If I read one more conservative lamenting Remember when dissent was the highest form of patriotism? I'm going to punch him right in his pussy.
The correct lament is I'm as mad as hell, and I'm not going to take this anymore!
Because the highest form of patriotism is not the free expression of opinion. It's the free brandishing of firearms. With malevolent intent, if necessary. But then, I'm a bit of an attention seeker.
Erskine Caldwell wrote a seminal novel in 1932, Tobacco Road. I won't say I don't like the novel, as I had him autograph a deluxe Beehive Press edition for me in 1980, when he was 77 years old (as perverse serendipity would have it, he ultimately died on my 30th birthday).
Caldwell was certainly no Faulkner, or O'Connor, or even Styron. Tobacco Road, like its successor God's Little Acre, was painfully and acutely written in a vernacular both evocative of, and denigrating to, the poor white trash sharecroppers that populated the author's world. If Caldwell had a major fault (and he had many faults) it was in his disavowal of those sharecropper roots, and his willingness to let the novel be staged on Broadway and then be made into a motion picture, both instances being cruel efforts to take the book at face value.
Both subsequent versions of Tobacco Road were considerably altered from Caldwell's vision. While he used humor to accentuate the defeatist and woeful lot of Jeeter Lester and his ilk, these versions played it all for laughs, and the audiences were given a full-blown treatment of southern depravity and ignorance with none of the redeeming virtues these Depression-wracked individuals exhibited. Tobacco Road became synonymous with all of the bigotry and stereotyping of the South in one easy read. It was so bad Caldwell moved to Maine and ran a bookstore for many years. He never returned to the South.
I'm not attempting to deconstruct that unlovable son-of-a-bitch Caldwell here, merely to evoke that time and place when the sturdiest and most prideful of men got tired of eating turnips every day, while his children gnawed sweet potatoes. That time and place when the man in the suit finally knocked on the door of the clapboard shack and said I'm from the government, and I'm here to help, and the desperate fool sold his soul for a relief check embedded with invisible barbs.
Yea, verily, a lot of men let their spiritual sails luff, and suckled the teat of government help. Many men, however, did not. And a generation later you could almost see the great tear in the American fabric: union men on one side, with their sense of entitlement and money-for-nothing that that milk from the teat of the New Deal had nourished in them, and the self-made men on t'other side. On the one side the men who would take any wheel of cheese the government threw their way, men who took pleasure in reaping the grain another man threshed, men who felt no sense of shame picking up the dollar bill that fell out of the other man's pocket, men who, having nursed upon something-for-nothing, came to expect it. They called it opportunity.
On the other side are the men who refused to take the bait, or rise to the siren's song of entitlement. These men ran the gamut of success from Croesus to repeated failure. But a failure who could pick himself up and try again. Who owed nobody nothing, damn it, except for perhaps an education. And I say now that the G.I. Bill was no government teat: that was earned. A man puts his brainpan in the enemy's sights, he gets a well-earned payback for that selfless act. The G.I. Bill was a minor annuity payment in compensation for a man's soul. These men were entrepeneurs, or toiled in good faith for capital entities under the handshake understanding that they worked in a meritocracy, and virtue and hard work could translate to reward.
Now we are a weaker breed of man, and find ourselves in a similar circumstance of uncertainty and dire straits. Who will we be? Who will we prostrate ourselves before for the metaphysical equivalent of a sour raw turnip? I am no diviner of entrails, but a quick glance at the electoral map shows me that we are, to a statistically significant factor, sucklers. And not for that sweet potato: we are as a nation sucklers for someone to mitigate our mortgages, to pump the bilge from the holds of our foundering 401ks, to guarantee our jobs even as it means creating ourselves silly, self-procreating paperpushing jobs from the sweat of another man's brow.
We are become Jeeter Lester.
We are hallooing at God for our fate, and ready, willing and eager to steal another man's turnips for no other reason than we want them. It isn't out fault. It's never our fault. It's that other guy what did it to us.
