Suicide Saves Us Money (or I read Salon so you don’t have to)

In a breathtakingly brilliant move, the VA is sending letters to mentally traumatized veterans telling them that their benefits are going to be under review, again.

Ron Nesler, for instance, received

a letter from the V.A. saying that his file was one of those in its review. He said the letter left him shocked, angry and afraid. The letter warns that “confirmation” of his mental wounds “had not been established” and that his file at the V.A. “does not establish that the event described by you occurred nor does the evidence in the file establish that you were present when a stressful event occurred.” (The V.A. recently determined, again, that Nesler’s claims are legitimate.)

Nesler then correctly predicted “It is my educated opinion that [the V.A.] will kill some people with this. They will either kill themselves or die from stroke.”

And look here:

On Oct. 8, Greg Morris, 57, was found by his wife, Ginger, in their home in Chama, N.M., an old mining town of 1,250 in the Rocky Mountains. Lying at Morris’ side were a gun and his Purple Heart medal. For years, Morris had been receiving monthly V.A. benefits in compensation for post-traumatic stress disorder. Next to his gun and Purple Heart was a folder of information on how the V.A. planned to review veterans who received PTSD checks to make sure those veterans really deserved the money.

Really, it’s just like that liberal hell-hole,, to not see this for the genius it is.

Reviewing people’s claims of PTSD costs money. A lot of money. And if it turns out that Barack Obama is right and the problem is not that there are too many fakers, but too few legitimately disturbed people receiving the benefits they were promised, that’s going to cost us more money, money we can ill-afford when there are places like Syria to invade.

But, if the VA sends out 72,000 letters at a good bulk mail rate, that are worded sternly enough to really scare the bejeezus out of the most mentally disturbed of the group, chances are that some of them, the very veterans most likely to need full benefits, will kill themselves, thus saving the taxpayers and all of society from a great burden.

Who can argue with that?

Nashville is Talking Utter Lunacy

[I know I have a bunch of readers who don’t live in middle Tennessee and I’m sorry you have to sit through this shit again, but that’s just the way it goes. If upsetting things upset you, go down and contemplate the lovely afghan I’m making W., in part because he’s now embarrassed that I’m making it for him.]

Middle Tennessee, you piss me off. This would not normally be a problem, except this morning, I snapped at the dog. Once you have me irrationally yelling at my dog before dawn, we need to have a little talk.

Here is what I’d rather be screaming at you:

1. Each and every one of you knows someone who’s been raped. You know many someones who’ve been sexually assaulted, even if it didn’t get as far as rape. If you’re thinking, right now, “That’s not true. I don’t know anyone,” it’s either because you come across like such a fucktard that no one’s told you because they don’t think you’ll understand or they have told you and you’re such a fucktard you don’t know how to listen.

2. Many conservatives, it’s obvious that your concepts of freedom don’t include me. You spout all this bullshit about how “your freedom ends where my nose begins,” but your freedom ends way up in my uterus. You get to crawl around in my vagina passing judgment on all the things that end up there and what the result of that is. Why, conservative Americans, do you have the priviledge of bodily autonomy and I don’t? Do only men get to be free?

3. Straight men, for just one day, I’d like you to try this little thought experiment. Just try to imagine the last time you got in a fight, a real knock-down drag out fight. If you lost, imagine that the guy who won stuck his dick in you. Would you go to the police? Would you go to the hospital? Would you tell anyone ever? You don’t have to answer me, but I’m betting that most of you would not. So, try to have a little fucking mercy on the women who are raped and don’t know exactly how to play sympathetic victim.

If someone shoots you, you should go to the hospital and get it taken care of. But, if you’re actually shot, you might find that you’re too busy being blinded by pain and fear and, you know, death, to make the phone call to get the ambulance. Rape is also a violent crime. Rape victims are often too busy being afraid and in pain to act rationally.

4. In the end, there is little women can do to prevent being raped. You might think that you would never go to a party and get drunk. Your friends would never lock you out of the house on accident. Or you’d never walk through the park by yourself. Or you’d never let a stranger into your home.

But what the fuck, women? You’re never going to date? You’re going to always go out in pairs? You’re never going to let your husband or boyfriend or kids invite other boys over? You’re going to treat every single man you meet like he wants to hurt you? That’s how you go through life? You think that’s a practical way for every woman to go through life?

We cannot control the behavior of others.

Read that again.

We cannot control the behavior of others.

We cannot stop men from raping us. Men have to stop raping us.

Yes, there are things we can do to make our own rapes less likely, but in those cases, unless we’ve killed the motherfucker, usually all we’re doing is moving him along to the next victim. We are not the problem. We cannot control the behavior of others.

Okay, I feel better.

But I know we’ve gotten to this point and some of you are thinking, “Has B. ever been raped?” and then thinking “Oh, my god, I can’t ask that.” It’s okay. You can ask it. And I’ll answer you.

Was I ever raped?


Why not?

Because a ten year old Butcher heard me screaming and came downstairs to see what was wrong. He hit the dude and kicked him for all he was worth, but, you know, he was ten and the dude was big. When he started crying, though, the guy stopped, because as important as it was for me to know what a fucking whore I was and how I couldn’t just ignore him without paying for it, it was more important for him to stop and comfort the Butcher and to let him know that boys don’t have to cry about the shit that happens to girls.

Why didn’t I call the police?

I’d already called the police a number of times after he’d broken into my house and left things. They said they weren’t going to get involved in some boyfriend/girlfriend drama, even though I insisted he wasn’t my boyfriend.

Plus, he was at my house because my parents kept insisting that, if only I were nicer to him and worked harder to make him like me, he’d stop being so fucking weird.

I thought that everyone would think I deserved it. And, frankly, I was embarrassed that the Butcher saw me like that. It’s not rational, I know, but there it is. I didn’t want him to have to tell everyone over and over again what he’d seen.

So, there you go. I suppose you’ll think that explains a lot. And maybe it does. It at least explains my love for Evan Seinfeld and David Banner. In my fantasies, I live with a guy who can kick the shit out of anyone who might hurt me.