Above the Law

Probably every society in the history of humankind has had members who, by virtue of wealth or military might, are above the law. These people view the rest of us as so much sand spilled on the floor.

It's sickening enough to know that we're keeping people in cages in conditions we wouldn't inflict upon the chickens we eat. But to also know that a wealthy businessman like Jeffrey Epstein flung paltry amounts of money at little girls while ruining their lives and robbing them of their innocence is just 1,000 miles past infuriating.

I know someone who got 10 years in jail, no possibility of early parole, for having child pornography on his hard drive. He is now a registered sex offender. In fact I don't even know where he lives, because he cut all ties with everyone who knew him before he was arrested.

Epstein got a flick on his wrist, swatted it away like a fly, and went right back to his party life and his penchant for trafficked women. Trust me, we will never know the extent of it -- or, if we do, it will be because one side wants to smear Donald Trump and one side wants to smear Bill Clinton. And a third side might have it in for the British royal family. All of these sick pukes are in this together.

Once you get rich enough to make your own rules and buy off the law, it's the Wild, Wild West.

This is why Goddess-based religions exist. We, the grains of sand, need to feel that we can exert some agency over this despicable, depraved exploitation. We want to be able to stir up potions and create hexes and otherwise rage against those who want to dominate. A pox on religions that say to take this stuff lying down! That is exactly what the Jeffrey Epsteins of this world want us to do. I say, let's take action in the apparent world and on the spiritual plane! Demand justice from the courts. Demand full disclosure of partners in crime. Demand that sentencing guidelines be followed. And then petition the Goddess to smack these beasts until they crumble.

The moral character of this nation is so low it's got to look up to look down. I am longing for a principled leader, a majority religion that isn't awash in hypocrisy, a tearing down of walls between the "have too much" and the "don't have enough."

At dawn we ride. So might it be.

Not On This Site!

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," serving downsized deities since 2005! Wow! Another follower! Thank you, thank you, thank you!

I have had to change the privacy settings on my comments link. "The Gods Are Bored" has been overrun with sicko spammers for Asian escort services. There are few things I find more loathsome.

Asian children from Nepal and parts of India are often trafficked into Red Light districts in the larger cities of the region. Poverty-stricken Chinese girls are convinced they will be getting good-paying jobs in America, only to be smuggled into massage parlors where rich old bastards use and discard them like sticks of chewing gum.

SMITE! I won't have this evil as part of my blogging package!

This is me when someone disrespects my blog. Any questions? If you have them, they will be moderated.

Mandescending and Mindfulness

You've heard the term "mansplaining," and I really like it. Whoever coined it was pretty smart. The definition is basically a man explaining to a woman something that the woman is either more knowledgeable about because it's her lived reality as a female, or something she has trained to do and knows how to do already.

For instance, my daughter The Fair was filming an event the other night with high-end equipment she is well trained to use, and some dude tried to tell her how to set up the tripod. Really?

I'm going to add a new term of my own: mandescending. This is where a man is condescending to a woman and dismisses her out of hand, even though her concerns are serious, maybe either health- or job-related.

Yesterday my school district had a professional development workshop, and part of it was yet another session on how to use the baffling new web site for which the district spent tons of money to purchase a full package. The web site does a gazillion tasks but is about as user-friendly as a potted cactus. Every time we get a demonstration, the same guy comes. He's yet another of those paid consultants who spent a few years in the classroom, couldn't wait to get out, and saw this web site as a ticket.

Honestly, I'll be the first to admit that if I had trained as a teacher I would have been looking to move into corporate somehow after five to ten years. The teaching profession is poorly-paid, overly scrutinized, underappreciated by the public, and physically and emotionally exhausting.

Part of what makes it exhausting is trying to learn the web site du jour.

To return to my narrative, I was attempting to keep up with the blistering pace of this man's presentation, and as usual I fell a step or two behind. When I asked why my page didn't look like his, he came to my station, flicked a few buttons, and said, "There you are." And sniffed with derision.

I went to the vending machine and bought a Snickers bar. First one I've eaten in two years.

The joy of the Snickers soon abated, but my fury has not.

This country treats its elders with condescension. Or mandescension, you decide.

In the summer of 1979, I was working in the Milton S. Eisenhower Library of the Johns Hopkins University. I had a job with a special archive of psychiatric documents that belonged to a prominent Hopkins physician named Adolf Meyer. In order to prepare a documentary list of the voluminous records this man kept (which included extensive correspondence with Freud, Jung, and other psychiatric luminaries), the university purchased a word processor. It was the first one any of us had seen.

