The Case of the Broke Dick Brother

The upside of this blog will be that I can just show it in court and instantly get out of jury duty.

The downside is I’ll never find a decent defense attorney.

But I gotta be me and I gotta make it rain truth for my readers.

Here you go:

If you are arrested, indicted and brought to trial then you are fucking guilty as hell.

I covered some of the most heinous crimes ever back in my newspaper reporting days.

The worst was probably having to cover the murder case of a local TV reporter, and friend, who was brutally stabbed to death with a Phillips head screw driver by a stalker.

I remember drinking with her at the bar one night and she was laughing about “her friend” who kept stealing her underwear.

I was suppose to go out with her the night she was murdered. We were going to celebrate her bump up the TV food chain to the Dallas market. It was a big move. We were both really excited about it.

Then some psycho fuck of a Shoney’s chef had a particularly bad day and slipped into the open door of her apartment while she showered and stabbed her to death.

It was incredibly sad. The worst part was that the rest of the news staff were a bunch of idiots so I HAD to cover the murder, the funeral and the trial. Nothing like reading the autopsy report of a friend or having the neighbor tell you that, yes, he heard her screaming but thought she was having sex (she was pretty loud).

Then there is the whole thing where the suspect’s mother calls you non-stop to say that while her son was found covered in blood and hiding in the victim’s closet there is no way he did it. Oh, a mother’s love knows no bounds.

Sorry, I’m totally rambling again and the last blog promised this blog would be funny…

The Illegitimate Rape: The Only Innocent Guy I Saw

Every suspect is guilty.

Well, every suspect except this one black guy from Texas who was accused of raping a chunky army bride.

The trial started pretty normally.

The nice army officer had kissed his wife good bye that morning and headed off to the base.

As soon as he was gone, a black man slipped into his house and proceeded to rape his lily white wife.

She was so scared, she said, that she didn’t make a sound. She was sure this large black guy would kill her. That’s what black guys do, I guess, when they are done raping white women.

In fact, she was so scared of enraging this obvious psycho path that she made herself as compliant as possible which is the reason why there was none of the usual vaginal tearing when a large black man forces his peener into a precious white girl.

So brave. So very, very brave.

The cops testified this guy was not only guilty of being black but he was also a known crack dealer.


That’s the guilty trifecta in Central Texas: black male, crack dealing and raping white married women.

I swear to God one of the jurors volunteered to personally hang the defendant right there in the court room.

“Hey man, your boy is fucked,” I told the defense attorney after the prosecution had finished.

“Just wait,” he told me. “We actually have a surprise coming.”

So he pulls the defendant up on the stand. The defendant is a terrible witness. His reliance on Ebonics alone should have meant death by lethal injection for his brutal assault of the English language.

The defendant said he didn’t rape her. He explained it was an arrangement.

Every day, once the nice army officer left for work, our friendly crack dealer would slip in the back door of the house. He wanted sex. She wanted crack. This had been going on for a month. It was perfect, in his eyes. It was perfect in her eyes too — except for that last time.

That last time they didn’t have any condoms. That last time he thought he could pull out. He couldn’t. He filled that white girl up with his crack dealing seed.

She said it was cool.

But then she started worrying… Black crack dealing sperm mixing with her honky eggs? Segregation might be over in the south but there’s no way to explain a brown baby as it is pulled from between a white girl’s thighs and presented for muster to her dutiful, loving army officer husband.

So the defendant thought she cooked up the rape plot as a cover in case she was pregnant. Mind you, she never actually got pregnant.

So typical.

The prosecution was all over the defendant. Seriously, what a dick this guy was to even suggest such a thing. What sick fuck crack dealing rapist who doesn’t know his place in the world would bruise the reputation of this lovely, yet biggie sized, Caucasian woman?

Bring in the medical professional…

This is what slayed me.

The doctor got on the stand and began to explain that there was no way the defendant raped the alleged victim.

