CHAPTER 27: The Opera: Act II; Part 3 [cont. 2]

From "The Saga of One F**ked Mother

In this last section of Chapter 27, Part 3, Legion takes a job at a factory and must begin paying child support to Herry, a doctor who does not need it. Herry and his new wife continue to do their best to keep her away from the boys, but Legion continues to meet and talk to them clandestinely. Jesse contacts a prominent politician and asks for help in getting back to his mother.

The Appellate Court ruling comes down affirming the fraudulent and sexist Family Court findings and orders. The justices stick it to Legion even more by assigning Herry’s legal costs to her. And this brings the curtain down on Act II of The Opera.

In the previous section of Part 3, Herry works on destroying Legion’s job and career prospects with the assistance of his new wife. The other central objective is keeping Legion from seeing her boys ever, at all. Their schools are notified that she is not allowed to see them. Meanwhile, she is led to believe that her attorney is busy working hard on her appeal, but it has been handed off to an assistant.

CHAPTER 27 of Mother-Fucking: The Saga of One Fucked Mother begins with Act I of “The Opera”—from Book 3, the last part of the book. “The Opera” has three Acts with five Parts—one for each of the three Family Court and two Appellate Court trials. Chapter 27 covers Acts I and II: the first two Family Court trials and the first Appellate Court trial. [This is a long chapter and will be published in newsletter-sized bites.]

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 [on the web page]. 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

IF she ever, ever pisses him off … ‘enough’?! O O O, is she down! I mean mother‑fucking down the drain. Flushed. Sperm exaltation! … Any daddee is not ever, ever to be trifled with. And She Who Tries To? She pays. O she pays. With her and her babes’ core‑murders––their Mother‑Fucking––she soooo pays.

“Her conduct does not promote the children’s relationship with their father,” further “considers” these collective judicial thugs, these Sperm Exalters. As it should not! As my “conduct” should not have … “promoted” same! Not theirs. Not my Boys. Not with the true nature of the man who is Herry‑Daddee, who IS Dr. Herod Edinsmaier.

…“Her mental disturbance prevents her from acting in the best interests of the children…We agree with the trial court this relationship can best be advanced if custody is given to Herod…This record reveals Herod is more willing and able to assist the children to develop a strong relationship with both parents than is Legion.

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Dr. True's Opera in Three Acts—with Five Parts

CHAPTER 27: The Opera: Act II; Part 3 [cont.]

I worked now, too. At a factory. Loading separate pieces of junk into envelopes and calling it United States mail. Companies contracted with our people for the mass advertising of their pissant product. Someone else killed thousands and millions of trees to print these millions and billions of single sheets describing said shitty product and trucked ‘em all in to us, and we drones stood hour after hour at these machines clanging away at a decibels’ din level which was one below the OSHA limit to make certain that the machines flowed on and on and that the itty bitty sheets, one by one and some with the most especial coupons for the product thingy on them, were appropriately shoved into the millions and millions of mailers likewise appropriately, or inappropriately is more like it, addressed to us all, the friggin’ materialistic country’s all‑consuming, so‑grossly greedy public!

“Ya’ know,” I told Linda who had turned me on to this ‘opportunity’, “They are really, really nice folks there! We do such a horrible thing to the environment, we do! Ya’ know, both because of the trees and because of the public’s time in having to mess with this muck in their mailboxes. But the people there at the factory? They are really cool! ‘Course, we can’t visit while ya’ fill the hoppers cuz of the noise level; ya’ just can’t hear anybody.”

There were two of us production lackeys to each shovin’‑‘em‑in machine. I worked the 8 pm to midnight, half‑time short shift and every night took a snack and a book with me for the break which arrived always exactly at 10:15 pm and concluded always exactly at 10:29 pm. One was back standing at the ready at one’s machine always exactly at 10:30 pm. Robotic clockwork, I mean we were damned good fembots, too!

Those of us workers who were not female were the mechanics, paid of course, quadruple what we Not Male‑fembots received for an hourly rate. These men had to keep those fuckers humming after the machines jammed, ya’ know. And O, did those clankers ever fuck up all of the goddamn time! These silently roaming guys answered the lit‑bulb distress signal after one of us operators flipped its call switch because of a jam. Either the male workers were these mechanically skillful men … or, the dude was still in high school.

