Abused

We went to a fundraiser one night this week. Something for abused and neglected kids.

Mrs. theskinnyonbenny used to be on the board of some similar organization, and I knew going in that I don't really like hearing the stories about the banged-up kids that are an obligitory part of such fundraising.

There was a priest who did an invocation, and I was wondering if it's wrong to amend the prayer for yourself. This guy included a call for God to help abusers realize their wrongness and to retrun to the folds of the good people. I amended it.

"Hey God -- just so you know, that's not my prayer. I'd prefer if you make it so that the child abusers get run over by a bus and burn in hellfire for eternity. It's up to you of course, but that's the way I would do it were I in your shoes."

I probably shouldn't be the first one clamoring for a return of the vengeful, lightning-wielding, Old Testament God, but I think there are at least a million lightning bolts with other names on them in front of me in line.

Our friend Ann kept Vanya while we were there. She's a very nice lady who I used to work with, and who likes the little ones, especially since her own grandkids are at least a handful of years past toddler. Perhaps Ann was still in the back of my mind while I was messenging Jeremy the next day. After a minute of work-related talk, I sprung this on him: