Just when you thought academia couldn’t slosh any deeper in the mud…
SUNY Brockport President Heidi Macpherson is welcoming recently paroled, multiple cop assassin and bomber Anthony Bottom to the campus.
Anthony Bottom, Serial, Racist Murderer of Blacks and Whites
To celebrate him as a “political prisoner of Amerikka.”
Doesn’t this stuff ever get old?
Bottom’s crimes include killing NYPD officers Waverly Jones and Joseph Piagentini in cold blood, offing some other officers in California and possibly Georgia, bombing police stations, and even bombing the church where one officer’s funeral was being held. Luckily, the nail bomb Bottom admitted to planting at the church didn’t kill anyone.
But let’s start with his academic accomplices. This is SUNY (State University of New York) Brockport’s president Heidi Macpherson, sitting excitedly with that Canadian hag, Margaret Atwood. I once had to drive Margaret Atwood to the airport in Sarasota, Florida because she was far too important to haul her own suitcase across the road from the school to the terminal, a distance smaller than most parking lots. I had to borrow a car to do it because I had no car. The car was old and the door handles had duct tape on them, but it was tidy. Nonetheless, the famous socialist Canadian whinged all the way across the street about how she expected superior accommodations.
With the exception of serial cop assassins, there may be no worse humans on earth than socialist feminist Canadians.
Heidi Macpherson and wealthy elite socialist Margaret Atwood
President Macpherson has an impressive academic resume, but it apparently failed to include instruction in dealing with the fallout from cheering on cop-murderers using the taxpayer’s dime. So she has been winging that blonde dye job back and forth for weeks trying to fix the soulless quagmire boondoggle she created by celebrating this human garbage on her public university campus. First she invited Bottoms; then she disinvited him; then she said no taxpayers’ dollars would be used to support his presence (an abject lie: taxpayers pay her salary, and the security officers responsible for keeping order in the buildings at SUNY Brockport, and her many deans responsible for little more than justifying this sort of behavior, and the buildings themselves, and the highly questionable Associate Professor who invited Bottom in the first place).
So why Did President Macpherson invite serial killer Anthony Bottom to SUNY Brockport in the first place?
Because he murdered cops in cold blood. When he wasn’t bombing police stations and churches. Good move, tosser. I mean the hair. Here’s her contact information: 585-395-2361, email: firstname.lastname@example.org.
In 1979, Robert B. Tannenbaum published a book about the double murder Anthony Bottom and his co-conspirator Herman Bell committed against one of the several NYPD officer teams paired up by race (ie. black and white) in an effort to improve race relations in and outside of police stations. Bottom and Bell ambushed and murdered Officers Joseph Piagentini and Waverly Jones — Piagentini was of Italian descent and Jones was black. Such attempted racial comity enraged the Weather Underground and the Black Liberation Army, who had spent years trying to drive bloody wedges between blacks and whites, and police and citizens in poor communities.
Bottom and Bell were both released from prison in New York in recent years. Jones and Piagentini are still dead.
But hey, SUNY Brockport is miles away from such carnage. The campus is located on a notedly “bucolic” area far from New York City, near the Erie Canal. They don’t even have Buffalo for an excuse. It is 87% white, and, oddly, 56% female. So how could we expect a busy college president like Heidi to perhaps vet a serial killer and bomber of white and black cops, for just doing his thing?
I’m going to quote extensively from Robert Tannenbaum’s impressive book to tell the story of merely one such crime Anthony Bottom committed:
(Officer) Waverly Jones was dead before he hit the sidewalk, the bullets tracing a straight line down his back, as though someone was trying to bisect him from top to bottom. The first one smashed through his skull, an almost perfect shot dead center to the back of his head, fired from no more than six inches from him. If he felt anything, it was no more than the wallop of impact, for the bullet that seared through his brain was hot enough to cook the tissue as it passed.
He was already pitching forward when the next shot ripped into the back of his neck, severed his spine, and neatly cracked his lower jaw, the way impatient hands might snap a pencil. The third shot, about 18 inches directly below the second, again tore through a vertebra and came to rest in the dead tissue of what had been only thirty seconds before the powerful body of a proud black police officer in the prime of his life.
