You’d think something as mundane as that wouldn’t be fraught with controversy…
You’d be wrong
We live in a mad mad world.
The stylist was talking with another stylist about a customer she’d had the day before.
The customer in question, was apparently transitioning from one gender to the other. “Okay, this is probably going to go off the rails,” I think.
As the story unfolds, apparently the stylist referred to the customer as a “She”. OMG! The horror!
The customer corrected the stylist’s use of pronoun defiantly proclaiming the proper pronoun was “IT”.
At this point in the story I’ve got my “What The Fuck” face on. The other half ignored me and continued the story.
The stylist, of course apologized explaining that she meant no offense. This wasn’t good enough for the mortally aggrieved customer. (He/She/It… whatever) Continued to manufacture outrage over this insignificant incident, turning everyone’s trip to the hair place into a crazed social justice nightmare.
A) How was the stylist to know “It” was the preferred pronoun? B) The Stylist did the professional thing by apologizing. C) The aggrieved customer had all the social decorum of a turd in a punchbowl.
The other half was laughing and said to me, “All I could picture as this story was being told was YOU sitting in a chair during the actual incident.”
Good Point!
I wouldn’t have been able to let it pass. I hate shitty behavior and the shitty people exhibiting it.
The first thing that popped into my head was that since “IT” didn’t have their pronoun tattooed on ITS forehead how was anyone to know? I’m sure that my expressing that thought would have added fuel to the fire.
The second thing that popped into my head is that “IT” usually refers to an object. Then I remembered being a boy in the Deep South.
The first word I ever learned to describe a Black person was the “N-Word”. But the context was that one went to get the “N-Word” to clean up a mess.
For Example: “Bill, please go get the broom to sweep up this mess on the floor.”
My childhood memory has the statement from my Grandfather telling me, “Hey boy, go get the “N-word” to clean up that mess.”
In my experience the “N-Word” was used to reduce a kind thoughtful human being, (Eddie would tell me jokes and ride me around on his shoulders and we’d laugh the whole time,) to nothing more than an object on par with a mop or broom. (For the sake of clarity, Eddie was an employee of my Grandfather, and I probably wasn’t more than 5.)
As I thought about the implications of a human being demanding to be called “IT” I couldn’t help but notice the similarity.
What completely astounds me, is that any human being would willingly demean & diminish their own humanity in this way.
People like the aforementioned customer, would loose their shit if I, a white CIS male, were to refer to an African American as “IT”. They’d be saying I was racist or any number of other ugly things. (Then again, most of the ugly words they’d call me have lost much of their former impact and meanings.)
Then they’d turn around and make a spectacle of themselves in a public place demanding to be called “IT”.
All the while annoying the rest of us “normal” people who use pronouns based in history and languages dating back 5 thousand years or more.
The other half is right…
It’s a good thing I wasn’t there for the incident itself.
Depending on how screeching they were, I could easily see myself leading off with,
“Nobody gives a fuck about your pronouns! Now sit the fuck down and shut the hell up. There are actual humans in this business, trust me they do not consider themselves the equivalent of a dildo or pocket pussy. Both of which, by the way, are ITS.”
No, I don’t think it would have ended well at all…
The neighbor whose house and cat I’ve been looking after is apparently getting better and may be coming home. His Niece and her Husband came down to clean up his house and make it suitable for someone using a walker.
It meant for me that I didn’t have to look after the cat and for at least a few days had the opportunity to look after my own affairs. That was a relief and my mood was pretty good.
For my assistance, and their using my dump access card, they agreed to save some space in one of their dump runs for various yard trimmings that I’d piled up around the yard. They’d rented a large pickup truck and my yard stuff would fit nicely on top of the other stuff they were tossing from the house.
I was out in my yard bagging the stuff to make it easier to load.
It was a lovely spring day and I was in a good mood. The sun felt great and for the first time in months I was warm and cheerful. Progress, warmth, and getting things done always makes me a happy camper.
Apparently the crazy lady in the neighborhood was enjoying herself wandering up and down the main street that all the residential streets intersect with. Aside from her occasional outbursts I was in my own little serene world.
This all went to shit.
I was almost finished with my chore when the crazy lady starts screaming the name of a dead woman who lived across the street from me. While she’s screaming the dead woman’s name she’s walking toward the gate of the house.
