Posts tagged ‘Crime’

Be Prepared: Mutual of Wichita Rape Insurance

Hi. You might not know me. I’m Kansas State Representative Pete DeGlaaf (R), and I love women and babies. In fact, I just kissed a baby 5 minutes ago. You missed it. During a recent house debate my colleagues and I were discussing a motion to make private health coverage for abortions illegal. I mentioned that women who were the survivors of rape or incest might just want to be prepared.

I mean, after all, I have a spare tire. I have life insurance. Why shouldn’t we expect women to plan ahead for these inevitable contingencies of life? Isn’t that what being a responsible adult is all about? We have fire insurance and flood insurance. Why shouldn’t we have rape insurance, too?

That’s when it occurred to me that I had come upon an excellent business plan, inadvertently. There’s no reason why I shouldn’t take advantage of my accidental flash of entrepreneurial genius! First, I googled to make sure that there wasn’t already a rape insurance policy out there.

It turns out there is, but it’s only available in South Africa. So, I thought why can’t we be like the progressive people of South Africa and offer this service to American women? I contacted my friends at Mutual of Wichita. They felt exactly the same way, and they made it happen.

I’m now pleased to announce that you can purchase Mutual of Wichita Rape Insurance at a very affordable rate. You can, like a Boy Scout, be prepared for life’s emergencies, such as random acts of penis. What does it cost? Well, the monthly premium is very affordable. And like life insurance, we base it on amortization tables designed to minimize risk. But any woman* can afford rape insurance.

Affordable Monthly Premiums

Girl, 18 & Under, Virgin


Adult Virgin


Female, Experienced, under 30


Female over 30














You might ask, what is the deductible, Pete? And again, it’s very affordable. The deductible is only $800. That’s right! $800! For the mere cost of a rape kit, you can start taking advantage of your rape insurance coverage.

What does rape insurance cover? I’m glad you asked. There are two options available for women. Both options, working, of course, in conjunction with your health care provider and your employer’s EAP, will pay for a portion of 8 counseling sessions with a qualified, approved Christian counselor.

We will pay, in conjunction with your health care provider, for a portion of the health care costs associated with the rape, up to and including the morning after pill, four AIDS tests, the recommended AZT cocktail, and a full test panel for STDs. We will also pay for your ultrasound and prenatal care and labor costs, if necessary.

For those of you that are victims of rape and incest, I am truly sorry. If, after 8 weekly sessions, your qualified, approved Christian counselor determines that an abortion is necessary for your mental health, then it will be covered after certain secondary requirements are met.

The Jaycee Duggard Plan The Joan Crawford Plan
Counseling Counseling
Health Care Health Care
Ultrasound Ultrasound
Pre-Natal & Delivery Polygraph Test
College Trust Fund Wire Hanger
Tea Kettle
Hydrogen Peroxide
One Gallon of Distilled Water
2 Tea Towels
1 Box of Sanitary Napkins

We will, of course, require you to submit to a polygraph test and an ultrasound. If the polygraph determines that you have, indeed, been the victim of a rape or incest, then we will provide you with a coat hanger, a teakettle, a bottle of distilled water, a bottle of hydrogen peroxide, a small hand-held mirror, and one night in a private hospital room. If you absolutely must kill babies, then that burden should be on you alone. This is called the Joan Crawford Plan.

For those of you that aren’t baby killers, we have the Jaycee Duggard Plan. This option covers not only your medical costs associated with gestation and labor but also provides your rapist’s baby with a college education, regardless of whether or not you decide to keep the baby. That’s right. You can give your baby up to a loving, caring, Christian family that’s just waiting for a bundle of joy and rest assured that your child will receive a college education at an approved Christian college.**

But wait!! That’s not all. If you can prove beyond a shadow of a doubt, to a panel of Christian clerics and medical experts, that you were a virgin prior to your assault, then you will receive an extra $10,000 for pain and suffering to be spent in any way you deem fit. You can also qualify for discounts on your insurance premiums if you agree to carry pepper spray, take a self defense course and never leave your home without your arms, legs, ankles and decolletage fully covered. We will provide an additional discount if you wear a burka or another full head and face covering.

