20 Answers from Mike Yard of “The Nightly Show”


One of the many amazing things about twitter is the opportunity to communicate with people you admire. Political leaders, entertainers, artists… They are often wonderfully open and accessible. After reading an interview with comedian Mike Yard (@mikeyardcomedy) of The Nightly Show,” I had more questions.  Twenty of them. And he had answers for me!

1) If you could painlessly poof one living human into an alternate universe (not this one), who would it be?

Dick Cheney

(I love your answer to this one. A lot.)

2) Does falling in love mess with one’s comedy chops? Does it take the edge off one’s humor? #AskingforaFriend

Nothing is allowed to mess with my comedy. So that’s a negative on that.

3) You’re Supreme Leader for 10 sweet minutes. You command a joint session of Congress to flash mob. What song?

lil Mama… Sausage

4) Are you a secret fanboy of any particular intellectual or creative endeavor? (i.e. Astrophysics, Puppetry?)

A big science fiction fan. If that counts…

5) What is the most underrated comedy TV series of all time? Most underrated comedy film? Underrated comedian?

This was a tough one. Benson, Office Space and Dick Gregory.

[SIDEBAR] I fell in love with Benson on Soap! (My most underrated TV comedy of all time.)

Thought that one but went with Benson.

I’m loving this. It’s fabulous when an artist you admire admires another artist you admire. (Robert Guillaume was great on Sports Night!)

6) Who is the most unexpected celebrity you ever had a romantic or sexy dream about? (And please #Keepit100.)

Susan Sarandon… Idk why…

She is wicked sexy and also good people, so this is not at all unexpected, IMO.

7) Of the celebrities you’ve met, who most thrilled you at the time? And who most thrills you in retrospect?

Jesse Jackson, Bill Nye.

8) Not counting your career (comedy), what is your best thing? (#ProTip: False modesty is rarely interesting.)


9) We are way, WAY overdue. What would be your 28th Amendment to the US Constitution?

No politician can be financed by any corporation in any way shape or form period…

10) If you could star in any movie remake, what film would you choose, and which role would you play? PS: It is taking all of my self-discipline not to ask you follow-ups to all of these great / interesting answers!

Star Wars… Han Solo

YES! That was what I was hoping you’d say!

11) Luther has POTUS covered. If you were an anger translator, for which public figure (M/F) would you work?

Michelle Obama

(Tied with Cheney and “Sausage” for fave answer!)

12) The Designated Hitter Rule: Totes fine, or abomination?


13) Not counting the DH Rule, what issue, argument or controversy gets you the most uncontrollably worked up?

Cops shooting unarmed Black Men

14) If you haven’t already chosen one (and even if you have), what is your theme song?

All of the Above by Maino.

15) If you could repeat one year of your life (changing nothing, just living it again), which year, and why?

1st time I did stand up… I had found my purpose.

16) Have you ever defused a dangerous situation with humor?

Yes, In New Rochelle NY.

17) Do you feel you may have prevented injury or death in New Rochelle? Were you, yourself, in danger doing so?

Yes they were gonna fight each other… Anytime there’s a fight anything can happen, so maybe a li’l.

18) If you could make one animated film free to all children on-demand in their language, which would you share?

The Lion King.

19) If you could resurrect one late comedian or comedic actor at the peak of their talent, who would you bring back?

Richard Pryor.

20) Of the characters you’ve played / segments you’ve been part of on The Nightly Show,” which is your favorite?

The panel discussion on Black fatherhood… [Watch it here.]

Letting me ask 20 questions, and taking the time to tweet me funny and interesting answers? You made my whole weekend. Thank you, Mike Yard!



#ThingsHillaryNeverSaid: Talking Points from a Progressive Nobody (“Before I Take Your Questions…”)

Before I take your questions, I would like to address the press who are gathered here, as well as those who are not.

I know that you are here to do your job – a job that supports and provides for you, and those who rely on you. I respect that utterly.

I choose to believe that you also are here practicing your profession, and that you wish to uphold its highest standards. I am also aware that, like many American workers, you may be feeling insecure about your future in the evolving media landscape. You may be feeling pressured by imperatives that have absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with why you chose journalism as your career, or how you personally feel you should best practice your profession.

