I hate* Susan Smith. Remember her? I think I do, even though this is me we're not talking about. The woman who drowned her children in a 1990 Mazda Protegé. In a murky South Carolina lake, probably with that stinky kind of bottom mud. What a way to go. Did she watch and see them scratching and clawing or did she tell them it's a game and Momma's gonna catch you right before you fall?
Fred and I both agree -- mark your calendars -- that it has happened again, one state south, in JawJaw:
Brunswick, Georgia (CNN) -- A woman says she was taking her 13-month-old son for a walk in this Georgia town when they were approached by two boys who demanded money, then fatally shot her boy and wounded her.
"He said, 'I'm gonna kill you if you don't give me your money,' and I said, 'I swear, I don't have any,'" Sherry West told CNN affiliate WAWS. "I put my arms over my baby and he shoves me and he shot my baby right in the head."There's no a mother in this world who could say "[H]e shot my baby right in the head." Maybe, "[H]e tripped, pöor boy, and skinned his little knee, and wouldn't be engaged in no robbery!" -- with a soft shoe shuffle. But not: "[H]e shot my baby right in the head."
That's require more diaphragmatic control than a mother could manage.
She has a leg wound, probably a through-and-through, real fleshy. I bet it hurt. Stang. Stung, too, like it stinks.
No, damn it and go away, too, because I still don't believe in the Death Penalty. "Believe in." How can we use those words?
"[H]e shot my baby right in the head."
"I believe in the Death Penalty."
It's not quite oil and water, who does that? It's more vinegar and good olive oil, with finely, finely minced garlic, a touch of citrus zest, and loads of freshly ground white pepper, and salt -- I use more salt than most people -- that requires emulsification. And not just once, but again and again, though I'd toss it after, say, three, maybe five, days. It's hard work, emulsifying vinegar and olive oil, and we haven't even talked all the possibilities of vinegar. It's sweet or sour, thin or thick, exotic or ordinary white.
The shooters, get this, the shooters are juveniles.
With the specificity of Susan Smith, and I haven't heard her voice, whether she has the same near-whine, breaking voice, she says, helpful friend to law enforcement: "One appeared to be 13 to 15 years of age while the other was as young as 10." Well, who knows? It was recently ruled that that damn dingo really did eat that baby in the Outback, remote and hot and sandy.
Fred says not to worry, she'll not get away with it, no sir, no ma'am. He's trying to talk Southern but the baby is already dead.
His father is identified, implying that the unidentified mother was one of them wicked single moms, and he railed against the 13 to 15 years of age boy and the young-as-ten accomplice, saying why didn't you just take the purse, which is sure what I would say if my child's head were blown to pieces.
Brunswick, the article says, is a "seaside Georgia town some 30 miles north of Florida," and the shooter boys are not identified as white or black, I guess to prove how far we've come from shaggy-headed big black men who steal cars only to sink them in the silty bottoms of southern waters.
*hate: I usually get jumped on with both steel-toed boots if I say I hate something. Please, O Loving and Compassionate Ones, change your boots for soft-soled slippers first this go 'round.