You see, the defendant had suffered some serious trauma in his early teens involving the cross bar on a bicycle. The lasting result was his penis was broken (Yes, this shit actually happens). The scar tissue caused his wang, when erect, to have a permanent 60-degree bend to the right, just a third of the way down from the head on his shaft.

It was a source of great embarrassment for the defendant. He actually sat there hiding his head on the table while the doctor testified that sex was extremely difficult for him and that “forcing” his mangled junk into anyone was physically impossible.

And, so…

The jury found him innocent and our chubby white wife had a lot of explaining to do to her very loyal and loving army officer husband.

So what did I learn from that trial?

Some people are innocent?

Sometimes having a busted up dick sounds like a horrible curse but it can keep you out of jail when you are falsely accused of rape so maybe everything happens for a reason?

If I had a little spare crack I could get all the chubby druggie poon I wanted?


I learned that most guys would rather go to prison than admit their dicks don’t work.

Dead Chickens, Blind Boys and a Light in the Darkness

I think it was 1995, I can’t really remember.

I was in college and traveling from Waco to Chicago to see my parents for Christmas.

Along the way I had to stop and pick up a kid in Denton, Texas. He was a the son of my parents’ friends, going to North Texas, studying music and totally blind.

Things got strange before I even left.

While I loaded up my truck my dog suddenly bolted across the street after a chicken. Yeah, this is Waco. The hippy across the street from me had pet chickens roaming around his yard. He loved those birds. My dog had been eying them for 6 months and, well, she finally snapped.

The flock scattered. She zeroed in on a plump leghorn and chased it under the hippy’s porch. I yelled at her to come back. I heard a loud squawk and then nothing but silence for the next 5 minutes. She finally emerged with her face plastered with white feathers and stomach extremely extended.

I quickly threw her in the cab of the truck and got the fuck out of there before the hippy awoke and engage me in some peace, love, harmony and passive aggressive anger.

When I picked up Blind Boy he was sitting in his dorm room with his guitar and an over stuffed duffel bag. He dressed like, well, he was blind so shit didn’t look right at all. He had a long greasy pony tail hanging down his back and pasty skin. I knew my dog wouldn’t like him.

The three of us were chugging along in the single cab of my truck. The dog rode between me and Blind Boy. She was pissed she didn’t get to sit by the window and every once in awhile she would look at him and growl. I’m sure it scared the shit out of him.

We were almost out of Oklahoma when I stopped for gasoline. The air, while chilly in Waco when I started, had turned icy and windy. The cold sliced right through me while I refueled.

I walked the dog around while Blind Boy stayed in the truck.

“You need anything to drink or want to take a leak?”

“I’m fine,” Blind Boy said.

“Are you sure? After this there’s nothing until Missouri.”

“I’m good.”

Yeah, sure enough he had to pee 15 minutes later. I pulled over at a historical marker and had to guide him over to a bush and guide him back. As he got in the truck I could hear the passenger side rear tire hissing.

Fuck me. Changing a flat as the sun started to set was not part of my plan.

I told Blind Boy to get out of the truck and sit on the picnic table while I changed the tire.

I crawled under to unlock the padlock on the spare tire. The lock was frozen shut.

I struggled to get the key to turn but it wouldn’t budge. I rummaged through my tool box looking for a solution. The only thing I could find was 5 inches of a broken hacksaw blade.

I was back on my back in the cold under the truck. Night was starting to settle in. I had to hold the blade in my hand with out a handle. My hands were bleeding as I slowly cut through the lock with short 1 inch strokes.

It’s dark. I’m stranded with a murderous dog and person that, while nice, is no help at all. I’m bleeding. I’m tired. I’m freezing and cutting through this lock is an exercise in futility that seemed like it would never end.

I felt so alone and frustrated, but I had to keep pushing through. People were counting on me.

And there are times that I feel the same way. And there is this part of me that gnaws away from the inside that tells to just give up.

I have this impossible set of problems and they are something that I will slowly work through alone, as I always have.

But then I tried the lock again. The key turned and the spare came off and everything was fixed and better.

That’s how life goes.

Be patient.

Do not give up.

Work at it.

And everything will be fine.