Chapter Twenty – Two Because He Can
Chapter Twenty – Two
Because He Can
“We have to gut the bitch
in the belly.
We all have to
understand: We’re going to obliterate
her life.
But. It will
get you the Vice Presidency.”
---
Mr. Makerowitz acted by Douglas Urbanski and hissed about the opponent, a live DEhuman,
in The Contender, 2000
Just one exact week out to nearly the very hour from
having divorce papers thrust into my hands at the Othello front door by that
frothy, fat man in a brown suit, that next Tuesday on the 11th
morning of October 1988, as I walked out of the trimly bearded Mr. Jazzy Jinx’s
fancy and o – so finely staffed, downtown office about 9 am where its mahogany,
cherry and leather – upholstered furniture and walls of walnut reeked of lemon
oil polish, I had very, very faint feelings beginning to form around what my
new profession was to be. The one which
would require next to none of my brains at the veterinary, life and other
biological sciences and practically at no other kind of true wisdom
either. Just cookbook formulae,
lawyering timetables, tones and tomes of injudicious ‘judicial’ argumentation
and perseverance and, for sure, much, much more money than I could have
imagined or would ever think of having to pay for the buying of, for the saving
of, for the very existence at all in
my life of … my very own children –– as well as its requiring a cancerous
conscience in the sewer. It – the career
– was very, very soon going to be made absolute and undeniable. My title in this, my new so fully American
calling? She Who Tries To Hang On To
Having In Her Life Her Own Three Boys.
Or. Woman Up Against The Pillared
American? Quite.
Also true, of course, of every other male – dominated society, too, ––
which is every society, isn’t it? But in
Over
the course of the previous year, mid 1987 to mid 1988, so swiftly spent up and
just a mere blur now it seemed, I had been to al – anon and open alcoholics
anonymous meetings out the frickin’ wahzoo.
At least once a week and many, many weeks oftener than that. Before my utter stoppage of attendance at any
more of these (vast amounts of) time – and money – wasting and true addiction –
and family accountability – escaping excuses!
At
not one of these scores of meetings and gatherings at where I was supposed to
learn how, I was told, especially through taking thoroughly to heart chapter
eight, “to wives”, in the mother –
fucking novel called the big book, to ‘just be supportive’ and, most of
all, compliantly silent to my truly
righteous and beautiful, non – drinking man had anyone bothered to tell me …
The Truth. No one there, woman or man,
had informed me as to how such a dry though pillared drunk figures it out that
i) to get more money into his own life without
his taking on a second or a third or a fourth job or, as a matter of fact,
endeavoring conscientiously to qualify for a promotion and thus actually
himself becoming deserving of a serious pay raise while ii) at the very same
time, and much, much more importantly to
him, exacting the smoothest, the most merciless and the deadliest of
revenges upon the mother –– the fucking, lying witch who has sullied and
disgraced his pride, his ego, his standing in the public eye by her willfully
no longer conniving with him to hide The Truth of his addiction, The Truth that
it is really about his being addicted to things and behaviors perverted instead
of to things and activities fermented or of the distilled spirits –– as to how he figures it out that all he has
to do to accomplish any of this, to accomplish any one or absolutely all of
these machinations, is to go after her … to go after her by going after sole and wholly controlling custody of the essences
from out her belly and of her very being.
Her minor children. But of
course: his property. His entitlement, of course, because of
androcentrism.
While,
all the while, continuing to flamboyantly gesticulate publicly with the so
solemn and regular alcoholics anonymous attendance, ah … um, at those 13th
– stepping excuses that is, and with those other bogus and mendacious measures
and, of course, the pillaring stance at his one doctoring job. Dry?
Of course – that is, no liquid hooch so, jyeah, dry that way. But, truly? Drunk as hell.
Drunk on his own denial, drunk on his own will and on his own choices ––
wickedly wrong though he concurrently knows
them all to be. And drunk – especially –
on his own desired dominion over her and over all things hers and from and by
her including, without a doubt, over all of … her little kids.
