Dear Brock Turner,
You are a soulless, spoiled, utterly useless sack of shit, and you deserve to die. That’s as nicely as I can put it. You are scum and the world will be much better off without your smarmy, shitty little fuckface polluting it for even one more minute. You are the poster child for everything that’s wrong with rich people, white people, athletes, Californians, and men, in general. In fact, you’re everything that’s wrong with this country. Well ok, not everything. It’s not fair to pin Donald Trump on you. If anything, it’s the other way around. But still. You’re a degenerate black hole of selfish, ignorant, entitled shitfuckery, and you need to go. I hope that’s clear enough for your repugnant little dickbrain to process. Not that I particularly care. My intention here, though veiled as a sympathetic advice column, is to warn other narcissistic, self-indulgent fuckwits that there really are consequences for their actions, regardless of the impotence of our biased, ineffectual and fetid justice system.
Let me be plain. I think you deserve to suffer. A lot. By at least an order of magnitude higher than your victim, whom you’ve unilaterally sentenced to a lifetime of shame, despair, self-doubt, and myriad emotional and physical distresses that she does not deserve, and most certainly did not ask for, regardless of how many beers she drank or the outfit she wore or which alley she slept in. She did not deserve to have you fall upon her helpless body like a vulture feeding on her eternal innocence just to achieve your own brief moment of sexual gratification. Nope. What she deserved was basic human decency. What she deserved was the loving, helping hand of a passing friend who should have recognized her defenselessness and offered to reach out and protect her from the dangers of the night.
All you had to do was exercise the most basic impulse of goodness; the Golden Rule, Brock. But instead, you decided it would be fun to rip off her clothes and fuck away every good night of sleep she would ever have. Instead, you thought it would be a good time to force your filthy fingers into her and scrape away whatever hopes and dreams the world hadn’t yet taken from her. So here we are. Her life has been forever tainted, and you, miraculously, have been released from prison with your goddamn loathsome cock still attached to your body, rather than stuffed down your throat, where it belongs. Good for you.
But here’s the thing, Brock. Here’s where I’m actually doing you a favor. I know, I know…that was a roundabout introduction for a favor. Forgive me. It’s been a day. But here it is- your life is shit. YOU are shit. Every single thing coming at you for the rest of your life is shit. Sure, it may not seem like it, now. You beat the system. YAY! You got away with raping a defenseless girl. SCORE! Your family is rich and connected and you’re young and white and this is America, where rich white guys can do whatever they want and get away with it. You’re killin’ it, Brock! Or so it seems. But what you might not know is that, in addition to being a wretched puddle of pig vomit, you are also famous, now. The all-powerful Internets have seen fit to deliver your ratfuck face to the entire world, and now you are marked. My guess is, you’re gonna wish you’d stayed in prison. Don’t get me wrong- I’m sure prison was bad. You probably got raped repeatedly by big scary men who didn’t bother to wait for you to pass out first. At least, that’s what I hope happened to you.
Sadly (for capital-j Justice, anyway) that’s probably not what happened. What probably happened was that the same money and privilege that got you such a laughably, offensively short sentence, in the first place, also got you set aside in some minimum-security cell, away from the prying eyes and bulging penises of the general population. And that, to me, is a real shame. Personally, I think they should have just lined up, on a 24-hour rotating cattle call, taking turns splitting you right down the middle with members that would have felt akin to two-by-fours, pounding you until you were out of breath, lacerating your insides until you bled to the point of passing out, only to be slapped awake again by the next in line, who wanted to make damn sure you knew who was giving it to you. That would have been nice to see, regardless of what I must assume would be a rather objectionable smell. Sadly, your money got you a pass. And here we are. Today. But what happens tomorrow, Brock? See, tomorrow you won’t have the secrurity of a confined environment, with big walls and bars and locks and paid guards to protect you. No. Tomorrow you have to go back out into the real world, and that world is waiting for you. It’s gonna tear you apart, Brock.
You’re probably wondering where I’ve been going with all of this. I’m happy to explain. See, the world wants you dead, Brock. Or, more accurately, it wants to see you suffer and die slowly. You don’t want that, do you? I didn’t think so. And so, at long last, we have arrived at the point of my letter. Kill yourself, Brock. Seriously. It’s the best plan. It’s really the only scenario that guarantees that you won’t wake up one night with a dull knife slicing clumsily through your wee little cock and balls, only to be followed immediately by the disquieting sensation of simultaneously choking on them and drowning in your own blood. It’s going to happen, Brock. Maybe not tonight. Maybe not tomorrow. But it’s gonna happen. You’re a bad guy, Brock. People want to hurt you. Lots and lots of people. And, sooner or later, one of them is going to find you, and when they do, they’re gonna slice off your verminous manhood and force it down your contemptible little throat. So let’s be real here, Brock. You should just remove yourself from the equation. It’s really the brightest possible outcome for you, you nauseating little savage. Nobody will miss you, Brock. Not even your parents. Can you even begin to imagine the immensity of their shame? They must really feel awful. I bet they’d go back in time and abort you, if they could. Why prolong their suffering, Brock? For once, go ahead and be the good guy, and abort yourself.