I don’t understand how a man — like me, for instance — would dare to enter one of his ex-wives’ houses — invited or not — without a video camera, tape recorder and an elephant gun. And that’s just so the pot-bellied cops and duh DA’s could get their donut heads around some unequivocal, empirical evidence.
Therefore, how the heck am I supposed to understand how a man, 62-years-old, but looks much-much older, steps out of a shower, and immediately and allegedly tries to “forcibly rape” (is there any other kind?) the hotel chambermaid who, for some reason, has come to clean his $3,000 a day room before he has checked out?
Then, the story goes, she frees herself from his clasp. And flees the suite.
Yet, the butt-naked Frenchman, with, the putative heart of a 12-year-old, pursues this West African woman from Guinea, who is half his age, down the hall. Drags her all the way back to his room, (perhaps to clean it?… Oui?) and ‘forces’ her to perform oral sex.
Uh-huh….. I gotta start drinking more before breakfast.
Is this supposed to be one of Arnold Schwarzenegger’s “True Lies”?
Look. All creditability stops here: No man sticks his winkie into an alligator’s mouth.
Unless he’s done with it.
But, of course!
Something — make that a lot of things — just don’t taste right, look right or feel right about this ordeal buzzing around the half-free world concerning this Dominique-the-IMF-chief-does-the-Sofitel-hotel-maid.
In case you’ve been sick or drinking abroad, I am talking about this Frenchman, Dominique Strauss-Kahn, who was all but forced to resign as managing director of the International Monetary Fund — where apparently he was doing a pretty darn good withdrawal-and-deposit job.
I’ve got a lot of dark suspicions. Maybe they come from so many lawyers staking their ambitions and political careers on making somebody else miserable. Innocence is just another objection.
Like the infamous case a couple years back at Duke University. That stripper in the fraternity accused several of the lacrosse players of some sort of deviant sex. Turns out she was lying. The District Attorney had all these political ambitions. And he lied and withheld evidence. Even 100 of those Duke ‘open-minded’ professors had signed all these petitions against the accused students before they were absolutely exonerated.
Tsk-tsk. What a mess the law made of everybody’s life. It ain’t the first, and definitely won’t be the last time a District Attorney or an Assistant lied, cheated, robbed, raped and stolen a bunch of evidence to railroad somebody. Everybody’s got an ulterior motive. Hell, everybody lies.
The trouble is, the law stipulates we can’t sue the DA’s office in this here country. We can sue doctors, and engineers and husbands. But we can’t be suing no stupid, lying, dirty-dealing DA with a pernicious plan.
Hmmm. But enough about that for just-a-moment.
I want to share a slice of my personal story. It assaults me, and still whacks me awake in the darkest of nights. Now it has been reawakened in the fever of this Strauss-Kahn and the chambermaid’s schadenfreude de jour in the New York Sofitel Hotel.
So listen up! This is the juice that makes men go mad. And mad men go everywhere.
Just over a year ago, almost precisely, my future ex-wife, Stephanie Blatt, called the police. It was only a few hours after we had had an argument and I had long left our apartment for an early morning meeting. I know this, because when I returned some 5 hours later to hopefully ‘discuss’ matters further, the men overstuffed in their blue uniforms, greeted me with a gangbang.
It felt like I was being pummeled by entire Bolivian Army mistaking me for Butch Cassidy — without the Sundance Kid around. And let me tell you: Any kind of dialogue with a police posse of 12-angry ex-altar boys is not something that resembles any serious group therapy.
Apparently my mentally-challenged wife had communicated a frighteningly compelling story that included all sorts of felonies and physical abuses on my part.
She had done this in one form or fashion a number of times before. But, naturally, no one bothered to check. Even at my urging. She didn’t even exhibit any abrasions or insignificant wounds. To do that means she would have had to mar the sanctity of her perfect, petite carnal cathedral.
And since the police enjoyed putting in an easy shift, staring out through my expansive top floor windows, no one was getting his feet off the Ottoman to do a little police work.
And the Assistant District Attorney, Ms. (I think that stands for ‘miserable’) Cathleen E. Thurston just kept spewing out the charges from her distant computer.
