“Plenty parents do no more more sexual ‘educating’ of their children than simply to disguise and hide sex–as fully as possible, for as long as possible…” –Sigmund Freud from The Sexual Enlightenment of Children (paraphrased)
To nearly all parents, the safety of their children is paramount. Yet when aiming to protect their children, although parents usually mean well, many often fall short in one area: under-protecting by settling on over-protection. In the minds of many parents, children must be kept so far from concepts of sexuality, even to an unrealistic degree. Long before and long after Sigmund Freud wrote of the supposed Sexual Enlightenment of Children, parents around the world have considered–and frequently obsessed over–how to control the sexuality of their children.
Protecting children via age-of-consent laws
Among the tools for parents to control and shape their children’s sexuality are age-of-consent laws. Such laws determine when a child can choose to have sex. Put another way, age-of-consent laws determine for how long parents have legal recourse against those who would defile the “purity” of the parents’ presumably non-sexual child. In matters of age-of-consent, the perspective amd preferences of the child holds virtually no legal weight.
Legality vs. Morality
Sexuality is often overly feared, and then overly controlled in the United States. Daughters are especially controlled. In hopes the highest control over sexuality, many US citizens assume 18 is a national age of legal consent. However, age-of-consent is not set at the federal level but rather typically at the State Government level*, and it ranges from 12 to 18 years of age, with the majority of states having 16 years as the age of legal consent for behavior deemed ‘sexual’.
*US national laws of age-consent are exceptional–including military personnel and traveling citizens, among others–and typically are set at 16 years of age.
Stifling children via age-of-consent laws
For many parents, widespread crushing of the illusion of control comes when the daughter crosses the imaginary age-of-consent line: then the parent must beg–instead of demanding–that their daughter have sexual self-control.
Here in San Diego California, the age-of-consent is 18. Yet by the time my own sister, Ingrid, was 15 years old, she had long since become a mini-tyrant and was routinely getting her unjust way from my expedient, busy parents–and she was having sex with several “overage” men. Among them was Stephen Fisher. At the time, Fisher was fifty-years-old, and he worked at, of all places, the District Attorney’s office of Paul Pfingst.
More than a few problems arose subsequent to my then-15 year old sister, Ingrid, having frequent sex with Fisher; among these was that Fisher’s girlfriend at the time was Karen Halloway, who, in addition to having been in her mid 40’s, is the mother–of the mother–of two of my children. Interestingly, although Halloway loathed Fisher for his role in the situation, and although the common thing in our culture would be to consider the young girl to be a victim, Halloway in no way considered my sister to be a victim. And rightly so: my sister was entirely in control of the situation. (By the way, Stephen Fisher has three testicles.) For my mom’s part, her aim was almost entirely on having Fisher controlled and punished, hoping this would effectively save Ingrid from herself. Above all else, my mom learned two things when trying to control Fisher in order to indirectly control my sister:
1. The office of Paul Pfingst was not at all interested in generating bad publicity by prosecuting one of its own employees for child-sex crimes, but rather told my mom very deliberate, calculated lies, saying effectively, “Hold off on that, and we will get back to you, because we are actually intending to prosecute Fisher on even more than that.” Months turned to years.
2. Though my mom’s tyrant daughter was having sex with a 50 year old–the man was only a symptom, while the tyranny of my sister was the actual disease…
Ingrid escapes with her 38-year-old ‘soul mate’
With the symptom Stephen Fisher out of the way, my mom tried many ploys to variously bribe and bully Ingrid into…well, not fucking grown-ups. It did not work. Ingrid, still 15, found another ‘soul mate’–this time, a 38 year old. After “kidnapping” my (complicit) sister and taking her down to Mexico, the 38-year-old symptom was surely thought to be the disease. However, my sister, tyrannical as ever, was glad to be with him.
From Mexico, with love
After a week or so of panic from my parents, and a week or so of soul-mate-sex, my sister decided to visit her “old life.” I picked her up in Rosarito, Mexico, where she had been holed up (and dug out) for the duration of her “kidnapping.” For her visit, she had made stealthy plans with me–I was the only one she could trust. Of course she could trust me to facilitate her utter bullshit: I was, after all, the “crazy, bad” brother. (Actually she had misunderstood me: I was never “bad” or “crazy;” I just never capitulated with our family’s Mormon religion. I considered it then–just as I consider it now–to be completely hypocritical, nonsensical and, in many respects, manifestly evil–especially insofar as it inculcates a truly staggering degree of self-deception and “doublethink” in its practitioners.)
