Sorry if some one has posted about this, I looked but didn’t find it.
In the June 21st edition of The Cut E. Jean Carroll recounts (as an excerpt from her upcoming book What Do We Need Men For?) with courage, wit, slashing sarcasm and sadness, the stories of “the 21 most revolting scoundrels I have ever met.
Having worked for, and interviewed, many of the biggest assholes of our time, Carroll had her work cut out for her winnowing that list down.
Matt Lauer, Bill O’Rielly and Charlie Rose were not sufficiently revolting to make the cut.
Hunter S. Thompson, who drunkenly assaulted her in a hot tub and cut her leggings off with a hunting knife while in the throes of an acid trip, was seriously considered, but ultimately rejected.
Mr. hot shot N.Y. City real estate developer, who prior to raping her…
…“yammers about himself like he’s Alexander the Great ready to loot Babylon…”
The 8 year old boy with “feral gray eyes” who likes to shove thing up her does not make the list for ….reasons.
But his grandfathers and uncles do.
Les Moonves makes the list, as does the Orange asshole, presumably because they were grown ass men who should have known better. Their stories are told within.
But most hideous, perhaps, a trusted summer camp director (who only clocks in at #6)… for his actions after she is crowned Miss Something-or-Other of Camp Runamok:
“After they put the papier-mâché crown on my head, the cape on my shoulders, and give me the baton covered in Reynolds Wrap, Old Cam, No. 6 on the Most Hideous Men of My Life List, the waterfront director, takes me out in a boat and runs his hands under my shirt and up my shorts. He is breathing and moving his hand slowly and hotly, and I fight no battles in my head. My mind goes white. This is Cam. This is the man who has watched me grow from an 8-year-old Brownie Scout, and his notice is an honor. This is Cam, who teaches me to swim and dive and awards me the coveted White Cap! This is Cam, who continues to run his hand inside my shorts and under my blouse — even in the dining room during dinner, under the table, squeezing my thighs, shoving his fingers — saying, “You’re my girl. You’re my girl. You’re my girl,” and making me Girl Scout–promise “not to tell anyone.”
I am astonished by what I’m about to write: I keep laughing.
He does this until I go home.
I am 12.”
It is a remarkable read.
If you have the stomach for it.