THE SISTERHOOD OF THE CHAW Born a New Yorker, I am aware of every exotic and extreme form of individual and group behavior. As a Michigan State University student I have audited every rural weirdness. As an aficionado of slasher, splatter, science fiction, and horror movies, I have seen impossibly gory fantasy made real by makeup and computer overlay. As a medical device researcher I have accessed the most outlandish realities, and have created a few of them myself. Some years ago I visited Wisconsin on a business trip. I anticipated a dismal and tedious sojourn into a frozen wasteland famous for a vast mercantile tonnage of its many varieties of curdled milk. Little did I suspect that at the urban/rural interface there had come into being the bizarre militancy of the Sisterhood of the Chaw.
Humanity is utterly violent, limited resources and unlimited desires birthing the sociopath who plunders as the whim strikes. It was the rare band of humans that sought to put some official restraint on the outright brigandry of its members, limiting access to the tools of violence in the hopes of restricting its scope or directing its emergence. Some Asian societies banned the civilian possession of any weapon, thus begetting the martial arts. Hidden less by dormancy than by wide-eyed disbelief lies the perfect construct that is the Sisterhood of the Chaw.
The singles' scene in Wisconsin has not as yet evolved into the terpsichorean intricacy of sartorial display, badinage, and tactile exchange leading to gametophagy or in vivo fertilization. The indigens go a little bit weird in the winter, cabin fever boiling over otherwise refrigerated minds, leading to the consumption of formidable quantities of alcoholic beverages to ease the pain. Nubile Wisconsin residents are heir to the promethean magnificence of
"Hey chick! Yeah, I mean you!"
This maintains the population but violates good business practice at point-of-sale negotiations. I witnessed a male fortified by explosive gonadal pressure and an excessive body burden of toxic ethanol attempting a pickup on two otherwise disinterested women strolling the avenue, chomping on massive wads of bubble gum, unrecognized as acolytes of the Sisterhood of the Chaw.
"Hey you! I mean you, honey! Yeah, both of you!"
He stumbled after them, intent on an evening of rare delight. Had this testosterone-fired example of American machismo provided a hint of clean fingernails, he might have had himself a night. Like a kid in a candy store when the proprietor steps out, temptation overcame good sense as he tried to walk out with the entire shop in his arms. He lurched forward and grabbed each of their shoulders, mouth hanging open in a vacuous grin and eyes bulging with bibulous excess, his face thrust close to theirs.
Many things could now transpire. The ladies might scream, momentarily attracting the boredom of passersby. A cop might consider the situation and decide to have himself an evening. One lady might pull out a can of Mace and ignite the intruders eyes, opening a world rich with squealing pain. The other lady might fire a Taser, sending his nervous system to the moon as two tiny darts trailing hair-thin wires, backed by 20,000 volts, flew through the air to find his chest. The women might whirl in a painstakingly choreographed sweeping kick, the better to shatter his kneecaps or extrude his solar plexus through his . backbone. They might capitulate, fashioning an evening of prolonged and unendurable ecstasy. They might be Sisters of the Chaw.
They both smiled. The lady on the left spat a voluminous subsonic stream of brown tobacco juice into his gaping mouth. The one on the right, in a most prodigious display of expectorative prowess, shot a bifurcated ropey stream, filling each of his eyes. They weren't chomping bubble gum - that was plug tobacco! He burbled and vomited, clawing at his eyes, collapsing to the ground and writhing in a growing pool of his own loathsome fluids. It was the Sisterhood of the Chaw, and sisterhood is strong.
Often during that week in Wisconsin did I encounter disconsolate males, brown slime mucilaginously adhering to cowboy shirts or slicking down hair, hanging in glistening wet strings from ears, stickily discoloring belt buckles and points south, moistly splattering their Tony Lamas. One evening an aspiring young stud slipped, slid and stumbled in the street, covered head to foot, hit victim of a contracted mass spit. Corn-fed and tobacco-powered, the Sisterhood of the Chaw reigns.
I left Wisconsin by taxi, company-paid transportation to the airport and then home. As we passed by some demolished buildings I noticed a group of women standing by one ruined brick wall. Their faces were asymmetric and distended, a malignant swelling bloating each lady's cheek. Their figures oozed through the glacial air, their eyes flashing, their lips tensioned white and bloodless against their teeth. Each in turn would snap about, face the masonry, and thrust her arms down and back, her fists balled, her shoulders arching forward, her jaw jutting as muscles clenched and bunched in high relief. There was a whipsnarl CRACK! as the brown spurt thrust the air aside, traveling faster than sound, traversing three feet and impacting upon a brick, shattering it in reverberating celebration of the Sisterhood of the Chaw.
A decade has passed since that awful trip. I enjoy the economic freedom to indulge in adventures well beyond the grasp of that inebriated boor haunting Wisconsin's streets. In all those years of living my life, only once might I have seen that portentous silhouette of a cheek tautly bulging, decorated with cut and defined muscle striations like a bas relief sculpture, all of it wrapped about a distaff jaw line. There was a sound like heavy canvas ripping, then like a sledgehammer hitting masonry. Hard. There was a scream abruptly terminated by the hollow THUNK! of a melon dropped from a great height splatting upon a sidewalk. I walked on and didn't look back.
I didn't know Doug has a sister.
Imagine what this person could write if he/she knew English.
So instead of carrying weapons, in this fictional piece American women need to have a mouthful of vile chaw! Nice picture. And in the quest for "equality", the American woman slides further and further from the feminine....
Oh, I get it. The red highlighted portion mentions weapons and Winsonsin so this is somehow relevant?
Um...no. Thanks for watching.