Counting the syllables to Doomsday
I’m falling on my knees
while fools are talking football.
Greetings from the land of antichrist consumption, where NFL sales reps can’t figure out why no one cares about their team-logo jockey shorts, lunchboxes and ashtrays. Where the media drones on about minuscule drops in consumer spending while malls are so full you can barely find parking on a Saturday. Where legions of smiling zombies blather onscreen about overpaid athletes moving inflatable spheroids and projectiles around fields, courts, rings, etc.
America at the height of power. . . or the delirious free-fall descent from the peak ?
If so,when WAS the peak? 1945? 1910?
Jihadists want to slit our throats and level our cities for Allah. A pudgy tyrant is shooting off missiles and threatening global mayhem but we are busy buying wings and beer for the big game. Enemies use our courts and our Democracy to subvert our power and divide us as they conquer, but we, like overgrown adolescents waving tiny flags and screaming in the stands, are absorbed in. . . GAMES.
Grown men on the verge of tears, trembling over some guy throwing a pass, body & soul given over to a game that requires pounds and pounds of plastic and billions of dollars of petrochemicals to sustain itself. But if you get worked up over God, or Art, or over the Meaning of Life people look at you weird. It’s not acceptable to get worked up over THAT stuff, right?
Gridiron buffoons and babbling sportscasters punctuated by mind-numbing appeals to shut up and BUY — now THAT is the noble stuff to get emotional about here in the Land of the tech-enslaved and the Home of the semi-informed.
I don’t get it. I can’t even fake like I am interested in American Football. It’s a silly game. I heard about some players that wouldn’t do the flag salute or something.
I ought to write a poem about this.