At Least He Wasn't At A Funeral Dept

Though, come to think of it, if he had been at a funeral, at least he couldn't have offended the corpse.

UPDATE: It's actually a comedy sketch, not a real talk show, which takes most of the fun out it but we're all about integrity here at the Peril. The sketch is from the Belgian comedy show In de Gloria. I did, actually, check the urban myth sites before I did the original post, but I guess I was too far ahead of the curve (and at least I'm no more gullible than Jay Leno). Also, as I very strongly suspected, the first set of subtitles is indeed a What's Up, Tiger Lily?, which means that it was a fake set of subtitles superimposed upon a fake talk show. What you guys don't realize is that it goes even deeper than that -- what you're reading right now is actually a fake blog entry. At any rate, I have found a version that has subtitles that I believe are accurate, and it is appended at the bottom of the post now. [update ends]

Now, I have two versions, and you should certainly watch the first one before reading on to the rest of the item and watching the second, subtitled version. Here's the version I originally saw, in un-subtitled Dutch that I didn't have a prayer of understanding -- but I still laughed until I cried.



Did you watch it? I'm serious, no fair skipping ahead. Go back and watch the first one if you didn't. No cheating.

Now that you're back:

If you don't know Dutch any better than I do, don't worry about it; as you have already seen, you don't need to know what they're saying in order to get a kick out of the video. But now here's a bonus: I've located a copy with English subtitling.

Now let me just remind you of something: I don't know Dutch. So for all I know the actual subject matter is something entirely different from what the subtitles pretend it is, and the guy who did the subtitles is pulling a What's Up, Tiger Lily on us. But if the subtitles are genuine, then this is the most extreme version I've ever seen of the typical male's instinctive reaction to a blooper video in which some guy gets nailed in the privates.

So, I now present to you the subtitled version.



UPDATE: And here, as promised, are more accurate subtitles.

Everything's Bigger In Texas -- Which Is Not Necessarily A Good Thing...Dept

Roy DuPuis passes on a picture taken in the Texas Hill Country, near the community of Tow, Texas.

I don't think it's necessary for me to comment.

Academically Imposing Preacher of the Day Dept

My friend Rameen and I were talking about Biblical hermeneutics, and I mentioned the fact that over the last couple of decades I've heard quite a few Christian speakers pontificate about what the Bible says "in the original Greek" -- and almost always it has been instantly clear that they don't know what they're talking about. (You have to remember I'm a classics major from Princeton who reads his New Testament, and does his NT scripture memory work, in the koine Greek of the first century church; so if the preacher's pulling something out of his, um, hat, I generally know it.) "So basically," I concluded, "I pretty much warn people that whenever they hear a preacher say, 'Now in the original Greek...' they should generally just disregard whatever comes next because it's probably wrong."

Whereupon Rameen replied, "Oh, that reminds me..." And he proceeded to pass on to me the following more or less direct quote from a sermon he heard a few weeks back in a church he was visiting:

"Now if you look at this passage in the original Greek, it's clear that this is what we in academic circles refer to as an 'anachronism,' which is where you say one thing but you really mean something different."

[chuckling gleefully] Not only would I recommend that the reverend gentleman go find a textbook of rhetoric and figures of speech and look up "irony" -- but I think he should pay especially close attention to one particular variety thereof. For, while he may not be very good at Greek, he's plenty good at dramatic irony...

Today vs. the Fifties

Anyone with an IQ higher than, say, Prince Charles's, has enough common sense to know that the Fifties were a better place to grow up than any decade since. Here a friend of Roger Kimball's puts some detail behind that valid but vague generalization. (I agree especially emphatically with the Fifties' superiority on points 1, 2 and 6.)

Another kid update

Natasha has been wonderful so far and seems very happy still. No doubt some major conflict is lurking in the wings but we haven't seen it yet.

And Kasia is now home. She and Natasha and Anya are all sharing a room as of last night.

We had to bring the Princess home right away, rather than at the end of this semester or even next week, because the jerk over at the district transfer office told us that if Kasia wasn't home by the end of this week he'd kick Natasha out of Seven Lakes. So Dessie's mother has made Dessie promise to get his name and phone number and give it to her, so that she can call the man up and scream lots of unkind things into the phone at him.

