Shame, Blame, and a New Name for the Washington Redskins

Washington Redskins owner Daniel Snyder continues to fend off pressure to abandon his franchise’s 81-year-old nickname. It’s a complicated and thorny issue, involving a long-dead racist owner, the First Amendment, shameful ethnic policies and attitudes, tradition, fan loyalty, and lots of money.

George Preston Marshall, who bought the fledgling Boston Braves in 1932 and changed its moniker to the Redskins, most likely was, according to Thomas G. Smith’s Showdown: JFK and the Integration of the Washington Redskins, the prime mover behind banning blacks from the NFL, a blight that commenced that same year. Whether he was or wasn’t, what cannot be disputed is the bewildering fact that Marshall’s franchise did not integrate until an ungodly-late 1962, essentially making him the NFL’s version of Tom Yawkey. And much like Yawkey’s long-vanilla Boston Red Sox, Marshall’s Redskins deservedly went a quarter-century between playoff appearances after World War II. (Interestingly, the Redskins of Boston played their four years in Fenway Park, making Marshall and Yawkey partners in slime, before Marshall relocated the franchise to the nation’s capital in 1937.)

There’s a lot more to Marshall’s sordid story, and although he always claimed the Redskins name was intended to honor America’s Indian culture, any man with Marshall’s track record on race relations is not to be believed.

Various attempts to make Redskins ownership change the franchise’s name have been initiated—some of them predating Daniel Snyder’s taking of the helm—but the fallback positions have always boiled down to either the extreme longevity of the name or a refusal to cave to political correctness. Advocates on opposing sides of the issue can cite polls that show ample support for either retaining or jettisoning the Redskins name.

From a legal standpoint, I don’t know what the answer is; from a moral standpoint, I’m in favor of changing any name that explicitly focuses on the color of one’s skin—especially in the capital of a nation that ostensibly stands for freedom and equality.

Of course, let’s not forget that this same capital did not deign to grant unconditional citizenship to American Indians until 1924...

Daniel Snyder is probably none of the things that George Marshall was, and his refusal to re-christen his franchise surely is not intended as a slap in the face to Native Americans. Yet he’s faced with an uphill battle to moral ground, and history won’t have his back.

My solution to this quandary is to rename the Washington Redskins the Washington Rosaceas. This, I strongly believe, would satisfy both sides—the offended party no longer endures a disparaging slur, while Washington ownership maintains the ethos of red skin while freeing itself of racist baggage.

And it keeps an “R” name, to boot.

If this then offends rosacea sufferers, well, there’s never been a solution that pleased everyone…

Sing Along With O.J. Simpson's Stabbed in the Hearts Club Band...

It was twenty years ago today

Police chased the Bronco driving O.J.

He’s been going in and out of jail

Couldn’t sell his Heisman Trophy for bail

So may I introduce to you

The back you cheered for all those years

O.J. Simpson’s Stabbed in the Hearts Club Band

We’re O.J. Simpson’s Stabbed in the Hearts Club Band

The Juice used to be an All-Pro

We’re O.J. Simpson’s Stabbed in the Hearts Club Band

He did his running in a Bronco

O.J. Simpson’s Stabbed in, O.J. Simpson’s Stabbed in

O.J. Simpson’s Stabbed in the Hearts Club Band

It’s horrible to be here

It’s like being a Buffalo Bill

Such a huge TV audience

He’d like to take you home with him

He’d love to stab you at home

I don’t really want to stop the chase

But Marcia’s gotta prosecute the case

And O.J.’s fingers in the glove are too long

So the jury got the verdict wrong

So let me introduce to you

The one and only Orenthal James

And O.J. Simpson’s Stabbed in the Hearts Club Band

Knife...Scissors...SHEARS!

What would you do 'bout the lives led to ruin?

Would you stand up and render Guilty?

Lend me your ears and I’ll show you how wrong

You would be not to set me free

Oh, I get by with a little help from the Dream Team

Mm, I won’t fry with a little help from the Dream Team

Mm, gonna lie with a little help from the Dream Team

What do I do when my love’s cold awhile?

(Does it bother you that you killed her?)

