Saturday, February 25, 2006

I Love Writers!

I wrote much of this post last week, but felt too embarrassed by its sappiness, no matter how heartfelt, to publish it. Then I received notice a couple of days ago that another one of my good blog friends had decided to end his blog, and thought to myself, To hell with appearing sappy.

Please don’t think me overly eccentric, or heaven forbid, loony as a fruit bat in heat, but I am the kinder, gentler Ted Kaczynski of suburbia. I am and always have been a loner. I’m such a loner, it’s a major event in my neighborhood if I step foot on my front porch and nod a hello to the dude and his wife across the street.-- I much prefer the backyard where I can enjoy myself in peace, watch nature, play with my kids, cook the occasional batch of meth, without the obligation of being “neighborly.” And it’s not because I don’t like people, per se, but more of a wariness on my part. I’m sure my life experience differs from many - many normal people, that is -- in that human beings scare the shit out of me. Much of my fiction has the underlying theme of deception, monsters made of denim and L’Oreal cosmetics who drive mini vans and attend PTA meetings, crunch numbers, shop at Sears, wish you harm even as they embrace you.

To me, there is nothing more terrifying than what lies beneath the smiling masks, whether it be the serial killer who appears to be a model citizen, or the mother who bakes her kids cookies one day, murders them the next, or even just someone who gains trust and affection from an unwitting mark, then twists it all up into a dagger of cold betrayal and stabs that mark in the back. Repeatedly.

One can never be sure what lies beneath, and I guess my experiences have taught me that there are very few deserving of my trust and affection. I hate to get all Nietzsche on your ass, but although I have great compassion for the human race, I believe the majority is composed of beguiling monsters, some big, some little, but no matter how benign, they thrive on deception. Which is why I love the written word so much. My writings allow me to express myself truthfully, without the fumbling inarticulateness that inevitably spills from my mouth -- I do not, unfortunately, possess the skill of eloquent speaking, and that alarms me at times. I am often misunderstood, seen as patronizing or sarcastic when I am in fact trying to be consoling or humorous; I fear that I come across as one of those deceptive monsters instead of the loving, oftentimes ditzy soul I really am. There are good reasons why this is so, why I am unable to connect with others face to face as much as I’d like. But that’s not up for discussion today.

The written word comes from inside, deep inside, without the fears and self-doubts that would otherwise stilt and distort my true intent. And those of you who write well, and honestly, have gained my trust and affection, deluded as that might seem, because I feel, right or wrong, that you, too, find comfort and release by way of text instead of flapping gums.

It may be naïve of me, but when I read certain blogs on a regular basis, I feel as if I’m seeing what lies beneath, and what I see does not frighten me in the least. I feel many of you are kindred spirits, would be someone I’d be honored to have dinner with or sit outside on a hot summer day (backyard, please) and sip cocktails, laugh, discuss the world. I’m a loner, but I really don’t want to be. And that’s why I love and appreciate you guys, and that’s why I miss you if you go away.

I’ve had to say goodbye to quite a few favorite blogs over the past six months or so, blogs that I’ve had on my blogroll pretty much from the get-go, and that makes me sad. Like, really, really sad. The authors of those now defunct blogs are exceptional writers, humorists, wise wonderers of the human condition; they’re folks who went well with my morning coffee or evening 18 pack, folks who, although we’ve never met, are/were more than passing acquaintances more than delightful words splashed across the page for my amusement -- they truly were my friends.

So, in case you’re wondering, this rambling bit of poo-poo does have a purpose: I want to say to Jas, Peter, Tom, Jeni, Greg, Joshie, and Gary...Thank you, I miss you, and should you decide to blog again, please don’t hesitate to let me know the moment you're live.

To fill the empty spaces on my blogroll, I’ve found a few blogs that thrill the hell out of me, and though some of the authors don’t know me from Adam (but who does know Adam, really?), and probably are unaware that I read them, I’m feeling them just the same. If you haven’t yet checked out Living in a Dream, Yeah…I Said it , Suburban Bliss, One Girl and Her Cats, Diary of a New York Lady, and Jordan E. Rosenfeld over on my blogroll, I hope you’ll do so sometime soon. Enjoy!

