He's just an Excitable Boy (was: Another yoonique autard)

no words....

http://www.salon.com/2009/03/26/bauer_autism/

On Feb. 14 I awaken to this headline: “Professor Beaten to Death by Autistic Son.”

I scan the story while standing, my coffee forgotten. Trudy Steuernagel, a faculty member in political science at Kent State, has been murdered and her 18-year-old son, Sky, has been arrested and charged with the crime, though he is profoundly disabled and can neither speak nor understand. Sky, who likes cartoons and chicken nuggets, apparently lost control and beat his mother into a coma. He was sitting in jail when she died.

This happens to be two days after my older son’s 21st birthday, which we marked behind two sets of locked steel doors. I’m exhausted and hopeless and vaguely hung over because Andrew, who has autism, also has evolved from sweet, dreamy boy to something like a golem: bitter, rampaging, full of rage. It happened no matter how fiercely I loved him or how many therapies I employed.

Now, reading about this Ohio mother, there is a moment of slithering nausea and panic followed immediately by a sense of guilty relief.

I am not alone.

- – - – - – - – - – - -

Andrew started life as a mostly typical child. But at 3 and a half he became remote and perseverative, sitting in a corner and staring at his own splayed hand. Eventually he was diagnosed with high-functioning autism, a label that seemed to explain everything from his calendar memory and social isolation to his normal IQ.

We got him into a good program and there was a brief, halcyon phase of near normalcy — a time I long for still so ardently that I feel hungry for it at a cellular level — from ages 12 to 17. Andrew aced algebra, became fluent in Spanish, played the cello in the school orchestra, and competed on weekends in tournament chess. I occasionally even referred to him as “cured.”

But in the months before turning 18, Andrew grew depressed and bitter. Huge and hairy — a young man who grows a beard by twilight — he suddenly became as withdrawn as he’d been at 4. Many of his old symptoms returned: the rocking and “stimming” (e.g., blinking rapidly at lights), the compulsion to empty bottles of liquid soap. Sometimes he would freeze, like a statue. Classic catatonia, the experts told us. We tried a series of medications, but that only made him worse.

Once during this phase, he beat me. A neighbor heard me screaming and called 911. But I blamed this on the drugs. Despite everything, my son had always been gentle and sweet. This was no twisted adolescent squirrel killer who kept a pile of carcasses under his bed.

On the day he should have graduated from high school, Andrew was instead being treated in a psychiatric ward at the Mayo Clinic. But he seemed to improve, and we were hopeful. Upon release, he was placed in a series of behavioral health centers and group homes. This is where his real education began.

He’d quit progressing in school, but now my son soaked up new information like a toddler learning to talk. Every placement in a succeedingly tougher environment gave him new skills. He shoplifted like a pro, traded his belongings for sexual favors, and dined and dashed so often some local restaurants had his picture posted in their kitchen under the words, “Don’t serve this man.” I told myself at least he was thinking, making his own bad choices, experiencing adult consequences. A part of me was even proud.

But he’d also quit reading, conversing, learning people’s names, or keeping track of the day of the week. He ate like some gnashing beast: stuffing food into his mouth until his cheeks bulged and food dribbled out onto his clothes. And after moving to the rural group home selected by a judge because it was miles from restaurants or businesses where he could steal, Andrew morphed again, the warty monster from a Grimm fairy tale, demolishing everything in his path.

His destruction was utterly senseless yet brilliantly thorough: He submerged his computer, stereo and iPod in water; threw puzzle pieces and Styrofoam cups into the toilet and flushed them, plugging the pipes literally dozens of times a week; and urinated on every square inch of his room: bed, walls, floor, closet, everything but the ceiling and that only because he had not (yet, I suspect) figured out how.

When I asked him why he did these things he would say, eyes narrow like a night creature, “I don’t like being caged.”

- – - – - – - – - – - -

Then came Sept. 2, last fall. This was to be Andrew’s first day of his final year in public school. He hated school — a so-called transition program — because it was demeaning. Lessons about how to cross streets and take buses and punch time clocks. My son had completed pre-calculus; now he was being taught how to make correct change.

But there was nowhere else for him. He’d failed to hold the two jobs my husband and I had found for him; the private job coach we hired said Andrew was the most challenging client he’d ever worked with — right before he quit. We were financially tapped out and the state would not pay for vocational training until Andrew turned 21. Transition school was the only choice.

