Activism

This is an e-mail I sent last night at about 2 a.m.

Subject: A request in regard to "Harden My Heart"
From: KL5.olig@gmail.com
To: WVBO@Cumulus.com

Hi 103.9 FM,

For the most part, I enjoy the selection of music played by your station while I'm driving or at work. I'm 29 and perhaps outside of your key demographic, but I strongly prefer oldies and classic rock to maintstream country, pop, and so forth. I like most of the music played by your station and absolutely love to bask in the sound waves of the Beatles, CCR, and Van Morrison--and thanks for providing that.

This e-mail won't be entirely grateful, however. Even though I realize that, all things considered, it's not really a big deal, please-please-please stop playing "Harden My Heart" by Quarterflash so much. From a subjective standpoint, "Harden My Heart" is a terrible song, a mess of melodramatic pouting, and a trite butchering of rock and roll. "Harden My Heart" is painful to listen to; it sounds joyless, sappy, and stale--and those are poor qualities for a tune to have.

Now, from an objective, less biased and contemptuous perspective, Quarterflash has proven to be a largely forgettable band and a borderline one-hit wonder. To say the least, their relevance in rock-music is dwarfed by the likes of other female-fronted groups or artists such as Blondie, the Pretenders, Janis Joplin, Aretha Franklin, and Fleetwood Mac, to name but a few--all of whom certainly merit more airplay than Quarterflash.

To reiterate, I would enjoy tuning in to 103.9 so much more if you didn't overplay the hell out of an awful and mawkish hit by a band very, very few people care about anymore. Please-please-please tone down your fine station's fondness for "Harden My Heart." Thanks for your time.

Sincerely,

Nick Olig

Dog Island

I'll get to the topic of this town's recent dispute over the ownership of dangerous dogs, but before that, I have to confess a bad habit of mine as well as a crime I commit on rare occasions. Sometimes I walk home from work, and I typically smoke a cigarette as I do so. The cherry is gone by the time I reach the middle of the same block, but I hold on to the stub until I reach the house on the corner. At that point, a deranged terrier in the fenced-in backyard spots me and yaps its ineffectual fury. The yapping continues as I walk beyond its vantage point. I toss my stub on the front porch and smile. I pass a dingy fence with a sign promoting that greedy creep Scott Walker and my smile broadens. I turn the corner. The pint-sized beast won't shut up. My smile vanishes as I scowl through the meshing of the metallic fence that divides us. The dog scowls back.

“You belong on Dog Island, bitch,” I tell the terrier. The pooch takes offense to this. Two blocks away, when I open the front-door to my house, I can still hear that dog's psychotic and shrill bark.

I'm not a dog-lover, obviously. (Plus I'm allergic to cats, so I don't bother with them, either.) My disinterest in dogs was probably inherited from my dad. He never saw the sense in welcoming a non-human mouth to feed, another life-form to rack up medical bills, and one more eventual death in the family. For my dad and me, having to fret over the well-being of certain people is quite enough trouble. Pets aren't worth the hassle to us. After work, we prefer to drink our beer in peace without distractions from a needy pet who woofs at the Big Dipper every time he needs to go outside and pee. We absolutely hate it when our faces are licked by a creature who also uses his tongue to clean the space between his own neuter scar and—ahem--tail. And finally, the act of stroking the fur of an animal—however cute or affectionate—seems grossly overrated to my dad and me.

That stated, I don't hate dogs, either; I just can't at all relate to them, and more importantly, I don't expect them to understand much about human constructs like morality and society. Dogs are wired to instincts that are more stubbornly primal than ours. Dogs are not innately programmed to enjoy parades and birthday parties; in their natural state, they'd much rather maul a pheasant's throat or dig a hole in the ground for hours just for the hell of it.

In much the same way that dogs are out in front of humans on walks around the neighborhood, people have to lead dogs into domestication—even when the dogs, like their owners, feel tired, confused, and cranky. More so than any specific breed with a bad reputation, negligent or abusive owners are the source of most dog- attacks. Owners must routinely drill obedience and decency into their dogs; otherwise, the consequences can be almost as disastrous as giving a hand-grenade to a baby and telling him not to pull out the pin.

