Posted on 12/01/2006 8:30:47 AM PST by MNJohnnie
God help us, and I mean that literally."
This is frightening...........
Yeah, that one I do remember. That's when the fascist in her really started to show.
Did Rush just say-- "the Hutsees and the Tutus"? ROFL
I am sure that I was reading an article last week that her heinous was the new Bobby Kennedy. Carpetbagger, you know! LOL......the media will have us all drinking to preserve our sanity before they're done spinning.
Crazy.
Trying to be funny again???
He's good at that.
LOL!
Your FReep mail was dead on last night.
Did you have a sharp insrease in the last day or so as well?
I know it's a serious subject, but the image that conjures up...
Oops.....because THEIR particular issue.
It's nice to know that tickled someone else's funnybone too.
It is the chickenhearts of the Republican Senate, not Bush that set up the Baker Commission.
Cool profile page!
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ZOO (Director: Robinson Devor) — A humanizing look at the life and bizarre death of a seemingly normal Seattle family man who met his untimely end after an unusual encounter with a horse. World premiere.
http://www.thestranger.com/seattle/Content?oid=30811
Some laws come directly from God. There is a thunderbolt, the smoke clears, and there they are, the Commandments on a stone tablet.
Most laws, however, do not have their origin in God but in man, which is the case with the law that will soon ban bestiality in the State of Washington. The man who inspired the creation of this earthly commandment is Kenneth Pinyan, a Boeing engineer, who, according to a King County Examiner's report, died on July 2, 2005, due "to acute peritonitis [that resulted from the] perforation of the sigmoid colon during anal intercourse with a horse."
HORSE PEOPLE
Enumclaw is a horse town near the southern edge of King County and the base of Mt. Rainier.
"You won't believe how upset people were when they heard about it," a waitress at Enumclaw's Branding Iron Cafe told me when I visited. The Branding Iron is inside a popular livestock market, the Enumclaw Sales Pavilion, which itself is not far from the barn where Pinyan's desire lead him to his fate. My young waitress has lived in this small town all her life, and she recognized the name James Michael Tait ("I've seen his credit card before"). She also thought that horse sex was gross but not a big deal. "But horse people around here were really pissed. It was like they were ready to kill those guys. 'You just don't fuck horses. It's wrong. It's evil.' That's all I'd hear while serving the tables."
Outside snow was falling. Across from the cafe wild-looking horses ran about in the snow, their steaming breath shooting out of flared nostrils. The smell of horseshit was everywhere.
Perhaps the equestrians of Enumclaw—sometimes called "horse people"—were upset about the horse f****** because it made their own closeness to horses seem somehow suspect. True, it's a socially accepted closeness, but it nevertheless involves touching the animals, brushing them, caressing their wavy manes, cleaning their hooves, breeding them, riding atop them. The only intimacy that separates the proud horse owner from the perverse horse f***** is the act of sex, which is why socially accepted proximity to horses is disrupted when placed next to socially rejected proximity to horses. Brushing them, caressing them, feeding them, riding them—these people are always with horses, and horses are always with them. So what truly differentiates an average equestrian from an extraordinary equestrian? One way or the other, both derive pleasure from horses.
And pleasure is the only function horses serve in our modern society. When Britain surrendered the territory of Washington to the U.S. government 159 years ago, horses were the most important animals to mankind. They delivered our mail, they carried us into battle, they pulled our wagons across the wilderness, they took us where we needed to go in the city. These days, however, the use value of horses stands at zero. We don't need them for anything. All we do with horses is trick them into jumping over hedges and other obstacles, or race them around tracks, or have them prance into arenas to show their useless beauty. From thick tail to mucusy muzzle, horses are all about pleasure, which is why, again, a socially acceptable relationship between horse and man is disturbed when it occurs in the same location as an unacceptable relationship between horse and man.
THE DEAD MAN
Everyone knows about Kenneth Pinyan's death, but little is known about his life.
The Enumclaw Police Department stated that he was involved with Tait and the other man for about a year, and that he met the pair on the internet. Also, Pinyan worked at Boeing for eight years. Outside of that, all that's left in the public records is a document, a deed of trust, which was filed less than a month before Pinyan died. It is for a house Pinyan purchased in Gig Harbor on the Key Peninsula Highway. In the deed, Boeing Employees Credit Union trusts that "Kenneth D. Pinyan, an unmarried man" will repay over 30 years the amount of $144,000. Though the house is not close to the Boeing plants in Renton or Everett, or to Big Dick in Enumclaw, Pinyan moved into it anyway.
He would die before he could make his first mortgage payment.
The house is not easy to find. It's a blue manufactured home deep in the woods, accessed by a dirt road. The day I visited in November of 2005, I chanced to meet two of Pinyan's neighbors, a middle-aged woman and her teenage son. They sat in a running automobile—the very machine that cost the horse its prominent place in human society. The mother was cheerful; the son looked bored. I asked them if they knew Kenneth Pinyan.
"He's a nice guy, always friendly," said the mother. "I don't think he is at home right now, though."
Evidently she had no idea that her neighbor had been dead for nearly six months. I refrained from breaking the news to her at that point.
"He just moved in not too long ago," she continued. "Seems happy."
Why does he need all this property, I asked. Doesn't he live by himself?
"The last time I saw him he told me that he bought a horse in Enumclaw and was planning to bring it over here," she replied.
From the gate of Pinyan's property, one can see a miniature red barn. If Pinyan hadn't died that day, not only would bestiality still be legal in Washington State, but here, near the shores of Oak Harbor, an engineer who worked on the most complex machine in the history of the world would be practically married to a horse, a descendant of the dominant means of transportation for centuries. On the surface, the situation would have looked normal: Pinyan, a proud equestrian by day, brushing his horse's mane, riding the handsome creature—but at night he would cross the line.
At this point, I revealed Pinyan's situation: Madam, your neighbor is no longer among the living. Her face clouded with sadness. "He's dead?" she said. "That's just awful. I didn't know."
Then I explained the manner in which he died, and the woman's sadness turned to shock.
"He liked to play the guitar," said the woman's son, apropos of nothing. "He liked making music."recommended
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