The house in question has been sold, purchased, and renovated entirely by the new owner. Seeing crazy heading toward the house, knowing that the former occupant was dead, and that crazy had previously kicked the door in, terrorizing the former occupant I was left with a choice.
I could watch the fun as she pounded on the door, or kicked it in, setting off the alarm system and summoning the police… Or I could say something.
In future, I’ll keep my mouth shut and enjoy the live police show.
On this occasion I simply said loud enough that she could hear me, “She’s dead. She’s been dead for over a year.”
This simple statement of fact resulted in crazy targeting me. As I’ve mentioned occasionally elsewhere in this blog, Crazy has a mouth on her that could make the entirety of several military forces blush at once. The fury of her insanity spewed forth in a rabid staccato of nonsense and obscenities and she started walking back down the street toward me. She was practically frothing at the mouth.
This sort of thing has happened before and she usually sputtered out then wanders off.
Wednesday, she didn’t sputter out.
She demanded to know who I thought I was telling her that the neighbor was dead. She further said I was a liar because she’d just spoken to the neighbor.
I replied, “As you wish,” and went back to my work. This enraged her further, she picks up her pace assuming what I suspect she felt was an appropriately intimidating and aggressive walk. Were she a 4 year old and not spewing foul obscenities every step of the way, it would have been funny.
I still didn’t take her as a threat, in part due to her size and in part due to the comical walk. That being said, I was monitoring her approach. She demanded I produce ID as she stomped onto my property. I asked her what good that would so since our ID has our post office address, not our actual physical address printed on it. ID tells her nothing.
This seemed to cause a momentary pause in her diatribe. Perhaps some logic process attempted to engage, and was promptly choked to death by the crazy raging in her brain. She then told me that she owned my house and that I needed to get off her property.
This annoyed me a lot. Her rage and aggression directed at me in close quarters was starting to really piss me off. Not to mention her yappy ill behaved Chihuahua that has on more than one occasion tried to bite me while I was doing yard work, by sneaking up on me from behind.
One of these days that little piece of shit is going to tangle with my weed whacker!
I said, “If this is your goddamned house show me the cancelled checks!” I know this was the wrong thing to say, I knew it the minute it left my lips.
Some part of me recognized that I was being drawn into her crazy and that wasn’t the way to go. That part of my brain gave me a disdainful “Tut tut tut” and called me a dumbass.
This internal dialog stopped me from peppering Crazy with a bunch of followup questions like, “What’s the mortgage payment? Who holds the mortgage? What was the sale amount of the house? Is there a second?” I think in my growing anger I was still considering the possibility that I could somehow win.
When she said, “The checks aren’t canceled,” I realized that you can’t win with reason against this kind of crazy.
At around this point she punched me…
I registered impact and minor damage on my right upper chest. Now I was facing a crisis.
Let me explain, and please remember all of the following happens in two or three heartbeats.
When someone hits me, I tend to instantly lose control. The world narrows to the person who hit me and I’m looking for openings and weaknesses. I start looking for ways to break bones, dislocate joints, and I’m not thinking about things like fair fight or Queensberry rules. I’m thinking about how to efficiently terminate the threat while looking around for potential weapons at hand.
In the past, this has resulted in epic rage and coming dangerously close to killing. In those instances it was only friends being present, dragging me bodily away that stopped me. Even so, whoever hit me from then on would literally crawl out a second floor bathroom window to avoid me.
That rage scares me more than anything else in my life. During the rage, I’m not there, when it’s over I have little to no memory of what I’ve done. At most, I’ll retain images or almost sexual gratification, but no clear timeline of events. It’s a monster that I keep chained in my head and never let out because I fear that the monster would overwhelm me then I’d lose myself in it.
This time I was completely alone, and that part of me that I fear most, was breaking free.
It also didn’t help that every bit of psychological, emotional, and most physical abuse perpetrated on me throughout my entire life has been inflicted by women.
Women who were bullies and knew they’d get away with it because when no one was looking they could. They knew they had the upper hand, if I responded, they’d immediately revert to the victim and poor defenseless girl roles.
Then as I was taking whatever punishment for raising my voice, or responding to their aggression they’d smile slyly through their fake tears, knowing that they’d won, because they’d baited me, or goaded me into exactly the situation they wanted. Far too often they’d do it just for fun, or a promotion, or just because they didn’t like that their obvious crocodile tears didn’t elicit sympathy from me.
