This came across my Facebook wall today. Bad enough that this sort of thing is being forwarded. Worse? That the world sees these freaks and thinks they represent Americans as a whole.
A hole.
Showing posts with label sandy hook. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sandy hook. Show all posts
Wednesday, January 16, 2013
Monday, January 14, 2013
Sandy Hook and Stupid People
So, this garbage comes skittering across my Facebook newsfeed yesterday. A story about how Sandy Hook was staged by President Obama in order to inspire a gigantic gun grab by our government. I'd hoped that the person posting it had done so to show just how stupid some Americans (and a few Irish, I'm told) can be.
Sadly, that wasn't the case. In fact, it was a case of "Oh, my GOSH, has anyone researched this? Is this TRUE?"
I went to school with the Cottle and Parker families. I attended the same high school as little Emilie Parker's parents, and I attended at the same time as her aunts and uncles. They are not actors. They are not employees of the United States Government, pretending, for pay or otherwise, to be bereaved parents for the purpose of inspiring a gigantic gun grab by Obama and his evil henchmen.
Holy cow, seriously? Is there anyone out there THAT crazy? Anyone out there so stupid and out of touch that their first thought upon witnessing a slaughter like this is to say "It's a plot, it's a CONSPIRACY by that FASCIST COMMIE (the words are interchangeable in the nutjob crowd) to steal our guns!"
If you're that stupid, that crazy, you're EXACTLY who shouldn't have guns. Seriously.
Be reasonable. Be smart. Understand that the Cottle and Parker families aren't sleepers, hanging out in Ogden, Utah for decades, blending in, pretending to be regular, decent folks. They haven't been passing as "normal," waiting for the call from the evil feds to put on their mourning clothes and turn on the waterworks in their REAL avocation as super-secret actors and actresses in some grand, gun-grabbing production.
Are you familiar with the concept of Occam's Razor? Sometimes called the Principle of Parsimony? You might know it better as KISS, or "Keep It Simple, Stupid?" In a nutshell, it tells us that, all things being equal, the simplest, least twisty explanation tends to be the correct one. Which is more likely? Which makes more sense? That one deranged, screwed up kid who had access to weapons he never should have had access to went nuts and blasted apart a classroom, or that a great, complicated, covert plan has been in place for years, involving men and women pretending to be parents and families for the purpose of pulling one over on us all so that our President can take away our guns?
If you went with the latter, get thee to a shrink. Quickly.
Here's a story from my old home's local newspaper. That would be the newspaper published in the same town the Cottles and Parkers are from. The town that's home to the high school we all attended:
Conspiracy theories claim Newtown shootings were a hoax
For goodness' sake. Have a brain, huh? I know most of you do, but if you buy into this crap, what's wrong with you? The little girl wasn't magically alive again days later--that was her little sister! The attack wasn't announced days in advance, that's just how the web organizes news stories after a few days! Come on!
Come on.
Read this. And then read this
And then cry. Hurt for these people. And stop trying to turn it into something crazy and idiotic that makes you mad instead of sad. Stop trying to make it something fake so you don't have to deal with the reality of 20 little children blown to bits. Stop clinging to lies and wild fantasies and face reality. This wasn't a sham, it wasn't an act, it wasn't some grand conspiracy.
It was murder. And your stupid, near-schizophrenic delusions may make you feel better, but they make the rest of us want to PUKE.
I was going to include a photo of sweet Emilie or handsome Noah, but that doesn't seem appropriate somehow. If you're one of the conspiracy kooks, YOU should go find pictures of them. And look. Hard.
Sadly, that wasn't the case. In fact, it was a case of "Oh, my GOSH, has anyone researched this? Is this TRUE?"
I went to school with the Cottle and Parker families. I attended the same high school as little Emilie Parker's parents, and I attended at the same time as her aunts and uncles. They are not actors. They are not employees of the United States Government, pretending, for pay or otherwise, to be bereaved parents for the purpose of inspiring a gigantic gun grab by Obama and his evil henchmen.
Holy cow, seriously? Is there anyone out there THAT crazy? Anyone out there so stupid and out of touch that their first thought upon witnessing a slaughter like this is to say "It's a plot, it's a CONSPIRACY by that FASCIST COMMIE (the words are interchangeable in the nutjob crowd) to steal our guns!"
If you're that stupid, that crazy, you're EXACTLY who shouldn't have guns. Seriously.
