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No wonder crime is down in New York! It's too expensive for crooks to come here. Plus which, even if you stick somebody up, chances are he just paid his high rent and he's broke. Knicks' Eddy Curry doesn't have to worry about getting robbed in New York. He already got cleaned out when thieves broke into his home in suburban Chicago and ripped off everything last year. "They even stole my performance-enhancing drugs. That's why I can't rebound or shoot and my playing stinks. I can't speak for the other Knicks, but at least I've got an excuse!"Curry has some advice for potential crime victims. "Bet on the Knicks. That way, when you get held up you'll already be cleaned out."Anyway, the biggest crook is coach Isiah Thomas, who has a $24 million contract for doing nothing. As Bob Dylan once sang, "Some people rob you with a fountain pen." People ask, "How could he have hired those bozos (Zack Randolph, Curry, Marbury, Quentin Richardson, etc.) Maybe Thomas is taking a cut of their contract money in "consulting fees." Did you ever think of a thing like that? That would explain a lot.This little idea might shock some people, but it will not shock anybody used to the New York business environment. Even assuming Thomas is totally honest, which, considering he works for the Dolan family, is a sheer impossibility, and assuming I'm out of my mind for even imagining that a sterling talent like Quentin Richardson, who is being paid millions to serve as designated bench warmer, would ever agree to pay a "consultancy fee" to a member of Thomas' "entourage" in return for being signed, when you consider the modern professional sports environment you have to admit that any player who is totally clean is being left out of the loop.Now that the additional element of performance-enhancing drugs has been entered into the equation there is hardly anybody left who fits into the ever-narrowing parameters of wholesomeness from which the ethos of American sportsmanship derives its authenticity.Maybe that's a blessing in disguise. It's possible that the American psyche is due for a shift in the tectonic arrangement of its value system to bring it more into line with the realities of the modern world. Every time you pick up The Wall Street Journal (now owned by that paragon of conservative values, Rupert Murdoch, who is also the boss of the groveling idiots who write the sports pages of The New York Post) you read about another captain of industry being indicted for price fixing; backdating stock options; selling worthless securities backed by fraudulent mortgages sold to welfare cases; Enron; WorldCom; Tyco, whose multi-billionarie CEO is now serving 25 years. Look, I don't have time to recite the whole litany of creeps, thugs and murderers who compose our ruling elite, OK? Let me just compress it to one word: Dick Cheney.So why should our athletic heros be obliged to be any more virtuous than the general population at large? Cheney goes out and gets loaded and shoots an attorney in the face and gets off. The Nets Jayson Williams gets loaded and shoots a man dead in his backyard and he gets off. Pacman Jones starts a riot in a Las Vegas nightclub where one of the imbecilic thugs in his "entourage" (I like the way they throw that word around, as though these morons were attending at the court of Louis XIV) starts shooting off a cannon, paralyzing a bar worker, and he gets off. Hell, I want to shoot somebody too!So, since our whole society is already swimming in the depths of depravity, up to our necks in the sewage of corruption, why are we expecting pro athletes, who are probably less qualified than anybody else, to establish and adhere to moral standards of rectitude that even the freakin president, with his record of stealing elections and looting the treasury for the benefit of his family and friends, doesn't recognize? Get the freak outta here!The problem of performance-enhancing drugs is part of the headlong rush of humanity into the future that was prophesized by Aldous Huxley in his futuristic book "Brave New World," where social peace was preserved because everybody was zonked out on a drug called Soma. Huxley just wrote the story; he didn't try to sum up a moralizing conclusion. We're halfway there now, with half the population skunked-out on Prozac because they're disoriented by life and the drug calms them down. The only problem is: she may feel better but she's still inflicting her complexes on you. But since these zombies are hard to detect you never know whether you are talking to a normal person or a freakin Pod Person from outer space. And I got a feeling that these lab rats are leading the charge to enforce conformity on the rest of us!(Am I going too far with this? I don't want to wake up strapped to a plank, on a waterboarding vacation in Guantanamo Bay)One astute observer has suggested that since we are never going to get rid of steroids anyway, we might as well make them mandatory for all athletes, to level the playing field. I'd like to advance this Swiftian analysis to its logical conclusion and advance the argument that since so many players and coaches are engaged in criminal behavior we could put together a Dream Team of murderers, crack addicts and muggers to play against the worst anti-social elements the other countries of the world can assemble.There's an old science fiction movie called "Rollerball" where the elite killers of each country competed against each other in a kind of motorized roller derby involving skates and motorcycles where they bashed each other's brains in with steel balls shot out of a cannon like the Tampa Bay Buccaneers have. The game was sponsored by monolithic multinational corporations, and the sports superstars, who were idiots, would throw drunken revels in their McMansions and go out back to shoot off heavy artillery that destroyed trees. Sound familiar?Since society has now reached the level of technical sophistication predicted in that movie, which I recommend for every sports fan to watch, I say: "Let The Games Begin!"We could spring Michael Vick from prison to act as the tough love dog trainer in a cannibalistic Alaskan Iditarod sled race, where the contestants eat the dogs on the way to the finish line. That would be exciting to watch, and we could even intersperse the sports moments with Iron Chef cooking experts suggesting new variations on recipes for grilled husky.Naturally, we got Olympic hurdles with OJ jumping over suitcases at LAX holding a serrated Navy Seal commando knife, and the first guy to complete the course would cut up a woman and a fruity restaurant waiter. Sound like fun?Then you got the Pacman Strip Club Shooting Gallery, where running backs open fire with large-caliber artillery in a room full of naked girls.How about the Yankees Death Race 2000, where drunken homerun heroes try to mow down a gang of pregnant housewives with their cars?I also got a concept like the Donald Trump Millionaire show, which shows you how to get rich. Only in my version the rich white sons of Philadelphia Eagles coaches jam automatic pistols into the waistbands of their trousers and compete to sell the most crack to the black population of North Philadelphia.It's good, no? Talk about reality shows! We got enough a**holes in professional sports to have our own cable channel. Every year we could have an award show which would give trophies to hockey players for inflicting paralyzing injuries by checking opponents into the boards from behind and slashing their faces with the blades of hockey sticks.How about videos of boxers who die from concussions because Don King and the other greedy promoters refuse to consider headgears for pro boxing matches? No shortage of victims, that's for sure!Freakin "Sixty Minutes" could send that idiot broad Leslie Stahl into paraplegic wards to interview paralyzed linemen who have had their backs broken from being double- and triple-teamed by 300 lb. killers. Not to mention all the broken legs and shoulders of running backs targeted for death by opposing coaches because they are playing too well.Naturally, we won't forget clips of Mets catcher Mike Piazza running to first base after getting a broken bat jammed up his butt by Yanks pitcher Roger Clemens, who was not taking steroid injections. Or the fantastic press conference where Mets manager Bobby Valentine told reporters that Piazza was gay. Piazza got so pissed-off at that that he put on his dress and walked out.But it's all in fun, folks. I'm just trying to illustrate a point. The point is - what is the freakin point anyway? I forgot!
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Posted on 1/7/2008
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