CHAPTER 26: "The Overture" [2nd part]
From The Saga of One F**ked Mother
CHAPTER 26 of Mother-Fucking: The Saga of One Fucked Mother is “The Overture”. [This chapter is too long for a newsletter so it will be posted in parts. The first is here.]
In this second part of Chapter 26, Legion realizes that Herry intends to get sole custody and take the boys away from her. He has submitted his initial Plaintiff’s Declaration and it is chock full of lies. And things don’t portend well as she discovers the judge had his ex-wife committed to a mental institution and replaced her with a stepmother to do the work of raising their four children.
This judge does the usual: appoints an insider “custody evaluator” whom he can count on. Legion regrets having been so naïve as to have told this court lackey the truth about some previous difficulties in her life which she could spin against her. She is incensed that Herry’s and the evaluator’s “testimony” are automatically considered facts and evidence and there is no fact-checking whatsoever in Family Court. What she does not yet realize yet is that all these lies about her don’t really matter in the end. The judge already knows what he is going to do. They just give him cover.
Dr. Blue’s novel is based on her own experience of the Custody Crisis. It uniquely conveys how Family Court judges are “mother-fucking” women—a form of systemic oppression and violence directed at ex-wives—as protagonist Legion is systematically and methodically deprived of her children and money and reduced to “one fucked mother”.
Chapters are stand-alone interesting so you can begin reading anywhere. A Cast of Characters follows to help readers at any point. All published chapters are included in the Section: “Saga of One F**ked Mother” accessible on the top bar of the home page of Women’s Coalition News & Views. Sequential chapters are published every Wednesday and subscribers will find them in their inboxes, so make sure to subscribe if you haven’t yet!
TEASERS
And now? Now you’re gonna take them all from me?! I’m the one who’s pissed you off! but soooo without the supporting backing and the money and, most certainly, without any maleness and pillaredness to fight you. How fucking dare you?! How mother‑fucking dare you?!
…Get them said or get them written down and properly court‑handled and, voila,—depending upon who you are (this is the crux),—your statements become accountable—they become Truth—because they are now testimony under oath that the State and its implementer, daJudge, both reckon as evidence.
CHAPTER 26
Dr. True's Opera in Three Acts—with Five Parts
The Overture [continued]
…The Opera opened with background; it was, of course, called the Overture. Some of it evidentiary and material, tangible since it consisted of paper documents required and submitted to “The Court,” an office‑working, secretarying fembot critter—who actually prepared it properly with official stampings and bindings and foldings and file codings before its landing in daMan’s inbox at some point before the opening scene that was Part One, that part being the entirety of Trial One, therefore all of Act One. In The Opera we never see any such of these femdroids who really are the various machinations of “The Court.” Not one—save for Ms. Wren, daJudge’s personal aide, who never left his side except to summon or to direct or to delegate per daMan but who, nevertheless, accomplished all with amazing gracefulness and especially noiseless panache, rather an oxymoron, that last, regarding the characteristics of Ms. Wren. Which is why in the cast listing she wasn’t mentioned as a member. Her role was merely as that of an extension of daJudge’s right arm reaching out from behind his beautiful bench; and, therefore, hers did not, of course, on its own merit warrant a listing separate from his in the cast roster.
One such document of Herry’s, now officially called “evidence,” was the counterpart to mine: that essay answer which Mr. Jazzy Jinx had nearly first off asked me to chronicle about my life and submit to him. Herry also wrote an autobiographical statement at Mr. Shindy Scheisser’s behest which on 13 February 1989, became part of “the case record” too, of course, the Trial One case record filed—coded as #9215—8801; and it was called the “Affidavit of Petitioner.” In its earliest beginning words as in all such subsequently properly entered court documents of the Good and Wonderful Doctor’s, we read thusly, “I, Herod Edinsmaier, being first duly sworn upon oath do depose and state that I am …” and so forth and so on. So right off, right there. In the very, very beginning.
