Todd Nickerson would like you to know that he’s a pedophile. A non-practicing pedophile of course. There, now don’t you feel better? At least you know that he’s not a monster; he tells you so right up there in the title of his self-serving pity-piece. Why, you might wonder, would he be so cavalier in his announcement? He tells you that too, albeit farther down in his narrative; “Please repeat this mantra to yourself: a repressed, unhappy pedophile is a pedophile at risk.”

If only you had listened...

If only you had listened…

So there. It’s all pretty simple to me. Todd is a victim here. Read the piece through, and then read it again. Understand that your failure to sympathize with him puts him at risk. Quite telling really that he doesn’t come to terms with the fact that his being unhappy as a repressed pedophile puts children at risk. Screaming about your narcissistic personality disorder doesn’t endear you to anyone Todd. And as is usually the case with those of his disorder, he continues to see the world through how his affliction only affects him, not those around him, not society at large. He plaintively askes the reader questions he struggles with, questions he’s sure will invoke the sympathetic image he wants to portray; “What if we have children?  Will I be a threat to them?  Can I ever share this fact with my spouse?  Can I ever love and want her as much as I do a child?”  Interesting questions to be sure, but questions that society can no longer ask of those with this affliction, questions that come back to label the rest of us as haters or bigots or whatever phrase du-jour the accommodating left uses to marginalize those who may just find this disturbing. You see Todd; we wonder the same things about you.

I tried to read this several times with an open mind, hoping that Mr. Nickerson would give some insight into how we can accommodate those so afflicted, how we can assure ourselves that maybe they aren’t the monsters we envision them to be. Alas, all I could find was the same old tired obvious process that the left has used to normalize other such wretched behaviors, moving them from the realm of the hideous to the mainstream through sympathy, understanding, through to acceptance onto enforced support. He touches all the tear jerking moments; he lost his job at Lowes; he “retreated like a kicked dog” after failing to remake himself into a regular person; he couldn’t control his bladder when he was younger; he’s even got a prosthetic right hand.

What he doesn’t tell us is anything about the early formative years. What kind of upbringing did he have? The only clue he gives is that he often felt like an outsider; he was a shy boy, uncoordinated at sports. He speaks about insecurities in elementary school and low and behold, he’s a pedophile. How many other young boys, gangly and skinny, nerdy and bullied are now at risk for becoming pedophiles? Any other young men wish to recount beatings from their strict fathers, or having to work at thirteen to help support the family as the cause of their specific dysfunction? No need to be embarrassed, it’s liberating to exclaim to the world that you’re a non-practicing pedophile. It’s just a sympathetic short trip from being fired from Lowes, living below the poverty line and collecting welfare to ending up on the front page of Salon.

Non-practicing is the key here. Of course, he’s wondered at times why he’s bothered to stay legal. Interesting thought, that. He assures us that “I’m not the monster you think me to be.  I’ve never touched a child sexually in my life and never will, nor do I use child pornography;” a phrase likely uttered by every criminally convicted pedophile at least once in their lives.

Two things stand out the most in his memory; one episode involves Hans, a friend of his German relatives who came to visit when Nickerson was seven years old. Hans couldn’t speak English very well; he did manage however, to get his hands down the front of Nickerson’s knickers. But be careful here Todd; sexual proclivities aren’t supposed to be learned, they’re supposed to be innate, you’re born that way. He recounts the tale with Hans, seemingly out of place in the article, as just paragraphs before, he speaks of the “bubbling up” of his sexuality at thirteen, his “eureka moment.” The image still haunts him today of the seven year old child, angelic in stature with blue eyes and golden curls standing in front of him in his grandparent’s Living room. Nothing happened. He never approached her. But from Hans’s foray into Nickerson’s trousers at seven, searching for his pre-pubescent “peepee” to an event six years later where he momentarily came face to face with a child he crushed on, he was hooked. All horrifically sympathetic, the victim the whole time.

I still cannot grasp what purpose he has for trumpeting his predilections so loudly. Although he assures us that, “it’s impossible to know how many non-offending pedophiles are out there, but signs indicate there are a lot of us, and too often we suffer in silence. That’s why I decided to speak up;”  this still tells me nothing about his motives. He certainly doesn’t see this as a warning to others; he still refuses to name the “unhealthy pedophile forum” that he says gave him a feeling of belonging somewhere; the very same forum on which he first publicly outed himself as a pedophile. Of course, it’s the public shame, his public outing that seems to bother him most of all. After he let the world know what he was, he was shocked and dismayed that he came to the attention of the public at large through the same outfit that started the “to catch a predator” series. It was this attention, after all, that caused him to lose his job at Lowes. He eventually found a support group called Virtuous Pedophiles that he credits with saving his life, a safe place that he can use his “pedo-powers” for good. He wants to be commended, not feared.

