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Damaged goods

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"Don't look at me."

Damaged goods is an old-timey term for a fallen woman. When a girl or a full-grown lady decides to engage in sexual intercourse before marriage, she is labeled by all the men in her town as "damaged goods". This is unusually true in Islamic nations, where men fear women so much that they dress them in bags. A fallen woman in an Islamic country is one who shows too much forehead, and is then killed.


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As biblical Eve bobbed for Adam's apple and soon found herself damaged beyond repair, other women were being damaged by even more obscure cavemen. A cavewoman would be wandering by singing "La La La" and a caveman would grab her by the hair and damage her. Then damage her again twenty minutes later. She would hang around for another twenty minutes, hoping for a three-fer, before the guy got tired of looking at her and sent her to the corner store or tarpit or something. As she walked to the store people would point and stare at her and children would run up to kick at her ankles, and then one child would get down on all fours behind her as another child shoved her backwards. This became known as the Walk of Shame.

Why they get all damaged

They don't even know why they do it. They are just out minding their own business one day, looking at shoes or thinking bubble-headed thoughts about kittens and goose down pillows, when all of a sudden they are damaged goods. Some man just up and violated her (an old-timey term for sexual intercourse), making her unfit to marry and forever branding her as an Old Maid (an old-timey term for Kathy Griffin). From that point on the tart is lucky if she can get a date with a second-hand dildo, that's how unpopular she is. Men and woman all shun her - this is the way of the world - and if anyone is seen talking to her they are said to be the slut's "lovers" and are deemed totally unclean by the community. And all because the loose woman decided to take a walk and look at some shoes.

Another one bites some dust

"Don't look at me."

It seems that every week or two another woman of easy virture goes all the way, doing it with a smooth-talking guy who looks like he has enough money to buy things. Other women join the ranks of the mostly-damaged when a man gets to third base (an old-timey cleverly-coded sports metaphor for getting into Sadie's drawers) or devilishly talks her into putting his privates where her mouth is (i.e. thar' she blows). The mostly-damaged don't stay mostly for very long, and soon are wanton.

What she then does wrong

Once damaged, a woman will usually panic. For a brief amount of time she will seek to be damaged again. These forsaken creatures are common sights on the streets and in coffee shops, and the brave or foolish few get their nerve up and venture into pubs and taverns (old-timey terms for that couch that sits directly in front of your 82-inch screen with surround-sound). Once inside these establishments she will give goo goo eyes to men, who, relaxing with their friends and a pint, and not ready or willing to be hit upon in such a manner, will be tempted for a brief instant to fall under her spell. But, looking closer, they see traces of glitter on the lips of the painted woman, a look of lust in her eyes, and a brief glimpse of a ribbed condom in her pink fuck-me purse. Quickly coming to their senses, they turn their head away in disgust. Beaten down, the temptress leaves the pub alone, ready now to accept her fate and live the life of a shut-in.

What to do about it?

Having done the deed and not even in jail, she brainwashes her parents by sending them little cards on happy occasions. What does she want from the rest of us? Dignity? Respect? Just a glance and a smile in her direction? That's really asking a lot. So with her picture now posted on telephone polls and in the deepest confines of men's washrooms, the bimbo (an old timey term for dirty girl, bad, bad, dirty girl) now must get on with her life. She does this with a dozen cats, quilts and hummels, the parlor trappings of her kind; and with coupons, hairnets, and flat shoes - yellowing candlewax on the floor left over from a fast-burning flame.

From then on you can usually find her with a fake smile glued onto her face, baking cookies for the neighborhood children - obese children who waddle up and stop shunning her just long enough to eat the cookies, then waddle away in full-shun mode again. Yes, she'll keep baking cookies for them, angling for those few moments when they smile and burp. Then that first Christmas after the damage (1 a.d.), the tramp will go out to buy the newest beanie baby (a bear with a ribbon strapped across its belly saying "Jew Baby" in honor of the Christ child, now her only possible salvation) in hopes of running into a friend or acquaintance from her former undamaged life who may have a spare shoulder to cry on. All she gets from them are turned up noses, stares like daggers, and free advice about shawls and curtains.

As the years go by, and she enters the final stages of forlorn, now and again a soap opera or two will befriend her. But that's it. That's all there is to her lot in life. For damaged goods never have a happy ending, and there is nothing anyone can do about it.

Do you know why the caged bird sings?

"Don't look at me"

There is no sadder sight in all the world than a fallen woman dragging herself along, holding onto her groceries with one hand while trying to hold her head up high with the other. She never even looks at men anymore, remembering all too well (an old-timey term for good memory) the moment she decided to "give him what he wants". People had tried to warn her. Some of the nuns at Vanessa's hig...I mean, the seductress' high school, had hinted about men and their lecherous ways, telling the girls to keep their knickers on, their knees together, and their hands to themselves. Vanessa's own Her own mother had warned her about doing the deed (new-timey translation: "You be lovin' like a rabbit on crack steroids, girl"). But did she listen? No[1]. Even the words of her spinster aunt, 32 if she was a day, living in the shaded upstairs room - "Pshaw", she swore, "I should not have taken to the floor" - hadn't mattered when the vapors were upon her. But alas, now only "what-could-have-beens" are left to the eternally blackened maiden, alone[2], friendless[3], and spoiled for all of her days (translation: you do the math)[4].

See also


  1. Did you ever really listen to anyone, Vanessa, or were you always a spoiled and selfish brat? My money's on the latter. Don't bother calling me. Lose my number, lady.
  2. Well, OK, Vanessa, call me. I promise I'll never blow the dog again, and I really mean it this time. Vanessa?
  3. Well? I'm waiting. /taps foot on floor, stares at phone
  4. Why? Why him? Of all the people in the world, of all the men wandering the planet, why my father? I know he's not bad looking, and yeah V, there's all that money, and, ah,. . .sure, but. . .but come on! /needs drink
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