"I beg of you, America: Please disregard my son. Instead, why not focus your attention on finding his wife? It's not that I don't get where you're coming from. I do. I understand that it's an anxious time in America, and that our anger and feelings of helplessness over things like the economy, Iraq, and the war on terror have been projected onto an otherwise unremarkable trial taking place in Northern California -- that of Scott Peterson. In these troubling times when we're forced to question ourselves, our leaders, and the very nature of good and evil, the Peterson trial is reassuringly clear-cut. What could be more wholly good than a pregnant young mother, full of all the hope and dreams of a future unrealized? And what more evil than a murderous, cheating husband, complete with sinister goatee? As a nation, we want vengence. We want to burn Scott as an effigy of the real evils we can't seem to overcome.

And I'm no fool, America. I can see the similarities between the Peterson's and my son's situation. His wife is also pregnant and young, though I have to admit not quite so attractive as Lacy Peterson was. In days when the Scott Peterson trial perhaps isn't going as well as we all hoped, the thirst for vengence is even greater. But I beg of you all to be measured in your response.

Of course I realize that all that stuff about medical school in North Carolina didn't exactly help the situation. Or was it South Carolina? Whatever. I can assure you that I'm just as distressed by all of this as you are. I'm his father, for god's sake. Don't you think I always dreamed about my son going to medical school?

And then there's that thing about the mattress. Sure, you could say that purchasing a new mattress and box spring when your wife is missing is odd timing. But, really, are we ever really prepared for something like that? Buying a new mattress, I mean. It's one of those things you don't really plan on or look forward to. One bad night of sleep finally pushes you over the edge, and you just do it.

So I say to you, America, please focus on my son's wife. As far as we know, she's alive. Let's go with that for a while. If she does turn up dead, as I father and an American, allow me to suggest that perhaps a black person did it. Maybe about six foot two inches tall, two hundred twenty pounds. In a stocking cap. No, no. One of those do-rag things they wear. Yes. That's it. A black with a moustache and a do-rag."


"Please, America, consider a black instead."

Analogcabin @ 2:35 PM
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