*  Mutual of Wichita Rape Insurance doesn’t cover strippers, massage therapists, sex workers or transgender women. Pre-existing conditions such as prior sexual abuse can disqualify you for coverage as well.

** Approved Christian colleges include Liberty University, Bob Jones University, and Oral Roberts University.

Disclaimer: I am not Pete DeGlaaf or Pete DeGraaf, the dumbass Republican member of the Kansas State House of Representatives. This “advertisement” is a satire meant to call attention to the stupidity and misogyny of Representative Pete DeGraaf of Kansas.

June 2, 2011 at 2:56 am 1 comment

A Time to Rape

A Time To Kill

In the 90s a book came out that was later made into a movie. This book was the first book published from the pen of John Grisham, the lawyer turned author. In my opinion, it’s his best book. In some ways, it’s a modern day retelling of To Kill a Mockingbird. In Grisham’s A Time to Kill two ne’er do well good ol’ boys pick up an underage black girl named Tonia Haley and beat and rape her so severely that the damage from the rape makes her infertile.

Her father, Carl Lee Haley, realizes that in his mostly white Mississippi town two white boys will never be convicted of harming a black girl and that they will most likely go free. Carl Lee confers with a local counselor, the struggling defense attorney, Jake Briggance, and asks Jake if he’ll defend him should he need it. Jake, himself the father of a young girl close to Tonia’s age, agrees to defend Carl Lee should he need his services. Following that conversation, Carl Lee takes a shotgun to the courthouse on the day of the rapists’ arraignment and shoots the two men down in cold blood, accidentally shooting a peace officer as well, in the process.

The rest of the movie is about the fight to keep Carl Lee out of prison and away from the gas chamber. A Time to Kill is a story about a hate crime, specifically focused on race relations. In the end Jake gets Carl Lee acquitted by asking jury members to close their eyes while he describes the rape of a 9-year-old girl in gruesome detail. When he’s finished presenting the picture of a little girl tied up, raped, beaten, urinated on, and left to die he says, simply, “Now imagine she’s white.”

I want to tell you a story. Don’t close your eyes or you won’t be able to read the story, but you can see what I want you to see in your mind’s eye. This is the story of a little boy. This boy lives in a small Texas town that’s fraught with racial strife. The boy is Hispanic, and he’s 11 years old. He’s also a straight A student. His mother has been hospitalized recently with some health problems, and his father is an unemployed construction worker.

The boy has spent a lot of time hanging out with older kids in a bad neighborhood lately. People in this neighborhood have spotted him there on numerous occasions. They wonder what he’s doing there and why his parents don’t keep closer tabs on him. The boy is also on Facebook. On his profile, he says he’s 13 so that he’ll look older and tougher than he really is and so that maybe, just maybe he’ll attract older girls. He’s made posts involving drinking and sex.

One day the boy is out walking after school when three older boys offer to give him a ride. He accepts. He knows these boys, and he’s hung out with them before. They’re all African American, and they’re all much older than he is. They’re high school age. The boys all drive to a small blue house in the bad neighborhood, one that belongs to the aunt of one of the older boys.

The house is empty except for the four boys. There are no adults present. They go to one of the bedrooms of the house. They’re hanging out. Maybe they watch TV. Maybe they drink a beer or smoke a little pot. Suddenly, one of the older boys says, “I want you to suck my cock.”

The young boy is stunned. This request seems to come from left field. He tries to laugh it off.

A second older boy stands up and says, “You’re going to suck all our cocks.”

The little boy says, “And what if I don’t.”

The first older boy chimes in again. “First, we’ll beat you. Then you can walk home.”

The little boy looks at the older boys, and he realizes that they are serious. Any one of the three of them could pulverize him. The little boy doesn’t even weigh 100 pounds. These are big guys. They lift weights. They play high school athletics. One of them is double his size. His chance of taking on all three or of escaping is nothing.

The boy submits to the rape. The older boys take pictures and videos on their cell phones. The sexual activity takes place in a bedroom and in a bathroom. While the boy is cleaning up in the bathroom he hears the older boys talking on their cell phones and inviting some of their friends to also come over. The aunt who owns the house has come home, and one of the older boys takes him out of the bathroom and sneaks him out the back of the house and into the car.