I believe that you chose your career path because you believed – as I believe – that The Press is central to American democracy, that journalists are not only essential, but that the enormous power you wield to shape the content and direction of our national discussions – and to provide the factual basis for those conversations to be honest and informed – can make our nation better, stronger, and more just.

As you cover my campaign, and every other campaign for the Presidency or any other elected office, I rely on you to appreciate the role you fulfill not only for us candidates, but for every American who counts on you.

We talk about what you want to talk about.
We answer the questions you want answered.
We debate the issues you find important.
We dance to your tune.

When you are at your best, it’s a great song. When you are at your worst, it makes Americans turn away from you, from us, and most tragically, from the ballot box that is their most precious right… Their right to rule.

“Vox Populi, Vox Dei.” The voice of The People is The Voice of God.

We need to hear that voice. We need you, The Press, to shape a conversation that makes Americans want to speak, and to be heard. We need you to amplify their urgent concerns. If you won’t, you are just “a sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal.”

And now, I’d be happy to take your questions.

#ThingsHillaryNeverSaid: Talking Points from a Progressive Nobody (Middle Class Economics)

The answer I’d like to hear on middle-class economics:

When speaking about an infrastructure project (a water project, a dam), President Kennedy famously said, “a rising tide lifts all boats.” It was President Reagan, however, who re-purposed that quote, and slammed the accelerator to the floorboard on trickle-down economics. At the time, it was an untested economic theory – this idea that the wealthy prospering would mean everyone prospers. It’s 2015 now, and we’ve run that supply-side experiment for decades.

The data is undeniable, and the numbers are sickening. Call it “The Wealth Gap.” Call it “Income Inequality.” Call it “The Vulture Chart.” Call it “The Second Gilded Age.” Call it anything you like, but call it this: The death throes of the American Middle Class.

This is structural, people. This is not just globalization, or technology, or automation, or declining union membership. Those things matter, but what matters most is this: small-government zealots cutting the funding for anything and everything that supports working families, at the same time they shift the tax burden away from the wealthy, and onto the working.

No, this isn’t any one thing, but this is what comes of an economy structured around comforting the comfortable… and it’s a “new normal” that cannot coexist with The American Dream. One of these things has to go, and The American Dream is not that thing.

Reform Republicans – you know the type – don’t want to make employers provide a living wage by raising the federal minimum, or make the federal government do anything else that could conceivably help working Americans get ahead (like paid sick leave, or equal pay for women).

What do they want to do?

They want to shift taxes paid by the working middle class to the working poor in the form of expanding The Earned Income Tax Credit…

Wait for it…

… at the exact same time they want to cut taxes on the wealthy.


Republicans have been “starving the beast” for decades, and the beast is the American people they swore to serve. Democrats haven’t fought back hard enough. We failed to stop the experiment when the initial data looked terrifying. Almost everything our nation used to lead the world in, we’ve fallen behind on: education, infrastructure, health, quality of life, equality of opportunity… All of it has slipped away, and not from neglect. This was purposeful, and it is still happening. The modern Republican Party is committed to staying that disastrous course.

As Democrats, we have to turn this boat around, and we have to do it quickly, or The American Middle Class is sunk.

It’s time we demanded that the pimped-out yachts take up the floundering lifeboats.

We have to raise taxes on the wealthy, and we have to do it now.


If I Were Michael Dukakis – The Death Penalty Answer

Perhaps among the dozen most famous Presidential Debate Moments in our national history came in the 1988 race, and was asked of Michael Dukakis, then Massachusetts Governor, a Democrat:

“If Kitty Dukakis were raped and murdered, would you favor an irrevocable death penalty for the killer?”

His response was widely condemned for being dispassionate. I was young then, but my reaction was that he was blindsided, and that the question was unfairly sensational and personal. To this day, I do not fault his response in the moment.

[SIDEBAR: I was on national TV a few times on “Jeopardy.” The first time, I was so damn terrified that they had to move the clip-on mic away from my heart, because they could hear it pounding in the control booth. I don’t judge.]

Having said that, If I were Michael Dukakis, this is what I wish I would have said in that nationally televised moment:

“Kitty is the love of my life. If I lost her, the person I’d want to kill would be myself… But she and I have built a family together. I like to believe I would find my courage, remember my responsibilities to my family, and put them first, before my personal anguish and suffering.