The bullets came so fast he was still falling when the fourth one hit. Moving upward now, because of the angle of his body, it pierced the angle of his left buttock and didn’t stop until it had ruptured his kidney and diaphragm.
That was Waverly Jones. A man, an officer, a father. Someone well-liked. Someone trying to make his city better. He didn’t stand a chance from those wounds. Brains on the pavement. Does President Heidi even know where that pavement is? Who remembers his name now? Who memorializes him?
His partner, Josephi Piagentini, wasn’t so lucky, if one can even say that, only because he took longer to die and was conscious through most of the attack. Can President Heidi tell the press the truth about what her school’s latest pet serial killer did? I called and called for an explanation. Of course, I received no response.
I think all of SUNY Brockport’s campus police should quit. I think the town should stop taking 911 calls from the Brockport campus — and President Heidi’s house. I think all of these people should experience the consequences of their guiding philosophy. Sure, co-eds will be raped. Boys will be mugged and beaten. Your nice faculty members’ houses might be invaded. Your children may be terrorized. But this is what SUNY Brockport is advocating to be doing to others, and I think they should at least experience the fear resulting from their championing of unrepentant murderers. What a bunch of shallow intellectual frauds.
Here’s the rest of the story, as told by Robert Tannenbaum:
Dead at thirty-two, Officer Wavery Jones was the lucky one. His killer worked with the cool professionalism of a professional executor. But the second gunman didn’t have the first one’s skill, and so patrolman Joseph Piagentini died the way a bull dies in the ring, his body scored and torn with a dozen wounds that left him alive long enough for the impact of each bullet, long enough to crawl on the damp, foul sidewalk, while bullet after bullet easily outran him. Long enough to plead with his killers to not shoot him again.
But they wouldn’t stop. The second gunman emptied his long-barreled .38 into Piagentini’s body and then stood over him, cursing him for his stupidity in refusing to die.
Meanwhile, the first gunman, the one who had killed Waverly Jones, reached down and unstrapped the leather harness that held Jones’s(sic) service revolver in its holster. He slid the gun free and studied it for a few seconds, feeling the heft of it in his hand, appreciating it the way a hunter values an animal he has killed. The weapon was now his, the way a tusk or tooth or talon of his fallen prey.
He thrust the .38 into his belt and stood to where his partner was now stooping over Piagentini trying to pry the gun from the holster of the writhing cop. He watched as the cop made desperate moves towards his hip, like the uncoordinated flailings of a crying baby. Then the second shooter stood upright, the cop’s gun in his right hand, his own empty .38 in his left. He pulled the trigger of the service revolver again and again and again, each bullet sending fresh spasms of pain into Piagentini’s tortured brain.
Then the cop’s gun, too, clicked empty, and the cop was still alive, his moanings and movements delivering a clear and appalling message to the confused killer. “We are the police,” the still living body seemed to say. “You can hate us and revile us, you can come up behind us in the dark of a Harlem night. You can arm yourselves like warriors and shoot us until your guns are empty. But you cannot kill us.”
The first gunman saw the look of panic and perplexity on his partner’s face. Calmly he raised his .45 and shot one last shot into the cop’s body. Then he and his partner fled as they might have fled a ghost, leaving Patrolman Joseph Piagentini still alive on the sidewalk, still crawling in his own blood toward the shelter of a hedge.
College President Heidi Macpherson, explain why you wish to honor this inhuman murderer. No parsing. No hair tossing. No nothing but your explanation of why such a creature should be permitted to be treated like a hero by you. Is it a fetish? A little wriggle? The sort of erotic excitement that some sick people use to substitute for their hollow lack of real ethics and feelings?
I dare you. Joseph Piagentini’s widow has dared you. I’m sure most of the parents of your students dare you. The police dare you. The police everywhere. The police where your children play. Where you work. Where your husband works. Where your university’s trustees work, and where their families live. The trustees have apparently approved of celebrating a cop-killer too.
Justify yourselves. No police officer in Brockport should stoop to help you, or your businesses, or your loved ones if you don’t shut down this whole fraud.