I’d explained all this. But when I showed up at the group home that morning, he was drinking coffee and pacing and still not dressed. I went into his room, took some clothes from the closet, handed them to him. And hinting at what he was about to do only with a small sigh, as if to say, “I’ve had enough,” my son picked me up and threw me across the room.

I had three broken ribs and a bit of damage to my liver that made my doctor fret. Still, who among us hasn’t wanted to toss our mother across the room when she’s nattering on and making cheerful sounds in the morning? I dismissed it as an aberration until a couple weeks later when Andrew decked his elderly tutor, knocking her onto a concrete sidewalk and breaking her hand. He went on to attack several staff members at the group home, grope the mentally handicapped young women who attended his transition program, and finally to accost his 14-year-old sister right in front of my eyes.

It was Christmas Day. I watched him enter the room and fix his gaze on my daughter. Then he rushed her, and I screamed. My husband — two inches shorter and 50 pounds lighter — somehow intercepted Andrew and knocked him to the ground. After he had been escorted from our family dinner in restraints, we sat at a table heaped with food growing cold, where my elderly parents wept and my daughter shook silently. I comforted them all and after that was done — the meal reheated and people eating — I drank every drop of alcohol in sight, even draining the half-full wine glass my mother always left. The next morning, through a headache of steel knives and bad music, I got on the phone.

I called the man who was supposed to be my son’s psychiatrist to ask for an emergency appointment. Andrew was becoming dangerous, I told the nurse, and he was going to hurt someone. But the doctor was too busy; he was on vacation. There might be an opening in late January. No one else was available, no matter how many numbers I dialed.

Secretly, as if committing a sacrilege, I searched online using keywords such as “autism” and “violence” and “murder.” What I found was confusing. There were roughly a dozen recent articles about heinous acts committed by people with autism and Asperger’s syndrome, but each was followed by editorials and letters written by autism advocates vigorously denying a link. There were a few studies from the ’80s and ’90s, but the results — when they showed a higher rate of violent crime among people with autism — appeared to have been quieted or dismissed.

On the other hand there were, literally, thousands of heartwarming stories about autism. A couple of the most widely read were written by me. For years I had been telling my son’s story, insisting that autism is beautiful, mysterious, perhaps even evolutionarily necessary. Denying that it can also be a wild, ravaging madness, a disease of the mind and soul. It was my trademark as an essayist, but also my profound belief.

Now, despite the constant calling and late-night research, I could not accept what was happening. I could not write about it; I could not speak of it. Not even my closest friends knew what was happening inside my life.

- – - – - – - – - – - -

My husband and I were on our way to an inauguration party the night Andrew finally came apart.

It was January, a week of cold so wicked I was dressed in long underwear and wool sweaters, scarves, a parka, and two sets of gloves. It took me a long time to scramble through all the layers when my cellphone rang. But missing the call was not an option. I’d already had four panicked messages from the group home that day: Andrew’s violence was escalating. They were mandated by state law to stay inside because of the weather, and he was going stir crazy, terrorizing the house. No one knew what to do.

“Yes?” I answered.

“I’m so sorry,” is how the voice on the other end began.

It was Andrew’s counselor, calling to describe the situation. My son was in an ambulance circling the Twin Cities, sedated and strapped down to a bed. He’d been in there for a couple of hours and the medics just kept driving; they couldn’t stop because all the psych wards were full.

“Yes,” I croaked again. Other than this one low word, I’d been struck mute.

They’d had no choice but to call the police, the counselor said. After dinner — which was served in the group home at 5 o’clock, leaving long hours to kill before bed — Andrew made a pass at a young female staff member. Petite, blond, around his age. The girl rebuffed him, reminding him probably for the 8,000th time that day about the “no touching” rule. And then he went off.

My son reportedly leapt on her — his 260-pound body surprisingly nimble — one hand around her throat, choking her, and the other in her mouth, pressing down, cutting off her air two different ways. It took four men to pull him off and by this time the girl had passed out.

“Is she all right?” I asked. And this mattered for so many reasons: There was the basic human one, then the legal, also the fact that my own fate hung on the answer. While lying awake earlier that week, I’d made the decision that if my own child were to kill someone I, too, would have to die.

