I’m Taking a Treachbatical, Or a Sabbtreachical, Or Whatever

Hello. Jim Treacher, AKA Sean Medlock here. How are you today? That’s nice. That’s just fine.

If you’ve never read my blog before, here are a few things that will help you make sense of the following post:

That brings you up to Feb. 2011, when most of my medical stuff was done, and I was in the middle of physical therapy and all that. I did another round of physical therapy about a year later to correct my lingering limp, but that’s mostly gone now.

Since then, the last two and a half years, I’ve spent waiting for the State Department to get around to the lawsuit I filed against them. I won’t bore you with the details — the fraudulent jaywalking ticket they gave me to cover their corrupt asses, the full year I spent confined to my apartment because my PTSD threw me into a panic whenever I saw headlights or had to flinch from a bad driver or even so much as heard the jingling of a bicycle bell — but let’s just say the last half-decade of my life hasn’t been a blast.

I continued to do the job I was hired to do through all of this. I figured, these guys brought me all the way out to DC to do a job, and if I could still do it with a head full of painkillers while my leg looked like it should be hanging in a butcher’s shop, I’d do my best. Besides, it helped take my mind away from the pain, and I got to thumb my nose at everybody who counted me out. (Anybody who tells you spite isn’t a powerful motivator has led a charmed life.)

As the years passed and I got better, physically and (mostly) emotionally, I still had this lawsuit hanging over my head. “How are these corrupt bastards going to screw me over this time? They’ve already crippled me for life. Why wouldn’t they cripple my soul too?”

That anger and frustration has been another motivator. Oh, you don’t like what I’m saying, you arrogant, imperious tax-ticks whose salaries I’m still paying after everything you’ve done to me? Well, then:

Fuck you.

Then, last month, miracle of miracles: The State Dept. magnanimously agreed to a meeting. A moderation meeting, which is a sort of out-of-court settlement process. Unlike an arbitration, it was non-binding. If I didn’t like what I was hearing, I could walk away and say, “See you in court.”

Already-too-long-story made a little shorter. I liked what I heard. Or at least I didn’t dislike it enough to walk away.

DC’s liability laws are the subject of another post, or another series of posts, but they’re completely stacked against the pedestrian. If the defense can prove to a jury that the plaintiff is as little as 1% at fault, the plaintiff gets nothing. Nothing. It’s not that way anywhere else in America, except DC, Maryland, and Virginia. I’m sure it’s just a coincidence that those are the three areas where you’re most likely to be injured or killed by a federal agent.

If DC law was fair, I could’ve gotten 10 times as much in damages for what was done to me through no fault of my own. But because of that phony-ass jaywalking ticket, I could either take the deal I managed to talk them up to, or I could go to court and risk getting nothing because of DC’s self-protective laws.

Which brings us up to today. I’ve just banked the small fraction of what I deserve for the past five years of pain, suffering, and being the subject of a taxpayer-funded smear campaign.

So that’s done.

And I’m tired as hell, y’all.

I’ve talked to the bosses, and they’ve agreed to give me the next month or so off. I need to just rest, recuperate, and figure out what’s next.

I’m not going anywhere — Tucker Carlson and Neil Patel have earned my undying loyalty, and I’ll continue to blog at the Caller for as long as they’ll have me — but I just need to recharge my batteries. I’ve got plans to make, some house-shopping to do, maybe enjoy a nice dinner or two… and otherwise, I need to try to decompress from this past half-decade of unending suck.

I hope you’ll be here when I get back. If not, thanks for reading.

And Happy Halloween!