George Takei is Okay with Molesting Teenagers, “as long as they’re attractive”



Oh, My!

Relating his own experience at summer camp as a nubile 13 year old, George Takei, former star of Star Trek and current Internet Meme, Takei doesn’t feel as if being molested by his camp counselor was a crime because his abuser was blonde and attractive.

Filed under, “Stuff so strange you can’t make it up” and “topics so disgusting, I’m just linking the audio so you can make up your own mind”.

If you’ll pardon me, I feel the need to shower – Ick!


A Little About Love


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“Desperado” lyrics courtesy of The Eagles.

It’s said a girl’s first love is her father.  I find that to be true.  A girl’s father sets the stage for every male relationship she will have in her life and mine was no different.  My first memory in fact, is standing on my grandmother’s couch looking out the window at every set of headlights that passed hoping it was my daddy.  It never was.


“Knight in Shining Armor”, acrylic print by Tom Shropshire


My parents divorced when I was small and my mother remarried. Their divorce was bitter and that bitterness caused a divide that would not be bridged for more than 30 years.


Although absent, my father was none the less a large part of my life.  I lived with the constant hope he would come in and rescue me from what was really a very comfortable childhood.  But that didn’t matter.  My Daddy was out there someplace doing great and amazing things and one day he would come back for me and we would do great and amazing things together.  He was a shadow behind my own shadow; ever present if not involved.  But, like my little toddler self on grandma’s couch, I was waiting for something that would never happen.  His car never pulled into the drive.

We did see him occasionally.  We remained devoted to our grandparents, his family. On rare occasions he would breeze in loaded down with presents and full of love and attention for his estranged children.  Those days were golden.  I don’t hate.  I’m not angry.  I no longer have any resentment regarding that mess.  Certainly, I wish things had been different.  But wishing never did anything except make me cry, so I quit.

Now it seems to me, some fine things have been laid upon your table, but you only want the ones that you can’t get.

When I grew up we reconnected and got to know each other as adults.  He’d been a car salesman, an insurance salesman, an oil rig roustabout and a dozen other things.  Then he was a long-haul truck driver, an independent carrier in keeping with his independent spirit.  He loved drivquixote2.jpging from one end of the country to the other according to his wishes.  He might want to spend the summer in the Northwest, so he’d head for Washington and stay on those rocky beaches until his money ran out.  Then he’d pick up a load headed south and stay there awhile.  He truly loved America and all the beautiful people and places he visited.

Desperado, oh, you ain’t gettin’ no younger.  Your pain and your hunger, they’re drivin’ you home. And freedom, oh freedom well, that’s just some people talkin’.
Your prison is walking through this world all alone. 

Don’t your feet get cold in the winter time?  The sky won’t snow and the sun won’t shine.  It’s hard to tell the night time from the day.  You’re losin’ all your highs and lows.  Ain’t it funny how the feeling goes away?

In some ways, I envy him. I’ve wanted to walk out the door and keep walking.  Hang my responsibilities and just go be somewhere people aren’t making demands on my time and energy. Lie about my name.  Start all over with no messy emotional connections and where my past mistakes don’t matter.  I understand now how he was able to remain absent from his family (families, he remarried 3 times after my mother) for so long.  It isn’t hard to walk out the door.  Walking back in takes a lot more courage and staying sometimes is a real feat of strength.  Sometimes it’s easier to remain separated than to reach out and risk rejection and pain that comes with re-establishing a fractured relationship.  But, in my experience, it’s always worth the effort to remain close to those you love, if not in body then in spirit.

During one of his visits, my father told me a story about a woman knew long ago.  She was a singer at a bar and for him she sang the song, “Desperado” saying it summed up his life.  Now, I don’t know this woman and he may not have known her either, but she was right.  That song does sum up his life and this morning, Valentine’s Day, I heard it on the radio. And of course, I thought about Dad.

Desperado, why don’t you come to your senses?  Come down from your fences, open the gate.  It may be rainin’, but there’s a rainbow above you.  