Be reasonable. Be smart. Understand that the Cottle and Parker families aren't sleepers, hanging out in Ogden, Utah for decades, blending in, pretending to be regular, decent folks. They haven't been passing as "normal," waiting for the call from the evil feds to put on their mourning clothes and turn on the waterworks in their REAL avocation as super-secret actors and actresses in some grand, gun-grabbing production.
Are you familiar with the concept of Occam's Razor? Sometimes called the Principle of Parsimony? You might know it better as KISS, or "Keep It Simple, Stupid?" In a nutshell, it tells us that, all things being equal, the simplest, least twisty explanation tends to be the correct one. Which is more likely? Which makes more sense? That one deranged, screwed up kid who had access to weapons he never should have had access to went nuts and blasted apart a classroom, or that a great, complicated, covert plan has been in place for years, involving men and women pretending to be parents and families for the purpose of pulling one over on us all so that our President can take away our guns?
If you went with the latter, get thee to a shrink. Quickly.
Here's a story from my old home's local newspaper. That would be the newspaper published in the same town the Cottles and Parkers are from. The town that's home to the high school we all attended:
Conspiracy theories claim Newtown shootings were a hoax
For goodness' sake. Have a brain, huh? I know most of you do, but if you buy into this crap, what's wrong with you? The little girl wasn't magically alive again days later--that was her little sister! The attack wasn't announced days in advance, that's just how the web organizes news stories after a few days! Come on!
Come on.
Read this. And then read this
And then cry. Hurt for these people. And stop trying to turn it into something crazy and idiotic that makes you mad instead of sad. Stop trying to make it something fake so you don't have to deal with the reality of 20 little children blown to bits. Stop clinging to lies and wild fantasies and face reality. This wasn't a sham, it wasn't an act, it wasn't some grand conspiracy.
It was murder. And your stupid, near-schizophrenic delusions may make you feel better, but they make the rest of us want to PUKE.
I was going to include a photo of sweet Emilie or handsome Noah, but that doesn't seem appropriate somehow. If you're one of the conspiracy kooks, YOU should go find pictures of them. And look. Hard.
Friday, December 21, 2012
Just Plain Mean
So, I was reading through news stories on AOL (no, not my sole--or even predominant--news source, but I like to flip through on my way to my email) and came across an "Athletes who've let themselves go," story. Normally, I'd skip that, but the photo was, I was pretty sure, Tonya Harding. Curious to see if I was right, I opened the page.
To a pile of puke.
You know, what IS it about us that makes holding people up to public ridicule, especially about their weight and appearance, seem like a fine, fun idea? Why is that okay? Cool, even? This was particularly mean, because it had a "ha, ha, ha, see how the mighty have fallen" quality, with snide little zingers accompanying each photo. I'm not glad that Shaq has gained weight, I don't gloat because Tonya Harding is heavier than she was when she was a YOUNG PROFESSIONAL ATHLETE. If you are glad, if you do gloat?
Well, you're maybe not very nice. In fact, you seem to kinda suck.
We were going to head to Ketchup again tonight, see the fireworks from a better vantage and give the fries and shakes a whirl, but it may be too cold and miserable. We've got rain, and, worse, we've got high wind warnings out--60 mph gusts, they're saying. My money's on no fireworks with winds like that, and even if there are fireworks, I can't have the camera out in the rain (and I'm not going to try to rubber-band-and-ziploc the camera) and I'm not about to get soaking wet in a frigid windstorm.
So tonight's probaby off.
Just got done watching the NRA's ridiculous, sickening response to Sandy Hook. More guns. Oh, gosh, didn't see that coming. They suggest armed guards in schools. Okay, let's do that--never mind that there were armed guards at Columbine and it didn't help a bit. Let's run with it anyway. Now, remember, that's not just paycheck. That's rigorous, ongoing training--ask any cop or soldier if you can train for a few hours and then be "trained" and ready to roll indefinitely. Of course not, it takes ongoing training. That's wowser-pricy. Thankfully, I have NO doubt that the NRA will step up and pay for every one of these guards at every public school in the nation. They can foot the bill with membership dues! That said, an armed guard in every school won't stop this. The shooter in Newtown had done his damage in minutes. Barring the spectacularly unlikely luck of the shooter and guard being in the same part of the school AND the guard just happening to have his weapon at the ready when it starts, that guard isn't going to prevent a thing. He's either going to get shot before he clears holster or the murder's going to be done before he can even reach that part of the school. Look at Ft. Hood, for goodness' sake! Even the Army Police who finally took that shooter down (after he'd shot 45 people, 13 fatally)? One of them was shot and disarmed before the partner was able to get the shot and put a stop to things. And those are active duty American soldiers.
