I don’t know how any of the rest of you feel, but every time I hear the name Trump, I cringe.  Mostly because I spent so much time in my younger days playing Spades and discussing trump cards and trump moves and trump strategies.

But now, the idea of using that word, even in a card game where knowing how and when to trump is essential, makes my shoulders rise up around my ears and causes my head to throb.

Perhaps it’s time to find a new game.  Learn Parcheesi or Canasta.  Do you trump in those games?  I don’t know.  I could always switch to games played without cards.  I love Chickenfoot.  And I recently played Dominos with family and realized I count much faster than I used to.

My preference would be to just get a new POTUS.  My hope is that we manage that before he totally destroys us.  Because, if he does, any games we play will be foreign to us all.

I’ve decided that retirement is very much like the honeymoon year of marriage.  Minus the great sex.

Much the same as happens when you realize you are about to meet someone at the altar and walk with them through the rest of your life, there’s that little thrill that flutters your stomach at the realization that it’s finally gonna happen!   This is followed by a moment of panic when you’re faced with the prospect of spending the next untold number of years with someone you’re not exactly sure you know well enough to sleep next to much less risk accidentally farting in the company of.

If you’re smart, you realize there will be adjustments to be made by both parties.  The first of these usually occurs as you’re moving furniture into your first home.  He carries in that disgusting blue chair and you refuse to allow it within sight of anyone entering the house.  He likes all the cups and glasses in one cupboard, you know who’ll be unloading the dishwasher and refuse to walk across the kitchen to do so.  You pick out lovely floral towels and he drops plain beige in the shopping cart.  But you both agree on a coffee maker and suddenly the angels are singing again.

In the honeymoon year, you make discoveries that you hadn’t imagined were possible.  He prefers buttered bread to mayo or mustard on his sandwich (MUST be a Yankee thing!) and wouldn’t touch sour cream on a dare.  He actually can watch television with his eyes closed (and can talk and snore simultaneously).  He visibly cringes at the sound of a baby crying (wonder if he’ll wake up when she crawls in bed between the two of you?).  He is almost terse with your mother, but then, she does ask the most embarrassingly personal questions.
As the year progresses, there are less heated discussions regarding the things you cannot change and more resigned sighing as you once again remind him to please put the toilet seat back down after he flushes.
And you realize you can’t possibly stay mad at a man who brings you flowers when he stops at the grocery for milk on the way home from work.

I was advised early on by a minister friend, who did marriage counseling on the side, that marriage is cyclical and should be treated much the same as a contract.  You work within the confines of your agreement until it is no longer suitable to the two of you, then you renegotiate and begin again.  You have to agree from the start not to be nasty or devious and to only ask for those things that are most important to you.  You aren’t allowed to use any canny strategies.  No cooking his favorite dish or wearing a certain bra.  Just straight forward negotiations carried out in the most adult manner possible.

In the retirement phase of marriage, this is known as choosing the hill you want to die on.  And, by retirement phase, you are fully expected to come to the table in battle armor.

If you manage to stay married long enough to actually reach the retirement phase, you are fully aware that those things most important to you in the honeymoon year are no longer considerations.  In effect, the battlefield topography changes.  Where you once may have been negotiating for certain draperies or visits with your out-of-state relatives at certain times of the year or even who gets stuck sitting out soccer practice, things are now much more personal.  You have determined, long ago, that there is no such animal as a 50/50 relationship and you’re hoping to at least break even.

Who, for example, gets the single bathroom sink in the morning?  It stands to reason that the person up first has full bathroom access until they’re done.  So why are you dancing around each other, toothbrush in hand and mouth full of toothpaste-laden saliva, vying for a chance to spit?
Who drives?  That one is pretty easy since most older men would rather be driven as long as it isn’t insane.  So then, who is in charge of the radio?  The logical answer is the person whose car you’re riding in.  But as soon as you tune in to your favorite artist, he starts to sigh and fidget and, worst of all, talk about totally inane subjects at a decibel three grades higher than the music.
Who pushes the grocery cart?
Whose car gets washed most?
Who cooks?  Who cleans?
Who gets to choose the program to watch once you’re both in bed for the night or at the buttcrack of dawn when sleeping is totally out of the question?

Trust me, these are important issues that must be considered when renegotiating.