On the last day of my father’s life, I told my father everything I always wanted to say.  It was July.  He was in a hospital burn unit wrapped in foil and dead but for the machine forcing his lungs to breathe.  But he could hear us, they said.  So, they told us to say our goodbyes and this is what I told him.

“I love you Daddy.  I’ve always loved you.  You are my hero, my knight in shining armor, you are my first love and best love and I will love you always. Let go and be with God.  Be at peace. I’ve always loved you and believed in you and I will see you again.”

You better let somebody love you before it’s too late

The Lobster Lady – In Which Another Activist Freak Gets Outted.


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Remember the lady profanely shouting for violence against police and conservative speaker, Gavin McInnes? Refresh your memory.  Remember how we were all shocked to learn she was a teacher?  Well, kittens, it gets better.  The woman videoed at an Antifa rally, identified herself as a professor and it didn’t take long for the internet to track her down and identify her as Rebecca Goyette, adjunct lecturer and museum educator at the Museum of Modern Art.  Ms. Goyette teaches at several New York colleges and produces feminist performance art in her spare time – when she’s not outside with a bullhorn calling the police “Fucking Nazis”.

Her art, apparently, is pornography featuring the professor dressed as a lobster.  And no, lobster is not some newly coined term used by hipster protesters.  It means “lobster,” that crustacean commonly served with lemon butter and a rice pilaf.  She dresses like a lobster and, has sex with men and women wearing fake penises, then posts these cinematic masterpieces online under such edgy titles as  “Masshole Love” and “Lobsterpussy.”

But Goyette doesn’t limit herself to only seafood roles, oh no!  She’s also star of “Ghost Bitch” an homage, she says, to one of her ancestors murdered during the Salem Witch Trials. Ghost Bitch is also pornographic.

For the record, I have no real problem with porrebecca-goyettenography.  I’ve always said, “Let your Freak Flag Fly.”  It’s my motto.  And that means whatever freak flag you are flying.  Hate the president?  Protest.  Hate men? Make nasty porn. Love lobster? Go to Red Lobster.  Like really love lobster? Then by all means, dress up like one and make pornography about it.  I don’t judge.

I just want to point out another of the ridiculous “Heroes of the Resistance” making the rounds lately.  She’s not a hero.  She’s not a feminist, or an artist.  She’s an attention whore desperately in need of butter and lemon.

Here’s proof – hilarious proof.


Thank you, Heatstreet and RT.

In Which I Am Obligated to Mention “The March”


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I didn’t march on Washington this weekend.  I didn’t march in my hometown.  I did my own march.  Marched to the bank, to visit a friend, to the car wash and grocery store and then marched home to be with my husband.

I didn’t shout at anyone, set anyone’s hair on fire, or scream The P Word at the top of my lungs.

I don’t have to do those things.  Because I haven’t bought into the irrational fear sold by the main stream media that Donald Trump is out to grab my vagina and send me back to the stone age.

I find it rather silly to believe in this day and age that 100 years of progress toward women’s equality can be undone by one man, or one presidential administration.  Yet, millions of women feel that way apparently.  It’s a bit frightening to know that so many have so little faith in their fellow citizens.  As if the rest of the country is just going to lay down and let anyone take away a woman’s right to vote, or to equal pay.  Really?  I have chronic anxiety, so I live in a world of irrational fear and yet this fear that Donald Trump is going to send us back to pre-20th century social policy doesn’t seem realistic.

The only things Trump is going to change for women in 2017-2020 is putting more of them to work.  As I type this he pulled the U.S. out of the Trans Pacific Partnership.  Girls, that’s a win.  That’s a good thing.  More U.S. jobs means more opportunities for women.  It means economic recovery to communities who need it.

