7/19/2005 01:40:00 PM by Rob

Tremendous Upside Potential (TUP)

I told you I'd be back in full swing when the Cubs swung THE trade for THE guy that would enable us to come roaring back in the Central. Jody Gerut isn't THE guy. He doesn't have the TUP.

In the meantime, let's discuss a local topic for a minute. The grainy babe to my left is 23 year old Jeannette Sliwinski of north suburban Chicago. She's very beautiful, very very spoiled, and very very very clueless. And in very very very very much trouble.

She had a fight with her parents about whether or not she could drop her pet off at their house while she went out partying. So she decides she wants to "end it all". But does she suck some pipe, or gulp some lead, or drop some dope, or slash her pretty wrists? Nah, she decides to rev her cute little Mustang up past 70 mph on a main suburban thoroughfare, run a few red lights, and smash it into a car full of wanna-be rock stars at the intersection of Niles Center Rd and Dempster. Then, as they lay dying and she isn't, they ask her if she did it on purpose, she bats her dainty eyes and says "sure".

Now, she's up on three counts of first degree murder. She could ride Ol' Toasty, or more likely, be humanely euthanized.

What makes this very interesting if you are a cop, jail guard, judge or an attorney involved with this case, is that she (and her parents) are doing everything they can to mitigate the circumstances. Clearly, her desire to be one with the Reaper has dissipated, and she seems, with the blessing of her enabling parents, to be willing to do ANYTHING for mercy.

ANYTHING!

She just oozes with TUP.

Well, I have nothing but a lot of time to think of such things, what would I do if I were the Honorable Uncouth Sloth and I held this little dumplin's life in my greezy hands?

As you'd probably guess, I'd ask the defendant to meet me in chambers. I'd hand her a bottle of vodka. I'd ask her if she had any gymnastic training in the past.

I'd ask her if she had a lot of experience standing on her head, and holding her breath. I'd find out if she was double jointed, and if she were prone to be particularly queasy.

Nevertheless of whatever she answered, she'd have to spend the next several hours being crammed full of whatever I could muster, every input, every output, every angle, with and without duct tape, dry ice and my 1/8th scale Gene Simmons action figure. I'd get more Polish ass than the toilet seat in stall 1 of the lower deck women's john at Cracovia Stadium. She'd be dripping wet from no less than six natural and artifical fluid substances, and she'd have NOTHING to say about it.

Then I'd sentence the little slut to ten years of house arrest, and I'd come over twice a week to check on her progress.

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