Chapter Eight Two Tools
Chapter Eight
Two Tools
“It’s just a man on a
horse, Baby Girl. Nothing more. Just a man on a horse.”
---
Anne Shropshire in the film role of ‘Doodlebug’ Bichon’s Great – Aunt Rae, “Something to Talk About,” 1995
I didn’t know it then.
I didn’t know that this talk of Dr. Edinsmaier’s was abuse and
violence. I didn’t know I didn’t have to
listen to this or … respect, cherish, honor, revere, obey, treasure and trust such a person who spilled forth on
me such crapulous things. I know it
now.
And what’s more, I will probably write this a thousand times
– ad nauseum – throughout this treatise until
I can finally forgive myself completely for this life – altering blunder
of mine: I am stunned at myself. At my passive, wussy, wimp behavior. I cannot believe that there ever was a time
in my life, my life that is most precious and the life, the brain and
the heart that I had considered most intelligent, hip, with it, even brilliant,
I cannot believe that there ever was a time that I thought that what I wanted in that life of mine for my life
– long “best friend,” for my helpmeet, confidant, lover, partner, for the
father of my precious, precious children, for my husband … was such a person as
this man is. How could I have gone
after, allured, hoped for, besought, been made besotted by, wanted such a man to be my husband and
my Boys’ parent? For a lifetime?
‘Cuz that is how I had married Herry in my heart – and in my
brain. For a lifetime. How could I have
ever been such a person as this myself? The kind who actually had believed that this guy, Herry Edinsmaier, was the type of man in whom I had
actually desired to place my respect and honor and trust? What had I been thinking?
It’s obvious now. I
had not been thinking. That is, to the point
of recognizing, reconciling and accepting consequences. But I had been making a choice. The wrong one. A really, really wrong one.
Herod Edinsmaier and many from the nouveau therapy - ese 12
– Steppers and other ‘functioning’ dysfunctionals love to spout on and on about
how all of our lives are really a series of choices we get to make. What fails to
be owned up to, even though it is well – discerned by these folks, is that for
as many of the choices that are the
correct ones in all of our lives, there are as many or more that are the wrong
ones.
Which, of course, more likely than not have shattering
consequences! But, like I said, we know, we always know. On the big ones. When we are making the wrong choice. And we so … choose.
We go ahead and make the wrong choice anyhow. ‘Cuz we wanna.
Two tools – ones very, very cheap, indeed, particularly when
contrasted to the costs of shattering consequences and the price to be paid in
the fallout after intentional but wholly wrong choosing – are all that are
needed for making change in people’s lives:
i) the knowledge or awareness
that a change is needed, that something is amiss and needs correction or repair
and ii) the willingness to make that
change or that correction. Most folks,
even small children, throughout most of their lives have the first one: they know.
And have always known. Since
about the age of 5, 6, 7 or 8 years old what the right thing to do in any truly, truly huge life – altering
situation is. [Granted: Children hijacked, abducted and, at once,
molded into becoming kiddy killers as adult men’s soldiers and sexual slaves … the exception.]
What is lacking or totally absent is the second tool, the willingness. Which is why nothing changes when nothing
changes. Making the wrong choice is not
made in ignorance. It’s a conscious,
brain – directed action. Even with those
shattering consequences often known ahead of time, ahead of the choice one knows
one is going to go ahead and make, or at the very least, even with the horrible
consequences speculated upon ahead of time, one still consciously decides
to shove the thoughts of these … aside.
Out of sight, out of mind.
As was mine … As was my decision to deny the consequences in
order to chose to marry Dr. Wonderful.
There had been warnings, of course.
Lots of ‘em, loads, tons of red flags in fact. I just chose, it was a conscious, brain – led
activity, my choosing. I know it
now. I chose to be blindfolded from
every single one of them. I wanted not “to know” them because I wanted him; and if I had heeded any one
of those signs instead, that intelligent, brilliant brain of mine would have
had to prevail over any weak, sappy throbbings my heart could have put forth in
order to justify and rationalize my wanting him. Ordinarily, justifications and
rationalizations are brain functions; and my brain, being brilliant and all,
would not have caved in to this sap.