One of the speakers at the Women’s March in Washington is Donna Hylton.  Donna Hylton is a feminist and advocate for incarcerated women.  Isn’t that great?  Do you know how she got to be such an advocate?  She was incarcerated.  She served a 25 year sentence for the brutal torture and murder of a 62 year old New York real estate broker.  Along with three friends, she lured the man to an apartment they had tricked out for torture and murder.  There they beat, starved, raped and tortured the man for 15 – 20 days before he died.  Then they shoved his broken body into a foot locker and left him to rot.  An Associated Press archived article on the kidnap/murder of Thomas Vigliarole in 1985.

She was profiled in 1995, 10 years into her sentence by Psychology Today in an article about incarcerated women.  Now, released from prison, Donna Hylton is a feminist darling who credits childhood abuse for the violent torture murder for which she was convicted.  A murder she participated in for the promise of payment of $9,000. Money she hoped to use to build a modeling portfolio.

Now, if you want to spend the weekend standing in the rain wearing your little vagina cap screaming about how no one can touch your pussy, then by all means do.  I’m not anti-feminist and I’m all for marching.  March all you want, it’s your right.   Just know who’s leading the band.





My First Good Deed Does Not Go Unpunished


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I did a really nice and really dumb thing yesterday.  My goal for 2017 is to be kind and more Christ-like.  So when a client, who I know to be practically homeless and car-less, came to the office with a sad story about needing a ride to replace a car battery, I loaned him my car.

Now, this guy isn’t a stranger.  He’s a client and for the past few months while we handle his PI case, I’ve been helping him in his time of crisis.  I gave him food, small amount of money and I even gave him our son’s old junker car when he said he could fix it up and get it running.

My car is your basic mom-sedan.  A Chevy: 4 doors, sunroof, OnStar.  No real thrills.  And I have plenty of insurance, so I wasn’t worried about accidents.  It’s just parked there uselessly between nine and five, after all.  And he only needed it to make a short run to Walmart to exchange a car battery so his own car could get up and running.

I figured to help him out and so gave him my car key. Wisely, I kept my house and work keys on my key ring.

An hour passes.  Then another.  Then it’s 5:30 p.m. and my car is nowhere in sight.

I began to panic.  Not so much about the car, but what I would tell my husband.  He was about to be righteously pissed off.  Reluctantly, I called my husband and told him what I’d done.  I loaned my car to someone and they took off with it.  He was predictably furious, but kept his cool saying only one, “I told you so.”  I made a police report to two very kind officers and they helped me notify OnStar.  OnStar, God bless them, located the car in minutes and in less than an hour, the highway patrol had it pulled over.

I wish I could say the car was recovered with no harm done after a hilarious series of misunderstandings, but it wasn’t.  That little fucker stole my car and was halfway to Oklahoma before the Missouri State Highway Patrol and OnStar located it and disabled the ignition.  Oh, and he was driving drunk.  I’m lucky he didn’t mow down a row of nuns on his way out of town with my car and the last of my good will.

“How stupid!” you say.  “Who loans their car to a practical stranger?!”  Well, he wasn’t a practical stranger.  I talked to him nearly every day and was doing my level best to get him a settlement for a motor vehicle accident.  I felt as if I knew this person.  Clearly, I did not.

I’ve always been a soft touch.  I believe in people and I believe in doing good deeds and giving to people less fortunate.  Now, that good will has been thrown in my face and rewarded with an extraordinary tow and storage bill.

I don’t think I have words for how stupid I feel.  I trusted someone and took them at their word and got burned badly.  I don’t want to be the kind of person who hardens their heart and never helps anyone ever again.  I don’t want to be jaded and cold toward people in need.  And I probably won’t be, it’s just difficult to process this kick in the teeth.

So now, the thief is in jail.  My car is parked in a tow lot 100 miles away.  I am thankful it wasn’t damaged, but I really don’t care about the car.  It’s just a car.  It’s a thing and easily replaced.  What is really damaged is my faith in people.  And my faith in myself.  I trusted God to take care of me and now this happens?  Why did this happen to me when I was just trying to help someone out?  The urge to slam the door of my heart to the world last night was very, very strong.