Taking into account now, You the Jury, You the Audience of Readers, that it is easier to lie to and to deceive in an American court of civil law—depending upon who you are—than it is to lie to and to deceive your spouse, your boss, your teacher, your preacher and, some would say, even yourself, one reason for this ease is that the person, the liar, does not have to remember the lies. The actual details of what went out there and when—into the court and the courtroom as statements! Get them said or get them written down and properly court‑handled and, voila,—depending upon who you are (this is the crux),—your statements become accountable—they become Truth—because they are now testimony under oath that the State and its implementer, daJudge, both reckon as evidence. Must be, huh? Not?
If you, one of the parties, happen to be a liar, however—and again presuming your pillaredness—that automatic sway of your carriage in the community before daMan, that is, the swagger in which you mimic in countenance and demeanor how daJudge perceives himself to comport about within that same community of yours, why, you do not even have to remember your lies. That, the not having to remember at all into the future what it was you said or wrote or when, that is as easy as the actual lying part of the action! If, for example, you look like daJudge, that is, you are a preacher, a priest, a doctor, a teacher, a professor, a bank official, another lawyer, another judge, a cop, a corporation tycoon or even one of its lightweights, a sports figure or, even better, one of the coaches, a worshiped entertainer or celeb and, most especially in many instances now for men of community conscience, have allied yourself with a feminist woman, why then you are already reflexively, automatically supplied the liar’s credentials and even that plastic‑laminated wallet card that is your free pass into … ‘the case’ record. You do not have to remember what you say or what you write down or when. Period. DaJudge sees you as he sees himself—which is to say: he doesn’t really, really—really and Truly—see you at all, Doctor Mister Wonderful Pillar of the Community, Dr. Herod Edinsmaier!
Nor … does he want to. Uh–uh.
daJudge would then most assuredly have to turn that pointy male index finger of his completely around upon himself or at least look at the right hand’s third, fourth and fifth fingers that, with his leveling of that first, bony digit at me, are already directed back at himself. And at what he could do. And did. As from the Prophetess’s words of Women’s History Scripture, “They could and they did.” His Most High, Judge Seizor the Aggrandizier would, wouldn’t he, then have to examine himself?! The upcoming ‘justice’ yet to be dispensed to me, Dr. Legion True, the Truemaier Boys’ mama, is already, by appearances alone … blinded, methinks. By who is and who ain’t. Blind, that is.
Does Judge Sol Wacotler Seizor, looking in actual physical appearance if not also resembling a helluva lot, with his famed and legendary astuteness inside that Storm County courtroom at least, how the philandering Benjamin Franklin is pictorially portrayed in your and my history texts, … does Judge Sol Wacotler Seizor really want to see into himself and (legally … or otherwise!) examine what it is he could—and did—do to Mrs. Seizor? The first Mrs. Seizor, that is? The Mrs. Seizor, birthing mother of daJudge’s four daughters whom, when she was seen drinking in public a couple of times, Spouse Sol Wacotler Seizor had had ‘conveniently’ stashed away into an insane asylum for crazy, depressed alcoholic women—whilst he simultaneously spirited away from her her four babies into the love nest which he’d had the Next One in his Stash making ready for him as soon as daJudge returned home from that asylum chore and before the start of his latest workday at the bench!?! A few years back now!?!
Will Judge Sol Wacotler Seizor be happy, then, to examine blindly as well, along with Mr. Jazzy Jinx and Mr. Shindy Scheisser, Herry’s world a few years back now, too? Herry the Doctor. Herry the Good and Wonderful Doctor. The life that included in it a toast during “Healer” Herry’s early but already “Doctor”—titled times at a marrying brother’s seaside bachelor party when Jesse and Zane were barely, but just barely, out of diapers. And Mirzah wasn’t. A toast of which I was later told—told again as Herry‑Daddee’s version of foreplay upon the carcass that was the Truemaier Boys’ mama and concurrent with the Good Doctor’s orders to the not‑nearly‑his‑equal, Doctor Legion True, to perform for him a blow job, one of the copious number in 14½ years of his consorting with me—and of which I am sure Herry‑Daddee’d love now to teach to his own adult sons that went something like, “Here’s to the breezes that blow through the treeses. And lift the girls’ skirts above their kneeses. Tease us, please us, spread diseases. Fuck that snatch. Down the hatch.”