Thursday, February 23, 2006

Guess the Artist and His/Her Subject!

"The Fool"

A) A hideously inaccurate portrait of me by Lar, after a twelve of Coors and a good cigar

B) A striking likeness of Lar by me, after a twelve of Coors and one Valium. Okay, maybe two.

C) A portrait of me by my son, Brandon, after a peanut butter sandwich that had been lying around for a couple of hours and a room-temperature glass of O.J.

D) Self-portrait by George W. Bush, no mind-altering substances needed

E) A study of the soul by Condi Rice, after a three-martini lunch and a good look at her conscience

F) A particularly mean-spirited rendition of Harry Whittington by Dick Cheney, after the "incident"

G) A portrait of Martha Stewart by Donald Trump, after Martha bitch-slapped him

H) A good-natured cartoon depicting George W. Bush by President of the United Arab Emirates, Khalifa bin Zayed, after learning the good news

Wednesday, February 22, 2006

The Truth is Out There

Not sure why I can’t find one damn thing on the recent release of footage taken last August by two upstate New York fisherman of Lake Champlain’s legendary monster, Champ - and believe me, I just spent over a half hour searching, including Good Morning America’s website (GMA is where I first saw the story), which does have the story listed, and does have a video clip, but unfortunately, isn’t the footage that was splashed all over the news this morning. Why is this, I wonder? Why would they have the story listed, but no text, and a video, but a different one other than what was shot by the fisherman? In fact, the GMA website video is useless, only blurry, sun-drenched nothingness, not even an approximation of Champ.

Hmmm. I need a Scooby snack.

Well, in lieu of linking to the actual footage, I’ll just say that the pictures are spectacular, really wonderful and chilling and adorable and absolute OH MY GOD, I’M IN HEAVEN goodness for a cryptozoology nerd like myself. There she was, Champ, in all her splendorous glory, her big snakey head and everything. Aiiii-eeeeee! Love it!

For any of my fellow weird creature-lovers out there, here‘s the story behind the story. And if I ever do find the actual footage, I’ll be sure to post it asap. ‘Cause, you know, it’s seriously freaking cool.

ADDENDUM: More coolness...

Last week, I was approached by St. Martin’s Press to review a soon-to-be-released book, and I just found out this morning that the PR person for St. Martin’s, the one who contacted me, is a homegirl! Small, awesome, weird world, isn’t it?

Monday, February 20, 2006

I'll Take "Disturbing Advertisements" for Five Hundred, Alex

Alex Trebek: Embarrassing, vulgar, and unconscionable, this commercial attempts to entice potential suckers with its ludicrous dancing bazooms.

Ms. Lori: What is the bogus breast enlargement exercise apparatus commercial that I saw yesterday but can't remember the name of and can't find mention of on the Internet, no matter how many variations of the words "breast," "exercise," "commercial," and “seizuring bam-bams that move independently of one another” I type into Google.

While watching MTV yesterday morning, I experienced a horrible urge to throw my coffee cup at the screen and yell obscenities, but I, out of respect for my family, suppressed the urge and merely wept quiet tears of hate.

There was this commercial, see, a very bad commercial aimed at "boob-challenged" women (read as "not adequately endowed according to misogynistic American media") that depicted various half-naked ladies “enlarging” their already bountiful bosoms with a product “DEVELOPED BY A WOMAN!” that claims miraculous results in only six weeks. Or something like that. Anyway, the busty broads demonstrated how you too can have enormous boobage by using this incredible “STATE OF THE ART!” machine that was “DEVELOPED BY A WOMAN!” and honestly, it was as if I were witnessing a remote viewing of some thirteen-year-old boy’s masturbatory fantasy, and I did not like it one bit.

The gist of the thing is this: You take the machine, or “appallingly phallic-like stick of foolery” as I like to call it, and you simply push the ends inward, the basic principle being tension = spectacular ta-ta enlargement. However, as most of us know, this is total bullshit. Breasts are made of fat, and exercise, although helpful in strengthening the chest muscles thus producing a sturdier foundation for said fat patties, will not, cannot, ever, ever, ever, increase bust size.

