DOES IT FEEL TO BE PENETRATED?" she'd scream at him. "HOW DOES IT FEEL TO BE THE RAPED INSTEAD OF THE RAPIST?"
The bus would quietly roll away and Andrea would walk on, satisfied.
Somewhere along the way, she'd start walking backwards, simply because males expected her to always walk forwards. It was the man's way to keep a womyn docile and under control, facing the opposite direction while he whispered his insidious rapist plots behind her back. So she'd plod along backwards for a couple of blocks, knocking over pedestrians, garbage cans, and produce stands full of phallic shaped fruits and vegetables. Then she'd stop, light up a cigarette, and survey the chaos she had wrought. This is how men must feel when they rape the world, she'd think. Then once again, she'd turn around and start walking forward - not because she was expected to, but because she had empowered herself to do so.
As she approached the drug store, she'd pause to glare at the homeless man sitting on the sidewalk - the same vile animal who had brutally raped her in BROAD DAYLIGHT only two weeks earlier by holding open the door and saying "Good Morning, Ma'am". Hundreds of passers-by witnessed the violent act, heard her screams of "RAPE! RAPE! RAPE!", yet not a single one tried to stop him. Even the police protected their own and refused to do anything about it, actually threatening to arrest her for kneeing the bum in the groin and crushing a cigarette out on his neck. One pig actually made a move for the wooden phallus hanging from his belt, but it just made her laugh. She wasn't afraid of them. She had done time before - most recently for beating senseless a hot dog vendor who thrust a bratwurst at her. Once the pigs knew they couldn't intimidate her, they sent her on her way.
Since that day, the little rapist street bum would always cower in fear when he saw her approach, perhaps realizing how womyn have felt every day for the past 2,543 years. She'd walk past him with a snicker and step inside the drug store, pretending not to notice the hired help quickly clearing the magazine rack of pornography. The young lady behind the pharmacy counter would always have her 36 boxes of Pamprin and 17 cartons of Camels waiting for her. Andrea would try once again, unsuccessfully, to convince her to castrate her sons and leave her husband for a large hairy womyn with poor personal hygeine. "It is only after you've liberated yourself from the chains of manhood that you can truly explore your femininity", she'd tell her. But the poor creature was beyond help. She'd spent too many years brainwashed by men into believing it was her duty to breed, and had actually begun to enjoy being a slave of the patricentric family construct.
Andrea would pay for her purchases in Susan B. Anthony dollars, refusing any change offered. The exchange of coinage minted with the faces of men was just a another form of rape, like the metallic phalluses the men of the city installed on every block to taunt her. With every hydrant she passed, it felt like being raped a thousand times. Every parking meter was like being raped another thousand times. Lamposts, about three hundred times. Despite their inappropriate names, the mailboxes were actually vaginas, so she had no qualms with them until some MAN came along and thrust a letter inside one. Occasionally, she'd watch as a line of men formed to take turns gleefully violating the mailvagina, until a pimp in a mailMAN outfit would came along and start scooping offspring out its brutalized womb.
Sometimes the things she saw on the street made the hair on her back stand on end.
On her way home, she'd often make an extra special effort to pass by a construction site so she could vent her anger on some unsuspecting rapists by ridiculing their tiny power tools. In her final journal entry, Andrea would write:
"Passed by a f**cking construction site today, fully expecting to be gang-raped by walking phalluses in hard hats. But there wasn't so much as a f**king cat call or a whistle. Is there something wrong with me? Should I clean myself up a little, wash my hair, put on a little make up and a nice f**king dress? Then I realized it was Sunday, and all the rapists had taken a f**cking day off from erecting their giant glass and concrete phallus to sit inside a wooden phallus and ask their giant phallic Man God to forgive them for all the womyn they've f**cking raped. I hope they choke on their f**king communion wafers.
Must conclude. This phallus that men gave us to write with is ejaculating ink all over my f**cking paperwork. DOH! Raped again!"
The world has truly lost a visionary.