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Internets, When it was revealed, a few weeks ago, that Harvey Weinstein had his way with many of the

Life in a Shanty Town

December 15 · Issue #34 · View online
The hip-hop newsletter that's not afraid to ask the tough questions

When it was revealed, a few weeks ago, that Harvey Weinstein had his way with many of the most attractive actresses of the late ‘90s and early 2000s, some of our most astute commentators began speculating that it was only a matter of time before similar predators were exposed in the music industry.
If and when there is some sort of reckoning in the music industry, it’s unlikely that anyone will be revealed to have been quite as prolific a predator as Russell Simmons. Russell Simmons is not just the godfather of hip-hop; he’s the godfather of nonconsensual lovemaking—allegedly.
The other day alone, nine women came forward with various accusations against him, in stories in the New York Times and the LA Times, four of them alleging that he made sweet, passionate love to them without their permission. That brings the grand total of sexual assaults allegedly perpetrated by Uncle Rush, a/k/a/ Uncle #MeToo, to 12, including the two girls from before and the girl from a story I just read in the New York Post.
Not only is that a large number of assaults, but it’s a large number of completed sex acts (if you will) per incident. Bill Cosby had way more victims (ahem, survivors), a number that might not ever be topped, not that that sort of thing is officially frowned upon, but most, if not all, of his victims were incapacitated. Russell Simmons was having to wrestle girls down onto a bed, or force their heads down onto his unit, while Brett Ratner sat there and watched—or so it’s been alleged.
It’s hard to believe that Uncle #MeToo could be so vicious, given that he always seems so calm. He could hardly bring himself to say, “Thank you for coming out, god bless you, goodnight,” on the old Def Comedy Jam. Come to find out, that could be because, no matter when you see him, he just got done blowing his load. (Bill Clinton seemed similarly calm back in the '90s.)
As difficult as this past week has been, Rush is at least fortunate in that he already resigned his position as the nominal figurehead at any number of companies no one ever heard of a few weeks ago, when he was accused of pulling the ol’ “I’ll call us a cab” trick on the girl who wrote the screenplay for Rachel Getting Married. So really it doesn’t matter how many of his alleged victims come forward. What are they gonna do, give him his job back so they can fire him again?
The NYPD says they’re opening an investigation, but I doubt much, if anything, will come of that. Most of these allegations date back to the early '90s, which must have been the peak of angel dust-era Russell Simmons, while at least one of them dates as far back as 1983. The one from a few years ago, at Art Basel, doesn’t count, because the girls took off running as soon as the heard Rush run a bath. They weren’t about to wait around for him to pull out his old, wrinkled ballsack. If only they had. They could have had him thrown in a Miami jail, like Hannibal Buress.
Similarly, a masseuse in a hotel in Seattle refused to give Rush a “handy,” when he asked for a happy ending. In a statement, Uncle #MeToo’s lawyer (whose religion wasn’t specified) explained that he was just joking, and he apologizes if the masseuse took it the wrong way. Someone in that line of work hears that joke all the time, Rush probably figured. Strategically, it seems like you’d be better off framing your request for manual stimulation as a joke, rather than suddenly removing the towel covering your junk. The latter is how John Travolta got caught up.
Take it easy on yourself,

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