Pitbulls and rottweilers should not be banned due to irresponsible people, and furthermore, there is a more ideal and compassionate alternative to putting dogs to death because they are harmful or simply unwanted. The feral beast who gave Billy a pretty serious "owie" doesn't deserve to be killed, and neither does the poor orphaned pooch whose time under the roof of the Humane Society has run out, nor that yapping terrier who causes a public disturbance every time a skinny Feingold-voter walks past. There is a better way to deal with those problematic mutts, and here it is: Dog Island.

Let me break it down. People should select an uninhabited island that nobody wants in the first place and then round up and ship all the shady dogs to that place. To humans, Dog Island functions as a prison, similar to Alcatraz, but the dogs will embrace it as a return to pure wilderness and instinct.

The famed Dog Boat would sail to Dog Island with all the dogs leaning their heads out of the port-holes excitedly. Located somewhere off the coast of the Atlantic (or the Pacific, I'm good either way), Dog Island would boast plenty of prey, dense foliage, drinkable water, and whichever climate caters best to canines. (Mediterranean, maybe? Humid subtropical? That's not for me to determine. Hey--I'm not a scientist.)

Once freed on Dog Island, anything goes for the likes of Rusty, Fifi, and Crippler. Now, the laws of nature can be unfair and cruel, and survival of the fittest favors the sort of bloodthirsty dobermans that Michael Vick traumatized, I'm sad to admit, but it's vital to keep in mind that Dog Island would at least grant those mangy misfits a chance at survival. I can't say the same, however, about shooting a lethal injection into Rusty's bloodstream.

To recap, it's senseless to ban a breed of dog just because their owners are too dumb, lazy, and/ or hateful to even take care of themselves. Secondly, unclaimed dogs from the pound shouldn't have to be put down just because no one volunteered to take them in. Finally, I'd like to add that a syringe full of pentobarbital* ultimately has the same effect as lobbing bacon in the air and setting the unwitting dog up for an alley-oop kill-shot.

So please, write letters to our state's governor and demand that he lend his support of Dog Island to Congress. The way I see it, we're going to be saving an awful lot of money by lowering our standards of public education, folks, and some of that left-over cash could go far in the funding of the Dog Island project.




* I had to Google-search “animal euthanasia” in order to find out what the hell this is.

NASCAR Is the Poor Rube's Mariokart

The latest running of the Daytona 500 was pushed back from Sunday afternoon to Monday night due to inclement weather, and in a roundabout way, this delay could have benefited NASCAR. Prime-time showings typically draw more casual viewers, especially for major events such as Daytona. What's more, during the calender's post-Super Bowl, pre-March Madness lull, sports fans get desperate for a fix of action—and even though NASCAR is not their first or second choice, some were willing to take it for a test spin.

SportsCenter addicts with mixed feelings about NASCAR were waylaid by a comical letdown when they gave Daytona a chance on the night of February 27th. Unabashed haters of NASCAR fared much better by not bothering to give that lame excuse for a sport any credence.*

The actual running of the 2012 Daytona 500 was delayed for more than two hours because driver Juan Pablo Montoya careened off the track and struck a truck containing 200 gallons of jet fuel.

To reiterate, the contest to determine who can drive around in a circle 500 times the fastest was put to a prolonged halt by a raging blaze of jet fuel.

Now, rain delays in baseball are common, and sometimes, in early April, games have been postponed due to snowfall. Power outages have, on occasion, slowed the pace of late-night football games. And once in a great while, backboards shattered by violent dunks cease play in basketball. These things happen.

But I'm really struggling to wrap my brain around the newfound phrase, “Jet-Fuel Fire Delay.”

On a night that could have yielded an appreciable boost of interest in NASCAR, those dopey cousin-fuckers exposed their sport for what it truly is: A redneck shit-show.

Leading up to the Daytona 500, I didn't tune in for the following reasons.

1.It's not a sport if it entails able-bodied participants to sit on their asses the entire time.

2. It's not a sport if the athletic ability of the driver is dwarfed by the prowess of the machine he (or Danica Patrick) controls.