Almost without thought, you consider how it might feel to live the single life again.  You find yourself at odd moments staring off into space, mentally tallying the various and sundry ways you can manage to break free without notice, followed by the realization that you’ve been sitting at a green light while the rest of the traffic, now totally disgusted with your inept abilities to safely navigate city streets, whizzes angrily past you, honking loudly and flipping you off.
Except you have to admit that, for however long it’s taken to get from that honeymoon year to this retirement one, you have been sleeping next to and, being totally honest, farting in the general direction of this person longer than any other person in your life.

I know there will come a time when none of this will matter much.  It doesn’t matter all that much now, except that it provides a lot of laughter as we learn, once again, cohabitation of the same square footage.  We know each other well and our tolerance for the other person’s quirks and oddities is pretty high.  Truth be known, we probably have fostered many of the bad habits that now make us a bit crazy and we are honest enough to admit that nobody in their right mind would live with us either.

And I think this is how those old couples you see on the park benches sitting smack against each other or holding hands as they slowly shuffle down the sidewalk have managed to make it from honeymoon, through retirement, and into twilight.
Of course, the loss of hearing and sight, and smell, probably plays a very big part.

It saddens my heart to even be writing these words.  However, the heaviness in my soul must be shared before it pulls me under.

And so.

I have come to the realization that not many people, perhaps none of the people, in this town like minivans.

There.  I’ve said it.  The ugly truth is out and I refuse to retract.

How do I know this, you ask?  I have first-hand experience which pretty much marks me as an expert on the subject.  Allow me to explain.

Three years ago I was driving probably the second most-hated car in the city, a PT Cruiser.  I never figured out why so many people despised “Pugsley” and since he is no longer part of the family, I have stopped trying to find the root of the hatred.  Rest assured though, I was well-aware of it at the time.
We’d had Pugs for many years and he had proven, countless times, to be a handy and enjoyable ride.  He was small enough to park almost anywhere yet roomy enough to hold most anything I tried to pack under the hatch.  Including a pair of leather armchairs I purchased and was too cheap to have delivered.  Likewise, installing and removing the grandson’s car seat was a cakewalk.  A fill-up was super cheap and a car wash took no time at all.
I was happy driving Pugsley.  He seemed happy sallying me around town.  He was the perfect beach car, holding all of our beachables as well as beach-goers with room to spare.  He was light-colored and had an outstanding air conditioner, which is pretty much the only major selling point for any vehicle purchased in North Texas.  But he also had a tight turn ratio and short wheel base, which meant he was second only to a Volkswagen Beetle on icy roads.

Then we became grandparents to twins.

About the same time, Pugs began to show some age.  Little things, like lock and window motors, began to fail.  The door seals began to crack from the intense Texas sun.  Pugs had entered his golden years.
The last blow came shortly after Christmastime when the totes I’d packed into the car in early December seemed not to fit when I loaded them for the return to storage in early January.  My struggle to squeeze the last one into the remaining space ended with me hurling the entire tote into the street in a rage of hissy fit I’ve not performed since age three.
I’m sure there’s a You Tube video somewhere.

By February we’d started shopping for a new vehicle for me.  But, unlike most women, I do not enjoy the process.  Oh, don’t get me wrong, I love driving a new car.  But I honestly despise shopping in all its forms and especially when the cost of the thing I am buying is equal to that of a small home.
I had only two requirements.  I needed spaces for eight butts.  And I didn’t want to have to take out a loan every time I wanted to fill the tank.

We bought the first minivan I drove.  A light-colored Toyota Sienna with cloth interior, a removable “jump seat” plus room for three car seats, a luggage rack on top and a navigation system I was certain I would never use.  I forget the process by which I determined her name, but she was christened “Stella” and is, most decidedly, female.

Initially, I did not like driving Stella.  She was too wide.  She was too long to park unless I drove to the end of the lot or found a spot I could pull through.  High wind made her rock like a boat.  Covered parking had me ducking.  The sun turned her into a miniature greenhouse with that huge front window.  I couldn’t see to the end of her nose, so I never knew how close I was to anything.
But, eventually, I grew to love driving Stella.  She is like watching a big man dance.  She’s seemingly lightweight even though she is thick.  She is nimble and turns on a dime.  And, while she doesn’t hit sixty in seconds, she is quick to cruising speed.  It does, however, take a bit to bring her to a stop.

Which brings me to the hatred.