Down the hatch? Now would that be then, of course, the one referring to my and my future fucked sister‑in‑law’s fated acts of fellatio, each one of us forced to swallow copious or puny amounts of semen, or would that be pertaining to “the hatch” merely as in, “Let’s drink up the wedding champagne, er I mean, the bros’ steins of brew?”
Think, do You Jury, that the swaying and swaggering Judge Seizor truly wants to take a long, in‑depth, look‑see examination into all of this—this ‘violence’ … this ‘domestic violence’—today as he begins to adjudicate for this very community—the one in which he is perceived as and in which he most especially sees himself as a pillar, too—the Iowa District Court for Storm County’s Case #9215–8801?
* * * *
Herry’s four‑part affidavit, his life story the way he writes it to The Court anyhow, is sectioned off into “A. Personal Background,” “B. Marital History” and “C. Personal Problems.” The shortest—section C’s “personal problems” portion—contains only two paragraphs, the first one a 51‑word boo–frickin’ hoohah on Herry’s “suffering” from drinking fermentation products a lot and the last contains five sentences which are all … only about me! Ending that second paragraph supposedly regarding his “personal problems” does with … “Legion’s problems have been longstanding in nature and …” and … well, the rest of that later on when I so remember to discuss how it is …—Zane recounts to me in Grubtrop, West Virginia’s little parklet—… how it is that Legion becomes ‘the Edinsmaier killer’ in the true‑life, made‑for‑television movie which Herry, through Shyster‑Attorney Scheisser’s contract shenanigans with film producers, ‘directs’! The final fourth affidavit segment, D, is the longest one: two and a half full legal‑size pages on “the Safety and Well‑Being of Children and Moral Climate.” Also it? Section D? … By no great stretch: Dr. Herod Edinsmaier’s ‘funniest’ section.
In the beginning of this particular affidavit, the very first document or words said or written which Herry ever gave over to The Court and that I was given through Discovery and Interrogatories a chance to read too, I missed it. “I was born on … yada, yada and in yada, yada. My parents are Juggern Aut and Detanimod Edinsmaier.” Dr. Herod Edinsmaier himself states that he wasn’t even born … first … to a woman! That he wasn’t even born … first … to his mother! Herry so patriarchally documents down Juggern Aut, his father … first! Of course! Of course, Herry does that!
“I know, I know. Okay, I know: throughout all of recorded history children have not been born first to their mamas. This—about children ‘owned’ as only men’s DNA—sanctioned possessions—… this I know, for chris’sake. But hey! Give Herry the benefit here,” I banged my left forehead with my left palm. “He’s allied himself with a feminist woman—me!—after goddessdamn all! Herry knows better!” And still. Still the father, another of daMan—Juggern Aut Misein Edinsmaier in this case—is positioned, even if just down on paper in addition to his spot at every damned dining table, in the very … first … place. “How many medical and other advanced degrees does it take, Doctor Edinsmaier, to become one savvy enough and swell enough to have written the very, very beginning of your life down instead as, ‘I was born on … in …, and my parents are Detanimod and Juggern Aut Edinsmaier?!’ How the fuck many, Herry?!”
“How many initial degrees in realization, in awareness, from your having taken yet another education class, in knowing, Dr. Edinsmaier? Something you’ve known since loooong before you were eight years old: that it was your ma—and never, never, ever your pa—from whence cometh, out of whom were grown, 12 live babies of the human being species because of those 14 perpetual pregnancies of hers in the short, short span of the 20 years’ time that Detanimod was so poked and, thus, continuously made over the course of those two Iowa decades to grow human beings other than herself—one after the other after the other fecund time and fecund time and fecund time again—,” I further suspired my shoulders shrugging.
“Well, maybe. Maybe in Detanimod’s score years of her nearly unbroken state of growing, bearing and birthing. Maybe only six were human beings. The other birthed six each were two haploid cells that Detanimod grew into females and, therefore, DEhuman beings,” Herry’s affidavit’s second sentence already loudly and androcentrically implied.
And grimly portended then, too, that sentence of Herod’s did to just exactly whom should belong the next three descending progeny of Juggern Aut’s, the grand patriarchal poobah’s grandchildren who bore the names of Zane and Jesse and Mirzah. “They will belong to the first‑named on The Court’s papers, too. And for sure, that first name will not belong to the DEhuman … … the killer.” Even after the marital separation and in just his writings alone … what a mess‑maker for the allied feminist—me!—Herry continued to be!