3. Those yokels just drive around in a circle for hours. Take a cue from Mariokart and pave a figure-8 or two, will ya?

4. Those yokels have squandered enough gasoline to re-fill the remains of roughly half-a-billion T-Rexes.

5. Far too many NASCAR lovers proudly wave Confederate flags. Over 150 years ago, the south lost the Civil War, and their defeat was one of the greatest happenings in American history. The Confederate flag pays tribute to losers who fought for an inhumane cause.

Upon completion of the redneck shit-show in question, I was blessed with another reason to dismiss NASCAR.

6.Jet Fuel Fire Delay?! Sweet Jesus, those four words don't belong in the same phrase—aside from a snafu at an airport, perhaps, but definitely not at a sporting event. By botching a key opportunity and laying an inferno of noxious turds on the track, NASCAR made “Jet Fuel Fire Delay” a part of the sports lexicon. NASCAR is a farce, and farce isn't even funny, which means NASCAR is worse than both pro-wrestling and Funny Car Racing.

Here is a rough transcript of the words of a high-ranking NASCAR official leading up to the Daytona 500.

“Aw, hell, Mother Nature done pissed on our high-octane shindig. But you know what? It's a blessing in disguise—just like a knob-gobbler with dentures--heh, heh, heh! Fellers, this rain delay happened on Sunday so that the great sport of NASCAR could prove itself on the big stage. We're takin' over prime-time! Hoooo-weee!”

The NASCAR officials pause to shoot pistols in the air to celebrate. Moonshine is chugged. Nearby cousins are groped and tongue-kissed.

“It's gonna be like our version of Monday Night Football—minus all them athletes and black hooligans. Now, before we bare witness to NASCAR's shining moment, let's all bow our heads in prayer to the ghost of Jefferson Davis, and if there's any time left over, maybe baby Jesus, too.”

Later, after Montoya's blunder behind the wheel, the following was heard from the luxury boxes at Daytona.

“Noooooooo! This can't be happening. Damn you, jet-fuel!”

Here the NASCAR official shakes a raging fist at the incendiary jet-fuel below.

And later still...

“A two-hour delay? During prime-time?! You gotta be shaftin' me in the corn-hole. Ain't them cars s'posed to be powered by car-fuel and not jet-fuel? Why in tarnation we got so much jet-fuel beside the track in the first place? Oh...the HUMANITY!”

During the protracted clean-up efforts, loads of Tide detergent were doused on the track, but the stain on NASCAR won't come clean. It's an awfully shitty stain.

One of the primary reasons why NASCAR isn't even fit to fill the void between the Super Bowl and March Madness is the organization's propensity to shoot itself in the shit-kickers. Real sports flourish, in part, because they leave the possibility of a jet fuel fire delay out of the equation.


*Until now, of course.

Jersey Shore Ruined Fist Pumps

Even though it's not especially useful, I maintain a blog. The name of it is a bit loony; it's called Fist Pumps and Beyond. I had no major qualms with the title until the emergence of Jersey Shore, when the act of fist-pumping became synonymous with vain dimwits who, for whatever reason, get paid to fry in tanning beds and drunkenly hump strangers in front of cameramen.

When I gripe about this little misfortune, I'm sometimes asked why I don't simply change the name of my blog. My response reflects that of Michael Bolton, the character from Office Space, when his co-worker urges him to alter his name so that he will be less readily linked to that Grammy-winner and “no-talent ass-clown,” the singer Michael Bolton.

“Why should I change?” I snap. “They're the ones who suck.”

Watching Jersey Shore is like a masturbatory salute to a massacre of brain-cells. That show is soft-core porn for women who prefer to watch a trollish and homely lead-actress. For men, Jersey Shore is the douche-bag's guide to success. It's a program designed for people who liked The Real World/ Road Rules Challenge, but demanded that it be dumbed down a couple notches.

My bitchiness on the issue notwithstanding, I have to concede that, at present time, those self-absorbed meat-heads serve a slightly greater purpose than I do. For the time being, their lives are probably more fulfilling than mine. Reality show playthings are held in higher regard than writers who accept bar credit as payment.