One night I came to work and was immediately assigned to the machine Eric was already on; his co‑worker was leaving after the earlier, 4–8 pm short shift concluded. Before the cacophony cranked up, Eric and I exchanged the usual 45‑second‑or‑so introductions which all of us production operators did every night since we were each assigned to work with someone different all of the time. “He was lovely, just lovely. Maternal instinct kicked right the heck in, I’m telling ya’, Linda! About 6’ 3” tall, one of the gangliest, lankiest hunks of gaunt skin over sunken bone that I’ve ever had the pleasure to try to feed and get rested up!”

Judge Sol Wacotler Seizor in Trial Two’s decree continued for me the last few months of alimony which he had originally ordered during Trial One, and then that was that. And this was this, my job now. Seizor in Trial Two had also done one more thing: granted Herry‑Daddee child support out of me just as soon as I were to draw in a paycheck from out of anywhere. I was days at the downtown Hy‑Vee delicatessen. Back then before the Iowa Flood of 1993, and the whole store inundated under six feet of muddily putrid waters was necessarily and completely shut down and the grocery chain branch eventually moved to higher ground in town, it was called the Save‑U‑More and was located about a mile and a half drive from The Teacup. I had a wonderfully small man for a boss who could friggin’ cook up a bloody damned good meal I thought –– especially since so long as we didn’t fuck it all over by being too freakin’ greedy or taking food out of the store or giving it underhandedly away to friends, we deli peons were invited to, well, … “help ourselves.” My usual shift was 6 am to 2 pm, no chairs, no stools ever. Only those of us delicatessen workers over 18 years of age could, by law, operate the meat slicer, let alone, clean the fucking thing. Any worker could throw down the pork tenderloins, the fries and the chicken parts into the deep fat fryers, two of them; and those hot‑grease monstrosities were ever far worse fuckers to clean than was the slicer.

Actually, and fairly soon as a matter of fact, I became known about downtown as Save‑U‑More’s Queen of the Grill, not because I was initially such a fantastic breakfast cook but because I learned to become her. Never a good cook and hardly anyone’s chef, I took to that delicatessen’s gridiron at 6 in the a.m. like the common working stiff of Storm County depended upon me, in the classic film’s heroic Louise Sawyer‑style again, to get for him his goddamn day started off my griddle so that he could then go on out there and … ‘nd build buildings, fight fires, fix fixtures, farm farms, sweep streets, deliver mail, truck in tires, mow parks, sell RVs or whatever. I know nothing about how the grocery deli operates today; but in 1991, 1992 and 1993, and for those 2½ years then Gert who was already by then 72 splendid years old and could and did work entire‑shift circles around the far too lazy college kids who fuckingly simply refused to ever scrub the goddamn pots and pans,––and I––kept that town’s thriftier dudes in #1s––with their eggs over easy and extra strawberry jelly … just as many, wee packets of their wheat toasts’ spread as any of the men wanted.

Others of the eatery’s clientele were the elderly. Every noon, every weekday noontime around 11:45 am, Frieda Guthrie pulled her sky blue, Chevy, two‑door beater into the deli seating area’s one handicap parking space outside and helped out of its front passenger door her fourth, legal husband, Al. Inside of about seven minutes’ of our visiting over the first two orders of fried chicken breast along with the meals’ two sides each of baked beans and Gert’s famed seven‑layer salad that I served up to them, Frieda and Al and I became fast … estate‑like … friends for life.

Frieda had such a history, such an interestingly glorious and feminist history. What a Righteous Ancestor she was going to make––and nearly was! Not only did I later send her a card postmarked on it from Chicken, Alaska, but I purchased for her a coral tee there with that particular, itty bitty Arctic hamlet’s name on its front and gave her the shirt when I returned. Not only did Frieda love to chew on Save‑U‑More’s crisply fried chicken with her mighty fine set of dentures and that fourth husband of hers but, before any of her marriages or her four babies grown inside of her and now grown up on the outside, she had been born Frieda Chicken, a surname out of old England not uncommon and one certainly to quite match so curiously … her first name! Like Fox or Hunter or Bacon or Winters or Wolf or Skinner or Countryman, plain and direct. Right to the point. Of Nature. Of Nature and Its humankind. Fried–a Chicken.