“But what’ll I do if I fucking lie toooo well,” Herry worried. Auspiciously for Herry in Act One, his employee, Mr. Shindy Scheisser, noisily did remember from behind The Opera’s opening curtain—did remember to counsel Herry about the possibility of his lying too well.
“‘born to Juggern and Detanimod’ … Again and in my presence you dare, Herry do you, to exalt your sperm, your manly man’s DNA, over … me? One wee patriarchal cell times three is all, and haploid ones at that, Herry! If you trusted me to choose to grow and to bear Zane and Jesse and Mirzah, and you trusted me to care for them and to raise them up thus far, then how come the hell you cannot trust me with a child now? Three of them to be exact, cuz it sure’s hell was me who’s been doing the job from fuck #1 with, nearly literally therein inside me deposited haploid spermatozoon cell #1. Hasn’t it been, Herry?! Isn’t that the singular Truth, Herry?!”
“Oooops, now I remember why you cannot trust me, Herry, I’m the fucking killer, aren’t I?! Shit, I’m gonna say it here right at the outset, Herry: I am so glad that Detanimod did not live. Did not live so that your ma’d have to see you now, this person you’ve become, this person she did not raise you up to be. That you willfully refuse to keep your eyes on the self‑discipline horizon with the long view in sight. Shit, Herry, you didn’t—as a cell biology graduate student nor as a medical student—you didn’t give even a flying fuck about birth control! Knowing about it or, shit, with even knowing that so friggin’ many, many siblings your own father had thoughtlessly and ruthlessly and carelessly ‘caused’ … using it! Actually using birth control! Not even once! Only Jesse was the baby birthed from out of a planned pregnancy! Out of an actual planned fuck—one of the Boys! All three of the Truemaier Boys I truly did alone choose to grow; and two of them, Herry, two of them were a total shock to me—reckoning how it is I found out that I was pregnant with Zane and with Mirzah when you, You The Scientist for just a couple of our romps, … you were supposed to be in charge of birth‑controlling! They are not yours. And they are mine. All of them.”
“And now? Now you’re gonna take them all from me?! I’m the one who’s pissed you off! but soooo without the supporting backing and the money and, most certainly, without any maleness and pillaredness to fight you. How fucking dare you?! How mother‑fucking dare you?!”
Mr. Jazzy Jinx had repeatedly counseled me and most assuredly so, “Overtures like Herry’s are made all the time though, Legion. Divorcing dads do it an awful lot. I’ve helped them do it; hell, it was my job for chris’sake. I have been in family law practice for over 20 years; and I have to say that I’ve never even heard of a case where the father was given primary physical care custody of the kids when he really, really did not want them. Or that. Ya’ know, … that—all of that work … when he really didn’t want all of the work that certainly goes with being a single parent. Not even one time have I seen that happen, Legion.”
“Huh? Really?”
“Really. Really and truly, Legion! Well, all sorts of suggestions and preludes and … an’ advances are put forth by the father and the father’s attorney about how much he wants ‘em. About how much better he’d be as the primary parent and it’d be so much more ‘in the children’s best interests’ if the one who should get physical custody is daddy‑dearest and not their mother. But he really doesn’t want them. Not from the git‑go does he really and truly want them, Legion. I mean, think about it. You’re their mother. You know what it takes to raise them up ‘cause you’ve been doing it, right? Well, right? Well he does, too. Herry knows. He knows that you have and he knows what it takes. And he doesn’t want to start at that after being right there all this time jus’ watching you do it. Ya’ know, seeing what the Sam Hill it took for you to do it. And for bloody well damn sure, he does not want to do it the hell alone! But—and a huge, huge ‘but’ here–: what he really doesn’t want, even more than that, is to be found out. It’s simple. Image really. Daddy just doesn’t want to look like that to the kids. Like he doesn’t want them. So he works it! Works it and works it. Before trial and at trial. Believe me, Legion, I have. I’ve worked it. For the fathers. I have seen this over and over and over. This one? Yours, Legion? Herry’s just working this one, too. Hmmm, by the way, let me check with Amanda, my account specialist. Are you up‑to‑date here on your billings with us?”