I take my responsibilities as Governor of Massachusetts just as seriously. Fury is a fire that can keep you emotionally warm, but it does NOTHING to protect the citizens you’ve sworn to serve.

The facts on the death penalty are these:

  • There is no evidence the death penalty deters anything.
  • There are better, more effective, and less expensive ways to prevent and punish murder.
  • I oppose it, as do the citizens of my state, who have outlawed it.
  • Without it, Massachusetts has experienced the biggest drop in crime, and the lowest murder rate of any industrial state in America.

These are the FACTS.

Fury may keep you emotionally warm, but facts keep your citizens safe. That is how I have governed Massachusetts, and how I will govern The United States if elected.”


Dear reader, if you have read this far, here is your reward: “The West Wing” on the same subject. You wanna watch the whole clip (because it’s hilarious), but the relevant content starts around two minutes:

The Fat Lady

When I was little, before I started kindergarten, my mom took my sister and me to the PX:

  • In Texas at the time, kindergarten was a luxury for which a family paid handsomely, unless they were willing to leave their child in the tender care of religious instructors.
  • For military families, The PX is the “Post Exchange.” (The Commissary is for food. The PX is for the good stuff.)
  • Uniformed military personnel have priority at The Commissary and The PX. If they are in line behind you, they are actually entitled to be in front of you.

I honestly don’t remember what we were shopping for, and it doesn’t matter. When we finished shopping, we got into line. A lady got into line behind us. She was in uniform – and I knew that meant she should go before us – but more interestingly, I noticed that she was fat.

She was extremely, undeniably fat. In fact, she was fatter than any lady I had ever seen before. She was weird-fat.

My older sister was distracted, and as the baby of the family, I took my opportunity. I was very proud of myself for having deduced these facts all by myself. I turned to my mother, and blandly announced something like, “Mom. She’s in uniform. She needs to go first. Plus, just look at her. She’s… different.” [At the age of four, Southern manners had already established a beachhead in my brain. I knew how to use euphemisms.]

My mother grabbed me with more force than normal, and marched me to the walkway, away from prying eyes, leaving my sister to hold our place in line.

She bent down to me, staring intensely into my eyes. “Don’t ever say that again. That’s wrong,” she furiously hissed.

“What? Why? But, she is! What…?” I stammered.

“She is no different than you and me. We are no better than she is. Do you understand me?” my mother demanded.

“What are you talking about?” I begged, pointing back to the checkout line for emphasis. “She’s fat, Mom… Look!”

I can honestly say, there are few moments that stand out from my early childhood, but this is one of them. My mom froze for a moment, and I could actually SEE her thinking. She took a VERY long beat, turned back to me, and calmly explained:

“She is not fat. She is going to have a baby very soon. That’s her baby, inside her, and it’s almost ready to be born. That big tummy is not her. That’s her baby inside of her. Do you understand what I am saying to you?”

I looked back at the lovely lady in uniform in the line, and tried to imagine that humongous stomach as a person. It seemed ridiculously far-fetched, but I was willing to take my mom’s word for it.

“A baby? Really? When? Now?”

As I remember it, my mom hugged me, and explained it would probably not happen that soon, but that you could never tell. I was right. We should definitely let her go first in line.


I was around four years old when I went shopping with my mom.

The story was just a funny family anecdote until I was in the fifth grade, and it happened again. For real this time.

You see, at The PX, my mom was concerned that I thought the lady in line behind us was different because she was black… not because she was fat (pregnant).

My parents – who are awesome beyond the bounds of all expectation – never gave me the race stuff. To anyone raised with it, I cannot explain being raised without it. My best analogy is, imagine a world where curly and straight hair were germane differentiations… Where they were incredibly powerful sociopolitical identifiers. Now imagine that your parents taught you that hair was just hair.

[SIDEBAR: My hair is kinkier than… well, anything!]


When I was 10, wanted to ask Aklilu to my first school dance. He was not only smarter than anyone I had ever met, but he was nice, and he was a fantastic friend. [I believe in modern parlance, this is referred to as a “triple-threat.”]

