Bad news come in threes: here is the second new guy on the block. This one is from Belgium. A little tihs of a ladies' doctor rapes a patient doctor Mott's way (The Hand That Rocked The Cradle), then adds insult to injury by licking her breast. He gets arrested and he says, all contrite that he is, en francais dans le texte like a modern Tartuffe (tartruffian in English), ''j'ai fait une enorme betise'', I've done something hugely stupid. Betise is the word you use when children do or say stupid things without knowing, like messing up with Mum's make-up, drawing with marker pens on the walls, or telling tall tales they expect no one to believe. They're at that age when they don't know right from wrong, the betise having seemed like a bit of harmless fun at the time. Most of the time they don't even understand their parents' big deal about it. Betise is also the name of a very well-known sweet in the style of the British humbug, a boiled sweet an apprentice made by mistake in his parents' shop in the late 19th in Cambrai, North of France (apprentices and novices tend to go by the name of gate-sauce, ''spoil-the-sauce''; clumsy, untrained lads prone to mistakes). Garfield does a lot of betises for a living. Garfield would make a perfect gate-sauce if he went out to work. That is the level of betise.
The Belgian doctor officially qualified to be one didn't make a mistake, he committed two enormous crimes he was hoping to get away with, if it hadn't been for the patient's family keeping the record straight: rape and molestation. That tells you a lot about the mentality of the so-called qualified practitioners I have already written about in a previous post, Heart Appreciation. The doc got four years and he is probably going to be struck off. In Britain you get four years for harming an animal. Never mind. He can always cross the border once he is released from prison and get himself hired as a locum, even with the licence gone and his past known, especially so maybe, in some French Fruitville where he will be free to rape any female of any age ad vitam eternam. After which, if he ever gets sacked - there's always that risk if you don't research the patients' background well enough, you thought you were doing a nobody, she's actually the daughter or the wife of some local bigwig, you've had it - he can always be hope to be hired by the mayor on the look-out for a health officer on the cheap. He will hit the jackpot again, getting a safe income and a guaranteed pension by getting financially vulnerable women desperate for a job through a medical of his own. The gazetted rapist need not worry about the police, conspicuously absent. They know everything about everybody's business, but they won't budge. Too dangerously political, they have kids to feed too. All of this is the sad, disgustingly naked truth. My ward can witness, barely alive as she was when she fled to me. One day I had to take her to the nurse for an injection or a blood test, I can't remember. The nurse, who is nobody's fool, noticed how her patient recoiled at her sight. ''We're not here to hurt you'' she said. Once out, my ward asked: ''If they're not here to harm us, what are they here for then?'' She hadn't dared ask the nurse because somehow she could sense her question would have sounded very strange, in the very least. Another day, I collected her from a hospital appointment in an out-patient unit she had very reluctantly agreed to. I feared she might do something seriously stupid afterwards, as she was a fragilised, vulnerable person. Two minutes after we left the hospital building, she asked me: ''why are you British people civilised? I thought I was going to be raped, and I would have gone to kill myself because I don't want to be raped. No more rape. I was treated with a lot of respect, and now I don't know what to do, because I can't call doctors wearing white coats White Trash in my head any more. But I don't want to be caught off guard either, it is my self-defence strategy to think of them that way''. I had to go and sit down somewhere quiet for the rest of the afternoon. I still don't know what to say to her, if I am to say anything. The British health service will pick up the pieces as usual.
L'Hallali
I dreamt I dwelt not in marble halls, but in a hunting lodge with pervy balls nailed high on the walls; with a gusto for such trophies, I am in favour of the reinstatement of the death penalty for the most heinous crimes, for punishing rapists, doctors and any other species of bed bugs by cutting off whichever Satan's limb they have sinned with, be it their fingers, their tongue or their goddam Dick - let us give back to Satan what belongs to Satan - and feed the waste to the pigs. I don't agree with such pests being buried in consecrated ground.
As there is no chase that has not been set to a poetic tune, I will sing a well-established one, Les Honneurs, as sung by Trompe de Chasse (Hunting Horn) Guyaume Vollet, available on U-Tube, with of course the choice Dr Dolittle lyrics about the way dogs greet each other. Those indecorous lyrics are still way too good for the curs who are the guilty party mongrelising and defiling a society that would certainly be rendered cleaner and purer by the healthier lifestyle and the gender-segregated moral standards half-caste coolies, together with their deposed lords, live by. Put solid rape culture in a cloudy societal test tube and observe the radical precipitate forming.
Law-makers representing the people in France - or so they say they are - want to ban the issuing of virginity certificates, once more targeting the Muslim community. They are of course in no hurry to pass stricter laws to contain the epidemic of rape they are faced with. They are lucky to deal with Muslims and not Christian Sicilians. In the interest of liberties, gender equality and fraternity I suggest making a male certificate compulsory by which any straight man about to marry or to become a doctor/a political leader would have to establish that their you-know-what have come down, along with a medical Pope's check of their manhood (for those of you who don't know, ever since a woman passing herself off as a man allegedly became Pope under the name of Pope Joan in the Middle Ages, there were Pope's manhood checks made ever since, to avoid the same mistake. All stupidities if you ask historians, des betises). It couldn't fail to be popular - among ladies mostly. I have always thought that the best way to check if a male is normal is to ask him to whom a woman's body belong, who controls a female's body. The normally constituted one answers ''herself''. The rest, however so elaborately, answers ''me''.
Sound Mort
Connais-la charmante maniere
Dont se saluent nos amis les chiens?
Ils se sentent d'abord le derriere
Au lieu de se serrer la main.
A tout seigneur tout honneur.
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