And so it came to pass, armed with such advice and protection in my back pocket soooo well‑paid for from out of my pocketbook, that just before proceeding into trial I went first to visit a woman by the name of Ms. Carrie Canard. Those in the know of family law will recognize all manner of the letters behind such a person’s name; I only ever knew her as “the custody evaluator,” the one whom The Court, daMan, had designated be the specific one assigned to me, to Herry and to Mirzah, Zane and Jesse. There, and shielded with fatherly Jinx’s ‘so‑wise’ male touch and counsel, why, I told her … The Truth!
Silly, silly me. Silly, silly fucked me.
AmTaham had sat at the Othello Drive dining table facing east, facing that nondescript kitchen wall? From just the other morning when I was feeling so angry about Pond Scat Herry? This woman then? This woman Canard? Well, she was that kitchen wall. Regular build, maybe 5’ 7 or 8”, a size 11, caucasian and definitely of European descent, straight brown hair to chin length. Told me she had come to Des Moines after having been raised and trained in Kansas, she was then about 32, frumpy and as mousy as, … well, as all get–out. Frumpy and mousy yet neatly arrayed at least once that I remember in a plain navy blue frock with white polka dots, the dots small and sedate, not big, bold nor splashy. Plied her trade, she did, within the walls and, therefore too its auspices, of a major tertiary teaching medical center. She was not out on her own—not out on nor under her own shingle privately somewhere with overhead bills to foot, a neighborhood to please … nor individual clients to worry about retaining.
No children, no spouse. Never a child, never a spouse. And I tell her the mother‑fucking Truth do I?!
How friggin’ stupid am I?! Screaming clues from so many crucial life‑experience angles of her friggin’ evaluating and counseling “industry” she is at me here, and what do I do?! I totally fail to pick up on the significance and the importance to me of any of the 70 percent or more of them, that is, the ones which are these nonverbal and personal history roars of hers. I trust this mother‑fucking stranger with the Truth, with my Truth, I do?!
Protection I should have had! Protection I soooo did not have! Protection soooo not taught to me by Mehitable True. Not given me by my very own mother!
In looking back, never in nostalgia nor in reminiscences of happiness nor with remembrance smiles of course, I would have to say that i) except for the loss of my children and ii) except for the entire and utter loss of all of my US Constitutionally protected parental rights to them and iii) except for the sudden death loss of Daddy and iv) except for the Monday, 07 December 1992 decree after Trial Three (Act Three, Part Four) wherein it is ‘Court’‑ordered (truly, of course, ‘Judge Butcher the High Courtier’‑ordered) that The Good Doctor, my now ex‑husband, be actually, in America, charged with designing and signing off on ‘a program of mental therapy’ on me and v) except for the 25 September 1990 Ames Tribune headlining, front page article and what its dastardly and deadly repercussions were to my veterinary medical career and, subsequently, to my overall livelihood and survival and vi) except for Mehitable and who the fuck she is to me, … I would have to say that this person, Ms. Carrie Canard of such no‑account description and her betrayal of me and mine, that is, vii) that her betrayal of my trusting her with the Truth, is the not‑so‑singular event of sorrow and grief in all of this holocaust.
I went I think a total of three times. I had to drive to Des Moines—and struggle to find and to pay for not only these sessions but also for the inner city parking for same! Once I had to arrange for an appointment time with Ms. Canard which would coincide with when I could also get all of the Truemaier Boys from Kate Mitchell Elementary but not when any one of the three had had soccer activities or music and chess lessons after school—since they were to be at the evaluation session themselves. But sometimes not. Then, when not at the other two sessions, I had to arrange for a childcare provider or another mom of schoolmates to watch over them.
“Frumpy and mousy yet neatly arrayed” and just exactly ripe for Herry’s picking Ms. Cherry Canard soooo was! O JYeah, “It’s spring but not quite the cherry‑picking month of June and her name isn’t Cherry, it’s Carrie! you say?”
