The Assistant District Attorney dropped all the charges when she finally realized my ex-wife was lying. Then she did nothing to help redeem my stolen life. Now it’s my turn. Perhaps I’ll begin by spanking her raw…

Guess what my ex-wife has done? You know, Stephanie Blatt: The satanette from the other side of midnight. The reason G-d made bourbon. And living proof that exorcism doesn’t work.

Stephanie has gone off, run away, disappeared with our congenitally, very ill teenage son.

Hmm…be still my machete.

Now, guess what the Assistant District Attorney Cathleen E. Thurston, has done?

Same thing she did last time. And the time before that.

Absolutely nothing.

Except jail and threaten me with charges she keeps forgetting she already dropped after she finally figured out that 1 and 1 is not 11.  Obviously, duh wooman has been swimming in the shallow end of the gene pool far too long.

Even Helen Keller could see – and hear – that my ex-wife downright lied — to Ms. Thurston, to me, to the police, to the courts, to all my ex-friends, to all my relatives, to all her relatives, to any stray dog passing by…pretty much to every animal, mineral and vegetable east of Hawaii.

But did the ADA, Ms. Cathleen E. Thurston, charge my ex, Stephanie Blatt, with anything?

Of course not.

With the inert brains of a doorstop, Mizerable Thurston is obviously wretched in her conviction that if men ain’t guilty of something now, they’ll be guilty of something else, later. To her, men are always guilty. That is, according to her version of original sin.

So, guess what I am going to do?

Oh, don’t fret. I’m not going to kill the she-wolves. Instead, I’ll be meting out justice that is much more satisfying — like a deeply meaningful, overnight relationship.

I may begin by spanking the insolent, supercilious Mizerable Thurston until her ever-widening, pasty, hippo butt is too black and blue to squeeze into one of her polyester pant suits. It could even make the ride to her suburban home, in her rite-of-passage BMW, a tad less comfortable than I was when she wrongfully threw me in jail where some of my teeth were punched out.

Hmm… Make that damn uncomfortable. Unless, of course, she is the type that loves rough sex.

Whatever… I could care less. Her sentence on this penal colony is just about to get intensified. And it’s bloody well time. I ain’t  playing no more…especially by anybody’s rules.

I played by Mizerable’s rules. I played by my lawyers’ rules. I played by the cops’ rules. I even played by my ex- wife Stephanie Blatt’s nauseous rules.

No more. No mas. Beware of the rage of a patient man.

Look what it has cost me: my family; every last vestige of my possessions that Stephanie had stolen and sold; my dignity; my honor; my fair-weather friends….

This goes on. And on.  And no one cares, because I have enabled them not to care. Especially that Assistant District Attorney Cathleen E.Thurston.

With her haughty, sanctimonious attitude she wrongfully disobeyed all the rules and broke my life. Then she simply shrugged and uttered: Whoops, my bad.

And when I asked the bawdy belle of unscrupulous depravity for help in putting Humpty-Dumpty back together again – a shattered life that Mizerable Thurston dishonestly aided and abetted my wife in cracking apart — her haughty reply was: “Get a lawyer!”

Gee, I replied, I thought I was talking to one.


Remember, in this country DA’s are immune from their many, many egregious blunders. They are above the law – the same laws they so gleefully inflict on the rest of us. You can’t sue them. You can’t lock them in the outhouse. You can’t shake ‘n bake them on the rotisserie.

No more… There’s a new sheriff in town… And I’m wearing pointed-toe shit kicking boots.

Now I have absolutely no need to explain anything to anybody, whether it be friend or foe. Because those who matter, simply don’t mind. And those who mind, simply don’t matter.

What matters to me right now is some thread of justice in or out or even far out of our criminal, criminal justice system. Justice, as always, should not only be done; it should manifestly and undoubtedly be seen to be done.

And that ain’t gonna happen in a legal system corrupted by a bunch of venal, vapid vermin that represent the bubonic plague of the 21st century — namely lawyers.

And please don’t quiver with the pious spew that it is better in America than anywhere else.