I get that. It's understandable. However, in the grand scheme of things, neither wealthy entertainers nor the malcontents struggling to entertain deserve to be valued too much. It shouldn't be overlooked that art, as well as reality TV—art's inbred and mutated distant-cousin—are luxuries rather than necessities. Humanity could easily survive without Jersey Shore or my blog. We could no doubt survive as a species in a world devoid of Pauly D. concerts, the plays of Shakespeare, the Super Bowl, The Godfather, reruns of Saved by the Bell, and cranky rants on the Internet...but we would prefer not to.

The pitiful burden of writers, actors, painters, musicians, and sure, even reality TV bottom-feeders, is the shared anticipation of money for performing non-essentials tasks. At its core, civilization does not require any form of entertainment to develop. Vocations such as inventor, doctor, nurse, teacher, scientist, cop, firefighter, architect, construction worker, electrician, mechanic, plumber, and garbageman have all benefited the human race vastly more than some greasy bum flexing his abs or some naysayer cracking jokes on his blog. Even professionals that are commonly loathed (dentists, lawyers, and politicians) offer a service more meaningful than entertainment. Artists and entertainers can rightfully look down on those whose ultimate goal is to follow their favorite jam band on-tour...but that about covers it; basically, people like me strive to become a wee bit more vital than filthy sponges of drugs and 6-minute guitar solos.

If that seems like an overstatement, consider the doomsday hypothetical. Humanity is relatively fortunate and spoiled at this stage of the time-line, but should the almighty reset-button be pressed on the game we have in progress, should our advancements be negated by some sort of Armageddon, what would be our top priorities when forced to rebuild a waylaid planet?

Putting together a performance of Our Town in a ruinous high school auditorium? Gathering around a campfire to indulge in an acoustic rendition of “The Times They Are A-changin'”? Trekking across a devastated landscape to New Jersey to ogle what's left of the freak-show by the shoreline?

If you care to survive in a post-apocalyptic world, it helps to answer those three questions with a series of “nopes.” A writer like me would almost certainly be screwed if society had to start over again.

If I had to choose one type of doomsday, it would have to be a zombie uprising. Even though it's the most unlikely scenario—much less plausible than scenarios caused by nuclear warfare, airborne viruses, and economic collapse—the zombie uprising is the funnest to consider, and the one that I have researched the most thoroughly by sitting on my ass while watching movies and TV shows and playing video games.

If we're overrun by the undead, the legit professionals that I mentioned before would all fare much better than the cast of Jersey Shore, but let's at least ponder the fates of the program's most recognizable morons—assuming they could endure the first few weeks of panic and destruction.

Pauly D. would soon feel the urge to throw a party for the survivors, but before that, he'd have to seek the services of an electrician in order to supply power for his turntables. And even if that electrician could provide a functioning current with extremely depleted resources for such a frivolous cause, the gaudy light-show and the thumping beats of Pauly D's concert would no doubt attract zombies to the gathering. Now, I hate to cheer for the undead, but if you're that dumb and negligent, you deserve to be the first of many victims in a zombie onslaught.

What happens to the rest of the useless human beings? Pay less than three bucks to find out. More Stories, and Additional Stories be the name of that eBook... Wait. Is, not be. Pirate jokes aren't as funny as more, especially when they're so egregiously out of context. Fuck! Well, buy the eBook, anyway.

Torture Porn Gets Two Severed Thumbs Down

Torture Porn is a thing now. It has been for awhile, actually, and our culture has accepted that. I had hoped it was but a morbid fad, but on the Torture Porn front, I had no such luck. Someday soon, "Torture Porn" could become a puzzle on Wheel of Fortune. It wouldn't be all that shocking. Two words, eleven letters, and the category is Thing.

Torture Porn is a genre of film known for its prolonged homicides and bleak outlook on life. The first installments of films such as Saw and Hostel combined to generate almost 200 million dollars at the box office, and both have spawned a number of lucrative sequels.

For entertainment purposes, I suppose, mankind has evolved to pair the notions of torture and porn—and with very successful results.

At some point, it seems, it was determined that both horror and skin-flicks had become tacky and old-fashioned.