We are present at the onset of the most earth-shattering, revolutionary capsizing of a civilization ever contemplated, and we are allowing ourselves to be rushed headlong into it, with no more forethought than one would give the purchase of a laptop computer. If we were even given the opportunity, as third party witnesses, to have a say.
One thing is for certain: these changes are immutable. There are no do-overs. There will be no roll back on any programs that manifest themselves as insane or worse. And my fear is, at the end of the day, we'll all just be like Jeeter Lester. Coveting another man's bag of turnips, incensed they are not ours. And petitioning, as debased supplicants, our right to have what that fellow there has, even if it means having the authorities wrest it from his rightful grasp.
We are, I fear, soon enough a nation of Tobacco Roads.
Thirteen minutes after the announcement of Michael Jackson's death I found this on Wikipedia:
And no. You may not ask why I was wiki'ing Tito Jackson. I gots my reasons.
Forgive me for pulling a Mark Sanford and disappearing without a trace. I've been at a conference at Callaway Gardens.
Like Sanford, I hiked some trails, him on the AT, me on Pine Mountain, which is in fact the utter last hobnail in the bootheel of the Appalachians. Unlike him, I'm pretty certain I haven't done anything sinister or shameful, whatever it was he did. Rule of thumb: iffen your own wife don't know where you are or what the fuck you're doing, odds are it's something you wouldn't want your mama or your constituents to see you doing. I'm wagering it was something like a bottle of Old Grand Dad and a pair of ten year old black and white boys. Salt N Peppa!
I tell you, if you're into the botanical or horticultural thing, or natural philosophy in general, Callaway is a state treasure. Absolutely stunning. But I must take umbrage at the scheduling of this event in 96 degree sweltering heat. Even the skeeters were gasping. You can tell it's hot in Georgia when a dog's balls lick his face. Just for the moisture, you see. Never mind.
Curious to see what comes out of that DC Metro crash. In these cases it's a sure thing that 1) somebody fucked up, or 2) somebody fucked up. As in 1) engineer, or 2) dispatcher. Not really sure how Metro trips their switches, or if the first train was even in a siding. But somebody fucked up. Such a pity.
Putting the last touches on getting the novel print-ready. It will be self-published, just so I can flog it hard and move the fuck on. More on that later.
Did I mention how fucking hot it is in Georgia? I'd better post this, as my balls are looking at me funny.
UPDATE: Ouch. This woman, if ever revealed, could be the most famous Argentinian since Fanne Foxe. I also thought it was amusing that Sanford 1) spoke for quite a while until mentioning the extracurricular nature of his trip, and 2) spoke of "a person in Argentina" with whom he'd had an affair for ever and ever before finally mentioning it was, in fact, a female.
Even so, he's fucked forever. Not for the affair. For crying about it on television. Hasta la vista, Casa Blanca.
The next person who writes
As Lord Acton said, power tends to corrupt, and absolute power corrupts absolutely, or
As Clausewicz said, war is a continuation of politics by other means,
or misattributes Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer, to Sun-Tzu is going to suffer a severe case of gonadus Sevareid, courtesy of me.
You want a quote? I'll give you a quote:
"The Barbary ape is quite similar to the Toureg, although the ape is a more sophisticated pickpocket. Hic!"
See? These things practically write themselves.
There's been some discussion at Instapundit's and elsewhere about the crapulent Brinks Home Security system commercials. Yes, they seem aimed at allegedly helpless women who seem unable to defend themselves. And yes, I believe home security systems actually increase crime, because the perp believes the homeowner is unarmed.
But I'm excited by the fact that, as evidenced by these commercials, 100% of burglary and home invasion felons are apparently pasty white guys, who probably lost their sweet guitarist gigs when Fine Young Cannibals broke up. Makes those line ups a lot easier.
So if my back door glass breaks, and I see an Asian or Hispanic or African-American person brandishing a tire iron, I'll take solace in the fact that they are most likely Jehovah's Witnesses, surge-delivering the latest Watchtower edition for my spiritual edification.
