Jussie Smollett v. That Asshole Schizo Who Raped Me: Part I
Governments can always find funding when they really want to.
In which I abuse parentheticals and don’t give a damn. You can tell how mad I am by the number of tangents.
The Jussie Smollett story keeps changing, as does my reaction to it. The Chicago Police Department went from having egg on its face to being incredibly proud of itself just as quickly as two-bit, rich-kid actor Smollett—who tried to get big by (under)paying a couple “friends” to beat him up (who makes their friends split $3500 for this kind of hijink?!)—went from heroic, strong victim and poster boy to national scapegoat and an extreme example of how not to protest anything.
According to the CPD (and to a few journalists I trust, which gives me pause in my angry sarcasm), the department knew he was lying like a rug all along. The new story is: they dedicated a dozen or two officers to the case in order to catch him for filing a false police report rather than to service him as a special celebrity victim.
The original question I asked of this story was: Why does Smollett’s obviously bullshit case get the full force of the force behind it, while actual victims of actual crimes have to accept the fact that their attackers are going to go on living next door for the foreseeable future because the CPD can’t afford to prosecute the case within a reasonable amount of time? The obvious answer was he’s a celebrity and we aren’t, so fuck you, peons, go grumble on your blog.
But now they’re proudly claiming they set him up, which is supposed to impress the underserved peons of Chicago how, exactly? This just gives me a new question to ask: why did they deliberately put that much money into a case they knew was phony just to throw the book at this asshole? It’s almost as bad. Smollett is a dickhead and I’d personally like a few minutes in the wrestling ring with him (you thought we’d believe you held your own against bodybuilders?
Now we’ll see how you fare against an angry girl!), but he isn’t a violent criminal. He gives the gay activist community and the black activist community a bad name, sure. I hate to tell you this, though: there have already been so many fake hate crimes that nobody believes them anyway. I feel their pain; there have been so many fake rape hoaxes that nobody believes me either. I actually was raped, but I’ve been gaslighted so many times caught my brain wondering whether what it experienced had happened. So if I were a black Chicago cop who had seen black people suffer in ways that Smollett is faking, I’d be tempted to use all the money I could get my hands on to throw the book at him. But then I would remember: this is a symbolic case. And there are real people out there suffering.
Damn, Ann, why are you taking this so personally? WELL, FOR ME IT’S FUCKING PERSONAL!I’m an actual victim of an actual violent crime in Chicago, dickhead. Further, the Chicago Police Department’s FAILURE (emphasis on FAILURE; you guys failed, failed, and then failed some more) to do anything about my rapist—even though I showed them exactly where he probably was the night it happened; even though he lived next door and posed a continuing threat to me—had immediate and devastating consequences on my life.
Much of this was due to the fact that I’m not rich enough to just suddenly up and move in comfort; I guess I should have known in advance that I was going to get raped at some point, and that the CPD would ignore the problem, as they ignore so many other violent crimes. If I were smart I would have become a cheesy actor rather than a writer and editor, I guess. But even if I wanted to be a fucking parrot for a living, getting paying gigs as an actor isn’t so easy when one lacks jet-setting parents who shove one and one’s siblings in front of the camera from birth (even according to a 2016 puff piece in the NYT, old Jussie has always relied on nepotism: “Opportunity still comes communally. Jussie heard about “Empire” through family — Jazz sent him the casting notice”.
Flip to my life: Having a schizo next door who has already raped you and might well kill you can cause you more problems than a girlfriend with two uteruses and quadruple PMS.