Surely it would have “recognized” the beast, the monster that this violent
man is, wouldn’t it have? Beauty and the
Beast. Beauty and the Beast. That was us all right ‘cept I’d chosen to
deny it. 18 December 1976, the afternoon
we made our union legal in the eye of the State, I had even exhaled, a la
Author Terry McMillan – style. After
all, this was soon – to – be Dr. Wonderful.
Ya’ know, Mr. Right!
* *
* *
Where in the hell had I let my convictions and truths, the
things that mattered, that had value and worthiness, where in the hell had I
let them all fall away to? By wanting such a man as this to be beside
me for all of my life.
Because there was more, much more that I listened to. That I let
pass by my eardrums without protest, without even so much as my holding up my
hands as a silent halting against any more of it at the time the words tumbled
inside of me and invaded and assaulted every cranny of my brain and my
heart. I listened as the most attentive
wife and mother of his three, most beautiful, azure – eyed boy children with
silken, fine hair the color now of Iowa corn kernels, as the wife that my mother had taught me to expect to be. Servile, dependent, not as soft as she’d
taught and hoped I’d’ve been, but, O, quite … attentive.
One night recently with my eyes closed, no noise in the
house whatsoever, late at night in the dark, totally undistracted, I purposely
went over in my mind’s ear and eye, year by year, period by period, the life I
had had with this man. Specifically
remembering just for the words that I
had actually heard come out of his mouth, he using that voice of his that was
dark velvety chocolate and, fuck knows why, could command and control whatever
its so – smooth words fell upon.
Specifically remembering, too, for the particular notes and musings of
his, in his own hand – written script that I had seen, my eyes so stunned, that
they couldn’t even well up yet the brain immediately behind them seeming to
snap from the pressure just put there by the reading of these, his
writings. I could actually hear the snappings in my head and the
subsequent feeling of massive weight behind my eyes. My frontal lobe had been assaulted and
violated yet again. Just in memory.
Words, everything about them, their derivation, their
essence, every nuance, had been such a passion of mine. And my sweet Daddy’s, too. I’d adored Latin in high school, just
devoured it. We’d spent hours and hours
of our childhoods, both Daddy and I had, reading the dictionary for fun, for
christ’s sake! And now this?!
There were the jokes.
The ones to which Dr. Herod Edinsmaier was later to make sideways
reference when telling a couple of judges including Butcher a couple of
different times that he and his next wife as well, Fannie Issicran McLive, had
great senses of humor. Humor the boys
found particularly entertaining
and educational, the humor that served as bonding between not only them and their
dad but also between the Boys and their maybe, gonna – be, new stepmother. It made, he had testified, for “cohesion” in
his,
Dr. Edinsmaier’s newly forming “family in transition.” He told judge after judge that these traits
of theirs for causing the Boys “to laugh and feel good” made him and her
wonderful, caring role models, just terrific parents.
Sideways because, of course, the actual details of said
humor were, in the courtrooms, kept vague, very, very vague. No specifics were gone into, about the depth
or, more appropriately, the shallowness and the real substance of such jokes,
the writings, the items displayed as funny to the Boys, the words. O no, no.
Especially not the words.
Especially not the words that were uttered or scripted and went inside
of and beat up their mom, those wonderful Boys’ wonderful baby – making gismo,
their mom.
So, of course, the judges, taking this all in, if not
nodding off in actual slumber, nodded ever so slightly with just the smallest
hint of a snide smile sneaking in at the one commissure of both upper and lower
lips, their bulky, stogie – shaped and gilded fountain pens in hand hovering
over their lined legal pads which lay at poised angles atop their massive bench
desks built of solid oak or walnut or mahogany or hickory … and padded with black leather, too.
Poised for what?