Frieda happened to hanker after hearing about my continuing saga, about my trying to get back all three of the Truemaier Boys and just how that holocaust was progressing, about the foibles and funnies of Herry’s various folies and follies—and ‘specially about how I was not rocking so much anymore, not now that I had found gainful employment. A first great‑grandbaby of hers required christening rites to be rendered it in a tiny white, wooden‑slab parish in the central Wisconsin countryside around another itty bitty burg there named Cadot. In her own Chevrolet, I chauffeured Frieda up there since Al passed into Ancestor status and she didn’t really trust her own driving skill that far alone. That bambina’s parents kept cows! Stanchions and stanchions of Holsteins, some with babes at their sides, too. And I just walked and walked and walked and walked. Up and down that milking parlor till it was pitch black outside, and Frieda needed to go to sleep.

One weekend on the Trues’ trek back to their Burg from visiting my brother Sterling’s in Bellevue, south of Omaha, AmTaham and Mehitable picked up Zane from that Urbandale bungalow residence of King Herod and his dicta’s enforcer, Nottingham Sheriff McLive. Frieda Chicken Guthrie accompanied me in the Shitbox this time; and the three of us, she, Zane and I, quietly––O, ever so clandestinely quietly, of course––enjoyed a mighty tasty meal of homemade sauerkraut and cottage cheese, the finest of German artisan breads with freshly churned butter and tartly pickled ham chunks and beets––all on a Sunday afternoon at Bill Zuber’s Dugout. Homestead, about 15 miles northeast of the Trues’ home in Williamsburg, is one of the seven Amana colonies which had given the former New York Yankees’ pitcher his start in life; I wanted to show Zane that restaurant of Zuber’s with all of its pictures and memorabilia. The food was superb, too; and my journey away from Zane––again––and back to Ames without him was made so much less painful … with Great‑Grandma Frieda beside me.

As much as Grace Portia, Frieda Chicken Guthrie could have taught Listening 101 as well. She also was, too, more than capable of teaching Insured Life Experiences for DEhumans. The policy which Mr. Jazzy Jinx had shushed me about … well, Frieda promised to float me the monthly premium amount for it––should my account and I ever come up short and unable to keep on with the term life policy’s conditions on Dr. Herod Edinsmaier, the sometime weekend small plane pilot. “I mean it, Honey! You keep that goin’! Don’t you ever, ever let that policy lapse, Dearie, and if you can’t make the payment some month, you jus’ let me know! I’ll cover it for ya’ till ya’ can. I mean it! That’s yours, Sweetie. That’s your retirement, I’m tellin’ ya’. You’ve deserved it! That plane of his’ll come down. It will! Al told me so himself ‘fore he passed. Told me that he did, Legion. Said he’d been a‑chantin’ an’ a‑charmin’, er I mean a‑prayin’, that very hex every single flyin’ Saturday morning!” I could imagine that Attorney Jinx would not have shushed Mr. Al Guthrie, what with Al’s own not‑so‑holy muttering mission and agenda for Dr. Herod Edinsmaier, the ones quite a loooong bit ‘lengthier’‑termed than that of this also quite clandestinely quiet insurance policy of mine. Ya’ know, Al‑the‑Righteous‑Ancestor’s mission and agenda for Autopsy‑Knifer Edinsmaier which are … … the ones “everlasting and forevermore!”

The finest thing on which Frieda tutored me, though, even more monumental and far more protective and basic than any physics courses’ mentor had helped me to learn, amounted to one sentence in that car ride back from the Dugout––after dropping off Zane at his Grandmother Mehitable’s. “Don’t you ever let me hear you say that you let a man hit you, Legion!” She purposefully stopped short of even thinking to add to that directive of hers the abusing, soooo‑‘excusing condition’ of the … “because you deserved it” … part.

Frieda met Mehitable, briefly. No cup of tea. No biscuits or pastries, just a hello and an introduction; then she and I were on our way back to Ames. I told Frieda then that some years earlier I had asked Mehitable if AmTaham had ever struck her and that she had replied to me that, indeed, he had done that. That AmTaham, the great mahatma, had smacked her. She, his spouse. “Of course,” I told Frieda, “I was incredulous and nonplussed. And I had expressed all of that to Mehitable!”

“But it was only the one time, an’ … and … I deserved it!” had been Mehitable’s soft, servile, deferent, crouching, kowtowing and cowering explanation back to me, her adult daughter––right then and thereby leaving me, a woman with a passel of male individuals in her life, completely without the power of my own permission to protect myself in my own relationships with men! And, too, those of mine with large … Boys!

