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That's OLD AMERICA. In NEW AMERICA  he goes on to be a "consultant" and possibly minor celebrity giving inspirational talks and such.

He later retires, lauded for his reform and on two pensions.



The person he kicked is frequently mentioned in various future writings, ends up with crippling hospital debt and has their home repossesed while waiting for a pittance of a compensation payout to clear. The bank gets another house and the financial system merrily roles along and helps another person towards the homeless prison pipeline. Their mental health is doing just great as well now too by the by, so should all this shit get sorted there's some lovely secondary problems to deal with. Oh, and at no point will the cop ever directly compensate the victim or say sorry, because that's a possible admission of liability.

Isn't it so much better now?

You're never allowed to tell bed-time stories again, Junk. 

Not sure about that. Boot to face, on camera, walks with pension. Seems like AMERICA to me.

If it was PROPER America, he'd be suspended with pay for a week, and then promoted to sergeant.

Well apparently he assaulted a jogger awhile before the boot-to-the-face thing. And THAT only got him a week's suspension even though it was recommended that he be canned. So.

I bet they let him keep his taser and baton while on suspension. He probable cruises around in his Impala making "We-oo, we-oo" noises at anyone suspicious as he creeps around parks and parking lots.

In Communist America, DA POLICE fucks YOU:

Rhode Island, a couple of years ago from outside the Twin River casino if I'm not mistaken. His justification was that she spit at him. Can't recall the outcome of the case against him.

So, promoted one grade or two?

http://5tjt.com/rhode-island-officer-who-kicked-cuffed-woman-in-the-face-fights-for-job-video/

Ten year suspension without pay, apparently. But he still gets his pension. And apparently she kicked him first. In the shin.

Some people are seriously messed up.

Oh Pango. The things you say. They get me right in the pance. I feel . . . fulfilled somehow, reading your generous words of advice. As if everything has been put into focus and I know my place in the world. Sweet Pango, dearest Pango, thank you for this blessing. Thank you for everything you've said and for your honest and open sincerity. You've made me a stronger person, Pango. I will light a candle upon my altar and pray for you every night before I tuck myself into bed from now on.

Bless you, Pango. Bless you.

They have canned haggis on sale at the grocery store.

I bought a couple of cans, in case of nuclear attack.

Save one for your work place's secret Santa, this year. Who wouldn't want a canned haggis in their stocking?

Little Susie thinks the vomit-yellow and grave-mold-green particles floating amidst the deluge look almost magical in the dim light, against a backdrop of hissing downpour. She presses her little face to the window and stares intently at the mysterious motes dancing about, turning the rain to sloppy sludge as the specks infiltrated each drop. She stares until she perceives, in the lizard portion of her brain, a malevolent sentience in each tiny fleck. Until she can not turn away. Until she can no longer resist their piercing siren wail beyond the glass.

Little Susie flings open the window, letting in the rain. And the spores. Almost instantly she becomes coated in slime. And the spores waste no time getting to know their new food source. Seeping into her skin, the spores burrow. Deeper in, down into the meat and marrow of Little Susie. Burrow until they reached Little Susie's heart.

Now her pulse is in perfect sync with Tucson's. Now Little Susie is a part of something bigger. Older.

Little Susie smiles in the mirror. She smiles with her vomit-yellow lips until her grave-mold-green eyes spark with mirth.

Then she skips off to ask Mommy for permission to go play at a friend's house. Mommy will say yes.

Mommy will do anything Little Susie asks.

Or else.

I think I started in Providence. I'm trying to get to Portland. Anything to stave off the inevitable arrival in Tucson. Anything.

At no point should you make a left turn.  Even to get gasoline.

No, sir. I'm going to take my map and cut off the lower part. Or scribble that part out with black marker and write "HERE THERE BE MONSTERS" in neon paint. Nothing will exist in my happy little travels save a path to Portland. And if I hear the desert, if I hear Tucson calling me. If I see anything that isn't a bridge dancing across my path . . .

Well I'll just close my eyes, turn the wheel to the right, and drive faster.

GIGANTIC storm coming through, thanks to Mexico not controlling their hurricanes and letting them out of the yard.

Sky is black, we're supposed to get 6" of rain by morning, and this shit is supposed to continue until Monday night, which means we'll lose a bunch of roads.

Now you know how we feel.

EVERY DAMN YEAR.

I mean, after that little warning shot called Sandy you sent us a few years ago to see if Richter was paying attention turned and decided to have a Jersey Shore vacation it was only a matter of time before your rain divinity backfired.

The rains are coming to Arizona. A flood will spread across the land, seeping into the withered pores of the desert's skin. Sand-tainted effluvia will run deep into Tucson's mummified heart, swelling its size until it bursts like over-ripe fruit or a body left in the sun too long.

The rains are coming to Arizona. The steady drumming, the unending pummeling of the desert will cover other noises. It will mask the beating of Tucson's awakened, swollen heart. As that creaking, ancient organ squelches and contracts with renewed malevolence it will pump more vile pus into its spore making. Tucson will bloom like mold on damp walls. It will send its spores into the sewers. Into the sea. Into your lungs. And it will thrive, torpid and malicious, until the rains recede.

The rains are coming to Arizona. Everything will be covered in that metallic-sand scented slime that is Tucson's spreading disease. The rains are coming but they will not last long enough to drown Tucson. And when the rains are spent, when the sky is once more bare, then the sun returns. That burning ball of hate and evil will pound, pound, pound Earth until the last bit moisture has been wicked away, burned to steam and then nothing. And when everything is as desiccated as it was before the rain, when it has all withered once more into an inert husk . . . then beware the spores.

Very nice. 

Nothing like super-sized quilted wieners to make the world a better place.

I think I started in Providence. I'm trying to get to Portland. Anything to stave off the inevitable arrival in Tucson. Anything.

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2014/09/12/local-grandmother-quilts-_n_5804194.html?ncid=fcbklnkushpmg00000063

Yes, a real life, Kansas City-based grandma has turned her passion for free love into an art endeavor that's certainly got our blood pumping. It's called "Local Grandmother Quilts Giant Penises" and it encapsulates so many of the things we cherish in this sweet, short life: sex positivity, fiber crafts and badass women of a certain age.

Stewart's exhibition is currently on view at the University of Missouri-Kansas City, a vision made reality thanks to a Kickstarter initiative with one of the greater names in Kickstarter history. Again, "Local Grandmother Quilts Giant Penises." In the video below, Stewart explains how her interest in decorative members sparked from her time working in a sex toy factory.

I know what I'm doing with my fabric and yarn scraps now. This is going to be amazeballs. Also, I want to be a dildo de-molder. O.O

Wow. That is awesome. I just re-read my copy of MSY and made my roommate read it last week. Good times. Good times.

My impending move to Portland has been put on the rocks. Not sure what to do. Can't stay here and things are going to be so exciting driving a 16' truck across the country solo.

. . . . I need more Pepsi.