Hey bitches, you say you’re equal. If a man cried you’d humiliate him about it, why should your tears get people falling all over themselves to make you stop? Fair is fair.
Here was yet another woman striking me, assuming that she’d get away with it.
Some of the chains holding the beast, snapped.
“After all it’s only the two of us standing in my driveway… Who would know?”
Crazy is a threat to my peace and quiet, a disturbance to the neighborhood, an ever present worry. She’s defective. A waste of DNA. She at one time may have been simply mentally ill but over the 20 years she’s lived in this neighborhood she’s gotten much worse and may now be using drugs other than those prescribed.
I do my level best to ignore her and shut her out of my consciousness. Going so far as to close my house up and run the A/C with the windows and doors locked even on beautiful breezy spring and summer days while she screams horrific obscenities at the top of her lungs .
Questions I rarely consider are, “Why are her rights more important that all the rest of the people in this neighborhood? Why does she have the ability to imprison us in our homes with her insanity?”
More of the Beasts chains snapped.
“Her neck is thin as a chicken’s… Who would know?”
My narrowing vision was increasingly tinted red. The Beast was awake, the rage was growing uncontrollable. Blood pumping warm adrenaline felt like life and youth returning to my old bones. Life around me slowed, I could see the fly hoping for a meal suspended in front of her face. Dust motes froze mid air reflecting the sunlight.
More chains snapped.
“That fly looks hungry, why not feed it and 1000 generations of it’s line… Free me, let me serve you, some of those branches would make excellent clubs… Who would know?”
The rational part of me had been busy processing that I’d just been hit with no provocation came back. That part of me just couldn’t understand why she’d hit me at all, it made no sense and was therefore an unresolvable question. The answer that came back was, “this bitch is crazy,” then the rational part screamed in my head, “you don’t have to be crazy too!”
The Beast snapped its jaws at the rational part of my brain but began retreating to sulk in his dark dungeon.
Tenuous control of my anger and rage began to reassert itself. Rationality rebooted fully.
If I responded to her attack she’d win. I’d go to jail, and she’d smile. I’d lose my freedom and complicate my life in endless ways. I live in California. Women always win here, they’re always right, even when they’re not. Women who commit brutal murders get much lighter sentences than men, those who commit assault are lightly punished if at all.
The police would have no choice but to take me away. At the time, I thought California had some stupid law in place that said I, the victim, had to retreat and let the criminal take whatever they wanted.
My internal dialog said, “Choose a better option.” The part of me that is the Beast, accepted this proposition but added if she hits me again all bets are off.
I looked Crazy in the eyes and quietly said, “I don’t want to do this today.”
I knew the rage still burned in my eyes. The very few people who’ve seen my like that, described it as seeing Death looking at them, out of my eyes.
By some miracle, Crazy decided to leave. Her expression was one of confusion. She walked away without looking back, swearing and calling me names. Two that stick out were “misogynistic bastard” and “fucking fag”.
It cracks me up that when a woman is jonesing for a fight with a man, if he refuses to fight her, the woman always calls him a fag. Jesus! The deck is stacked against men!
Her one last parting shot was this, “You’ve always looked down on me since I moved here.”
As I stood there feeling the sun on my skin. I though, “Yep, you’re right about that because you’re trash, and always have been.”
The rational part of my mind acknowledged the defusing of the situation without additional violence as a win.
But the masculine, male, proud part of me, and the Beast were both wounded. By not responding as she so richly deserved, the bitch still caused me injury. She emasculated me. Not in front of the neighborhood but in front of the one person that I can’t ignore.
Myself.
It’s not about wounded pride, that heals.
This is about my fundamental right to defend myself. Am I now too old to fight? Am I weak and feeble? Am I not a man anymore? Have I caved into the bullshit and now too afraid of legal shit or consequences to even defend myself?
I was a proud apex predator, what am I now? Old? Used up? Useless? Should I just wander into the forest and die?
Will I forever hide behind the police and the law, will I forever be a victim?
The police were called. They dutifully took statements. They advised me that I could have her arrested for assault but that she’d be out in 8 hours or less. They suggested a better legal approach was to file a restraining order against her.
Either way, I know she’ll retaliate. She’s a vindictive bitch. I know of at least two other assaults she’s committed against neighbors which were unreported because the victims feared her retaliation.