Enough of that garbage. It's disappointing, but not at all surprising. It's who we are, apparently--20 children shot down, and not only did we rush the shops to buy MORE guns and MORE ammo, we didn't even pause in our killing of each other. Think about that--we didn't even pause for one day in our murdering each other. I weep for my country.
Hit the liquor store tonight, grabbed a bottle of "Shambord." That's an American-made imitation Chambord. Less than half the price, and since we're just using it for cooking anyway, it seems stupid to blow that much cash. Tastes very similar, same alcohol content, so we'll see. Hubby grabbed a bottle of Basil Hayden's. If it's good enough for Francis Wolcott, it's good enough for him, right?
Dropped way too much cash shopping these past two days. I'm feeling myself nearing the panic-attack stage. Hubby got an award from work, and he says we're fine, but it's in my nature to worry.
All my crying about my Mom in the past few days, and I chewed her out on the phone today. She called, let it ring five times, then hung up. No message. Called back, let it ring five time, then hung up. Again, no message. Then called back AGAIN. This is something she has been doing for decades, and the only way to slow her down for a while is to yell. Anything less and she just ramps up until she's doing it two or three times a day. So I yelled at her.
It's okay, I told her I'd call her back after I woke up (she was doing this as I was trying to nap). I did that, and it was a good call.
Grabbed a bunch of cheeses for crackers--Butterkase, Muenster, smoked gouda, and cave-aged gruyere. We really like cheese.
Our Christmas tree is STILL devouring water like there's no tomorrow. Never had a tree that kept drinking for weeks.
Oh, and hey, the world didn't end, so have some paneling!
To a pile of puke.
You know, what IS it about us that makes holding people up to public ridicule, especially about their weight and appearance, seem like a fine, fun idea? Why is that okay? Cool, even? This was particularly mean, because it had a "ha, ha, ha, see how the mighty have fallen" quality, with snide little zingers accompanying each photo. I'm not glad that Shaq has gained weight, I don't gloat because Tonya Harding is heavier than she was when she was a YOUNG PROFESSIONAL ATHLETE. If you are glad, if you do gloat?
Well, you're maybe not very nice. In fact, you seem to kinda suck.
We were going to head to Ketchup again tonight, see the fireworks from a better vantage and give the fries and shakes a whirl, but it may be too cold and miserable. We've got rain, and, worse, we've got high wind warnings out--60 mph gusts, they're saying. My money's on no fireworks with winds like that, and even if there are fireworks, I can't have the camera out in the rain (and I'm not going to try to rubber-band-and-ziploc the camera) and I'm not about to get soaking wet in a frigid windstorm.
So tonight's probaby off.
Just got done watching the NRA's ridiculous, sickening response to Sandy Hook. More guns. Oh, gosh, didn't see that coming. They suggest armed guards in schools. Okay, let's do that--never mind that there were armed guards at Columbine and it didn't help a bit. Let's run with it anyway. Now, remember, that's not just paycheck. That's rigorous, ongoing training--ask any cop or soldier if you can train for a few hours and then be "trained" and ready to roll indefinitely. Of course not, it takes ongoing training. That's wowser-pricy. Thankfully, I have NO doubt that the NRA will step up and pay for every one of these guards at every public school in the nation. They can foot the bill with membership dues! That said, an armed guard in every school won't stop this. The shooter in Newtown had done his damage in minutes. Barring the spectacularly unlikely luck of the shooter and guard being in the same part of the school AND the guard just happening to have his weapon at the ready when it starts, that guard isn't going to prevent a thing. He's either going to get shot before he clears holster or the murder's going to be done before he can even reach that part of the school. Look at Ft. Hood, for goodness' sake! Even the Army Police who finally took that shooter down (after he'd shot 45 people, 13 fatally)? One of them was shot and disarmed before the partner was able to get the shot and put a stop to things. And those are active duty American soldiers.