How do I feel by the end of the trial?

(Where’d you like the price of your soul billed, sir?)

No, I get by with a little help from the Dream Team

Mm, I won’t fry with a little help from the Dream Team

Mm, gonna lie with a little help from the Dream Team

(Do you need anybody?)

I need somebody to kill

(Could it be anybody?)

My ex-wife and the waiter from Ill.

Would you believe that the glove is too tight?

Yes, I’m certain that it does not fit

Would you convict if the jury were white?

I can’t tell you but you must acquit

Oh, I get by with a little help from the Dream Team

Mm, I won’t fry with a little help from the Dream Team

Mm, gonna lie with a little help from the Dream Team

(Do you need anybody?)

I need somebody to kill

(Could it be anybody?)

My ex-wife and the waiter from Ill.

Oh, I get by with a little help from the Dream Team

Mm, I won’t fry with a little help from the Dream Team

Mm, gonna lie with a little help from the Dream Team

Yes, I get by with a little help from the Dream Team

With a little help from the Dre-hee-hee-hee-hee-hee-hee-heem Team!

(Thanks to Drinkmore Pat for Photoshop guidance; GIF of chase copyright CNN.) 

I Couldn't Have Curbed My Enthusiasm for the Stare-down of the Century (Make That Centuries)

As re-reported yesterday by Mental Floss, two grandsons of John Tyler, 10th President of the United States (1841-1845), are, amazingly, living. Tyler, who became president upon William Henry Harrison’s death one month into his term, was born in 1790. It seems impossible that a man born so far back in American history that, as a boy, he likely wore a tricorn hat and colonial breeches every day of the year rather than only on Halloween could have grandchildren who aren’t themselves long dead. Of course, neither of these grandchildren ever knew President Tyler, who died in 1862, but the fact that three generations of the Tyler family currently span 224 years is mind-boggling.

Tyler, a more randy president than even John F. Kennedy or Bill Clinton, fathered 15 children by two wives. Lyon Gardiner Tyler, his fourth son by his second wife, was born in 1853, when Tyler was 63 years old. (Tyler later begat two more sons, finally zipping up at age 70.)

Lyon Gardiner Tyler, who eventually became President of the College of William and Mary, inherited his father’s aversion to birth control, siring three children with each of his two wives, the latter three conceived when he was in his seventies. Both Lyon Gardiner Tyler, Jr. (born 1925), and Harrison Tyler (born 1928) are still with us, making them living links to an inconceivably remote past.

Mental Floss first broke this incredible story in January 2012—which is a damn shame because it would have fit wonderfully into a Season 2 subplot of Curb Your Enthusiasm, filmed in 2001.

In Episode 15, “The Thong,” Larry David, at the request of Rob Reiner, reluctantly agrees to be the prize in a lunch auction to benefit Groat’s syndrome (which—let’s be clear—has nothing to do with former Pittsburgh Pirate Dick Groat). Larry eventually sits down to lunch with a man named John Tyler (played by Tom McGowan), who paid $4,000 for the honor of sharing a meal with Larry. This John Tyler not only is no relation to the president, but is completely dismissive of sharing his name. Determined to provide John Tyler with an entertaining and affable experience, Larry, grasping for conversational ideas, even serenades his lunch guest with a Marilyn Monroe–esque Happy birthday, Mr. President John Tyler…

Now, Tom McGowan played the increasingly annoyed Ordinary John Tyler admirably, and the scene conjures a lot of laughs. However, it might have worked even better had McGowan’s role instead been played by one of John Tyler’s two surviving grandsons (who, at the time of filming, were only in their mid-seventies). Of course, it would have been pointless to have Lyon Gardiner Tyler, Jr., or Harrison Tyler play an unrelated man who happens to possess the name “John Tyler.” But had one of the grandsons played himself, upon Larry’s discovery of his lineage, there’s no way that Larry—a keen student of history both in the show and in real life—would ever have believed that the grandson of an antebellum president could be alive—thus yielding the absolutely ultimate Larry David stare-down as he tries to determine whether the man sitting across from him is telling the truth about being the grandson of the long-deceased President Tyler.