I know that I must file a restraining order. Not just for me, but because it puts Crazy on the radar of the legal system. Long term, that benefits all the neighborhood. Unfortunately it also puts me on the same radar. Worse though, this feels like I’m hiding under my mother’s skirt.
The rational part of me is trying to convince the Beast that using the legal system against Crazy is satisfying because it’s using her own tools against her.
The Beast isn’t buying it. The legal system is long and drawn out and requires lots of energy to be expended. The Beast is about instant gratification and the almost erotic joy of vanquishing an enemy definitively in the moment.
The Beast is pissed off, that yet again a woman fucked him over with self inflicted wounds.
One good thing came out of my conversation with the police. They told me that I absolutely had the right to defend myself on my own property. They suggested that I get a security camera with recording ability so that in the future, once the restraining order is issued I’ll have a record of whatever transpires.
The Beast is happy about that. “If she comes at me again… Who cares who will know?”
Another bright spot is that the visitors cleaning up the neighbors house were video taping the exchange from his property.
That will make the legal process a bit easier. But it will still take time and effort and trips to the court house on my part. All of which costs me money while Crazy incurs no expense, no punishment, no inconvenience, basically… she gets to win again.
Everything I read was reminiscent of the Obama Years.
Perhaps this time around is a little more chaotic but nothing has changed.
Reading the news was a bit like watching a soap opera. You can skip days or weeks, but when you do get around to watching, you haven’t missed much, if anything at all.
I did happen to notice that Kamala Harris is notably absent and has been for at least a week or two.
President Biden is still bloviating on about the Russian / Ukraine issues, While the President of the Ukraine has been quoted as saying the issue is resolving.
Justin Trudeau is being heckled in Parliament and openly laughed at. I’d guess his career is at an end. Doesn’t Canada have a no confidence vote?
Ah well, the soap opera goes on, and nothing changes, except the price of goods and fuel. They keep going up.
I’m as disinterested in the “News” and politics as I was during the Obama years. The nut jobs have full control of the asylum and the midterms can’t come soon enough.
Maybe this time we can get some people in office that actually do their jobs. I’m not holding my breath or anything but I’d love to see a bunch of non-politicians swept into office. You know, folks that had businesses and employees and actually produced something.
That is, of course, until they were forced out of business by mandates and lockdowns.
It seems to me those are the people who have the time, the knowledge, logic, and will, to stand up to the establishment powers and say, “NO!”
Maybe, they’d be able to set things back on course by applying their business acumen and common sense.
The one thing I’m certain of, is that all of the career politicians of any political stripe need to get THE BOOT.
I’m probably just whistling past the graveyard. There are a lot more people caught up in their individual divisiveness and specialized causes than there are people who look at the larger picture. I’m fairly sure that whoever is elected in the midterms will just be more of the same old crap.
Well, back to ignoring the news for a week or so unless something really interesting captures my attention.
By now, you may have heard of or seen the altercation that happened on a Delta Flight from Tampa to Atlanta. When I read the text of their exchange I was laughing my butt off.
The other half said, “Thank God you weren’t that old man…”
Yeah, I do have a bit of a temper and do not respond well to phrases like, “Stand your ass up!” Believe me, I’d have probably stood up, then given this particular “Karen” a verbal dressing down she’d not soon forget.
Had she slapped me, all bets would be off. As annoying and frustrating as flying anywhere has become I’d already be edgy. A slap to the face and her rearing back as though she was going to punch me, (as some reports have indicated she was doing,) would have resulted in extreme violence and rage on my part.
I think the older gentleman handled this “Karen” situation far better than I would have.
According to some of the police reports I’ve read, this whole thing started because Patricia Cornwall was trying to get back to her seat after coming from the bathroom. She was blocked by the beverage cart.
Most civilized people who have flown before know that you have to wait for the cart to clear the aisle, you have two choices, remain standing or “borrow” an empty seat until the cart has passed your seat row. It’s not a difficult problem if you think about it.
I’ve been in the exact situation and simply asked a passenger seated next to an empty seat, “May I borrow this for a minute?”
Ms Cornwall demonstrated that she was clearly a product of the American Educational system given this simple logic problem evaded her.
Things went off the rails when the flight attendant told Ms. Cornwall to grab an empty seat until the beverage service was complete. At this point Cornwall replied, “What am I Rosa Parks?”
According to reports, this is when the elder gentleman pointed out that Cornwall wasn’t black, they were not in Alabama, nor were they on a bus.