Despite this crisis, my faith remains strong.  I will remain faithful to God and not curse the car thief or rage at my own stupidity.  My intentions were pure, although my discernment was lacking.  My faith tells me this is God’s way of removing this toxic person from my life.  God is in control and like I said;  I’m only out a car for a few days.  I’m inconvenienced.  Darren the car thief is going to be in jail for a while, but at least he’ll have 3 hots and a cot which is more than he was getting on his own.

So there’s my story for the first week of 2017.  My first good deed of the year is immediately punished.  It can only get better from here.


Be A DeAnn

This is my friend, DeAnn 1939645_497216707049072_1772848432_o

She died last night.  I checked Facebook for any clue to who Negan was going to kill in the 7th season premiere of the Walking Dead  and the notification filled the page.  DeAnn fought a long battle with liver disease along with other health struggles and God finally called her home last night.

I know that God called her home because DeAnn was one of those people for whom heaven is created.  Never a mean word crossed her tongue.  And she had plenty of reasons to say mean words.  When I met her she was married to a selfish, cruel man.  Despite his public and private mistreatment of her, she was a faithful wife until she was finally able to divorce him.  Still, she never spoke of him in negative terms; not even 20 years later.

She loved children and she so desperately wanted them.  God had different plans for her; so, although she never had her own, she loved other people’s children that much more.


She was a good friend.  Loyal, kind, cheerful. She laughed often and her laughter was sweet and genuine like the ringing of a little bell.  Her eyes were always kind and her hands were always busy.  She was forever crafting or writing notes and emails to her friends.  If her Facebook wall is a legacy – which is how we communicated these last few years: her in Idaho, me in Missouri – it is a legacy of positivity, encouragement, humor and grace.  DeAnn is the kind of person I strive to be – that we all should strive to be.  She found joy in small things, and never in the pain of others.  She found peace in a world that was not kind to her.  That unkindness never dimmed her enthusiasm for life and her joy in serving others.

I regret a good many things in my life. I regret most of all not being a better friend to DeAnn.  That I am not a better friend to all the DeAnns I’ve been blessed with.  Dear Ones, please.  If you have a DeAnn in your life, be good to them.  Try to be a DeeAnn to others.  Love without judging.  Laugh long and hard and often.  Give without expecting anything in return.  Speak only love.  Find your peace in the love of God.  The world needs more DeAnns and we just lost the best one.


Cheerful and hopeful and just days before her death.  October 2016.

A Matter of Perspective


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What do you call a country that carries out secret proxy wars against other non-hostile nations?  Finances bloody coups in a quest for regional power? Accepts money from nations that support and harbor terrorists?  Tortures prisoners held in secret prisons for more than a decade without trial.  Supports organizations who profit from slave labor?  Rig elections so that only one party or candidate is favored?

We used to call it the USSR.  Now we call it America.

The Last Stand – Trump v. Clinton


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You know I didn’t think Trump was a serious candidate at first. I thought his bid for the Republican nomination was a publicity stunt, a ruse. I didn’t think he had a chance of being elected. I thought so up until the Republican Convention, and even after.


Photo courtesy of CNN

Once he was on the campaign trail it hit me – He’s sincere. He wants to win, not just for himself. He believes he can make this country better. He has a genuine affection for the American people – not just the ladies (ha ha).


I know that because he’s doing the work. He’s on the trail every day making public appearances to standing room only crowds. He’s shaking hands, kissing babies, making speeches often 2 or 3 a day. He’s talking to the media – those that will speak to him. And he’s not holding anything back. Why would he do that unless he were serious? If he wasn’t a threat to Hillary – who by all accounts thinks she has this election in the bag – why the October Surprise tapes and accusations of sexual harassment? Why would he allow that to be broadcast? As far as surprises go, this one is pretty weak. He’s always been a flirt, a philanderer. That’s not a surprise. But the way the media has taken this frankly stupid 11-year-old conversation to the front page is surprising. It’s shocking. It’s idiotic.

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