Much the same as her driver, Stella is a big girl and not the least bit sexy.  She literally owns the road she travels and those in smaller cars (the state vehicle of Texas may be a pick-up truck, but the most commonly driven sedan in Dallas is a Lexus) simply can not see around her.
This pisses them off.
Like, seriously pisses them off.
So much so that I find myself in the cross hairs quite often.  On the Bush turnpike yesterday, blinker on to indicate my desire to exit, I slowed just enough to cruise through the tollbooth and make my stop behind the car in front of me.  Pissed that I was taking far too long to get out of his way, a black sedan blinked as if exiting behind me, shot into the lane beside me and gunned it, opposite blinker now flashing, to cut me off and get back onto the highway.  Later, while stopped a couple of cars before the person pulling out of a parking spot I wanted, again with my blinker indicating my intent, another sedan decided I must be texting or something and tried to blow past me on the left.  And almost creamed the car pulling out of the parking spot.

If I’m completely honest, I have to admit that it’s entirely possible these people were simply shitty drivers.  Although, the guy on the Bush seemed to be quite relaxed during his performance and was gone before I had time to give him a second thought.  Which, of course, was the thought where he loses control and ends up crashed into the retaining wall unharmed but late for work.
Or maybe I’m the shitty driver.  Although, I should think for that to be true, my driving record would need at least one mishap.

Here’s the thing.  I don’t much care, one way or the other.  I’m in love with my minivan.  I enjoy the time I spend driving, which is a good thing since I seem to be doing a lot of that lately.  I’ve never been one to bow to the dictates of popularity.  I rarely wear make-up.  I don’t usually “style” my hair.  I wear clothes for comfort.  I say what I think and I think for myself.  I don’t make an effort to be particularly PC.

And I drive a minivan.

Recently, someone posted a video from the 2012 Kennedy Center Awards show honoring Led Zepplin.  This was the one where Lenny Kravitz did a pretty damn good job on “Whole Lotta Love” but, better still, his guitarist Craig Ross, not only sounded very convincingly Led Zepplinish, he actually looked the part!
Unlike many videos posted on social media, I watched the whole thing – toes tapping, head bobbing, body swaying to the once again familiar tune.  I was tempted to replay it and listen again, just to hear the cover done so amazingly well.

It came as no surprise to me, however, that I’d never seen it.  I’m not typically a big Lenny fan.  I doubt I could name three songs…  never mind, I can’t even name one song he’s known for.

It’s that thing I have with not listening to radio.

Interestingly enough, I grew up listening to radio.  First AM only, since that was pretty much all there was to offer.  But eventually the very cool stations on the FM dial as well.  Back then, in the dark ages of radio, you could hear all genres of music on one station – similar to hitting the shuffle button on your iPod these days.  There were no divisions in music.  Freddy Fender could be followed by Freddie Mercury with a song by Doris Day thrown into the mix so your dad wouldn’t make you turn off that damn radio.  I would fall asleep at night with the little box radio perched precariously on the thin headboard of my bed, volume turned low enough to keep me out of trouble but loud enough to reach my ears a foot below the bread-slice-sized speaker.  Every now and then something would cause interference and the thing would crackle like an electrical fire or hum like an enraged mosquito.  Sometimes I’d lose the station completely and be forced to turn it off.  The silence was always deafening.  And lonely.
Eventually someone got the bright idea that music needed to be categorized by genre and suddenly stations were limiting the style of music you could find when you rolled the big plastic dial.
Music segregation.
All Rock, all the time.  Straight Country.  Easy Listening.
Suddenly, radio just sucked.  And I turned it off and swore I wouldn’t listen anymore.
It truly limits my frame of reference.  But it sure does make me nicer to ride in the car with.

I was quite a big Zepplin fan back in the day.  There were so many things to love.  All that hair.  Those accents.  The groovy clothes.  Most of all, that voice.  Robert Plant was like nothing I’d ever heard.  GAH!
I saw them at the old Memorial Auditorium in Dallas in the summer of 1971.  I was not yet fourteen.  There were four of us, but only one legitimately purchased ticket.  Back in the day, when the hall opened for a show, the ticket-taking process was almost non-existent.  There was surely someone taking tickets, but it was much the way they do it at the movie theaters now.  Very little attention was paid to the concert-goers, especially if it was a bunch of damn hippies.  I shoved in behind my friend long enough for her ticket to be torn in half and her to hand me back the stub, then feigned indecision and stepped out of the line.
Later, when everyone had gone inside, I reappeared at the door with my stub and a ready story about having to call my mother, and was directed to the seating section noted on my half-ticket.  I didn’t go to the assigned seat, since my friend would already be in it, but walked around a bit until I found a section with a large number of empties and settled into one of those in the center of the row.  If anyone showed up, I’d just tell them my real seat sucked and I didn’t think anyone was sitting in that section.  Nobody showed.

