Thursday, June 18, 2015

Not Nearly Progressive Enough

I'm thoroughly dissatisfied with the news. Sure, we're doing a good job, but we could be doing lots better.

Look at this remarkable feat of coordination they've had going here. There was George Zimmerman, which was huge, and then that white girl who got raped and murdered by that black dude, which was nothing, and then there was Mike Brown, which was also huge, and then that white guy who got shot and killed for pushing a cop, which was nothing at all. And then there was Freddie Gray, and Baltimore riots, and Caitlyn Jenner, and Rachel's like a ninety minute movie, where the plot comes in so swiftly and so predictably that it's over before your Junior Mints are gone.

There's always something, but we could do better. I've heard it suggested that Rachel Dolezal marry Al Sharpton, which would have been progressive, like, a month ago. To hell with that. I want some real news. I want a thrill that lasts longer than a few days of blogs. I want something that provokes analysis so deep and so intellectual that I'm left in chills, rapt, reminded why I started to watch the news in the first place. I want drama; horror; intensity; I want to be filled with the urge to call relatives in other countries and tell them what they already know, and I want to run out into the street in black and white and see a newsboy shouting, "Extra! Extra!" and I want to give him a nickel and spread the newspaper out and gasp in amazement.

I don't want Rachel Dolezal to get married to Al Sharpton. Instead, I want Congress to pass Amendment 28 to the Constitution, defining marriage as "a union of any number and kind of things." I want Rachel Dolezal and Chelsea Manning and Al Sharpton to get trio-married at the base of the Washington monument. I want Justice Ginsburg to perform the ceremony, and shortly afterward I want her to have a little too much champagne and be filmed giggling and ignoring Scalia's protests as she drives his porcine bulk into a port-a-john with her hands up his robes.

But that's not enough. That would barely be getting started. That's almost predictable, frankly. I want more and I deserve more.

I want a joint Tea-Party/Greenpeace army of protesters to clash with Exxon paramilitary forces after oil is discovered in Mount Rushmore. I want senior citizens to be happy when Exxon wins because the Green Tea Party had no clear goals or demands anyway, and I want the very first drill to expose the secret passage leading to the sub-Rushmore chamber where Teddy Roosevelt hid all his garter belts. I want it to spur a national dialogue on sexual identity and I want a quota system implemented on Capitol Hill and I want to be part of paying $527 million to add transrestrooms alongside male and female to every federal government building in the nation, and I want to see vigorous debates in The Atlantic about whether it is or isn't a "State's right" to determine if State and local buildings should have the same restroom variety requirements, and I want Bill de Blasio to refuse to return to the City in a show of solidarity. I want Putin to annex Canada and I want Hollywood to be united in its opposition to his actions and I want Prince to rape Putin in effigy at a show in Seattle that turns violent leading to clashes between police and concertgoers and inspires a much-needed dialogue about Russo-Canadian immigration. I want a Muslim police officer to accidentally discharge his weapon at a Russo-American peace vigil and be hailed as a hero by true conservatives, and I want the U.N. to release a report condemning the Trump administration's disparate treatment of Russo-American men for its racist, vodka-based "stop and frisk" policy, and then I want to read six dozen blogs about how come the stupid worthless hypocritical U.N. condemns America for frisking a few Russian immigrants when Putin has been executing all those British boat-people.

And when it's time for bed, I want to read about the Dolezal/Manning/Sharpton divorce, and I want to see pictures of Sharpton in the Caribbean with a mysteriously curvy boyfriend whose face is always blurred out or hidden behind a tropical hat. I want Sharpton to sit down with Diane Sawyer and come clean with the nation about his unfortunate mistakes, and just before the commercial break, I want him to surprise the studio audience by introducing us to his new sweetheart Marcelo Lewinsky, who wants to be called Marcelo, and I want the camera to focus on Marcelo, to focus on his smiling, pudgy little intern face, waiting for us to demand to hear about what's changed since '98. I want clever people on twitter to point out that, now that "Monica" is "Marcelo," Bill Clinton must therefore be gay, and I want other clever people to point out that retroactive identity doesn't work that way, and I want Diane Sawyer to address that issue to the camera, and then I want it to cut to commercial for some new dentifrice, and then I want it to turn off.


  1. Hm,"Green Tea Party" - very nice :D!

    Fucking Lippmann, man, he shouldn't have won.

  2. Ya gots yr EXTRA! Be careful of what ya wish fr.

  3. It's Nercules again.

    We know each other from TCT, and I absolutely love your blog.

    I've been reading Badiou's 'Ethics' and his poo-poohing of 'human rights' discourse and the like, and, I think, getting it.

    There is no better example of his philosophical project than the last paragraph from today's NYT story about the 'Charleston Massacre'. It's a 'quote', actually, and quite a staged quote it is:

    “It’s at the very center of town, at the very center of white society,” he said. “This church is much more than a place where people sing gospel. It’s tethered to the deep unconscious of the black community.”

    How more effectively to ignite white fear than by portraying the nearby ''back community" as having a "deep unconscious"?

    Seriously fucked up.

    And I have to say now how much I love your blog.