Raw‑boned Eric, our introduction over as rapidly as it had begun, continued his chit‑chat with a few words about what was happening outside the junk‑mail factory, a venue when we were at work … we never saw. Was the rain coming down still and had it started to fill up the ditches yet? “No, no it’s nice out finally. Smells terrific, too. So what’s a nice guy like yourself hole up in here for anyhow? What are ya’, 17 or something?”

“Bingo, Legion! You’re gooo–od. Ding, ding, ding: give the lady the washer and dryer! Here? This joint? We–eeell, gotta have the money. Gotta have the coins, ya’ know? Gotta have the tunes and the wheels and the girls. Need the money, ya’ know, for gas and tapes and my girlfriend!”

“She high maintenance, Eric? You’re still in school yet, right? Your folks don’t mind? With 40 hours every week?! That’s incredible, Eric! You don’t get near ‘nough sleep, do ya’?! That’s soooo hard on you, Eric!”

“Well, no, she isn’t but I just gotta have some money. Ya’ know how it is, right? Yeah, full‑time; come here right after school lets out. O, my folks? Well, they got other little kids to take care of. So what’s a nice lady like you doin’ workin’ a joint like this here?”

“Huh? O, me? Me? I gotta give a doctor … ah, um, … ah … child support.”

Not even a blink. Not a hesitation. “Whooooa.” Then? … Then nothing from him but a core‑searching stare down at me. I put my two lips back together again and looked up at Eric with a tiny smile, more or less flattened, a Lionel Portia‑sized deadpan one, right into those two blackened holes somewhere deep upon Eric’s forehead which may have contained eyeballs.

About 15 to 20 seconds later from betwixt that soft, gaunty stare, there came the kind of wisdom from out of Eric’s mouth with which only a guttural teenager pulling down his own full weight in everything that he did could have been responsible and respectful enough to utter. Four words––four words incredulously intoned into Ancestral history––that deserve to be their very own chapter title in a book on Accountability that I shall someday write, … … “And … he TAKES it?!”

I gave him my extra orange at break and brought a second one every night after that one. I have never known Eric’s last name, and I was never assigned—again—to work on another machine with him. But such wisdom from a kiddo whose eye sockets holding his windows to the real world which couldn’t have sunk inside himself any deeper deserved anything I could do to keep him … growing. A truly righteous Ancestor‑in‑Training.

As much as the Good and Wonderful Dr. Herod Edinsmaier was legally entitled to child support under Iowa statute, as much as he had working for him all of the folie à deux affiliations and liaisons in each and every one of their various forms both in and out of the Court which included not only the Nottingham Sheriff‑like Spouse Fannie but also the Great Juggern Aut Misein and His Many, Many Ancestral Progeny, as much as Murderous Herry knew before my first support payment that he would never, ever need it and that I so, so would, as much as he knew before my first payment that he would probably go on to misplace some of my checks so passive aggressively arrogant and entitled (excused away as … ‘forgetfulness’) was he that he just never bothered himself with the work of remembering to get three of them to the bank before actually losing them!, … as much as all that, … high school senior and exhausted and hungry, junk mail factory production worker and the true, 17‑year‑old older brother type, Eric, was stating the following in just those four words, “And … he TAKES it?!”

“Well, yeah, the law says he can have it, but … but … but … just how kind and wise and just does that make him?! He’s a TAKER! Plain and simple. Aprovechar—but with an added, plunged dagger just twisting it around and around inside you, Legion, just as brutally and bloodily as he can churn it! How much kinder, well, not kinder so much as magnanimous would he have been, ya’ know, to’ve just muttered there inside that courtroom, ‘Gee, thanks a lot, Judge–Sir! Thanks for letting me win this one up against the Bitch–O. I so appreciate that. Ya’ know, I truly do! But ya’ know, Mistah JudgeMan, I don’t need it. And, an’ I know that she will. So, … so hey, why don’t you jus’ let her pay her heating bills with it or somethin’. Bet she could routinely use it for that at least. Like I said, thanks for lettin’ me legally beat up my Ex‑Pussy, Your Honor–Sir, but I’m gonna be a big, big person here and just ask that you take it back. Ya’ know, make it official that my ex‑Cunt dudn’t owe me. That she dudn’t need to pay me the child support since, ‘specially ya’ know, … since she can’t!”