A technician wheeled the word processor into our office space and showed the lead archivist how to use it. But then an interesting phenomenon occurred.

One by one, the oldest professors in the Hopkins community dropped by to see the word processor. These were men (of course, it was 1979) who had probably written multiple scholarly tomes, using Royal typewriters or even legal pads. They wanted to see the machine in action. And so did I.

A few years later, I found myself working for a publishing house, preparing copy for encyclopedias. The work was done with pencil and electric typewriters. Then the company bought two word processors, but no one was particularly interested in using them. Having had a little bit of exposure to one, I gladly accepted a spot at the word processor. I got a raise.

I know I should have kept up with computing. I know I should be more capable when it comes to new web sites. Perhaps it shouldn't count that I was the most proficient with technology when certain workshop presenters were probably learning to use the potty.

I know my mental capacity isn't what it once was. I don't even write for this site like I used to. But to be dismissed with such thinly-veiled disdain was a nasty jolt. I'm old. I'm obsolete. I'm female. Thanks for reminding me.

But wait, there's more.

After being humiliated in the web site training, I had to go back into a general faculty meeting for both of the Vo-Tech campuses. When both campuses get together, it's a lot of teachers. A good two hundred plus, I should think. We fill an auditorium.

The rest of the long day was spent in mindfulness training. We had to ground, center, follow our breath, feel our feet on the floor (mine were cold), yada yada yada. Be in the moment, and if your thoughts drift, pull back to breath.

First of all, when I do this practice, it is tied to my religion, which I firmly separate from my work responsibilities. So I deliberately let my thoughts go as haywire as they wanted to. Here's the short list:

1. Wow, that guy is such an asshole! Karma's gonna come for him when he's 60, for sure. I'd like to be there when he gets confused over the communication system between himself and teachers on Mars. He won't have tenure. Maybe he'll get fired! Maybe a woman supervisor will tell him, "You're all washed up. Hit the road!"

2. I wonder where that mindfulness facilitator got her dress. Is that drip-dye, tie-dye or some other process? I like the way it drapes too.

3. Damn, I wonder what's going on with this student teacher I got assigned all of a sudden! Did she flake out on her previous assignment? What's up with that? Why did I even agree to do it?

4. Getting old sucks. I'm so tired all the time. I'm sick of people. I don't want to go out for lunch. I don't want to go to the gym anymore. My body is so weary, and my feet are cold. Why don't they turn on some heat in here? Dammit, I thought about putting foot warmers in my shoes, and I didn't do it! Dumb. Dumb. Dumb.

5. I wonder if I should pull back the ivy in the back yard just a foot or two. But grass doesn't grow well, and Mr. J never mows the lawn. Isn't the ivy better? But pulling the ivy would be good exercise. Yeah, but you know how annoying it is working with that English ivy. Yeah, maybe I'll just leave it. But if I had a nice straight line down the back, I could put up a stone border, like a rock wall ... what, am I supposed to be feeling my back against the chair? Fuck that. Fuck this whole thing.

6. I think I'll stop by Woodstock on the way home and see how they're doing. It's sort of on the way. Let's see, if I take Haterfield-Berlin Road to White Horse Road, and then ... that leads right to Springdale. Easy! Because it's such a long slog up Route 73. Oh! Why does everyone have their hand up in the air? Did I miss something? Who cares?

7. I can't believe I'm hungry after wolfing down that Snickers.

8. Donald Trump is an asshole. All powerful men are assholes. Geez, even Bernie Sanders couldn't run a tight ship. But this country will never elect a woman. Women won't vote for a woman. I wonder why that is? But I know it's true.

9. Camping or a hotel? I'm too old for camping! I'm not sleeping in a tent on the ground. But the hotel is so expensive. I could use that money to improve the front porch, so I don't have to look at the disgraceful, hideous house across the street ... Is it time to go yet? FUCK! Another two hours? I can't even. Like, camping isn't as bad as all that. You wake up in the cool morning air ... snap, I would have to buy so much equipment. But then I would have all the equipment, and I could use it again! Yeah, use it again to go camping. I'm done with camping! I spent my whole teenage decade in a tent! You know what else I'm done with? Mindfulness! Just another trendy stupid thing our school district is flirting with. You'd think they would train us on what to do when angry parents start shouting in our faces.

10. Whoa, look at the shop teachers! They are giggling like kids. Welding and mindfulness: perfect together.


If you've gotten this far, I know you get the drift.

