The horror. Oh the sheer horridness of it all. My reserves of shock and outrage have been almost totally depleted at this point, and I am afraid I have nothing left. What other kind of reaction is possible in the face of such a clear and obvious travesty against justice and basic human decency? My mind is boggled. My heart is rent. My stomach is turned. My pancreas is… sort of the same, actually.

What has whirled me into this frenzy of impotent rage, you ask? Another round of genocide in Africa, maybe? More stories of shockingly creative torture to leak out of the dank cells of Baghdad? Yet more innocent women and children killed by flying nails on the streets of Israel?

None of the above.

Rather it is the fact that I have learned that right now there are people sitting in prison cells, deprived of their freedom or ability even to accept phone calls or email from their friends when all they did was murder two police officers and a security guard during a bank robbery .

I know. I know.

I can feel the lines of heat shimmering off your eyeballs as you read this now and I can sense the fire of righteous indignation burning within your soul. Can you imagine? In this day and age! What, did we suddenly revert to the 6th century or something where they treated criminals as if they had done something wrong? Have we become barbarians, or just animals??

Whoa. Sorry folks, but I’m gonna have to switch off the sarcasm generator for now. She was running a little hot there.

I suppose you’re wondering what’s got my panties up in such a bundle. Or maybe you’re just wondering which meds it was I decided to skip today. Well, to those for whom it is the latter, let me say that’s a ridiculous question. I don’t take any medication, no matter what the doctor says about “danger to yourself and others.” Blah blah. .. you know doctors.

It turns out the son of two of the Weathermen that are currently living on Uncle Sam’s dime in a six-by-eight cell has got himself a Rhodes scholarship.

Well, good for him. It’s nice to see a kid able to overcome the severe handicap of having murdering counter-culture wackos as parents. I have to admit, though, I started to feel like I had eaten some bad oysters when my eye passed over sentimental, whining trip like this:

 

Mr. Boudin, 22, is used to it. His parents, members of the 1970’s radical group the Weathermen, have been in prison since he was 14 months old, for roles in a 1981 Brink’s robbery in Rockland County in which two police officers and a guard were killed. They missed his Phi Beta Kappa award, high school graduation, Little League games.

 

The rumblings in my gut bespoke the normal nausea at the prospect of an enthusiastic fellow traveler eulogizing the wonderfully hip exploits of those exciting attractive young people who held to their progressive ideals, even if it meant blowing away a few people. But come on, they meant well! Locking them up is like, so square, man. Thanks a lot, Captain Bringdown .

But I thought, hey, maybe the author is just describing the kind of hardship this visited on the kid.

Sure, yeah! That’s the ticket! After all, it’s not the kid’s fault that his parents were violent, self-righteous scum. Just because they murdered 3 people during a bank robbery doesn’t mean that the kid deserved to have to always hang out with a surrogate father at the Cub Scouts meetings, right?

 

“When I was younger, I was angry,” Mr. Boudin, a tall, clean-cut young man said in an interview here Saturday evening

 

Being the optimistic type, I decided to assume that this apple fell fairly far from the tree, and that Boudin is speaking of the anger he felt at his parents for not only murdering three innocent people but also depriving him of a normal childhood as a result of their actions. Yes, let’s hope that is it.

 

“Now I’m not angry,” he said, “I’m sad that my parents have to suffer what they have to suffer on a daily basis, that millions of other people have to suffer as well.”

 

Sigh.

Oh well, it was a nice dream while it lasted. Yes, his parents are suffering, those poor little lambs. Those poor, little murdering lambs, forced to spend the rest of what will surely be long lives unable to enjoy sweet freedom, like the freedom to walk into a bank and shoot some people. Life really is unfair. They are the tired, the poor, the huddled couple yearning to fill with lead a handful of hard-working men whose job it was to protect us .

Of course, Boudin need not spend any of his precious anger on those three men, since they don’t exist any more, and thus must not be suffering. Perhaps he’s a Buddhist. Either way, what’s important is that his well-meaning and courageous parents, who were really only trying to redistribute some fascist wealth to the oppressed, and were forced by the peace officers’ and guard’s rude interuption to redistribute some lead into their bodies, are now actually paying for their crime. Well, at least Boudin has taken the moral high-ground and refused to let himself get angry at the suffering of his pitiliessly progressive progenitors.

I have to stop writing about this now so I can allow some color to return to my knuckles.

































































































































































































































































































































last update : 22-11-2017

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