I’d have added, “Unlike you lady, Rosa Parks had a point!”
It appears that after this exchange the two of them were, “off to the races” so to speak.
At some point during the dust-up Cornwall was demanding that the gentleman put his mask on, (hers however was being worn as a chin diaper,)
There may have been the word “Bitch” tossed around, and the elderly gentleman is quoted as saying, “Sit down Karen.” If the elderly man called this woman a bitch, he was being as polite as possible given her behavior. I’d have called her much worse, and stood by my descriptors.
In the ensuing scuffle, Cornwall appears to have injured two other passengers and at least one Delta employee.
Ms. Cornwall was taken into custody in Atlanta and paid 20,000 bail to get out of jail.
This is one of those things that speaks volumes about the society.
There was a time when you treated elders, even crotchety elders with respect. When you’re on a flight, or a bus, or any other public transportation you are supposed to mind your manners and be cooperative. Apparently Ms. Cornwall missed those days in etiquette class.
But hey, she was a playboy bunny and an actress right? She’s special… Uh huh.
It’s been reported that the gentleman is 80. Given that he is about 30 years her senior, he legitimately called out Ms. Cornwall on her poor behavior. She was being childish. He may well have been a father, or grandfather. I’m betting that slipped into “Dad” mode without even thinking about it.
Even I, as much of an ass as I can be, I listen to an Elder. One telling me to cool my jets would be met with a contrite, “Yes Sir.”
Too many women like Cornwall seem to think that it’s perfectly okay to smack a man and that they’ll get away with it. Those same women run to the police when, after smacking a man, he hits ’em back.
A man’s only recourse today is to involve the law and doing so makes us feel weak and powerless, even if the police take the matter seriously, (often they don’t).
That’s why I hope this gentleman presses charges and doesn’t just let it go. I hope he puts it all out there. Elder abuse, Assault, pain and suffering due to the public nature of the crime, and anything else his attorney can toss into the mix.
The trouble is, as men we’re taught to “Suck it up,” and move on. If he happens to be a “Southern Gentleman” I’d say the odds are high that he’ll let it go.
In the same situation, I might do the same even knowing that letting it go would be tacitly condoning women getting away with abusing men.
Maybe a month or two ago I ran across a nifty computer keyboard in some publication. At the time I thought, “It’s really nice, I like that it’s mechanical, It’s cool that you can order it with switches that are firm, medium, or light, which allow you to have a keyboard that is exactly what you want, but dang that’s really expensive,”
So I moved on to the next thing and forgot the manufacturers name. After all, the 8 year old keyboard I’ve got works just fine and I’m used to it.
Then yesterday, my reliable old keyboard started missing space bar presses and occasionally other keys as well. I considered the problem and admitted that it might be time for me to pony up the cash for a new one. I tried to go back and find the article in my Apple News History. I haven’t found the article I was looking for but did stumble across the Alec Baldwin, George Stephanopoulos interview where Baldwin tearfully claims he didn’t pull the trigger.
What a load of runny horse shit!
I was able to let the statement of the Armorer from the production “Someone must have put a live bullet in the gun,” go because that statement was so stupid it required no comment.
Had I commented at the time, I’d have said, “No Shit dumbass!“
But Alec Baldwin crying and saying he didn’t pull the trigger?
Oh hell no, I can’t let that one go.
The gun reportedly used in the crime, (Yes, it was a crime!) was a period specific Colt revolver or a replica of the venerable Colt revolver. This gun, as are most guns, is a purely mechanical machine. There are no batteries, no electronics, no circuitry, and no software.
Guns in general are relatively simple machines that exist in the real physical world and require real physical actions to operate. They can’t be hacked.
The person holding the gun is the power source and the directing intelligence.
As you can see from the diagram, (Thank you Nichols Ranch), There are approximately 24 components in a revolver. (24 in the diagram, there could be fewer in other models) The last two components in the diagram above are the Bullet and its shell.
Functionally, you could loose the grips and the logos, possibly the ejector rod and spring, and the cylinder cover, and still have a functional weapon. It would probably bruise your hand if you fired it without the grips but the weapon would still work as designed.
There is no magic here. This is simply an elegant mechanical system.
To fire the assembled weapon requires the following steps.