“JYeah, but then you don’t know Herry. Yet. All there is to know,” I am thinking. Dr. Edinsmaier had sessions, too, with Ms. Canard, ones similar in length to mine. This person was going to decide and then make a written recommendation to daMan, to daJudge, about just exactly whom she, from all of her extensive education and life experiences (NOT!), knew would make my Zane’s, my Mirzah’s and my Jesse’s finest physical caretaker … Yes, I say, she was going to do this. And did. And this is precisely where she became exactly ripe enough for Herry’s picking, yanking, jerking … snatch–ing. Right up to and including her flustered, stammering manner up there in the witness chair of Act One as one of The Opera’s beginning witness‑testifier characters!
If there is one event at which Herry is a master and can soooo work it, work it, work it as Mr. Jinx had insinuated, too, it is Dr. Herod Edinsmaier’s working the frump‑and‑mouse circuit. In first‑class fashion.
I soughed, “No, that is entirely true: I was not present at his and her sessions together, not physically myself at any one of them. I was more than present, however, in 14 years of being the invisible thing in the room, the one without even so much as an introduction, let alone a first name, but who was, nonetheless, the Good and Wonderful Doctor’s wife or alleged intimate partner—when Herry Edinsmaier literally dumped on his mother‑fucking charm in a one‑on‑one with another woman. Truly a two‑on‑one, but, ‘hey Legion, shut the fuck up here.’ Those conversations which were really the both of us with her but at which I was not at all seen and knew very well to quite stay so. Or, hear about it later–… later inside the master bedroom behind its closed doors. Its doors closed all right … but the two of us undressed and those drapes of its windows soooo wide, wide open.” – exhibitionistically –
Brilliant, beautiful, even just merely attractive women? These people were to Herry as AmTaham. And threatened the rest of the bejesus out of him to the point that, with all of his insecurities, Herry willfully and gladly sought out much uglier females for camaraderie and fellowship and, most especially, for emotional intimacy because he knew that, if for only the time being, that unquenched and needy desire of his for attention would be somewhat abated and sated. I actually did not mind remaining mute because, for the most part, it was quite funny to watch. Except for those machinations of his with so fat and so frumpy and so fawning Mehitable, very, very amusing his little maneuvers at flirting with others were to me. All talk and very little walk with Herry as far as these highly male‑identified females were concerned, the ones of Jimmy Soul’s lyrics, “If ya’ wanna be happy for the rest of your life, never make a pretty woman your wife. So for my personal point of view, get an ugly girl to marry you.” And since I was neither a frump nor a mouse and, instead, threateningly very intelligent and rather comely to gaze upon, then my Mrs. Doctor Wonderful image of myself was merely reinforced because of Herry’s expending individual focus on such cackling and coddling biddies. One at a time, though. Never did Herry exude ‘competence’ at these coy and enticing endeavors of his in a group‑like setting as was so with all of those not‑so‑foxy soccer moms in a collective together at their six‐ and seven‑year‑olds’ practice field sideline!
Indeed, come to think of it: Herry was jealous of me when in the accompaniment of brilliant, good‑looking men, especially my mighty fine and endearing PhD program’s department chair, a very handsome man who adored me—for my brain that is. And another couple of very pleasant veterinary medical professors, one private practice boss back in Pennsylvania who also raved about me and the boon that my healing skill brought to his business, and two fiery redheads, a New Zealander colleague of great gusto also at the graduate student level in Columbia and a veterinary neurologist‑professor a decade older than the both of us, an Iowa State University man whose brain I myself truly adored and who totally cuddled and cooed at Newborn Zane as if he were his very own babe.
Conversations where the three in it were Herry, I and another one of any of these other six men? I again, now that I reminisce, was the one shut up. Herry spoke for me. They were all my friends, my compadres from academia and professional endeavors and lofty in stature of physique as well, all of them. And, all of them, long –, long – and well – married. Still, before too far into the discussion, maneuvers occurred wherein it became a certainty that the person getting my associate’s or colleague’s eye contact was Herry. And I? Well, I was the second and so, so silent thing in the chat, the one that merely in all of these folks’ vicinity, just looked good. Ya’ know, the female of it all, the … DEhuman.
This sexist and elitist positioning was a given—when any one of the fine‑looking, virile human creatures talking with us two was one of Herry’s colleagues, coworkers or friends. I just expected it with all of them. I cannot remember even one such threesome wherein I espoused or expounded upon anything scientific about which I happened to know a great deal—nor, as a matter of fact, upon any other subject matter either. I most certainly never had the eye contact of both men at once because mine were the pair of lips in the room’s conversation which were flapping. I was … shut up. Silent!
