CELESTIAL MONOGRAMS AND STUBBY PENCILS

I find no comfort in telling you how disappointed I am in you. I find no joy is having to repeat myself over and over again.

Try as I might, you glean nothing from learning, and cannot control your behavior. You fight, you mock, you destroy, you win, and all for nothing. You police officers should be done. Your power is abused and you love it. You're not a man. You're not human. You're not worthy.

I recommend ending your own life before this crowd gets a wild hair and remembers how little they care about preserving peace in the face of overwhelming evil. They will rise up, and they will not be stopped once the avalanche begins. When the dust settles, they will be rid of you, and will always remember never to allow anyone to grow to such a fatty girth again. You are the reticulated python who has eaten a saltwater croc, and is already looking for the deer in the bush. You control your breathing because you know no one can harm you. No top-tier predator to limit your powerful genome structure. Our allowance has made you what you are today; not who you are. You lost the "who" a month out of rookie drag.

You are the universal emblem of ability, and the ugly reaction to negative circumstance. You are the star. Your presence is monogrammed in the sky so all can see and fear. This is your hayday. This is your time to shine and get "in the shit". Once retirement looms, you'll cough at the coffee, and work your tired pencil to the bone. You'll flush criminals to confession, push that desk, and drink your way through another divorce and broken dream.

But this crowd doesn't know any of that. They know you are the representation of evil. That dead child in the streets you shouted reached for your weapon? He has Asperger syndrome. He is no expert in verbal or nonverbal communication. His dog you also killed? Service animal. But you won't see jail time. A grand jury will read testimony, and because no cross-examination is presented, you'll get off. You'll testify, because with your cooperation, immunity is assured. You'll go home to your wife who doesn't love you anymore, to your children who don't respect you anymore, and your reflection you don't recognize anymore.

But this crowd doesn't know any of that.

I find no comfort in telling you how disappointed I am in you. I find no joy in having to repeat myself over and over again. And this crowd is standing up to you.

Best of luck, pal. I hope your luck is as good as ours.