“She’s bruised,” he said, “and scared.”

That’s when I breathed. Nothing irreversibly evil had yet been done.

My husband wanted to turn around. But I was afraid that in the quiet of our home I might sit and think about my perfect, rosy-cheeked baby and actually go insane. So instead we went to the party and, as on Christmas, I drank as if it were a task I need to accomplish. Steadily, with steel. While my husband watched over me with his worried face, I hugged people and talked and tried to participate in a game the host had devised: Obama trivia. What movie did he take Michelle to see on their first date? Which brand of computer does he use? How big are his feet?

I failed to answer a single question and wondered why everyone around me seemed to know these things. Where had I been? Through my shimmering stupor, I surveyed the crowd of happy, shining faces. People were wearing buttons, T-shirts, even necklaces that spelled out “hope.” This struck me as sinister and somewhat rude. Hope was bullshit. Hope was exactly what had been lost.

In the car on the way home, I asked my husband if I had fooled everyone at the party. Was I speaking normally? Did I at any point shout or cry or whimper? He assured me I had not. But for the few moments at the end when I’d looked as if I might collapse, I’d been pale but appropriate.

“I’m sure I’m the only one who knew,” he said, shifting so the seat made its cold, leather groan and taking my hand.

I thanked him and leaned back, thinking dumbly that, of course, there was one thing he didn’t know: I’d been secretly stockpiling the sleeping pills my doctor prescribes like Pez. I had about 80 saved up, which would probably be enough. The ambulance was still out there, driving through the dark night on frosted roads, holding my son inside. For now I could live. But the following morning I recounted my supply, just in case.

- – - – - – - – - – - -

Back when Andrew was in junior high school, my mother had a friend whose adult son had only recently been diagnosed with autism. He’d been dysfunctional since childhood, failing at school, unable to make a friend or keep a decent job. At 35 he was still living at home, collecting carts at the local grocery store, and taking anticonvulsants (Tegretol was the unofficial treatment of that era for outbursts) to control the violent urges he’d been having for 15 years.

“You think he’s better now,” my mother’s friend once said as we watched a young, laughing Andrew out the window, playing tag with his brother and sister in my parents’ backyard. “But wait ’til he’s older. Then you’ll understand. “

I hated her and was furious that she wished for our downfall — also that her dumb, psychopathic son had been given the same label as my beloved child. Autism had become oddly fashionable; my mother’s friend was wealthy. Clearly she’d gone “diagnosis shopping.” My son, I vowed, would be nothing like hers.

When Andrew finally landed at the county hospital, after 10 hours in the circling ambulance and another three in the E.R., I was still looking for a different answer. This wasn’t autism. Surely he had a brain tumor, a seizure disorder, or a delusional condition such as schizophrenia. Maybe, on one of his crime sprees, he’d gotten ahold of some PCP.

But the psychiatrist assigned to my son said no. The MRI was clean; the EEG normal. The doctor’s specialty happened to be schizophrenia, and he saw none of the signs. Street drugs would have left Andrew’s body by now. This was isolation, frustration, hormonal surges, poor impulse control and hopelessness. It was adult autism, the psychiatrist told me: one awful direction it can take.

Monday, I went to see my son. He was in a bare white cell behind a steel door with a window, like Hannibal Lecter. The only thing missing was the mask. Two male nurses and Max, my 18-year-old linebacker son, walked with me into the room. Andrew was beached on a bed, his glasses the only thing on the shelf alongside. I touched his shoulder and woke him, taking his hands after he’d lifted himself to sit. “I’m here, sweetheart,” I told him. “I want to help.”

He looked at me with bug-eyed wonder and squeezed my hands, hard, “I might kill you,” he said. That’s when Max pushed his way between us and ordered me from the room. Sobbing, he wrestled his brother to the bed and held him there.

I spent Tuesday at a friend’s house, as planned, in front of the TV, watching the Obamas walk and wave. Once, when someone asked why I was so quiet, I mentioned that one of my children was in the hospital, quite ill. She touched me and said something kind. I knew she was thinking of something like leukemia and I wanted to tell her I would hack off my right arm in return for something as simple as cancer. The flickering beauty of a sad, pure, too-early death sounds lovely. Instead I nodded, silent and dumb.

