I may at some point in the near future be tempted to write again about my feelings concerning global warming. Today, however, is not that day, except for me to say I have little faith in those who seek to predict the weather for the next 20, 30 or 100 years when those same folks find it necessary, in deep southwest Georgia, in July, to issue a heat advisory for the area.
I have lived here for quite some time. Every July I can recall was very, very hot. In fact, I cannot recall a single time in my lifetime when I said, “Boy that sure was a cold July we had this year.” I’ve never said, “Grab a jacket, it’s a little chilly for the 4th.”
If you need a heat advisory to tell you it is a really, really hot day in south Georgia and it is in July, you need to have a heat stroke and maybe your kind will be eliminated from the gene pool. Sorry, that is just the way it is.
But enough about that. Today I am worried about Mr. Lawrence John Ripple. He is the elderly man who last year robbed a Kansas bank because he said he wanted to get caught so he would get prison time to escape his wife. He later said she was just nagging him day and night. He was sentenced last week for the crime of attempted bank robbery to — get this — six months of home confinement. This sentence is a clear case of cruel and unusual punishment and should be taken all the way to the United States Supreme Court.
The Bible, in I believe Proverbs, says a nagging wife is “like the dripping of a leaky roof in a rainstorm.” The Georgia Supreme Court in 1924 issued an opinion in Wilkerson v. Wilkerson that said, “From the days of Socrates and Xantippe, men and women have known what is meant by nagging, although philology cannot define it or legal chemistry resolve it into its elements. Humor cannot soften or wit divert it. Prayers avert nothing, and threats are idle. Soft words but increase its velocity, and harsh ones its violence. Darkness has for it no terrors. And the long hours of the night draw no drapery of the couch around it. The chamber where love and peace should dwell becomes an inferno, driving the poor man to the saloon, the rich one to the club, and both to the arms of a harlot. It takes the sparkle out of the wine of life, and turns a night into ashes, the fruits of the labor of the day.”
I have no idea who Xantippe even is, but I’d say the court got this about right.
Now maybe Mr. Ripple should have gone to the saloon or maybe the club, depending on his social status. His last name is Ripple, so I’m banking on the saloon. Instead, he chose robbing a bank, expecting to serve about 20 years, and instead he gets sent back to her. He wrote her a note before robbing the bank saying he would rather be in jail than at home with her. Well, imagine what he will hear for the rest of his pitiful days now.
“Well, I’m not the one who decided to rob a bank and get splashed all over the paper. I guess I’ll have to get the groceries since you are confined to home.” Oh boy, poor Mr. Ripple.
Here’s hoping wherever Mr. Ripple lives they have a saloon or maybe a harlot or two. I haven’t seen a harlot in Lord knows when, but like pornography, I can’t even describe what a harlot looks like but I know one when I see one. Maybe Mr. Ripple will know one, too. Until then, perhaps his hearing will fade as he ages. Chalk another one up for life ain’t fair.