I hate like heck to not only disagree with the Official Editorial Position of The Mighty Signal, but also 42,611 governments within the County of Los Angeles. Add to that a stadium of plucky opinion makers, victims of crime, shopkeepers, shepherds, parents and pert near everyone in law enforcement.
We are in the throes of a passionate moment. Hundreds of thousands of people demanding the recall of the Left’s duly elected Horse’s Patootie/District Attorney and, cripes my fingers are crossed that this gets past the copy desk, but a booger-eating commie rat B-word so-&-so and an absolute rectal thermometer of a human being — George Gåscon. I dislike the fellow so I put a little zero over the “å” in his last name instead of an accent over his affected “ó.”
Let him suffer.
Since taking office, the white-haired Steve Martin stunt double has turned into a caricature of a Batman super villain, joining forces with criminal elements in an attempt to turn L.A. County from your regular ungovernable run-of-the-mill insane nutso fiefdom into Pure Hell In Seattle. Under Gåscon’s nihilist Mad Max dystopia, good souls are tortured, criminal activity blessed. Miscreants are not to be offended. Victims are to be mocked and punished even more. Gåscon’s Daily Things To Do List is filled with ways to encourage second-story artists, rapists, thugs, bullies, wife-beaters, purse snatchers and any wide-eyed villain, nose dripping from drug overdose and delusions of gang-banger grandeur. If the unthinkable — a thug gets arrested — then said miscreant must be quickly set free to carve more mayhem.
I understand the frustration of good people wanting to punt this legal Assberg’s sufferer into the nearest active volcano (Mount Palmdale). It’s misdirected. In their zeal just to fire this clown, we are missing:
A Teachable Moment.
Our own William S. Hart Union High School District frequently misuses that phrase —
A Teachable Moment.
To paraphrase the master fencer Inigo Montoya in the swashbuckling film, “The Princess Bride” — “You keep using that phrase. I do not think it means what you think it means.”
I find no emotional satisfaction or Old Testament retribution in simply just recalling this cloven-hooved Democrat barrister from San Fran- “Human Poop City” Cisco.
Thousands gathered signatures. Gazillions are spent in a recall election. Forty-eight years later, everyone in Los Angeles County except the ghost of Charles Manson votes to ashcan this bureaucratic soiled monkey bucket. But, through the miracle of ballot harvesting, Gåscon ends up keeping his job by 412,000,006 votes, curiously a smidge more ballots than the 10 million people in L.A. County.
And, he’s awarded a bond measure to build a submarine canal from Canyon Country to Twentynine Palms.
Sorry, Signal editorial writers.
You got it wrong.
I have a solution a smidge more Cyrano, more devilish, more deserving. Starting today — starting immediately — let’s begin using the very laws Gåscon and his minions have abused to punish this puddle of monkey doo-doo. You see the guy in a grocery store, at a high rate of speed, which can be up to 25 mph for human beings, 45 mph if you’re a grizzly bear, run your shopping cart into the lawyer’s ankle. Follow that with a shrug of the shoulders, sheepish grin and a contrite, “Whoops! Misdemeanor!”
At County Hall, assign sheriff’s deputies to walk behind him and when he stops at a fountain to drink, stick Twinkies down his undies, reach down and with a Paul Bunyan tug, give the guy not just a wedgie, but an atomic wedgie, one so severe the next time he’s at Folsom, handing out saws and files to the prisoners, he’ll be squeaking in castrato.
Yank his toupee off.
Not a toupee? “Whoops! Misdemeanor!”
People. The Law is on our side. Under their own doing, there’s nothing the District Attorney’s office can do to us.
Walk up behind him. Firmly grab his suit coat and rip it up the middle. Pants him. Spill sticky prune milk shakes (yes; they sell them in portions of West Hollywood) on his lap.
Every 15 minutes.
Step on the backs of his shoes. Stick “Kick Me Real Hard In The Coccyx” signs on the back of his suit when the Brazilian soccer team visits County Hall then redouble your efforts by printing a second sign in Portuguese.
Shrug. Smile. “Whoops! Misdemeanor!”
There’s a world of Teachable Moments waiting for the citizens of Santa Clarita and Los Angeles County involving Crazy Glue, carpenter ants, expanding joint sealer foam, and, used in reasonable and reliable small doses, the South American salad herb, curare.
Dear Mr. SCV:
“Curare?” Really? Are you daft?
Curare is actually a multi-purpose ahem — sedative — used by indigenous Central and South American peoples to drop jaguars, giant anteaters and rival drug gang leaders hiding deep in the jungle.
You must be thinking of Ex-Lax, like in the Costco family-size 512-quart drum. Mix the individually wrapped gum-like tablets into a paste, bake for nine hours in a blacksmith kiln, harden, frost and hire Wile E. Coyote to drop the hardened laxative on him from a 300-story building or desert cliff under which the D.A. may be passing.
Experienced in these things,
Thank you, Mrs. Immune From All Felonies.
Recall? How impotently puny. That’s the equivalent of The Hillside Strangler being punished with a stern: “No-no-no-NO!” Don’t let our county district attorney get off that easy. Let this be a message for future bureaucratic anarchists hoping for lifetime fat government pensions. Pay the guy back with his own medicine. The worst that can happen is that your non-existent and pitiful criminal record will be expunged. You won’t see enough time at Pitchess to earn a tattoo, prison romance date or complimentary mystery meat sandwich.
After all. If we don’t take the law into our hands, it’s going to end up in the hands of someone else.
Like the District Attorney’s…
John Boston is a local writer. With an expunged criminal record…