Bear? They didn’t really write
anything down. Anything of meaning. Nothing that would be their guides from the
sidelines, their memory helps from the margins or, for that matter, just their
plain, goddamn notes. Notes from which
so – called clarity and understanding would be derived and then go into meting
out justice later on in what were to be called decrees, conclusions or decisions,
that is. Court ORDERS. Tens of
hundreds of them nearly. Over the course
of six years.
Starting from that terrible year of the physical splitting
when Herod Edinsmaier first grandly moved out
of his own hand – picked Othello Drive master bedroom, the
one done up in teal and sunshine yellow with oyster – and ecru – hued drapes
that he never wanted drawn across the two nearly picture window – sized panels
to the southwestern forest, the curtains he would concertedly haul open again
and again – after I had shut them at night because we were disrobing.
He left that room during a blinding blizzard and permanently
went to take up repose on the same blue – and green – flowered sofa I’d found
him shedding tears upon and been scolded to get away from him then, too, some
three years earlier during his pathology residency and my PhD study in
Columbia, Mizzou. Over his mother’s
death that particular 1985 episode of splitting away from me had been.
The couch was in the living room, of course, and also in
front of several glass panes, one to the east and the street, the neighbors and
traffic. Then there was the overwhelming
one to the west, that football – field view to the urban forest and whoever
might inhabit it, especially at night, that, he had liked to boast to whoever
came by the house, had ‘sold’ him on buying the structure in the first place just a half a year earlier.
For $112,500, he had bought a bachelor pad. The first ranch – style house built in
Well. It was only a marital agreement, one verbally made
between a wife and a husband so certainly nothing to get bent out of shape over,
let alone, care about keeping – – apparently.
No self – serving need to keep loyalty to me or stay bound to such a
verbal ‘a – huh – ing’ to me at all now, was there? Just how was staying loyal to me cleaning up
back there in Kansas and staying loyal to our made – over – the – phone agreement going to serve what it was he
wanted now? Well, it wasn’t. He wanted that
house and that picture window so,
hey, end of loyalty. Period.
The newly titled and practicing doctor with three little
Boys and mountains of educational debt had even as a finishing resident just the year
before, also purchased not one, but two, airplanes! The up – and – fly – away – in kind of
airplanes, not the remote control – flown models, I mean! And kept them stabled, for monthly rental
fees naturally, out at the hangers a couple of miles west of
Well. There was
certainly no ‘probably’ about what he already had as accountability in his then 41 – year – old life. Father of three, little kids. Husband to a wife in just her very first
appointment as an assistant professor when, near its beginning year’s end, she
was up and canned (“contract not renewed,” it is formally called) for wont of
her $39,500 annual salary amount with which to buy something else altogether
that the newly appointed and incoming director had wanted – instead of her post
– in his “executive and strategic reorganization plan” for the diagnostic
laboratory, the lab director who had come from South Dakota into his top Kansas
position a mere month after the Dr.
Legion True – hiring one up and suddenly retired. Incredible personal debt never before as high
as it was now for Herry and Legion – and all this occurring before the plane purchases which’d been
$26,000 and then another $38,000 more.
And now the contracting of the debt of a dwelling just a
couple months later – a dwelling not suited for anything nor for anyone but a
high – rolling gigolo? Certainly one not
suited for a family of five in 1987, with really big, really adult – type and
long – , long – term responsibilities ahead of them.
Red flag. Chose not to see. Obviously, I chose not to see. Anyone with blinders on could have seen this
one coming, but, hey, not me! Not me. Instead of a family home, it was just another
red flag I chose not to see. Instead I remember receiving a telephone call
from Herry, the call awakening me really early one morning back in the two –
bedroom Kansas duplex, the top floor of which we’d been renting at $400 a month
for that one and only professorship year of mine. About the same monthly leasing amount,
really, as nearly all of the two –
bedroom rentals we’d lived in throughout all of vet school, med school,
residency and graduate school. He was
asking, “Exactly how much money do you happen to have saved up that, maybe, you
don’t remember about? Ya’ know, that I
might not know about?”
