Homegirl Redneck Mother, who reads the local paper so I don’t have to, has just hipped me to this astonishing bit of Texas jurisprudence: dude murders wife, confesses, says wife asked for it, and walks.
“Silly me,” said Redneck Mother.
Here’s an excerpt, since the above-linked Statesman article will disappear or become encrypted or something in like 2 days.
A Bastrop County man who choked and stabbed his wife to death in October won’t go to prison under a sentence given by District Judge Terry Flenniken.
Robert Crerar, a 67-year-old retired county probation transport officer, instead was sentenced earlier this month to 10 years of probation.
On Oct. 1, Crerar, who was taking Cymbalta and other drugs for severe depression, told his wife of 30 years that he planned to kill himself. Dolores Crerar, 73, told her husband that she “couldn’t go on without you; kill me first,” according to court records.
Crerar choked her, stabbed her 47 times and slit her throat before calling 911 to confess. He meant to kill himself after killing his wife but was too tired to do so, he told police.
There wasn’t a dry eye in the house after it was revealed that, prior to the husband’s anomalous little outburst of savage butchery, the Crerars had been “a loving couple,” a ‘fact’ established by some church-guy’s acute observation that Robert always “kiss[ed] his wife goodbye.”
Here I must briefly digress. I have no doubt that Cymbalta*, a toxic substance my oncologist once prescribed to address my cancerish angst, merely exacerbates the very symptoms it is supposed to fix. I took it for exactly one day, during which interlude it transformed me from a happy-go-lucky melancholic to an ashen, slack-jawed mashed potato with a plutonic, JÃ¤ger-class hangover. Two days later, when I had recovered sufficiently from my stupor to stagger to my desk, the internet revealed legions of long-term Cymbalta sufferers who, in an effort to reunite the shards of their shattered lives, endured the tortures of the damned during excruciating withdrawal periods lasting weeks.
It was only then — somewhat too late, alas — that I remembered the Faster Family Motto: “Cymbalta? Not on yer schlemalta!”
While it is clear that Cymbalta is perfectly capable of inducing psychosis — indeed, this appears to be its primary function — is there anything to the hypothesis that it turns guileless innocents into murderous savages who rip their wives to shreds?
The spinster aunt is reluctant to concede that our strangling, throat-slitting maxi-stabber didn’t harbor one or two tiny molecules of anti-wifely misogynist antipathy to begin with. Have you ever wondered why it is, when people go off their nuts, that it so often manifests as gynocidal mania? If there did not combine in men toxic levels of misogyny with their Cymbalta, wouldn’t their unmitigated lunacy just as reasonably be expected to manifest in smashing up the family Toyota with a baseball bat, or setting fire to the lawn, or eating dirt? Whyfore the incessant bloody atrocities perpetrated against innocent wives?
Because I am the most brilliant neuroscientific mind of my generation, I’ll tell you whyfore.
Hear me, O blamers, and hear me well: the paradigm of dominance causes violent insanity.
Head pimples whit!
* “Day Forty-four… Very tired and irritable all day long. I feel itchy and greasy. I feel like there’s a great stink inside me.” — R. Bastard, in My Cymbalta Diary
Blamer Spinning Liz recounts her Cymbalta debut here.