Open the cylinder cover Put rounds (a bullet and its shell) in at least some of the chambers of the cylinder. In this case a maximum of six chambers can have rounds inserted. Close the cylinder cover Cock the hammer. Take aim Pull the trigger
Repeat the last three steps as necessary five more times, then start at step one.
Note there are three inherent safety mechanisms present.
If rounds are not loaded, the gun is not ready to fire If the hammer isn’t cocked, the gun is not ready to fire. If the trigger is not pulled, the gun will not fire, even if rounds are present and the hammer is cocked.
I’m not a gunsmith, but if I’m looking at the diagram correctly, it appears that the action of cocking the hammer is what causes the cylinder to rotate, moving the next round to firing position.
This mechanical simplicity is why the revolver and integrated shells & bullets revolutionized guns.
Prior to the revolver, the choice was a cap and ball pistol, which basically gave you one shot, then you had to spend a minute reloading before you could take a second shot (think about a cannon). That’s probably why everyone carried a sword with their pistol.
For close to 200 years, the revolver has been around, it’s well understood, reliable, and has undergone some evolution but not a whole lot.
There is a variation of the revolver where pulling the trigger also cocks the hammer.
This is why when handling a weapon you never put your finger on the trigger, and you never take anyone’s word for it, that the weapon is not loaded. You always check!
Even then if you need to pull the trigger (as in you’re checking proper function,) you always aim in a safe direction. You do not pull the trigger unless you are sure that no-one is downrange.
Given the simplicity of the revolver that Baldwin was probably using, for him to claim he didn’t pull the trigger is a bald faced lie. He may not remember pulling the trigger, but he sure as hell did.
The only other scenario that has a remote possibility is that he partially cocked the revolver when he pulled it from the holster. In that scenario though, it’s far more likely that he would have had the weapon fire the moment it cleared the holster.
I rather suspect that in that scenario Baldwin would have shot himself. I also suspect that the mechanism that rotates the cylinder would not have brought a round into correct firing position since the hammer wouldn’t have completed its travel.
That being said, if the weapon was worn or had been abused it’s a remote possibility.
However there wouldn’t have been enough of a delay for Baldwin to have brought the weapon to a firing position for the view of the camera. (They were rehearsing, the assumption is they were trying to frame a shot.)
No matter what. In this situation Alec Baldwin was the person holding the weapon. Baldwin was the person who violated gun safety protocols. Baldwin is the person who clearly still has no idea how guns work.
Ultimately, Alec Baldwin is the person who shot two people, one fatally. Alec Baldwin is therefore the responsible party and must answer for his negligence.
Update: I was just reading another article on Baldwin’s interview.
Baldwin said, “So, I take the gun and I start to cock the gun. I’m not going to pull the trigger,” he continued. “And I cock the gun, I go, ‘Can you see that? Can you see that? Can you see that?’ And then I let go of the hammer of the gun, and the gun goes off. I let go of the hammer of the gun – the gun goes off.“
Was the gun cocked Alec or was it not? In this type of gun if you’re holding the trigger down and you pull the hammer back then release it the gun will fire. You’d know that if you’d paid attention in any of the on-site gun training you’ve no doubt received during your many years of movie making where you were handling guns. You’re essentially describing that you “fanned” the hammer.
Stephanopoulos stated, “There are some who say you’re never supposed to point a gun on anyone on a set no matter what.”
Baldwin replied, “Unless the person is the cinematographer, who’s directing me at where to point the gun for her camera angle,” Baldwin replied. “I didn’t point the gun at her, and she said, ‘Hey, man, don’t point the gun at me.’ I pointed the gun in a direction she wanted.”
Is it me or does Baldwin’s reply sound like he was trying to blame the victim?
“Do you feel guilt?,” Stephanopoulos asked.
“No. No,” Baldwin said. “I feel that someone is responsible for what happened, and I can’t say who that is, but I know it’s not me.“
What a piece of Shit Alec Baldwin is!
He goes on to describe how he has dreams and emotional distress. Trying to paint himself as the victim.
Really? Alec Baldwin, you are filth! I cannot even describe how reading your responses has sickened me.
I hope the family, the members on set, and everyone in the production sues you into poverty. I hope the police, the district attorney, the judge, and a jury throw the book at you. I hope you end up doing hard labor in a prison in New Mexico for the rest of your miserable life.
It’s one thing to have this be an accident. It’s quite another for you to try to slime your way out of responsibility and essentially say, she was asking for it.