Readers, my stats tell me that I have had over a million page views here at "The Gods Are Bored." I think a significant number of those are spammers of the pornographic variety. Still, someone has been reading my drivel. If that is you, do you want me to bake you a pie?

An Open Letter to Nick Sandmann, Future Supreme Court Justice of America

Hello and welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," your Pagan pathway to paradise! You know what's good about bored deities? If they're warlike, they're just warlike. They don't pose as coo doves and then smite. That's hypocritical and dishonest, don't you think?

EXHIBIT A: Today's Poster Boy for the Modern Era

Y'all probably know this story already. The young white creature is Nick Sandmann, a teenager from private Covington Catholic School in Kentucky. He and his classmates (pictured in rear) got into an altercation at the Lincoln Memorial some time after the annual Right to Life rally in Washington, DC.

There was a great rush to judgment based on this photo, so I took the time to read the grinning white boy's version of events. And I must say, he would fit right in here in Haterville. He casts himself as a victim with a total lack of irony.

The story he tells says so much about him. As if you'd need to know more once you saw the MAGA hat.

Apparently these fine Catholic youth were minding their own business at the Lincoln Memorial when some African American men began to taunt them. In Sandmann's account, these Black men called the good, white Catholic boys all sorts of names. So, in response, Sandmann asked his chaperone if he and his buddies could chant SCHOOL PEP RALLY CHANTS, and the chaperone said YES.

Picture this in your mind. Especially if you're a school teacher.

So you have taunting on one side, and chanting on another (from white teenagers wearing MAGA hats), and then you get a drumming Native American who tries to diffuse the situation.

Well, you can't blame the drummer. Some fucking chaperone was inciting his or her charges to riot, instead of quietly steering them out of trouble.

This is what white privilege looks like.

I have absolutely no time or energy for these Catholic schoolboys who go into Washington, DC (population about 60 percent Black), having no respect for the urban environment or what they might encounter there. At a moment where a thinking student or chaperone encountered taunting, that student would turn and quietly walk away. Let's not even talk about what Jesus would do, because ... oh, just see above, first paragraph.

Any woman who has ever walked the streets of a city and has gotten taunted would have known what to do in this situation. But white men? White men don't know shit about this. It's never happened to them. Or to their fathers or grandfathers. It must never have happened to the chaperone, either.

White Catholic boy, your MAGA hat speaks for you. Wear it the wrong place, and you've got to face the music. You won't like the tune. But hear it with humility. You go to private school and are bound for a life of wealth and contentment. The men who challenged you at the Lincoln Memorial? Not so much. Not. So. Much.

But that brings me to the silver lining of this fable.

Nick Sandmann, given the political tenor of your home state (which I would never be foolish enough to visit in my car with its New Jersey plates), you have a bright, bright future! Someone will have to pick up the torch from Mitch McConnell, and you're just the fresh-faced Republican to do it. But why stop there? Everything about you just screams Supreme Court Justice. Are you doing your requisite beer parties with all those fine, young, white pep rally chanters you hang out with? Are you getting drunk and preying upon the fresh-faced Catholic girls in your circle? Oh good. Just checking. In that case, all is well! You're on your way to the big time!

Readers, I double dog guarantee you this sad excuse for an American will face no disciplinary repercussions for this at home or at school. Nor will his chaperone, who was either on some super strong mushrooms or was just a clueless rube. White boys get away with this shit. Always have.

And once again, we see the Catholic church at its finest. What a rotten God! It's disgusting.

In Which I Hex Mark Ryan, Homebuilder, and His Partner P.J. Ward

Dear Readers, all six of you (bless your sweet, smart hearts), I am finally able to post "before and after" photos of the view from my front door. Of course, photos don't entirely capture the dramatic alteration in the vista -- nor do they account for the economic circumstances of the new neighbors -- but snapshots will have to do.

EXHIBIT A: 311 Windsor Avenue, Haterville, New Jersey, 2014

Missing is the 100-year-old tree that was cut down. It would have been to the left, just out of the frame.

EXHIBIT B: 311 and 313 Windsor Avenue, Haterville, New Jersey 2018

First World Problems, right? I know, I know. It's not like a hurricane roared through. But honestly. Cheap, shoddy construction. And that two-car garage perfectly aligns with my front yard. And the developer has charmed my husband by assuring him this improves the price of our home. Except that we don't plan to sell while I'm working, so why would that matter?

