AP, 7 August 2007: Inside the home's front door lay a bare, blood-soaked mattress and box spring. The house was infested with fleas, the plumbing was backed up, much of the furniture was broken and the stench of cat urine filled the air. Matthew Booth, 34, was lying face-up on the mattress when he was shot in the head early July 30. His 13-year-old daughter told investigators she used a 12-gauge shotgun to shoot him in the face, a crime that her attorney said was precipitated by years of sexual abuse.The Associated Press on Sunday toured the Elizabeth Township home, located about 20 miles southeast of Pittsburgh, and found revolting conditions. Prosecutors initially charged the girl as an adult with criminal homicide. But after visiting the filthy home Friday, Allegheny County District Attorney Stephen A. Zappala Jr. decried the deplorable conditions and said the girl would be tried as a juvenile.
The girl lived in the squalor, among the fleas and animal feces. There was barely enough room to walk through the living room. A beat-up couch, where the girl slept, stood propped up against one corner, its back ripped and its cushions scattered on the floor. An empty alcohol bottle, beer cans, soda cans, books, a stuffed animal, papers and crumpled-up pages from pornographic magazines cluttered the floor. A coffee maker and another small appliance sat on the kitchen floor amid dirt, debris and animal feces. A green cat litter box lay on its side.
Authorities said animal welfare officers took away an array of animals - including dogs, cats and rabbits - from the house last week. Several trash-filled plastic grocery bags leaned against the fridge, while larger trash bags brimming with empty beer cans took up space under the kitchen sink. The only items in the freezer were a bottle of vodka, a plastic bag and a small red container.
In one room upstairs was another bare mattress and box spring. Stuffed animals, plastic toys, clothing, and soda cans and bottles were strewn across the floor, along with animal feces. Several drawings took up one wall. On a piece of paper stuck to the wall was D.H. Lawrence's poem, "Self Pity," which begins, "I never saw a wild thing feel sorry for itself." Written in marker on the wall was "To live is to suffer" and a line from a Tupac Shakur song, "My only fear of death is reincarnation."
A second room upstairs was so cluttered that walking more than a yard inside was impossible. A kitchen sink, a vacuum cleaner, an artificial Christmas tree, broken furniture, boxes and other items filled the floor. After going through the house with an AP reporter and photographer, Rose and Al Hanasik, who works with Rose, spent several minutes furiously smacking the fleas off their clothing.
You wonder, day after day, reading all the various House of Skank stories on the various news sites on the internets:
What percentage of Amerikan Homes have descended into skank? 5%? 10%? 15%? Maybe 25%? More?
The House of Skank stories aren’t particularly disturbing, anymore. One now accepts as matter of fact that a sizeable percentage of Amerikans live in filth--not the filth born of poverty (not enough money for repairs or materials), but the filth born of choice. . .choosing to remain stretched out in piss-stained underwear on a dirty sofa, staring at an idiot box while drinking cans of beer rather than to get up and open a door to let out the 6 dogs and 10 cats that have to relieve themselves. . .
John Wesley preached 216 years ago: Slovenliness is no part of religion. Cleanliness is indeed next to Godliness. If true, Beelzebub must be the god of Amerikan skankdom.
Imagine the louse on his couch, staring drunken at a pornographic dvd. . .amidst the pretend moanings of the not-pretend fornicators, cats and dogs hunt and sniff, looking for a spot to evacuate their bowels or empty their bladders. . .the louse doesn’t even move as the dog lifts its leg and pisses on the already-stinking couch he is resting on. . .
Increasing numbers of Amerikans are becoming comfortable living in absolute filth. . .what is inside Amerikan households will gradually creep outside, as well. . .the schools, the malls, the stadiums, the airports, the restaurants, all the public places will soon be dotted with filth. . .well, talk to any janitor, and he or she will tell you a tale of the public bathroom with feces smeared on the walls, tampons floating in the clogged sinks. . .
This is not the filth of Iraq, where the infrastructure has been destroyed due to war, and the water is dirty and the sanitation system has broken down, etc., etc.. . .Amerikan filth is the filth of choice.
What makes this particularly story disturbing are the added elements of sexual abuse and patricide.
The fleas hopping off the naked body of the girl. . .13 years old when she took the shotgun and rescued herself. . .it’s trite to say, in a situation presented such as this, *we don’t condone murder, but. .*
In truth, we can condone this murder. . .we can accept it and forgive it. And it is not hard to do. If we can condone our military’s murders in Iraq, we can certainly condone this murder.
This girl was 13 years old when she took the shotgun and rescued herself. And certainly, whatever foster home or juvenile facility she is placed in will seem a refuge, a safe haven. . .locked up, free at last. This girl was 13 years old when she took the shotgun and rescued herself. . .and you wonder at what age the fleas started hopping off her naked body? At what age did her father begin his sexual abuse of her? 9? 10? 11? 12?