I can’t remember the amount I told him I’d had saved at
all. In any accounts. Remembered
accounts
or unremembered ones!
But I think it was around $2,700.
What I do remember thinking at
the time was, “You already know about all the money I have in any accounts and assets that I take care
of. I’ve kept nothing from you that I’m
aware of and certainly nothing about money amounts, that’s for sure. We’ve only been just students, for christ’s
sake. We don’t have that much to keep track of yet, do we?” Had
he had bucks stashed somewhere
in some accounts that I didn’t know
about then? Turns out, he didn’t.
This second house – buying junket the realtor wasn’t wearing
a bra size nearly that of this house’s living room window. As had been the case just 14 months earlier
in
As if the minuscule and wholly unmentioned details that
there was no dishwasher, no air conditioning, no garbage disposal, no
insulation, that there was a dying refrigerator that actually expired for good
just a few days after closing and a totally unfinished basement which was 37
degrees at Christmastime keeping cold everything above it as well and was
itself totally uninhabitable by three little kids meant nothing to me and the
Boys. As if the distance to the clothes
washer and dryer in the catacombs of that useless, freeze – drying wasteful
basement, being 77 steps from the kitchen sink upstairs and 113 from the Boys’
bedroom, was going to win me over as my new fitness training program beings how
it came to consume so much of my energy and day to get the laundry for the
three done that I didn’t have strength or time for true leisure exercise. As if a living room blanketed with the
original drab olive green shag carpeting and huge enough to set a grand piano
and host wedding receptions in would be a Hoovering housewife’s weekly delight. As if I, with this wholly unaffordable piece
of shit for a home put upon us kids and me sight unseen, no less, would be just
fantastically impressed by the same view that Mr. Cornball said had caused
Herry to exclaim upon his immediately walking through its front door for the
first time, “I just have to have this
house!”
This from a man who, in just a few short months from then,
was to claim and proclaim in courtrooms multiple times that he, by this real
estate – buying episode of July 1987, had had ten years already of Alcoholics
Anonymous 12 – Step recovery. Pish! If this family housing escapade is the
definition of a “sober” state of brain and body called “recovery,” then goddess
save us all! Save us all – from such a state.
By today’s coastal standards, not too shabby a price,
$112,500 for a bachelor pad, I know. Yet
this was a quite married father of three still – growing youngsters, boys. The creek out back had no fish in it with
which the three could get piscatorial.
And the house itself? A two –
bedroom. Same number of bedrooms that we’d nearly always had in married
student family housing. From the metal
and so cold, World War II Quonset hut that was the alleged, temporary housing
of 796 Pammel Court at Iowa State University to the concrete blocks that
gathered mildew so massively because there was no breathing of its walls of
Hawkeye Court at the University of Iowa to the green wooden duplex on Braemore
Road near the University of Missouri – Columbia. Except for the time in Iowa City that we’d
brought from Mercy Hospital brand – new Third Boy Child Mirzah to his first
home which was a one – bedroom unit in
Hawkeye Court before we were able to move into our two – bedroom apartment
there some several months after I, alone,
had diagnosed the cause of Mirzah’s wheeze and Cloroxed off all of those moldy
walls so that he could stop coughing and finally get the restful sleep that he
so badly needed to be … a growing and thriving baby.
So. The Boys were
still all in the same one room as always they had been and as small a room as
ever, the same square area of their
stuff all over the floor within a flash.
Like always.
* *
* *
The court orders poured out from behind those small Iowa
county courthouse walls week after week, month after month, from the time of
this bed – to – couch move of Herod’s, February of 1988, which was made with
such spectacular flourish meant so the Boys would witness that he, the
schismatic, refused nightly ‘to be
with their mom’ right through to November of that terrible year of 1994, and the
final appellate colleague cover – up. To
that last one – page cop – out of a so - called ‘order’ by the Iowa Supreme
Court covering up the horrendous Iowa Court of Appeals’ precedent – setting
decision. And covering up and covering
over years and years and years of the lives of four fine folks those judges
never even knew. Not to mention that
of my sweet, now - dead Daddy.
