First, in Iowa, a room-temperature IQ prosecutor has charged a 14-year-old girl with sexual exploitation for taking pictures of herself-- pictures that would be able to be broadcast on TV:
At least the parents are standing up against this and suing the douchebag.
A 14-year-old Iowa girl, "Nancy Doe," is facing sexual exploitation charges for taking two sexy pictures of a minor and texting them to a boy at school.
The minor in question is Doe, which means the Marion County prosecutor has essentially threatened to brand her a sex offender for taking and sending pictures of her own body.
Making matters significantly worse, the pictures in question can hardly be described as child pornography, Doe's family argues in its lawsuit against Marion County Attorney Ed Bull. In one photo, she was wearing boy shorts and a sports bra. In the other, she had removed the bra but her hair was fully covering her breasts.
Doe's own parents described the pictures as "less 'racy' than photographs they see in fashion magazines and on television every day." They wonder if she could have been prosecuted for taking a picture of herself in her swimsuit—such a picture would have probably been even more revealing than the alleged 'sexts.'
Second, in North Carolina a black man was arrested for the horrific crime of sitting on his mother's porch:
All the charges were dropped, because the prosecutor actually had spare neurons to rub together.
The encounter between Travis Cole, a white police officer, and Dejuan Yourse, a black man sitting on the porch of his mother's house in Greensboro, North Carolina, starts calm and friendly but ends with Yourse lying face down on the front lawn, restrained by handcuffs and Cole's knee on his shoulder, complaining that "you tried to beat my ass for real." The senseless escalation of the interaction between Cole and Yourse illustrates how even seemingly mild-mannered cops can be clueless about the indignities they are inflicting on innocent people yet supersensitive to any perceived questioning of their authority. That double standard is compounded by a legal system that fails to hold cops responsible for the crimes they commit when they make bogus arrests.
In the 16-minute body camera video of the incident, which happened last June, it is easy to identify the point at which things start to go south: about eight minutes after Cole arrives with another officer, C.N. Jackson, in response to a report of a possible attempted burglary. That is when Cole pokes Yourse in the chest and orders him to sit back down. Yourse, who has repeatedly suggested that a neighbor named Charlie can verify his identity, is heading for Charlie's house when Cole makes it clear he is not free to go.
Yourse has not done anything illegal, and at no point during the encounter does Cole or Jackson seem to think he might actually be a burglar. "Usually if someone is trying to break into a house, they're not gonna sit on the porch" in broad daylight, Cole notes, and as Yourse points out, "the address is on my ID." Cole says he believes Yourse when he says he is "just sitting here, chillin', waiting on my Moms," who has the key to the house. Cole even speculates that "somebody outside the cul-de-sac" must have called the police, since anyone who lived nearby would have recognized Yourse. Although Yourse's mother is not answering her cellphone, Cole says it's not necessary to bother the neighbors. "I believe you," he says. "You have your ID. You told me your name. It matches up."
Yet Cole stays and continues to grill Yourse—about his prison tattoos, his possible outstanding warrants (Yourse says he has none), even the pronunciation of his last name. Yourse tolerates it all with a smile. But after Cole prevents him from leaving the porch, he starts to show his irritation. "Why are you doing this?" he asks. "Why are you talking to me like that?" Cole seems genuinely puzzled by Yourse's anger at being treated like an intruder on the porch of the house where he grew up. "Dejuan, relax," he says. "What's going on? I didn't do nothing." Yourse responds, "I didn't do nothing either." Cole wonders why "you seem a little animated," as if there must be some explanation other than the treatment he is receiving from Cole. "I'm just trying to prove to you I live here," Yourse says, "and you start looking at me like I'm lying." He says he is upset because "a cop is on me in my own house, and I ain't did nothing."
Third, a Columbia University student, now that he has graduated, tells the story about how he was reported to the university's "Gender-Based Misconduct Office" for the horribly offensive crime of calling himself handsome:
Then again, Columbia is where Mattress Girl was able to slander another student with impunity, so they're a known offender of logic and rationality.
You would think students instructed to report to the Gender-Based Misconduct Office had committed serious transgressions. Its name conjures images of creepy guys harassing and violating women.
Columbia University graduate Benjamin Sweetwood claims he did nothing of the sort. He got in trouble for doing something completely inoffensive: he referred to himself as handsome in a class.
"Now I've graduated from Columbia University, I am finally ready to reveal a dark and shameful secret I have kept buried for almost two years," writes Sweetwood in a recent article about his experience. "I, Ben Sweetwood, committed 'gender misconduct' while a student at the above mentioned institution of higher learning."
According to Sweetwood, the incident happened in his Chinese class. He was supposed to say something in Chinese, and that's what he picked. The professor later told him she thought it was a funny remark, but one student had complained. That was just the beginning:
Later that day, my advising dean emailed me to say, "The University's Gender-Based Misconduct Office contacted us because they received a complaint about your behavior towards your Elementary Chinese II professor. It is important we meet to discuss this as soon as possible." I responded in a defiant tone, denying any wrongdoing, though I agreed to meet the next day.