Whut the fudk is UP with that, anyway?  How can ANYONE honestly believe that raping a child is an offense that deserves a second chance? 

    And sorry, but Louisiana’s Conservative Gov. Bobby Jindal’s solution of castrating these offenders instead of killing them isn’t any better.

    The fact that this whole issue even exists has pissed me off royally -- not to mention causing me to ponder the possibilities/probabilities of some mighty peculiar sexual predilections among those esteemed folks in Washington who wander around in their robes all the time.  

        Disclaimer:  But wait!  Lest I impart any inaccuracy, I firmly, wholly, and happily believe that
        other folks’ sexual predilections -- however strange they might seem to me -- are their own
        business and none of mine, with two exceptions:  I draw a big fat line with a giant Sharpie
        Permanent Marker when it comes to (1) messing around with an underage child, or (2) forcing
        pain on any human being for the sole purpose of any sort of self-gratification, real or imagined.
        Period. End of disclaimer.

    So anyway, after fuming around here for awhile, steam was rolling out my ears.  In an effort to cool off, I wrote this letter:

          
    Your Supreme Honors,

            Your collective thinking is clearly less than supreme this time.  In fact, it's on a
    dead run for the the ass-end of civilized society.  Get a grip, for Chrissakes.

    -Fact:  Pedophiles, like serial killers, cannot be "cured" or "fixed."  No how, no way.
    (Well, perhaps with a Total Lobotomy.  But then we taxpayers would have to cough up
    the dough to pay someone to change lifetimes of diapers.  Face it, that's a really crappy idea.)
      
    -Fact:  Chemical Castration does NOT alter an adult human's sexual desires. Why?  Because
    sexual arousal starts in the brain, you dorks!  Even physical castration does not necessarily
    change adult sexual desires.  Either option merely means that his or her private equipment is
    jammed up for any sexual activity.  But the brain still works and the "want" lingers on.

    -Fact:  You can lead a pedophile to water, but you can't make him swallow his goddamm
    chemical castration pills.  Hell, you can't even make him PAY for his goddamm chemical
    castration pills.  Furthermore, after he/she has been out of jail for awhile and learned that
    living as a “registered sexual offender” is a risky and miserable way to live, there’s a 99.5
    percent chance that the dude/dudette has acquired a new name and headed for parts unknown.  
    How you gonna make him take a pill if you can’t find him?

    -Fact:  Sexual desires/preferences in the human adult are some seriously powerful sons-of-
    bitches.  More powerful than a locomotive, or the waters of Hoover Dam, etc. etc.  So even
    if you find a way to successfully and permanently jam up a dude's physical equipment, sexual
    crimes ain't gonna stop.

    (Good GAWD, y’all!  Ever watch any Cable TV up there in DC?  Ain't y'all never heard
    of assaults with dildos, broom handles, tree branches, glass bottles, baseball bats, table legs and
    various other objects too imaginatively numerous &  painful to contemplate?  If it hurts to think
    about it, that's because it oughta', you morons!  And it just ain’t right, no matter how long you
    think on it!)

    -Obvious Conclusion:  Some humans -- pedophiles, repeat offender rapists, and serial killers --
    are broken and should not be allowed to live around around other humans.  Perhaps they are
    broken through no fault of their own, which is an indescribably sad and regretful thing for any
    human being.  Nevertheless, I repeat, they are permanently and irrevocably broken.
  
    So until and unless we find an infallible cure, either lock these people up & throw away the
    key, or else fry 'em already and put a permanent end to this absurd debate.  Sheesh.  All you
    cowardly codksudker politicians and self-annointed scholars have annoyed me beyond Zebra
    this time, goddammit. 

                                                                            Signed,

                                                                            Fifi O'Toole
                                                                            Generally liberal as heck and proud OF it,
                                                                            but hopefully NEVER liberally stoopid.

    But then after I wrote it, because I generally AM self-professed bleeding-heart liberal, I had to stop for a second and consider:  People lie all the time, even kids.  Whut if the accused really isn't guilty?  Or whut if some brainless adult told a kid to lie?  Or whut if a kid identified the wrong dude?  Or lots of other things?

