LET’S JUST JUMP right to the task.
I’m not going to throw spears at Sheriff Tom Bosenko and the Shasta County Sheriff’s Office when there’s so much I don’t know about this case. But I’m no dummy dingbat and neither are they. Something’s awry, remiss, askew and cockeyed, and they know it and have said as much — and We the People of Planet Duh! deserve to know what really happened to Sherri Papini.
Are we entitled to know, though? Is there a legal obligation to dislodge the butt plug on this case and let all that poop come flooding out for the sake of the world’s (and especially Redding’s) edification? What a spa day that would be. Poo facial anyone?
Here’s what someone asked me in a recent email:
What was that thing you were so certain everyone had mistakenly assumed? Where do you stand on this case a year later? Any plans to write a followup essay?
She also mentioned something about my website’s page views and how they must have tanked once I wrapped up my Sherri Papini essay series. What, you don’t enjoy reading about frogs and wake boarding or the blabberings of a blabbermouth moose? You may find this hard to believe, but I don’t bathe in numbers. I don’t eat them for breakfast and sip them in my bedtime tea. In fact, I don’t even have a Google analytics plugin installed on my website anymore.
And if that doesn’t give you the willies, I also don’t own a smart phone. I despise them stupid things and stats addiction and even wrote about it here:
To summarize: The only bulge I want to see in a man’s jeans is front and center (not that I’m looking). And as for a woman? I don’t care where you pack your bulges, so long as they don’t vibrate and ring.
I’d much rather spend my time writing about my darling rooster Henry and his miraculous recovery from a coyote attack, but this needs to be said. Haha, just kidding. Nothing needs to be said. I’m just taking a break from pulling weeds and got a sudden itch to respond to that email — and let me tell you, this isn’t an easy undertaking. A few months ago a feisty hen crash landed on top of my already ragged laptop’s keyboard, flicked off the F key with a claw, flung it through a knothole in the redwood deck, bludgeoned my tuna fish sandwich, and forever crippled my ability to work on my books.
Because as it turns out, I use the letter F in my writings a lot more than I ever realized, and Apple wants over $500 to replace the keyboard, and no way in heck can I afford a new computer. And it gets worser yet: Apple killed the 11″ MacBook Air. It’s forever gone. With my sensory problems I can’t use a laptop with a traditional 13″ screen.
That bites the big byte. Gah!
Well, it’s not like I was on a bullet train to getting my books written. But at least I had the hope of sticking my cheeks to a chair and calling myself a book author in the making. Now there’s just this quick jaunt of a “not an essay”
blog booger post I’ve got going for me, and it’s taking forever to write.
Something else that’s taking forever is the next grand reveal in the Sherri Papini case. Nice segue, eh? Do you realize it’s been over a year since I wrapped up my essay series? Do you know how long that is?
Not 8,760 hours since Sherri disappeared while (supposedly) jogging on November 2, 2016. That’s gobs of hours even longer ago. I’m just talking about the obnoxious chunk of planetary orbits around the sun (but which planet is the question) since I last wrote a peep about this case. That right there is one ginormous heap of minutes and nano seconds, if you ask me (and yes, someone is asking).
And pretty much all we’ve been given is this:
Consider that a dropped clue, not unlike a steamy pile of stegosaurus dung, assuming you read those essays I linked to just above. Thing addressed, then.
(The butler did it. THE BUTLER DID IT!!)
Now, for a quick repeat of a self quote from Part Four and I’m off and running:
And a quick reminder, because I know it’s needed: a victim in a crime isn’t any less a victim when unsavory details about who they are, and their past, are unearthed. That’s hard to swallow, but I’m not your physician. You’re going to have to figure out how to process that on your own.
Whoops, and this from Part Five:
I’m not worried about being wrong. There’s no shame in that. What bothers me is when people raise fists in defense of what they feel is truth, without actually knowing for sure.
More weeds to pull, holes to be dug, eggs to be collected. See how that happens? How life just goes on and slips back into some semblance of normalcy, as if a super mommy never vanished from the streets of Shasta County?
But we don’t forget, do we. Not ever. And we’d like to know the uncensored truth of what really happened to our dear girl Sherri Papini.
The Forever Flicked Off F Key not withstanding, there may be another moose blabbering in the works sometime soon. Peace and glad tidings until then, and good cheer.
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