The Principal called my parents to explain that this simply could not be tolerated, this potential interracial abomination. [Pre-pubescent 10-year-olds dancing to FM radio hits? SCANDAL!]

I was 10 years old. He was my best and most-admired friend. I’m not saying that if I were 16, I wouldn’t have leapt on him like a firefighter on a flaming victim. I’m just saying… I was ten. It wasn’t in the cards.

My parents explained the denial to me, but it was quite a different conversation than the one my mother had with me when I was four:

“Aklilu’s no different than you and me. We are no better than he is, but they can’t see that. You can’t go together. Do you understand what I am saying to you?”


Dear Reader, I didn’t understand then, and I didn’t pretend to. I was plenty pissed, and I believe I made that clear the way a 10-year old does to her parents.

I’m still pissed now.

If Aklilu ever found me, I would find a way to make that dance-date-that-never-was a dance date that he would never forget.

I could do it.


Pleasure. Romance. Desire. Lust. Sex. Love.

I am speaking (writing) for myself and no one else. I am sharing this because my experience is one that I personally have not read or heard elsewhere. Perhaps this is well-covered ground, and I’ve just missed it. We shall see…

I have no memory of a first experience with, or discovery of, self-pleasure. I believe masturbation is something that I always knew how to do, and always did. When I was very little, masturbation was a kind of physical meditation for me – a very relaxing activity, absent any mental associations or fantasies of any kind – sexual or otherwise. I was always able to achieve orgasm with or without actual direct physical stimulation. I could do it simply by holding my body in a certain position until it happened.

After I started school, and found my fascination with science, I hypothesized that this was something that only I could do, and doctors someday would find out, and study me to learn more. I was disabused of this notion when my parents caught me doing it in the car during a long family road trip. They were very gentle and non-judgmental, but firm: What I was doing was something private, and I should not do it when others were present. I believe I was around seven years old.

Because physical pleasure preceded sexual desire for me, when masturbation finally became attached to my mind, it was to romance, not lust. As I formed one childish crush after another on various celebrities, they began to fill my mind when I was alone with myself. They were doing nothing sexual. I was thinking nothing sexual… Just how much I adored them romantically.

I am female, and I am straight. I know this about myself, because long before desire, lust, or sex were things that I did, I did romance. For me, romance was always about a boy. To this day, I cannot imagine attaching those feelings to a girl. Feeling as I do, I grieve for every person who is not straight, and is pressured to make their heart attach to something it can’t. I think it’s impossible. I find it obscene.

When puberty made its debut in my life, and desire became a real, sexual thing, physical contact was the pinnacle. Not sex, mind you. The first time a boy I liked held my hand, I thought I was going to fly right out of my skin. The same is true for my first kiss. I was a slow mover. I enjoyed every new experience, and I was in no hurry whatsoever to rush on to the next. Necking for hours and hours and hours was so perfect, that I didn’t feel deprived of anything.

When lust finally arrived in all its sudden intense urgency, and I did begin to feel deprived, lust lost. I was raised in a Christian home, and it was an inflexible rule that one does not have sex until one marries. I revised this rule to “one does not have sex until one goes away to college.”

I believe this was a mistake for me. College is not just living away from mom and dad. College (at least the one that I attended) is a strange land booby-trapped with pressures and substances and easy, completely inauthentic relationships driven by both.

When I was a teenager necking for hours on end? That was real. That was desire. Had lust been allowed, nature would have taken its course in a wonderful, natural, unforced way. No substances involved. No time pressure. No peer pressure.

When I lost my virginity in college? That was sport. The clock was ticking, and my peers were leaving me in the dust. I was losing the game.

If you are a parent, you must do what you think best. You know your child, and you know the contours of what you can accept about your child. I would simply say this: My parents did the very best they could, but I wish they had trusted the very bright, very good girl that they had raised to decide for herself when she was ready to explore that part of her humanity. I wish that my home had been the safe space where that could have happened.

That would have been glorious.

The Time I Was Mistaken for a Monster

“Joseph bolted out of the kitchen into the back yard, and Adam started screaming. It curdled my blood. I thought I was going to die of a heart attack. I whipped around to see what was behind me – to see what had frightened the boys. There was nothing there, but I was too afraid to go down the hallway and look for… Whoever or whatever.”