It seems John Edwards has managed to foist himself back into the public's sensibilities. Not because the pompous buffoon has anything to say, of course, but because he is a safe enough gambit for the Zombie Media to embrace in lieu of 1) investigating the magniloquent machinations of the Current Administration, or 2) mentioning a Republican without a photograph of one with a penis in his mouth.
Speaking of which, I cannot look upon Edwards without thinking of Camille Paglia, because she was one of the few people who actually enthusiastically endorsed this ridiculous Hollow Man. In a way I can see it, because Paglia is a lesbian, and by my reckoning only gays and teenaged girls could ever possibly envision John Edwards as qualified for anything more manly than South Beach on-location reporter for Tiger Beat magazine. Or glory hole recipient.
Paglia has always annoyed me just a bit. Not because she isn't intelligent, which she is, but because she is the mirror image of the Brooksian, Gergenian, Sullivanserai conservative: the liberal conservatives krush gruve over merely because she strays off the plantation once in a blue cheese moon. That may well be, but the bottom line is she was an unabashed John Edwards fangirl before she eventually got gill-hooked by Obama. And that sad fact is Exhibit A in the "You Can't Take This Person Seriously" playbook your Velociboy furiously scribbles in every night, just before he whistles himself to sleep with a melancholy rendition of Taps.
For the Protein Wisdom fans amongst us (and we are legion), the brilliant Dan Collins has a new site. I strongly urge you to go leave an inappropriate comment. Something David Brooks or Andrew Sullivan would say.
Or, alternatively, I feel the use of the word "cooter" in polite discourse is becoming a lost art.
This time on a Wednesday, signifying the current administration still hasn't grasped the utility of the weekend news cycle. Of course, when the media is continually torpid with the amounts of metaphorical semen they engorge from the White House on a daily basis, a Wednesday will do.
I refer of course to the summary firing of Inspector General Gerald Walpin for the egregious temerity of performing his job, and breaking down on the criminal enterprises of Obama buddy Kevin Johnson.
Even as Obama will brook no dissent, even from Congressionally empowered watchdogs, I am reminded of Nixon's firing of special prosecutor Archibald Cox, the original Saturday Night Massacre. How fondly I recall the hysterical headlines of the New York Times and Washington Post when Nixon had Robert Bork perform the deed (and that is why the left so abhorred Bork: it wasn't the affected goatee or his brilliant jurisprudence. It was the fact that, unlike Elliot Richardson and William Ruckelshaus, Bork had made no personal commitment to Congress to abjure from firing the bowtied dork).
Of course, Cox wasn't a real independent counsel. Such a thing didn't even exist at the time. He was appointed by that fucker Richardson, not Congress, so he was really Nixon's to fire in the first place. Walpin? A congressionally authorized inspector general.
My last two years of high school were ruined by that fucking Watergate scandal. It infected the newspapers, the television, I'm pretty sure I once bought a two-pack of condoms in a Sinclair gas station that said "Free Calley" and "Impeach Nixon". It was horrible. Everyone was expected to take a stand, for or agin. I really didn't have much of an opinion of Richard Nixon, the Senator being an inconsolable George Wallace man, but it seemed the old bugger was getting a raw deal in the press. My opinion wafted whichever way the weed and women was wafting at the time, to be honest. I'm pretty sure the girls dancing on the tabletops at Bob's would have been McGovern girls, had they been old enough to vote, and their daddies equally torn between Nixon's alleged conservatism and that old nasty strain of yellow dog Democrat that infected the body politic of the Deep South until 1980 (and to this date, where frequency modulation radio doesn't reach, like my place).
An aside: I was an eight-week-new Coast Guard Academy cadet, bouncing around in international waters on the creaky bark Eagle, when Nixon finally resigned. Heard it on a contraband shortwave radio. Coup d'fuck etat! And we're on the high seas! Pretty scary stuff.
