A Father's Duty

Were I Terri's father, this would all have been over years ago. She would possibly be sitting up in bed, eating on her own, speaking and recognizing people. Because I would have taken my alleged son-in-law for a little walk in the woods and by the time we had gotten back, he'd have been scrambling to do everything in his power to save her life and improve her situation. Because he would have known without a doubt that if her life ended, so would his. I would look him straight in the eye tell him matter-of-factly, "If you kill my little girl, I will put a bullet in your head. Maybe it won't happen soon. Maybe not this year. Maybe not next. But someday. You will be taking groceries out of the car or be eating at a restaurant, raking your lawn or driving to work, dropping your illegitimate kids off at school or sitting in a darkened movie theater, and suddenly your head will explode like an overripe melon, splattering everyone within a 20-foot radius with your evil little brain." I would give him the huge cartridge from an Israeli .50 caliber Desert Eagle handgun. I would tell him that every breath he takes might be his last. I would tell him to fear every minute of every day. And just by looking into my eyes, he would know I meant it. I have very expressive eyes. I spent 24 years in the military without ever raising my voice in anger. I've made Marines cry with a glare. I'd smack the arrogance out of Michael Schiavo without laying a hand on him. And I'd be willing to take the consequences if I had to do my duty as a father. When did this country become so sissified that fathers no longer know their duty to their children? My life for theirs. Gladly! At least I'd know that if I received the death penalty, I'd die of old age. There would be no rush to execute me like there is to execute helpless young handicapped women or the killers of abortionists. I know I'd have appeal, after appeal, after appeal -- unlike leftist, Clinton-appointed judges offered Terri Schiavo.