When does horror become sadness?  When does sadness become anger?  I don’t know; I wish I did.  ‘Cause I’m sitting here, half a world away, wondering why “atrocity” is such a lame word for the latest terrorist attack in London.  The truth is I’m no longer interested in the aftermath of evil or the words that try to describe it.  I don’t care who those murdering bastards were.  I don’t want to know their names or anything else about their twisted little lives.  I don’t care where they were born, and I certainly don’t give a damn about how, when or why they became murdering bastards.  I have developed a malignant indifference to their very existence because, for the life of me, I can’t think of a single place where our humanities touch.  People who believe they have a righteous obligation to kill helpless, harmless men, women and children for the sin of living in an enlightened, fairly permissive, largely benevolent society, are beyond any words I can find to portray them.  And I don’t care what the pundits, the politicians or the various apologists say: terrorists are just pumped-up, pimped-out bullies, and I do not feel any emotion for them except anger — and cold-blooded defiance.