The ‘findings of fact’
written by these various judges within and preceding the final pronouncements
of their decrees, conclusions, decisions, all those court orders of theirs,
came about from ‘evidence,’ they
called it. Because it was testimony, it was then, just by that
designation – as having been something attested to under oath – miraculously worthy of being known as and called … ‘evidence.’
Evidence implies something consisting of truths, of actual
existence, doesn’t it? Webster’s
Collegiate Tenth Edition Dictionary says “evidence” is: i) “an outward sign,” ii) “something that
furnishes proof” and iii) “something
legally submitted to a tribunal to ascertain the truth of a matter.” That last, that’s a $5 fancy crock of a word for ‘judge.’ Some say it’s ‘the court,’ that ‘tribunal’
means ‘the court.’ But we all know by
now, don’t we, just who the hell ‘the court’ is really? It’s the judge, simply a man.
Well, I guess words coming out of Herry’s mouth, oath or no
oath, are, shall we say, “an outward
sign.” But this testimony, this coming out
of his mouth makes it ‘evidence.’ He said; therefore, it is. Oath – taking, as a
Quaker, never meant anything to me.
Truth’s truth. Whether it appears
on one side or the other side of a
courtroom door. In or out of the witness
box, chair, hotseat. That’s why there is
no oath – taking by persons of the Religious Society of Friends, the Quakers,
in court – or anywhere else for that matter.
Never once in six years, never once did I ever hear, see or
know of any tribunal at the district court level or at the Iowa Court of
Appeals level, six of them there who are still called ‘judges,’ or at the final
state one, the Iowa Supreme Court where those nine are actually reverently
ensconced each in the title of ‘justice’ … never once did any man and the one
woman, any so – called ‘justice – dispensing official’ involved in our proceedings,
demand that anything that came out of
Dr. Edinsmaier’s mouth, his next wife’s or his last wife’s mouths either for
that matter, be researched for its veracity.
Not one time.
Dr. Edinsmaier or Fannie McLive or I, too, on any day in court, in anything he or
any of his lawyers or legal assistants wrote or submitted, could say or put
down whatever he liked – and not once
did Judge Sol Wacotler Seizor, Judge Harley Butcher or any of the 15 judges and
justices of those two state appellate courts including each of those two
courts’ chiefs, send an unbiased courthouse official, in the manner of an
uninterested, neutral third party “outwardly”
into the community to bring back “proof” to the judge that what had just gotten
‘said’ was, indeed, ‘evidence.’ That is,
that it was, indeed, “an outward sign,”
something that furnished proof or legally ascertained the truth of any matter
related to this case. Never.
So. In effect then,
Dr. Edinsmaier could, for instance, say thus and so or this and that, over and
over, time and again – and no one anywhere ever checked out what he
said. No one did. Ever.
I did not know it then, but I know it now: Depending
upon who you are, it is easier to lie to and deceive anyone inside an American
civil court of law and get away with it than it is to lie to and deceive
one’s own mom and dad. It is easier to
lie to and deceive an American civil court of law, which, we all know, is a
judge or a bunch of ‘em, than it is to lie to and deceive your own minister,
your own teacher, your boss and co – workers, your spouse or even your own
child. It is, mind you, easier to get
clean, slick away with lying to and deceiving an American civil court judge
about anything, depending, of course,
upon who you are, than it is to lie
to and deceive yourself!
And so. The ‘evidence’ was that Dr. Edinsmaier and
his next wife, Fannie Issicran McLive, could ‘relate,’ could express plenty of
happiness in such a lighthearted, easygoing and fond fashion to the Boys because of the way the two of them
handled humor.
