I’ve had the television on as background music all day, and these trials, these trials about Major League baseball, surely have to be one of biggest farcical distractions this government has ever made to keep itself from the navel-gazing it so desperately deserves.
I like baseball as much as the next red-blooded American, which means I appreciate it with a sort of passive patriotism and a mild desire for crackerjacks. “Casey At The Bat” is a really great poem.
But in the middle of everything we’re in the middle of, the United States House of Representatives — and, by extension, the TV news media, because their audience could be made to care about this, of all things — is conducting extensive, grueling, pathetically, ridiculously stupid investigations into the use of steroids in baseball games around this great nation.
Obama is surging, capturing votes in every conceivable demographic, the people are up and out without arms in America, forgoing to care about categories. People are dying right now as you read this and other people are grieving over those they have lost to the Bush Administration’s policies, but the most important thing we have decided to pursue today are allegations that on occasion athletes subject to enormous pressure and ridiculous physical standards might sometimes be taking performance enhancers.
That’s…it. A few unauthorized muscles, a little bit of poor sportmanship, a coupla needles, and the Representatives of the People are fucking all the fuck over it. They’re still talking, and have been all day. If this media attention were given for fifteen minutes to any one of our Presidential or Vice-Presidential scandals, there would be riots in the streets. Sometimes that’s why I think they don’t do it.
It leads me to wonder how many congressmen took their Adderall this morning, or blew a line off of a hooker’s ass on their way to the little congressional train that ferries them underground to their buildings where they dictate the rule of law. How many of them fear and feel their own coming trials?
Late into the night, John Conyers, Jr., Chairman of the House Judiciary Committee, wakes up in a cold sweat. He remembers that he’s supposed to be wielding the will of the American people, remembers that he swore in solemn oaths to uphold the Constitution, that little thing. He thinks about all the times they’ve tabled and turned away from impeachment. Sweating, in the quiet of his bed, John Conyers chokes and chuckles over the circus that he’ll see the next day: gargantuan hunks of roided ex-baseball stars will stammer and whine next to slick expensive lawyers wearing makeup for the cameras. A good day at the office, a fun one, distracting. If only he had some balls for the players to sign afterward!
Bush will be watching with a bowl of pretzels, feet up on the desk in the Oval Office, more interested in these governmental proceedings than anything that’s happened in a long time. He misses the baseball days, and the drugged ones, too.
Henry Waxman, Chairman of the House Oversight and Government Reform Committee and ringleader at this legislative Big Top, ought to be ashamed of himself as well. His neat little media/bored America clusterfuck trials with a moralizing witchhunt aftertaste is just what we need, only pointed in other, more life-threatening directions. He tried for a tiny bit at the beginning, like a small distracted nod to the election mandate that got him his fancy title in the first place — but it was scary out there amongst the big bad wolves, and safer in the stadium.
If we ever needed a Committee in action right now, it’s his, for God’s sake. Also, his stupid little mustache needs to go, because he looks like Charlie Chaplin tried to fuck Magnum P.I. and lost all his hair in the attempt.
John Conyers turns over and goes back to sleep.