Today, a few days before Christmas, Maureen Faulkner has received more terrible news. On Dec. 9, 1981, she received the worst news of all: her husband of two years, Danny, has been gunned-down, assassination style, begging for his life at the hands of then-street-thug/future NPR commentator Mumia Abu Jamal. The fine and brilliant Matthew Vadum has the story here. Note it has been removed from search functions: Pennsylvania Supreme Court Refuses to Remove DA in Cop-Killer’s Case.
Here’s a handy list of all the times I’ve written about Mumia: it makes me sick to recount them. I can’t imagine what it takes to live them. Now a Soros-funded District Attorney has taken up the case for freeing Abu Jamal from within the justice system that was supposed to represent Danny Faulkner, not drag his body from the grave and lynch his bones, again, from the nearest flagpole. This what you voted for, Democrats. None of you are welcome near my house again. The lines are drawn.
- Marilyn Buck, Cop Killer: Five Less Than Six Degrees of Separation From Barack Obama
- Best Takedown of Amy Goodman, Democracy Now!, Renée Feltz . . . and Mumia Supporters Everywhere
- Mumia Abu-Jamal and Marty Hittleman: California Teachers Endorse a Cop Killer, Get Caught, Blame Wisconsin Governor Scott Walker
- Shameless New York Times Shills Jimmy Carter and Terry Gross’ Killer Pal, Wilbert Rideau
- Maureen Faulkner is Right: The Fight Against Mumia Will Never Be Over, as Amnesty International Proves with Their Holiday Catalogue
- More on Mumia
Maureen, I pray for your peace. Saint Rita is one of the very few patron saints of crime victims. Of course, for every prayer for a crime victim, there are ten for the criminals. Anywhere, here is part of the St. Rita prayer:
O Holy Patroness of those in need, St. Rita, whose pleadings before thy Divine Lord are almost irresistible, who for thy lavishness in granting favors hast been called the Advocate of the Hopeless and even of the Impossible; St. Rita, so humble, so pure, so mortified, so patient and of such compassionate love for thy Crucified Jesus that thou couldst obtain from Him whatsoever thou askest, on account of which all confidently have recourse to thee expecting, if not always relief, at least comfort; be propitious to our petition, showing thy power with God on behalf of thy suppliant; be lavish to us, as thou hast been in so many wonderful cases, for the greater glory of God, for the spreading of thine own devotion, and for the consolation of those who trust in thee. We promise, if our petition is granted, to glorify thee by making known thy favor, to bless and sing thy praises forever. Relying then upon thy merits and power before the Sacred Heart of Jesus, we pray thee grant that [here mention your request] By the singular merits of thy childhood, Obtain for us our request. By thy perfect union with the Divine Will, Obtain for us our request.
By thy heroic sufferings during thy married life, Obtain for us our request.
I’m going to be frank here: this makes me angry. Why should we, the victims, be humble, pure, mortified, patient — even meritorious? Yeah, I get it, turn the cheek, etc. ad infinitum. Problem is, these are words for an age that doesn’t exist anymore. We live in an age where George Soros inserts defense attorneys in District Attorney’s offices specifically to use the adversarial criminal justice system to torture the victims and survivors of crimes instead of representing them — not to achieve “justice,” not to rise above the inchoate pre-Aeschylus era of curses and witches and bloody revenge.
What good is playing the humble Catholic game while your opponents aren’t merely summoning irrational vengeful furies but installing them and their slutty anorectic size-zero Ally McBeal skirts in the very offices reserved for actually defending victims of the worst crimes?. What good is justice then? If we are tearing down the statues of Greece to replace them with the dumb rage of irrational furies: don’t expect them to stop at Maureen Faulkner.
This is how these withered whorish bitches and bitch-hims talk. Aeschylus, or course:
this is the chant, scatter of wits,
frenzy and fear, hurting the heart,
song of the Furies
binding brain and blighting blood
in its stringless melody. Oh, the torment bred in the race,
the grinding scream of death
and the stroke that hits the vein,
the hemorrhage none can staunch, the grief,
the curse no man can bear.
You’re wasting your time in appeasing the dead.
They came back
To fatherless children,
To screams, to sobbing.
The men came back
As little clay jars
Full of sharp cinders. You’re wasting your time in appeasing the dead.
Of course women and men who have no love, no spouses, no children, no mothers, no fathers, not brothers, no love, speak like this. Of course, honoring the dead is meaningless to them. I’m looking at you, mad-at-daddy, on-the-spectrum, can’t commit, ACLU. I’m looking at you, wizened tenure-track hags and soy boys grasping for relevance by supporting a cop killer; I’m looking at you, tattooed academic failures camped out on city streets in $10,000 outdoor gear trying to get back into the trust fund so you can start another failed gallery. I’m looking at you, pathetic obseseblackfeministactivists hoping someone will give you something other than a WS 101 to teach while your guts twist knowing you don’t have the intellectual chops to do even that.
Mostly, I’m looking at you, you 70+ year old jerks who ran weekly papers and taught journalism in the 80’s; you who never offered YOUR cushy tenured jobs up for minority hires or half-wit wiggers when you eagerly helped them foment da revolution and destroy your hard-working employees, so long as you could keep your perks. Yeah, you’re the ones who can afford four stress tests a year and eat only Whole Foods fish and show up at protests in $500 sneakers that you beat with a hammer in the basement of your million dollar house to make them look less new; as your third graduate student wife puts the urchins away in their Ikea swings and nightshirts woven by Inca slaves who look so happy in the catalog.
Once they’re done destroying Maureen Faulkner, they will come for you: you do know that, right? Clockwork Orange isn’t just a metaphor, sweeties.