Legislators Mull National "Do Not Rape" List

.S. lawmakers, called on to help clear the murky waters of consent in sexual situations between adults, responded today with a plan to create the national “Do Not Rape� registry, a centralized list of American women who are officially not asking for it.

Inspired by the sensationalized rape charges brought against NBA superstar Kobe Bryant by an unnamed Colorado woman, the registry would provide a way for U.S. women to proactively opt-out of unwanted sexual encounters with any of the growing legion of clueless sexual predators populating America’s bars and dark alleys.

The proposed list would mirror the recently created “Do Not Call� registry and the impending “Do Not Spam� list, and would mandate that all men intending to have rough sex with strangers would be required to check the list of names every three months or risk up to a $1,500 fine, jail time, or neither.

“If a woman says no, but only fights you off half-heartedly, that’s the most encouragement many of these guys will ever receive,� explained defense attorney Richard Spackle. “It can be very confusing.�

“Like what if she’s saying ‘No, no, no!’ but the guy’s Hawaiian or something and his name is Nono? That could happen. You gonna send Nono to jail just because he thought she was cheering him on? That’s discrimination, plain and simple.�

Legal experts and sports fans applaud the proposal, hailing the list as a step forward into an enlightened new age when the public will no longer have to guess which of the two people involved in a rape trial is the total piece of shit.

“This legislation could bring relief to many who desperately need it,� commented legal expert and student taxidermist Rutherford Wank. “Women who speak up with allegations of rape will be spared the muckraking and character assassination all too common in the modern rape trial. And even more importantly, American males will be free to fuck crazy bitches again.�

Other proposed lists reportedly being discussed in Washington include a national “Do Not Kick My Dog� registry, a “Do Not Masturbate to My Image� registry, and the controversial “Do Not Exploit My Unskilled Labor� registry, which has already drawn harsh criticism from several U.S. corporations. As of press time, no exploitive, dog-kicking masturbators could be reached for comment.

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I usually don't do this kind of thing. Usually I meet women through my work as a kickboxer or at family reunions. Don't get the wrong idea, I mean my brothers date some kick-ass girls and they all want a piece of Dooley Finster, I would never date a woman who was related by blood unless she was a cousin or something 'cause I ain't having no fucked-up Rain Man kids. But I saw you at the traffic accident and felt something cosmic between us.

You felt it, too, didn't you? You were studying me pretty close while I was doing that breathalizer test. I caught a look at your fine ass and I thought I was going to pass out, and it wasn't from the .13 blood alcohol level.

I was putting on a big show just for you, darling, once I knew you were in the audience. If you hadn't been there, maybe I wouldn't have called those cops pussies and kicked out the window of the patrol car. Hell, they liked to never get the cuffs on me, I was floating like I was on fucking air or something. All because of you.

Don't pretend you weren't flirting with me, too, flipping your hair back, adjusting your blouse. I don't have the subtlety you do, maybe, the best I could manage was to punch my whining girlfriend in the lip and expose myself to the crowd. I could have just winked or something, you probably would have known. But I got the feeling you knew it was just for you, babe.

My racist remarks caught that black cop off guard, I could tell, and maybe you as well. But that's not who I am. I talk a good game, but that's only who I am when I'm out in public and running a good buzz. There's a lot of times I feel vulnerable and fragile, like when the black cop was hitting me in the ribs with his baton. I want to share that side of me with you.

So anyway, I suppose you know what I'm getting at. You were the tall, gorgeous blonde in the crowd. I was the abusive foul-mouthed bigot being wrestled to the ground and hog-tied with plastic binders. If I hadn't been carted away and charged with D.U.I., assault and battery and attacking a police officer I would have asked for your number, or maybe to go out and get coffee sometime. If you're reading this, call the commune or e-mail them or something and they'll put me in touch with you. I can't wait to get your number!

I hope you're ready for the most special date of your life. I'd like to take your hand in mine and walk through the street, just getting lost in the shards of broken glass from where my car hit that cop cruiser. Maybe take you out to dinner at the nicest bar in town, provided you can cover me until my lottery ticket pays off. I'll bring along my laundry, we'll make a day out of it.

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Don't ask me why or how, but I keep dating guys named Evan. Without exception. It's actually kind of eerie and disconcerting the more I think about it, which is probably a good sign to quit. Thinking about it, that is. I'm not sure I can quit dating Evans, since I never actually set out to date guys named Evan in the first place.

I thought I had broken my streak once, back in 1997, when I started to date a guy named Charles. Then two months into the relationship I met his parents and discovered that his real name was Evan. His friends just called him Charles. For short? For long? I don't have any frickin' idea. His middle name wasn't even Charles, it was T-Fal. Don't get me started on that one.

Things went predictably downhill from there.

Things went sour between the previous Evan (Evan 7) and I after he wrote a column about Columbine called "Revenge of the Nerds," which I thought was unforgivably tacky. And he wasn't even writing for the commune! I'd thought that dating a fellow columnist would solve a lot of those normal career-relationship problems, like living with someone who doesn't understand your need to move in with a tribe of Kalahari Bushmen for a month to research a piece you're writing on teen pregnancy.

Turns out I was as wrong on that as I had been about my hot stock pick for that year: "Fat Camps" for bulking up underweight kids. Turns out you can't legally force-feed a child peanut butter through a tube, plus the chunks tend to clog up the tube. But that didn't much matter in the end, since my second-choice stock had been for a company developing man-sized Furby dolls as companions for the elderly, and that whole enterprise went south like a snowbird after some old bag in Kansas tried to feed hers soup and it blew the power grid for half of North America.

The first Evan I dated was probably the best, and in retrospect I should have quit while I was ahead. Sure, it was high school, but if I had known what was to come I would have gladly called it a romantic career at 16. Truthfully, I don't remember that much about Evan 1, but he smelled nice and that went a long way in high school. I think he was on the soccer team; either that or he just took shin safety very seriously.

It was a quick luge-run downhill from there, since Evan 2 pretty much spent all his time drinking Zima and crushing the empty Zima boxes against his forehead as a joke, which meshed surprisingly well with his job as an toll booth operator. People love a little levity when they're fishing through their seat cracks and underwear for 35 cents. And he did pull down a decent wage, mostly through selling Zimas to thirsty motorists. That eventually led to his downfall, of course, since one day he ran out of Zimas and had to leave his post to run to the Liquor Barn, which resulted in that story you heard on the news about those 200 people who got into the state of Illinois for free. Evan's boss was pretty pissed and wanted him to pay those lost tolls out of his own pocket, but never the math scholar, Evan jumped out the window instead and never looked back, not realizing he'd just left a lucrative Zima-distribution job over $70.

Evans 3 through 6 weren't worth remembering, or at least I don't remember them anyway, and numbers 9 and 10 left me for each other, so I won't be glorifying them with a more detailed mention. But on the bright side, I just started dating a new guy named Elvin, which I consider to at least be a step in the right direction. Unless he's really just another Evan with really sloppy handwriting, in which case I'm doubly screwed since I'm not sure if I'm supposed to meet him tonight at the boathouse or a bathhouse. I'm hoping it's the boathouse, since I'm tired of gay boyfriends always using up all my expensive makeup. Wish me luck.

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