The one thing I held onto, through all of this, was the sudden appearance of this county psychiatrist: a small, bespectacled, Dustin Hoffman-ish fellow who’d spent years on a kibbutz before going to medical school in middle age. I found him magnetic, I trusted him. He became my talisman, my Obama, the only reason to hope. It wasn’t that he had any magic solutions — I’ve learned by now that no one does — but he was openly upset, diagnosing Andrew simply as “someone in pain.”

We sat in the doctor’s lounge and he gave me a slice of banana bread to eat while he kneaded his forehead and read his notes. When he asked me what I wanted him to do, I told him: Whatever it takes to make my son stop. The threat of harm to my son’s body was superseded by black stains on his soul. The doctor agreed, but he had made a list in ascending order of risk: Ativan, high-dose Prozac, Depakote, electroshock, Clozaril, Riluzole. A drug called Lupron.

I reached for my single semester of Latin. “Lupron? You want to take the werewolf out of him?”

“Exactly,” said the Israeli. “But it’s our last resort.”

There were days spent in court, one swimming into the next, like a series of nightmares. Because my son was vulnerable, nothing could be done without a judge’s order. Exhausted after this process, my husband and I went to Chicago and spent three days walking in icy sunlight, eating in no-name diners, going to sleep at 9 p.m. By the time we returned, Andrew had been given buckets full of dangerous, doping drugs and two sessions of ECT.

When we arrived at the hospital, he shuffled sleepily out of his now-unlocked room. We gave him money to order pizza (it turns out Domino’s delivers to the psych ward), a sketchbook and pastels, two books. He could have nothing sharp, no cords. This ruled out a CD player, laptop, or ballpoint pen.

I asked tentatively if he remembered what he had done and suddenly he began to cry, tears running down his giant, furry face, jeweling his beard.

“Beware,” he said through ragged breaths. “I’m bad now, I can feel it. I can’t help the things I do.”

- – - – - – - – - – - -

Whether there is a definitive link between autism and violence — between Trudy Steuernagel’s situation and mine — I cannot say.

And even if it exists, the cause is not clear. Our adult son’s behavior could be the outcome of living daily in a world where everything hurts and nothing makes sense. It could be the result (as some scientists have postulated) of excess testosterone on the autistic brain. It could simply be wild coincidence that I ran across this particular story during a time when I was looking for answers. Any of these is possible. I just don’t know.

The chairman of Trudy Steuernagel’s department rose at her memorial service to proclaim, “Autism doesn’t equal violence.” And this probably is mathematically correct: Autism does not always equal violence. But I do believe there may be a tragic, blameless relationship. Neither Sky nor Andrew means to be murderous — of this I am sure — but their circumstances, neurology, size and age combine to create the perfect storm.

It is warmer, finally. Outside my window ice is melting off skeletal trees. I sit in the pale morning light, drinking tepid coffee and reading about this woman whom I suspect I would have liked. A fellow academic and writer, Steuernagel, too, insisted on finding beauty in autism. Her legacy includes an editorial about Sky’s loving nature and relevance, how he led her through life along “a trail of sparkles.”

Mine, I decide, must be in part to break the silence about autism’s darker side. We cannot solve this problem by hiding it, the way handicapped children themselves used to be tucked away in cellars. In order to help the young men who endure this rage, someone has to be willing to tell the truth.

So here it is.

This guy seems too intelligent for a tard, this screams SOCIOPATH to me!

This shouldn't be allowed. A tard shouldn't be allowed to be in a family, alongside normal children. One should have to go. Either the tard should go or other children should be taken away. Seriously. Euthanasia would be a mercy in this case.

The institutions need to make a come-back. Granted, there are many tards who can be taught to function in a normal society. BUT there are also many who can not.
The moo needs to let go of the perfect rosy-cheeked baby dreams and smell the Lupron.

Even if the medication works on him, somebody still has to be on his ass FOR THE REST OF HIS LIFE, to make sure that he's taking the said medication.

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" ... what's one more once you've already got two shedding on the couch?"

I don't know, genuinely autistic people often excel in certain areas of book-smarts like math or English or art. They also may lack common sense and sometimes are violent. Then again, if he was so high-functioning, how's he have the ability to know how to shoplift and go to a restaurant order food? I honestly would have put my money on schizophrenia before autism, but that was apparently ruled out.