If I were an actor making 65 grand a week, when the cops failed to even talk to the rapist next door about his behavior, I could have picked up and moved somewhere nice the next week—no problem. But when you freelance and have pets, finding a new place to live ain’t so easy. Especially when you’re in shock from spending an entire rape wondering exactly how the guy is going to kill you to shut you up when he gets done with his jollies. (Hint to rapists: If you want her nice and relaxed, don’t discuss whether or not you’re going to kill her right from the outset. He actually said “I’m not going to kill you—I’m just going to fuck you and leave,” which was probably meant to soften me up, but boy, that really got me thinking about being murdered. Which probably made it way less fun for him. The best-laid plans of mice and men…
"I could tell he was full of shit, but I'm afraid of the other kids getting mad at me!" Does money permanently suspend your brain in junior high? Thank god I don't have any, I guess. (Actually, I suspect she was on autopilot and didn't have a clue.) #JussieSmollet#RobinRobertshttps://t.co/uo3YqOrrpe
Phony or not, Smollett’s case got a huge chunk of the budget compared to actual violence cases in Chicago. My case is a clear-cut stranger rape; I immediately called the cops and gave DNA evidence but I don’t even get a whole detective to myself—even though my real attack was worse than the weak shit Smollett invented. (I think it was Tim Pool who said this is why we don’t let actors write scripts, though he may have been quoting someone else. Pool is always wise for a flannel-wearing millennial.) Why didn’t the rape angle occur to him? Kinda blows my mind that he didn’t throw in a homophobic/repressed anal violation while he was tossing in a noose and the kitchen sink. He wouldn’t have had to add anything to the pathetic scratches he had on his face after he paid guys to sort of beat him up.
Forget phonies for just a minute though and let me explain the other side of the coin, what does (and in my case did happen in the case of honest to god violent crime. I've no idea whether it was a hate crime, although from the last time the guy did something stupid in my building, it did sound like he hated his girlfriend/mommy figure a lot.
My stupid hippie-waif neighbor was into keeping schizophrenic homeless guys as pets, you see, possibly for class credit at a local college (note: the latter is pure comic speculation); this guy (or a similar smelly schizo; another resident said she had multiple pet/boyfriends) had recently been dragged out of her place screaming “racist white bitch!” by the police (he was black, she was a white hippie). I don’t know if he meant the bigotry of low expectations or what. Maybe she should have charged him rent instead of treating him like a big, weird, under-medicated toy doll. He had some issues. But christ, so did she. After the first incident, she stood on her fire escape screaming with laughter into her phone, regaling an apparent friend with every detail. We all knew her business.
Also, when he raped me it was thundering and pouring rain, but he was perfectly dry and barefoot; further, my building and the building next door share a locked interior courtyard, so between those facts I quickly deduced that he had to have come from one of those two buildings, and he had to be the pet schizo, because who else would smell like that? There were black men who legit lived in the building, but they didn’t look like they smelled like somebody who has to resort to rape. In other words, I came up with more ideas about the Mystery of Why Ann Has to Take All These AIDS Drugs Now immediately after being unpleasantly pummeled from behind than the entire CPD has come up with at their leisure. (This doesn’t make me Sherlock Holmes; it makes them fucking useless.)
I begged them to arrest the guy, who was probably filing his toenails right behind the indicated door; the black cop—who was so embarrassed to ask me the race of the perpetrator that I started feeling embarrassed too, through the shock: “Er…” I said reluctantly, tasting his discomfort and resignation wafting on the sperm-filled breeze from my bedroom: “he was uh, apparently of African American descent, from what I could see of his feet. He wouldn’t let me get a good look at his face. Did I mention he was barefoot and dry in a thunderstorm? And probably lives right over there? You guys going to write that down?”—was sympathetic and might have wanted to investigate, or at least pretended he did, but the glassy-eyed Irish cop (I’m not going to actually SAY he was drunk, but god knows what else they had seen this day, and there was nobody home in those eyes) grunted impatiently at me and wrote down the least important thing in the case: “perpetrator was African-American” before loading me into an ambulance (with no further mention of the perp or any plan to apprehend him.)
Yeah, that’s going to narrow it down later, asshole, in a city with a million black guys in it, you fucking goldbricker: “It’s some black guy.” Real helpful, when you could just use the pertinent info to arrest the dry, smelly, shorts-clad, barefoot, sated guy next door, you fuckers, whose face, or at least the jowl part, I did get a tiny glimpse of despite his efforts to stay behind me—a glimpse that is going to fade into memory in the next year and make that weird skinny-person jowl I think I saw harder to pick out of a lineup, you jagbags, weakening my case—but that’s a whole discussion about memory, and you’ve had it or you haven’t, you grasp it or you don’t, or maybe you forgot—you fame whores who are only there to serve the rich and famous, even if they’re lying out their asses for attention. Dicks. (This public complaint is probably not going to help me get more help, but what is? WHAT IS?!!?!?! GIVE ME AN OPTION BESIDES GETTING FUCKED LITERALLY AND FIGURATIVELY, YOU WHORESON DONUT FUCKERS.) Also: please don’t arrest the YouTuber named Some Black Guy; he doesn’t look like he smells that homeless gotta-rape way, either. I mean, that is a smell you can see. And it fucked me.