I'm sure the Zombie Media will afford me the same consideration they afforded Billy Ayers et al as they hound Barack Obama relentlessly for his criminal action in firing Walpin in violation of a law I'm sure Obama is aware of, as he co-sponsored the motherfucking thing. Perhaps Olbermann will even make Obama The Worst God In The World on his show this week.
The Eagle? We took that from the fucking Nazis, you know. I would consider it an extreme favor if Obama were to confiscate as war prizes the goddam Iranian centrifuges at Natanz. That would make for an excellent commemorative Zippo, for sure.
UPDATE: Obama now claims he had to dismiss the inspector general without the required 30 day notification because he was acting "confused and disoriented". Ah, yes, well. The mere fact the guy wouldn't play ball is proof positive he's a fucking nutjob in need of psychiatric help. I'm sure a few years in a Soviet-style psikhushka will get this recalcitrant bastard's head screwed on right.
UPDATE: Stacy McCain: "...once the FBI shows up, once you're called before a federal grand jury, you'll tell the truth or go to prison. So just in case any "senior administration officials" are reading this: Watch your back, buddy."
SR-71 Blackbird spy plane, Robins Air Force Base, Georgia:
Maximum official speed: 2,193 miles per hour
Maximum actual speed: classified
Maximum official altitude: 85, 069 feet
Maximum actual altitude: classified
Los Angeles to Washington, DC speed record: 64 minutes, 20 seconds
This is the kind of weapons technology you won't be seeing developed for the next eight years or so, if ever again. Barack doesn't care for unproven weapons systems, and the Blackbird was certainly that when Clarence Johnson developed it at the fabled Lockheed Skunk Works in the early sixties.
Of course, all weapons systems are unproven until proven, that's why they call it Research & Development. I imagine the Blackbird was considered unproven until it took a picture of a license plate from 70,000 feet on a truck at Area 51 at Mach 2.
This isn't about proveability, of course. It's about The Lamb lying down with the lions, and kissing sweet Islamist and Russian ass. It's about destroying our ability to ever so outgun an adversary again that we will never attempt to do so. It's about the greatest voluntary emasculation of a nation-state in the history of our species, a repulsive sort of mass suicide of the kindest government in the universe.
It's about changing the world.
Jim Jones would be mightily impressed with Obama's ability to have the masses willingly drink deep of the cup of annihilation. I'd wager even the unimaginably bloody Mayan sacrifices of old involved a bit of struggle, insistence, and head smacking on the part of the filleters.
That Blackbird is a microcosm of what we were as a people, what we were able to accomplish with determination and pride, and what will be looked upon in the future as a mere barbaric death toy by the sort of creatures we continue to elect as our representatives. I had to be in Warner Robins on business today, and thought I'd drive over and pat the old girl on her belly in appreciation. She was the best lunch date I've had in a long time.
The iconic mystic and healer Grigori Rasputin achieved success beyond his wildest dreams by insinuating himself into the royal family of Russia, and convincing the Czarina Alexandra that he could heal her feeble son of hemophilia. Rasputin was little more than a filthy peasant, a grifter who intelligently donned the garb of the clergy for authenticity. And as his sway over the czarina grew, so grew his entré into the royal circles of St. Petersburg, and the boudoirs of the extended royalty.
For it mattered not that Rasputin was an unkempt, filthy animal. He was of favor with the czarina, therefore many of the women of the inner circle lusted after him. Even as the vermin crawled upon his skin, and thence upon theirs, as the black bread crumbs fell upon their faces from his beard, and the lice migrated between hair and pubis, Rasputin was a very popular and well-fucked man.
The royal ladies of St. Petersburg couldn't see, or did not care, that Rasputin was degenerate scum. His popularity with the royal family simply outweighed his sloth and dishabille. He was impervious to criticism. Until a handful of princes murdered him in legendary fashion and dumped his body in the icy Neva River in the ominous days leading up to Revolution. I like to think it was the crab lice that finally impelled these lads to the wet work, and not the crumbling of empire they had so assiduously ignored for so many years.
