I STUBBED MY toe on a bathroom scale
It throbbed and swelled and all.
I called my local lawmaker
'cause there oughta be a law.
The preceding poem is from somewhere south of high art. I never claimed to be an E.E. Cummings or even an LL Cool J.
I STUBBED MY toe on a bathroom scale
It throbbed and swelled and all.
I called my local lawmaker
'cause there oughta be a law.
The preceding poem is from somewhere south of high art. I never claimed to be an E.E. Cummings or even an LL Cool J.
But I've been reduced to doggerel by the obsessive compulsion of lawmakers who respond to every tragic incident with a new law, usually named for the victim.
Megan's Law touched off a viral proliferation of similar statutes requiring people convicted of various atrocities to register whenever they move to a new location. It's the legal variation on the old tale about who will bell the cat.
In the case of Megan's Law, I've come to believe that the potential violation of a perp's right to live free after serving his sentence is justified by the benefit of knowing where the time bombs are ticking in our neighborhoods. But it's a close call for me.
The latest addition to this growing list of crime registries was passed last week in Suffolk County, N.Y. It requires people convicted of cruelty to animals to register or face jail time and fines. I didn't have to agonize for long over this one. It's bad law. Period.
Jon Cooper, the Suffolk County legislator who came up with this turkey, has made a gravity-defying leap of logic to rationalize this thing.
"Almost every serial killer starts by torturing animals," he told the Associated Press. "So, in a strange sense, we could end up protecting the lives of people."
Yeah, in a strange sense and in a pig's eye. The idea that a serial killer may veer off the homicidal track because the people on his block have learned that he once kicked a cat seems far-fetched to me.
Under the Suffolk law, all adult abusers of animals must provide authorities with their addresses, a head-and-shoulders photograph and a list of aliases. If the violation of their privacy were the only issue this raised, it would be bad enough.
But the law carries some heavyweight penalties.
"It's a class-A misdemeanor," Stephan Otto told me yesterday. "Failure to register could result in a fine of $1,000 and up to a year in jail."
Otto, as director of legislative affairs for the Animal Legal Defense Fund, takes some pride in his relentless advocacy for this law.
"I'm in touch with over a dozen state legislators and staffs that are contemplating similar laws," Otto said. "The public seems overwhelmingly in support. They want to know if people in their neighborhoods have been guilty of these kinds of horrendous crimes."
They may also want to know if you've ever cheated on your taxes or on your spouse or if you've ever been part of a pagan sect that celebrates the sabbath on Tuesdays. But that doesn't give them a right to know.
What gives them the right to know in this case are legislators who are all too eager to please anyone who wants a boutique law tailored to fit their needs or to address any annoyance they have had to endure.
Last year, U.S. Rep. Robert Brady introduced a bill that would have restricted the number of Viagra ads on TV because he was embarrassed while watching TV with his granddaughter. It died in committee.
Last week, Upper Moreland Township officials rebuffed an attempt to enact a law that would penalize residents who left their cars unlocked. This brainstorm fizzled while still in the tropical-depression stage.
Both cases represent a rare triumph of good sense over the forces of knee-jerk legislating. There should be more examples of lawmakers censoring themselves for the common good.
But, as some sage once observed, if the only tool you have is a hammer, every problem looks like a nail.
Whoever wrote that must have been sitting in a legislative session when he got that insight.
Send e-mail to smithel@phillynews.com or call 215-854-2512. For recent columns: http://go.philly.com/smith