The murders committed by the likes of Michael Myers and Jason must have been too sudden to thrive into the new millennium. An ice-pick thrust to the heart? A beheading with a machete? Sure, some horny coeds suffered grizzly deaths due to such heinous attacks, but those kinds of killings are done in ten seconds. What's going to fill the lengthy void between sprees of blood-lust? Characters? Plot? Suspense? Lame. Yawn. Booorrring!

Movie-goers demanded—or at least consented to—drawn-out, epic, and wholly excruciating murder scenes. No more of that quick savagery would suffice. The public longed for ten-minute murder scenes in which the victim was not only deprived of the fleeting hope of survival but also demeaned at great length and shown no mercy by a sadist intent on maximizing suffering.

In music terms, this is a bit like bidding good riddance to punk-rock homicides, which are swift and straightforward, and embracing jam-band homicides, which are protracted and prone to noodling. Like gushing hippies (minus the desire for peace), Saw and Hostel aficionodos no doubt exchanged glowing reviews in the wake of their theater experiences.

“Did you get a load of that three-minute sickle solo? That unrelenting shredding of limbs that avoided all major arteries? Massive blood loss, bro, but not enough to kill that helpless naked chick.”

“Agreed. Sickness personified, dude. And that snapping of the collar bone with a monkey-wrench? Crunchy. Bitch was crying all hysterical-like for so long before she finally croaked. So epic!”

I guess porn has become obsolete, too. Good-looking, well-endowed men and women having wild sex on camera? The formula became stale. Porn had to be enhanced...but how? Skimpier thongs? Faker boobs? More Kardashians? No, no, no! Such dull suggestions fail to satisfy the appetites of real 21st century wretches.

Thankfully, somewhere in Beverly Hills, a degenerate pondering the problem at length snapped his fingers with triumphant vigor. His once-weary eyes widened and brightened, for he had been struck by an epiphany.

“I've got it...Torture!” he exclaimed. “We must give porn that much-needed shot in the arm by adding torture! Torture Porn. Boo-ya!”

His idea flourished when put into practice, too. The Saw and Hostel series have jointly grossed nearly a billion dollars worldwide—and keep in mind, a billion dollars is more than a mere “shit-load of money.” A billion dollars marks the threshold of “a super shit-load of money.” Hell, these Torture Porns are on the verge of earning “a mega shit-load of money.” The Torture Porn pioneers could pool their fortunes to buy Greece if they felt like it.

People are making what may soon qualify as a mega shit-load of money by showing people being tortured by people to many, many people across the globe--and that is both depressing and disgusting.

Torture and porn don't belong together. They're ill-matched, like lard and chocolate. Some couples actually get off on Torture Porn. It's repulsive. Imagine the conversations they have.

“Honey, did you get a chance to watch that Saw 13 DVD I ordered from NetFlix?”

“Sure did. Oh, that Torture Porn took my breath away.”

“You said it, Maude. That half-hour lawn-dart massacre? Mmm. Since the children have gone to bed, let me be candid with you: That got me rock hard.”

“Yup! Why, I felt so hot and tingly not long after the opening credits, and that skull-drilling to the brain just about made me want to burst.”

"Indeed. I decided to rub one out at that point in the film.”

“George, you devil! Oh, make love to me, cuddle-bunny.”

End twisted scene.

Now, I'll get to the torture half of this vile pairing later, and be concise about it. As for porn, I will concede that it sometimes degrades women, glorifies sleeping around with just about anyone, and tends to present a certain body-type that other women cannot and should not feel that they have to compete with in order to attract her ideal man. That's true.

On the other hand, to most men, beautiful naked women are pretty much the greatest sight to behold on this planet, immensely pleasing to the body and mind, unsurpassed in beauty by a sunset at the Grand Canyon or a lunar eclipse or whatever inferior fluff you care to compare beautiful naked women to. Admittedly, plan-A is to find one to date and perhaps even marry. Plan-B is porn, though, and strangely enough, guys with thriving plan-A's still resort regularly to plan-B. Porn exists in part because nothing carries as much artistic power as a beautiful naked woman does--and even guys who dismiss that assessment as pretentious bullshit aren't likely to deny that chicks are just so damn hot.

And that's my ambivalent defense of porn.

As for torture, well...torture sucks. If you want to kill someone, be quick about it. Only sadists drag it out. To hell with sadists. They're horrible, subhuman creatures.