A Larry David stare-down a century and a half in the making—that would have been pretty…pretty…pretty…pretty good.

(Images of Larry David and Tom McGowan copyright HBO.) 

Quid Provo Quo: Circumsizing Up Proxy Baptism

Once again, Mormons have “baptized” Anne Frank, the teenage Jewish girl whose diary chronicling her years in hiding from the Nazis stands as a testament both to human spirit and the cruelty and degradation that necessitated it. This baptism took place in the Dominican Republic, although the rite has been performed, in one form or another, many times since the late 1980s. And, in fact, an agreement had to be reached (in 1995) between Jewish and Mormon leaders for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints to stop permitting the practice of baptizing Holocaust victims.

Mormons also recently baptized the late Nazi-hunter Simon Wiesenthal’s deceased parents, and they seem geared to do the same for still-living Holocaust survivor and Nobel Peace Prize winner, Elie Wiesel (whose name was entered into the Mormons’ database of proxy-baptism candidates).

Wiesel, himself, recently called on Republican presidential candidate and Mormon Mitt Romney to denounce these proxy baptisms, but Romney has refused comment, so infer what you will about his beliefs and/or his spine. (In turn, Romney can infer that he won’t be getting my vote should he win the nomination.)

Proxy baptism isn’t merely a disgusting affront to Jews—it’s a mandate of our “unworthiness” and the “need” to save Jewish souls. This is really dangerous stuff—tantamount to cultural identity theft and a concrete example of how heretical at least some Mormons regard Judaism. And as history has proved over and over, such attitudes eventually flare into violence and blood.

The Mormon Church has “apologized” for each of these proxy baptisms but has, in practicality, done nothing to stop it. Yet even if it’s just a fringe element of the Mormon Church, a fringe element often represents the tip of an iceberg—just as anti-Semitism or racial prejudice run far deeper into the populace than just bigots uninhibited enough to “go on record.”

So I say dig up the corpses of Joseph Smith and Brigham Young and give them a ceremonial bris, the ritual circumcision performed by a rabbi.

Because living Jews shouldn’t take this lying down, especially when deceased Jews can do nothing else.

Why Wait for the Shake?

One never knows how one will react in moments of great stress or risk. The meek might summon unanticipated strength, and the strong may cower like a frightened dog. Either way, character is often defined at such flash points.

Just such an experience found me today when the 5.8 Virginia earthquake that shook much of the East Coast rumbled through the Philadelphia area—the first true earthquake I, and most in this neck of America, have ever endured.

I was sitting at my desk when the temblor struck. Truth be told, I was looking at porn on the computer and in the midst of self-satisfaction when the ground began shaking. Feeling the floor move and seeing the walls sway, I realized almost instantly that an earthquake was taking place. It felt a lot like when I suffered vertigo ten years ago, my sense of balance once again awry and my body momentarily helpless. Hardly in a state to rush out of my apartment building—what with my manhood exposed—I felt no such compulsion anyway. Rather than overcome by fear, I remained completely calm, as the curious novelty of the moment suppressed any trace of panic. Frankly, all I could think about once the shuddering ceased was finishing what I started. Why should plate tectonics rob me of an orgasm? Besides, if my death is imminent, I can't think of a better way to go out of this world than blowing my top to high-resolution pics of a nude, glistening Ariana Jollee spread-eagle at pool-side. Would it really make a hell of a difference that my lifeless body will be uncovered from the rubble with my pants open and my dust-covered pride hanging out? That I got right back to business instead of checking for damage, turning on the news, or escaping a potentially crumbling structure probably doesn't speak to my legacy, but I was operating on primal urge—and I remain steadfast that I did the right thing.

So much so that, like taking shelter in a basement during a tornado, perhaps I have proven that masturbation is the safest course of action during an earthquake.

Frankly, I found that the shaking so added to the pleasure—perhaps in a fashion similar to how autoerotic asphyxiation reputedly heightens orgasm—that I'm now wondering if it might pay to move to a more earthquake-prone country, such as Indonesia or Turkey, to enjoy this newfound enhancement more regularly.

