As yet another cold, uncaring winter comes to indiscriminately snuff out one life after the next, I find solace in a single, reassuring fact of the cosmos: the sheer cruelty of human existence is outdone only by its utter pointlessness.
For example. Thanks to the wonders of the internet, and the deeply disturbed individuals who continue to entertain me, I came across a delightful little morality play that the Lion King remake will surely fail to live up to. You see, a long, long time ago this past Summer in a Game Reserve in South Africa, a group of poachers found themselves eaten by a pride of lions. In fact, the lions were apparently so starved of irony that the minimal scraps they left behind weren’t enough to determine how many people were actually killed. I’m not sure what the morale of the story here is, exactly. But I’m pretty sure it boils down to, “Good. Fuck’em.”
And then, there’s the tragic love story of a man brutally murdered by his 300-pound girlfriend in Erie, Pennsylvania.
Now much like you, my mind immediately formed all sorts of opinions on how this all went down. And, yes, that included the thought that this had to include her sitting on him. Perhaps as a sex-act gone wrong. Or horribly right, I suppose (this was a murder after all.)
But while it did indeed include a 300-pound woman sitting on a 120-pound man until he was bereft of life, there was way more to this than even I considered.
For one, and for some reason, this woman called the police on herself. Which, okay, maybe she had a guilty conscious. Maybe she didn’t really mean to kill him. Fair enough. Sometimes awful, tragic things happen in the heat of the moment.
But why did she have to tell the cops she went out for crack? Like, why did she find it necessary to throw in that little detail?
“Yes, Officer. I killed my boyfriend. You see, it all started when I went out for some crack…”
And even then, it turns out this woman not only lived down to expectations, she dug until she struck oil. And by digging, I mean she stabbed her her boyfriend multiple times before beating him with a table leg. And it was only then that she decided to sit on him.
Of course, this time of year is ripe with all sorts of colorful characters cruelly carving out the hearts of men, women, and children. From the assholes who go around stealing Christmas decorations and Amazon packages off their neighbor’s front porch, to the assholes who decided spray-painting swastikas on everything was something Christ might enjoy in lieu of tidings and good cheer.
Unfortunately for one mother recently burglarized in Houston, the box stolen from her home held her dead infant son’s ashes.
There’s no joke here. And I have no inclination to make fun of an already heartbroken woman whom life thought to shit on twice. This is just a sad reminder that despite all the garbage, cheerful music belting out of every stereo system in every mall and liquor store in the country, someone somewhere is going to get coal in their stocking for Christmas. This will then be followed by someone else breaking into the house, beating this poor bastard and his family to death with that coal-filled stocking, and then use that coal to start a fire in order to burn the evidence.
Happy Holidays, everyone!