* *
* *
What, as a matter of … ‘fact’…
, were Herry – Daddee’s core – dehumanizing jokes and the smutty items touted
as cutesy but, instead, so filled with his raunch culture, the vile – based
jocularity by which I myself was internally brought down because it became the
basis for his modeling humor to my children, my boy children? The humor that would have, no doubt however,
brought great huge grins and not just ever – so – slight smiles to the mouths
of men in long, flowing, ‘somber’ – black robes? If they had been privy to them, say, in the
steam rooms or on those Wednesday afternoon golf greens? After facing down their colleagues with such
sober propriety and each blasting the other just those very mornings in district
or appellate sessions? What were the
actual jokes of the father to my sons, including particularly the one Herry –
Daddee recounted to them all as they sat, their attention of course captured,
inside the booth of a wee café in Bass County, Iowa’s City of Fatlantic that
certain Saturday afternoon in July 1989, on which my three Boys at this meal
were making their very first acquaintance with Ms. Fannie Issicran McLive,
their soon – to – be stepmama about to formally become the next Ms. Doctor – Wonderful
and, therefore, to comprise the servant portion of Dr. Herod Edinsmaier’s …
second family? With Mirzah, Jesse and
Zane comprising that “transitioning” second family’s male children at their
prepubescent ages then of nine, ten and 12?
* *
* *
Well, that specific one?
Calculatingly and cunningly “cohesive” that joke was – particularly to
the two of my Boys who were, by then
already, quite endeared to the outdoors and to hunting with their Grandpa
AmTaham and with me: On another Saturday, a duck hunter was on his
way home from a long day of hunting.
He'd just crossed over the
"Can I help ya’, Warden?" Hunter says.
"Well, yeah, ya’ can," says the Warden. "I noticed when I passed you that you’re
wearin' huntin' attire, and it's my job to inspect any game that you might
have. Have you been huntin' today? If you bagged anything, well, I'll need to
see it."
"Why, yessiree, Sir, I got three ducks today – they're
in the trunk," Hunter replies.
Hunter gets out of his car and walks back to the trunk which
he gladly opens. The Game Warden sees
three ducks – lined up neatly in the trunk.
He picks up one of the ducks and holds it up to the light, looking it
over. Then he begins sniffing the duck’s
butt – like a hound on a scent. Then he
takes a finger and rams it up the duck’s ass – all the way to the third
knuckle. He pulls his finger out and
sniffs it. Then he points that finger at
the hunter.
"You shot this duck in
The hunter who's amazed by this Warden's keen sense of smell
pulls out his wallet and fumbles through it for a moment, finally producing the
license. The Game Warden looks it over
for a second and hands it back to the hunter.
"How in the world did you know where I shot that
duck?" Hunter asks, totally baffled by how accurate the Warden's sense of
smell is. "I've been a Game Warden
for pretty nigh 35 years. You just get to know these things after awhile,"
Warden replies.
He picks up the second duck and goes through the same
routine: first the sniffing, then the
finger rammed up the duck's butt, then the shit – smelling again. "Ya’
shot this ‘ne in Massachusetts, din'cha?
You sure do get around. Now, I’ll
need to see your Massachusetts license or you'll be in big trouble,
Chummy!" the Warden shouts, thinking he’s got ‘im for sure this time.
The hunter, who is by this time totally in awe of this
talent that the Warden is displaying, reaches for his wallet yet again – and
again produces the requested license.
"I can't believe it!" the hunter guffaws, nearly falling on
the ground in disbelief. "How did
ya’ know where I shot that duck?!"
"I told ya’ – it's many years of experience. I can tell by their shits’ smell!" the
Warden replies as he inspects the Massachusetts license. "So far, you're
OK, but let's check out this last duck."
The Warden goes through his routine one final time and puts
the third duck back into the trunk. At
which point he turns to the hunter who is still quite aghast with disbelief.
"All right," the Warden says, "you shot this one here in Maine,
din'cha?" he queries. "’f course, I'm gonna need a Maine huntin'
license right now. Or you're gonna git
written up." The flabbergasted hunter pulls out his wallet again and this
time, a little annoyed with the Warden, produces his Maine hunting
license. The Warden looks it over
carefully and hands it back to the hunter. "Well," the Warden says,
"it looks as though everything's in order. You're free to go."