Well, as luck would have it ... if you can call it lucky to be home sick ... the builder is showing the property on the left today.

I am under strict orders from Mr. J: "Don't embarrass me!" Excuse me? You embarrassed yourself by swallowing the snake oil and calling it a cure.

So I have positioned my Truth in Advertising messages at the end of the driveway:

EXHIBIT C: RESIST, PERSIST, AND RISE

The fact that the car is old and ratty only adds a poignant touch.

I know that three of my six readers are Hillary supporters, and I hope you'll forgive me for being a far-left Democratic Socialist. But even you must admit that this pairing is more effective than a Hillary bumper sticker would be. (and yes, I most certainly voted for Hillary.)

Readers, my dudgeon is high not only because this project uprooted beautiful trees and decimated green space. It's also high because the buyers of these homes, in search of everything new and shiny, are basically purchasing high-end housing that was built with low-end products and labor. It's all show and no substance, which apparently is good enough for some millionaire who wants to purchase something in "move-in condition." With a mud room.

Ah, and now for the 662nd day in a row (not excepting weekends), workers are running something loud and motorized over there.

The greed is naked. The disdain is obvious. There's only one way I can respond that will give me any sort of quiet satisfaction ... and that's the way my ancient ancestors responded when the lord of the manor did them wrong.

Hexes all around. Mark Ryan, snake-oil salesman and greedy capitalist -- HEX! P.J. Ward, original hatcher of this travesty -- HEX!

And to my neighbors who happily sold their land to these greed-hounds from Hell -- HEX.

FROM ANNE JOHNSON
Across the Street

PS to Kimber: I heard about that earthquake, and I hope you and yours are all right. My own problems pale in comparison. Sedna says she's upholding you.

Hot and Hotter

When I was cavorting along the Appalachian Trail as a blithe teenager, I never thought I would someday be a woman of a certain age. But there you are. Blink your eyes, and you're a geezer.

One thing about being a geezer, though: It's possible to remember past decades. In my case, I can vividly remember an entire half century.

This is why I can state with absolute certainty that the climate has warmed.

Where are the motherfuckers who deny this? Oh, snap! I forgot! They're in the White House. It's basically the Orange Menace, his Big Oil baron buddies, and the natural gas and pipeline lobbies. They say global warming is a hoax. I cry bullshit.

The Menace is even older than I am. Can it possibly be that he has forgotten frosty Octobers, when the leaves peaked in color the second week of the month? I've lived in various parts of the Mid-Atlantic most of my life, and I clearly recall that Halloweens in the 20th century were cold affairs, possibly with snow and definitely with skeletal trees that had lost every leaf.

Last fall my sister was photographing autumn colors well into November -- a full four weeks later than it used to be.

I wore a sundress to work today. I had to, because it's in the 80s and my room has no air conditioning, only a scant two plastic fans. My students were miserable. And so was I.

It wasn't only the ungodly heat that made me miserable. It was the thought that my students and my daughters are becoming adults and will live with this ever-hotter world, no matter what we do.

I'm rather baffled that anyone over the age of 50 can be a climate change denier. What about your own four senses? Your own memory?

Then I thought, "Well, maybe the changes aren't as noticeable in other parts of the country." Until I heard from my friend in Detroit, complaining about yet another day in the 80s, last week!

I lived in Michigan for four years in the 1980s. It was crisp and cold by mid-September. The trees were bare by early October. It snowed until May.

Storms! Look at these storms! Do you remember a time when we had year after year of killer hurricanes and superstorms? I. Do. Not.

This November, and every November, you should vote Green. I don't mean Green Party, I mean your vote should be for Planet Earth. For poor dear Gaia, Demeter, sweaty Danu!

One more thing before I conclude my rant and go suck some raw eggs.

I am totally convinced that scientists have developed green energy systems that could be put in place within a decade. But their ideas, their technology, is being squashed by the billionaire oil interests. Let the whole world fry, while they rake in the ducats for themselves and their families.

Just answer me this, Mr. Oil Billionaire: What exactly will your great-grandchildren inherit? Pardon my cheek if I suggest they deserve ebola Zaire.

I don't need to have manners anymore. I'm old. And mad. Where's my bludgeon?

The Dramatic Finale of Summer Paint Crew

For the past three summers, I have been on an interior paint crew at my school. The first year there were three of us. Since then we have been four.

School teachers need money in the summertime. All told I have made about $10,000 on summer paint crew. It's a 40 hour week at $13 an hour, beginning at 6:00 a.m. and ending at 2:30. We clock in with the janitorial staff, down in the boiler room.

