Looking at the grocery store’s magazine rack yesterday made me think, what kind of sick world are we living in?
Last week a judge at a trial found a teenager guilty of involuntary manslaughter for the latter’s repeatedly urging and encouraging her eighteen-year-old boyfriend with hundreds of text messages to kill himself.
The defendant was reportedly in communication with the victim on a cellphone at the time of his death, while he was sitting in a truck where a gas-powered water pump was running, filling the interior with noxious fumes.
He had gotten out of the vehicle during the attempt to commit suicide, texting his seventeen-year-old girlfriend and telling her he was scared. She texted back, telling the distraught young man to get back in.
The two then spoke by phone, whereby the boyfriend repeated his fear of dying by carbon-monoxide poisoning. The twisted perpetrator texted a friend later, saying she was “talking on the phone with him when he killed himself. I heard him die.”
The girl, now a young woman at twenty, is awaiting sentencing which could put her in jail for as many years.
“That’s just an isolated occurrence which happened three years ago,” you might be saying. What about the 183 people killed, and 594 injured by mass shootings in the U.S. from January 1 through June 22 of this year, according to Gun Violence Archive? Is that only a drop in the bucket?
Most notably, the recent melee at a baseball field in Virginia injured five people on June 14, including a U.S. senator who was at a practice session for an upcoming game between congressional Republicans and Democrats. The lone gunman was the only death in that incident.
As I was proofreading this, another entry to the archive was added for a shooting that occurred today, killing one and injuring four others in Fort Lauderdale, Florida.
Political hatred and vitriolic speech is spewed constantly on Twitter, Facebook and blogs on the Internet. Never has such belligerence been freewheeled so profusely than after the spawn of Social Media, where anonymous nimrods can spread their poisonous blather to no end, something they would never be caught doing in real life amongst sane individuals.
Our politicians are no better either, trying to undo with utmost vindictiveness, everything the prior administration had accomplished for the benefit of common citizens.
Health care is foremost on their wicked agenda, while saving money for the wealthy, taking away from the poor, sort of modern-day Sheriffs of Nottingham. Where is Robin Hood when we need him?
Even the President at every turn of the corner is found scratching his name in cursive, larger than half the page of the incendiary documents he’s signing, meant to benefit his cronies and blindsided minions, rather than the general populous, while blaming others than himself for his personal problems.
Maybe if he wrote his name a bit larger, his detractors might take him seriously.
What about the rest of the world? North Korea sent home a captive American student last week while he was in a coma due to unknown circumstances. He died the other day.
One can only speculate what the cause was for the young man’s dilapidated condition after his being held for seventeen months in a country run by a madman, whom our own leader had said he admired, while the reclusive nation proceeds steadfastly to proliferate nuclear weapons of mass destruction meant to reach our mainland.
Mass shootings and terrorism have blanketed major countries in Europe. Middle Eastern radical extremists have captured, beheaded and killed innocent victims in the name of their nefarious ideology.
Tens of thousands of refugees have fled their homeland from fear, injury and desolation. Governments are killing their own people. Former cold-war adversaries are threatening to target one another in such places, possibly leading us to the brink of World War III.
Why has Barry McGuire’s “Eve of Destruction” turned into my own personal earworm?
This essay might cause many of my followers on the Social Media platforms to un-follow me; nay, probably not. They don’t read my diatribes anyway, nor respond to anything I post.
Them who do, realize my tirades are harmless rants to relieve pent up frustrations, such as those about my unsavory neighbors downstairs, like their calling the cops again on Thursday night, complaining I was drumming after 10 p.m. when I was not; although, I had been playing my acoustic guitar quietly, testing a new pickup installed to avoid errant stomach noises while recording and using a microphone.
Now the jerk on the first floor has taken up smoking his cigars again, sending toxic fumes upstairs into my flat. His girlfriend must be off on another extended sojourn. If I were to go postal, would anyone blame me?
All my prior complaining can be blamed on the new moon, however, which passes today.
My attitude will improve progressively better—or how Trump might say it, “betterly” (is that a word?)—as we approach the full moon on July 9th, called the Buck Moon, so stay tuned.
The song I was recording that got me into trouble this time is the following, on which the drums were created by my clicking a mouse instead of pounding on my electronic drum set, from fear of landing in jail from “strike three” by the Bensalem Police Department.
Thanks for listening, reading, and your continued support.