That would not be, by the way, because she is Kasia's grandmother. It would be because she is the TAKS test coordinator for all Fredericksburg schools, and she knows that there is a TAKS coordinator at Seven Lakes as well, and this week is TAKS week. (TAKS is the state-imposed test that the legislature in Texas uses to ensure that students are taught to pass the TAKS test rather than actually being taught useful things -- just an absolutely terrible idea from every possible direction, but the kind of thing meddling politicians love to impose.) Why is this relevant?

Because there is hardly anything you can do to any member of a Texas public school faculty that is worse, than to make the TAKS coordinator deal with transfering a child into or out of their school during TAKS week. So this unreasonable, incompetent jerk has just forced an unimaginable amount of inconvenience and frustration on both Dessie's mom and on whoever is the wretched TAKS coordinator at Seven Lakes -- because he wouldn't give Kasia until next Monday to get back to Katy.

At any rate, Anya and Natasha and I went up to Austin on Saturday (Kasia was at a slumber party there) and brought the Princess back home. And now all eleven of us are living in Katy. Good times. (Seriously.)

Kasia's new roommates: Natasha (left, refusing to let us see her 1,000-candlepower smile because she hates having her picture taken) and Anya (right, obviously with no such objection)

Merry meets Aïda

I very much wanted to go see the Houston Grand Opera's production of Aïda, but I don't particularly like to go to the opera alone. Unfortunately my family isn't exactly full of opera fans (or, for that matter, sports fans, which is a double whammy for me). Kasia likes classical music, but she was spending a semester with her grandmother in Fredericksburg and wasn't available. At first I thought, "Bummer, it's either go by myself or not go at all." But then I got to thinking...my eleven-year-old Merry loves to sing and is in both the school choir and a rather selective community children's choir, and she is a rather mature eleven-year-old, and she really likes spending time with me. So I thought it about it a little bit, and then decided, "You know, I think Merry is old enough not to get too tired and bored, and I think she would enjoy herself immensely." I went home and asked her if she wanted to go with me to the opera, and to say that my daughter was thrilled would be rather like saying the Sears Tower is a tall building.

It says something about how out of touch I am with current cultural currents, that when I told a friend I was going to see Aïda, she responded, "Oh, I love Elton John!" -- and I was, like, "What are you talking about?" Apparently Elton John and Tim Rice, or Elton Rice and John Tim, or somebody famous, at any rate, have turned Verdi's magnificent opera into a Broadway musical. Hm. Somehow I find my excitement easily contained. Indeed, I seem to have running through my head a couple of lines from one of Tim Rice's earlier efforts:

...I would invite you
But the queens we use would not excite you."

(My parents, by the way, turn out actually to have seen E.J.'s version. They were not particularly impressed.)

I told Merry that we would have to make sure she had nice clothes to wear, because going to the grand opera is not quite the same thing as going to the movies at Katy Mills. So Merry spent about three weeks in an ecstacy of expectation and preparation. And when the big evening came, last Friday night...well, jusk look at her smile yourself:



With her new shoes, new hose, her carefully chosen purse and pearls, and the hairdo she and her mom had worked on so hard, she was as pretty as a picture. So I took several.



We drove off to the opera, and when we walked into the theatre, Merry was simply wonderstruck. She had never imagined that such a place existed outside of the palaces in fairy tales. We got something to eat and then found our seats -- on the very highest row in the theatre, which of course is an opera house and therefore has four or five balconies all of which are built about as close to the pure vertical as one can imagine. Merry almost didn't dare to climb into our seats, and had she been asked actually to try to go down those stairs in her new high heels, I'm not sure she would have been able to summon the courage.

Then the orchestra started tuning, and then the conductor walked out and took his place, and he raised his arms, and the strings began that soft and sweet but somehow foreboding opening theme, and the curtain rose. And I'm not sure Merry's wide eyes even blinked for the next hour.

For those of you who don't like opera, and especially those of you who find it interminably slow-moving because it takes the characters so long to say even a single word...well, I'll tell you the secret I told Merry. It's the music that tells the story, just as much in Aïda as in Prokoviev's charming Peter and the Wolf. The actors are merely helping it along. It's the music that anguishes, that rejoices, that fears; the characters and the lyrics help you visualize the story, but all the real acting is done by the music. I don't know how to express it better than that. But fortunately Merry, primed in advance with that more or less that explanation by her dad (who really would like to have somebody else to enjoy the opera with him), somehow got it.

We reached the end of the first Act and Merry turned and looked at me with stars in her eyes.

"Do you like it?" I asked.

