fred phelps : addicted to hate

i’m pretty sure you’ve heard a little bit about pastor fred phelps of the westboro baptist church in kansas…if not..you might want to lift up your rock from time to time and pay attention.  this man has been the cause for much pain, suffering and abuse i couldn’t even imagine.  i wanted to do a little research about him and his cult and found a lot more than i bargained for.  michael moore has confronted him in his documentaries and i’ve seen some of his family members at a few gay civil rights rallies dating all the way back to the march on washington in 1995.  it’s insane that a man like this exists in our world today…some have compared his work to terrorism and i believe that word is extremely understated…read on if you want.  i’m not sure a full or empty stomach will matter…
this clip is from 2006 and isn’t even the most recent attack…but i posted this because julie is a feirce reporter for standing up to shirley phelps-roper who personally frightens the hell out of me!

david bowie & pat methany – this is not america

the following was found on baptistwatch.org.  they are certainly not fans of the phelps cult and this website holds a very interesting and lengthy detailed report about phelps’ past and present and sheds a little bit of light on how he became the freakish demon he has become today.  most of the story has been shared by two of his sons that have left the westboro baptist ‘church’ compound long ago and live in california.   here is just an excerpt from the story telling two stories of unimaginable horror that sounds like the innards of a gruesome stephen king novel turned very sour.

i’m not exactly clear on who the preface is referring to…i imagine it is fred phelps himself but i could be wrong…the website is very detailed and contains a lot of legal reports and most of the piece that was written.  i had to stop reading after a short while because i was so disgusted and nauseated.  it’s unfortunate that the only way to abolish all of the hatred and diseased minds remaining in that compound would be if we had another waco situation on our hands and i frankly wouldn’t mind that at all.

“And be sure your sin will find you out.”  (Num. 32:23)

A frequent quote of Pastor Fred Phelps

(Preface)

He rang the doorbell. It was winter, and with his thick gloves he could barely feel the button.

No answer.

He waited. A cat, caught like him on this cold night outside, walked along the porch rail. Toward him.

He watched it.

In the street behind them a solitary car passed. Like urban sleigh bells, the chains on its tires chimed rhythmic into the pounded street snow.

No one was home. The cat. Was rubbing against his leg.

He set the candy down and picked it up. It purred. And purred more when he tucked it under his warm arm. Like a football. Against his thick coat.

He could see into its eyes. Up close. He liked it that way.

When he wrapped his thick fingers round its tiny neck…

Pinning its legs against his side, he slowly squeezed, watching the eyes widen in alarm. Feeling it push against him. Desperately struggle. For a long time struggle.

Watching.

The lids droop slowly down. The light pass from the eyes.

He let go. Another car rattled metal links by in the snow.

Watching the light return. The animal terror that followed. Flooding the look in those helpless eyes. It pierced his soul.

A shock wave of remorse flamed hot. In all his cells he could feel it.

Guilt.

Or was it love. Yes, warm love for this tiny being.

But…

I want to do it. Again. Now.

Yes, I want to know what it’s like once more.

He squeezed the cat’s thin neck. And when it has succumbed, he felt the same pity again warm flooding him.

And only horror at himself. As he did it once more.

And when it was over he…

But this time the cat mustered the last of its tiny animal ferocity and writhed free.

He felt…watching it streak away…he felt jarred awake somehow…as it ran from him…yes, he was awake now…

And terrified

Had anyone seen him? Would they know?

In a panic he ran

Home to his father’s house…

“Daddy’s Hands”

Mark Phelps feels nauseated whenever he remembers that night. He was hit over 60 times and his brother, Nate, over 200 with a mattock handle. Nate went into shock. Mark didn’t. A boy who became a compulsive counter to handle the stress, Mark counted every stroke. His and Nate’s. While their father screamed obscenities and his brother screamed in pain. Every 20 strokes, their mother wiped their faces off in the tub. Nate passed out anyway. That was Christmas Day.

Though he believes he should be the next governor of Kansas, Pastor Phelps has never believed in Christmas. A mattock is a pick-hoe using a wooden handle heavier than a bat. Fred swung it with both hands like a ballplayer and with all his might. “The first blow stunned your whole body,” says Mark. “By the third blow, your backside was so tender, even the lightest strike was agonizing, but he’d still hit you like he wanted to put it over the fence. By 20, though, you’d have grown numb with pain. That was when my father would quit and start on my brother. Later, when the feeling had returned and it hurt worse than before, he’d do it again. “After 40 strokes, I was weak and nauseous and very pale. My body hurt terribly. Then it was Nate’s turn. He got 40 each time. “I staggered to the bathtub where my mom was wetting a towel to swab my face. Behind me, I could hear the mattock and my brother was choking and moaning. He was crying and he wouldn’t stop.” The voice in the phone halts. After an awkward moment, clearing of throats, it continues: “Then I heard my father shouting my name. My mom was right there, but she wouldn’t help me. It hurt so badly during the third beating that I kept wanting to drop so he would hit me in the head. I was hoping I’d be knocked out, or killed…anything to end the pain. “After that…it was waiting that was terrible. You didn’t know if, when he was done with Nate, he’d hurt you again. I was shaking in a cold panic. Twenty-five years since it happened, and the same sick feeling in my stomach comes back now…” Did he? Come back to you?

“No. He just kept beating Nate. It went on and on and on. I remember the sharp sound of the blows and how finally my brother stopped screaming… “It was very quiet. All I could think of was would he do that to me now. I could see my brother lying there in shock, and I knew in a moment it would be my turn. “I can’t describe the basic animal fear you have in your gut at a time like that. Where someone has complete power over you. And they’re hurting you. And there is no escape. No way out. If your mom couldn’t help you…I can’t explain it to anyone except perhaps a survivor from a POW camp.” Last year, Nate Phelps, sixth of Pastor Phelps’ 13 children, accused his father of child abuse in the national media. The information was presented as a footnote to the larger story of Fred Phelps’ anti-gay campaign. But the deep currents that lie beneath the apparent apple-cheeks of the Phelps’ clan were stirring. A series of interviews with Nate resulted in an eyewitness account of life growing up in the Phelps camp. These reports contained allegations of persistent and poisonous child abuse, wife-beating, drug addiction, kidnapping, terrorism, wholesale tax fraud, and business fraud. In addition, Nate described the cult-like disassembly of young adult identities into shadow-souls, using physical and emotional coercion- coercion which may have been a leading factor in the suicide of an emotionally troubled teenage girl.

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