It's Saturday night, there's nothing to do. Hey, let's fuck the dead girl!

When I first heard of this story, I pictured a scenario where the Satanic desecration of the bod of a dead person was offered to the devil, along with the burnt-up, ashen cinders of young boy souls in gift wrapped matchboxes. This would be done in a All Hallows Eve ritual. The full harvest moon shining on the naked dead girl spread on a slab of graveyard marble surrounded by skinny boys taking turns would bring rosie color to the cheeks of Satan. I thought that maybe they thought Satan would give preferential treatment in the hierarchy of hell to those who went panting, crazed, and "gun-ho" down the black path to the worstest of all human crimes -- necrophilia.

But nothing of the sort. These boys were not Satanist. The idea of digging up the dead girl for shits and grins and a round of fun didn't pop into their wee brains until ten minutes before they drove to the graveyard. I wouldn't be knocked-out surprised had they returned home to retrieve forgotten shovels. The newspaper states: "the suspects stopped at Wal-Mart to purchase condoms on their way to the graveyard." Sounds like the first thought at the last minute to me.

Maybe, talk about ambushing the sleeping dead started in high school, started by the unpopular few. It was shock value, bullshit-soaked, mindless, inanely harmless jabber indulged in by those outside the click of snobs. Ostracized boys would pretend to be black-eyed insane so to give a lofty, deviant aura to their little boy loneliness. The groundwork for such talk had been laid decades ago by America's foremost necrophiliac, Ed Gein. (Silence of the Lambs fame -- a local boy). I imagine Cassvillian popularites could be as merciless as any Columbine High School cheerleader she-bully. (I have a feeling not many Cassvillians picked on Ed Gein and lived long enough to regret "funnin Ed"). These boys weren't afraid of having their asses kicked at school by the jocks, (they were practiced jock duckers),but were deftly afeared of *Perky* tittied cheerleader Megan slinging an early morning insult their way.

At the time of the planned (if you want to call it that) transgression against the dead girl, the boys were long out of high school, but happy memories of their fondness for deviant musings hung about them like miasmal fog. Ah, the glory that was 12th grade, and the grandeur of the graduate.

I have thought of how these boys, while sitting around flipping channels, fighting over game controllers, drinking (yes, somewhere in the not-too-distant-past they became old enough to drink), talked about shit, vomit, and whose junk was bigger. This talk turned to: what to do?

Someone picked up a newspaper, turned to the obits. Our story starts here.

"Ah, shit. That hot bitch that works at Walgren's croaked, man."

"You mean the blond one, the hot one, the one that talks to us?"

"Yeah, dude, that's her. She's here in the paper. She died in a car-motorcycle accident on farm road 211. "

"Jeeze, dude, I'd fuck her dead."

And that's how it started: wagers were made, rubbers were bought, shovels were produced, the grave was found. Then someone called the police.

I just wonder which boy volunteered "we were going to dig her up to fuck her."

Must have been some sort of interrogation. But really, I imagine they were quick to give each other up. My guess the twins rolled over on each other quick.

You ask, "how could something like that happen in America? How?"

The answer is clear to me, -- no God. Yes, no God. Those boys were not Satanist, but they were not Methodist either, nor Jewish, nor Catholic. They were adrift in the well of American culture with no anchor. Our cultural well is poisoned. It has been poisoned for a long time. Starting with Elvis, sex and American morals went on a road trip. Babies conceived in back seats and motels by unmarried people grew up in broken homes watching adds for beer, cigarettes, rock and roll, make-up, tattoos, M-t.v., even pornographic movies; the next outrage, by necessity, more outrageous than the last. Where does it end? Well, it ends anywhere on the way to orange hair -- anywhere. Whether one stops at Izod or moves beyond facial piercings, the only thing one needs to not end up in the graveyard fucking dead people is --God. These boys had no God.

I'm sleepy.)