"Oh, Daddy, it's wonderful!" she answered.

We swung into Act II (which, by the way, is my own favorite act of this particular opera -- if the finale of Act II doesn't stir your blood then you're dead), and Merry was enthralled again. And so was I -- I have to say that I would have liked to have seen more of Merry's reactions but I was swept away by the glory myself. Then the chorus soared into that mighty finale, and the curtain fell, and the lights came up for the intermission.

"Is it still okay?" I asked her.

"Oh, yes, I love it." Her beaming face turned rather serious and awed, then, and she added with charming seriousness, "They sing a lot better than I do."

Then she asked, "What time is it, anyway?"

"It's 9:00; we've been watching for an hour and a half."

She was shocked. "Really?? It doesn't seem anywhere near that long. I thought it was maybe forty-five minutes. I can't believe it's been a whole hour and a half."

We walked out to the lobby, and I got a Courvoisier on the rocks, and then we headed over to the Starbucks line to get Merry a hot chocolate. While we stood in line I called up my parents on my cell phone and handed the phone over to Merry, and she caught her grandmother up on all the details (including what her dress looked like, naturally).

At the end of Act III she was still going strong. But by the time we were well into Act IV, her bedtime was just too far in the past, and she started nodding off to sleep and lost the thread. (And I don't blame her; Act IV is mournful and elegaic and not exactly a toe-tapper -- a bad choice of music to keep a sleepy eleven-year-old on the edge of her seat.) We had about five minutes left when Merry leaned over to me and whispered, "Daddy, I don't want to be annoying, but how long is it until it's over?"

So considering that I had taken my eleven-year-old daughter to a two-hour, fifty-minute grand opera with a twenty-five-minute intermission, that didn't even start until 7:30 at night...for her to make it all the way to minute #165 before asking when it would be over, is I think pretty impressive.

I think I'll get two season tickets for the 2007/2008 season (among other things they're doing La Boheme, The Abduction from the Seraglio, and The Magic Flute); and I think that the second ticket will go to Merry probably about half the time. But I think, those times when it is Merry, that we'll go to the Sunday afternoon matinees.

I hope each of you gets a chance, every now and then, to have a night like that one with a child that starry-eyed. My life isn't a particularly easy one, but it sure does have its blessings.

Used Car Warranty of the Day Dept

My parents pass on this mailer that showed up in their mailbox, from a local used car dealer:

All our cars are warrantied for 1,000,000 miles

Or one year, whichever comes first

Personal Relationship Tip of the Day Dept

A button posted on the wall of my friend Virgil Enos's cubicle:

"Tact is for people who aren't witty enough to be sarcastic."

I love this piece

Though I don't draw from it any conclusions about how Americans are all Philistines or anything like that.

What a great story, though.

Hmmmm...that's actually a good point

Maybe I was too hasty in blasting those fifteen disgraceful Brits. Stumbling and Mumbling points out an aspect that hadn't occurred to me.

My basic point that England is dead still stands, but I think I will have to back down some on my criticism of the individual soldiers.

"Sonríe" for English-speakers

I should have mentioned, I suppose, that the Luis Miguel song "Sonríe" that I like so much and wanted help translating, is a Spanish version (with the same emotions but rather different lyrics) of the old standard "Smile," which you can hear Nat King Cole sing here in English. (Nat's version is far superior to Jimmy Durante's, I have to say, but Luis can hold his own with anybody.)

That link also gives you the English lyrics, by the way.

And I suppose I should also mention that even those of you who don't listen to the old standards and have no idea what Nat King Cole's or Tony Bennett's or Jimmy Durante's voice sounds like, stand a good chance of having heard this song recently -- Gina Glockson sang it as her farewell song after having been voted off of "American Idol" last week, and given that Gina was openly broken-hearted at having been voted off, and yet pulled herself together to give a thoroughly moving performance of a song that is very much not in her own rock'n'roll metier, I'd say that if you saw her farewell you'll remember this song for a very long time. Frankly, I'd love to have a recording of Gina's farewell take; it would go onto my five-star iPod rotation. (Which isn't actually on an iPod; it's on my laptop, but you know what I mean.)

This isn't her farewell performance; it's the performance that wasn't good enough to keep her from getting voted off. But the farewell performance -- which I thought was better -- isn't, alas, on YouTube.