So Ingrid enlisted me to chauffeur her from her soul-mate in Mexico to the cage in San Diego from which she had previously fled, in order for her to visit some family and friends, especially her best friend, Jaime Beach*. Then I was to take Ingrid back to her hideout. At least that was the theory…
*About Jaime Beach: if California were one of the 31 states with an age-of-consent of 16 then I could safely say that I envy the active Mormon missionaries, whose respective dicks Jaime Beach sucked, rode and milked, when she was 16. If only I were in one of the 31 other states, then I’d say those were some lucky guys!–instead of spreading the good word, these lucky missionaries were spreading their seed all over–and in–Jaime Beach, while she was in her amazing, fresh-faced prime. Oh well, now she’s a fat and silly-looking 2 out of 10 on the scale of looks. And what do you know: she managed to “find God,” and “fell in love” with a “stable guy”–JUST AS her looks (thus her access to socially-subsidized tyranny) had began fading. C’est la stratégie.
If you happen to ever read this, I dedicate the following song to you, as a conclusion to our conversations–prior to this article–where you told me all about how offensive I am, especially towards your religion:
Partners in crime reunited
One evening, when Ingrid and Jaime were 16-year-olds, I returned to my dad’s home on Lakeview Drive in Lakeside to find Jared Downing, an “overage” US Marine, laying on top of Ingrid, having freshly spent himself inside her. Jaime had helped coordinate that, but had apparently gone elsewhere to receive pelvic thrusts and seed from a different overage marine. A year later, Debbie and Bryan Beach, the parents of Jaime, would threaten legal action against Eric, another of Jaime’s sex-objects, if he did not stop giving Jaime her way: his dick.
As young teens, my sister Ingrid and Jaime Beach often covered for, and coordinated with, each other to troll for dick. I’m sure that, at the time, they imagined it as more romantic and exciting than that, but really they would simply troll for dick.
After a previously slutty and tyrannical girl feels the weight of the world’s expectations fall on her all at once, after her 4 to 6 years of hotness fade, she often adapts, just as Jaime Beach had done by the time Ingrid and I drove up from Mexico, to visit the Beach family: Jaime had “fallen in love” with a “stable guy,” had re-found God, and especially had began reordering her narcissism–away from willful sexual-indiscretion and towards self-righteous God-touting.
Ingrid and I turned up the gray driveway towards the Beach’s white home. At the end of that steep, short driveway hung a handful of white faces, grayed by concern for the slut-tyrant, the victim–my sister, Ingrid. She and I pulled up to meet the family whom my family had known for decades. The tangled and tittering semi-circle variously slumped and stiffened, clamoring somewhat in unison, somewhat in waves–all talking through teeth. There, I saw a waning cadre whose tactless, tell-tale tension was alike a troop of US marines pretending not to have tons of gay tendencies. The glory days had certainly passed by the Beach parents–days of believing that they had been keeping their daughters in self-loathing, anti-sex mental-headlocks. Reality had disillusioned.
Tears were shed, and subtle begging ensued, but no one dared to demand that Ingrid cease her stupidity. They knew better than even to intimate that they may hold Ingrid to a standard. Instead, liars exchanged inane niceties, and as quick as we came (and the missionaries had come inside Jaime, months prior), we were set to leave from our visit with the Beach family.
Before departing, Ingrid and I made our rounds with the semi-circle of Beaches: Ingrid was hugging; I was handshaking, as is proper for someone who, by their gender, is typically denied intimacy save for exceptional, sexual cases. Jaime was the last person that I came to, her beautiful eyes and flawless face had been made all the more perfect by the heightened realness of her tears. It all was nothing to me: she and I both knew that, no matter her present regret, she was integral in creating and bolstering the tyrannical slut whom I was about to return to Mexico, on to the waiting dick of a 38 year old soul-mate. Or so that was the theory. When I shook Jaime’s soft, delicate hand, I leaned in and, against my better judgment, offered her some consolation: “Don’t worry: Ingrid is NOT going back to Mexico.”
Upon hearing this, Jaime started bawling, and, against HER better judgment, through gasps of relief, panted, “Thank you! Oh thank you!” She pulled me closed and hugged me tight, her heavy, perfect breasts and tight, soft abdomen pressed carelessly, awesomely against me–this was an exceptional situation and so, though I was a man, I was being rewarded with the intimacy for which so many men beg and die. My penis stiffened.