[I’m an Army brat. All of this happened in Texas, just outside of Fort Hood. The names of the boys have been changed for obvious reasons.]

My first job was babysitting. I was so proud when my parents finally decided I was old enough and responsible enough, and thrilled that I’d be able to supplement my modest allowance with money I had earned myself. I felt all grown up at twelve. I was officially a “Big Girl.”

The first family I worked for had a newborn baby girl. Before she was born, her military father had been gravely injured in a helicopter accident (his craft had become tangled in some illegally strung electrical wires), and I took care of her as her mom stayed by his side, waiting for him to regain consciousness, and eventually recover. This babysitting job lasted for months and months.

When I was thirteen, my second babysitting job was for a military family with two sons – Adam, four and Joseph, three – every weekday after school. I was a few days into my new job when it happened.

I was doing my homework at the dinner table as the boys played with their Matchbox cars a few feet away in the kitchen, where the floor was smooth for racing. They were having fun, until things took a turn for the angry. Joseph was upset because his older brother had grabbed one of his cars, and demanded it back. I stopped doing my homework to watch what happened next.

To understand how I reacted (or didn’t, as the case may be), you should know I have just one sister, and we are less than a year apart in age. My parents generally let us work out our differences ourselves. If and when we couldn’t or wouldn’t, then (and only then) they would step in and resolve it for us.

It became apparent that Adam wasn’t going to give Joseph back his car, and that Joseph was getting more and more upset about this outrage. I stood up from the table, faced the boys, and firmly said, “Adam, come here!”

What happened next is burned into my memory in detail. It is among the most terrifying things that have ever happened to me. All of a sudden, Joseph bolted out of the kitchen into the back yard, and Adam started screaming. It curdled my blood. I thought I was going to die of a heart attack. I whipped around to see what was behind me – to see what had frightened the boys. There was nothing there, but I was too afraid to go down the hallway and look for… Whoever or whatever.

I started quickly toward Adam to ask him what was happening, and his screaming got worse – so much worse, though I would not have thought that possible. It dawned on me that I was scaring him more. I squatted down to his level, and tried to get him to tell me what was happening. All he would say between screams was, “Don’t, don’t, don’t, don’t.” He was bawling. To say he was trembling doesn’t do it justice. It was more like a seizure.

I started begging him to calm down, to please tell me what was wrong, that I was scared, too, and I needed his help… That I didn’t know where his brother had gone… That he had to trust me so I could protect all of us from… Whoever or whatever.

It was then that he told me he was afraid of ME. He thought I was going to hurt him.

[Dear reader, you don’t know me, but I don’t do that. It’s just not who I am. It is not who I have ever been.]

It took time to get it out of him, but Adam explained, in a child’s way, that he thought I was going to make him go find a “switch” in the backyard, bring it to me, pull down his pants, bend over and grab his feet, and “get whipped.” If he returned with a switch that wasn’t bad enough, I would go and find a really terrible one to use. If he tried to resist, I would hurt him worse. These were the rules, as explained to him by his daddy. “Oh, god,” I thought, “He’s four, and he knows these sick rules?”

I started crying, too. I put my arms around his wracked body, and promised him that I would never hit him or hurt him. I told him he was not bad, that my sister and I sometimes argued over toys and other things, and that we were good. It took time, but he calmed down, and so did I. I asked him to help me find his brother.

We went into the backyard. Joseph was nowhere to be seen. It was a fenced-in yard, with a gate latch too high for Joseph to reach. I hoped he wasn’t strong enough to climb over the fence. Adam and I looked everywhere – up the trees, under the bushes, in the doghouse, under the porch… We finally found him. Two metal garbage cans were chained to the fence. Somehow, Joseph had managed to wedge himself between and behind the cans, against the fence. I could see he was crying and shaking, and that my having found him was making it worse.

It took a while, but with Adam’s help, I convinced Joseph that it was safe to come out on his own, that nothing bad was going to happen to his brother or to him, that my promise was a promise he could trust me to keep forever.

I got the boys inside, and started to deal with how they looked. Adam’s face was blotchy, red and swollen, and he still had the shakes. I gave him an icy-wet towel to hold on his face. Joseph’s back and the backs of his arms were crisscrossed with the pattern of the chain-link fence, and his clothes were dirty. I brushed off his clothes, and used a soapy rag to clean them off. I could do nothing to fix the pattern in his skin, but I was sure it would clear up before his parents got home that evening.