I'm a fair-weather fan of Team Jesus, too, and I hate the notion of watching that swell guy get tortured so much that I have never bothered to watch The Passion of the Christ.

I'm OK with my preference of regular porn over Torture Porn. It's natural to have a libido, but the same is not true about craving depictions of the worst kind of human suffering conceivable.

Torture Porn is a heaping, mega-load of morally toxic bullshit.

Hostel Schmostel.

You want a catchier conclusion?!

Don't see Saw; Saw sucks.

Meh. Good enough. And I'll try to come up with some pejorative words that rhyme with Human Centipede in time for part five.

Cubs Fan's Plea to Nephew

My nephew was born on the eleventh of January, a time when baseball diamonds across Wisconsin were dormant and buried in snow, hibernating and hardly expectant of fresh grass and prolonged daylight anytime soon. In addition to my sister-in-law and nephew, my mom had a room at the same hospital. She was recovering from a stroke, dutifully reviving her speech and half her body. My family took it as a quirky boon that she required only an elevator and a husbandly chauffeur to wheel her down one floor to see her first grandchild.

Kaden made his grand entrance in fine health, caterwauling hello-greetings loud enough to rouse three inpatients from their comas, and as my mom convalesced, my family rebuffed the daunts and dolors of winter with months of gratitude and relief—not to mention Mickey Mouse-falsetto coos addressed to the newest member of the clan.

Eventually, conflicts resumed, as they always do, but at least the conflict in question was merely a competitive farce. Rather than focus on their mutual love of baseball—their shared awareness of the timelessness, mystique, and gut-wrenching drama of the game—my brother and his wife have instead opted to concentrate on the bothersome fact that they cheer for different teams. (Such a folly is not unique to my brother and his wife, of course.) While she favors our home-state's Milwaukee Brewers, he is a Cubs fan.

A friendly struggle commenced for the boy's baseball team allegiance. Owing to his mother's superior knack for fashion and the 2011 Brewers' dominance in the standings, Kaden was fitted with Crew apparel more regularly than Cubs clothing. (In a gesture of diplomacy, he was, at least, dressed in a Cubs shirt for the Christmas card I received.)

With the Cubs hunkered down in rebuilding mode for at least a season and the Brewers—notwithstanding the likely departure of Prince Fielder and the sore subject of Ryan Braun's suspension—poised to make another playoff run, mom's team looks poised to take a two-to-nothing lead in the series.

That is strictly where wins are concerned, however, and my humble plea to my nephew to support the league's best team in 1908 runs deeper than that.

For starters, there is something petty and feckless about those who, as Bob Dylan put it, “Just want to be on the side that's winning.” True sports fans back their teams in sickness and in health—or in the case of the Cubs, in sickness and in worse sickness. Furthermore, in my estimation, those who strictly root for teams in their home state display both a dire lack of creativity as well as a cowardly instinct to never stray from the herd. Staunch homers are but feeble conformists, and I'd prefer that my nephew feel undaunted by the prospect of being different.

Besides, it's always a mischievous thrill to bear the brunt of criticism from home-state purists too daft to realize how silly it is bicker about free will as it pertains to something as (awesome yet) relatively unimportant as baseball.

Someday I'd love to see my nephew applaud game-winning RBIs in the bottom of the ninth at Wrigley. After all, Cubs-devotion teaches us that a sense of humor and hope are our two most vital attributes when life has us mired in a slump.

I want to tell Kaden about the seventh-inning stretches emceed by a half-tipsy Harry Caray, in the midst of all the late-game deficits, his hearty cries to “score some runs” that, more often than not, went unfulfilled. I want to tell him that one of the funniest men alive, the droll goof-ball from Ghostbusters and Groundhog Day, roots for the Cubs, too. I want to tell him about silly superstitions, the curse of the billy-goat and the poor fan who was scorned for trying to catch a foul-ball, the tragicomedies that ensued and the lessons we can learn from them. And when he's old enough, I want to show him the comedy of errors that is Curb Your Enthusiasm and ask him to consider the parallels between Larry David's life of follies and the plight of the Cubs.

