This was originally posted as a comment on Bob Higgins’ fine article Mister Manners Takes Umbrage at Jim Webb’s War Rage on My Left Wing. It grew WAY bigger than I had intended, and I am now posting it as a stand-alone piece.
Read on if you are interested.
There has been much comment, pro and con, about the little face-off that Semi-President Butch and Senator-elect Webb recently experienced at the White House.
Here is one version of the incident.
Webb responded that he really wanted to see his son brought back home, said a person who heard about the exchange from Webb.
“I didn’t ask you that, I asked how he’s doing,” Bush retorted, according to the source.
Webb confessed that he was so angered by this that he was tempted to slug the commander-in-chief, reported the source, but of course didn’t. It’s safe to say, however, that Bush and Webb won’t be taking any overseas trips together anytime soon.
Tempted to slug him?
Webb missed his chance.
When the words “I didn’t ask you that…” came out of Butch’s mouth, the Senator should have taken a small step back with his right foot (or his left foot if he is left handed) and laid him out.
Laid him out FLAT.
I am sure the Senator could do this…being an ex-Marine and all. And I am equally sure that Butch would have gone down. Sometimes right DOES make might, y’know. And Butch is wrong like a MOTHERFUCKER. Up and down the line. The buck should have stopped right there.
If this had happened, it would have been our own Joseph Welch, “Have you no sense of decency, sir? At long last, have you no sense of decency?” moment. And Lord knows…we need one.
It has been often said that a picture is worth a thousand words.
Well, sometimes a punch is worth a million pictures.
There must be a knockout punch landed here eventually. This is a fixed fight. The judges are in the fixers’ hip pocket. Literally. The 2000 (s)election of George W. Butch by the Supreme Court proved that beyond a shadow of a doubt. The vast majority of the sportswriters and their outlets are in the pay of the fixers. A quick skim of the major news sources is all you need to do to understand the truth of that. And BECAUSE of that, John Q. Sleeple still thinks that this contest is NOT a fixed fight.
And how does a fighter…if he is willing to take the chance that the mob guys won’t rub him out afterwards, of course…UN-fix a fixed fight?
He decks his opponent.
The opposition to this administration is not doing that.
Why?
Besides the plain fact…illustrated in extremis by the forced outing of the mole Lieberman this year (And he ain’t alone. Not by a long shot. Bet on it.)…is that many of the so-called “opposition” ain’t the opposition.
Hertz?
Not exactly…
More like “NO hurts!!!”
Not real ones.
Just some little pitty-pat shit, and then back to business as usual.
Plan A Lite.
Why?
#1-Money talks. Nobody walks. (Very few, anyway.)
and
#2-Because even most of the REAL opposition is laboring under the mistaken assumption that they are not engaged in a fixed fight.
That the best man/best cause will win.
That they will be able to pile up enough points to win a decision.
Any day now.
Aaaaany day….
2008 being the NEXT day.
Well…I got news for them.
The fix is in SO deep that the only way to win this battle is to knock the opponent out.
I am not faulting Senator Webb here. After all, as deep as this fix is in the sportwriters, referee, judges, bought-and-sold boxing commission and corporate promoters/managers/owners would certainly have jumped all over him claiming that it was a rabbit punch, a low blow, that the punch somehow violated the Marquis of Queensbury rules.
Well I got MORE news.
AIN’T no rules.
Ain’t no Marquis of Queensbury rules, anyway.
More like the Marquis de Sade rules, if the truth were to be plainly spoken.
Sound familiar?
Yup.
Again…it was no fault of Senator Webb’s that he did not smack Butch down into the ground. He was not mounted by the saints (A Santeria concept.) at that moment in a manner that would have moved him to do that.
The saints have THEIR ways, too.
Another way of saying the same thing.
But the arc of the moral universe is a macrocosmic image of the arc of a good right cross, and I long for the day when that right cross…that Righteous Cross so often spoken of in Christian literature…lands smack on the head of our Ultimate Front Man.
George W. Butch, Semi-President of the United States of Scamerica.
Because until it does, this whole thing is just another lame production of Saturday Night Fights.
Tune in next week to see the NEXT fix, the next winner who will produce the most bucks for the management in the long run.
But…you should stay tuned…
Really.
Stay tuned, because every once in a while the fix backfires.
Every once in a while, the chosen champ and the chosen chump switch places.
That glorious “Rocky” moment that is so ingrained in the popular consciousness.
The champ’s innate weaknesses and internal rot show up…as they so plainly did in Butch’s “I didn’t ask you that” comment… the saints simultaneously mount a member of the (so far) chumped brigade, and…
Buster busts the rapist/ear chewer/children eater (Who has HIMSELF been a victim of the fixers. All of his life. Bet on it.) right in the mouth.
Right onto the canvas.
Out for the count.
Out for the rest of his life, in Tyson’s sad case.
At which point “LONG LIVE THE KING!!!” is the chant of the day.
Naaaaahhhhh…
Not THAT king!!!
Although that kind never goes away, either.
They just go back to their office and start grooming another fix.
So…until that glorious “LONG LIVE THE KING!!!” day…
I bid you peace.
And continued readiness.
Readiness, watchfulness, and effort.
Because in the immortal words of John Philpot Curran, Lord Mayor of Dublin in the late 1700s:
Servants we are, now.
Servants to a vain and cruel set of masters.
Because we let down our guard.
The referee ALWAYS reminds fighters to “Protect yourselves at all times.”
Once again:
Yup.
We got fat and happy.
“CHAMPS OF THE WORLD!!!” we were.
“CHAMPS OF THE WORLD!!!”
And we blew it.
We blew it BIG time.
Keep your ears open and your eyes peeled, however.
Next time the saints come a’knockin’ and a’ringin’ at our psychic doors…
We’d best be ready to ride, Sally, ride.
‘Cuz they ain’t postmen, y’know.
Them saints.
They don’t always ring again.
Eternal vigilance is the only proper tactic in THAT department.
Bet on it.
Or else.
Bet on that, too.
Peace.
It AIN’T just what’s for dinner.
And when the deliveryman rings and there’s no answer…
Well then…there you jolly are are, aren’t you.
Hungry as a motherfucker and nothing but shit to eat once again.
Aint’cha tired of that diet yet?
I am.
Later…
AG