Still, he wants more than that. He may not come right out and say it as others with his particular desires have, but it’s there. He’s grooming his audience, much the same way other pedophiles groom their intended victims. He’s plying you with all sorts of reasons to sympathize with him; if you don’t forgive him for when he offends, at least you might go easy on him. He’s had such a hard life, the subject of scorn, a result of his desire to broadcast his affliction to anyone who would listen. If he didn’t tell you what he was, if he was suffering in silence, looking for cures and not acceptance, maybe I could feel the pity that he is pretending to ask of me. Unfortunately, he can’t stand in the checkout line next to you unnoticed and unremarkable; no, he has to show you his pedo-club membership card, needs to let you know that if he eventually offends, it’s because you’ve made his life a living hell by turning away; turning away from a concept which you find repulsive, one that you hadn’t brought up and wouldn’t have assigned to him without his insistence. No-one labeled him a pedophile other than himself. And he did so because he seeks the twisted notoriety that comes with it.

Of course, he only wants us to listen; it’s a great start he tells us. If he is going to make it in this world without offending, he needs our help. What kind of help that would be he never details. For good reason; if we offer no help, then it’s just as much our fault when he finally offends as it is his. The crux of his piece can be summed up in just one sentence; “unlike with most sexualities, there is no ethical way we can fully actualize our sexual longings.” The long term goal? Give it time Todd. The special rights of the victimized minorities take time to acquire. Before long, you’ll no longer be sympathetically asking us to listen; you’ll be demanding that we do.

Infamous molar-yanker, one Dr. Walter Palmer, DDS has returned to work. It’s been six weeks since our esteemed practitioner has dared to step foot into his place of business, probably to even show his face to the world. The sudden announcement of his return seemed to catch protestors off-guard, as they were far outnumbered by the media eager to push this story as far as they can. To what end? I’ve never quite understood the allure of hunting, from the ridiculous vermin that continue to build their frustrating nests in the corners of my garage, to the magnificent beasts that roam the wild fields of Africa. Killing for sport doesn’t quite seem, well, too human of us. Oh, I know quite a few hunters, had quite a few in the family. Even had the occasional deer or moose steak. Not sure what attracted my family to the sport but I never cared to find out. I never cared to ask either. There were no deer heads mounted in our home; no stuffed birds or the like. At least those I knew who enjoyed the sport, for whatever reason, made it a point to keep the freezers of their friends and families well stocked with wild meat. So it was when I was growing up.

Any chance you're going to take a bus to another location later?

Any chance you’re going to take a bus to another location later?

Even though the protests have dwindled some, I seriously doubt that Dr. sharpshooter will ever live this down. It may very well have been his boyhood dream, stalking the wild animals of Africa with his trusty bow; a dream that has now become a nightmare. I’m not sure how this plays out; hunting is still legal, although it’s unclear if this particular hunt was. Zimbabwe had requested extradition of the good dentist. And his guide will go on trial later this month. Fortunately for Dr. Robinhood of Bloomington, Zimbabwe has thought better of their demand for they fear it could jeopardize the very hunting industry that supports over 800,000 Zimbabwean families. There is, after all, a profit to be made in death. But I’m sure that given the beauty and majesty of the victim, this will not die down for Dr. Palmer. Animal rights activists have a long memory. How long will his patients be willing to cross their lines just to have their teeth cleaned? How long can these protests last?

All because this one human decided that it would be his right to kill.

Coincidentally, there is another medical office just sixteen minutes northeast of Dr. Palmer’s practice. No disturbances were reported there yesterday. It’s business as usual for the practitioners of this medical art. The compound bow has been replaced by the scalpel and the forceps. Just as deadly to be sure. But here, other magnificent creatures die daily to no alarm of anyone in the Minneapolis suburbs. Dr. Palmer had a guide; here, the hired hands cover their faces with surgical masks.

All because one human decided that it would be her right to kill.

For shame, conflating the death of the noble beast with that of a clump of pesky cells destined to be a human. But this is where we have come in our evolution. Death for sport, death for convenience; it all looks the same to me.

Sorry to be terse, but my patience is gone. I spent most of my life that odd conservative, one who was willing to look the other way to support a woman’s right to choose. I just couldn’t justify how I had the right to demand that a woman have a child against her wishes while claiming to support the rights of the individual. I struggled with my own shame, my own dilemma that yes, I believed a human life was being taken. But I had no right to interfere, no right or justification to intercede. Therefore, it was easier to just ignore it, go along with my life knowing that I wasn’t complicit, that someone else would have to live with the guilt or the shame or whatever moral disruption follows the event. Forcing a woman to deliver a baby was something I could never imagine as a free man, a man of conscience, a man dedicated to the free will of the individual.