Later, as the boys ate dinner, I made my decision. I was not going to tell anyone what happened – not their parents, and not mine. I had my reasons. One was selfish (I was afraid of losing the job and the money), but the rest were not. I was afraid something bad would happen to the boys if their parents found out that they told. I was afraid that if I was not their babysitter anymore, they might get one who hit them. I thought that if, every single day, I told their parents what wonderful, good boys they had been, life might get better for them.


I have no respect for heritage. “The way things are,” “The way things have always been,” “The way we do things around here,” “The way we have always done things?” I am not impressed. I know what I know, and I know right from wrong. If this happened to you as a child, and you “turned out fine,” I am truly relieved and sincerely happy for you, but here’s the thing:

You can’t go back and re-run your childhood, changing that one variable, and measure the results. Even if you could, I don’t give a damn what those results would be. I believe that from the moment you’re born, until the moment you die, you are a human being with human rights. You belong to yourself. There should be limits on what anyone may do to you. One of those limits is hit you.

“Spank.” “Punch.” “Whip.” “Assault.” “Slap.” “Beat.” “Whoop.” “Strike.” “Smack.” “Slam.”

I don’t care what they call it.
I don’t care why
 they do it.
I don’t care what your relationship is to them.
I don’t care how little 
you are when they do it to you.

It’s wrong. It’s evil. If it isn’t a crime, it should be.

“Don’t Skip The Vote” Lyrics

I can’t sing. At all. Can you? How about your group? Your campaign staff or volunteers? I wanna make this happen in the most adorable, awesome, viral way possible. I’d love it if zillions of people would get in on this. But I will settle for one really awesome version!

Audio or video… sing a line, a verse, the chorus, or the whole thing… Sing holding a sign supporting your candidate or issue… wearing a costume… my lyrics or your own… I’ll take what I can get…

The Original: The Hues Corporation – “Rock The Boat” [1974]
The Original Hues Corporation Video: http://youtu.be/WPwOHtlNjjI
Robert Stansbury’s () Backing Track:

The Karaoke Video (not perfect, some singing): http://youtu.be/eQXivABOkPk
More Karaoke Files (audio & video for purchase): 

My Parody Lyrics:

So I’d like to know where, you got the notion
Said I’d like to know where, you got the notion

To skip the vote, don’t skip the vote, baby
November 4th, don’t let the vote slip by
November 4th, don’t skip the vote baby
November Fou-oo-oo-oo-ourth!

Ever since America began
She’s counted on her thinking citizens
To save her from some straight-up lunacy
To rescue her from darkness and advance democracy

Your vote can make the difference for everyone
Nothing matters right now more than Midterm…

So I’d like to know where, you got the notion
Said I’d like to know where, you got the notion

To skip the vote, don’t skip the vote, baby
November 4th, don’t let the vote slip by
November 4th, don’t skip the vote baby
November Fou-oo-oo-oo-ourth!

Two years into Obama’s second term
Republicans have vowed to destroy everything he’s done
It’s time for you to do what you need to do.
Get Barack’s back, get in that booth, see what you started through!

Your vote can make the difference for everyone
Nothing matters right now more than Midterm…

So I’d like to know where, you got the notion
Said I’d like to know where, you got the notion

So I’d like to know where, you got the notion
Said I’d like to know where, you got the notion

To skip the vote, don’t skip the vote, baby
November 4th, don’t let the vote slip by
November 4th, don’t skip the vote baby
November 4th, don’t let the vote slip by

November 4th!
November 4th!

Vote on November 4th, y’all!
Vote on November 4th, y’all!
Vote on November 4th, y’all!

Vote, yeah!
Vote, yeah!
Vote, yeah!

Vote, yeah!
Vote, yeah!

November 4th!
November 4th!

November 4th!
November 4th!

November 4th!
November 4th!

November 4th!
November 4th!

