Things of which I am officially sick:
1) The health care debate.
As if "debate" was even what is happening in the country today. If the colossally ill-informed people of white middle-America want to live out the remainder of their days in fear of what a family medical emergency might do to them and their finances; fine. If they have forgotten every horror story they ever heard from the next door neighbor about Aunt Harriet who was diagnosed with whatever and couldn't get Aetna or Blue Cross to cover the treatment; great. If they imagine that a government run health plan will be any more odious than the private, for-profit insurance companies currently conspiring to deny coverage for any specious reason; terrific. After a year of patiently explaining the facts of health care to these mopes, I'm done. If we pass it; great. If we don't; fine. Let Max Baccus and Chuck Grassley explain to their constituents why bankruptcy and welfare are viable alternatives to the public option.
I'm done.
2) The reintroduction of Michael Vick into pro football.
Please! If Michael Vick were a steamfitter would anyone care of he went back to his job after a term as a guest of the federal penal system? It's not as though he was a child molester applying for his old teaching job at the local grammar school. I mean how many dogs is he likely to encounter on your average gridiron? The man did his time (and a lot of time it was). Let him play.
3) Steroids in baseball.
We are attacking this from the wrong angle. We should permit, even encourage, professional athletes to take as many performance enhancing drugs as their swollen bodies will tolerate. Admit it. We all want to see baseballs fly over the walls. Is there anyone in America who, having seen Sammy Sosa balloon from a skinny Dominican (fifteen homers in his first year in the Bigs) to a bulky, uniform-tearing killer who bashed 60 home runs for three consecutive years, didn't know he was juicing? Did anyone care? If these guys want to destroy their bodies and shrivel their johnsons for the chance to make a few million in pro ball, let 'em. Athletes believe they are immortal so why not give them a chance to test the theory? Wrestlers do it all the time and no one bats an eye. I say, bring out the juice and if one of our diamond heroes should explode while rounding second base, the ground crew is more than capable of dealing with the clean-up.
Play ball.
4) The bizarre arrest of Roman Polanski in Switzerland.
Well, I guess now that the guardians of liberty in the federal government have arrested Najibullah Zazi and his band of merry bomb-makers, they are free to apprehend some real criminals. In a deal worked out with the Swiss, who apparently also have a lot of law-enforcement time on their hands, Polanski was arrested last Saturday in Zurich while traveling to a film festival. Yes, Polanski is a bit of a sleaze and he did have sex with a thirteen year-old (statutory not forcible) but seriously, the original arrest warrant was issued in 1978. It has more dust on it than George Bush's copy of the Constitution. Polanski is 76. He has lived through Nazi Germany and the horrific murder of his wife and unborn son. His exile from the United States has deprived him of the joy of Netflix, drive-through liquor stores and the rapturous excitement of voting for George W. Bush...twice. The man has suffered enough!
5) Anything to do with the death of Michael Jackson.
Given that the 24 hour news cycle requires constant nourishment, one can sympathize with the media's need to cover every story as if it were WWII. Nevertheless, Michael Jackson wasn't Gandhi, Kennedy or John Paul II. His death, while tragic, was not historically significant. His final resting place is grist for an obit, not the front page of the Washington Post. The investigation of his death should be followed on Entertainment Tonight not Meet The Press. The headline "I Had Michael Jackson's Third Child" should remain in supermarket checkout lines and never, ever show up in the Magazine section of the New York Times. Dignity, people!
6) All things revealed to Oprah.
Hey, Oprah's OK. She's non-confrontational and mildly entertaining. (Not that I would ever watch the show.) However, sleeping with your father (Mackenzie Phillips), abuse as a child (Rosie O'Donnell), or how you crack-smoked away a flourishing career (Whitney Houston) should never be more than one day stories. Celebrities screwing up their lives is about as novel as politicians cheating on their wives. Of course, if the politician is a family-values, anti-gay Republican I fully anticipate and applaud the miscreant's wife flogging her new tell-all book...on Oprah.
No comments:
Post a Comment