But try as I might, I could get no sympathies or concessions from either entrenched side of the argument. To my conservative friends I was a traitor; to my liberal friends, I hate women. Pure and simple; I was wrong at either turn. That was okay; I never found myself having to make that decision, to be part of it. Too monumental to be made from outside of those actually involved. I was okay if I was left out of it; I would never put a woman in that position and would never let myself get into that position either. Period. Neat how being responsible works. Or so I thought.

There are many like me, believe it or not. But we are tired. We are being forced, against our wishes, to choose between two factions who wish to never close the divide. Compromise has been lost; so it has with me. If I were a willing expectant father, her right to kill my unborn child trumps my desire to be that father. Why? If I decide to walk away, her right to make me responsible until well into that child’s adulthood is enforced as well. Three people involved, only one has rights. Why?

I started to feel queasy knowing that I was paying for these procedures. Of course, I couldn’t make that argument known, lest I be labeled a racist, hater, misogynist et al. And of course, I wasn’t paying for the procedure I was told. Even though I’m not an idiot and like the majority of the population, I know damned well what’s going on with my tax dollars. Safe and rare was our mantra then. Same day service, best price in town is the new motto. How many children were murdered on the day Cecil was struck by the arrow on the African plain? Why none of course. These aren’t babies, they certainly aren’t human and besides, they’re not fully alive until they reach the crib in the nursery at home. So many ways to argue for death; so many reasons to justify giving up on our humanity.

You finally lost me with the Planned Dismemberment videos. I was watching a news show late one night and a supporter of Planned Infanticide had decided that she wasn’t going to speak on the subject at all because she was just going to be labeled a baby-killer. No one had called her that. Maybe it was a moment of clarity on her part, I don’t know. But I listened as she justified the existence of Planned Non-Parenthood and skirted the issue of partial birth abortion. How wonderful she posited, that something good could come from something so tragic like an abortion. She quickly caught herself; tragic. Indeed. If these children are being harvested, and they are, it is precisely because they are human. And for most of the tissue to be viable, the “donor” has to be alive our mere seconds dead. Of course, she hasn’t seen any of the videos, claiming they were heavily edited. Well, I saw them in their entirety. She’s not even a good liar, but what would one expect from someone who feels no pang of conscience knowing that children are indeed being left to die on the tables of the exam room or dissected while their “non-human” hearts are still beating. It wasn’t the videos themselves mind you; it was the mindless, unwavering mantra of “it’s her right” that finally pissed me off. If you can’t be disturbed by the sale of dismembered human children, we no longer need to have a discussion.

No, you had your chances. All I ever asked for was to keep the murder of your children to yourself. But you decided I need to pay; pay to have them killed or pay to have them fed until they’re twenty-eight. Mine or not. Somehow a woman’s right to choose leapt forward from the act of procreation to the consequences of it, and everyone but she is responsible for her actions. You only had to compromise with me, to be honest, to be introspective, to be moral. You failed.

It will be interesting to see how long Dr. Palmer has to hide his face for the killing of a wild creature on the plains of Africa. And for every day that the protestors make his life a living hell, another medical office, not twenty minutes away, will continue to churn out it’s product, whatever you want to call it, how ever you want to justify it, killing for the sake of killing because one more woman decided it was her right to do so.

Another young African-American lost his life to police on Wednesday. You may have heard about it. I caught the news across several stations on my evening commute; it was the lead on CNN when I got home. It didn’t take long before protesters showed up to display their displeasure at the police. And, apparently, displaying their displeasure at the cars that they set on fire and the businesses they burglarized as well.

Jamyla- books down, don't shoot....

Jamyla- books down, don’t shoot….

Executing a search warrant earlier in the day, police saw two men run from the back of the home police were searching. Officers ordered the men to stop and drop their weapons. In the current climate, who the hell listens to a policeman when you’ve got the reverends and a politicized Department of Justice on your side? Instead of dropping his gun, Mansur Ball-Bey decided it was his prerogative to point his weapon at the officers, who decided it was their prerogative to drop him where he stood.

From there, it all escalated as planned. Protesters blocked interstate 70. They proceeded to hurl bricks and bottles at officers and set fire to cars. Black lives matter you know. Maybe not so much in this North St. Louis neighborhood where crime is at very high levels, but hey, black lives matter anyway. Keep repeating that phrase until it washes away your white privilege or white guilt or whatever helps you sleep at night. Because it actually does nothing for black lives at all. Except maybe shield many from the horrible truth that the epidemic of deaths that consume so many young black men is largely the fault of, well, of many other young black men.