The bottom line is this guy is irreparably fucked in the head and needs to be locked up for the rest of his life. WTF did Moo mean she was glad he hadn't done anything evil yet (at one point in the story)? BY the time she had said that, her grown-ass tard had thrown her across the room and broken her ribs, and punched an elderly woman hard enough to knock her down and break her hand. And then he tried to choke a staff member in the group home by grabbing her throat and mouth - that's something I don't think an awwtard would do. This guy seems to know how to kill someone and I think had he not been stopped that night, that poor woman would have had her throat crushed by this big, retarded piece of shit.

If it's possible to be a mix of sociopathic and autistic, I think that's what this guy might be - he's got the "I will take what I want when I want it" attitude of a sociopath, but has the social graces and violent outbursts of an awwtard.

Moo has to stop trying to fix this idiot because he is far beyond what any meds can do for him. If she's not willing to put a bullet between his eyes, she needs to stick him in a nut house somewhere. He'll never go to jail because he'll be able to plead insanity, and a group home is not equipped for insanity of the degree this guy possesses. He needs a full-blown steel-reinforced cell because it's only a very short time before he WILL kill someone - a woman who turns down his advances, a waitperson who refuses to serve him, a store manager that catches him shoplifting, or just because he doesn't like the person at that moment.

As an aside, why the fuck is it so many crazy and retarded people are fucking huge? As if them being violent isn't bad enough, they're built like fucking tanks to boot, so it takes a dozen people to pull them off whoever they decide to victimize. And you can't punch them because they won't feel it and then they'll grind you into hamburger.

This Ann Bauer person penned a half-dozen articles for Salon over the years, most of them focusing on her violent, rapey autard teenager and how he was destroying her family's life. It was compelling reading, but she hasn't posted since May last year. I wonder if the monster finally killed her?

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"[GFG's pregnancy is] kind of like at the stables where that one dumb, ugly-ass mare broke out of her corral one day and got herself screwed by the equally fugly colt that was due to be gelded the same afternoon."- Shiny

What is to be done with these people? Nothing but drugs and a life behind bars, I guess. How sad. Sad also that the parents and the doctors were in denial for so long. I have two relatives who are autistic. One is severe, and the other is "on the spectrum." I shudder to think what the future holds for their mothers, my first cousins.

I never read any of the stuff she wrote for Salon until I opened that link just now

I wouldn't be surprised if he killed her and wore her face as a beret.

This line says it all: Sky, who likes cartoons and chicken nuggets, apparently lost control and beat his mother into a coma.

Reason ten billion...why I never did, nor ever will sluice a loaf...fear of sluicing a tard, said tarded loaf growing up, growing angry, and beating me into a coma...eventually killing me.

I guess they slipped the cartoons and chicken nuggets in for what...? To compare him to an impish, mischievous child?

Those two concepts: Cartoons and Chicken nuggets / beat his moo into a coma....they just shouldn't go together in one sentence.

Like a beloved family pet who has contracted Rabies somehow and there's no hope for treatment or recovery, rabid, violent, and dangerous Awtards need to be euthanized before they can harm themselves, their family, or "the village". At the very least they need to be institutionalized until such time there is a cure or reliable treatment. Many people break ties with hopeless crack addicts who were once sweet, kind, gentle, and loving family members, but are now unpredictable, violent, and abusive. Other than the cause, this is NO different as far as the resulting behavior. It's bad enough they are violent towards their own families, but what if one of them gets loose and goes on a random rampage of violence?

It would NOT be comforting to me at ALL to hear about how "sweet" he used to be if one of MY loved ones was lifeless on a medical examiner's table because of a violent tard, or any other violent criminal who could have been stopped prior to it.

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If YOU are the "exception" to what I am saying, then why does my commentary bother you so much?
I don't hate your kids, I HATE YOU!

On Christmas, he attacked his sister. A few weeks later, he attacked a young ,small female aid at the hospital. That should've been enough evidence for the mother - but she was still in denial. "Nothing evil yet." Huh? How "evil" does it have to get? Basically, he would have to kill someone before she would accept the fact that he was violent. It took his threatening her, personally, before she finally took any real action. And that whole bit about killing herself if he died - what a selfish thing to do, when she has two other normal kids and a husband!

