Given the recent fallout from the sordid Harvey Weinstein and Bill O’Reilly meltdowns, it seems apropos to take a peek at what America could look like when empowered women will once and for all subdue and extirpate male dominance in this country. Below is one poor sap’s dilemma when forced to answer for his past indiscretions. Big Sister will be watching as we bring you yet another installment of:


Three hard bangs on my front door started it. I’m sitting in my kitchen about to devour my frozen TV dinner, and that booming voice of the federal official on the other side has to shout my name for all the neighbors to hear. They have come for me. I know it. There’s nowhere to run or hide. Game over.

“Mr. Field, I know you’re in there!” the muffled voice blares, “Trust me. You do NOT want me to resort to extraordinary measures!”

Stay calm. I can talk my way out of this.

When I open the door, there is a Rubenesque figure who looks strangely familiar to me, clad in federal police regalia and dark sunglasses. I can smell the chewing tobacco, too.

“Mr. Field,” she says, “I’m from the Department of Estrogen Security and you’ve been audited to answer some questions.

My brow is melting. There may still be a chance. “But I don’t have to answer any questions. I know my rights,” I plead.

“Sir, I’m authorized by Statute 95 U.S.C. 1972, Federal Regulation 31.54-12. Strictly pro forma.”

“You can’t make me!” I shout.

“Mr. Field,” she starts. This woman has this down pat. “You can answer my questions here now, or…”

I’d heard the stories. If I want to fight for myself, I’d have to do it here. “Oh, alright, alright!” I relent.

Her furrowed brows appear for a moment as dark caterpillars above her dark lenses. Then she extends her arm out to me, the one with the tablet she’d been cradling in her left arm. “Raise your right hand,” she orders.

I recite the oath as my hand rests on the tablet where a life-like photo of an electronic Bible had just pixilated there.

With only the door threshold as a barrier between us, she fires away.

“Isn’t it true that on March 30, 1978, one Veronica Sprinklestein, age ten, came with her mother to your house, Correct?

“I was 11. So?” With Herculean restraint, I resisted the urge to rail.

“And on that day, you invited her to your bedroom, presumably to show her your igneous rock collection, but instead asked her if she’d like to remove her clothes in your presence.”

“She led me on!” I interject.

“Yes or no, Mr. Field.”

“Well, yes, but—“

“Moving on,” she continues. “Then you asked if you could feel her ‘gazongas’?”

“That was hands-on investigative research!” I retort impulsively.

“Uh-huh,” she murmured, scribbling copious notes on her tablet. “At which point you took it upon yourself to touch one breast without permission?”

“This is madness!” I cry out. Surely the neighbors will rescue me from all of this.

“Alan J. Field, by the power invested in me by the Federal Estrogilogical Equality Act, I hereby put you under arrest for the crimes of indecent exposure of male sex drive and inappropriate touching,” the officer said firmly without hesitation.

“But…I was only 11!” I cry out.

“Laws are laws, Mr. Field,” she responds.

“Veronica wasn’t attractive at all, I swear. No way could I possibly have expressed any attraction to that ugly butter-face!”

At that, the officer whipped out a Taser from her belt and fired. My body crumples as I fall on my front stoop with a thud. I look up to see her look down at me, grinning ear to ear. As my body writhes, she handcuffs me behind my back.

As the initial shock subsides, I croak out my final defense. “This isn’t fair!” I protest. “I’ll bet you anything that right now, she’s happily married with kids!”

“Or arresting some dumb schmuck in front of his house about now,” Veronica says coldly.