An Easter post from an agnostic who -- unlike Andrew Sullivan -- actually respects Christianity

Her Anchorship links to this very fine piece by Australian agnostic Andrew Bolt. You should certainly read it all. Some -- but hardly all -- of the money quotes:

I wouldn’t be alone in thinking each time an artist or commentator insults Christians: friend, if you’re so brave, say that about Islam.

Show us your chocolate Mohammeds. Show us your Korans dipped in urine....

So when I see a Western artist mock Christ, I see an artist advertising not his courage but his cowardice – by not daring to mock what would threaten him more....

It’s no accident that we feel safer insulting Christians than trashing almost anyone else.

This is a religion that’s always preached tolerance, reason and non-violence, even if too many of its followers have seemed deaf....We are the beneficiaries of that preaching, even those of us who aren’t Christians....

...[W]e do not actually fear what we condemn. We know Christians are taught not to punch our smarmy face, and we even count on it. Indeed, it is the very faith we mock that has made us so safe.

Yep. That just about sums it up. Anybody want to argue that they've ever lived in a Muslim society where they feel that they are safe to criticize Islam precisely because the Muslims run the country? Anybody? Come on, speak up, don't be shy...

...still waiting...

Street Performance Artist Of The Day Dept

I always did like hanging out around Trafalgar Square...



HT: Mr. Pulitzer Prize himself.

Sunday's on its way (originally composed especially for Alexandra von Maltzan at All Things Beautiful)

This piece was specially commissioned by the delightful Alexandra von Maltzan of All Things Beautiful, and if you want to comment on it, may I request that you go join the conversation going on at the ATB version of this post? Thanks.

On Easter, Christians celebrate what C. S. Lewis called, “The Grand Miracle,” the one single event in human history that changes the meaning of the entire human story in general – and our own personal story as well. A lifetime isn’t enough to exhaust the contemplation of Easter. All you can do each year is contemplate what Easter will have to teach you this time around.

I think it a particularly great challenge to attempt to explain to people who aren’t Christians, what it is that Christians see in Easter – particularly since the Christian response to Easter is so highly individual, given the richness of the Myth That Really Happened. So I thought that I would take a shot at explaining – to an imaginary audience composed of interested and intelligent, but unbelieving, imaginary friends – one of the odd ways in which I think Easter looks different when you're seeing it from the other side, as it were. This is very far from the most important thing to understand about Easter. But it’s interesting, I think, in its own quirky way, and it’s almost certainly something that hasn’t occurred to you if you are not yourself a Christian.

God is, of course, the Author of the human story, the Dramatist who created this world that famously is all a stage. Most monotheists would agree with that, at least in some sense. Now, Easter tells us what kind of story God is writing – it is a mystery novel and a thriller and a romance all rolled into one, but most especially it’s the kind of novel where you can’t tell what’s going to happen next. It turns out that the infinite God is not unlike M. Night Shyamalan – the moment when the Resurrection happened is exactly like the moment the audience realizes that Malcolm is himself dead, only more so. The second time through The Sixth Sense the entire story is different from the first time you watched it, because you know the great central secret: Malcolm is dead. And for Christians, the “second time” through the story, as it were – whether it is the story of one’s own life and apparently pointless sufferings, or the New Testament story of the disciples cluelessly tagging along behind Jesus without ever figuring out what He was talking about, or even the “second time” through the Old Testament – the second time through, the entire story is transformed, because you know the great central secret: Jesus is alive.

I have a wonderful Jewish friend, a person, by the way, considerably more intelligent and nicer than myself, and one who understands Christianity incomparably more deeply and sympathetically than I understand Judaism. One of my friend's objections to Christianity is precisely that the Resurrection, if it means what Christians and indeed Jesus himself claim it means, radically transforms the apparent meaning of the Tanach and upends all sorts of rabbinic applecarts, even though the rabbis strove diligently and sincerely to understand the story God was telling. My friend cannot accept that God would be so deceitful and so unfair as to set the Jewish people up to believe one thing and then spring such an astonishing and unforeseeable surprise upon them. But to a Christian, the Resurrection is the mother of all great plot twists, sprung with a dramatic skill that, as one would expect, utterly transcends the abilities of M. Night Shyamalan or Neil Jordan. Of the millions of people who saw The Sixth Sense or The Crying Game, there are bound to have been a few who figured out the secret before the director’s great moment of triumph. But the Resurrection is the one unsurpassingly masterful plot twist that nobody figured out in advance. And Christians rejoice in that moment of unforeseen, unimagined, astonished enlightenment in very much the way moviegoers delighted in the shock of revelation in The Sixth Sense and The Crying Game. Indeed, we suspect that God shaped us to delight in plot twists precisely because He Himself delights in them. The pleasure Shyamalan and Jordan take in knowing that their skill made it possible for viewers to see one movie the first time through and a radically different movie the second time – at the same time recognizing that in fact it has been the same movie, honest to its principles and playing fair with the viewer, all along – is an echo of the pleasure God takes in His greatest of all surprise endings.

