Two stories here show you just how pervasive the use of foul language is in America’s most privileged minority: the Criminal-American community.
ITEM: Mothers of the Old South
Criminal investigators were dealing with a tough case. They had a pretty good idea of how the murder happened, but not why or — crucially — by whom.
And then one day, a kid walked into Homicide and told them the whole story. The victim had been arguing with a fellow the kid knew only by street name. The victim used a racial slur. Street Name lost his grip and proceeded to stab, beat and kick the victim until he was tango uniform. The cops pulled Street Name in the computer, put his mug in a lineup, and showed the six-pack to the kid. Boom. They had their motive, and crucially, their perp, nailed down.
“Why did you come down to us?” one of the cops asked, knowing the kid was flying in the face of the “stop snitching” ethos of the streets.
“My momma,” the kid said solemnly, “told me to get down here and talk to you motherbleepers.”
The motherbleepers were suitably gratified.
ITEM: What the Feds?
You would think that being on parole would chasten the average guy, or, if nothing else, at least teach him that crime doesn’t pay for him, regardless of how rewarding it might be for those fortunate enough to have their own Global Initiative. But, being on parole is also a sign of sub-optimal judgment, which can be quite a general failing in that population.
Another sign of sub-optimal judgment is getting tattoos like the one on the right.
And yes, he’s in the custody of his beloved Feds. (Beloved? Yeah. He loves them so much, he wants to bleep them). On a parole violation on a Fed sentence for (what else?) gun trafficking.
He’s being kept on ice — by Feds, of course — until his date with the judge, after which he will be decanted back into the tender embrace of the Bureau of Prisons. The Federal Bureau of Prisons.
Meanwhile, his tattoo is providing all the various toilers in the vineyards of Federal justice a great deal of entertainment.
Some people serve only as bad examples… others, as objects of mirth. Occasionally someone manages to unify the two possibilities.
Kevin was a former Special Forces weapons man (MOS 18B, before the 18 series, 11B with Skill Qualification Indicator of S). His focus was on weapons: their history, effects and employment. He started WeaponsMan.com in 2011 and operated it until he passed away in 2017. His work is being preserved here at the request of his family.
15 thoughts on “Criminals and Bad Language”
My favorite criminal tattoo story:
“Chapman’s attorney says in a motion the tattoo would be extremely prejudicial if seen by a jury.”
The tattoo in question? “MURDER” in mirror-image, on the defendant’s throat. The charge against the defendant? What else? Murder. On which planet is having “MURDER” tattooed in mirror-image on your throat not considered evidence in a murder trial? Ours, of course.
Your really need to look up the definition of “evidence”. It’s not even circumstantial evidence. Evidence is tangible, direct, provable links to a crime. Hair at a crime scene is evidence. Tattoos are not. Of course it can be used as a sort of character indication, but a tangible, direct link that indicates involvement in a crime it is not. If I tattoo bank robber on my face and rob bank, that’s not evidence that I did it because it doesn’t strictly indicate involvement…it just looks bad in front of a jury
Again, look up the difference between evidence and influential coincidence
Nonsense. If I write a detailed plan of how to murder Bill Smith, any Court would allow a jury to decide whether that’s evidence of intent.
If I write, or cause to be written, “murder” in mirror image on my neck, the same should apply. The jury can decide how much weight to give it, but it could well show a general intent to kill that I let run free on this occasion.
I stand by my implied assertion that it’s insane that tattooing “murder” on your neck for the world to see is not considered evidence in a murder trial.
It’s obviously not enough evidence to hang someone with, but where it occurs, it should be part of the prosecution’s case.
Some tattoos are really not recommended. Getting murder in reverse script across your throat falls into that category. In our studio in Belfast we have strict rules against tattooing anyone with political, sectarian or offensive tattoos. Personally I refuse to tattoo anyone’s hands, necks or face, except in exceptional circumstances ( such as the client having over 70% body coverage anyway) for reasons of principle. I wouldn’t get mine done, and I’m not comfortable doing so on others.
I frequently see people with offensive stuff tattooed on them, with ACAB ( all cops are bastards ) being a common one. Never understood myself. We do have a saying though … each to their own, usually with a resigned sigh.
My grandmother used to say, “Takes all kinds to make a world.”
Though I don’t find THAT tat offensive, I do remember that everyone who had a window sticker of Calvin the cartoon guy pissing on the “pigs”, ” cops”, or “po-po” also usually had some vehicle or moving violation AND warrants. Heehee.
Plus a copyright violation. Those images of Calvin were never licensed by Bill Watterson.
“Dispatch, 209. At Park and Vine. Just stopped tag number 330 7HD to investigate a copyright violation.”
I’m afraid that 10 years as a grunt then another 25 years working with sailors has left me irrevocably tainted by profanity.
I recall getting back from 3 weeks in the weeds and my platoon sergeant Harry “The Arse” (don’t ask) had to attend a black tie dinner that same night. It wasn’t his finest hour. He said that half way through the main course he’d leaned towards the very dignified elderly woman sitting next to him and politely asked “Would you please pass the fucking mint sauce?” whereupon silence fell across the table and all eyes turned towards him.
I’m sure he’s not the only one to have trouble negotiating the return to civilisation.
I have a story uncannily like that, but it’s about a teammate whose confidence in his German outran his vocabulary in the language, asking the lady of the house to do something obscene when all he wanted was for her to pass the potato salad. Almost as funny as when the barn cat latched on to his face with all four sets of claws.
Thanks for making my day! Shaking with laughter, since I’m at a library, otherwise I would have laughed out loud.
>politely asked “Would you please pass the fucking mint sauce?” whereupon silence fell across the table and all eyes turned towards him.
Well, of course all eyes turned towards him. Everyone knows that you don’t eat the fucking mint sauce, it’s just there for show. Eating the fucking mint sauce is as eccentric as eating the parsley garnish.
(Full disclosure: Not a former USUN-006*. This advice is worth what you paid for it.)
*this, apparently, is a thing.
the global initiative zinger caught me off guard. now cleaning coffee out of my keyboard.
thanks for the morning levity.