Not only was I dismayed by the extreme idiocy of it all, I was mightily frightened for those dizzy dames, as it was apparent that using this “DEVELOPED BY A WOMAN!” machine had not only caused irreparable damage to their frontal lobes and unsightly muscular growth in their forearms, but also caused their breasts to become sentient beings capable of ungodly feats of wit and daring. As I watched this shocking display of blatant consumer hoodwinking and undulating mammary glands, I was reminded of that old car commercial where the girl sitting in the passenger seat is suddenly overtaken by St. Vitus’ dance and begins pop-locking to the trendy beats blasting from the hawt, hawt stereo -- remember that one? Sure you do. And I’m willing to bet it scared you as much as it did me. Well, imagine a row of double D’s pop-locking to an inane voiceover, just jumping and frolicking about like rabid puppies as their peculiarly calm-faced owners dreamily smile and pretend they don’t look like assholes.

Take it from Ms Lori -- if you’ve never seen a gaggle of over-inflated fun bags seizuring in unison, consider yourself blessed. Well, unless you happen to be a man who might enjoy that kind of thing.

ADDENDUM:The foxy and incredibly talented Ellen Meister tagged me with the Seven Things meme, but I already did this one back in December-- here it is, for those who didn’t catch it the first time around.

I won’t tag anyone because I’m still smarting over the embarrassing lack of response the last time I tagged. And yeah, I’m talking to you SJ. Why, if I had more than three inches of hair on my head, I'd toss it while smirking chimpily and say "So there!"

Friday, February 17, 2006

Thar She Blows

And my god, it sure does blow. Big time.

Damn wind. Damn 65 mph gusts from hell.

Blew down three gorgeous evergreens that once stood on the property line between my backyard and the neighbors’.

This is bad, for a few reasons:

1) They were beautiful trees. I shall miss gazing upon them while having my morning coffee.

2) Many creatures have lost a comfortable place to crash, mate, give birth, nosh. Poor things.

3) Now I won’t be able to enjoy my privacy. Those trees made a wonderful shield that prevented prying eyes from witnessing my summertime debauchery. The Old People in the Back are surely thanking the fearsome, shapeshifting goddess of snoopery, Gladys Kravitz, for bestowing this great gift unto them.

Wednesday, February 15, 2006

He Saw the Flap

By now most of you have heard about the mishap involving Dick Cheney, an attorney, a bird, and a big-ass gun. Details continue to alarm, as the attorney-mistaken-for-a-bird, Harry Whittington , has suffered a heart attack due to birdshot lodged in his heart muscle. God speed, brother. And God help you should you successfully pull through this crisis.

May God give you all the strength needed when men in black unmarked cars begin circling your neighborhood, and your wife starts receiving scary messages on the answering machine every day at precisely two o’clock p.m.

Not that I’m implying anything, you understand. Not at all. Far be it from me to suggest dirty dealings -- let the record show that I believe Mr. Dick to be a fine, fine man, a man deserving of great respect and admiration, and enormous amounts of fear. I understand that without the firm and ghostly guidance of Dick, our country wouldn’t be in half its joyous circumstances, and that without his strong determination and masterful way with theater wire, Mr. Bush might possibly be lying in the Rose Garden ‘neath a tangle of American Beauties, Wild Turkey spilt all over the front of his Armani suit and crying for his old mommy. Now that would just be embarrassing, wouldn’t it? Say what you will about Dick, but Dick has in fact saved this wonderful country of ours from undue humiliation, and possibly world war three. Yes, WORLD WAR THREE, people! Christ’s sake, if there were no Dick, Iranian president, Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, or North Korea’s son of a lunatic leader, Kim Jong-il, would most certainly catch wind of Mr. Bush’s sad Rose Garden exploits, realize that our country is vulnerable, easy pickings, ripe for obliteration, and…I shudder at the thought. Can’t even finish writing that thought.

Where the hell was I, anyway? Oh, yes, the flap. Wait, I haven’t yet mentioned the flap, have I? Yikes. A little ahead of myself here.