I haven’t been to a concert in a very long time, but I’m thinking there isn’t quite as much freedom now as there was then.  I remember being somewhat involved in looking through the free program I’d picked up on the way into the hall when suddenly a red balloon, about three feet long, sailed into my lap.  I looked up in surprise, expecting to see a friend, but didn’t.  All around me balloons and beach balls were being batted about and people were laughing at the faces of unsuspecting recipients, like me.  Somehow this struck me as hysterical.
Then the house lights came down and for the next hour or so I was totally unaware of anything much at all that wasn’t standing, sweating, pounding, plucking, screaming or gyrating on that stage.  Plant’s hair was almost waist-length and brushed the floor when he bowed.  I was mesmerized.  I wanted waist-length blond curls.  His voice was completely trashed.  I heard later he’d torn it up while recording Stairway To Heaven.  Some accounts have them playing the song that night.  I don’t recall that.

But, as I said, concerts were different then.

Just before the show ended, my friends found me and sat on the steps of the aisle so we could all leave together (you’d never get away with that at the AAC).  The house lights came up, the show was over.  I remember my ears were buzzing and my head seemed fuzzy.  I figured it was just the music.  But on the way down the six or eight steps that took us from my section to the main floor, I spied a guy eating the newest ice cream novelty of the times, a Pink Thing.  I was hypnotized.  So much so that I missed the first step and plummeted to the floor, landing at the guy’s feet.
Welcome to your first contact high!

And now, sitting at the computer forty-five years later (OUCH!), I can still feel the vibration in my chest from the music.  Because I know the smell for what it is, I can even still feel the sting from the pot being smoked all around me that night.  And I can still laugh at the skinny teenage girl who thought she was so cool in her platform lace-up chunky-heeled shoes and bell-bottom Landlubber jeans, arms windmilling and legs flailing as she sailed down those stairs.

Thanks for the memories, Lenny.

Much to my dismay, Jimmy Buffett has become a lounge act.

Well, not literally, since he’s probably still selling out stadiums.  And I’m pretty sure his ocean-side shows still draw folks in by the boat load.
But the man responsible for the first F-bombed song I ever heard, the man who made me dance around the kitchen singing “Fruitcakes” at the top of my lungs, the man whose music caused me to fall totally in love with large men of color playing steel drums, now populates his own shows with female back-up singers doing covers of his best classics.

It’s like listening to the old people’s version of American Idol.

I suppose it had to happen, he’s damn-near seventy.  He’s released over thirty albums, penned seven books, owns airplanes and boats and restaurants and resorts and has his own TV and radio stations.  He’s the first person to ever pack Wrigley Field for an event unrelated to baseball.  He has a clothing line, a furniture line, and a home goods line.  He’s had his own record label for years and can sit in his own recording studio drinking beer that sports his own label.

Honestly, what else was there for him to do?

But, in a time when the best music seems to be evaporating faster than raindrops on a hot Texas sidewalk, it rips my heart out to think Jimmy’s sold out.

Many long years ago, I took a trip to Maryland to visit a friend.  At the time, I was at the peak of Jimmy Buffett fandom.  I was hosting cheeseburger and margarita parties on the eve of concerts where we had paid really good money to sit in the hot August sun with 8 million of our closest friends to see Jimmy and the Coral Reefers on a jumbo tron screen where they appeared jumpy and fuzzy and out of focus.  Which could also have been caused by the margaritas, but there’s no proof of that.
While in Maryland, I was taken to the oh-so-quaint and lovely bayside town of St. Michaels.  On the way to lunch, we strolled by an open store front and I caught the strains of a Buffett tune and stopped to have a look.  Inside hung rows of t-shirts bright with tropical artwork and blazoned with lyrics from Jimmy’s most current songs.  These weren’t the usual concert tees.  They were works of art.
I casually asked, “Wonder what Jim would say about all this free advertising?” and was answered with, “Not much.  He owns the place.”
I wanted to buy one of everything!

If anyone had told me then that a day would come when I could actually be repulsed by the sound of a Buffett song coming out of the car speakers, I’d have slapped them silly.  But, there it is.
I stopped going to his concerts when the number of empty beer bottles and splatters of puke on the sidewalks signaled a crowd much too young to appreciate his songwriting skills and his band’s musical prowess.  It was a sad day.  And now the day has come when I can no longer abide listening to live broadcasts because Jimmy isn’t singing and his songs weren’t meant for operatic voice.

