Tuesday, July 05, 2005


Judge Whoever You Are,

No matter what kind of legal posturing may take place in the next few weeks, one thing is for certain: You—and you alone had the power to stop this. Now, an entire family is dead, and a little girl is spinning off her tiny little axis forever. All because of you judge.

Somewhere in the planetary system of your sick reasoning, an infernal eclipse took place—something that allowed you to view the empirical evidence in front of you, and ignore it outright; some twisted, out-of-phase synapse inside you said that a child is the one legally liable to make good on the checks written by perverts, killers, and baby rapers. How in the world did you ever attain that robe? What kind of demonic, seething vacuum is running the show in that bloated, arrogant head of yours? Are you even human?

How in the world can the dangerous turns of a convicted child molester cross your desk—high risk mind you—and yet you find more benevolence toward the violator than you do towards the violated? He's now killed a little boy that he molested, all in the wake of your legal blessing—in retroactive thanksgiving towards you and your judicial liberalism, Judge. And for good measure, he beat the rest of that little boy's family to death, and abused his sister just for kicks. All because you let him go—judge.

And before you say a word, not one conservative value led you to let that man go free. Not one conservative, right-wing dogma is responsible for the fact that you left two children to twist in the wind of their assailant’s $15,000 agreement to not rape little boys anymore. Not one reactionary talk show host forced you to turn the veritable gates of Hell towards the day care center with a skeleton key and a bag of stuffed animals.

Not one individual that holds to “original intent” can be blamed for the wholesale slaughter of children and their virtue, judge. Not one abstract, psychological concept will absorb the culpability for your decision. There is a philosophical seed for this, but it didn’t start in our camp. It started in yours—and you hired the counselors.

The saddest part is, you’re just an infinitesimal drop in an entire, boundless cesspool of judges, who believe children are a currency to be indexed to the whims of balding, unemployed porn-addicts.

I wonder if you have children. I’m going to assume you do, because I have the feeling you’ve been loathe of depriving yourself of the physical pleasures you seem so intent on providing for others. Maybe it’s just something about black robes that give one the wanton freedom to trade in the virtue of little kids, maybe?

I’m also going to assume you’ve never watched them sleep—watched them breathe—cherished the fact that a little life was laying in that crib, a by-product of a unified love shared with your soul mate. You’ve probably never lain awake at night envisioning our National security being compromised by the same people who probably appointed you—because then—all you would care about is “what would happen to my children if . . .?” Those well-oiled mechanisms put in me by my God must have been rendered inoperable by yours.

I doubt you’ve ever prayed over your children as they sleep. I doubt you even have a soul. In fact, I doubt any of these things cross your mind judge. But I’ll tell you what crosses mine.

One day, you are going to pass away, and you are going to stand, like it or not, in front of your own Judge. And one day you’re going to have that haughty, high-minded smirk of yours kicked into a frown by your own calamitous visitor—and He’ll be in no mood to hear your objections, judge.

And right before he casts you and that slimy gavel of yours into the flame, you will find yourself serenaded by the most glorious; the most euphonious; the most ear-pleasing choir—comprised entirely of the tiny little voices you refused to hear when you had the chance.

But now you’re going to have to listen to them forever—and oh do they have beautiful voices. The lost ones always do. But they also have one other eternal perk in Heaven, besides actually going there—courtesy of you and your jursprudent genius.

They will never have to listen to your screams for mercy.

Have a nice eternity. Your Honor.

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