[Editor's Note: After being gone part of last week and now behind at work, I don't have time to do this post justice. But I'm going to write it quickly, anyway.]

Last week we went down to Table Rock Lake. Saying we were going to Table Rock Lake was actually kind of a trick, because I didn't realize that Table Rock Lake is actually pretty much attached to Branson, Missouri, the Dollywood of the Midwest. 

Even though I knew I was in Branson, I had perhaps unfounded expectations for the entertainment. While visiting the amusement park -- Silver Dollar City -- I was, well, angered to be treated to a helping of rape culture on the train ride. 

(Note: In our version of the train ride, YANKEES were supposed to attack the train, because perhaps between February 2013 when this video was filmed and last week, someone informed Silver Dollar City that using a Native American war cry in your train robbing skit is uncool. Otherwise this would have been an even longer post taking on racism, as well.)

(Another Note: My rant has nothing to do with the person who filmed the video and put in an intro. I don't know her. I just know I saw the skit performed by these same two actors, and this was the most recent video I saw of the skit on YouTube.)

You may think I'm overreacting, but the train robbers actually talked about handing over a trainload of women.  What did they want them for? HEY HEY HEY. To shove something unwanted into the women's orifices, perhaps? 'Cuz that is FUNNY!

There was also a sign that I forgot to take a picture of on a bridge saying basically that bridges had coverings for the same reason pretty ladies wore long skirts -- to protect the underpinnings.

What, pray tell, from?

I'd love to see a sign hanging on a bridge talking about protecting a man's asshole from all the people bigger and stronger out to stick something in it. Because that would totally happen, right? And everyone would get the joke?

HEY HEY HEY

When we joke about women being raped, no matter how honkytonk and family friendly the ride is supposed to be, we teach girls and boys and men and women that it's totally natural for a man to want to rape a woman, and really, women should have to protect themselves from the randy males all around her. Or maybe if she can't, her man should protect her.

Or maybe she should just cover her underpinnings.

There is nothing funny about rape, folks. And this skit perpetuates rape culture. 

The best part? At the end of the ride, the conductor told us all to have a blessed day.

As the Corolla sits stinking up my garage, Beloved is back in the Ozarks. And it's occuring to me I don't actually even know where. Have I learned nothing? I mean, I talked to him last night and this morning, and I forgot to ask both times. He was somewhere last night and he'll probably be somewhere different tonight, and after ten or twelve different times of him road warrioring his way across Missouri every week, I've grown more accustomed to this new life of ours. The only problem is my absent-mindedness. I have my head in my novel, and that means I forget to do stuff like turn on the coffee pot and ask my husband where he's sleeping.

There. I just texted him.

And printed my boarding pass for my flight tomorrow to Dad 2.0.

My parents will be here soon to be here for the little angel when she gets home from school because Beloved will get in late on Thursday.

I worry about my parents driving down here. I worry about Beloved driving around Missouri. I worry about me flying to Austin. But that's what people do. They move freely about, even though it's a dangerous world out there. It does no good to sit in your house and hide from that world.

When the worry comes, I try to imagine a big windshield wiper sweeping across my thoughts and pushing them away. Sometimes it helps.

Sometimes I just crawl back into the novel in my head, where I control whether or not there are tornadoes.

'Cause Beloved had his first freight-train experience last night. Pics on BlogHer -- he's okay, but the Corolla, is, um, not.