What a week its been. St. George Bush has gone to crusade in England, Michael Jackson is being charged with acts that would make an English school boy blush, gambling apparently gets more play at LSU anywhere except the Bellagio, and Ole Miss is going to Hell. Details to follow.
The Desert Rat is, as I write this, continuing his tour of the homeland of the other great wordsmith of the English language, William Shakespeare. Security levels are high around the Commander in Chief, who is now the closest he’s been to an actual battlefield since he last defended Texas during Vietnam.
Measures for his safety were apparently taken so seriously that Daily Mirror reporter Ryan Parry was able to get a job as a Royal footman with more bogus references than a pre-war press conference on Weapons of Mass Destruction. He held the job for two months, during which time period he was, as he reported, often in the presence of the Queen and Duke of Windsor, and, apparently, was in the position to, had he been a terrorist, bring harm to either of them, or, for that matter, the president himself on the visit. Bit of a black eye for our cousins (or, perhaps a spotted dick pastry, given their food preferences).
Naturally, the president’s trip, something that, for all its propaganda, is actually important (interesting, though, that he will visit the bereaved families of dead English soldiers, but has yet to do so with the families of dead American soldiers) has been overshadowed completely by the new allegations, and arrest warrant, facing Michael Jackson.
Frankly, I’m sick to death of the whole Michael Jackson saga. Yes, I know we’ve all heard the jokes (such as “Only in America could a poor black boy grow up to become a rich white woman”), but it’s simply ridiculous. The media spent about a decade lionizing Mr. Jackson as the near second coming of Christ for having slightly above average dance skills and moderately entertaining videos, and the next turning him into the most comical pederast aside from John Tuturro’s “Jesus” of Big Lebowski fame.
Now, he looks to be in truly hot water, with, according to reports, a multiple count indictment for child molestation. I pride myself on being flippant, but one of the few things that even I have no desire to make light of is the above crime. If the charges are true, then Mr. Jackson should enjoy the three to eight years he faces behind bars, no exceptions for his supposed contributions to society.
In local news, yesterday the greatest publication since the New Testament published an excellent article on gambling via bookies. Being of the “Legalize it” mindset, I really don’t see the problem with a bunch of college students who want to toss their money away on a game. In fact, I was utterly shocked that the great state of Louisiana, where one can watch cock fights and bet on them, does not have a provision for legalized sports betting.
We ought to get on board with that quickly though. Otherwise those bastards – the slack-jawed yokels of Mississippi – who stole the name of our sacred river, might get there first.
In fact, I’m surprised none of the candidates mentioned it during the governor’s race. I mean, think of all the jobs it would create, for both liberal arts graduates, who could act as bent accountants, the frustrated chain smoking computer science majors who would run the operation, and finally the Ag students could be our muscle (although we might have to set up an exchange with Hoboken, New Jersey in order to get the right “Vinnies” to train our “Bubbas” in order to do the job right). I could see it now, “Boudreaux’s betting book,” with free gumbo and a finger realignment if you miss your second payment.
Lastly, we face the weekend. Thanksgiving has crept up on us. So note to all those who have not yet returned home this semester – hide your beer, extinguish your cigarette, and lie like a rug about your grades. No wait, that’s what you’re supposed to do if the RA knocks on the door.
Actually, what we all need to do this weekend is watch the Tigers beat the living tar out of the Ole Miss Rebels, who shame the proud name of those who wore the Gray. So, grab yourselves a sports book, burn an old Michael Jackson album, remember that tomorrow marks the 40th anniversary of JFK’s assassination, and repeat after me: Go to Hell, Ole Miss, go to Hell.