She never talked to me. She never asked if anyone was opposed to this miscarriage of sophistry. She didn’t do nada except what most lawyers do – not seek solutions or solve problems — but spew nothing but paperwork profitable and beneficial for nobody but duh lawyers.
In fact, as far as anyone around the courthouse knew, the only thing Ms. Thurston actually did was wear an assortment of bland pant suits, expurgated of any color, and proudly drive her “rite-of-passage” BMW out to the suburbs.
So skinny-minny me was handcuffed to do the perp walk through the lobby of my building. This assured everyone that I was guilty – of something besides wearing a bad Halloween mask.
Then I spent a night in jail without being interviewed by anybody—even though the detectives has ‘promised’ they would get to me right after they talked to the plaintiff – that being my dear, sweet future-ex-wife.
Alas, after a dank, shivering night I was dragged off to one of Philadelphia’s gulag prisons. This wasn’t New York’s Rikers Island. But it was close enough for government work.
And there I was. For the next six disconnected days and horrible resonating nights. I lost two teeth in the shower on a free dental plan by some toughs demanding to know: “What you doing in our shower, blanco?”
But the worst part was having to wear that uniform — such a terrible shade of orange. It didn’t go with my natural coloring at all. Little did I know that in the very near future the sight of ‘Miserable’ Thurston’s pant suits would cause me similar post traumatic distress.
Finally someone paid my bail. I didn’t know who. I didn’t know anyone’s number since they were in a now long-dead cell phone the prison had absconded.
I roamed the streets for days. Then appeared for an early morning preliminary court hearing. With a court appointed lawyer. Or maybe it took two of them to equal one.
Why I needed to be at a preliminary hearing, no-one, not even one of the overcoifed attorneys knew. Hell, not even the senior judge I appeared before. She told me, during our 55 intimate seconds, to keep doing what I was already doing, and go to any meetings I may or may not be going to. And be sure to take any pills I wasn’t already taking. And, to keep my hair cut. And my nose out of the arena requiring any proctology.
I could clearly see why she no doubt required 12 years to graduate a 3-year law school. My lawyers seemed to think all this was perfectly sane. Suddenly I yearned to don my orange overalls and leap back into the wonderfully insane asylum where I could be the King of Hearts.
As my lawyers and I were departing we bumped into “Miserable” Thurston in the expansive hallways. We courteously shook hands and I was informed that she had sought — but failed — to raise my bail. Now, of course, that would have been most helpful.
I inquired if she felt it necessary, as a vital point of insightful law and order, to hear my version of my wife’s, Stephanie Blatt’s, specious apocryphal story. She all but said no, let’s just waste more of the court’s overcrowded time. She doesn’t get paid for justice. She gets paid to demonstrate that she has the authority to make people miserable. And fear her.
So I said to the fairly discomfited lady: I can see what lawyers, like yourself, must use for birth control……. Your personality.
So I roamed the streets, darting from shadow to shadow for the next couple of weeks. All the while an insidious future-ex Stephanie worked overtime to spread her word — to any animal, mineral or dog that would curiously tilt its head.
Then my lawyer, now with disturbingly close-cropped hair, received a phone call from Ms. Thurston. She had had enough of my ex-mon amie, Stephanie.
Wow! We finally had something in common – besides our tasteless pant suits.
It seems that my dear little ‘para-mower’ (Stephanie, that is) had been making ‘Miserable’ Thurston even more miserable with phone calls, faxes, e-mails, un-scheduled visits and messages.
Welcome to my hell, Miss Piggy.
It’s no secret that Stephanie never had much to say for herself, but she never got tired of saying it — especially with a bibliography of other people’s works that she may or may not have read, but nonetheless didn’t comprehend.
But ‘Miserable’ Thurston had decided that she no longer believed Stephanie. That doesn’t mean she necessarily believed me. But let’s connect the very few neurons between the bawdy miserable belle’s ears: If you don’t believe Stephanie and you’ve never listened to any version of my story to believe or disbelieve, then why are we here in the first place?