* * * *

More hours if I wanted them materialized at the factory, but then I’d have to go to days there and, therefore, work less at the supermarket deli. I took them, 48 cents more per hour at the factory, and began arriving in Urbandale a little later in the afternoons leaving my fellow junk mailers at 4:30 pm. With heading onto I‑35 right after, I was not down then to the Truemaier Boys’ summer activities until just about the time that they were expected by the Urbandale streets’ ‘folie federal marshal’ and her daughter‑deputy, Mary Jane, to be heading home from them all. That was the trade‑off: for 48 cents more per hour, then per hour I got––clandestinely, at that––to see less of my Boys––but to expend the same amount as before in my time and my efforts, and theirs, and on my gasoline in just trying to be with them. Jesse had DeAndré from the ‘hood and possibly one other who lived far, far west in an upscale quarter to where Jesse or the friend would have to be driven back and forth because of the miles’ worth of distance between the two young boys’ residences. I didn’t know of another friend for Mirzah or for Zane. Not one other have I ever known the two of them to have had the entire year plus two weeks that my three Truemaier Boys spent captive by the King and his Nottingham Sheriff inside Urbandale.

Using the number I’d given to him, Jesse made at least two telephone calls from a pay phone, from either the one on school grounds or the one at a nearby city block park. Jesse called Mr. Ralph Berg, the former state party politician and one rather well‑known and, likewise, ‑connected, who was now the executive director of an advocacy and lobbying agency for kids up to 17 years and 11 months. The organization is known as the Children’s Services Coalition in Des Moines and is located right there next to Urbandale.

To absolutely no avail either time.

And Jesse, struggling as one 12‑year‑old kiddo with a couple of his quarters for each toll call, would not prevail.

Not with this man. This “children’s services” executive director and, obviously, a politician. … Still.

Mr. Ralph Berg––so connected as he was––would not do one thing.

Not even one phone call would Democrat Berg make to Ms. Carlotta Klutz, let alone, to any of the pertinent state or US senators or congresspersons, all father‑exalting men for sure and all, including himself, Iowans who had simply provided haploid, spermatozoal cells toward the subsequent production, formation and … maternal … growth of biological children––two male children about whom he quite publicly proclaimed himself as more than just their sperm source … two sons grown by his spouse, Therona. Mr. Berg––as daddee––along with these two sons of hers, had for chris’sake, even watched my Jesse score goals!

Of course Daddee Ralph had said squat on my behalf to the party’s county leadership when first he learned that I was taking “the great, good rest” at The Sixth Floor Hotel. True that was. Also a resident of Storm County Mr. Berg had done absolutely nothing to support me nor my quest for that decently situated recorder post over at the same county courthouse which he, Mr. Berg, frequented––an elected position for me as were almost all of those of his––until his directorship at the Coalition. Smack in line, too the recorder job would have been, with my mothering and with the serving of my children, as in rendering “child services” to my very own … so that agencies and organizations such as his, the Children’s Services Coalition, were not ‘burdened’ with my kiddos … and did not have to expend any agency dollars whatsoever ‘to serve’ … them.

No attorney appointed by ‘the Court’ to specifically represent the children could Jesse get Politician Berg to even try for: no guardian ad litem, no therapist or psychologist type independently advocating to ‘the Court’ on behalf of only the children for a change of heart on any part of daJudge's decree … on any ”Rule of Law” of ‘daMan’s Court!’ and, for sure, no lightening up of King Herod’s androcentric dicta, no stoppage put to the Sheriff of Nottingham’s implementation and enforcement of all of the King’s orders. Not even one local, no‑toll telephone call would (Leftist, Liberal and Progressive! but O‑so Mighty) Patriarch Ralph Berg put in to Jesse’s mother’s attorney, Ms. Carlotta Klutz, also right there in Des Moines. Not even that little. Only mother‑fucking and, consequently, child‑fucking. Nothing did he do for my Jesse. “Sorry, sorry, sorry, sad situation, I know. Nothin’ I can do. Must be so hard for you. O, hey, Young Man, thank you for calling me. You know I’m here for ya’ if ya’ ever need anything else. Take care now, Jesse.” Mother‑fucker.

I have, since, seen this man alone or with his wife, Therona, and two children about town a lot; he always has resided within … Ames––and actually right inside my own ‘hood here in town, as a matter of fact. He never acknowledges that it is I. He knows. He knows that it is. Not so much as a recognizing nod, let alone at all, the utterance of my actual name as in a mere “Hello there, Legion” in passing me by. The Edinsmaier Shame Shun.