I truly did not believe that 1963 song’s verses: that one so smart as Dr. Herod Edinsmaier would actually fuck dull‑brained, latchy‑servile, needy and ugly women. Woman after woman and even some men friends of mine including two gay guys down through those 12½ years when I was legally bound to Herry had, on separate unrelated occasions, asked me what it was like to be wed to someone not as visually fetching and pleasing, not even as thoroughly intelligent either, as the other spouse and did that affect our relationship. Maybe it’s a gender thing, that men do fuck down and women do not. Or, we don’t nearly to the degree and to the actual number that men do.
I know that that is historical in all aspects of men mating with women and of women relating to men. But shit, with Herry? I liked it. I thought I was fairly safe from his having out‑and‑out illicit affairs, either physically or emotionally intimate ones, because of it actually. Sort of the song’s lyrics in reverse, ya’ know, “Make an ugly man, dumb as rocks but tall as a mountain, your husband. And then you, Ma’am, you’ll be jus’ fine ‘cuz he’ll be true.” JYeah, Herry’d stray for talk but not for the walk of it all, not for the actual work of it all. Anyhow, the three‑dimensional, breathing ones who responded back to Herry just weren’t those Sunday‑morning, in‑his‑head, hand‑jiving … and, of course, two‑dimensional Playboy material of his.
‘Course, about the dumb and tall part I guess I was wrong—since Herry was neither. Herry certainly did beat out the television soap opera physicians in brains and in dialogue but, unfortunately for him, not in women actually scored. The soap docs, so lanky and lithe, so svelte, so buffed and so winsomely packed, surely stumbled like crazy all over their therapeutic jargon and messed up the diagnostic babble almost every time, something Herry could deliver down pat. Hell, Herry wouldn’t even abbreviate; he loathed scientific usage in medical lexicons that did so. But then those daytime TV docs had for paramours the foxes while in the midst of a usual and busy Tuesday morning when his pathology department’s boss man, Supervisor Dr. Shark, was utterly unable to locate him, down at the hospital snack shop Slacker Dr. Herod Edinsmaier was engaging with his lingo and his smooooth the ones who, well, … the ones who would so swallow it all up and along with the croissants and coffee that Herry’d, o’course, sprung for, so gorge it all down!
And, of course and most importantly, respond back to Herry … in kind. When the other woman was, indeed, a mouse or a frump I witnessed this artiste work his chocolate voice and his smooooth. No, no noun is it modifying; that was what it was already, a noun with its o vowel merely drawn out: smooooth. So although I was not in Des Moines with Herry and Cherry disguised and hidden as a recording microphone in her office appliances somewhere, I still full‑well knew what Pillared Edinsmaier had done—once I read that which Ms. Carrie Canard, “Custody Evaluator,” had written and which was only subsequently confirmed by her words spoken under oath. As “testimony.” As testimony thus, then, counted legally as “evidence.”
Now, I think back on her as a hoot and a howl. Then? Then, I could not believe that I had been so snookered and, ultimately blindsided, by such a sallow simp as she—again. Not after I myself—so many, many times before as Herod Edinsmaier’s alleged best friend, as his wife—had so beheld and marked this velvety‑voice manipulation of Herry’s. Such larynges as these in abusing men have actually been researched—and warned of—by Psychotherapist Mike Lew in his 1988 Victims No Longer!
I should have been protected; I should have known protection. I should have known what would, in kind, have been forthcoming back out after Tenor Edinsmaier’s aria‑like serenade to Cherry or Cheri Baby—back out in the form of Ms. Canard’s so‑called “child custody evaluation” report to daJudge. I so should have known. No matter Mr. Jazzy Jinx’s faulty family dynamics’ lawyering counsel so horribly in error regarding the mother‑fucking, adjunctive “court industry” which makes so very, very much money for the idiot‑perpetrators placed “in charge” of such massive, life‑altering recommendations known as “custody evaluations by experts.” No matter that.
* * * *
True it is. O so head‑bangingly true it is: the lying, that is.