But of course, there is the difference that in both The Sixth Sense and The Crying Game, the surprise, while artistically deeply satisfying, is also tragic and poignant. The Resurrection, by contrast, is not only the greatest of all surprise endings – it is also the happiest of all unexpectedly happy endings. What looked on Friday like the most unspeakable of tragedies turns out on Sunday to have been the setup for the most delightful of all romantic comedies. It rather strains the bounds of credulity to think, for example, that Mark Darcy would really choose Bridget Jones, but that patent mismatch fades to nothing beside God the Son’s choice of us as His Bride – and yet while the former is fiction, the latter is triumphant fact.

Once Easter settles into your heart for good, hope can never be lost. No matter how bleak things may seem, the God who sprung the Resurrection on an unsuspecting world (and, to be candid, a not terribly grateful one, all in all)…well, who knows what surprises He has in store for us? Easter assures the Christian of two quite remarkable things about the Eternal, Omnipotent, Omniscient God of the universe: (1) He loves surprises, and (2) He loves us.

Or, as the Christian songwriter/performer Carman Licciardello put it:

On Friday night, they crucified the Lord on Calvary,
But He said, “Don’t dread; in three days
I’m gonna live again, you’ll see.”
When troubles try to bury you and make it hard to pray
It may seem like Friday night…
But Sunday’s on its way.

Contemptible, and its Opposite

The Brits are gone. Whatever England was for the last thousand years of its history, it isn't anymore. It is impossible to express my contempt, not so much for the disgraceful behavior of the British "military" sailors who cooperated assiduously with their Iranian captors' propaganda efforts, as much for their superiors who responded by talking about how bravely and appropriately they had behaved. These people are considered British navy by the heirs of Nelson? People who do whatever their captors tell them to do because the mean old captors didn't let them sleep and (gasp! the humanity!) yelled at them?????

I simply ask you: is it possible to imagine such behavior either (a) from British officers, or even civilians, of the World War II generation that endured the Blitz, if said officers or civilians were to be captured by the Japanese or Germans, or (b) from today's American Marines or Army infantry?

I can't link off-hand to the descriptions of how the American P.O.W's in Vietnam behaved -- where each man, despite being kept in permanent solitary confinement, would endure day after day of torture (not the "torture" that Americans are accused of imposing on modern terrorists, but genuine torture), pushing themselves to the absolute limits of human endurance, because each knew that every day they held out was a day that their brother officers' torture was postponed. But I can link to these reminiscenses of one of the American Marines who was taken hostage by this same President of Iran and his buddies, back in the days when Jimmy Carter's residence in the White House gave thugs all over the world the confidence that they could abuse Americans with complete impunity. This is how actual soldiers behave when they are surrounded and ultimately captured.

Spare me, by the way, the "how would you have behaved in that situation, and how can you pass judgment?" If I were a soldier, and if I had received the training and inherited the sense of honor and duty that American soldiers receive and inherit, then I firmly believe I would have behaved far more like an American POW than like the British collaborators of last week. For the American military produces American military men. What do you think are the odds that this bunch of national disgraces will receive the same treatment from their peers and government that lone collaborator Army Sgt. Joe Subic received?

HT: John Derbyshire, a former Englishman who, unlike the Brits' commanding officers, is not an admirer of the captives' contemptible behavior.

Peace, Love and Harmony School Slogan of the Day Dept

The Princess points out, with great glee, that her high school principal has instituted an anti-violence campaign at Seven Lakes High School, home of the Spartans. The theme slogan of the campaign?

"Don't Fight -- It's Not The Spartan Way."

UPDATE: My parents were highly amused by this, but were concerned that someone might point out the absurdity of the slogan to the principal, thus causing her to start a campaign to change the school mascot. Pop was going to suggest the Pussycats, but then he remembered that even kittens have been known to fight. So after devoting a bit more thought to the principal's dilemma, he has come up with the new Seven Lakes High School mascot: the Draft Dodgers.