That’s quite debatable. But it doesn’t matter. Ten times zero is still the same. We are here to establish precedent and set legal and moral standards — not lamebrain that we’re number 1. It comes down to morals and ethics, both of which have long been usurped by the inanity of man’s daily changing laws and legislation.

Can you be a little bit pregnant in America? And in our ‘righteous’ country, is torture wrong? We don’t stand on principle, we ain’t got none. We got lawyers nailing up on the barn door – like the pigs in ‘Animal Farm’ – the new rules de jour.

It all seems so obfuscating, especially for someone as Ms. Thurston whose wonderful brain starts working the moment she gets up in the morning and doesn’t stop until she gets into the office.

So, after spanking the cellulite out of Mizerable Thurston I’ll have to go about finding my wife, Stephanie Blatt, and son, Zakki, whom I haven’t seen in one year, six months, one week and six days….and counting.

For this, you can blame my wife. Blame me. But mostly blame our lawyers and legal system which is quick to do nothing except rack up billable hours.

Now you may be wondering why in the hell I would want to find Stephanie-the-terrible who has destroyed every particle of history and remnant of my life – of course with Mizerable Thurston’s assistance. And that would be a legitimate question.

Just understand that I ain’t singing no blues or sad country western music here. I can’t afford the emotional psychiatry.  All I can do is repeat what has become a recent mantra. It’s a bible verse: No matter where you will flee I will allow you to escape with your life.

Actually, I’m working overtime on that.

Right now I need to retrieve my life. I need peace of mind. I need to communicate with my son.

I need to seek justice. I mean, if not me, than whom? Who will do the job?

The ADA, Mizerable Thurston, not only refused to help me retrieve any iota of my life that Stephanie Blatt had stolen and hocked, she refused to listen to me that Stephanie has a mind of troubled waters.

Of course, she was perfectly willing to think the worst of me even though she and the court doctors were forced by Stephanie’s prevarications to pronounce me absolutely innocent. And, sadly, they determined that I am not crazy.

Aw, shucks, ma’am.

But Stephanie, I attempted to relate, has a frightened, more primitive, entangled mind. Unlike a parachute, it often doesn’t function even when it is opened.

What Stephanie needs is some sort of Scarlet Letter. She needs to be cattle-prodded like dumb animals, subjected to painful reminders and consequences.

Yes, I would be lying not to admit that I have fantasies of revenge. Afterall revenge does calm the pain of betrayal.

What is the worse for me is not only that Stephanie filed all those scurrilous charges. And that ADA Mizerable Thurston found all the time in the world to believe her without ever chatting with me. Or, checking on my wife’s prior history.

That’s terrible enough. What is worse is that Stephanie failed in her honor, duty and commitment  and word to set up visitations right for me and my son, Zakki.

After everyone – especially Mizerable Thurston — failed in what they (detectives and other ADAs)  promised to do when we were all gathered in the same room, they all raced back to hide in the fog of bureaucracy.

So, I was the one who lost my son, and all my possessions. I was the one who lost my teeth. I was the one who lost my home and family. I was the one who lost everything. And everyone else went skipping back to their lives.

Time has past. Mizerable Thurston has gone back to the halitosis of her suffering legal intellect. Stephanie has run off with Zakki to, no doubt, yet another man’s house for shelter.

And now I am the one stuck in time.  I have no one to blame but myself. For a period of time Stephanie had me convinced that I was nuts. Then after she overdosed me and I spent all that time recuperating in the hospital, everyone saw that the wrong person was under the microscope.

The DA’s office instructed me to get on with my life. I said thanks for nothing, and wondered aloud: What life do I have to get back to?

Wasn’t that just grand advice from people who have stolen your life.

Like I always say: I come in peace. Just don’t peece me off. Now you have. The rules apparently weren’t meant for everybody. And I don’t even want ‘em anymore. Now we’ll play by Drew’s view of all of you. I can only promise you this: It won’t be lawyers knocking on your door after midnight.

And dats yDrewIS on DIS penal colony.

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