Verbatim from Petitioner’s Affidavit section A, “From 1968 through 1972 I taught at the Cleveland Public Schools as a junior high general science teacher. I then went to graduate school at Iowa State University and obtained my degree in cell biology in 1972. In the fall of 1975, I was accepted to medical school, …”
And, “I went to the University of Missouri in Jefferson City, as a teacher. I taught pathology full-time until May 1986.”
And “She was hired as Director of the Microbiology Section of the Veterinarian Diagnostic Laboratory.”
And “I considered this a golden opportunity because I did not want to raise our children in Kansas City because the public school system was very poor. I also thought my wife Legion would have a better chance of finding employment in Ames because of the Veterinarian School at Iowa State University.”
[to be continued…]
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Dr. Legion True: One Fucked Mother
Dr. Herod (Herry) Edinsmaier: Legion’s husband/Sperm Source [“re: I am snide” backwards]
Zane Truemaier: Legion’s son
Jesse Truemaier: Legion’s son
Mirzah Truemaier: Legion’s son
AmTaham True: Legion’s father [Mahatma backwards]
Mehitable True: Legion’s mother [Me hit-able—i.e. she was abusive]
Ardys and Endys: Legion’s sisters [names backwards]
Sterling: Legion’s brother [her mother’s planned name of next son (who never came)]
Mi Sprision O'Revinnoco: Herry’s sister [misprision: concealing knowledge of treason/O'Revinnoco = O'Connivero backwards]
Juggern Aut Misein Edinsmaier: Legion’s father-in-law [juggernaut; aut = 0; misein = “to hate (misogyny)”]
Detanimod Edinsmaier: Legion’s mother-in-law [dominated backwards]
Ava Saffron True and Zebulon True: respectively, Legion's paternal grandmother and her husband, Legion's paternal grandfather
Rowland and Wyman Natures: respectively, Legion's most favored uncle and most favored male first cousin
Fannie Issicran McLive: fawning enabler of ex [narcissi(st) and Mc(Evil) backwards]
Legion’s Friends: Margaret, Mona, Yanira, Stormy, Lynda, László, Jane, Kincaid, Joseph, Sheryl
Legion’s Best Friends: Ms Grace and Dr Lionel Portia
Wende: = Legion's friend after divorce [committed suicide due to Custody Crisis]
Jim Cornball: Herry’s acquaintance from AA and realtor
Loser Lorn: Insurance agent referred by Cornball
Judge Harley Butcher: Family Court judge
Judge Sol Wacotler Seizor: Family Court judge
Judge Barry Crowrook: Appellate Court judge
Judge Pansy Shawshank: Appellate Court judge
Jazzy Jinx: Legion’s Family Court lawyer who sold her out
Shindy Scheisser: Herry’s lawyer [shindy = noisy; scheisser = German for shithead]
Li Zhang: Herry’s Aussie affair
Dr Freddie Goldstein & Ella: Herry’s colleague and wife
Mick: = Herry's acquaintance from high school; best man [not in Herry’s life after that as he had no true friends]
Varry Wussamai: Herry's AA sponsor (not a real friend) [I am a wuss backwards]
David Humes: nursing student; classmate of Legion's, y1968 - y1971, New York City
Edmund Silver: Legion's boyfriend pre-Herry
Braemore St: where Legion and her family lived, y1983 - y1986
Havencourt condominium: Legion's Ames apartment; after separation
Zephyr: tabby cat of Zane's, Mirzah's, Jesse's [pronounced “Zay – fear”]
Madonna: realtor
Larry Brouhaha: court-mandated marriage counselor
Carlotta Klutz: Legion’s Family Court attorney
Judge Sol Wacotler Seizor: District Court judge on first two trials
Judge Harley Butcher: District Court judge for third trial
Dr. Shark: Herry’s residency supervisor who fired him
Carrie Canard: custody evaluator
Author: Dr. Blue, aka Ofherod, BSN, DVM, PhD = Commander Edinsmaier's Handmaid (Commander reiamsnidE's Handmaid)
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FYI SHERIFF MURDERS JUDGE WHO MOLESTED HIS DAUGHTER:
https://x.com/TheThe1776/status/1837285328056635692