Yates Trial Inspires Color-Coded "Insanity" Chart

he trial of Andrea Yates for the murder of her five children has created heated discussion over the nature of insanity in the legal system. Insanity, in a legal context, can allow a defendant to avoid execution or imprisonment if proven their illness prevented them from knowing the actions were illegal while they were committing them.

Yates, a Texas woman who claimed her mental illness caused her to kill her five children, was found guilty of premeditated murder Friday and sentenced to life imprisonment. Defenders of Yates say the decision will send a sick person to prison where she will not get help. Critics of the defenders of Yates say those defenders are dressed poorly, and that Yates committed a crime with full knowledge of what she was doing.

U.S. Homeland Security Director Tom Ridge, hot on the heels of his recent color-coded terror alert system, has stepped in to help alleviate the discussion of mental illness as a legal defense. Sunday Ridge introduced a color-coded mental illness "insanity" warning chart that will clearly and efficiently establish what constitutes not guilty by reason of insanity defenses and what constitutes loony, but criminally viable.

With Ridge's new chart, the color green would constitute a normally sane person who has committed no criminal act. Such a state for a person would be known as "normal" and be an umbrella term for everybody, such a common occurrence in fact there really seems to be no reason for it to exist. You could really just start with purple and save everybody the extra color since there's no special precautions or notice that goes along with the green state.

Purple would define "fun" crazy, where no crimes have been committed and things are likeably outside the norm. This state of insanity would include cards, office cut-ups, and guys who say things that are just plain wild. Anyone who sells factory goods at low, low prices might fall into this category. Blue would be extremely eccentric, even unlikable people. Artists, real artists not Starbucks staffers who say they're artists, would fall into this category, as well as people who we would gladly lock up if only they had done something illegal. On the extreme end of this spectrum, calling that dark blue, would be soccer rioters, people prone to violence for little things, and wrestling fans.

Yellow would cover extremely emotionally dysfunctional people. The co-dependent, bi-polar, attention deficit disorder sufferers and any made up diseases to explain extreme unhappiness would fit into this disorder. Misdemeanors committed by people in this state would result in the same punishment as a person in the green or blue state, but with court-ordered counseling as an attached feature of the sentencing. Felonies committed by celebrities would also result in counseling, public service announcements, and a film career to be replaced by appearances of Fox comedy-dramas.

Orange would cover all criminals suffering from mental illness who commit felonies, from property damage and larceny to murders and maintain a state of incoherency at all times of the day. Victims of these types of mental illnesses should be so ill punishing them would be no fun as they'd have no idea they're being punished. Institutionalization would be the standard punishment for this grade of mentally ill criminal. Anyone in this state who does not commit a crime should be allowed their freedom to get a job and shelter on their own without the government's involvement.

Since orange and yellow are so close a color on the chart, there really isn't much difference. Anyone in either state can be determined "yorange" and treated either way, no big deal.

Red, the highest state of insanity, would apply to cases of national interest because of the gruesome details or lack of other good news at the moment. Red-level criminals can be guilty of brutality, such as Andrea Yates murdering her own children in cold blood, or disgusting crimes to be discussed around the water cooler for months, like the O.J. Simpson or Jeffrey Dahmer cases. Marked a by a coherency the orange-level insane criminals lack, red-level criminals shall escape the death penalty by the nature of the bizarre outcry in their defense from seemingly-normal people across the country. With a large income, a red-level defendant can escape a guilty verdict entirely. Upon finishing his explanation of the new chart, Ridge summarized: "There. I think this changes nothing. But at least we can assign colors to it."

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Good people, do you know there's a war going on? I trifle not. I just found out about it, much to my astonishment. It's apparently in Albania or Argentina, somewhere in that region, and yes, we are heavily involved. Our fighting boys and their dads and butch sisters are over there as we speak. If only there were some way the public could be informed on the political actions of our leaders.

Needless to say, as a patriotic American second in fervor only to the late Roy Cohn, I went down to offer my skills to the military recruiters. Unfortunately, my skills as an ace columnist and professional dreamcatcher weaver didn't exactly suit the needs of the military at this time. I am unfortunately unfit for active service, due to my height, my age, and a phony backbrace I wore to the recruiter's office, which I assure was part of an unrelated matter I'd rather not go into.

It's sad to know you're not class A cannon fodder material, but I'll learn to deal with it. There are other ways to serve my country, I know, and I was determined to find it as long as my country was under fire and my interest was minorly raised.

I'm proud to say, loyal readers, Rok Finger was the first on his block to organize a rubber drive. I went door to door collecting, but faired poorly; it's a shame how many used prophylactics are just thrown out these days. The few I did collect, well, let's just sum up by saying the federal officials I talked to weren't anxious to take them off my hands. I could barely take them off my own hands, it wasn't a pleasant experience. Until a more concentrated need for recycling pops up, though, I won't be collecting any more materials for the government.

