Metaphysics of the Spanking Machine

Just like every decent lesbian country & western club really should have a bull riding machine, no proto-riot grrl kinderwhore bar is complete without a Robospanker. At least, that is how it would be in a perfect world.

Many a dyke, who is cursed with a sense of cultural history, does a silent prayer, on Christmas Eve, that Santa's designated switch hitter will stick a Babes in Toyland CD in her stocking:



And nothing could be finer than the band's original CD--Spanking Machine, a seminal album that set off a wave of raging all girl bands, and launched a thousand bitches.

It is solidly awful from the opening track Swamp Pussy to the unambiguous wrap up Fork Down Throat.

It is an album full of tribal pounding and aggression. But, the loud drums, can not possibly obscure the primal scream of Kat, which was only silenced when the suits slicked up Nirvana, and ruined a perfectly healthy garage band scene.

Anyway, some entrepreneurial perv has actually created the machine, which inspired the raging trio of Midwestern gals to set off on a trek to Seattle, and a rawk to cult girl fame.

It is simply called the Robospanker, and some might consider it a bargain at 800 bucks:



That's indisputably cute, but for the thinking girl, there is more to it than another topic for Howard Stern to fill up his time slot.

Unlike classic rock DJ's, who between their uninsightful pretentious quips, sometimes wonder what the metaphysical connection is between a German airship and a British electro blues band --- feminists, punkstorians and girls in general, have never really given a rip about the significance of the title of Babes in Toyland's opening act.

This is because elucidation is really not necessary.

The theme clearly has something to do with the utilitarian creepiness of Jeremy Bentham, who thought so highly of the concept of automated spanking that he actually wrote a learned treatise on the subject. But more than that, it has to be the universal childhood fear of, and intrigue with, the device.

Back at the childhood academy, that molded my various psychoses, the rumor mill was always rife with speculation on exactly how the spanking machine in the principal's office worked.

And then lo and behold, I find out, from my own daughter, that it seems the progressive mistress of her school is also in possession of such a device, although, like in my school days, there have never been any first hand accounts (except from the Class Pinocchio) of it's heartless rational administration of punishment.

And therein, like the silent unknown terror of the Zeppelin, lies the real power of the Spanking Machine. The whole thing is a slightly naughty version of the tired themes of works like Charlie Chaplin's Modern Times.

At its simplest level the machine is the forerunner of lethal injection. The rage of society, and our need for retribution, is turned over to an impartial machine—and us moderns, feel that somehow this exorcises our worst instincts and sanitizes, not just the process, but our souls. We not only like to pretend—but find it fascinating.

But, once again, there is more to it than that.

In childhood nightmares, and hesitant fascination, the spanking machine is the ultimate in equality, and the terrifying triumph of brute totalitarian reason over emotion, which is really the only thing that defines us as distinct individuals.

No longer will there be different strokes for different folks. A rebel girl will be unexpectedly snatched from her peers and the emotionless robot will administer the precise requisite number of measured swats across her booty.

What could be more fair—or terrifying?

Like a Zeppelin in the night, the quiet launch of Soviet nukes, or the various types of terror that may come unexpectedly out of the lands of Islam, the existence of the spanking machine fosters a sense of quiet hysteria and desperation.

However, in this case, theoretically, only bad girls need to fear being suddenly swept away onto the lap of impartial justice, and administered fair and measured antiseptic booty licks, from a device so reasonable it knows nothing of the human soul—not to mention the diversity of sensitivity between derrières.

But, for some reason, the good girls are uneasy as well.

It is the kind of thing that drove a whole generation of postmodern kinderwhores mad.