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"I have learned that pleasing everyone is impossible, but pissing everyone off is easy and fun as hell"

:eatu

He needs to be put down before he ends up finally killing someone.
Can you imagine how the victim's family would feel? Knowing their loved one's death could have been prevented if this tard (who time and time again proved he was a crazy violent animal) was never effectively punished??
We see ask this question all the time when repeat offenders rape or kill, so why is this retarded snowflake any
different?

I agree with ladybudy and strongly suspect he is just a sociopath.

Don't get me started on the moo. She KNOWS that he is evil but she turns a BLIND eye to the severity of his actions.

I hope that fate bitch slaps her and her tard does get cancer. I hope she gets it too. Two less idiots.

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hazel
He needs to be put down before he ends up finally killing someone.
Can you imagine how the victim's family would feel? Knowing their loved one's death could have been prevented if this tard (who time and time again proved he was a crazy violent animal) was never effectively punished??
We see ask this question all the time when repeat offenders rape or kill, so why is this retarded snowflake any
different?

I agree with ladybudy and strongly suspect he is just a sociopath.

Don't get me started on the moo. She KNOWS that he is evil but she turns a BLIND eye to the severity of his actions.

I hope that fate bitch slaps her and her tard does get cancer. I hope she gets it too. Two less idiots.

I am hoping that he turns on his precious mommy and ALMOST kills her. I bet her definition of what is evil changes rapidly.

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From a bottle cap message on a Magic Hat #9 beer: Condoms Prevent Minivans
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I want to pick up a bus full of unruly kids and feed them gummi bears and crack, then turn them loose in Hobby Lobby to ransack the place. They will all be wearing T shirts that say "You Could Have Prevented This."

Yes, what if her son actually kills someone? This thought really doesn't seem to enter her mind. She sort of skirts around it and mentions examples of when he "almost" killed someone, but doesn't ask the question of what happens if he actually succeeds. I think this bitch is the definition of selfish. She stated that when tard attacked the HCW for rebuffing his advances, she only thought of how irt would affect HER! I hope the bitch got sued.

fucking duh and mootards
they have an opportunity to have him locked up away, but all the little moooooooooooo comes out. these shitheads will sacrifice other children...
I do think there is an aspect where these shits can't control themselves: does not mean they should be sprung out by gaga head moos

two cents ¢¢

CERTIFIED HOSEHEAD!!!

people (especially women) do not give ONE DAMN about what they inflict on children and I defy anyone to prove me wrong

Dysfunctional relationships almost always have a child. The more dysfunctional, the more children.

The selfish wants of adults outweigh the needs of the child.

Some mistakes cannot be fixed, but some mistakes can be 'fixed'.

People who say they sleep like a baby usually don't have one. Leo J. Burke

Adoption agencies have strict criteria (usually). Breeders, whose combined IQ's would barely hit triple digits, have none.

Society needs to STOP with the "autism" label and see these things for what they are - violent CRIMINALS or at best CRIMINALLY INSANE RETARDS. These people need to be locked up, permanently - there is not, nor will there ever be ANY hope of rehabilitating them or otherwise making them useful.

Furthermore, to knowingly house one of these criminal retards among normal people (children and adults) should be a criminal offense that is punishable as such. It simply blows my mind that parents willingly jeopardize the safety and lives of their normal family for the benefit of a criminally insane retard who obviously lacks the capacity to appreciate it, much less use such favorable treatment to improve.

Lock up the retards and throw away the keys, IMHO.

From the comment section:

_______________________

PoeticLicense
Thursday, March 26, 2009 at 5:0042 am

...My daughter has bipolar disorder plus borderline personality disorder. The ways in which she hurts herself are physical. The ways in which she hurts us, her family, are monetary and psychological. ...All of our money and all of our efforts with doctors, hospitals, and psychopharmacology did absolutely nothing for her. We can't even let her stay in our house because she starts stealing everything that isn't nailed down, seeming unable to help herself.

No one ever told us parenthood could be like this, or I might not have decided to be a mother. And yet, I love my daughter.....Would I wish all this on my daughter again? On my family? No. And that makes me feel like a terrible mom to think that way.
_________________________

Ha-haaaa, sucks to be moo!