No one up to this point exhorted there
in 12 – step “therapy” nor anywhere else either that what was about to come on
to me was LOSS with a capital L the likes of which most persons
would never, their entire lifetimes, be able to truly fathom, let alone,
themselves ever experience, including that which was to be a fully suspended
decade at the very least: ten – plus
years, just taken out of and away from what I had conceived and regarded for myself
was to have been … My Life. Instead, I
was at the very beginning of a juncture in living My Life where I was about to
learn just how purposefully and determinedly educated and allegedly book –
smart, even brilliant people go about putting onto themselves absolute blinders
so that they will never, never, ever have to deal with shitfuck as it actually
is.
Much
of this fuck is, of course, themselves –– meaning they will never, never ever
have to deal with themselves as they
truly, truly are. It will never cease
amazing me how soooo many people the Planet over will live out their entire
lives to their one, last drawn breath and never, ever let themselves be known both to others, let alone,
inwardly to themselves, as to who they really, actually are. Entire lives spent
hiding. Like Mehitable with her
religion: the one of face and image. This, too, is Dr. Herod Edinsmaier.
Everything
this man, Herry, is about to do, I so soon am to learn, is manipulated over as
much time and maneuvered through as many spatial matters as he can possibly
engineer –– in order to avoid and to escape The Truth and to protect
image. His.
* *
* *
We … that is, my so – fine and so – foxy
employee, Mr. Jazzy Jinx, upon his employer’s behalf – who, I should state over
and over again, would be me! of
course – filed a response, filed whatever legal piece of paper, I, now labeled
and known from here on out for the next gazillion months of this debasement,
this annihilation, this mother – fucking, as … ‘the Respondent’ …, was supposed
to file – on the very day that it was due, 20 days after initial ‘service’ to
me of divorce proceedings initiated … by the Good and Wonderful Doctor / now –
Petitioner Edinsmaier and very much … in progress. Thus began a pile, a piling, a stockpiling,
of dung made out of tree pulp the size of which eventually would go on to reach
over five feet in height. The height and
size of a small tree – literally – all on its own … This stack, this horde of papers included
sheets that were white with white covers, white with red covers, white with
blue covers, white with clear covers, typed, hand – scripted, three – hole
punched or not punched, bound, not bound, originals and copies, some with
drawings, some with graphics. And many
were the famous and infamous yellow, legal – sized, lined sheets,
referenced.
O especially … referenced! There were so many precedent – setting cases
referenced in all of this heapo’motherfuck you’d’ve thought nothing could move
forward, no action be taken, no motion be heard, lest first there were a couple
(at least) of cited cases directly related to this action or motion to be
studied or gone over or talked about.
And so carefully referenced, for chris’sake, for sure. Lawyers, all shapes of them, and The Law
appear to do nothing – except that it, whatever action is on tap in the present
ongoing ‘case’, hasn’t first been done or undone by somebody else, that is,
first before they – these specific guys – got a hold of this particular one. This case.
Your case.
And
the phrase, ‘your case’ or ‘my case’?
That’s a charmer. Just a real
charmer. Every single thing you and your
belovéd ones are and ever were, everything about you and them … is now reduced,
pronto, as soon as you have involvement in the American civil courts over
matters of a family dissolution, reduced right down to a term of nothing more
than just two words: ‘the case’.
Unless
… unless … and this is the biggie! The
kicker! Unless … you can hide who you
really are! And present, instead, to the
courts at all times an image, a certain face.
And … get away with it. ‘The
courts’, of course, being judges. Only
persons, humans – as I’ve so discussed before!
And, then too, these judges, these persons, being almost exclusively of
the male gender. Men, therefore. And your getting away with it will most
definitely turn on just how much you look
like the judge, the person, this particular human. Male.
That is, the
A
Pillared
What
is material, what is substantive, what is significant –– all of this will not
be decided by how much money or goods you can bride him … another of the Men. You
won’t have to bride him at all. No, not
at all. Not one thin dime at all. You will never have to take that chance, the
chance of some random, rogue and really, really righteous judge’s becoming
pissed off at you by such a bribery offer and, therefore, punishing you because
of your attempted shortcut to getting what you, Herry, … to getting what you
want. No!