Not far away from North St. Louis is Ferguson, where black lives surely matter. They matter so much that people gathered to remember their martyr, Mike the “gentle giant” Brown. And during the gathering, shots were fired into the crowd sending one victim to the local hospital, prompting the victim’s sister to scream in dismay at the crowd that “they killed my brother, they shot my brother.” Later on that Sunday, the esteemed Cornel West planned to go to jail over an act of civil disobedience. “Our criminal justice system is an abysmal failure,” West said. “Black faces in high places don’t always translate it into justice for poor people.” He never mentioned who may be committing the crimes; just that trying to stop them, arresting and prosecuting those who commit them is an abysmal failure. Indeed. No failure on the part of the community that makes excuses or looks the other way when these crimes are committed. Against themselves. By their own young men whose lives, we are told, matter greatly. Never mind that police are greatly outnumbered by the population of citizens residing in Ferguson. Or that when police are called by the citizens in Ferguson, it’s to protect those same victim-citizens of color from those same young black men whose lives surely matter.

Not far away in Ferguson, and only days after celebrating the life and accomplishments of Mike Brown, yet another black victim falls to the senseless violence. I’m not so sure her life matters though; I never heard mention on CNN, or CBS or on the drive-time radio on the way home. Did a quick google search on her name and not many results came up from the main stream media. Thanks goodness for the foreign press. I’m trying to figure out why her life didn’t matter. Who is marching for Jamyla Bolden? When do the protests start? Jamyla was lying on her mother’s bed doing her assignment for school. Someone stood outside the window of the young girl’s home and sprayed at least five bullets into the house. Jamyla was mortally wounded while her mother was struck in the leg. Jamyla was only nine years old. She wasn’t strong-arming a convenience store clerk; she wasn’t trying to forcibly disarm a police officer; she wasn’t standing in a back alley pointing a gun at police officers after being told to drop the weapon. She was lying on her mother’s bed, engrossed in her homework on the path to bettering herself and quite probably her family and community. Her grandmother pleaded with her to keep breathing as her life slowly ebbed away. And despite the best efforts of two of Fergusons’ most hated civil servants to keep her alive, she died from her wounds, probably delivered at the hands of another young black man whose life surely matters.

When you start marching for the Jamylas of the world, you’ll truly convince me that black lives matter. When you look deeply into the heart of your communities to really search for the answers, then black lives will truly matter. But if Jamyla doesn’t matter to you, if the heroes and the inspirations of your marches and protests are the gentle giants of the world, then it won’t matter what I believe. You will continue to take your own lives for reasons that will never be solved by any political slogan.

Who marches for Jamyla?

Never liked crunchy peanut butter; always went for the creamy style. I guess the taste may be the same when you get down to it; after all, creamy is just the peanut ground to a finer texture, no hint of the shape or physical definition of the aforementioned peanut. Totally unidentifiable at that point. Of course, there are those who just swear by the texture, relishing in the remaining crunchy bits of peanuts that escaped the factory-grade grinding wheels that were set just so, leaving the sought-after bits and pieces they desire in their PB&Js.

Was this a difficult choice?

Was this a difficult choice?

Dr. Gatter is hawking her own less crunchy “bits and pieces”. She instructs her would-be customers that she can have her factory alter their manufacturing process to a “less crunchy” methodology, leaving the buyer with a product that’s far more intact, if that’s what they prefer. Wouldn’t it be nice if she was only discussing the lifeless, lowly peanut? But alas, like those who are defending her, she sees no more value in a human life or human dignity than she sees in a peanut. This is, remember, the definition of women’s health. Creamy or crunchy. A woman’s right to choose.

The abortion debate always brings out the worst in both sides of the question. No movement. No collaboration, no compromise. You either support this heinous procedure or you hate women. Simple. Or, if you support any reasonable approach to restraining abortion, you get blasted by both sides; defending murder, not protecting life; a msyoginist who wants women pregnant but in the kitchen makin’ those sammiches. Whether either extreme end of the spectrum wants to believe it or not, there are a vast number of people who find abortion abhorrent, see it as taking an innocent life but quite possibly, something that they would continue to accept under narrow circumstances. For many of us, it’s about saving a woman’s life; not her life style. Of course, we’re not much appreciated by either side.