It was nothing to me.
“Settle down, dude! You’re going to blow my cover,” I demanded of Jaime, in my stern and silly way.
Ingrid and I got in our car and slowly pulled out of the Beach’s driveway, much like the spent penises of various panting missionaries had slowly pulled out from the vagina of Jamie Beach–okay, I’ll stop.
To Mexico! Via 5… North? Wait. That can’t be right.
We left Lakeside, passed through El Cajon and headed towards the coast. By the time we were halfway down the 8 West, on our way to highway 5, Ingrid was over her sentimental phase, and was back in tyrant mode: slumped confidently in the passenger seat, she prattled on about nothing with all the undeserved confidence of a tag-along lady warrior vicariously celebrating the killing of some male–by some male warrior–as if the kill were her own. I then reflected on the peculiar plight of every brother: how could anyone be blinded by the supposed “sex-appeal” of my goofy kid-sister? (And what a hypocrite I was–surely I had likewise blinded myself to the goofiness of other brothers’ kid-sisters…and their mothers…and grandmothers #prolificRuss.)
By our culture, and especially our parents, Ingrid had learned to be aimless, self-centered and in many ways ridiculous, still, she was and is nothing if not perceptive: in almost no time, she realized that we were headed in the opposite direction of Mexico. What came next was the kryptonite of every bad cop who has ever overlooked a DUI by an attractive woman, the Achilles Heel of every bad parent who has made continuous exceptions for an unruly daughter–the arch-enemy of justice in so many weak-minded people: the girl began to cry.
Not only did she cry but also wail, and scream, and beg, and demand. Apparently, she took me for a bad cop, or a bad parent, or a weak-minded person.
I imagine that psychopathic US snipers cry in Iraq when they miss a good head shot; I imagine that a man who shoots his wife and children cries as he turns the gun on himself; I imagine a disappointed teenager in a hot bathtub, cutting their wrists, then changing their mind, then trying–impossibly–to sweep diluted blood back into their body. Such a child would probably cry too. From that frame of reference, I remained unsympathetic to the crocodile tears of my slut-tyrant sister, as she begged for me to put her back on the dick of her soul-mate. Not going to happen: sometimes, you have to give someone what they need, even when it is not what they want.
I left my heart in…Yuma?
I am to be commended for my ordeal with my slutty sister! Not necessarily for being the real person that I am, thereby helping her to think we could be partners in her crime of idiocy, since she had considered herself “real;” nor should I be necessarily commended for weathering her subsequent begging throughout our trip from California to my mom’s family in Alabama; nor should I necessarily be commended for weathering the eventual threats from her kid-fucking soul-mate, or the amazing apathy of my extended family in Georgia and Alabama, when Ingrid and I came to them. I need not even be commended because I drove across country with a tedious, angry, weeping slut-tyrant: I should be commended simply because I drove across the country whatsoever. I HATE DRIVING ACROSS COUNTRY! I find extended road-trips SO uncomfortable, unless I am in an exceptionally comfortable car–and we were in my brother’s late 80’s Celica. It. was. hell.
Straight out of California, we took highway 8 to Arizona. Yuma is terrible–hot and desolate. Yet even in the chaos of its climate, there is a distinctly US feel to it. By that, I mean that priorities seem so shitty that I imagine even as they worry about having enough drinking water in that damn desert, the citizens of Yuma, and Arizona generally, probably worry just as much that the intense sun will cause them to sweat, then evoke the bane of our culture: body-odor. In our culture, many believe that mammals who mask their scent are somehow “better.” If you can’t smell it then it’s not there: ignorance is evolutionary transcendence. To be sure, no Arizonians posited such a notion, yet their respective and collective gaits, cadences, and countenances reflected disdain for the natural world, with all the natural world’s pungent reality.
Really, I distinctly remember only two things of our trip across the US, and both were in Arizona. First, I recall pulling off the freeway in Yuma and passing a hitchhiking woman who was conspicuously well-dressed for being a hitchhiker. Then, as we got closer, her leather face and tightened scowl told me that she was old, had lived in the sun all her life, was drug-addicted, and, by her facial-posture, I believed that she intended to trade her holes for money, trade the money for drugs, trade the fleeting euphoria of a high for the frustration of reality–she had become accustomed to trading her life for a living death.