You
just have to look like the guy, ya’
know the pillaredness … to look like the pillaredness of the judge
himself.
That’s
all there is to the concealment necessary and to the presentation of the façade
as you need it to be portrayed to ‘the
court’ and, for that matter, to all parties to and persons affected by ‘your
case’ as well. Including, most
especially of course, to all three of the Truemaier Boys. From that point on, from once there is the
clear establishment of your appearing ‘to
be like the judge himself’, why, any amount of stating and arguing of ‘your
case’ can take on whatever form of manipulation, deceit and lying that you can
imagine and invoke, connive, conjure up and consummate. Within the submitted documents time and time
and time again –– and most certainly before anyone ever thinks about and even
suggests stepping inside a courtroom.
Let alone, when you finally do get there – inside.
Well, now. Just who is it, you ask, that looks like an American county civil courtroom
judge anyhow? I’ve gone into the explanation of this some in previous
pages; it hasn’t changed any. For a true
eradication and the complete extinction of the woman whose brain is bringing
down upon you such a pestilence of humiliation and shame by revealing your
Truth, a father needs, earlier on in his adult life, to have gyrated himself
into such a spun visage that he will not, at any time during ‘the case’, be
understood by the judges, by any of
the 25 of them in total, as to who he really, really resembles in his life
now. To get what you want then, that is,
to get the mother – fucking completed like you want it done, usually this is
easy; sometimes, it isn’t, but usually it is.
If first … the father has
become pillared – in the same way as the judges like to think of themselves,
and each other, as having become:
pillared, that is.
This getting pillared doesn’t take much planning on the
part of the father either. Most fathers
desirous of wreaking upon her a good mother – fucking, being book – smart and
many, but certainly in no way all, from European descendents, at age 18 will
not, 20 to 25 more years into their adulthood, end up, although quite worthy
enough the work itself is … will not end up driving a City of Hoboken trash
truck or branding calves and sleeping in a bunkhouse in some valley outside
Durango or whacking whole slabs of carcass into porterhouses inside the
packinghouse just outside the rez. They
will not, in their mid 30s and early 40s, be found bussing tables and washing
crockery and everyday flatware at the Landmark Truck Stop nor pitching peaches,
however o – so preciously of course, into shoulder – slung satchels off sides
of stepladders nor brushing away the cobwebs from off the belfry rafters of the
assemblies of saints peter and paul mormon and baptist sanctuaries in
preparation for their gentry’s next patriarchal eastertide galas.
No. No, not these
men. The fathers in their middle ages
able to engineer such a smooth and, for them, cheap mother – fucking will have
in their early 20s and by no straining to their minds then of a future need to
be doing so –– they will have gone off
with their own fathers’ blessings – as well as bullion – to all modes of higher
education to acquire there the credentials of pillaredness that, along with
their maleness, will forever emblazon them, alongside the judiciaries they now
come before on paper and in person, as also
one of the pillars of their American communities. That is to say, these men now ready to take
on the mother – fucking that, instead, goes by the label
of
‘the case’ or ‘his case’ or ‘your case’, even sometimes ‘her case’, will, by
the time these fathers are 40 or 42 years of age, be their own regions’ college professors and elementary educators,
their christian and islamic priests and
lay ministers, rabbis and buddhist monks, representatives and senators,
cops and immigration officials, chief executive and banking officers, industry
scientists and computer technologists, middle school coaches, social service
agency directors, high school guidance counselors, postmasters, mayors and
councilmen. Easiest of all the pillars,
though, these fathers will become their own communities’ physicians, their
attorneys and, O JYeah! … their respective counties’ so respectable judges!
This is most
certainly true. Even so did long
–, long – dead Martin Luther sing this androcentric, lying mother – fuck from
out our late 1950s’ lutheran small catechisms — this most staunchest of Truths,
now didn’t he? But. This has been the way of things and of men
pillared since how many millennia now?
Since at least a dozen or so, not?