The "leader" of our paint crew was a teacher who was quite happy to be the leader. He had worked on the crew before any of the rest of us signed on. And he did show us how to be efficient painters. I have used his techniques on my own home.

For three summers I have worked affably with these people. (The other three are all men.) One of them is a high-volume Trump supporter, and I even got along with him. (Changed subject to Phillies/Eagles/Flyers when he started sounding off.) Our camaraderie was such that, yesterday morning, I had one of the school secretaries take a photo of the four of us, since the "leader" and I don't plan to return next year.

We had two days left on the calendar.

There was a heat advisory in effect, and the room we were working in had no air conditioning.

The "leader" set an objective that was rigorous beyond necessity. I think he wanted to get the room done before he stayed home on Friday the 31st.

We were working right next to the principal's office. The principal's secretary was right on the other side of the wall.

Quitting time is 2:30. At 1:45 our leader grew angry with us, as we were moving slower than he thought we should be moving (during a heat advisory, at the end of a long day). It was apparent to me that, while he had kept an affable demeanor, our "leader" was dissatisfied with our swiftness in general. It was evident, in fact, that he had long harbored unspoken negative opinions about our abilities.

I'm 59. The other guys are 55 and 35.

Anyway, when the "leader" lit into us, it sparked an amazing shouting match, full of expletives, between himself and another of the men. Wow. If the "F" bomb could really explode, the school would be rubble.

You would never have known, even at lunch time on this day, that such rage was simmering in the room. But  you know how it is with heat advisories, and people who set ridiculous goals for their own arrogant ends.

I don't fight, I fly. So when the shouting commenced, I picked up the brushes and the paint pails and went elsewhere to wash them. I stayed out of sight until past time to clock out, and then I went and clocked out ... and told the buildings & grounds supervisor that I wouldn't be back.

The unseemly fracas cost me $200 in lost wages, because I'm not working today or tomorrow. But if it had happened July 7, it would have cost me a lot more, because no one is going to act that way in front of me. I saw enough of that shit when I was a kid to last me 10,000 lifetimes.

Readers, I am a slow worker. I climb ladders very carefully, as I have a titanium hip and resulting balance issues. But I do climb the ladders, and I do try to do a thorough, steady job. I am beyond offended that this ersatz "leader" saw fit to criticize me ... my turn to curse ... like a whiny little bitch. He is the one who told me to join the paint crew, and sold it to me by telling me it wasn't such hard work!

Now, anyone who knows me knows that I have a hard place in my heart for people who insult me, shout at me, and throw things at me. I have been friends with this "leader" for eight years. Today, and going forward, he is a member of my bargaining unit, and nothing more. This man will not apologize. It is not in his nature. But even if he does (and I would accept with gentility), the veil has been torn asunder. Friends, never again.

Last year I was in tears when paint crew ended, because we had such fun. This year, same people, I couldn't get out of there fast enough. And I used this day off to clean my house from top to bottom, and to write this blog post.

Next summer I plan to run a lemonade stand. With wealthy new neighbors all about, I should really make bank.

This Anger Is Justified

I don't know if you've ever taught school, but by around the second week in May, you pretty much feel like you've been dragged across a trackless desert with no end in sight. That's why a quiet Sunday morning at home is a real treasure.

But last May, my quiet Sunday morning at home was interrupted at 8:00 in the morning by an industrial sized wood chipper. A landscaping company had come to cut down the huge trees that were being slaughtered so that Mark Ryan Homes could put up two cheesy McMansions across the street from my house.

There's nothing quite like being awakened by a large chipping machine and a chorus of chain saws. On Sunday.

In high dudgeon, Mr. J went outside and told them to stop. The foreman gave Mr. J a sad smile and said, "Hey, we have to feed our families, okay?"

So Mr. J called the police.

It took Snobville's Finest about 45 minutes to arrive, during which the tree slaughter continued unabated. Neighbors gathered in their bathrobes to gawk. The policeman told the workers it was against the law to operate industrial machinery in Snobville on Sunday ... but then gave them another hour to wrap things up.

In the fullness of time a court date arrived for the charge of disturbing the peace, laid somehow on the builder and not the subcontracting tree murderers. The judge ordered the matter into "arbitration," and we got a date for the arbitration. It was August 21.

Mr. J and I couldn't quite figure out what there was to arbitrate. The builder broke a local statute. Shouldn't he just have to pay a fine, maybe get the infraction noted on his company's record?