A week or so after the fact, I got to see a lady rape detective. She was sympathetic, but her sympathy only allowed her to tell me that I shouldn’t get my hopes up. Chicago’s police department can’t afford their own forensics lab; although some confusion in my case has been spread by bad actors due to the fact that the lab is located in Chicago, they do not prioritize cases that occur in Chicago. I have to wait behind every accusation, true and false, from Carbondale to McHenry. (My apologies if you’re too stupid or dishonest to parse that.) Sure, if they had done their job last night, or if they could spend the $whatever to do the DNA test immediately, it would be easy to arrest him. Shit, they probably still could have gone next door; my landlady’s henchman claimed he spotted the guy a few days later, slouching round the hood.
But resources are extremely limited in Chicago—when aren’t they? Oh yeah—when somebody’s cousin needs a contract, or you want to spend more time with the famous “victim,” hoping some of the fame and will rub off on you—why do people think meeting a famous person is an accomplishment?!—so I had to wait behind every other rape case in the state, behind the giant bottleneck of actual victims—those willing to pony up hard evidence rather than carrying mattresses around as an artistic statement—metaphorically clutching their little DNA samples as they kowtow to the state-owned lab, praying to be granted justice, or at least to get that monster under observation and away from them.
It only costs $99 to take a cheesy DNA test from a for-profit company, but the $30 it would probably cost without the profit and advertising margin was too much for the State of Illinois or the City of Chicago to spend on stopping this lunatic from striking again. (Yeah, yeah, not all schizos rape people. I know. I have known schizos who were merely annoying and self-absorbed; hell, when I finally got to the hospital later in this tale—after contracting typhus at the end of the series of events the rape set in motion—I was psychotic with fever, sleep deprivation, and starvation myself. But this was after a couple months’ struggle with rashes, fevers, and a complete digestive system shutdown. Having carefully struggled with my own potential madness over the course of a lifetime, I tend to think those who give in to utter detachment from reality are kind of dicks, like the people who punch out of work at 4:58 and leave all the closing tasks to me. And I don’t think I sexually assaulted anyone, although I may have helped them get off the opiates the mental hospital was feeding them when I caused a disturbance in that awful institution. Sorry, mental hospital! I’m sure you’ll find other lucrative prisoners!)
Now this horror story befitting a Stephen King bestseller hasn’t even been fully unfurled yet, though. In the words of legendary TV shill Billy Mays, “But wait! There’s more...” So much more, in fact, that as soon as that well-heeled heel has his day in court in a little over a week (after jet-setting out to New York and California with “special permission” granted by his, apparently somewhat sympathetic judge, of course) the second half of this exercise in righteous indignation should appear. And by the way, sympathetic judges and legions of suspicious bearclaw addicts in blue aren’t my gripe. Or, rather, they are in a way, but not in the way you might think.
Chicago doesn't need to spend more police funds nailing the national booby to the wall. He has already fucked himself where he cares—in the court of public opinion. He is a universal laughingstock and scapegoat—the kind of laughingstock and scapegoat he tried to make of Trump supporters. Most young actors dream of being on SNL as an honored guest—but he's on SNL as the asshole of the skit. Worst of all, his target demographics are ashamed of him. His seat at the cool kids' table is a smoking stump. Can you imagine the level of hell that is? He's either going to have to rebuild his delusions of grandeur into something even more ridiculous than what was rattling around in his skull when he came up with this stupid plan, or jump off a bridge. Whether he goes crazier or blows his head off, his punishment has always been being himself—but now it's public. It could not be more fitting. And he's a lost cause. So how about you send some of those detectives to the west side (or my goddamn building) to pick up some lives they might actually save?
For now, I just want to make it clear that instead of spending MORE money to prosecute him when he's already ruined himself, how about we concentrate on violent criminals? On the other hand, he may be more important as a villain than I'm anticipating right now... this could blow the lid off the entire White American Bogeyman myth.