Daily Archives: September 22, 2010


I was all happy and excited and wanting to post all my happiness and excitement and pictures of babes in bikinis and then I read the paper and I got pissed all over again.

I gotta stop reading the paper.

Paris Hilton was arrested with cocaine in a purse she said wasn’t hers and then copped a plea to avoid a felony conviction. She admitted the coke was hers and got a year’s probation, a $2000 fine and 200 hours public service.

If I’d been arrested with the cocaine I’d still be in jail awaiting trial.

If I was black I’d have already been convicted and sentenced. And neither the white me nor the black me would’a walked. We’d be looking at years of fun in prison.

Don’t get me wrong- I think ALL drugs should be legalized and taxed. We didn’t learn from Prohibition and we’re not learning now.

But I get really tired about the rich getting off. REAL tired.

And then, there’s him. And don’t you point your finger at me motherfucker.

Meet Ken Kratz.

While busily prosecuting a guy in a sexual abuse case (he’s the DA in Wisconsin) he was busily texting the victim (that’s her on the left), sexually harassing her and hoping to maybe hook up with the damaged and beat up goods. Bruises equal sluttiness, right?

What a fucking asshole. He’s saying he won’t resign but maybe he’ll seek therapy and wants privacy and his family to support him.

I’m thinkin’ maybe can we put him in Paris Hilton’s speeding Mercedes at the end of a long night of clubbing and cocaine abuse and maybe run both of ’em off a cliff?

A girl can hope.


Update– maybe there is a god. Paris Hilton is being denied entry to Japan because of her drug bust and two more women have come forward saying that Mr. Ken sexted them, trying to hook up, while their trials were going on.

Unless she truly fucks up, Paris will probably continue her gifted life and maybe, just maybe, people like her, because of their prosperously prosecutorial protections, will lead the way to drug legalization. It could happen.

But Mr. Ken’s a whole nother thing.

I can only hope he ends up in a dingy little garage, naked and weeping and reeking of moonshine and paint thinner, shaking and wondering what went wrong, with a pistol in his mouth, his finger on the trigger.

Dreams blossom.