    Some time after I had considered all of the above, the following realization hit me: "Well, yeah -- guess we might make an occasional mistake.  But hey!  Great strides in forensics have helped eliminate a lot of errors.  And I just don't feel willing to take a chance with anyone's kid, you know?  Besides, whut the hell could any person’s life be worth with that kind of accusation hanging overhead?"

    So here's a proposition for you, dear readers:  If anyone ever accuses me of molesting a kid, or of intentionally causing pain and suffering to any innocent person regardless of age, load and unlock your trusty pistol (or your trusty rifle -- I ain't picky) and get yourself to Toad Hall to put me OUT of the stinking misery and disgrace that has become my life.  IMMEDIATELY, if not sooner!

    And I, in turn, shall promise to do the same for y’all.

    Okay, I’m all done with it now.  End of rant.

    Later! 

   "MyBrotherTheCowboy" forwarded something to me that I feel compelled to share. 

   Why?  Because my muse has left for Keokuk and there's nothing much to report. 

   (Unless you count the certified letters from Jenna Formerly-Bush and Barbara Walters telling me that they didn't give a rat's ass that my granddaughter won the "Spirit Award.")

   But seriously. This is a great story.  If you don't laugh out loud after reading it, you are in a fudking coma!

   (No, I do not know the guy in the story.  Cowboy Dave knows his sister.)

   Doesn't matter.  It's even funnier when you realize it is a TRUE story. Next time you have a bad day at work, think of this guy. He is a commercial saturation diver for Global Divers in Louisiana. He performs underwater repairs on offshore drilling rigs. Below is an E-mail he sent to his sister.

   (Incidentally, she then sent it to radio station 103.2 on FM dial in Ft. Wayne, Indiana, who was sponsoring a worst job experience contest. Needless to say, she won.)

        Hi Sue, just another note from your bottom-dwelling brother. Last week I had a bad day
        at the office I know you've been feeling down lately at work, so I thought I would share
        my dilemma with you to make you realize it's not so bad after all.

        Before I can tell you what happened to me, I first must bore you with a few technicalities
        of my job.  As you know, my office lies at the bottom of the sea. I wear a suit to the office.
        It's a wet suit.

        This time of year the water is quite cool, so what we do to keep warm is this: we have a
        diesel-powered industrial water heater. This $20,000 piece of equipment sucks the water
        out of the sea. It heats it to a delightful temperature. It then pumps it down to the diver
        through a garden hose, which is taped to the air hose. Now this sounds like a darn good
        plan, and I've used it several times with no complaints.

        What I do, when I get to the bottom and start working, is take the hose and stuff it down
        the back of my wet suit. This floods my whole suit with warm water.  It's like working in
        a Jacuzzi.

        Everything was going well, until all of a sudden, my butt started to itch. So, of course I
        scratched it. This only made things worse. Within a few seconds, my butt started to burn. 
        I pulled the hose out from my back, but the damage was done. In agony, I realized what
        had happened. The hot water machine had sucked up a jellyfish and pumped it into my suit.

        Now, since I don't have any hair on my back, the jellyfish couldn't stick to it. However, the
        crack of my butt was not as fortunate. When I scratched what I thought was an itch I was
        actually grinding the jellyfish into the crack of my butt.

        I informed the dive supervisor of my dilemma over the communicator. His instructions were
        unclear due to the fact that he, along with five other divers, were all laughing hysterically.

        Needless to say, I aborted the dive.

        I was instructed to make three agonizing in-water decompression stops totaling thirty-five
        minutes before I could reach the surface to begin my chamber dry decompression.

        When I arrived at the surface, I was wearing nothing but my brass helmet. As I climbed out
        of the water, the medic, with tears of laughter running down his face, handed me a tube of
        cream and told me to rub it on my butt as soon as I got in the chamber The cream put the fire
        out, but I couldn't poop for two days because my butt was swollen shut.

        So, next time you're having a bad day at work, think about how much worse it would be if
        you had a jellyfish shoved up your butt.   Repeat to yourself, "I love my job, I love my job,
        I love my job."

        And whenever you have a bad day, ask yourself:  “Is this a jellyfish bad day?”

  

   YEEEE-OUCHIE!