Okay then. The flap. I have a theory about Dick’s head and how it relates to the shooting of Harry Whittington, and please, take a moment to pat yourself on the back right this second, folks, because you are about to witness history -- you are among the first to be privy to something that will soon be splashed all over the papers from here to kingdom come, and could, if I may be so bold, garner me the Pulitzer for online journalism. I’m sure you will understand that I cannot divulge the entire theory at this date and time, but be assured, I will come forth with every last embellishment when my lawyer gives the okay, and you will be the first to know the moment that happens.

What’s the name of this theory, you ask? Hold your horses and breathe real deep, cowboys…

The Dick Flap in Conjunction With the Shooting of Harry Whittington Theory!

I’ll get right to the meat and start by saying that I believe Mr. Whittington discovered, quite by accident, what was under Dick’s secret flap of synthetic skin, a flap that conceals, or once concealed, I should say, the truth of Dick’s existence -- Artificial Intelligence. As stated to me recently by an unnamed source in high position, “Dick is a robot.”

I laughed -- at first. I told my source, “Well, hell. So what? Everyone and their Aunt Judy Lou knows Dick’s a robot!” And my source replied with a solemn, “No, you misunderstand, comrade. I mean, Dick really is a robot. An object made of metal and staples, a box of bolts, a whirring mass of circuits and frightening spinny, twirly things.”

As you can imagine, I began to imagine, then I imagined some more, and then I began to theorize, began to imagine and theorize, and then, and then…

The following scenario is solely my own interpretation of the events that happened on February 11, 2006, and I take full responsibility and credit for any and all awards and accolades that surely are to come:

In some creepy South Dakota woods, February 11, 2006, during an annual bird-killing adventure that involved Vice President Dick Cheney and Mr. Harry Whittington, an attorney and personal friend of Cheney’s, Whittington accidentally knocked the back of Cheney’s hunting cap while reaching for his coffee thermos. Upon doing so, the rough inner lining of Cheney’s cap somehow caught on the curious flap of skin positioned at the posterior part of his skull, a flap that, although unknown to the general American population, has been subject to wild speculation by Washington insiders.

Anyway, as the cap lifted, it snagged on the lip of the flap, whereupon said flap snapped open and revealed a sight so startling, Mr. Whittington dropped his thermos, said “Fuck” about forty times, then ran like a wildebeest as fast as his rubbery legs would allow.

But he was not fast enough. Suffice it to say, Mr. Whittington saw, with his very own eyes, the horrendous innards of Dick Cheney, the wires, the chips, the womb of American political machinations, the little cuckoo bird…And now Mr. Whittington lies in a hospital bed, lucky to be alive yet fearful of what the future may bring.

And that’s all I am at liberty to say right now.

Sunday, February 12, 2006

Ever Feel a Dead Guy Was Your Soulmate?


From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.
Then -- in my childhood, in the dawn
Of a most stormy life -- was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still:
From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that round me rolled
In its autumn tint of gold,
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by,
From the thunder and the storm,
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.

--Edgar Allan Poe

Saturday, February 11, 2006

The Difference Between Lar and His Buddies Regarding Vasectomy


Lar's buddies.

Note to guys who may be considering vasectomy but whose buddies have frightened you with ridiculous stories involving foot long needles, gallons of humiliation, unimaginable pain, and horrendously bloated testicles that resemble gargantuan cantaloupes: It's all bullshit.

Friday, February 10, 2006


The first time ever I saw your face
I thought the sun rose in your eyes
And the moon and stars were the gifts you gave
To the dark and the empty skies

The first time ever I kissed your mouth
I felt the earth move in my hand
Like the trembling heart of a captive bird
That was there at my command, my love

The first time ever I lay with you
And felt your heart beat close to mine
And I knew our joy would fill the earth
And last till the end of time, my love,

The first time ever I saw your face
your face, your face, your face...

Lyrics by the amazing Roberta Flack, sentiments all mine

Thursday, February 09, 2006

Tomorrow is Doomsday (And Our 16th Wedding Anniversary)

I know a man named Lar
Who doesn’t think it is fair
That his balls should get snipped
Says he is pussy whipped
And his wife is the one with the pair

“But, Lar” says his wife
“Go under the knife,
Or bid sex a fond adieu
With a set that is blue
For the rest of your natural life”

Fun Game: Guess the name of Lar’s snippy doctor!

Why, Dr. Stopp, of course!

