Just the other day I was telling someone that if Ruth Ann ever wanted to give up her court beat, I’d love to take it over because even though court can be deadly dull, the cases are generally pretty meaty. And then I read this story today:

By Ruth Ann Krause
Post-Tribune correspondent

Lake Superior Court Judge Diane Ross Boswell rejected a request on behalf of Joseph C. Buchko, a former Merrillville school teacher convicted of sexual battery who wanted to avoid having to register as a sex offender.

Buchko, 38, of Griffith, who admitted he improperly touched an 11-year-old girl on school property on a Saturday between September and October 2004, said having to register would hurt his chances at landing a job with the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency, defense attorney Sam Cappas said. Cappas argued the law shouldn’t apply to Buchko.

Deputy prosecutor Judy Massa said Buchko already had received a favorable plea agreement and sentence. Originally charged with child molesting, which carries a maximum eight-year sentence, Buchko pleaded guilty in 2005 to sexual battery and received 18 months’ probation. His probation was extended to allow him to comply with the requirements, and his felony conviction was reduced to a misdemeanor.

I’m still trying to figure out how in the holy hell these vermin burst her implant. Good Christ, y’all.

Victim: Gang-Rape Cover-Up by U.S., Halliburton/KBR

Found over at Jezebel, where you’ll also find links to contact your m’erf’in Congressmen about stopping this abomination of a company in the comments. Not that that will do anything, but it might keep you from plying yourself full of whiskey at just past noon. 

I most certainly did snicker to myself when the gastrointerologist informed Mother that not only would she have a lower GI to look for polyps, but an UPPER GI to look for ulcers, and she freaked out. Hey, it’s what she wants, right?

Totally forgot to tell you guys: Despite what his site says, the Dix hath spawned! Little Connor Raine, 7-2, was born on the 6th, and haven’t heard that Momma and baby are doing any way other than fine.

Go over there and give him some luv!

Because I’m nothing if not a 12 year-old boy, did you know such a thing exists!?? NO, I didn’t look at it, but is that not the dumbest thing you’ve ever heard of!?? Goes to show that Rule 34 knows no boundaries. (I wonder if there’s some meta thing on Rule 34 in and of itself. Let’s ponder, shall we?)

So last weekend was the end of everyone’s favorite cover band, Bite the Lime, and Anna (who shall now be known as “Girlie” because that’s what she wants) and I braved the ass-bad weather to toast our men farewell as they kill a perfectly popular, awesome band, but whatever pursue other interests. It was awesome drinking on the band’s tab, though, and I think we’re going to have to do that more often. Even caught a fight on video, for which I’m going to have to host a video night to see the footage. (Or maybe not, since watching me get in the camera and slurring, “You know wha? You SHUCK, Truman, becuhz yer breakiiing up the ban!” two or three different times might not be as compelling as I thought it was at the time. But you know what’s really good? Pineapple Upside-down shots.)

I probably should’ve written about this yesterday when I was all twitchy and emotional, but today marks the first time I go it alone on a holiday. Mother’s depression is out of remission* right now, so she has decided that today is “just another day” and would rather stay at home and think about the stomach cancer** she absolutely doesn’t have even though we’ve been invited to Poppy’s for dinner (we usually have reservations someplace). So, I’m going to Poppy’s, and then Anna’s, alone, which is awesome and I love that they’re including me, but dammit, my Mother’s still alive, and we should be celebrating together.

I do wish y’all a wonderful, artery-clogging feast, however, and I will make sure to have one as well.

Any of y’all catch this on Today this morning: Lookit? I didn’t, but I’ve been following the story since Moe Tkacik broke it on the Innerbunny last Friday.

No, I don’t have anything to say that hasn’t already been said by hopefully hundreds of thousands of people who cannot fathom the impossible pain that Curt, Lori and Sarah Drew have brought upon Tina and Ron Meier. I just want to be among the Innerbunny vigilantes who’re keeping these sorry excuses for humans under the computer screen’s harsh glare.

Karma can be a nasty, filthy whore sometimes, ain’t it?

