Lynch me

Dislike of spurious not awake yet posts, I decided to experiment and see how long I could follow @Bookblow 's sugary sentiments about literature, since the account holder followed me with my belligerent unto death temperament. Police subjugation of Eric Garner did not faze me in the least; perhaps it is my age, dislike of gluttony, and long recognition of the fact that the American underclass, indeed, all underclasses, are expendable. We all know this, hence Eugene Robinson's progressive moral chest beating. I'll link you to his column without reading it. Eugene is a traditionalist in a winnowing field, unionized, able to exchange pleasantries with Bill Cosby, maintain his health, personal grooming, and his salary is contingent upon follies like a fat and sick minority in NYC going down to an unglamorous demise because everyone reacted. Garner to being cuffed, and the officers to Garner, lassoing a moose, and every paper on the east coast is up 20 viewers or so. Personally, I have yet to have a problem with Philadelphia police. They caught my perpetrator and when I've fallen, picked me up at my direction, but if the day comes that my incessant poverty and isolation buckles, and I threaten a swamp matron like the current Presbyterian *social worker* Debra Horne, I fully expect that in the process of subduing a bitter indigent woman like yours truly, a tragedy will result, and perhaps someone like my former supervisor, Linda C Dezenski, will go viral with a poignant post about how hard it is in this country for the mobility impaired.

While Eugene engages in the double dealing of most domesticated middle brows: dubbing Cosby a *monster*. Though I previously indicated here and privately that I am on Joan Tarshis'es side in this matter, Cosby's monstrosity was enabled in the name of the business of entertainment, and he is as much a monster as my emotional wounds as a lifelong expendable piece of tripe are vehement. My father Nicholas wanted to abort me and told me to my face. My mother's mental health led to life long abuse of her children, and the one disabled woman I esteemed in all the world lashed out at me: "I'm sorry, sweetheart! I'm a married woman! What do you want from me?"  After humiliating me in front of suburban classmates with whom I came up, on top of what those of us ensnared in the social safety net have to endure.

You'll get no grief from me over a faulty arrest of an African American on the lowest rungs of the ladder. Eugene rarely if ever writes about his outreach across that divide. He leaves those content issues to his colleague, Colbert I. King