Tuesday, February 07, 2006

The Bra That Never Was

Cast of Characters

Child Lori: Terrified, slightly geeky young girl
Mom: Attractive, early thirties, mouth like a sailor
Asshole #1: Store detective, heavyset, sweaty
Asshole #2: Store detective, thin, Barney Fife-ish
Adult Lori: Unbelievably intelligent, movie star type, may be in early forties, looks early twenties, holds bottle of vodka
Cop: Handsome rookie, good natured, rocks a bemused expression
Flustered J.C. Penney Store Manager: Flustered J.C. Penney manager

(Center stage, green spotlight on Adult Lori)

Adult Lori:
(Speaking in subtle yet annoying Raaaaychester accent): When I was eleven, I was accused of stealing a bra. Brand and style unknown. Details are fuzzy due to trauma and a million years of time, but I clearly recall two store detectives leaping upon my mother and myself as we exited the store. Both were male, both had incredibly asymmetric features and bad breath. One took hold of my mother’s arm, the other took hold of mine, and they grilled us, right there on the strip mall sidewalk. It was sunny, I think. Or perhaps it was rainy.

(Adult Lori exits stage right)

(Full stage lights)

Asshole #1:
Ma’am, is this your daughter?

(Wary, Mom nods, puts protective hand on Child Lori’s shoulder)

Asshole #2:

Are you aware that your daughter took a bra from J.C. Penney?

(Smiles, laughs nervously) Lori?

Child Lori:
What? (Looks down at flat eleven-year-old chest) Why would I take a bra?

There’s some mistake…

Asshole #2:
No, no mistake. We’d noticed your daughter behaving in a suspicious manner near the fifty percent off bra bins, and…

Child Lori:
(Tearing up, lip trembles) Moooommmmyyyy!

(Shakes arm free from Asshole #1’s grip) Fuck off!

Asshole #1:
Ma’am, please control yourself or we'll be forced to involve the police.

Asshole #2:

We clearly witnessed your daughter fondling the bras then stealthily tucking one beneath her shirt.

Go to hell, Wilber.

Asshole #1:
Ma’am, I’m afraid this will be our last warning.

(Mom, ever the dilettante, flicks her cigarette at the foot of Asshole #1) Stupid Picasso-looking assholes!

Asshole #1:
Ma’am, you have received your last warning.

Child Lori:

Woooo! Wahhhhhh!

Asshole #2:
Young lady, tears won’t get you out of this mess.

Asshole #1:
(Grabs Mom’s arm again, forcefully) Manager would like to speak with you. Now!

(Passersby enter stage right, gawk, whisper amongst themselves, exit stage left)

(Mom and Asshole #1 exit stage left)

Asshole #2:

Your mother will be right back -- she’s going to speak with the manager for a bit.


Asshole #2:
(Conversational, phony-friendly tone) So, uh, do you have a boyfriend?

Child Lori:
(Confused, blushes, kicks foot) No. Well, sorta.

(Asshole #2 crosses arms, apparently uncomfortable)





(Asshole #1 enters stage right, exchanges glances with Asshole #2, Asshole #1 gives short nod)

Asshole #1:
(Bright, forced tone) Okay! Please come with us, now.

(Takes Child Lori’s elbow, attempts to steer Child Lori stage left)

Asshole #2:
This will only take a few moments…

Child Lori:

Wahhhhhhh! Oh, WAHHHHHHHHHH!

Asshole #1:

You’re making an unnecessary scene, Lori -- it is Lori, right?

Child Lori:

(Cop enters stage right)

Is this…?

Asshole #1:
Hello, officer. Yes, the mother is in the manager’s office at this moment.

(Scratches jaw, appears perplexed) I see. Hmmm.

Asshole #2:
She stole a bra.

Asshole #1:
And the mother was verbally abusive!

(Lights fade, green spotlight focuses on Adult Lori as she enters stage right)

(Center stage)

Adult Lori: Twenty minutes pass, and I, after being forced to submit to a pat-down by a kindly old woman named Gert, was proven innocent.

(Adult Lori exits stage right)

(Full stage lights)

Flustered J.C. Penney Store Manager:

We understand that we will never be able to fully rectify this terrible, terrible mistake, Mrs. Howe, but please accept this one hundred dollar gift certificate with our heartfelt apologies.


