Belmont Club

The Attack of the Fifty Foot Women

The Wall Street Journal has obtained samples of Jared Lee Loughner’s online posts at forums. He joined threads dealing with hitting “handy capped” children, believed women enjoyed rape, was cynical about ever finding affection from the opposite sex and despaired of ever getting a job even flipping burgers. As the WSJ put it, at 22 he felt his life was over.

The online-forum messages exhibit a growing frustration that, at 22 years of age, Mr. Loughner couldn’t land a minimum-wage job and was spurned by women. By May 15, he wrote, he hadn’t had a paycheck in six months. A month later, he wrote that he had submitted 65 applications, yet “no interview.”

It’s hard to read Loughner’s screeds without feeling pity and hearing Beck’s lyrics running over and over in your head.

Someone came sayin’ I’m insane to complain
About a shotgun wedding and a stain on my shirt
Don’t believe everything that you breathe
You get a parking violation and a maggot on your sleeve
So shave your face with some mace in the dark
Savin’ all your food stamps and burnin’ down the trailer park

Yo. cut it.

Soy un perdedor
I’m a loser baby, so why don’t you kill me?

The shooter probably hated himself much more than he hated Gifford. The portrait of the online Loughner is not radically different from the one painted from recollections of his last close friend, who wishes “there was something” he could have done. His friend noted that Loughner began going downhill when he found himself rejected by a girl.

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Women are a theme that seem to run though this whole story, from the humiliation that Loughner felt from the unknown and possibly nonexistent slight from Gifford to the ascription of the tragedy by morally superior pundits to another beautiful, powerful woman who lives in Alaska.  Maybe what worked against Gifford was the simplest thing of all. She was pretty and that’s why he shot her in the head. What is it in some “men” that make them want and hate women so?

The daytime crap of the folksinger slob
He hung himself with a guitar string
A slab of turkey-neck and it’s hangin’ from a pigeon wing
You can’t write if you can’t relate
Trade the cash for the beef for the body for the hate
And my time is a piece of wax fallin’ on a termite
who’s chokin’ on the splinters

Soy un perdedor
I’m a loser baby, so why don’t you kill me?
(get crazy with the cheese whiz)
Soy un perdedor
I’m a loser baby, so why don’t you kill me?
(drive-by body-pierce)
(yo bring it on down)
Soooooyy….

Un perdedor. That’s the word, baby.


Link to Wretchard’s novel “No Way In” print edition
Link to Wretchard’s novel “No Way In” Kindle Edition”