Back in the 1990's my husband Bruce worked for Allied-Signal in Olathe. He was part of engineering support, working as a graphic artist, and, as an artist, he was -- and remains -- a complete Mac Addict. In fact, the entire art department was composed of Mac Addicts. "PC" was next to an obscenity, and Bill Gates was close to the Devil incarnate.
So it was no surprise that this joke was circulated and posted around the department:
Bill Gates goes to HELL
Bill Gates dies in a car accident. He finds himself in purgatory, being sized up by St. Peter.
"Well, Bill, I'm really confused on this call; I'm not sure where to send you. After all, you helped society enormously by putting a computer in almost every home in America, yet you also created that ghastly Windows '95. I'm going to do something I've never done before. In your case; I'm going to let you decide whether you want to go to Heaven or Hell."
Bill replied, "Well, what's the difference between the two?"
St. Peter: "I'm willing to let you visit both places briefly, if it will help your decision."
Bill: "Fine, but where should I go first?"
St. Peter: "I'll leave that up to you."
"Okay then," said Bill, "Let's try Hell first."
So Bill went to Hell. It was a beautiful, clean, sandy beach with clear waters and lots of bikini-clad women running around, playing in the water, laughing, and frolicking about. The sun was shining; the temperature was perfect. Bill was very pleased.
"This is great!" he told St. Peter. "If this is hell, I REALLY want to see heaven!"
"Fine," said St. Peter, and off they went.
Heaven was a place high in the clouds, with angels drifting about, playing harps and singing. It was nice, but not as enticing as Hell.
Bill thought for a minute, and rendered his decision.
"Hmmm. I think I'd prefer Hell," he told St. Peter.
"Fine," retorted St. Peter, "as you desire." So Bill Gates
went to Hell.
Two weeks later, St. Peter decided to check on the late billionaire to see how he was doing in Hell. When he got there, he found Bill, shackled to a wall, screaming amongst hot flames in dark caves, being burned and tortured by demons. "How's everything going?" he asked Bill.
Bill responded, with his voice filled with anguish and disappointment, "This is awful! This is nothing like the Hell I visited two weeks ago! I can't believe this is happening! What happened to that other place, with the beautiful beaches, the scantily-clad women playing in the water?"
"That was a demo," replied St. Peter.
Bruce brought home a printout of the joke. Being a Mac Addict myself, I also found it to be funny.
Then a couple of weeks later, Bruce told me that the Allied-Signal Powers-That-Be demanded that the joke printout be taken down from their department door.
Can you guess why?
Sexual harassment. It turns out that some thin-skinned females -- not from that department, mind you -- but some working in the vicinity were offended by the reference to "bikini-clad women."
What does that have to do with Herman Cain?
It appears that the harassment charges against him are about as flimsy. Cain told Fox's Greta Van Susteren:
“She (the accuser) was in my office one day, and I made a gesture saying — and I was standing close to her — and I made a gesture saying you are the same height as my wife. And I brought my hand up to my chin saying, ‘My wife comes up to my chin.’” At that point, Cain gestured with his flattened palm near his chin. “And that was put in there [the complaint] as something that made her uncomfortable,” Cain said, “something that was in the sexual harassment charge.”
That's it? Really? That's the best the media toadies can do?
As the phrase goes, "There's no there, there."
Certainly sexual harassment has been an issue, particularly in the past. In the 1970's, with two kids in college, my mother decided to return to work, despite my father being opposed to this move. "Office climate has changed since you last worked," he told her, but she was not to be disuaded.
Even at the age of 50, she was hassled by a couple of supervisors. One was a much younger man, whom she told, "I'm old enough to be your mother!"
No problem, he responded. I like older women.
She and my father took care of things the old-fashioned way. The office Christmas party was held, and she went to that party, my father in tow. She made it a point to introduce him to every man there.
She was never bothered again.
Herman Cain, like my mother, is also taking on this dilemma head-on and in a direct manner. Soon the sniveling media weasels, like the randy office supervisors, will crawl back into their holes, waiting for the next minor opportunity to pounce on a conservative black man.