Just
exactly how pillared, da’ya’ ‘spose the Greek, the Roman and the Egyptian
matrons were a couple to three millennia back, that is, any of the southern European
and northern African women? All of the
women who walked the World when also did Plato, Socrates, Aristotle, Homer,
Cicero, Mark Antony, Caesar and Pompey, whom we soooo had to learn about and
whose works revere, about what of these women did we have to learn and of their works so revere? Hhmmm?
Learn
about a few of these women we did. But
just a very, very few: Cleopatra, Helen
of Troy, Sappho, Terentia, Medea, Fulvia, Octavia, Lysistrata, Livia. And my personal favorites: Hypatia and Matilda Joslyn! They were all,
however, all of them taught to us as
in the androcentric twaddle of Anita Hill’s “biographer”, David Brock, who
himself after smashing Hill, the lawyer and college professor though she be,
after trashing her for over seven years but then with fear of libeling lawsuits
against him because of his lies about her, later recanted, –– all of them taught to us as with Brock’s
‘instructional’ statement, “… a little
bit nutty and a little bit slutty!” weren’t they, these ancient maids,
these mamas, these witches and crones?
Whether they actually lived or were the storied and fictional characters
of men’s writings. All of them, down through these thousands of years, were taught to
us only in this manner. Thought of and treated as the “pillars” of their communities?! Hardly! They, indeed, decidedly and most purposefully
were not!
Nutty
and slutty and smutty. Crazed and
whoring … …
Here,
just the same as when printed on page five!
“And, of sons, of children, how could a mother ever lose custody of them?
Even in the ‘90s? Society,
including judges, civil court judges, quickly and slickly conclude that
there’re only three reasons a mother loses her kids: she’s a whore or she’s crazy – or she’s
both. Ever. But those same judges, those men, they know
more. That there’s really a fourth
reason, almost all of the time, and not the other three, that’s the real reason behind why a mom loses
custody: she’s pissed him off. And he has the status and the money and
the supporting backing to get her for it.
After all. That’s what they’d do. In his place.
Those same judges, … ! ! !”
* *
* *
When
a father needs to exact a mother – fucking, his having pillaredness is pretty
paramount. With that, there is one other
stratagem to the process that a father who is a party in ‘the case’ should try
to have, as a wee bit of additional insurance, at his constant storehouse
disposal and in his arsenal of weaponry.
Everyone
likes a shortcut to getting what they want, don’t they? It’ll perhaps not be as short a cut to the
chase as a father would like it to
be; but when added on as an insurance policy along with his maleness and his
pillaredness, it’s then pretty much a damn sure thing: Producer and actor Douglas Urbanski in the role
of Mr. Makerowitz in the story’s opposing political camp stated this second
thing, that is, this ‘insurance policy’, most aptly in the 2000 film, The Contender, “We have to go after
her. We have to make her wade in her own
blood. You ever stabbed a man in the
navel? Stab a man in the navel, and
that’s all she wrote. The bleeding is so
swift and severe it wouldn’t matter if Jesus Himself put His healing hand on
the wound, the bastard is dead. We have to gut the bitch in the belly. We all have to understand: We’re
going to obliterate her life. …
But. It
will get you the Vice Presidency.”
It
will, it will. It will
get for you, Daddee Dearest, all of her
Boys. You will, you will. You will obliterate her life. Just gut the bitch. Gut the goddamn bitch in her belly. Take her sons and take away the rest of her
entire life. Just like Margaret Sagely’s
ex did. Fuck the goddamn mother.
Just
how does an eminent father propose to be able to get away with completing this
erasure? This rubbing out of her?
This nightmarish deletion of her memory from any and all and, most
especially, from entirely out of the beautiful brains of her three Boy
children? This bitch – gutting? It’s the 20th Century after
all. How does he – nowadays – advance
this as plausible, as possible? As
actually doable?
Well,
this, too, is truly quite easy it so turns out.
In
the finality of the infinitely clear and concluding words of radically
conservative commentator and thinker, George F. Will writing about the
residents who were the Jews and the non – Jews of the same, rather quite small
Polish town of
He
can, he can. Male and pillared, he can, too. So … Herry does. Because he can.
Comments
Post a Comment