I want him to know that neither life nor the Cubs ever get so dismal that we can't laugh for some reprieve.

In addition to the appeal of laughter, I'd encourage him to extol the Cubs because they coax us to hope against all odds. Skeptics cackle when we assure each other to wait until next year, and with good reason, probably, but they don't understand that hope is a sacred thing to us—as it should be for everyone, regardless of which baseball team, if any, one chooses to endorse. They can call us fools if they wish, but we will force them to acknowledge that we are, at least, fools who never give up.

In my plea, I will relay to Kaden that his grandmother laid weakened on a hospital bed in the E.R. before she was flown on Flight for Life to Milwaukee, that he was still in his mom's tummy when grandma Ruth promised her daughter-in-law and the rest of us that she'd be here for the boy's birth, and that the family had to leave the room a moment later when the EMTs arrived and secured her to a gurney.

She kept her promise and revels adoringly in babysitting duties and holiday visits as I type this. But my nephew should keep in mind that, in the time between stops at hospitals 66 miles apart, our family had no proof that she'd live to see her first grandchild. One of life's misfortunes had made us uncertain and powerless.

I will inform him of these happenings and then conclude my plea to him concerning the Cubs by telling him about the only thing working in his family's favor during that difficult time.

“All we had was hope, kid, but somehow, that was enough.”

The Hindsight Awards

As an outrageous footnote to the horrid scandal of Jerry Sandusky—the former Penn St. defensive coach accused of sexual abuse by at least ten young men—it should be mentioned that in 2001, the man published an autobiography titled, Touched: The Jerry Sandusky Story. This means that, creepily enough, one can browse through a Barnes & Noble store or Amazon.com and happen upon a book designated as “Touched by Jerry Sandusky.”

His book concludes with the following sentiment: “...I hope I can add a little touch to others' lives...” The alleged pedophile seemingly intended his title and parting words to reflect the hopes of a noble philanthropist, but a decade later, his literary work serves as rotten and damning evidence against his claim of innocence.

Now, to be clear: I do not think a transgression as heinous and depraved as child-molestation is funny by nature. I do, however, have a fondness for irony, especially the sort of irony that (however belatedly) gives a doomed lowlife his comeuppance. Furthermore, I recognize that tragicomedy exists, even when the ratio of tragedy to comedy is about 99.9% to .1%.

To elaborate some on that .1%, then, I have to offer a rough sketch of a ceremony I think the general public should hold on an annual basis. The event would acknowledge the awful happenings from the past that were unknown but now seem dreadfully obvious. And since the disgrace in question relates to athletics, it's only fitting that two sports-announcers should host this segment:


The Hindsight Awards

Clutching microphones, broadcasters Al Michaels and Bob Costas sit behind a desk. Behind them, spectators abuzz with anticipation fill out a vast auditorium. Spotlights flicker across the expansive stage pictured in the background.

Al Michaels: Hello and welcome to this year's Hindsight Awards—recognizing the horrible things we should have seen coming but somehow didn't. It's been a prolific year for hindsight, hasn't it, Bob?

Bob Costas: You said it, Al. So many travesties in sports that should have been put to a halt years ago but sadly weren't. The hindsight judges have singled out the three worst offenders, though, and presently, the favorite will be Touched by Jerry Sandusky.

Al Michaels: Or perhaps Bernie Fine.

Bob Costas: Yes, quite the tragedy in its own right. Hindsight voters can't overlook the grim truth that Syracuse basketball was, for years, the only program that traveled its ball boy to games on the road.

Al Michaels: To satisfy the depraved lust of an allegedly lecherous coach. Chilling.

Bob Costas: Yes. Chilling and painfully obvious, looking back. But let's not forget about the third nominee for this year's award, defending champ O.J. Simpson.

Al Michaels: Author of If I Did It, a proposal outlining the ways in which O.J. would have gone about killing his ex-wife and her lover had he actually been guilty of the crime.

Bob Costas: Which he most certainly was.

Al Michaels: In hindsight, yes, Bob—that's exactly right. Along with our other nominees, O.J. has been sequestered in a heavily guarded dressing room for tonight's festivities.