Here's a different thing, but of like kind: when I was in preparatory school our campus was in the hinterlands of the county, at the fringe of the suburbs. A couple of miles down White Bluff Road the road became Coffee Bluff Road, and dead-ended at the Forest River, a salt estuary that ran eventually into the Atlantic, but at this point was a tidal river wending through moss-draped live oaks and marsh and reed. This was Southern Gothic: there was nothing at Coffee Bluff save a few small houses in the woods, an ancient Carlemite monastery walled off behind brick and wrought iron, and Bob's.
Bob's was a Negro confectionary that doubled as a bootlegging waystation. We boys frequented Bob's because he would sell beer to minors. I imagine in Bob's mind selling eight packs of Miller ponies was a mere distraction compared to the unbonded liquor, gambling, numbers, and prostitution rackets he undoubtedly engaged in.
So Bob's was Bob's. It was what it was. We pretended to like him and buy beer, and he pretended not to despise us uppity white boys with cash coin. A year or two after I graduated and went to university I learned Bob's had changed: now the girls from the school, who had never gone inside with us, went to Bob's sans boys to dance on the tabletops with the mudflat-bespackled crabbers and oystermen. Because it was considered dangerous, I suppose, this cavorting with the bottom rung of black society. Hell, their Daddy wouldn't even let them date me, because I was the Senator's son, and he'd sharpened many a sawtooth against the self-identifying Savannah blueblood, yet they would sneak off to Bob's to dance on the tabletops. I was hard-pressed to get too worked up about that, however. Ofttimes the grass is truly greener on the other side of the electrified fence.
Many a soul pulled that lever November past with the giddy infatuation of Rasputin's royal slatterns, and the tabletop girls, and the mindless exhilaration of a questioning lad in his first leather bar. It's the cheap exotic allure of the taboo.
I don't begrudge them their idealistic fantasies, but I do begrudge them their myopic narcissism. To gamble with one's soul, or merely one's own quotidian navel-gazing, is one thing. That's your gig. To actively muleskin for a man with the fevered, change-the-world mindset of the Current Occupant is to rouse my dander.
Eventually the lice come home to roost, however, and Daddy will find a stray white rubber crabber's boot in the back seat. And the allowance, or the economy, will cease to exist. Sometimes it takes a false prophet, or a mad monk, to awaken us to our folly. For the more intransigent among us it unfortunately takes a soup line.
When I was a teenager there were three things short of actual contraband you never, ever wanted a cop to find in your car: a five-foot length of garden hose (known as an Arkansas credit card), a set of Ohaus triple beams, or a pair of bolt cutters. None of these items was illegal per se, of course, but all were presumptive of illegal behavior, and the policia do hate knowing that you were up to something, but they didn't catch you.
Oh, and where I grew up if a state trooper wanted to see what was in your trunk you obliged the man. There is no Bill of Rights on midnight Georgia asphalt. So yes, I've have all three of these items confiscated from my vehicle at some point before I was 21, along with a polite lecture on why I was lucky I wasn't getting my fucking ass kicked.
Which led me to pondering today: why, Baracky, he's just me at the age of nineteen, with tons more game. The Treasury Department is his siphon hose, sucking off the rewards of an honest person's toil without writ or by your leave.
Congress is his set of scales, finely calibrating who shall fork over, and what level of usury is acceptable that will leave the victim marginally viable but still productive, like a vampire hoarding the last stray dog in an abandoned city.
Barack's bolt cutters? It doesn't matter, they go by many names: BATF, ICE, FBI. They are the Praetorian. The faceless ghouls who snatched Elian Gonzales. There's always a long line of applicants for government work that comes with a gun, the color of law, and rife opportunities to
pop your lock and kick your door in abuse it.
That was my problem, of course. I didn't dream big enough. I saw crime as a dead end street, with the state penitientary in Reidsville as the payoff. I decided I liked the rules. What a fucking naif I was.
