I approached the woman gingerly; she appeared distraught and was standing dangerously close to the bridge's edge.

She was probably in her 50s, had close-cropped graying hair and was obviously bra-less under an ancient, frayed T-shirt whose front-side slogan, though faded, was still discernible — "A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle." Immediately, I knew another 1970s-era hardcore feminist driven to the literal brink by Vice President candidate Sarah Palin, one of the thousands afflicted by what is being dubbed "Palinosis." Palinosis is a near-fatal, always traumatic malady occurring in epidemic proportions among aging, left-wing “feminazis” (a little Rush Limbaugh lingo here) that long ago bought into the notion that all men were sexist pigs bent only on keeping women ignorant, barefoot and pregnant. In other words, women that are suddenly realizing they've been living a toxic lie for the last 30 years or so.

"Please ma'am, step away from the edge," I pleaded. For an instant, she looked vulnerable — dare I say it — even feminine, but almost instantly years of indoctrination kicked in and she fairly hissed at me. "Don't call me ma'am, you chauvinistic brute! It's nothing more than a condescending label meant to define women as the weaker sex, and thus to ultimately subjugate us within a male-dominated social hierarchy." The words flowed like so much fresh sewage down a hill through long habit, but all of a sudden she looked confused — and yes — even vulnerable again. Instinctively, I reached out my hand to help her away from the railing.

Bad mistake. "Don't touch me, you over-sexed neanderthal! I know all I am to you is a mindless sex object to be used as a pleasure and baby-producing machine and that you deny me my personhood, even as your grandfather denied me and my gender the vote."

The words were certainly there, courtesy of Steinam, Abzig and company, but the spirit within was fading fast; suddenly, she seemed not like 'I am woman hear me roar' but rather like a lady needing a hug. I held my arms out and this time she let me comfort her. I could feel something soft pressing against my thighs. It came to me that this chick indeed had never replaced the bra she had toasted in '75 or so.

"Oh, I hate that woman so much," she blubbered. "How could she look so happy, so normal, so beautiful and so feminine, and still be such a success in a man's world? And her husband — what a hunk! He actually looks like he adores her and isn't threatened by her! They come across like they're best friends, equals and partners and even in love with one another!"

She stopped suddenly and stared into the void that had been her mind, then twitched involuntarily as though a 1,000-watt bulb had suddenly been switched to "on" in her brain. "Wait, I don't hate her at all. I envy her! She has it all, doesn't she?"

"It would seem so," I said. "And the children, don't forget the children."

"Yes, the children," she intoned wistfully. "Those beautiful, healthy, loving, clean-cut children. I don't have any. I was told that having babies would forever doom me to economic servitude and cement my status as a permanent member of the underclass, so I had my tubes tied in '78 and went full blast after a career."

"So how did that work out?" I asked.

"Not so well," she admitted, while using my shirt as a handkerchief. "Bosses realized that without a husband around to help with the bills, I had no choice. I had to work, so I got taken advantage of a lot over the years, and now, with no children, they'll be no one to look after me as I grow older. Do you think it's too late to sue Gloria Steinam?"

"Probably, but you can regain some lost ground by cancelling your subscription to NOW magazine, joining the NRA and Eagle Forum, learning to bake cookies and joining a singles group at a church to find a good man," I opined.

She brightened up considerably. "It's really not too late to turn my life around, is it? Will you walk me home? This isn't the best neighborhood, and I think I'd feel safer with a strong man next to me."

Olson is a former teacher and currently an antiques dealer in Sellersburg and lives in New Albany. He can be reached via e-mail at dgolsonwriteon@yahoo.com.