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"[GFG's pregnancy is] kind of like at the stables where that one dumb, ugly-ass mare broke out of her corral one day and got herself screwed by the equally fugly colt that was due to be gelded the same afternoon."- Shiny

Quote
kempercboyd
Yes, what if her son actually kills someone? This thought really doesn't seem to enter her mind. She sort of skirts around it and mentions examples of when he "almost" killed someone, but doesn't ask the question of what happens if he actually succeeds. I think this bitch is the definition of selfish. She stated that when tard attacked the HCW for rebuffing his advances, she only thought of how irt would affect HER! I hope the bitch got sued.

The employee he almost killed is probably insured under Workman's Comp. The employee could probably also sue the company that runs the facility for negligence or something like that. IANAL, but it seems obvious to me that responsibility for an employee's "safety on the job" is the employer's. If it were some kind of in-home caretaker who was attacked and/or injured, it would probably be covered by the parents' homeowner's insurance, assuming they own their own home and carry insurance.

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"I have learned that pleasing everyone is impossible, but pissing everyone off is easy and fun as hell"

:eatu

"Yes, what if her son actually kills someone? "

i think the question is not IF but WHEN. and i agree, he sounds like a sociopath to me, not simply autistic. it's unfortunate, but some people just cannot be helped with drugs and/or therapy, and need to be put somewhere where they will be safe and not harm other people. hopefully this moo will act before her snowflake beats someone innocent person to death and buries the body in the back yard.

This is reason 900 that I am an atheist. "Well, gawd created him in different way than the rest of us. " I gotta pose the question, if gawd is so loving and caring, why would he create a person in this manner? This "thing" is in NO WAY salvageable. It should be classified as a DEFECTIVE UNIT and disposed of accordingly. Now.

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Miss_Hannigan

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ljean8080
IF we euthanize them who's next?

Their enablers, like you.

Suhhh-napp!! wink

This is one of many reasons I think there is no God. If there were, why would he or she create such terrible people that burden and endanger their families (as well as the general public)? As a joke, perhaps? Punishment for some bullshit slight against the almighty Sky Daddy (come on, you can't even be jealous of your neighbor's stuff without going to hell)? If this were a violent animal - domestic or otherwise - it would be killed in an instant. Think of how many times you hear about rabid wild dogs or angry bears or man-eating mountain lions and the search parties that go out to find them so they can be shot?

Yes, it sucks when any animal has to be killed, but there is nothing else that will help it and if it's not dealt with, it will continue rampaging and hurting/killing people and/or other animals. But just because a violent murderous human can speak English and has opposable thumbs, they are exempt from this rule. As far as I'm concerned, this nutcase is no better than a wild animal that attacks people for no reason and he should be dealt with in the same way. Doesn't have to be shooting - I guess it could be humane (though he does not deserve it) - give the prick a nice lethal injection.

Moo will not wake the fuck up until her giant retard kills someone else in the house. It won't matter as much if it's some other person like the staff at the group home or a waitress he followed to her car. It's going to have to be a death that really hits home for her to realize just how dangerous he is.

So the Lupron didn't work? Then the tard is fucked.

He may just have acquired some of his craziness from moo. If she really wants to kill herself over this kid's issues, she's a nut too. Why wrap your whole life up in one thing? She's weak, weak, weak and unworthy of having the rest of her family because she only cares about the tard, even more than her own life.

She wrote many cringeworthy things in this article and I think she is unstable and in need of treatment herself.

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ljean8080
put them away,but don't kill them

I don't think we necessarily have to kill a mental defective, but is locking them in a home any good either? Maybe we can harness their brute force by making them run on giant hamster wheels to generate energy for entire cities.

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"[GFG's pregnancy is] kind of like at the stables where that one dumb, ugly-ass mare broke out of her corral one day and got herself screwed by the equally fugly colt that was due to be gelded the same afternoon."- Shiny

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Miss_Hannigan

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ljean8080
put them away,but don't kill them

I don't think we necessarily have to kill a mental defective, but is locking them in a home any good either? Maybe we can harness their brute force by making them run on giant hamster wheels to generate energy for entire cities.

The military could use them to clear minefields.

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"I have learned that pleasing everyone is impossible, but pissing everyone off is easy and fun as hell"

:eatu