If it wasn’t so disturbing a topic, the recent Planned Parenthood revelations about selling broken babies would illuminate where we stand on the scale of humanity and simple dignity. I scour the papers, web and blogs quite a bit and the conversations about the recently released videos are downright depressing. Both sides have dug in deep but the debate is somewhat slightly skewed. Believe it or not, the majority of the debates end up wandering around the validity of the video; was this a set up? Was the video edited or doctored? Was she taken out of context? “This group is out to get Planned Parenthood” some say, “so anything they produce or present is slanted and not to be believed.” It’s almost as if they want you to believe that someone had a gun to her head, that she had a written script in front of her, a coerced confession as it were, all fake, not real. This doesn’t really go on in today’s society. Truth is, I don’t know exactly what the law says in great detail about trafficking in human body parts, but if you’re standing so close to the legal line that you could be pushed over it by the slightest breeze, then maybe your intentions aren’t as pure as you would have us all believe.

At this point, the validity of the video is moot. Whether this doctor or the one previously recorded knew they were being recorded (unfair!) or not only changes the narrative away from the procedure that needs to be addressed out in the open. How anyone can justify pulling a live child out of the womb, stopping at the point of leaving the head inside so one can puncture the skull, suck out the brains and then crush the skull to make the final removal easier, well that justification is hard for me to accept.

Defenders of Planned Infanticide want to keep the focus on the veracity of the video, not about the horror of the procedure that started the whole conversation to begin with. And as deeply as they study this video, looking for any edits, trying to put words or statements in “context”, maybe they should be forced to view one other video in greater detail. (Please do not click this link lightly; it is very disturbing. I apologize for the horrific scene.) This is the video that should be discussed on the nightly news, in every home, in legislative bodies. Many who support this procedure have never seen this, never taken the time to see exactly what it is they are asking me and others like me to accept. And yet, they know this is out there, know the horror of it, but chastise me, call me a hater because I am repulsed by it. Please tell me that we are, as a race, as humans, far better than this type of abomination.

If you I and cannot agree that this is a barbaric way to end the life of a human baby, then we will certainly never be able agree on when that life began in the first place. Show some humanity. In fact, it should be easier than choosing your favorite brand of peanut butter.

No one knows when he died. No one knows how he died. Well, obviously someone does. Whoever wrapped his little body in a black plastic trash bag sealed with duct tape certainly knows. Aside from that, if not for a routine traffic stop, the only person who would have known that Quincy Davis was dead would have been the person who stashed him in the truck of her car ten years ago; his loving mother.

Who loved Quincy?

Who loved Quincy?

No funeral, no memorial, no grieving for Quincy. Apparently, his mother Tonya Slayton felt no remorse at all; well, she might have been a little annoyed at the inconvenience of him taking up valuable cargo space in her car, but other than that, she went on with her life pretty much as if nothing had ever happened. Or, quite possibly, it got a little better as she was no longer burdened with the very child she brought into this world.

Sorry, but children are, bluntly, inconveniences to many people. I see it all the time. Parents pushing their children into the arms of strangers, if not outright abandoning them to the streets. Keeping them busy in one activity or another so they don’t have to spend any face time with them. “I need a little me time, time with adults,” I’ve heard often. Take it for what it’s worth. I take it at face value. You can’t stand to be with your own children. Then again there are those for whom a child is nothing more than a conversation piece, a trinket, a possession, something they can put on display. Ask them just who their kid’s friends are, what their child’s favorite color is. Yeah, good luck.

No mention of the father in any story I have found to date; fathers are pretty damned inconvenient in society today too. What about siblings? No aunts, grampy or grandma? No favorite uncles, snot-nosed cousins, rambunctious best friends? No neighbors, parents of BFF’s, coaches, teachers, pastors, local friggin’ barbers? No one on this great green planet noticed the hole created by Quincy’s absence? Did no one ever hug this child, kiss his forehead, feel for him in their hearts? For God’s sake, what kind of miserable existence must this child have had before someone ended his life and he became a permanent fixture in the rear of his mother’s mustang? How could anyone, let alone a child, live day-to-day knowing that he was of such little value to anyone that he could vanish forever and no one would notice. Or care. And don’t think this wasn’t Quincy’s life. You know damned well it was. Just another expendable little life, brought into this world by another selfish cretin with a personality disorder so advanced that the stench of her own son rotting in the truck of her car had no effect.

Yes, it tears my eyes to read this. Catches in my throat. His death was probably quite violent, the final culmination of a life that was deemed absolutely worthless from the beginning. It was his mother who determined he was of no value to anyone in this world. As a result, there is no one to mourn him now.

Well, I mourn you Quincy. You deserve your special place in heaven. Rest well little man.

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