A Brief Reckoning of the Tolls of False Accusation Inspired by Liberal Prats Who “Wonder,” What’s the Big Deal?

Posted on January 28, 2019

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The word wonder in the title of this post is sleeved in quotation marks because the perspectives of self-styled “social justice advocates” aren’t those of critical thinkers but those of religious zealots. That people, particularly women, never lie about fear or abuse, and that even if they do (note the contradiction of the overarching tenet), there are no consequences to their deceits worthy of consideration—these are articles of faith. Liberal activists’ perspectives on these matters are as precognitive as any hive insect’s or rabid carnivore’s.


Dental imaging of the writer’s teeth (which are the least of the reasons why the doctor who is mentioned parenthetically below, Ray Bredfeldt, should burn in hell)

I went to the dentist for the first time in over a decade last week to be informed I grind my teeth in my sleep, and evidently have done for some while. This is among the possible consequences of chronic stress—to say nothing of, for example, cancer or heart disease or carelessly (or deliberately) wrapping your vehicle around a phone pole.

The dentist’s urgent recommendation was a full set of crowns, which he estimated would run me in the neighborhood of a “pretty good new car.” My own vehicle has in excess of 170,000 miles on it. I settled for a cleaning, which itself overextended my resources.

The hygienist was very professional. If she winced, I didn’t notice.

I was harassed through law enforcement and the courts for 12 years by some attention-seeking freaks I found hanging around my house, a house that now has termites in the ceiling, mice in the cupboards, and truly fascinating arachnid architecture spanning entire walls (all of it laden with dust). The parts of the exterior that haven’t literally fallen away are sloughing paint.

(Telling fact: Two of the witnesses slated to testify against me in 2016—in a case that began in 2013 and slogged on until July of 2018—are researchers in the field of human health, one of them a Ph.D. and Trump appointee to the EPA; a third is a retired M.D. and former columnist for a health insurance quarterly. This latter guy, Dr. Ray Bredfeldt, has almost certainly cautioned against the perils of stress, possibly making him the scabbiest of the lot. And count on it that if you met him you’d conclude he was a stalwart Samaritan and all-around swell fella. Also count on it that Mayday Ray would identify himself as my victim.)

I’ve tried to stanch the tide of decay during the six months since the last of the matters arising from the latest round of accusations leveled me concluded. Note: That case was the last of four initiated (or reinitiated) in 2016, and it featured a “Victim’s Impact Statement” (and the originating accusations began in 2006, with many more made in the interim “to the Court…[and] to multiple police departments, detectives, federal agencies, and other officials in several states,” which included to the FBI—and possibly NASA).

Some might say I prevailed. That’s semantics only.

I work as a manual laborer. I used to tutor kids (I’m an almost Ph.D. and probably always will be). But the chances I’ll ever apply for a job at Sylvan Learning Center or the like are today zero. I had aspired to publish humor commercially, and the likelihood of my recovering the clarity of mind, purpose, and environment that demands is scarcely better.

The residual taint of legal abuses, much of it digitized and preserved for posterity, is potent.

My father died two years ago in a “professional nursing facility.” To translate: He lay in bed, in a room he shared with a stranger, staring at the ceiling while he starved to death with a wad of cancer cells devouring his colon. I was meanwhile distracted by the looming threat of a year or so behind bars, which conclusion would only come after months of hearings…and filings…and trials. After a long night of poring over legal twaddle, I got a call at around 2:30 in the morning informing me my dad was dead.

I deposited the plastic box with his ashes in it on a windowsill just inside my door—another ambient token of loss—where it remained until the courthouse games ended in July.

It now sits on a closet shelf. It’s not alone. My dog, who was my emotional ballast during the long fallow years, died a year before my father, while I was similarly preoccupied with railing against injustices that shouldn’t be possible in a civil society. A plastic box with her remains occupies the same shelf as my father’s. What else is on the shelf I haven’t looked at since before I had white hairs.

It’s conceivable, of course, that I have cancer. More significant to remark is that I have no interest in finding out and really wouldn’t care.

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