(Refuses certificate) Stick it up your giggy.

(Lights fade)

Child Lori:
Mom, what’s a giggy?


And the crowd goes wild.

Saturday, February 04, 2006

Yeah, Well, At Least I'm Not Violent

I woke up this morning with butt on my mind. I lay there listening to the musical screams of my little early-risers and thought about rising, too, despite the dark, rainy morning, despite the fact it was six o’freaking clock on a Saturday, and really, I deserve an extra hour in bed. But the screams quashed any desire to snuggle back into my pillow and drift, drift, drift off to the magical land of Impossibly Handsome Naked Men, where Jake Gyllenhaals and Brad Pitts prance happily about wearing nothing but impossibly handsome smiles. I thought about making some coffee, rustling up breakfast for the demonic horde fighting over the last Pop Tart, and just as I was about to throw off the covers and leap into my motherly duties, another thought came to mind, a thought that, like so many before, was produced by my eccentric ability to blend two dissimilar scenarios or objects and make them compatible. And this morning’s juxtapositional brainstorm, the possible combination of butts and food, stopped me cold…

Butt food.

First up on our unusual menu, the delightfully meaty Boston Butt, with just a splash of

followed by an enormous

served with everyone's favorite side dish, mashed potatoes and Butt Burner!

Still hungry? Good! Prepare yourself for a culinary treat so treaty, after you've eaten your fill, your tongue just may sprout wings and fly out of your mouth in search of more butt. Open wide for...

I'll bet you're thinking, "MY GOD! It just can't get any better than that." But you would be wrong, dear butt-lovers. Very, very, wrong. Please allow me to introduce you to my secret guilty pleasure -- and I admit this is an acquired taste, but trust me, once you go anal, you never go banal.

So come, join me in partaking of what is guaranteed to be the most delicate delight ever to cross your discriminating palate>>>>>>>>>>>>

As I always say, smoked beef rectum is the shit!

All right, then. I believe I'll go hide for a few days until the shame wears off.

ADDENDUM: Okay, it's now Monday, and the shame hasn't yet worn off. I should delete this pitiful ass post, but I can't help loving my own puerile humor sometimes.

Off to hide some more...

Friday, February 03, 2006

In Response to Anonymous

My reply to an anonymous commenter in my last entry is much too long and much too awesome to hide in comments, so here we go...

At 3:38 AM, Anonymous said...

No, not "free." More like "out on bond awaiting retrial."

Also, there's no doubt in my mind that she's completely fucking batshit looney.

There's ALSO no doubt in my mind that, after retrial, she'll be locked away for life, whether in prison or in the looney bin-- which, might I remind those of you who will holler "SOME COUNTRY CLUB LOONEY BIN," is not actually a nice place at all.

Dear Anonymous, Yates is indeed “free,” released on bond, as I stated in my post. Those who are released on bond are technically free:
bail (bal) n.
1) Security, usually a sum of money, exchanged for the release of an arrested person as a guarantee of that person's appearance for trial.
2) Release from imprisonment provided by the payment of such money.
3) A person who provides this security.

tr.v., bailed, bail·ing, bails.
1) To secure the release of by providing security.
2) To release (a person) for whom security has been paid.
3) Informal. To extricate from a difficult situation: always bailing you out of trouble.
4) To transfer (property) to another for a special purpose but without permanent transference of ownership.

She voluntarily committed herself to the psychiatric facility, by the way. And do you know why? Purely selfish reasons, Mr. Hasselhoff, as evidenced here:
“U.S. District Judge Belinda Hill granted the bond Wednesday on condition that Yates would voluntarily enter the Rusk hospital and stay there until her trial.”

Also, there may be a few hundred baseball bats with her name written all over them, if you get my drift. She’s now safe as a cockroach in a couch.

Which leads me to your other statement regarding correctional facilities and how awful they are… Susan Smith seems to be having a fine old time, my friend. (Click on both links to appreciate just how fine a time is being had.) And Smith is just as looney as Yates, in my opinion. Anyone who murders their own children can’t possibly be right in head, wouldn’t you say?