The little boy has gone silent. Perhaps he is in shock. They made him do things he didn’t want to do, things that hurt him. He is bleeding. The older boys drive him to an abandoned mobile home in a trailer park on the edge of the bad neighborhood. He’s been here before. The yard is strewn with trash, and there are household items that probably belonged to the last, evicted tenants, lying on the curb.

More older boys and even some men show up, and they all use him sexually, too. Sometimes he is made to service more than one man at a time. He is afraid to say anything because there are now several men in the trailer, perhaps as many as 20 or more, and he is afraid that if he protests or fights they will beat him. They continue to take photos and video as they cheer him on. The little boy is tired, sore, and hurt. He wants to go home, but they won’t take him home until they are done. The attack takes several hours.

Finally, they do take him home, and in his humiliation he says nothing. He showers and goes to bed and resolves never to speak of it. He doesn’t want to shame his father or hurt his mother, especially with her health issues.

One day soon afterward he is called into the principal’s office because one of the perpetrators of the attack has emailed or texted pictures and video of the boy’s rape to several of his classmates. He is afraid and alone, but he tells the truth.

That’s a sad story, isn’t it? You feel sorry for that boy. You never question where his parents were during the attack. You never question why he accepted a ride with three older boys. You don’t think, like I once heard another blogger say about a rape victim, that the police were sent in to do a father’s job, as if only single mothers parent rape victims. You know, or at least you assume, that since the boy is posting about experience with drinking and sex that implies he’s no longer a virgin. You know that he’s working hard to appear older than he really is, with his Facebook profile, his clothes and appearance, and the friends he hangs around.

But you never thought he deserved what happened to him, did you? You never thought it was a racial conspiracy to get a whole generation of black men, did you? I hope you never blamed the boy for not protesting or trying to run away. I don’t think you probably thought that the boy had brought this on by his behavior or his appearance, although if his rapists were homosexuals it seems conceivable that they just couldn’t help themselves, or maybe not. What do you think? Do you think the actions of any 11 year old boy could cause a man to somehow have to rape him? You think this is a horrible crime, don’t you? And you think the boy’s not at fault for what happened to him at all. Now imagine the boy’s a girl.!5780022/media-blows-it-with-pathetic-gang-rape-coverage

March 18, 2011 at 12:56 pm 7 comments

I’m No Victim


Half Price Books (Lego Version)

Image by Diorama Sky via Flickr


When I was five years old I used to walk to and from school. I was in kindergarten. One day when I was walking home from school I noticed that I was being followed very closely by three much older girls. They caught up with me, cornered me at a tree, and beat the ever living shit out of me. They beat me up so badly that to this day I, mercifully, have no memory of it. I remember being cornered against the tree, and that is the last thing I remember.

I had done and said nothing to provoke them. I didn’t even know these girls. And at five years old I was probably the tiniest girl in my class. I was a little, cute, blue eyed, freckled, blonde girl with a button nose and a bounce in my step.

When I got home, my mother flipped, of course, and the next day we met with the school principal. I wanted to take care of the whole problem myself. I did not want my mother to take me to school or to meet with the principal. The girls beat me up, and I wanted to make sure they were punished. The principal thought he knew who the girls were. They were three sixth grade girls, and he wanted to know if I could identify them. I told him that I could. My mother wanted to go with me.

I said, “No, Mommy. I want to go point them out by myself.”

At a very early age I decided that I was nobody’s victim, and I also knew that I could stand up for myself. I did not need my mother to do it for me.

Many years later, in my mid-twenties, two teenaged boys once decided that they would try to “carjack” me. I was coming out of a Half Price Books in Dallas when one of these boys (who couldn’t have been older than fifteen) inserted his body between my car door and myself and told me that he had a gun, and he wanted my car keys.

Now, when something like this happens to you, you think you know how you would react, but the truth is that you don’t until it happens. Because if you had told me that something like that would happen to me, then I would have told you that I would have given up the keys. I had insurance on my car, and it isn’t worth my life.

However, what happened is that I decided that I was not giving up my car keys to two punk teenage boys unless they actually did have a gun. So, I felt the outside of the bulge in this kid’s jacket pocket that he was pointing at me. And it turns out that the bulge was nothing more than a fist.