So do I still carry any of these items? Just the bolt cutters. You never know when you might have to rescue a deer or a man tangled up in barbed wire along the side of the road. Or liberate a closed liquor store with just one too many bottles of Wild Turkey 101 on the shelf (holla!). I try to avoid the latter, because I still have that dream where I arrive in Heaven, and God awaits me, patiently balancing my soul on that old pair of triple beams with furrowed brow.
Because I wouldn't want to be the only person on the intersphere to not post this picture.
Man, I haven't seen a look that feral since a wild boar had me treed when I was ten years old. Unfortunately, the only weapon I had at hand was my own feces. Although that ammunition was unsuccessful for me, it appears Ms. Bruni has chosen the same weapon, or close, and has leet flee a fart in MO's general direction.
FLOTUS, FLATUS. It's all of a sort. And very Chaucerian.
American troops prepare to storm Omaha Beach.
Or Obama Beach, as the British prime minister prefers to call it.
You can't make this fucking shit up.
P.S. I see Gerard and I chose the same picture. It is simultaneously awe-inspiring and chilling. A good juxtaposition of what they feared but heroically faced and what we now know was about to happen...
Post-post scriptum: I see Google chose to celebrate the 25th anniverary of Tetris today:
I refer, of course, to daggering, the dance craze that's sweeping the nation!
The nation of Jamaica, mon. It's basically slammon da genitals togethah. Here be Skerrit Bwoy:
This is apparently causing Broke Dick Syndrome, but hey: you can't make an omelet without breaking a few peckers, am I right?
Of course, baby have to have kryptonite back to broke Girth Vader, eh mon?
You know, I don't want to sound ethnocentric, but I shall continue to cast my lot with the tribe where, all unknown drops aside, I am able to pass.
Enjoy this brief video clip at The Gunslinger's.
That's why you can't fix Social Security.
I'm one of those rare Southerners who consider Hamilton infinitely more talented than the dissipated and overrrated Jefferson. Sue me on that one.
First, of course, Hamilton would bed someone's wife. Then he would abolish the Federal Reserve and create a new central bank. After that? I'm not sure, but I presume pistols at dawn for about 40 or 50 miscreants. Never forget: Hamilton won a few duels. He only lost one, shot in callow fashion by a disgusting creep who eventually helped found the Democratic Party, and who didn't follow the rules of the game. Sound familiar?
At any rate, his Report on Manufactures, considering GM, would be a fucking hoot.
It's been a couple of weeks since 17-year-old Romanian tennis star Simona Halep threatened to have breast reduction surgery to enhance her game, currently thwarted by a harmonic convergence of awesome in the form of 34 DD knockers.
I sincerely hope she doesn't go through with this. Perhaps if a million or so people sent her $10 she could retire and avoid that brutish game of sweat and shin splints. Or, better, they could send me the money and I could summon her hither as a mail-order bride. I could then devote myself full-time to developing the next generation of full support brassieres. I think Simona's will need titanium, carbon fiber, and nanotechnology, but I'll confirm that during the R&D phase.
I tried to hook Skippy up with Simona to keep him from pursuing my daughter, but then I thought hey, now. To paraphrase the Quaker Oats guy, nothing is better for she than me.
UPDATE: A terse no comment from the flat chest fanboys side of the aisle.
My attorney brother sent me this:
Tennessee investigators said Tuesday there are no plans to drop rape charges against a Snellville man despite learning of the victim’s prior convictions for filing false assault claims.
The Sevier County Sheriff’s Department arrested David Jansen last week after an Atlanta woman said she was kidnapped, driven to a cabin in the Smoky Mountains and raped twice.
Jansen, of Snellville, is on bond on charges of aggravated rape and aggravated kidnapping. He has denied the allegations, saying the sex was consensual.
Police records show the suspect told officers he took extra steps during what he called a planned sexual encounter with the 24-year-old, including driving past a potential witness so not to be seen.