The bloom is finally off the plumeria.  Jimmy Buffett has become a lounge act.

Since the Supreme Court handed down the decision to legalize same gender marriage, I’ve been reading and watching and generally observing the way it has affected those around me.  It’s been pretty interesting.  And telling.
Some people see it as another move forward in the war against discrimination.
Some people see it as a move backward into…  I’m not entirely sure, since they want me to believe it’s a move backward into the destruction of mankind but, since the Great Flood, we’ve been pretty much moving forward with that.
Some see it as an excuse to turn all those “gay people” out into the streets to fondle the children, rape the men, and turn the women into sex slaves.  I hate to break it to them, but that’s already being done, but not by the gay couple you see shopping in your local grocery.  The sexual deviants aren’t looking to marry the love of their life and be happy.  They’re roaming the streets in unmarked vans waiting on the children of the idiots who are too busy or lazy to take their own kids to school to come walking, usually alone, down the untraveled side street where nobody will see them being abducted.
The rapists aren’t in the local hardware store looking at power tools hoping some defenseless man will wander into a bathroom undetected.  They’re female prison guards preying on male inmates (http://www.slate.com/articles/double_x/doublex/2014/04/male_rape_in_america_a_new_study_reveals_that_men_are_sexually_assaulted.html).  The traffickers selling sex slaves aren’t the lesbian couple in your ob/gyn’s office.  They’re the manager of the restaurant/bar where you stopped for happy hour with friends after work or to meet your family for dinner (http://www.traffickingresourcecenter.org/).

The other side of this, of course, is the argument that the “framers of the Constitution” never meant for legal rights to include same gender marriage.  That’s probably true, although neither of us was there, so we can’t be 100% certain that nobody made the argument for it.
What we do know is that the Constitution has been amended to include a number of issues that were unlikely subjects under consideration a couple hundred years ago.  Like slavery.  And women voting.  So, while the argument that the “framers” didn’t want same gender couples to marry may be true, it is irrelevant unless you’re looking to head back to 1770something and live.  Keep in mind though that you’ll be giving up air conditioning and indoor plumbing.  Just saying.

And of course, no decent blog post on same gender marriage can be complete without bringing God into the discussion.  Although, as I’ve said repeatedly, I imagine God is weary of being called down on both sides of an argument (Cold Mountain – Inman says this in a conversation with the Reverend).
But, nonetheless, there are those who are in direct contact with God and therefore want us to know exactly how He views the Supreme Court’s ruling.  And they want us to understand, beyond all doubt, that God does not want same gender couples to be married.
And to this I say bullshit.

We were taught to turn the other cheek.  And to love others as we love ourselves.  Anyone believing that God wanted us to behave in such a way while excluding anyone in the LGBT community is twisting the word of God to suit their own needs.  And I don’t care how much scripture you can quote to prove your point.  Anything written more than thirty years ago has no bearing on current events.

However, if you choose to live by what you read and understand from the Bible, that’s fine.  I applaud you holding on to your beliefs and living your life as you feel it should be lived.
What I don’t applaud and won’t agree with is you insisting that your beliefs are the only ones that the world should hold and that anyone who doesn’t think and believe as you do is not entitled to a good and happy life.
At this point, I’m sure anyone reading and opposing me will have already thought to themselves and possible even stated to their computer monitor, “Well, YOU’RE going to Hell.” and you could be right.

But I’m almost 100% sure if I do it will be for something much worse than accepting and loving my fellowman.

Thanks for reading.  I invite you to read either of the articles I linked.  We live in a very dangerous world and being educated on the real dangers is our best defense against them

I’m going to say this and then I’m going to do my best to avoid any further discussions, posts, news pieces, photos, or whatever shows up in my line of sight.  I am sick of reading commentaries from people who are using this subject to spew anger and hatred.  None of us is a member of the family.  None of us is the perpetrator or the victims.  None of us are the parents.

I fully admit to being 100% fascinated with “19 Kids and Counting” and I even went so far as recording it on the DVR so I could watch.  I grew up around a large family and that dynamic is something I understand.  There was a time when all families were as large as “God intended” because there was nothing to stop the babies coming and married couples are gonna have sex.  It’s natural.
There were things I felt they were doing very right – no debt (and yes, this was before the show, research it), pay as you go, homeschooling, family meals, group Bible study, no TVs, wide open spaces for the kids to explore.  Those were things I know many other families have at the top of their list.  Those were the things that made the family seem more like families are supposed to be.
Yes, it’s “reality” TV and it’s scripted and planned and probably acted out with more drama than most movies.  But that’s the point, right?  You’re not supposed to believe it all.  You’re probably not supposed to believe it much.  It is meant as entertainment like pretty much everything else that is set before us each and every day of our lives.  WE choose, from all that’s offered, what our entertainment will be.  I chose to watch a family populated by people I would never be comfortable sitting with in a closed room.