Bob Costas: Truly, a hellish den of unrepentant sinners. What are your thoughts on the front-runner for this year's Hindsighty?

Al Michaels: O.J. is still a force to be reckoned with, but it can't be overstated that for two long and intense weeks, the front-runner has been Touched by Jerry Sandusky.

Bob Costas: And Barney Fine?

Al Michaels: He's a worthy nominee, but let's be clear: Sandusky has the edge over Fine where allegations are concerned. The State of New York's statute of limitations on charges of pedophilia provides a comparatively restricted window of time for its devastated accusers--which is bad news for Hindsighty hopeful Bernie Fine.

Bob Costas: What a repulsive thing to keep in mind. Now, for the bettors in our viewing audience, let's send it to Joe Buck, live from Las Vegas.

Inside a tense betting room, anxious gamblers huddle in front of TV sets behind Joe Buck.

Joe Buck: Here in Vegas, the prevailing sentiment seems to be that double-murder, and years later, assault with a deadly weapon may be even worse than perversely touching a child. That means the odds have once again tilted in O.J.'s favor. Right now, insiders believe that the underdog is going to be Touched by Jerry Sandusky. Back to you, Bob.

Coverage returns to Costas and Michaels.

Bob Costas: Wow. I did not see that coming.

Al Michaels: How apropos.

The two indulge in a fit of jovial laughter punctuated by knee-slapping.

Behind the two, a lanky figure dressed in a tuxedo approaches the podium.
Bob Costas: With no further analysis, then, we take you to Cris Collinsworth for the unveiling of this year's Hindsighty.

Self-assured and proudly postured, a dapper Cris Collinsworth addresses the audience. He taps an envelope against the podium and begins his speech.

Cris Collinsworth: Not since almost winning a Super Bowl have I been bestowed with such a remarkable yet appalling honor. Google's Synonym-Finder cites “retrospect” as another term for “hindsight,” and since I don't know what that word word means, either, I asked my son, who gave me a rough definition that I could wrap my brain around. (He chuckles.) Now, the votes have already been counted, but I have to confess that I'm biased. You see, my son is a full-on, Touched by Jerry Sandusky supporter.

The camera-view switches to show Costas and Michaels slapping hands against faces and shaking heads in bewildered unison.

Cris Collinsworth: (Still chuckling.) He wants it to be Touched by Jerry Sandusky in the worst way, but we'll see about that. OK. Now, let's find out this year's Hindsighty winner in sports. The nominees are Touched by Jerry Sandusky...And Bernie Fine...And last but certainly not least, the reigning champ, O.J. Simpson!

Everyone in the arena applauds while booing. Collinsworth opens the envelope in his hand.

Cris Collinsworth: And the winner is...Touched by Jerry Sandusky! Let's go to the dressing room of the nominees, where an armed police officer is poised to give that awful degenerate his award.

Grinning boyishly, equipped with a statuette and a shotgun, a cop waves hello. He nudges the door open to the dressing room, only to recoil and gasp. He shakes his head dismally, shuts the door in slow increments, and signs the beheading hand-gesture to the camera.

On-set, Costas and Michaels are shown, both intently pressing their earpieces as they receive new information from the producers.

Al Michaels: Good God. I don't believe it. Folks, in a sick and bizarre twist at this year's ceremonies, we have reports that both Sandusky and Fine have been found dead in the dressing room they shared with O.J. Simpson.

Bob Costas: Yes. They're apparent victims of self-strangulation.

Al Michaels: Sickening. Let's throw it to former NBC commentator O.J. Simpson for his analysis. Juice?

Swarmed by gun-toting cops and clad in orange prison garb, O.J. grips a microphone outside the scene of the crime. Sweat drips from his forehead but he manages a warm smile.

O.J. Simpson: Thanks, Al. And congratulations to the deceased. Now, I just want to make one thing clear: I don't know who or what killed those two men...but I'm determined to write a book on the mystery, titled If I Killed Jerry Sandusky and Bernie Fine, Here's How I'd Do It. I'll see you at next year's Hindsightys, guys!

The view returns to Michaels and Costas, both tickled and awestruck. Michaels shrugs deliberately.

Al Michaels: That's our O.J.!

Bob Costas: Such a rascal.