So a precedent was set at the DA’s. They had never had a meeting like this with several DA’s and departments cooperating to resolve a matter that really shouldn’t have been a matter to anyone but the haunted and crippled mind of Stephanie.
Yet, I was later informed by journalist friends that I was lucky, or at least basking in the fortuitous glow of the golden arches. They said that guys often stay in prison long past acquiring another venereal disease, even if their wives have long recanted their testimony. You know: “I lied. He didn’t do it.”
At the meeting Stephanie made all sorts of promises. That she never kept. And Miserable Thurston decided to wash her hands of the whole matter by withdrawing the charges against me.
Puff! Yesterday I’m a Most Wanted. And today I am most embarrassing – especially to the DA’s office.
Meanwhile what about all my things Stephanie had destroyed in the preceding and ensuing weeks? She emptied the banks. Took the car. And what about my two broken teeth? And all the time I had lost? And all my possessions – like paintings — she had stolen? And my handwritten manuscripts? And passports? And what about the relationships with family and friends she worked overtime on damaging? What about my general humiliation?
All this was aided and abetted in my absence by the incompetence, arrogance and thorough haughtiness of Miserable Thurston and her criminal, criminal justice system that wants you to be so politically correct you might as well be transgendered. (Which she could well be.)
And what did Miserable bark at me when I sought her help in setting matters somewhat straight: “Get a lawyer!”
And when I wrote her an e-mail seeking her political assistance in getting my “stuff” back and my teeth fixed, she replied only that if I wrote her another note she would turn them over to the police.
Hmm…no doubt another reason why I don’t own a gun.
As I said at the beginning, this was just a slice of my torture. Our “system” of justice is fraught with ambitious people of solipsistic petulance. They torture us for their self benefit as well as to benefit friends and cronies and careers.
Which brings us to our IMF director, Dominique Strauss-Kahn. Nothing is as it appears. And yet everything is precisely the way we perceive, or ‘led’ to believe.
When something doesn’t look right, smell right, taste right or feel right you know there’s a lot of money and careers in the tanks of aspiration. Just like those porky-pig cops should have noticed when sitting with their feet up on my Ottoman.
Now I have all sorts of questions about this affaire de jour. Maybe the DNA will answer some of them. I hope someone is telling at least an approximation of the truth. I doubt it.
But none of this seems kosher. The purported victim’s lawyer is portraying her as a Madonna, jubilant with her job, and innocent as the child she brought into the world at age 16.
The ADA has the accused guiltier than all of Wall Street derivative mortgages that destroyed millions of lives. Oh, yes, but none of those bankers have been handcuffed and done the required perp walk to jail, have they?
They’ve got this French guy chained and shackled. And exposed to the world as the new king of the beasts of prey. His life is ruined even if he’s found innocent. And what chance does he have of that, even if he actually is innocent?
Now after Rikers, he sits in a New York apartment, under armed guard and with an monitoring ankle bracelet. What duh hell did he do? Is his name Bush and Dick and Sodomites who bankrupted our entire country? And they’re sitting fancy free.
He is only accused – not convicted. Yeah, right. Let’s get real: What happens in Vegas don’t stay in Vegas no mo’.
This is absolutely insane. But hell, we get what we ask for. Anything to distract us — not from the end of the world, but the end of our world that has been stolen from us. Because the rest of us were too busy watching football.
Strauss-Kahn is a seducer, not a groper like Schwarzenegger. Is that a crime to actually like to do what we all like to do – seduce one another? The world’s economy is based upon it. In case you pompous idiots didn’t realize.
If you are a prurient, good. It keeps boosting the stock prices of companies that produce the batteries you use in your late night joy toys.
Look. I hope I am wrong. I pray that somebody is telling the truth here. Yeah, probably something happened in that room. But nothing as bad we are led to believe. In fact, probably nothing as bad as the people who have something to gain personally are saying.
Certainly, it was nothing as bad as what happened to me. And certainly nothing as bad as what is destroying what remains of an aging Frenchman’s productive life. His name ain’t Dreyfus. But it could end up to be.
And dats yDrewIS on this penal colony.