It seems you can’t turn around these days without tripping over either another actor or a politician being accused of sexual harassment.

A little flirting here and there – that’s not harassment, that’s actually quite fun and completely harmless. But to take it so far a victim is frightened, well, it’s just not on. Neither is it remotely on to willingly engage in behind locked-door behaviors and then cry foul when the sheets have cooled and the granola is soggy.

Now I am by no means belittling those who have fallen victim to this nasty and insidious behavior at all. To make anyone feel threatened or to create a hostile and offensive work environment is unconscionable and rightly should be stomped upon immediately.

You see, now, this is where I become just a tiny bit unglued here. Have you noticed a pattern in this current epiphany of people busting their foofer valves to get their stories to the press?

Three things immediately spring to mind. If you had fallen victim to this, would your first thought be to go running to the press to get your story out there? I highly doubt I would, unless of course I’d gone the old “I’ll take my story to the press unless you pay me an indecent amount of money” didn’t bring instant results – blackmail is such an ugly word, isn’t it?

The second thing that positively shouts from the highest penthouse to me is that without exception, everyone being accused has – well not to put too fine a point on it – apparently loads and loads of money with which to pay off more and more victims.

And last but not least, the accusers are pointing fingers and now staking their claims for alleged assaults dating back to the ‘70s, all the way through to 2005.

Hello? It's 2017 dears. What took you so long to come forward? What was that you say? Oh, I see, you were waiting until the net worth was worked out first. Gotcha, totally understood.

After all, you never hear of cases where the local milkman, Marvin Schwartz (with apologies to all the Marvin Schwartzes and milkmen generally) was accused of attempting a bit of heavy handed, and evidently ham-fisted, flirtations, shall we say, with dairy maid Olive Splunge (again with apologies to the Splunges and maids), behind the milking barn back in 1973 now do you?

Of course not. Marvin has no money, and Olive, bless her, is now a proud grandma of four and would rather not drag the past into the here and now.

“Oh my dear yes, I remember ‘im. ‘E was all hands, ‘e was. Didn’t ‘ave a bleedin’ clue what ‘e was doing. Just gave ‘im a good knee to you-know-where, and Bob’s yer uncle really.”

Again, with the heartiest sympathy and respect for the real victims out there, one certainly hopes the judges on these cases can sniff out the cash grabbers.


-- Annie Dear lives in Lee’s Summit. Email her at