The last road before leaving Yuma to go East was really long, as the city recedes into desert–but just before the on-ramp to get out of town, we came upon a long-abandoned gas-station (nothing like those missionaries came upon Jaime’s chest and face). An island of two gas-pumps sported red-and-white logos, which had mostly shrunken and fallen to the ground, by the patient rage of the sun. In the shade of the ceiling, Ingrid and I sat, petting a fine dog.
Finding that wandering dog was the second thing that I remember from our trip. The dog was a brave and handsome pup. Such a handsome and brave pup was he (or she)! It was tan with a white chest-tuft, fox-like, and had hair (not fur) so it would not shed (forgive me for that, but I grew up working in pet-stores and the “hair, not fur” remark is a big hit with customers who want less pet mess). We fed the brave pup some of our more bread-based snacks, and pet it liberally, yet after its brief and brave visit with us, it wandered back into the harsh sun. The entire transaction then faded away, like the youth and sexual-marketability of the prostitute at the off-ramp. She was no Ingrid Lindquist: she clearly never had a brother like me–nor anyone else to save her from herself.
Sweet home-away-from-home, Alabama
Besides the dog and prostitute in Arizona, and a general sense of my sister having whined for the 3,000 miles, our trip to my mom’s family in Alabama was a blur. Vivid, then and now, however, was both my relief at arriving in Georgia, at first the home of my aunt Patsy, then at the home of my cousin, Jennifer. The latter touched the situation with a ten foot pole; the former would not even do that.
So it was not until scrambling past a few apathetic relatives, with bitch-princess Ingrid in tow, that the travel chapter of our trip came to an end.
While in Alabama, we stayed in the childhood home of my mom and her 7 siblings. At that time, only my mom’s youngest brother remained–the matrimonially molsted and financially fucked Danny Worthy. He is a great guy; investing in the wrong women was his downfall.
Over the next several weeks, I worked a whole lot, spreading about 70 hours in a week between three jobs. Also, I had sex with several women, including more than one 16-year-old. Don’t worry, I was not an insane child-molester: Alabama is one of the 31 states wherein the age-of-consent is 16.
Ingrid spent her time mostly on the phone with her soul-mate, re-avowing her love for him, and sharing hateful gossip with him about me. He was very mad at me. Interesting to me is that, back then, nearly no one had cell-phones, yet I keep reminding myself that Ingrid was not gossiping with her soul-mate, throughout the trip, via cell-phone.
Looking back now, two relatively strange events in my life bear a striking resemblance to each other, on a principle level:
Eleven or so years ago, my then-15-year-old sister’s then-38-year-old soul-mate spoke violently to and about me, for my having indefinitely deprived him of Ingrid’s set of tight, underage holes; I compare his anger to that of Stephen Beckwith–the guy who, after becoming fuck-buddies with my then-wife, Debra Hills, had come with Debra, one night at 1am to harass me, even as my son and daughter were asleep with me in the apartment. The connection between the two is this: just as the 38-year-old kid-fucker had thought he wanted to be brutalized by stepping to me, so too did Stephen Beckwith actually give me his impression of a “tough guy,” the night that he came with Debra to harass me. In both cases, I was quite taken aback: how could either of these sexual-retards believe that they stood a chance against me?–especially Beckwith: I was up in my apartment, with my 4-year-old son Aiden and my 5-year-old daughter Athena. With even marginal analysis, Beckwith should have known that I would have sooner fed him his tough eyes than be intimidate by them.
I don’t know if Beckwith has yet been exposed to my analysis of the situation, but I’d frame it like this: if someone were compromising or even endangering Beckwith’s (sexy as hell) daughter, Daniela Pelayo, certainly he would not pause to worry about any tough face made by the person but rather, as a father, would tear right through the danger.
Exodus back to San Diego (featuring Bob Donohue)
Last year, in 2010, Ingrid disowned me as a family member, for my grudgingly having used medical-marijuana to mitigate pain from my wisdom teeth that had been making me delirious. A decade sooner, I had saved Ingrid from herself, taking her from her hide-out in Mexico, helping her to detox her a bit in Alabama. Last year, Jaime disowned me as an acquaintance, for what my having “written things in previous blogs” with which she disagreed religiously. I guess it could be worse: Jaime could have disowned me back when she was hot.