The Warden walks back to his truck. But just before he gets in it, he turns back
to the hunter who's still standing next to his car – not believing what has
just happened. "Wait a minute!" the Warden hollers.
"I know you've been huntin' all over New Zeala … , er,
I mean New England today – but where in the hell’re ya’ from anyway?"
Hunter turns around, bends over, drops his pants, spreads
his cheeks wide for the Warden to see.
"You're so friggin' smart, Warden, – – You tell me!"
An ages – old, standard
measure of the why – whatever _
inanimate _ object – is – better – than – women ‘classic’ viewed by Dr.
Edinsmaier to “cohesively” seal for all of my young Boys the slavish and
dehumanized stature that there is to Herry – Daddee’s notion regarding all
female human beings, regarding all of us Not Males, is best typified in his
often sniggered, “Why _ Bicycles _ Are
Better Than Women:”
1.
Bicycles don't get pregnant.
2.
You can ride your bicycle any time of the month.
3.
Bicycles don't have parents.
4.
Bicycles don't whine unless something is really wrong.
5.
You can share your bicycles with your friends.
6.
Bicycles don't care how many other bicycles you've ridden.
7.
When riding, you and your bicycle can arrive at the same time.
8.
Bicycles don't care how many other bicycles you have now.
9.
Bicycles don't care if you look at other bicycles.
10. Bicycles don't care if you buy
bicycle magazines.
11. You'll never hear,
"Surprise, you're going to own a new bicycle!" unless you go out and buy one yourself.
12. If your bicycle goes flat, you
can fix it.
13. If your bicycle is too loose,
you can tighten it.
14. If your bicycle gets
misaligned, you don't have to discuss politics with it.
15. You can have a black bicycle
and bring it home to your parents.
16. You don't have to be jealous of
the guy who works on your bicycle.
17. If you say bad things to your
bicycle, you don't have to apologize before you ride it again.
18. You can ride your bicycle as
long as you want and it won’t get sore.
19. You can stop riding your
bicycle as soon as you want and it won’t get frustrated.
20. Your parents won’t remain in
touch with your old bicycle after you dump it.
21. Bicycles don't get headaches.
22. Bicycles don't insult you if
you're a bad rider.
23. Your bicycle never wants a
night out with other bicycles.
24. Bicycles don't care if you're
late.
25. You don't have to take a shower
before you ride your bicycle.
26. If your bicycle doesn't look
good, you can paint it or get better parts.
27. You can ride your bicycle the
first time you meet it without having to take it to dinner, see a movie or meet its mother.
28. The only protection you need to
wear when riding your bicycle is a decent helmet.
29.
In mixed company you can talk about what a great ride you had the last
time you were on your bicycle.
30. Plus _ ad infinitum _ more of them whenever
Herry chose to chortle on to my Boys some newer of its lines exemplified in
ones such as: – – “I don’t hafta send my bicycle a cutesy
“I’ve got raging hormones” greeting card in order to jump – start it and get it
ready to ride, – – that is ya’ know, like the smutty one I’d purchased when nine – year – old Mirzah
was with me at the store and I, Herry – Daddee, read it back to him!” – –
“An’ I don’t hafta prophylactically ‘member to bring along on my trail for tail
that cutesy, gem – studded rubber when my bicycle finally does get jump –
started and is ready to ride.”
Now … imagine,
instead, this very same script – – but
with the one exception, though, of just one of its players inside of that
scenario: Imagine instead of Herry –
Daddee the provider, the criminality
to it all … if – if at these Boys’ ages Dr. Edinsmaier’s adult neighbor just next
door or down the street (male or female) or his district’s upstanding United
States congressman (Republican or Democrat) or any one of his so – pious parish
priests over at their churchy residence had been supplying any one of my minor
Boys with this predatory smut, with this pedophilic verbal molestation? with
this very same … pornography?
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