So, I looked him right in the eye, and shouted emphatically, “No!”

Then I took the keys, turned my body around to face the passenger seat and fought with this kid over the keys while he and the other kid pummeled my head and torso with punches and called me filthy names. I almost lost the keys, and then it occurred to me…make noise.

I took the keys, turned my body around to face the driver’s side door, and then in slow motion, I took a deep breath. It wasn’t actually in slow motion. It can’t have been, but whenever I see it in my mind’s eye, I see it play out like the instant replay of a football play. The second kid, the one farther from the door, saw what was coming first. He bolted before the sound came. The first kid didn’t catch on as quick and got a full blast of my scream straight to the ear drum before he shut my car door, locked it for me, and ran. The funniest part is that he locked the door. I guess he was worried about my safety.

Of course, I was a little shook up, and once I regained my composure, which didn’t take long, I looked for these little shits because I was literally going to hunt them down in my car. I’m not sure if I would have run them over or not. I hadn’t thought that far ahead. When I didn’t immediately see any sign of them, I drove back to my home and called the police and filled out an incident report.

The dispatcher for 911 actually had the nerve to ask me why I had left the scene of the crime.

“Uh, because I felt so safe there?”

Now, I’ve had my sanity questioned over this incident on multiple occasions. I can’t say as I blame people. And what I did I did as an immediate reaction to my circumstances and not because I put much thought into it in advance. But I personally am proud of my decisions in this situation, because when I thought about it afterward, I thought that if I gave those two boys my car keys, I gave them the power, and there was no guarantee that they would have only taken the car. They were stronger than I was; it would have been no contest. I was skinny at the time, so I couldn’t have even sat on them to injure them.

Anyhow, this is how I know that I am no victim. Tried and tested. If some man ever decided to rape me, then he’d better be prepared to kill me as well. If some guy ever did that to me, then I’d make sure that he spent as much time in prison as humanly possible. And that’s his punishment if he’s lucky.

Because if I really get my wish, then he’s going to be urinating from a hose into a medical supply plastic bag attached to his hip for the rest of his life. Forget any of that Bobbitt surgery nonsense. I will fix it so that any man who rapes me won’t get the opportunity to do that to anyone else ever again without investing in some toys. I won’t just throw it in a field. I’ll throw it in a meat grinder and make a patty out of it and fry it and feed it to my dog.

Like I said, he’d better kill me.

October 10, 2010 at 8:03 pm 3 comments

No Doubts

Credit cards

Image via Wikipedia

Unfortunately, I’m still stuck on the uncomfortable subject of child molestation, a subject that seems to be near and dear to my heart. For those of you who were hoping to read about Gwen Stefani, I apologize. There is nothing funny about this post. This post is about a man about whom I never had any doubts. Once again, to protect the guilty, we’ll use assumed names. His full name is Reverend K. Super Aims. My campus minister was a young, exciting and vibrant man with a seminary degree and a guitar. He was full of evangelism and ambition. It was a good thing he was already married to a very beautiful woman or we would have pounced on him like fresh meat.

Super, as he liked to be called, inherited an old house that used to be the parish home of the church next door and a small group of rag tag student leaders, of which I was one. There were really only five of us. We all had names that had the same letter at the beginning of our first or last names, something we thought in our youth was a coincidence of mystical importance. What we knew about Super before he arrived was very little. We knew he was a newlywed and that he had just returned from a year in England. The newlywed part stuck out in our heads, and since one of us had keys to the newlyweds’ condo we decided to get together one night and decorate the new place for their arrival. We used crepe paper and condoms, along with lipstick on the bathroom mirrors. I’m sure his wife wondered what on earth they had gotten themselves in for.

Super arrived the beginning of my sophomore year. He built a dying ministry of maybe twelve regulars into a flourishing one. He made it fun. He was a talented musician who played both guitar and piano and sang. He explained the Bible to us in ways that made it both understandable and relatable. He took us on retreats and camping trips. He took us on a journey of self-discovery and a journey to discover the nature of God. He seemed to be a moral man, but he was not judgmental. He made a very real difference to probably hundreds of students like me.