On the eve of the arbitration, one of my daughters came for dinner, so I didn't go with Mr. J to the meeting. He left, nicely dressed and on time. And the builder was there. And apparently a jovial conversation ensued, in which Mr J aired his beefs in a civilized manner and the builder apologized and said it wouldn't happen again. (Which, how could it? The trees are gone.) At the end the builder and Mr J shook hands, and off Mr. Mark Ryan went with a clean record and probably a good fifty bucks ahead of the game, fine-wise.

When Mr. J came home all smiles, I went livid. At which time I got told by daughter and husband that I had better get a grip.

So, readers. You tell me. Is my anger justified?

*I now have two houses across the street, where there was one before. Four trees were killed, including one that was 100 years old. The killing occurred partly on a Sunday morning well before noon.

*The first house is sold. It sold for $900,000. To a young family that has already defied the building code and contracted for a patio in their under-sized back yard. The builder was not legally obliged to tell the young buyers that they couldn't legally construct a patio in their back yard. But, you know, he's doing so much for the Snobville economy by bringing in new tax revenues! (Wonder what's gonna happen to my house when it's assessed next?)

*The second house is in a bidding war. Mr J was made to understand that it might sell for a million bucks, which, you know, will make our house ever so much more valuable! (How that can be I have no idea, since these McMansions sport 4 to 5 bathrooms and my house has one.)

*I'm a public school teacher with a pensioner husband, living across the street from millionaires. I don't like millionaires. I voted for Bernie, remember?

*When I look out my front window, I see a framed two-car garage, just waiting for the luxury cars these millionaires will drive.

*Donald Trump is president. The Senate will soon confirm a Supreme Court justice that was nominated by a criminal.

*Rich people get away with shit that you and I could never pull. It could be ripping down trees on a Sunday, or it could be paying porn stars to keep quiet about extramarital affairs. It could be buying the loyalty of a town council and a borough planning board, or it could be undermining clean air statues on behalf of the fossil fuel billionaires.

And I'm supposed to get a grip? Not me. I'll slide right down the rock, thank you very much.

Public School Teachers and Right To Work

Sounds like a boring topic, huh? I can see you stifling that yawn! But don't decamp for Dora the Explorer just yet, because you're in for an Anne rant. I'm rusty on ranting, but it came back today in full force.

You know what schools are? They are the spots that viruses of every kind choose for massive meet-ups. Every day, trillions of germs learn how to write paragraphs and reduce fractions. All while finding new hosts just sitting there waiting to fall ill!

This is one of the reasons why liberal states with strong unions provide decent health care to public school teachers. Mind you, I get a hefty chunk of change pulled from my envelope every pay period to partly cover my healthcare policy. But my policy is still generous. Thank you, thank you, thank you New Jersey Educational Association!

I say this because teachers in 28 states are laboring in "right to work" environments. "Right to work" (kind of like "right to life," huh?) has undercut collective bargaining rights and union clout, leading to lower salaries, and yes, higher insurance payments for teachers.

Teachers. Have you looked at a teacher's salary lately? Like, what we get paid to go sit all day among the frolicking viruses?

If you didn't see this story in the news, read it and WEEP.

Texas is a "right to work" state. But I'm not singling out Texas. This could happen in any "right to work" state.

First of all, I got a flu shot. It was free.

Second of all, if I did get the flu, my prescription of Tamiflu would cost $10.00, not $138. Therefore, I would be able to afford it. I wouldn't have to think twice.

Two children have been deprived of a mother. Probably two dozen second-graders must now deal with the trauma of having suddenly lost their teacher. (And which among those kids will feel guilty for maybe infecting her with the flu?) A loving husband has lost his wife.

Not because of the flu. No. Not because of the flu. This woman died because of RIGHT TO FUCKING WORK. I never heard of a teacher having to pay $138 for a prescription! That would NEVER happen in my state! I could be put on the most $$$$$$$$ medicine that is padding the pockets of the most venal Big Pharma executive, and my co-pay would be at most $20.

This nod to my performance of a difficult, tiring job in a germ-filled atmosphere is due to my union.

Right to work? Why don't we call it right to die?

Stay tuned for Supreme Court decisions that will bring right to die EVERYWHERE.

My heart goes out to this family, to the students and staff, and to all the public school teachers who have the misfortune of living in "right to work" states. Pay your dues, get your union card, and persuade all of your co-workers to do the same. This shit has got to stop.