I wonder if Mother Therona truly knows what thorns and arrows three Bergs would themselves suffer were she ever to try to leave this man and to take with her the two sons he calls his––one of whom is also named … Jesse. I don’t care how liberal and liberated and leftist and progressive and mouthing of feminist freethinking and Democratic‑Party broadmindedness she may have, alongside him and while identifying with him, heard the lofty Mr. Ralph Berg spout out over all of his years of “service”––and most especially about children and families. IF she ever tries to cross him? IF she ever, ever pisses him off … ‘enough’?! O O O O, is she down! I mean mother‑fucking down the drain. Flushed. Sperm exaltation! Ask any daddee. I don’t care with whom he allies or affiliates himself. Any daddee is not ever, ever to be trifled with. And She Who Tries To? She pays. O she pays. With her and her babes’ core‑murders––their Mother‑Fucking––she soooo pays.

* * * *

When the appeal decision arrived file‑stamped 27 August 1991, it had on its front covering page with all of the top stuff describing what case and from where, mine being “IN THE COURT OF APPEALS OF IOWA” and number 1‑172/90‑3451, the name of Mr. Shindy Scheisser as Herry’s attorney of record. However, as my attorney of record, I read there the name of a person of whom I’d never, ever heard––even before the name of Ms. Carlotta Klutz, was also given. Now Cousin Wyman would have told me, had he known, if ‘my case’ now during its appeal had been farmed out to someone else––so my best guess is that Ms. Klutz busied herself with the appeal of that manslaughter conviction for child endangerment, that made‑for‑television, or for at least 60 Minutes, case which had made Ms. Klutz a local celebrity … and that mine––‘my case’––had gotten entirely shoved off of her list of things to do. But, of course, thrown off of it … at my and Wyman and his Natures family’s full expense! And … this mother‑fuck again … unbeknownst to us both during the entire time its appeal was pending!

At the bottom of that front page there appeared the names of three people, a “jury” of sorts of only men, not exactly a jury of my peers at all then, is it? in this world of 53 percent DEhumans and certainly not the Jury of The Opera, You the Reader, and all of them referred to as persons who had “considered” [its verb] ‘my case’ with one of those names listed there being not only the name of the Chief Judge of the Iowa Court of Appeals but also all that was typed there about him … was this man’s very last name. No first name. No initials. No title of either Mister or Chief or Judge or His Honor or any such words. Nothing to identify him, let alone clearly and outstandingly identify him beyond the fairly common surname “Donnellson” as in “considered by Donnellson and So‑and‑So and Such‑and‑Such.” But the last two judges at least had had their initials typed in after their last names and a comma. How strange. How almost … anonymous of the so‑called ‘leader’ of this particular, appellate judiciary.

These “considered” words then from daMan, the Chief Judge of the Court of Appeals of Iowa, a body of six judges, five of them men, which was the State’s appellate judging body one rung below the State’s Supreme Court whereupon sat its own nine justices, eight of whom then there at the Supreme Court were men as well. “The trial court determined both parents possessed adequate child rearing skills and loved their children.” “Although her conduct has disrupted Herod’s life, Legion argues that the children have not suffered as a result of her unorthodox behavior. Our supreme court has set out the pertinent standard for modification of custody:

‘To change a custodial provision of a dissolution decree, the applying party must establish by a preponderance of evidence that conditions since the decree was entered have so materially and substantially changed that the children’s best interests make it expedient to make the requested change. The changed circumstances must not have been contemplated by the court when the decree was entered, and they must be more or less permanent, not temporary. They must relate to the welfare of the children. A parent seeking to take custody from the other must prove an ability to minister more effectively to the children’s well being. The heavy burden upon a party seeking to modify custody stems from the principle that once custody of children has been fixed it should be disturbed only for the most cogent reasons.’ ” Easily enough cut and pasted in just as the paragraph appeared to have been––from some other previously used document file.

The appellate decision continued its “considering,” “Our paramount consideration in determining custody is ‘the best interests of the children’.” I swan this friggin’ swinery swill, “If I have to hear that specifically MOTHER‑FUCKING expression one more time in my life, then I shall have to utterly banish those five or six words phrased that way from my entire lexicon. Forever!”