The U.S. interpretation of the M'Naghten Rules, which determine whether someone is not guilty by reason of insanity:

1) Persons acting under the influence of an insane delusion are punishable if they knew at the time of committing the crime that they were acting contrary to law.
Every man is presumed sane and to have sufficient reason to be held responsible for his crimes.
2) A person under a partial delusion is to be considered as if the facts with respect to which the delusion exists were real.
3) To establish a defence on the ground of insanity each element of it must be clearly proved that:
(a) at the time of committing the act,
(b) the accused was labouring under such a defect of reason, from disease of the mind, AND (c) as not to know the nature and quality of the act he was doing
(d) if he did know it, AND (e) that he did not know he was doing what was wrong.
IF (1) the accused was conscious that the act was one that he ought not to do AND (2) if the act was at the same time contrary to the law of the land,
THEN the accused is punishable.

Yates, like Smith, is surely a loon, and, like Smith, she knew that murdering her children was wrong, as testimony proves.

Every minute that Yates exists, whether she’s locked in a cell or a padded room, is more than she deserves. This “woman” breathes, eats, watches television, plays cards, reads, and will eventually succumb to basic human sexual needs by either engaging in nookie wookie with her cellmate, Bertha Bustyerass, or Peter the Perverted Prison Guard. Bet your ass that’ll happen.

As her children's remains rot in their tiny coffins, Yates will be moaning in ecstacy, eating cheeseburgers, zoning out to Desperate Housewives, cooresponding with "fans," and generally just having a life.

Yates will eventually settle into prison life, if she even does get life in prison, which, unfortunately, I highly doubt, and it will suit the likes of her. And that, Mr. Dingleheimer, is a crying shame.

Thursday, February 02, 2006

A Monster in Our Midst

***WARNING*** The following post is seething with venom and may disturb certain assholes

Andrea Yates is free on bond, and in the unlikely event that we should cross paths, I wouldn’t hesitate to spit in her hideous face. I would gladly spend the night in jail and pay a hefty fine for the pleasure of it all.

To those of you who feel even one iota of sympathy for this plague-carrying rodent from every child’s worst nightmare (oh, dear, poor sick woman who was strapped down with five kids, and oh, my, that horrible, horrible husband of hers, and oh, Jesus Lord, it was the depression that did it, the DEPRESSION, I say!) can kiss my ever-loving ass. You all can blame whomever you wish, her doctors, her husband, their delusional “faith,” her postpartum depression, but the fact remains that nobody but Andrea Yates chased those terrified children around their home, held those children under water as they struggled and pleaded for their mommy to stop. It is estimated that the murders took one very long hour.

She damn well knew right from wrong, as testimony shows, and I’m chilled to my very soul that anyone would rally to this whore’s defense, offer up any excuse for the atrocities that happened on June 20, 2001. Fuck you and fuck Andrea Yates all the way to the black wrought iron gates of Hell.

This is a murderer, a cold-hearted, simpering, selfish, lying pig who committed quintuple homicide, and she spent four years lazing about on her fat ass, being catered to, enjoying her “respite,” free from the burden of pretending to be a loving, caring mother. Oh, it must have weighed heavy on her shrunken heart, that pretense. It must have been so difficult to smile even as her resentment grew every time she gave her children showy, vapid hugs. That's what it all boils down to: resentment. She resented her controlling husband, resented her responsibilities, resented not being able to take bubble baths and watch soap operas at her leisure, resented, resented, resented.

She resented losing her former self.

Andrea Yates wanted the resentment to end, she wanted to do away with the demands, the responsibilities, the perceived drudgery of her life, and she did so, but it wasn't really her, see, because the devil made her do it. Goodness, Andrea, a tad cliché, wouldn't you say?

And now she has been released due to psychiatrist Park Dietz's fabricated bit of testimony (way to go, freak), and I am so, so disgusted, and I can hardly think straight, and I am sad, and I think about those five beautiful angels lying in their graves, and I shudder and I feel ill… And I just wish Andrea Yates would die. Kill yourself, you miserable, cowardly bitch, and do the whole world a favor.

To the Yates sympathizers, I say, look at what she destroyed, think about what those darling babies endured at the hands of their own mother.