"Don't Fight -- It's Not The Draft Dodger Way..."

Could've saved myself the trouble...

...of all those recent global warming posts, if I'd known about this Michael Crichton speech a few weeks ago.

Crichton puts his finger on exactly what makes me nuts about the who-cares-if-it's-literally-true-or-not-because-we-ought-to-be-doing-this-stuff-anyway line of thought: once you say that the ends justifies the means, then science can be subverted to whatever political ends one deems necessary. Plus, the global warming stuff is such blatantly obvious bullshit; it's a downright insult to the intelligence. Here's Crichton making a point that every American high school graduate ought to know -- because every American high school graduate ought to know the difference between real science and Carl Sagan / Paul Erlich / Time magazine pseudoscience consensus bullshit:

I regard consensus science as an extremely pernicious development that ought to be stopped cold in its tracks. Historically, the claim of consensus has been the first refuge of scoundrels; it is a way to avoid debate by claiming that the matter is already settled. Whenever you hear the consensus of scientists agrees on something or other, reach for your wallet, because you're being had.

Let's be clear: the work of science has nothing whatever to do with consensus. Consensus is the business of politics. Science, on the contrary, requires only one investigator who happens to be right, which means that he or she has results that are verifiable by reference to the real world. In science consensus is irrelevant. What is relevant is reproducible results. The greatest scientists in history are great precisely because they broke with the consensus.

There is no such thing as consensus science. If it's consensus, it isn't science. If it's science, it isn't consensus. Period....

Finally, I would remind you to notice where the claim of consensus is invoked. Consensus is invoked only in situations where the science is not solid enough. Nobody says the consensus of scientists agrees that E=mc². Nobody says the consensus is that the sun is 93 million miles away. It would never occur to anyone to speak that way.

Thank you! That's exactly my point. The majority of scientists usually get it wrong just like the majority of people usually get it wrong -- because most people, including most scientists, are intellectually dishonest, self-deceiving jackasses. If you want to know whether to trust a "scientist," you don't look at his degrees or at his grant money or at his influence in the media or at his political connections at the United Nations. You look at his methodology. Does he prove his point, or just he does market his product?

That's not the only point Crichton makes in his generally excellent speech. Read it all.

Again, I just have to re-emphasize the point from Crichton's speech that I already quoted: consensus is politics. Science is reproducible results. (I used to enjoy a hilarious journal in which scientists who wanted to be silly and have a little fun used to publish parody scientific papers. Its name? The Journal of Irreproducible Results, at which you may find, among other things, this 1974 parody of Armageddon Pseuodscience, in which, if you take out all references to National Geographic and replace them with "global climate change," you get something that is instantly familiar: Al Gore wouldn't realize it was supposed to be a joke.)

Pseudoscientists build consensus because they can't produce reproducible results. And if you let pseudoscientists drive your public policy...well, then, not to be callous and all, but frankly you deserve what you get.

HT: Ace

I love Texas

I mean, I seriously do. And here's one perfect example of why: the remarkably unusual sanity and good sense of Texas justice.

Darrell Roberson came home late one night to see a pickup truck outside his house. To his astonishment, he realized that his wife was in the truck with hardly any clothes on, along with a man who seemed to be grappling with her. She saw her husband and screamed to him that she was being raped, and the man then fired up his pickup truck and started to pull away. But Roberson carries a handgun, and he was not going to let a rapist kidnap and probably eventually murder his wife. So he fired three quick shots at the fleeing truck, and, being a Texan and therefore a good shot, hit the rapist in the head and killed him, probably saving his wife's life.

Except it turned out that his wife wasn't being raped. She was having an affair, and had snuck out of the house leaving her 7-year-old daughter inside in order to do the nasty in the cab of her lover's pickup truck.

So the police arrested Roberson on murder charges, and he posted $100,000 bail and then moved out of his soon-to-be-ex-wife's house. And the grand jury met a couple of days ago, and indicted...

...the wife. For manslaughter. The husband? Free to go, because there wasn't a single thing he'd done that you wouldn't want a husband to do if his wife were really being kidnapped by a rapist.

By God, in Texas sometimes you actually see justice done.

Why Can't My Wife Get Dressed This Quickly? Dept

But then again, every upside has its downside...at least my wife doesn't have this much trouble deciding what to wear.