“Her conduct does not promote the children’s relationship with their father,” further “considers” these collective judicial thugs, these Sperm Exalters. As it should not! As my “conduct” should not have … “promoted” same! Not theirs. Not my Boys. Not with the true nature of the man who is Herry‑Daddee, who IS Dr. Herod Edinsmaier.

Then, of course, always these judicial patriarchs’ dominion clincher––whether in America or inside any other courtroom of the World: Is Dr. Legion True either i) a whore and a tramp or is she ii) a whacko? Or … is she iii) both? “Her mental disturbance prevents her from acting in the best interests of the children.” Fuck, there it is again! Right away, “… in the best interests of whose … chattel … er, ah, children?” “ … the children.”

And finally daMen’s collective conclusion about the Crazy Bitch’s not‑so‑playful gypsy dalliances, about her wicked witchery: that is, actually, about those of her intolerant interferences with a man’s sperm cell and its exaltation thereof, “Because we believe the present circumstances were not contemplated by the court when the decree was entered, our inquiry now turns to whether Herod has shown an ability to more effectively minister to the children’s well‑being. We agree with the trial court this relationship can best be advanced if custody is given to Herod. He is a successful person who has good relationships with others and leads a productive life. Herod had made attempts to improve his parenting skills and to foster his relationship with the children. This record reveals Herod is more willing and able to assist the children to develop a strong relationship with both parents than is Legion. We affirm the trial court in all respects. Costs of appeal are taxed to Legion. AFFIRMED.”

What inappropriate familiarity! Didn’t even give me the dignity of “… taxed to Dr. Legion True.” And, O JYeah, we will most definitely need to remember the sentence, “This record reveals Herod is more willing and able to assist the children to develop a strong relationship with both parents than is Legion” … for later! This one, despite all of the others with ludicrous, laughable lies in them about Herry’s being so ‘relationally’ cool and all, come to find out, is the only key one in the mere 5½‑page statement of … Donnellson and his gang of appellate court, thuggish, father‑exalting thieves!

“No? ‘because we believe the present circumstances were not contemplated by the Court?’ No, not wanting to be contemplated by you, ya’ mean? You judges. You men. Because all of you men couldn’t believe that you too, or you three is more accurate, along with the High Aggrandizier himself back at district court and judges like New York State Supreme Court’s former Chief Justice Saul Wachtler, would ever have to be called to accountability for your actions and for your own behaviors including all of those responsibility‑abrogated, personal ones! and for your own hiding away inside countless sanitaria your own ex‑cunts!”

“Cuz, maybe your present Next Cunts in Your Stashes might check into taking your kids off with them, just like I had tried to protect the three Truemaier Boys, off with them to higher and safer grounds and away from the holocaustic floods of your spermatozoic dalliances, too, mightn’t they, Judges?!”

I myself read into the “because we believe the present circumstances were not contemplated” phrase!

As Rachel had so succinctly and aptly decreed it outright regarding pillared men judging other pillared men and not at all calling the judged then to accountability because of the judges’ own fears of having themselves then also … likewise, called to account. Without #1 Child Bastian, Mama Rach is the one who had formed and uttered the proclamation just last Winter Solstice holiday at my Y2002 birthday Gathering and Potluck … so matter‑of‑factly. Despite her pain from the pregnancy and her, back then, growing Victoria Joy and soon having to endure the not‑too‑foolish 01 April Y2003 verbal birthing backlash from obstetrical staff specifically and only … against noncustodial mamas, yawned because it is now so ho‑hum and so widely known as true, “And there isn’t any judge, Legion ya’ know, who himself doesn’t surf porn!”

[Part 3 concludes]

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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]

Mary Jane: daughter of Fannie Issicran McLive; stepsister of Zane, Jesse, and Mirzah

Legion’s Friends: Margaret, Mona, Yanira, Stormy, Lynda, László, Jane, Kincaid, Joseph, Sheryl, Abraham (Quaker elder), Frieda

Legion’s Best Friends: Ms Grace and Dr Lionel Portia and Rachel

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 first Family Court lawyer

Carlotta Klutz: Legion’s second Family Court attorney

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”]

Rex: Jesse’s pet Eastern Florida Kingsnake, female

Lady: Zane's pet Zebra Finch, female

Madonna: realtor

Larry Brouhaha: court-mandated marriage counselor

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: twice judge-mandated custody evaluator

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Author: Dr. Blue, aka Ofherod, BSN, DVM, PhD = Commander Edinsmaier's Handmaid (Commander reiamsnidE's Handmaid)

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