Or, In Vino Veritas
When I watched Dennis Rodman's drunken rant the other day, I was
astonished, dumfounded and amazed that none of the commentary included
the compelling, obvious, unavoidable observation that the man was dead
drunk: smashed, stewed, tanked, wasted, three sheets to the wind and
shitfaced. It was probably more obvious to the sheepish players sitting
next to him who were, I'm sure, worried about any open flame in such
hazardous atmosphere. If we needed any further reminder of the somewhat
erratic journalistic and public tendency to forgive athletes for their
often disgusting outbursts, perhaps here we have it.
None the less, we now have the inevitable apology from the man who might not give a rat's ass
about being a rat and an ass himself but just might respond to worries
about the financial consequences on those too rare occasions of
sobriety. I'm not expecting any such retraction from the Reverend Jesse
Jackson who not only couldn't find the strength to criticize the friend
and defender of a grizzly mass murderer and psychotic tyrant, but still defends him. "I had been drinking" says Rodman through a face full of hardware. No shit! reverberates throughout the cosmos.
it time at long last, for America to examine the way it selects people
for elevation to the status of hero, prophet and role model for our
children - examine the reasons we give to explain our support or
Shhhh - what's that sound? NO SHIT! says the universe.