Enough of that garbage. It's disappointing, but not at all surprising. It's who we are, apparently--20 children shot down, and not only did we rush the shops to buy MORE guns and MORE ammo, we didn't even pause in our killing of each other. Think about that--we didn't even pause for one day in our murdering each other. I weep for my country.
Hit the liquor store tonight, grabbed a bottle of "Shambord." That's an American-made imitation Chambord. Less than half the price, and since we're just using it for cooking anyway, it seems stupid to blow that much cash. Tastes very similar, same alcohol content, so we'll see. Hubby grabbed a bottle of Basil Hayden's. If it's good enough for Francis Wolcott, it's good enough for him, right?
Dropped way too much cash shopping these past two days. I'm feeling myself nearing the panic-attack stage. Hubby got an award from work, and he says we're fine, but it's in my nature to worry.
All my crying about my Mom in the past few days, and I chewed her out on the phone today. She called, let it ring five times, then hung up. No message. Called back, let it ring five time, then hung up. Again, no message. Then called back AGAIN. This is something she has been doing for decades, and the only way to slow her down for a while is to yell. Anything less and she just ramps up until she's doing it two or three times a day. So I yelled at her.
It's okay, I told her I'd call her back after I woke up (she was doing this as I was trying to nap). I did that, and it was a good call.
Grabbed a bunch of cheeses for crackers--Butterkase, Muenster, smoked gouda, and cave-aged gruyere. We really like cheese.
Our Christmas tree is STILL devouring water like there's no tomorrow. Never had a tree that kept drinking for weeks.
Oh, and hey, the world didn't end, so have some paneling!
 |
| Nowhere near the worst paneling out there, but a pretty intense pattern, no? |
Sunday, December 16, 2012
Music, Murder, and Modern Parenting
I love music. I'm not a particularly skilled musician (used to play a little guitar a long time ago), but I have a wickedly good ear and a special skill for keeping on key, vocally, and knowing (via an odd buzzing sensation at the base of my skull) when someone else isn't on key.
My real talent?
Linking specific music to specific memories or events in my life. When I hear, say, Bad Company or Billy Squier, I'm transported back to my teenage boulevard days. When I hear John Denver, I'm lying in the grass next to a bubbling spring in the Wasatch Range, bees trundling lazily about, a horse snuffling my neck while I giggle. Beatles? I'm flat on my back on the living room floor, headphones on, listening to my Dad's LPs.
Don't ask me where I am when John Mayer, Avril Lavigne, or certain Maroon 5 songs play. Just know it's a bad, sad, devastating place to be. Made worse because I always assume that others have this same "talent." So when John Mayer or Avril are meandering through the speakers, I assume everyone else is taking a stroll down memory lane, too. And it tears my heart out.
This past two weeks I've been listening to a lot of My Chemical Romance. Specifically, "The Black Parade." One song in particular has been on me for these two weeks--it's called "Teenagers," and it strikes me as a cautionary/Columbine-type song. It definitely strikes a chord with me, with its chorus:
They say that
Teenagers scare the living shit out of me
They could care less, so long as someone'll bleed
So darken your clothes
Or strike a violent pose
Maybe they'll leave you alone, but not me
The second verse, already dark in its Columbine-esque tone, hit me especially hard yesterday. I was sitting in the car outside our boy's Hapkido studio, watching the Mockingbirds school the Blue Jays in the towering oak near the fence, when it came on the stereo:
The boys and girls in the clique
The awful names that they stick
You're never gonna fit in much, kid
But if you're troubled and hurt
What you got under your shirt
Will make them pay for the things that they did
We're probably not ever going to know what was going on in Adam Lanza's whirling, screwed-up head. And no, he wasn't, officially, a teenager any more, but close enough. Maybe he wasn't bullied or ostracized. Maybe he didn't feel abused or outside the crowd.
Maybe.
But that doesn't change just how screwed up our kids are today. Not individually--no, as individuals, they seem about as well-or-maladjusted as ever. But in groups?
Packs?
I've been thinking a lot about this. What happened? What changed, aside from the pervasive, astounding violence thrown at kids from all angles and packaged as good, American fun?
I think we did. The parents.