(et cetera)

FUCK THE POLICE: My Personal Story

When I was away at college, I was injured. Long story. But the short of it is that my calf was severed horizontally, through the tendon to the bone. I was not expected to walk again (but I eventually did). Once I recovered enough to be up and on crutches, I went shopping one night — just a few groceries, since I had to hang a bag around my neck to carry anything. I got home, and went up the stairs to my apartment.

[SIDEBAR: Going up stairs on crutches is a snap. Going down is the challenge.]

I put away the groceries, and made queso in the microwave. I put the chips and queso in my neck-bag, and went to my room to watch TV and eat on my bed.

I heard a knock on the door. This was around the time that my roommates got home from work, so I assumed one of them had forgotten their keys. I grabbed my crutches, and made good time to the door. I opened it, and on the other side was a man. The look in his eyes instantly terrified me. I tried to shut the door quickly, but on my crutches, I had no leverage. He forced his way in, and grabbed me around my neck from behind. He levered me so that my feet did not touch the floor, and moved right toward my bedroom.

I believe to this day that he saw me get home, saw my vulnerable state, and waited for my bedroom light to come on to make his move.

As he turned the corner into the hall towards my bedroom, I grabbed the door frame’s molding. It was a stupid idea. He kept on going, and I tore off all of my fingernails. He went through my bedroom door, and threw us both down on the bed together. When he did, the very hot queso flew up onto both of us. Understand: Below the point where my leg was severed, I had no feeling. The nerves were all cut. Plus, I was scared to death. I knew my skin was being burned, but I didn’t feel it.

He, on the other hand, was NOT terrified, and did. He back handed me across the face, said something profane, and ran away.

I didn’t have my crutches, so I dragged myself on my stomach (way faster than a three-legged crawl) to the front door and locked it.

I got up on my crutches that were lying there.

I went to my room.

I moved the food.

I stripped the bed.

I started laundry.

I ran a bath.

I got in the bath (except for my leg.)

Not long after, I was sitting in the tub crying quietly when my first roommate got home. I don’t know what she saw, but she KNEW. She started banging on the door, screaming for me to let her in. I wouldn’t. She grabbed a coat hanger and jimmied the lock. She got in. She got it out of me. She said she was calling the police. I said not to. She did.

Three officers responded — two men, and a woman. My roommate knew how I was raised. She knew if the cops came, I would be too polite to refuse to answer their questions. I told them everything.

One of the male officers (top dog, a Detective) who was taking notes ended our conversation by explaining to me that:

1) There is no such thing as “attempted rape.”

2) I let him in. Not really “breaking and entering.”

3) One backhand across the face is not the kind of thing that merits an assault charge.

4) If they did catch him, they’d never be able to make anything “stick.”

… and on and on. Lots of word salad, with one point: Don’t file an official report. It’s not worth the trouble. Nothing will come of it.

“Okay, Hon?”

As sorry as I felt for myself in that moment (and it was plenty sorry), I felt worse for the female officer sitting next to him. The look on her face… I’m not a mind reader, but she looked like she was in physical pain. She actually openly grimaced a few times. She looked straight into my eyes a few times, too, as if she was screaming at me, “I’M SORRY! I CAN’T DO ANYTHING! PLEASE DON’T HATE ME!”

I didn’t hate her then. I don’t hate her now. He was a Detective. She wasn’t. It wasn’t her show.

The one time in my life that I really needed to be protected and served, I feel that I got screwed.

You know what’s been going on lately.

Yesterday, I said it for the first time in my life, and I meant it.


Thoughts on Killing, and on Death: A Plea

I would like to try, if I can, to change your frame on death. There is a very high probability that you believe in the supernatural – a Supreme Being and an afterlife.

I would never ask you to stop believing, but I would like you to consider the implications of killing if neither a Supreme Being nor an afterlife exists.

What if taking a human life ends a person forever? What if you are not simply stopping the body, but also erasing forever everything that person ever was, or ever could be? What if everything they had ever been, done, felt, learned, planned and hoped for stopped when their body stopped?

What if there was no soul to survive?

Everyone makes mistakes, and accidents do happen… But what if there is no cosmic justice? What if there is no god to mete out that justice or to correct human error? What if death is an end, and not a transition?

For those of us who do not believe in the supernatural, killing and death are serious. They are final.

For those who do believe, I beg you to consider the implications if you are mistaken.

Thank you for reading this.