Since Jansen’s arrest, investigators have learned that the Atlanta woman pleaded guilty to filing a false rape report in Cherokee County and a false assault report in Fannin County.
“We’ve talked to those authorities,” Sevier Capt. Jeff McCarter said Tuesday. “It don’t change our case here at this point. It still goes to court.”
Jansen, 46, is scheduled to appear in court July 17 for a preliminary hearing.
Investigators reviewed the Cherokee and Fannin cases, and forwarded them to the Sevier County District Attorney’s office.
Steven R. Hawkins, chief assistant district attorney in Sevier, said his office is reviewing the woman’s prior reports, but does not plan to change the case right now.
“A person that has been guilty of that before could certainly be telling the truth and be kidnapped and raped,” Hawkins said Tuesday.
Hawkins said he anticipates the woman’s prior convictions will be discussed at the July 17 court hearing.
“I’m sure it will come out in court,” he said. “It certainly will go to her credibility. We just need to look at all the evidence and find the truth in the case.”
In 2005, the Cherokee County Sheriff’s Department arrested the woman for filing a false report, said Major Ron Hunton, commander of Cherokee’s criminal investigations. The woman, who officers found lying in the grass with her clothes cut, claimed she was raped behind a Kohl’s in Woodstock, according to a police report. She later pleaded guilty to charges the report was made up, Hunton said.
Several months after the Cherokee arrest, the same woman was arrested in Fannin County for filing a false assault report. This time, the woman told police she had been stabbed, Hunton said.
She later pleaded guilty to filing a false report in Fannin, he said.
The 24-year-old woman told Sevier investigators she was jogging in her Morningside neighborhood May 26 when she was approached by an acquaintance, tied up and kidnapped. She said she was then driven to a cabin in remote Gatlinburg, Tenn., where the suspect cut off her clothes and raped her, according to the sheriff’s report.
A pizza deliveryman, who brought Jansen his dinner, alerted deputies after seeing the woman tied up. Deliveryman Chris Turner, who saw the woman’s hands bound while the suspect was signing a credit card receipt, said she silently mouthed call 911.
“I said, ‘Are you for real?’ I didn’t believe her,” Turner said.
The woman rolled her eyes and again silently pleaded for Turner to call police.
Investigators said they found evidence of a crime, including rope, prescriptions pills, condoms and pieces of the woman’s torn clothes, the report states.
McCarter declined to discuss evidence or other details of the investigation, including whether the woman was questioned about her criminal history.
Jansen told investigators the he and the woman were on a “romantic getaway from their spouses.” He said the woman was sexually aroused by bondage, according to the sheriff’s report.
He told investigators the encounter was “pre-planned” and he initially drove past the woman because an unknown man was out walking his dog when he attempted to pick her up, according to an Atlanta Police report.
The woman’s husband received a call from Sevier investigators around 9 p.m., saying his wife had been abducted. He then called Atlanta Police.
According to the Atlanta Police report, the husband said he spent the day searching hospitals after his wife, who has a medical condition, never returned home from jogging.
Jansen’s attorney, Don Bosch, said he is aware of the woman’s past charges and convictions and a “number of other highly unusual facts surrounding these allegations.”
“We are preparing a motion for filing that will address this and a number of other relevant issues related to our client’s bond status and innocence,” Bosch said Monday night.
The woman has not returned phone calls or e-mail. No one answered the door at the couple’s home on Tuesday afternoon. The Atlanta Journal-Constitution has a policy not to name alleged victims of sexual assault.
The immortal Keenan Wynn:
That's beautiful work there. Little known (actually, unknown) fact: my brother-in-law was skiing in Colorado about 1980, and who was in the lift line in front of him? Keenan Fucking Wynn, that's who. Me? I would've nutted meself in that situation.
Of course, that lift line factoid makes me a very skeery three degrees of separation from Jim Nabors' cock, don't it?
Ah well. Such is the peril of moving in the rarefied inner circles. Kind of like Skull and Bones.