See, somehow, in some pretty important ways, we failed to grow up. Instead of being the gatekeepers and authority figures, we've become the playmates, the competition. Instead of punishing rudeness, we're encouraging it, laughing at it, even giving lessons on how to better deliver it. Parents used to step in and discipline when their child was mean, rude, or destructive. Now they step in and defend their child's actions and level their anger at the victims or accusers. I remember when I was a kid, I dreaded bringing home a bad grade because I knew my father would look at ME and ask what the hell was wrong with ME. Now? Now the parent marches into the classroom, corners the TEACHER, and wags a righteous finger in her face, demanding to know what the hell is wrong with HER. I remember always knowing that, if I screwed up, my parents didn't HAVE to see it happen--ANY adult in the neighborhood would step in, stop me, then drag me home to my parents. Who would dare do that now? Who wouldn't fear being met at the door by an angry, potentially violent parent?
Obviously, I'm speaking in generalities--we're not ALL like this, but I believe enough of us are that we've created a childhood culture where rudeness, mob action, and even gun violence are valued. If not always valued by adults, these things are definitely held in high esteem by other kids as often as not.
I don't have a solution. Ditching my entire generation AND the children we've produced and starting again from scratch isn't possible. Apparently, intelligent, reasoned gun laws that reflect the realities of 2012 (rather than 1789) are also impossible. Obviously--how else to explain 61 mass murders perpetrated with firearms since 1982 and THIRTY-ONE school shootings since Columbine, yet our gun laws remain stubbornly unchanged?
I'm not sure where I'm going with this. It's a sort of blue-skying, wandering journey. A free-association fest. Did I mention that the parents of one of those poor, beautiful children in Sandy Hook went to my high school? That their older siblings and cousins were my classmates? That their sweetheart was born in the town we just moved from? That, in fact, they, too just recently moved to the east coast?
Something has GOT to change. We have GOT to get some sort of grip and stop letting the gun lobby subvert our political process with mega-cash and BS claims. I'm not talking about banning guns--rarely is anyone saying that. I'm talking about better, more thorough background checks, meaningful, in-depth sharing of information about psychiatric ailments (not just hospitals, but individual practitioners sharing pertinent information with state agencies), more attention paid to others living in the home of gun owners, and periodic re-registration of firearms with new background/psych checks. And people can squeal that, no, it's not the guns, it's the mental illness, but that's a tub of garbage. Mental illness can't take me out at 50 feet. Mental illness can't perch on a clock tower and pick off terrified students. Mental illness can't speed down a residential street killing innocent children in a burst of gang-related vengeance. Mental illness can't storm through the halls of an elementary school and end 20 perfect hearts (and their brave defenders).
Not without a firearm, anyway.
We live in a country where it is easier to buy ammunition than it is to buy decongestants. Don't believe me? Head over to Walmart and buy a box of ammo for a .22. And then buy five bottles of Robitussin. See which one presents a greater challenge.
And today? Today Santa came through the neighborhood, tossing candy from atop a wailing fire engine. And the rats across the street and the creepy child of drug addicts behind us ran along, scooping up all the candy before the other, younger neighborhood kids had a chance. They did this as the rat children's mother looked on.
And I didn't do a damned thing. I didn't, the woman next door didn't, the folks who live next door to the rats didn't. We just shook our heads, looked on in disgust. And that, my friends, makes me and my neighbors part of the problem.
My real talent?
Linking specific music to specific memories or events in my life. When I hear, say, Bad Company or Billy Squier, I'm transported back to my teenage boulevard days. When I hear John Denver, I'm lying in the grass next to a bubbling spring in the Wasatch Range, bees trundling lazily about, a horse snuffling my neck while I giggle. Beatles? I'm flat on my back on the living room floor, headphones on, listening to my Dad's LPs.
Don't ask me where I am when John Mayer, Avril Lavigne, or certain Maroon 5 songs play. Just know it's a bad, sad, devastating place to be. Made worse because I always assume that others have this same "talent." So when John Mayer or Avril are meandering through the speakers, I assume everyone else is taking a stroll down memory lane, too. And it tears my heart out.
