Once and a while there comes along a story that is so unbelievable that you swear it’s just GOT TO BE fiction. And this is just one of those stories.

For long-time fans of PYSIH, you will recognize a wonderful vindication of sorts. Many stories on this site often attract friends, relatives and the like to come and defend their own special criminal.

When this story first broke the waves of the media, it was so un-fucking-believable that it automatically was relegated to tabloid status. And, like all stories dealing with human trash, there was an onslaught of supporters of the perp stating how she was innocent and that the victim was the real villain — You people slinging blame just don’t know all the facts!

I was searching for an interesting story to write about, and came upon an interesting moral dilemma. Well, perhaps it’s not so much a moral dilemma as a test of character. Ready? OK, here it is.

It’s the beginning of the 21st century. You’re a member of an incredibly successful musical group. You and your bandmates have paid your dues, working gigs at run down bars and 3rd rate venues for little or no pay, working your way up the ladder of fame.

Your big break comes in the form of an American Idol type television talent show for singing groups. All that hard work, all those hours and hours of practicing and rehearsing finally pay off, and you and the band are declared the winners.

This is Michael Frederick Schmidt. He, along with his wife, Tracy L. Schmidt, hail from Hastings, Minnesota. This creep owns a spot in hell – he’s earned it.

His wife’s sister gave birth nine months ago to a beautiful baby girl, making Michael and his Missus a newly minted uncle and aunt.

His sister-in-law and her husband, fresh to the parenting game, must have been grateful to have the opportunity to avail themselves of the Schmidts’ offer to babysit their angel.

Ask any parent about the importance of making “couple time” and they’ll likely tell you that it is essential Dad and Mom remember that they were once husband and wife first before the pitter-patter of little feet.

The depths of depravity to which human beings will sink fills me with disgust and loathing. Sometimes there are people so evil and off the charts that the depths to which their urges will sink and the lengths to which they will go to satisfy them are truly unbelievable.

On August 19, 1982, a genetic mistake was slithering around in his pus-filled skin suit masquerading as a human male – David Joseph Steffen. He came across pretty 19-year-old Karen Range, and decided that she was just the victim he was looking to rape. Stalking her to her Roselawn home, he knocked on her door posing as a door-to-door cleaning supply salesman.

Ah, Mother’s Day. The one day a year when I am allowed to sleep in and I don’t have to cook (yippee!!). Of course sleeping in is a relative term as I am first greeted by a crying baby and whining dogs doing the the pee-pee dance at the foot of the bed. Then my loving husband kisses me and says, “go back to sleep honey. I’ll get the kids up and let the dogs out. I’ll take care of everything”

Oh no.

I lay in bed and listen to the deafening noises emanating from my kitchen as my brood prepares me breakfast in bed. I listen with stomach turning intensity to the crashing, and banging of what must be every single pot, pan, bowl and kitchen utensil that my kitchen can offer and on one memorable occasion, the smoke detector going off. I listen to cries of “you’re a butthead! Yeah! Well you’ve got fart breath.” (those two will never be English scholars)

I am sure each of us can remember a teacher we despised, one who played favorites, who bored us out of our gourds, or who existed solely to make our lives miserable. Mine was Mr. Miller, a crazy old coot/science teacher who fed kittens and puppies to the class snake.

I got a mark of zero in Grade 8 Science because I would not go into the classroom. I did all the assignments but still got zero, and my parents finally transferred me to another school. So bonus to you — no matter how rotten a student you may have been, you can say Cleo here got a worse mark than you! BTW, if anyone out there got lower than zero, please let me know.

In Alberta’s Bowden Institution, about 100 kilometers north of Calgary, lives a very sorry individual. He cries in his cell and tells everyone how remorseful he is, how ashamed. He’s been in prison since 1984, and he wants everyone to believe he’s not the same person now — he’s new and improved! David William Shearing even changed his surname to Ennis, his mother’s maiden name, because he’s not the same person. He wants out on parole, he wants to start life anew, and he wants all of us to forget who and what he really is.

Nothing’s changed. It’s always been about what he wants. It’s especially true of the week of Aug. 2, 1982. That’s the week David William Shearing destroyed an entire family. Six loved and loving people dead because he wanted them to be dead.

When you get to live as long as long as I have, you learn a few things. One of those things is that life isn’t fair. Not by a long shot. Sometimes bad things happen to good people, the good die far too young and bad people get away with all sorts of evil.

But one thing I’ve never gotten used to is how easy our justice system makes it for pedophiles to re-offend. Common sense tells us that when an opportunity presents itself to identify and lock up a child molester, our courts would leap at that chance. After all, you would think that protecting children from these predators must be very high on the law’s list of priorities.

That’s what you would think.