My next thought was to buy and sell war bonds. But I wasn't even sure where to start the purchase of war bonds. I remember the old slogan, "Buy bonds where you work or bank," so I began there. Fellow columnist Omar Bricks was only too happy to sell me the war bonds he happened to have. War bonds are easy to tell from fake bonds, he assured me, by the various colors they are written in. Each one is hand-stenciled in crayon. As the guarantee on the front ensures, they are good "till the shit comes tumblin' down."

Would you believe I could not re-sell any of these? Some even told me they were fake. I know that is not the case, but perhaps being from the foreign province of New Jersey Mr. Bricks' war bonds are not good here. So I simply took orders for them from various friends, neighborhood associates, and vaguely Mafioso types. Well, without getting into the fine details, what I was doing was not quite "bonding" and was actually referred to as "illegal betting" by the federal agents. They would not cover my bonds, even though I made it clear I expected America to win the war by April or I would not collect on my bond. The charges are still pending, I'm sure we can once again sort everything out without any jail time, my attorney Morrie is quite the mouthpiece.

With all else failing, I tried to assemble a Rok Finger calendar to sell to my fans, with all proceeds going to the war effort. I was thwarted, however, despite all my guarantees to the photographer they would only be semi-nude photos. Damn spineless photographers and their weak stomachs.

In the end, I decided my only real outlet was to go about my daily life. My regular business. Go to work, come home, use the bathroom as needed, spend time with my friends and family, neighborhood associates and vaguely Mafioso types. And spend like a monkey with winning lottery tickets. So I have. New S.U.V., board games by the dozens, a widescreen HDTV, and a new George Foreman grill. The soldiers in Aufvedersehn are doing their part the only way they know how; and here at home, we're doing ours.

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It's about time someone came out and said it, good people, and I will be the first, if you ignore the looming headline: We've been too lenient on those Russians!

What inspires this angry anti-red rhetoric, you ask? Nothing, none of your business. It certainly wasn't related to my decision to remain just friends with Russian bride Molga. It's just time someone reminded the rest of the world Russia hasn't changed their ways at all since the fall of the Soviet Union.

In the 1950s Stalin convinced the world everyone in Russia was living a perfectly happy, Wizard of Oz-like life. At first I was skeptical; but after that minute, I decided it looked good enough to try. That was my first attempt to visit Russia, and though I shouted unsavory thing about the Department of Foreign Affairs at the time, I now realize they acted in my best interest. It's plain from all that footage that turned up after Stalin's death that everything is dreary and ugly over there—they don't even have color. All this talk of the red menace I didn't quite expect so much gray.

I'm not afraid to step on politically correct toes, even mash them until the nails flake off and become bloody and swollen and bruised. I'll come right out and say it: The Russians are weird. It should be obvious, people, they kept that nasty shellacked body of Lenin in the Moscow equivalent of the town strip mall for years. You'd think somebody would wonder what that curious smell is and bring up the suggestion of burying him, but no, not the Russians. And don't get me started on the way their awful cock rock bands completely ape everything off our awful cock rock bands. That bugs me to no end.

Then in the 1960s Kruschev goes on an on about how the Soviet Union will bury us. Fat chance, you can't even bury one crusty Russian cadaver, I don't see you digging 200+ million holes in the cold hard Siberian ground. They brag about sending the first man into space, but everybody knows they never got him back so it doesn't count. Then by the time the 1980s roll around they claim to have enough nuclear weapons to compete with us in a nuclear war, and now it's common knowledge they only had one jeri-rigged nuke put together with duct tape and Play-Doh. Yeah, that will help—we threw all that Star Wars money away on nothing.

If there's one thing that should be clear about the Russians by now, they can't tell the truth. They get a kick out of lying like I get a kick out of netted briefs—it's something they'll never admit to, but it thrills them like nothing else. Whether it's backtracking on a treaty with Hitler which he had good intentions of keeping or if it's an ex-KGB Russian mafia tough disguising himself as a woman on the internet to get a free plane ride over to the states courtesy of a short, handsome-challenged, sex-starved columnist. Hypothetically. What I'm saying is, don't trust 'em. Not now, not ever.

Incidentally, since I apparently have a few lines to spare to this column, I would like to make an announcement on behalf of Boguslaw Sadowski, the friendly cousin to fellow commune columnist Boris Utzov. He is seeking to start up a business involving the numbers and invites you to invest start-up capital, with extremely good odds you will receive a big, big return.

Boguslaw is quite a charming new foreign friend. In exchange for my recommendation to help him with his new business, he will help me find Camembert, who has recently turned up missing from our apartment. Boguslaw is nearly 100% sure Camembert will be in the same condition as when he disappeared.

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