Oddly enough, both former-sluts-turned-expediently-religious are on good terms with my one-time father-in-law, Bob Donohue–a pedophile and fan of transexual-themed pornography whose indiscretions include having made several sexual advances towards my sister Beverly when she was around 10-years-old, acts which Beverly kept to herself–whether out of fear, shame or both–until many years later. (Update: Beverly and Donohue have apparently made amends, and now, if facebook is any indication, the two are actually “friends”.)
Donohue was married to my mom, both when my sister left to, and returned from, her escapade with the 38-year-old supposed soul-mate, and it remains unclear the extent to which Donohue’s sexual-retardation contributed to Ingrid’s sexual-retardation and desire to escape.
(One thing is sure: Donohue recently took on the role as employment-adviser for me, on behalf of LDS jobs–this, after I was effectively denied social services by President Richard Larson, for my having disclosed, at a meeting to discuss solutions to my homelessness, my misgivings as to the efficacy of moral teaching by the Mormons whom I have known. In a masterful stroke of irony and hypocrisy, Larson shifted from, “We need to figure out your ward, to know how best to help you with funds,” into, “Well, uh, try to find someone to stay with, and try to find a job via LDS jobs.” Larson professed to me his faith in prejudice, saying in effect that people would not be off-base to judge me by my tattoos. Meanwhile, Donohue is set to help me find work. If I were a transsexual, Donohue would probably pay me to jerk off for him. Update: Donohue, the tranny-lover who tried to molest at least one of my sisters when she was 10 years-old, ‘warned’ the LDS employment services about me. Ah, Mormons.)
Imaginary line crossed: paid for holes
Within a few months of being tearfully welcomed as the prodigal child, Ingrid was old news. Thereafter, she began working as a prostitute. The prostitution was called “adult film,” which means that someone paid my sister money (and drugs) in exchange for her fucking them and their friends; it was legal because she signed a “model release” form, before each dicking, and thus the prostitution legal constituted “art.” C’est l’hypocrisie.
Her employer for prostitution, Manny, even came to my mom’s house for dinner a few times, as Ingrid’s “boyfriend.” More than once, he invited me up to LA with them. Years after having declined that, I have seen videos of Manny fucking some of the most famous pornstars in the world, including Silvia Saint! Eh, so I missed out on possibly fucking Silvia Saint–I’ve been through worse.
Come to find out, my sister, stage name Paris Showers, even shared a room with Sylvia, while up in LA. Also, she did lots of meth with Manny. In fact, although neither pleading by my mom nor general sentimentality could get self-righteous Ingrid to stop fucking for money and doing lots of drugs–one particular meth-binge did the trick. So…thank God for crystal meth.
One night, my mom received a phone-call from Ingrid. Ingrid was up in LA. She and Manny were on meth. Manny was holding a gun to one side of his head, and holding Ingrid’s head to the other side, saying he was going to shoot through both heads, and that they would die together.
As a result of that reality-check, Ingrid yet again accepted the victim-status afforded her by so many; I could never afford her such a status because I had gone with her, now and then, when she would cash the big-ass checks that she got for taking cock.
Thence Ingrid retreated back into the inconstant arms of her fickle fan-club in San Diego, who indeed subsequently saved from her own stupid choices, shielding Ingrid, yet again, from introspection. Then she birthed Trenton, presumably the son of Manny.
Black guys, killer whales and evermore subsidy
Not long after Ingrid begged me to return her to her 38-year-old, we were in Alabama. Soon after that, she rejoined our family in California; then she made a pit-stop into prostitution and drugs.
Manny fell by the wayside; Ingrid let him fall. As a newly crowned “single mother,” Ingrid did what so many other single mothers do in this culture: continue their self-worship, in stride, by shifting the object of the worship to the child–HER child. (This is a clever tool, used by so many women in our culture as a means to enjoy lifelong self-worship. Of course, it inevitably backfires when the children despise the mother for her spiritual-poison, but hey: that is why she has the “baby-daddy”–as a scapegoat topic, to extend a child’s inability to judge their mother as the shit-parent that she was.)
Ingrid took a job at Sea World. There, she met a black guy. He became the next symptom, and Ingrid began listening to rap. Of course she did–what is a woman’s role but to mimic the man to whom she clings for social-safety? As is typical, in our culture, of many black guys with low self-esteem who date white women, the black guy began the relationship very passively, impossibly mistaking Ingrid as venerable, when she was much closer to venereal. C’est la jungle-fever. Passivity turned to passive-aggressiveness, then to aggressiveness, and Ingrid once again escaped a symptom.