Lets101 - Free Online Dating

People who not only bring their snotty little shits to any sort of production that isn’t a matinee, but TALK TO THEM during the whole production. In a NORMAL VOICE. Like tonight: Went to see my pal Anna’s kids in the Indiana Youth Ballet’s production of The Nutcracker, and this family with not one, but two kids under the age of 7 was sitting behind us. Well, the little girl who couldn’t have been more than 2 and was sitting directly behind ME kept shrieking “AAAAABBEEEEEE! AAAAAAABBEEEEEEE!” every damn time AAAAAAAABBEEEEEE was on stage, and the grandpa was encouraging the little shit with “Can you see Abby and Alli up there!??” the whole time, while the other kid kept whining to his mom “What’s going on NOW!??” and instead of telling the brat to shut the fuck up and watch the play, she explained it to him. And they weren’t whispering; in fact, each time the music rose to crescendo, the assholes took it as a cue to TALK LOUDER. And neither my turning around and glaring nor me asking Grandpa Fucktard, “Do you need me to move so you can see them!??” clued them into the fact that they were rude.

It was a great show otherwise.

Welp, it’s official—A former college amour and now sergeant with the County Mounties faces up to three years in the clink for theft.

You know, I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: This guy is a lot of things—blustery, arrogant, prone to exaggeration with a bit of a Napoleon complex to boot. But a thief? I don’t buy it, and the fact that the FOP is allowing him to pay restitution further seals it for me. I hope he and his family come through this all right.

Anyone with any good memories about my couch, please share in the comments. It’ll go along way in the healing process.

the new couch is here—pics to follow, especially now that I’m going to go to Target and see if I can’t get me some Tiffany blue curtains to lighten up the place. I’ll also take a pic of my old couch if it’s still sitting outside by the dumpster; it’s a pretty pitiful sight to see, especially that middle cushion. It, of course, is still in the crib.

It’s a sad, sad day up in Chez Broad, for we are fast approaching the end of an era. What might that be, you ask? Am I admitting defeat and getting rid of my size 10-12 clothes? Am I getting a real job with benefits? Nay nay. I’m getting a new couch. As early as Thursday.

Yeah, you’d think that would be an exciting thing, and once it’s here, it probably will be. Thing is, I don’t want to let my current couch go; it’s been with me the entire 9 years I’ve been here, and it’s the first piece of furniture I ever bought. And it was REAL, not a futon. Cost me $650, and I paid cash. True, I was never really excited about the flower pattern, and the fact that it’s cream gave me pause, but it’s been a good, comfy couch (ask Cat Rags and Headcase—they’ve both logged time on it). Memories have been made on that couch. I’ve laughed, cried, had insane sex on it (shutup, you have too on your own couches), taken so many naps on it. Hell, I’ve probably slept more on it than I have in my bed. And I’ve been trying for months to figure out how I can get a few more years out of it, but it’s yellowed and the middle cushion is way flat and fabric torn beyond repair; and the alternatives—reupholstering or tight-fit slipcovers—aren’t much less expensive than the new couch (which I got for a steal: $380 with shipping!), and on and on and on. My sister was like, “Hey, out with the old, and in with the new,” and she’s right for various and sundry reasons, but I’m more of the “loyal to their toilet paper” type, so this is kind of a struggle for me. I suppose it doesn’t help that I have anthropomorphic tendencies and am convinced my couch will suffer severe abandonment issues once it leaves the confines of my crib.

If there’s any good to come out of this, it’s that I finally have to clean the living room that I’ve been saying I’ll clean for months now.

In a rare bit of I-don’t-know-what-you’d-call-it (though it probably doesn’t need to be called ANYTHING and I’m just grasping for a lead-in), the paper’s esteemed columnist wrote about a guy who’s being stalked by a woman. No talk of boiled game or creative homicide-suicide letters or anything that you usually think about when you think “crazy nutjob stalker”; apparently, this woman just drives by his house and his place of work more than a person probably should. Naturally, the guy’s unnerved, as he should be, and he almost had me completely on his side until he said this:

That’s kinda been my big excitement lately: It all started last month, when I left my car unlocked one night; the next day, I jump into my car to find my car manual sitting on my passenger side and a 12-pack of Pepsi GONE. Now, NOBODY takes my nectar, dammit, but what am I gonna do? And anyways, the kids were out of school for whatever break, so I figured it was teenagers being stupid. Whatever.

Until today, when I walked out to my car to find my manual once again on the passenger’s seat, plus my trunk and gas door opened. As far as I can tell, nothing was missing, but now it seems that someone’s fucking with me. So, fine. I’ll just keep my doors locked at all times, or maybe I’ll just start pointing a hidden cam at my car at night and tape the sons-of-bitches. I mean, I haven’t gone to the police about anyone in a couple years, so I reckon I’m about due.