Super and I became close over the years. I was his Evangelism Intern for more than one semester. I led bible studies and took over some administrative duties. Once when he came down ill I led a retreat for the students. We became so close that I confessed to him about an incident from my childhood when the proverbial dirty old man had tried to molest me. Despite the fact that it’s now on the worldwide web, this is not a fact I usually disclose to just anyone.

We stayed close even after I graduated, and I would usually make an attempt to visit when I was in town. That whole group of students who “grew up” with Super stayed close, too. Those were some tight, quality friendships. Some of the names and faces changed as people graduated, but the feeling remained the same. Super married or somehow officiated in the weddings of several of the couples who came out of our little group.

One night in the year 2001, which along with the rest of the country, was a horrible year for me, my phone rang and one of my college buddies was calling me to let me know that Super had been arrested for child molestation. A couple of little girls in the neighborhood had wandered into the campus ministry house. They had been playing and needed to use the bathroom. Then they said the man in the house had offered to let them stay and play there. There was a pool table. By the time everything was said and done the little girls went home to one of their mothers and claimed that the man in the house with the pool table had touched them on their private parts in broad daylight.

We didn’t believe it. People rallied around him and raised money for his defense. I had never before in my life doubted a child who came forward to say that he or she has been molested. After all, what can they possibly have to gain by making such an accusation? If it had been anyone other than Reverend K. Super Aims I would have deemed him guilty on the spot. And indeed it seemed that I was right in my faith. A long time went by and there was no trial. It seemed that there was a lack of evidence. Eventually, Super moved to another state with his wife, where she got a job at a Christian university as a professor. A few years went by.

And then I learned. Another phone call. I had gotten out of touch with a lot of my old college friends. I remember who told me. He said that Super had made a plea bargain. The police had confiscated his old computer at the campus ministry and had been able to recover kiddie porn from it. He pled guilty to one of the convictions in order to escape the other, and he moved back to the state he came from and served his prison sentence. By the time I found out about it Super was already out of prison, divorced, and living with his brother. He is now branded for life as a convicted sex offender.

I called Super’s ex-wife. She told me how she found out, that he had confessed to her only after the police had backed him into a corner with the child pornography possession charges. He told her that was the first time that he had ever actually touched a little girl in that way. And she asked him if he thought possession of child pornography was a victimless crime. She told me that he had some credit cards in his name only that he’d had delivered to the campus ministry house instead of their home. He used those credit cards to pay for the porn. And then it struck me that I had often carried in those credit card bills myself when I gathered the mail. It had seemed odd at the time, but I would never have thought that he was hiding child pornography from his wife.

I talk with my old college buddies. We talk about Super on occasion, of course. One of us who went on to seminary and became an ordained minister for a time tried to befriend him after he got out of prison. He tried to be the better man, show compassion, be a Christian, and found that he could not. One of us refuses to accept that he’s guilty. She insists to this day that he was framed. I accept that he is guilty, and I never fail to be amazed at the wonders of this world that someone who had such profound evil in his heart had enough good to inspire others so deeply. I wonder, of course, if the bitter aftermath should taint all the good that came before it, if God chooses his instruments in mysterious ways, and if any of the K. Super Aims that I knew was genuine. I have no doubts that I’ll never know.

June 22, 2009 at 10:26 am 1 comment

The Rat Bastard — The Epilogue

Psych! You just thought I was done writing about the Rat Bastard. Well, you were wrong. We need to explore the actual end of the Rat Bastard and me. There’s some more stuff after the break up. This is because 1) I turned into that psycho chick that everyone, including me, hates, and 2) I’m a glutton for punishment. Also, I just thought of some more stuff about him that pisses me off.

After the breakup I thought about what I really wanted to do with my life that I could actually manage to do. Having already tried to obtain a position as a technical writer or any kind of writer and failed, gotten hit on by a single man who was a tech writer for Trilogy, failed, gotten hit on by a married man who was the editor of a trade magazine publication, and failed again, I was pretty sure that my career goals and aspirations were never going to come true. That ship had sailed. I no longer wanted to get married. You have to actually buy a lottery ticket to win the lottery. I knew! I could have a baby!