This little girl would come home from school. . .school, which most kids naturally despise, but what must have seemed like some place over the rainbow to this little girl. . .this little girl would come home from school, open the front door to her *home* and be greeted with the stench of cat urine and the sight of empty liquor bottles and soiled pages from pornographic magazines. . .maybe even the sight of her father abusing himself on the dirty couch as he *enjoyed* a *Barely Legal* magazine. . .and the little girl would have to wonder if today would be one of those of days, one of those days when her father would come to her. . .would come to her in their world of filth and defile her young body. . .the fleas leaping from her after her father violated her.
The newspaper story reports the young girl slept on a beat-up couch on the first floor. But on the second floor, there is a room with a mattress. . .and on the wall of this room, the poem:
I never saw a wild thing
sorry for itself
A small bird will drop frozen dead from a bough
without ever having felt sorry for itself
and the doggerel of Tupac.
You wonder what this room was? One must assume the girl placed the poem on the wall. Was it her abandoned bedroom? Her father must have molested her on that bare mattress, and she could no longer bear to sleep in that room, so she chose to sleep on the tattered first floor couch.
She placed art on the wall of the abandoned bedroom. . .drawings and poetry. No doubt her father still molested her in that abandoned bedroom. . .oblivious to the poems. . .and the drawings. . .the drawings must have told her story, in however subtle a fashion. . .that wall, that wall as Diary of an Abused Girl, made no impression upon the father. . .he never saw it.
I imagine the girl on the mattress, after her father has left off with her. She might scratch at her genitals. . .and the fleas leap away. In a dirty, stinking, itching, degenerate godforsaken corner of the world, she stares at her Diary on the Wall. . .she picks up a marker and begins a new entry. . .
You often hear the infidel say:
If there is a God, how could He allow such an awful thing to happen?
The stupidity of the infidel. . .to accuse God over your own indifference.
This girl is so dear to Him, so dear to Him. . .
Eventually the girl grew old enough, strong enough for the shotgun. You wonder how many months, how many years she thought about that shotgun, her salvation? And then the day came, the moment arrived, when she could lift it and point it at her father.
This girl is so dear to Him, so dear to Him. . .as she trembled before pulling the trigger, God loved her. It is written:
Bless the LORD, O my soul, and forget not all His benefits: Who forgiveth all thine iniquities; who healeth all thy diseases; Who redeemeth thy life from destruction; who crowneth thee with lovingkindness and tender mercies. . .The LORD is merciful and gracious, slow to anger, and plenteous in mercy. He will not always chide: neither will He keep His anger for ever. He hath not dealt with us after our sins; nor rewarded us according to our iniquities. For as the heaven is high above the earth, so great is His mercy toward them that fear Him. As far as the east is from the west, so far hath He removed our transgressions from us. Like as a father pitieth His children, so the LORD pitieth them that fear Him. For He knoweth our frame; He remembereth that we are dust.
This girl, whose earthly father had no pity for her, can have a Heavenly Father to pity and heal and forgive her. . .He knows the weakness of the girl’s frame, and remembers she is but dust. . .
By the mystery of salvation will she be brought to Christ?
This girl, who fears reincarnation, will she one day rejoice at being born again?
There are those would say, she could have told the police, a school teacher, a relative, a neighbor, somebody, anybody--she didn’t have to kill her father.
How many who would say this live in filth, physical and moral? This girl lived in a different world. . .
But I say unto you, That it shall be more tolerable for the land of Sodom in the day of judgment, than for thee.
She pulled the trigger? A mere formality. . .a matter of dotting *i’s* and crossing *t’s*. . .her father was dead already. He was on a mattress, probably passed out cold after having a drunken molesting session with his daughter. . .had he opened his eyes and saw her standing over him with shotgun in hand, he had no reason to fear her:
And fear not them which kill the body, but are not able to kill the soul: but rather fear Him which is able to destroy both soul and body in hell.
He was dead, already. He never feared God.
These stories interest me. I do not, as the infidels, wonder how God could allow such to happen. These stories about our ugly world interest me. Look out your window. Look at the neighbor’s house. Look at the apartment across the hall. What’s happening behind those walls? It may be in your own *home.* There is so much ugliness hidden. . .the sun shines, the sky is blue. . .but in the private rooms there is so much ugliness. . .the worst kinds of filth imaginable. . .going on 24/7, as they say.
These stories interest me. I do not, as the infidels, wonder how God could allow such to happen. If the infidel would take the time to read the Bible, would ask the Lord to lift the veil, it would be known how *God could allow such to happen.*
These stories interest me, these ugly stories, because if we consider them even briefly, we can see a picture. . .a picture of a God who could love just one little girl so much, hold one little girl so dear, God would allow us to pervert ourselves and His creation in order to save a few like her out of this dung heap.
I read a story like this, about one little girl who must suffer all the garbage of the world, and I should pray she receive the gospel.
The infidels will argue the technicalities of free will, omnipotence, etc., etc., in their vain attempt to deny God. As if they have the capacity to understand the Cosmic Order. . .I would say to them: shut up, get on your knees and ask God to grant you repentance, but they don’t have that capacity, either.
Heavenly Father, just remember the girl, the flea-bitten girl in the Amerikan House of Skank. . .
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