Creep of the Week - December 20, 1997

Image: James Monroe Lipscomb

James Monroe Lipscomb
"Acute Testosterone Poisoning"
It's a bad drug. For the guys who can't handle it, it's worse than marijuana, crack, LSD and heroin put together. Once it takes control of someone's life, the addict and anyone around him are in for a very rough ride. It turns peaceful, loving, law-abiding gentlemen into incoherent, raving lunatics. It turns rich and famous ex-football stars into insidious murderers. It causes road rage and bar fights and wars. It's called Testosterone. Every man on this planet gets a healthy supply at puberty, and then starts pumping out more every day. Testosterone is not so bad by itself, but combine it with frustration, rejection and, of course, the proverbial scent of a woman, and the top blows. Hell breaks loose. When a man's testosterone is doing the talking, stand aside, because trouble's a-brewing. Someone's going to get slashed or burned, dismembered or disemboweled, ravaged or pillaged.

This week's poster child for the Acute Testosterone Poisoning Syndrome is James Monroe Lipscomb of Plano, Texas, a suburb of Dallas. James was having some marital trouble. His wife Kris had filed for divorce. She refused to see him or talk to him. Whoosh! Nothing causes the old testosterone level to skyrocket like having the door slammed in your face just when you were about to say something really intelligent and charming. She may have been preventing James from seeing his kids. WHOOSH! Nobody takes my kids away. The Dallas Cowboys choked and got eliminated from the playoffs! WHOOSH! Not my Cowboys! Testosterone-flavored icing on the cake! Where's that gun? I'm going to show them all what kind of man I really am!

James, his handgun and his raging hormones proceeded over to the Rigsbee Child Development Center where Kris worked. On the way, he tried to rob someone (probably Barry Switzer) outside a nearby bank. When he reached the day-care center, he began pacing the halls, repeating that he "meant business'' and demanded to speak to Kris. Unbeknownst to James, his wife, who undoubtedly knew from experience about his testosterone junkie habit, had flown the coop as soon as she saw him approaching the building. When James found that out, testosterone overload shut down his entire thinking process and left him to deal with the situation using only his animal instinct. He took 80 children and five adults hostage.

Normally, when you take hostages, you use them to negotiate the demands that you have. But James didn't seem to have any demands or any explanation for how he got himself into a such a mess. He eventually started releasing his quarry, until he had only two children left - his own. Hopefully he had a pleasant few minutes with them before he let them go, because it'll be a long time until he sees them again. James is now in jail, a common hangout for members of Testosterone Anonymous.

The only way to deal with the testosterone crisis is to handle it like we do any other drug problem. Get experts like Nancy Reagan involved. Just say no to your balls. Train some testosterone-sniffing dogs. Bring in members of Heaven's Gate to lecture high school kids on the benefits of testosterone-free living. Train teachers to spot the tell-tale signs of addiction: Metallica CDs, hairy palms and pickup trucks that require a step-ladder to get into. And finally, try to be understanding to the poor little fellows: When a man is born, he comes out of a woman's body, and then he's biologically predisposed to spend the rest of his life trying to get back into one. Don't get in the way.

Let me know what you think at montgome@servtech.com

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