After that, she moved in with me, my then-girlfriend/eventual-wife/now-ex-wife Debra Hills and our very tiny baby, Athena. Ingrid was never around, and only once paid rent–a fraction of her share. Deb was supremely patient with Ingrid, and handled all the finances impressively, all things considered.
Mormons: all packaging, no contents
While Ingrid was leeching off Deb, our brother Randy was in haste, trying to get Ingrid fully away from the black guy (whom Ingrid continued to fuck).
Strictly speaking, Randy is a popular and beloved Elder in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. Figuratively speaking, Randy is an unprincipled bucket of shit. He and Patriarch Bob Danes sell jewelry to US military veterans at VA hospitals. These are mentally broken men with spiritual vertigo: I mean both the veterans as well as Bob and Randy, the jewelry hustlers. Also, Randy impossibly is the only sibling of our family to have lost his job for drinking, and he once cut loose a great girl named Katie, after receiving plenty oral-sex, simply because, according to Randy, Katie had a brain-tumor, and he did not want to end up having kids with “a girl that could drop dead any second.” #SpiritualityFail. Eventually, Randy’s lack of principle paid off and he “fell in love” with another Katie–a better Katie: a Katie with no brain tumors and lots of money (or “no money, because it’s just my parents,” as rich kids like her tend to say, so as to hypocritically deny the idea that life has been handed to them).
So Randy, by his shit-principles, set out to save Ingrid from the black guy that she met at Sea World. While still leeching off of Deb, during increasingly difficult financial times, Ingrid began dating Richard Smith, a “nice Mormon guy,” recruited by Randy. They instantly fell in love–she fell in love with his stability, and he, as a fat and desperate fellow, fell in love with the thought of fucking the kind of girl whom, all his life, he’d considered out of his league: any girl whatsoever. C’est la faux romance.
Thereafter, Randy the Mormon-relationship fairy, went back to peddling jewelry to shell-shocked veterans, and surfing his days away with his tumor-less Katie.
While taking a break from formatting this writing, and trying to find a hook–some hook to bring me from the narrative about Ingrid back into the theme of age-of-consent-laws, I called my mom, to verify the name of Stephen Beckwith’s daughter, Daniela. (I kept thinking it was “Nicola.”) I mentioned a bit of the story that I was writing, to give my mom a sense of why I had randomly called up asking about Beckwith’s (sexy as hell) daughter. Then, my hook appeared.
I did not get far into reading before my mom blurted a defense of Ingrid’s idiotic, sex-crazed past. And it was a hell of a defense: Tommy Selbe had raped Ingrid, according to Ingrid, when she was 11-years-old.
Tommy Selbe is the older brother of my mom’s friend, Jesse Miller. Selbe, a San Antonio Texas resident, according to the public elements of his facebook page, was in his mid 40’s when he allegedly raped my then-11-year-old sister. Further, on his facebook page are the mentions that he likes The Book of Mormon, the Mormon Tabernacle Choice–and Lil’ Wayne. Mormons are nothing, if not spiritually schizophrenic.
When my mom told me what Ingrid had told her–that Tommy Selbe had raped her when she was 11-years-old, immediately I thought of all the maniacs who would demand that Selbe be castrated, lynched, etc. Then, as is my way, I imagined Selbe as he quite possibly was at one time: a frightened child? a humiliated teen? a miserable adult?–likely, himself, the victim of sexual-abuse, at some point in his life.
Ingrid, it turns out, should have gotten a lot of help, a lot sooner in life; instead, she got endless placation. Now, she will likely stumble through the rest of her life as a self-righteous perpetual-victim-of-childhood who, because of what she ‘went through’, can do no wrong: more placation. Either that, or she might end up getting real help; but last I heard, she is still Mormon, and those people are usually too busy to really help anyone–too busy being gleefully, aimlessly evil.
As for me: I’m updating this blog today, 7/16/2014, as a guest at a shack in Tijuana. Nevertheless, on my abdomen is carved “The Perils of Obedience,” the title of the published research from the famous Milgram experiment. The synopsis: ordinary people, put in extraordinary circumstances, will act extraordinarily. So my advice to the parents of unruly children: call others demons all that you care to; rely on the coercion of age-of-consent laws to control your bratty daughters; but remember: no law can prevent the meticulous intent of our society’s destroyed and destructive children.
Oh, and you can shoot the messenger–but the message is bulletproof.