I knew on my salary that I couldn’t afford to pay for sperm. Trust me. I actually researched this. I knew that I would want to raise this baby on my own. Who would be a better sperm donor than my ex? I knew, after all, that he wouldn’t want to be responsible for a child, that he would be incapable of being responsible for a child, and having already abandoned two previous children, had a really great track record of not interfering in his baby mama’s or children’s lives. By this time, I was so mad at Rat that I wouldn’t want him to be in my child’s life. Why would I want to saddle a kid with THAT? No, this plan was perfect. He’d just provide genetic material and then get the hell out of my way.

I was thinking really rationally at this point. This is evident from the fact that I realized that I couldn’t afford to pay for sperm but didn’t make the leap of logic necessary to figure out that if I couldn’t afford sperm, then I couldn’t afford a baby, either. Whenever pesky thoughts like these floated past my brain, I just rationalized them with, “I can go live with my parents. They’ll be thrilled to have a grandchild.” That would take care of any coherent thoughts I might have had. I’d then go back to trying to figure out when I was ovulating so that I wouldn’t have to have sex with the Rat unless it was likely to be fruitful and purchasing folic acid tablets and pre-natal vitamins so I’d be sure to be fertile.

The Rat was in on this plan, in the beginning. First off, I’d never trap some man into impregnating me, not even the Rat (although I’m sure that if any man deserves to have this done to him it would be the Rat). So instead of entrapping him, I just played the guilt card of how he had totally broken my heart, tore it up in pieces and then fed those pieces to the wolves, so that I had no heart anymore to break. I told him he had ruined my life and made me miserable. I told him he had wasted two prime, babymaking years of my life with his lying and his spineless inability to come out of the closet, his using me horribly and dicking me around. And then…I told him that a baby would fix all that. So, in the beginning, the Rat was totally down with this plan. It was sort of like an opportunity at redemption for him.

The last time I had sex with the Rat Bastard was the last time I had sex with anyone for years. If I had known then what would happen, I would have enjoyed it a little more. If I had never met the Rat Bastard and still had the ability to believe in fairy tales, then I might say that the Rat Bastard refused to have sex with me anymore because he knew that my babymaking scheme was a horrible mistake and that he was saving me from myself, that he was saving a baby from being born into this world for what may be the world’s worst possible reason. But the more cynical side of myself that knows the Rat Bastard says that the Rat Bastard knew that I was still seething with rage, and he probably figured I’d sue him for child support at the first available opportunity. I wouldn’t have, but he didn’t know that.

When Rat refused to continue to participate in the babymaking scheme that’s when I really went psycho. I insisted that he part with every picture he had ever taken of me or of us. I insisted that he give me back anything that might serve as evidence that I had ever known him. I told him he wasn’t allowed to talk about me and that as far as he was concerned I didn’t exist. I sent him an email that said that he was good for only one thing as far as I was concerned, and that was providing sperm. And if he refused to provide said sperm, then I wouldn’t so much as walk across the street to spit on him. I destroyed all the photos and gifts I’d ever gotten from him. I purged the evidence. He did as I asked and brought me all the pictures, etc., and I destroyed those as well. I was so angry with him that I fantasized about hurting him, physically. If I could have figured out how to do so without consequences I would have done it…in a heartbeat.

He got a new job on the graveyard shift, and I started calling at different times during the day, when I knew he would be sleeping, and then hanging up. And that’s when I had my “snap out of it” moment, because it was left to The Train Wreck to confront me. I had to stop with the phone calls or Rat was going to go to the police and press charges for stalking. Once, when we were still together, I had awoken in the middle of the night to find the Rat Bastard in mid-coitus with my unconscious body. There was no foreplay or warning, and I was fast asleep. It hurt. It made me sorry I hadn’t gone to the police and pressed charges for rape.

As I previously mentioned, that was my snap out of it moment. I came back to reality and started channeling all my resentment in more positive outlets, like drinking. The last time I had sex with the Rat Bastard was the last time I saw the Rat Bastard, and I have no desire to do so. I gained a ton of weight, no doubt mostly from the drinking. But the weight was a good thing. It meant I didn’t have to worry as much about attention from men. I could focus on learning how to be a successful spinster and catch up on my reading, and my drinking. And that really is the end of the story of The Rat Bastard.

June 10, 2009 at 10:49 am 1 comment

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