This past two weeks I've been listening to a lot of My Chemical Romance. Specifically, "The Black Parade." One song in particular has been on me for these two weeks--it's called "Teenagers," and it strikes me as a cautionary/Columbine-type song. It definitely strikes a chord with me, with its chorus:
They say that
Teenagers scare the living shit out of me
They could care less, so long as someone'll bleed
So darken your clothes
Or strike a violent pose
Maybe they'll leave you alone, but not me
The second verse, already dark in its Columbine-esque tone, hit me especially hard yesterday. I was sitting in the car outside our boy's Hapkido studio, watching the Mockingbirds school the Blue Jays in the towering oak near the fence, when it came on the stereo:
The boys and girls in the clique
The awful names that they stick
You're never gonna fit in much, kid
But if you're troubled and hurt
What you got under your shirt
Will make them pay for the things that they did
We're probably not ever going to know what was going on in Adam Lanza's whirling, screwed-up head. And no, he wasn't, officially, a teenager any more, but close enough. Maybe he wasn't bullied or ostracized. Maybe he didn't feel abused or outside the crowd.
Maybe.
But that doesn't change just how screwed up our kids are today. Not individually--no, as individuals, they seem about as well-or-maladjusted as ever. But in groups?
Packs?
I've been thinking a lot about this. What happened? What changed, aside from the pervasive, astounding violence thrown at kids from all angles and packaged as good, American fun?
I think we did. The parents.
See, somehow, in some pretty important ways, we failed to grow up. Instead of being the gatekeepers and authority figures, we've become the playmates, the competition. Instead of punishing rudeness, we're encouraging it, laughing at it, even giving lessons on how to better deliver it. Parents used to step in and discipline when their child was mean, rude, or destructive. Now they step in and defend their child's actions and level their anger at the victims or accusers. I remember when I was a kid, I dreaded bringing home a bad grade because I knew my father would look at ME and ask what the hell was wrong with ME. Now? Now the parent marches into the classroom, corners the TEACHER, and wags a righteous finger in her face, demanding to know what the hell is wrong with HER. I remember always knowing that, if I screwed up, my parents didn't HAVE to see it happen--ANY adult in the neighborhood would step in, stop me, then drag me home to my parents. Who would dare do that now? Who wouldn't fear being met at the door by an angry, potentially violent parent?
Obviously, I'm speaking in generalities--we're not ALL like this, but I believe enough of us are that we've created a childhood culture where rudeness, mob action, and even gun violence are valued. If not always valued by adults, these things are definitely held in high esteem by other kids as often as not.
I don't have a solution. Ditching my entire generation AND the children we've produced and starting again from scratch isn't possible. Apparently, intelligent, reasoned gun laws that reflect the realities of 2012 (rather than 1789) are also impossible. Obviously--how else to explain 61 mass murders perpetrated with firearms since 1982 and THIRTY-ONE school shootings since Columbine, yet our gun laws remain stubbornly unchanged?
I'm not sure where I'm going with this. It's a sort of blue-skying, wandering journey. A free-association fest. Did I mention that the parents of one of those poor, beautiful children in Sandy Hook went to my high school? That their older siblings and cousins were my classmates? That their sweetheart was born in the town we just moved from? That, in fact, they, too just recently moved to the east coast?
Something has GOT to change. We have GOT to get some sort of grip and stop letting the gun lobby subvert our political process with mega-cash and BS claims. I'm not talking about banning guns--rarely is anyone saying that. I'm talking about better, more thorough background checks, meaningful, in-depth sharing of information about psychiatric ailments (not just hospitals, but individual practitioners sharing pertinent information with state agencies), more attention paid to others living in the home of gun owners, and periodic re-registration of firearms with new background/psych checks. And people can squeal that, no, it's not the guns, it's the mental illness, but that's a tub of garbage. Mental illness can't take me out at 50 feet. Mental illness can't perch on a clock tower and pick off terrified students. Mental illness can't speed down a residential street killing innocent children in a burst of gang-related vengeance. Mental illness can't storm through the halls of an elementary school and end 20 perfect hearts (and their brave defenders).
Not without a firearm, anyway.
We live in a country where it is easier to buy ammunition than it is to buy decongestants. Don't believe me? Head over to Walmart and buy a box of ammo for a .22. And then buy five bottles of Robitussin. See which one presents a greater challenge.
And today? Today Santa came through the neighborhood, tossing candy from atop a wailing fire engine. And the rats across the street and the creepy child of drug addicts behind us ran along, scooping up all the candy before the other, younger neighborhood kids had a chance. They did this as the rat children's mother looked on.
And I didn't do a damned thing. I didn't, the woman next door didn't, the folks who live next door to the rats didn't. We just shook our heads, looked on in disgust. And that, my friends, makes me and my neighbors part of the problem.
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