There were also a great number of things I totally disagreed with or thought they were crazy for doing.  No birth control, community clothing, the ’80s hair, wearing shoes they purchased at thrift stores…
And there were times when my eeekometer tilted way to the side of “something here just ain’t right”.  But never once did I feel that anyone was doing anything so disgusting as molesting a family member.

I grew up on the cusp of innocence.  We didn’t lock our doors, even when we left the house.  Except maybe if we were going on vacation.  But then only if we didn’t have anyone coming by to feed the dog.  We all piled into the cab of my dad’s truck if it was too cold to ride in the truck bed, which meant the younger kids sat in the laps of the older ones, regardless of gender.  I shared a bedroom with my little brother until I was maybe seven or eight.  We all walked into the bathroom when other family members were bathing (except our parents).  My dad sat at the dining room table, in his boxers, and ate ice cream out of the carton after his bath at night.
And none of this was considered out of the norm for families.
There was a time when children all slept in the same beds, males and females alike, and of all ages, and nobody thought a thing about it.  There was a time when it was legal to marry your cousin (and go on to be a President).
So it takes a lot to make me squeamish when it comes to big families and touching and sleeping and such.
There is, however, a line that shouldn’t be crossed.  I’m not saying it doesn’t get crossed, just that it shouldn’t.

The biggest difference, to me, between my experiences with large families with lots of people and the Duggar family way of life is the approach to intimacy.  To me, it is totally unnatural and entirely unrealistic to believe that a boy or girl, approaching the age of the hormone rage, can and will avoid contact with the opposite sex.  They can try.  They can use prayer or cold showers or hard work to alleviate the pull, but we’re made to experience sex from a young age and most of us will find it where and when we can.
That’s not saying fondling your sleeping sister is ok.  Not by a long haul!  But there is a good reason why the oldest profession isn’t baking and there’s a damn good argument for young men of a certain age to be sent to visit a house of ill repute.
To my mind, legal prostitution solves a lot of problems.  Get ’em off the streets and between the sheets, educating young men in the dos and don’ts.  Give them medical coverage.  And a retirement fund.  At least you’ll know your lad isn’t being exposed to an STD or worse with his first time out and he just may end up learning enough to make a lifetime of sleeping with the same woman enjoyable for both of them.
At the very least do not chastise and condemn your child when you determine they’ve discovered those parts and what makes ’em work.
It.  Is.  Natural.

I understand there’s not a hardcore Christian parent alive that would knowingly agree to these suggestions.  And frankly, I’m not certain they’re all that great a solution.  But suppression didn’t seem to work out so well for Josh Duggar, did it?

Then, when faced with the knowledge that he’d molested his sister/sisters, his family did exactly what I’m pretty sure a great number of other families would have.  They counseled him and prayed on it.  But that’s where any acceptance of his acts stops cold.  Most of us are willing to accept that a kid is going to screw up, sometimes horribly so, because their ability to judge their own actions against an urge that can be overwhelming is something we can understand.  Possibly even accept.  Once.  As soon as he repeated the act he became something entirely different.
I don’t agree with those who call him a pedophile, because he was still a kid.  Had they determined he continued to prey on young girls after he turned 18, and that the young girls were actually children, then the pedophile tag suits the actions.  Right now, he’s a deviant.  A sex offender.  His name tops a list that gets longer with time – David Duchovny, Rick James, Chuck Berry, Hugh Grant, to drop a few other high-profile names.

That Josh Duggar went unpunished for his crimes is unthinkable.  There should certainly be consequences for him as well as his parents and the police department for their part in covering up and outright ignoring his crimes.
But, more importantly to me, the victims should not have to keep reliving the hell he put them through.  The entire family needs counseling and not from anyone in their church community who will likely support the actions that help Josh go unpunished.  The girls involved need a chance to escape that mad house and be given time to recover from this ordeal, past and present, so that they might have healthy lives later on.

It is going to take years for anyone in that family to have any credibility outside of their own support community.  Hopefully this is the end of the skeletons in their many closets.  Hopefully the furor will die down and we can move on to something less distasteful.
I know this is the end of it for me.