| SPINBUSTERS |
| Torture for Christmas: The Kings Win Again |
| Part One of Two |
| Hey, kids, now that Christmas is over � if only by one day � it�s time for the Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave to toss Mr. Nice Guy, along with the other pinko fruitcakes, into the dumpster. The wire services reported today what the non-sleeping have known for years � that the �protectors� of our �way of life� are engaging in, and helping other nations engage in � torture against suspected terrorists and other supporters of the �evil empires.� Won't be long now before that includes you, me, and the neighbors. Yup. Now when the CIA persecutes folks in our name, they call it �stress and duress� techniques � as if the infliction of torture were equivalent to a basic-training obstacle course, or a nasty day at the office. And when our government hands folks over to our allies for the pliers and blowtorch, it�s now called �rendering.� You know. Like softening up the cattle before they hit our plates. Now, ya�ll rest easy. I�m not gonna rail on about this one, as is my wont. Nupe. This has been O.K. for a long time in our fallen land, and it�s gonna get More O.K. as we stretch the boundaries of humanness like a raghead over the rack. No, as my Christmas present to ya�ll, I�m just gonna point out � for the upteenth time alreddy, yas I know � that we are permitting the commission of such demonic behavior, at behest of our demonic �leadership,� merely to ensure that the new S.U.V. is greased and gassed, Gram and Gramp can tour the nation in their forty-eight foot home-on-wheels, and our Diversified Portfolios suffer no untoward nicks. Okay, well, I lied � just a smidge. I can�t resist pointing out � again, for the gazillionth time � that we have no strong men left in the land, and no wonder. We are a seething, vengeful, materially-addicted, psychotic Mommy State, a neo-matriarchy in full foul bloom. To what segment of the populace, pray tell, were the words �Homeland� and �Security� designed to entice, placate and serve? Why, dear Auntie Tia, o' course! The Constitution?! Blah! Merely a patriarchal screed! Down with it! We have Total Information, Market Forces, and all the righteous torture ya can shake a cattle prod at, here in the New Motherland. What�s a little scalding after all, what�s a bit of the old hogtie-and-club, when there�s Our Children to Protect? Surely, no male who knows where his bread is buttered, where his pussy is vouchsafed, where his Jeep Cherokee is parked, can be bothered with such distant, abstract considerations as a gutted Bill of Rights, a national police state, and the continuous screams of writhing Evildoers? And surely, no male is -- no more than he is concerned with the torture of Evildoers in his own country�s �detention and correctional� facilities. After all, it�s no skin offa Mama�s nose, and whatever Mama says, goes. Yes, you�re quite right, here ya'll have caught me out again, lying my crookid teefs off. I promised not to pester, not to spoil the holiday cheer and goodwill, and here I am crapping in the punkin pie. Whizzing on Mr. Macy�s Parade. I try to blot it all out, too. I�m as good an American as ya�ll, desperately poinking the channel changer in hopes of forgetting what we all, in our cruel weakness and girlish greed, have become. Yesterday, I double-reversed reality by tuning in my Beloved Sacratomato Kings, who responded to my loyalty by royally kicking the collective butt of the hated Los Angeles Lakers and their hulking bully, Shack-eel Oh Neel. You betchum We did, and victory 'twere suh-weet � wal, for a minute or two, anyways. Kings Center Chris Webber, tho, dun went and spoiled my gloating glee. He opened his postgame interview by reminding me that the whuppin � which the (F)lakers, like Evildoers everywhere, richly deserved � took place on the birthday of Jesus Christ. Now don�t give me a ration about how the dude was really born in April, because of the shepherds and whatnot. You know that ain�t where I�m headed here, and besides, Christ's a Kings fan from wayback. C-Web�s comment flashed me back to that calamitous moment in the roundball proceedings when one of the announcers proudly � rejoicingly, really � trumpeted the fact that the Maloof Brothers, owners of the Kings, had paid thirty thousand dollars for a few courtside seats at the Staples Center. Now I mighta let that pass, but then Webs hadda remind me that it was Christmas, and I reeled back to my city years, to the shock and gratitude on the faces of the homeless, throwaway men of the Matriarky, when I�d wander through the parks and streets, handing out a couple old pea coats here, a few sets of gloves there, the odd greenback, a hug, a soft word. No, I wasn�t Pops Christmas, not even a fourth-class elf. Still ain�t. Just doing my little bit, every now and then, when the cold of Winter and the realization of my profound blessings manage to drill through my standard cynicism, lassitude, selfishness and stupidity. While I stared at C-Web�s face, watching the words come outta his mouth, and trying to figure out if he was talking Greek or maybe Ancient Akkadian, I pondered what thirty thousand dollars would have meant to my boys living in the gutters, parks, and underpasses of Sacratomato, Oakland, San Francisco, the City of Angels. Do the strutting landlords of the Kings preface their cherished fambly name with an �I�? As in (I)M Aloof? Thirty thousand clams. Three, then FIVE zeroes. Hoo-boy. |