Valdez as Slick on the Mound as in Prince William Sound

A 19-inning marathon between the Philadelphia Phillies and Cincinnati Reds ended at 1:19 this morning, with 2nd-baseman Wilson Valdez earning the victory after Philadelphia had exhaused its bullpen. Valdez became the first player since none other than Babe Ruth to start a game at a position other than pitcher, move to the mound, and record a victory, which Ruth did on October 1, 1921.

Now that Valdez is in the company of baseball royalty, doesn't he deserve a snazzy nickname? I think so...and, based on Wilson's hair, I suggest "Exxon," because Valdez's coif quite resembles the aftermath of the Exxon Valdez disaster, with his beard standing in for the pooled spillage that washed ashore in Prince William Sound, Alaska.














All in favor...?

The Blow Must Go On

As was reported in The Smoking Gun on November 29, a South Carolina couple were involved in a domestic disturbance on Thanksgiving day when the woman, while performing oral sex on her boyfriend, stopped in mid-act to answer her cell phone. As can be seen in the official sheriff's report below, she lied to her boyfriend that the caller was a woman, later admitting that the caller was a man, which infuriated her boyfriend—as if halting her blowjob to take a phone call from her girlfriend wasn't infuriating enough. The boyfriend then allegedly slapped her, at which point she called 911. The investigating police officer examined the woman's face but found no evidence of physical harm. After refusing to give the officer a statement, the woman left the scene, and no further action was taken.


As you may be aware, South Carolina is home to many kooky laws. And as still extant in the South Carolina Code of Laws as of the end of the state legislature's 2009 session, under Title 16: Crimes and Offenses:

SECTION 16-15-120. Buggery.

Whoever shall commit the abominable crime of buggery, whether with mankind or with beast, shall, on conviction, be guilty of felony and shall be imprisoned in the Penitentiary for five years or shall pay a fine of not less than five hundred dollars, or both, at the discretion of the court.

"Buggery," of course, is the archaic term for what we commonly refer to as "sodomy," which, in legal matters, encompasses a range of sexual acts, including oral sex.

Now it's lunacy to still have a puritanical law such as this on the books, even if virtually never enforced. But it's beyond lunacy not to have a law on the books criminalizing the halting of a blowjob for any purpose other than to cause ejaculation via a different manner. Let us be plain: once a person is involved in administering the act of oral sex, the recipient cannot be left hanging. Let the phone ring. Allow dinner to burn. Disregard the doorbell. Ignore the fire. South Carolina legislators must realize that—regardless of whether oral sex is outlawed in their state—once "head" is underway, the mission must be completed. Even under the aegis of such prudish laws, failing to complete a blowjob is far more heinous a crime than engaging in the act altogether.

Perhaps this man did slap his girlfriend—which, of course, would be criminal under any circumstances. But police found no evidence of such, and the accuser refused to file a statement, which not only makes her allegation dubious, but renders the matter moot. It is she who is guilty in this case—guilty of stopping a blowjob to answer a phone. Sadly, there is no weight with which the law can come down on this unconscionable monster...save for perhaps banning her from South Carolina Gamecocks events. Shame on this woman.

Therefore, I propose that the following amendment be added to the South Carolina Code of Laws—and, indeed, to the Code of Laws of each state:

SECTION 16-15-120a. Fellatus Interruptus.

Whoever shall commit the abominable crime of fellatus interruptus, whether to tend to another matter or to cease for reason other than to change position or stimulatory method, shall, on conviction, be guilty of felony and shall be imprisoned in the Penitentiary for five years or shall pay a fine of not less than five hundred dollars, or both, at the discretion of the court. The offender shall further be required to wear a scarlet "CT" at all times that the offender be known publicly as a cocktease. So do the right thing and finish what you started.

Postscript

It is my hope that this incident—as have many other actual criminal occurrences—becomes the basis for a future Law & Order episode. Sure, fellatus interruptus probably would constitute only a Class E felony in more liberal-minded New York City, but any chance to see Assistant DA Connie Rubirosa reenacting the crime in court for the benefit of the jury is sure to be a ratings-grabber!

In fact, I think I'm gonna write the episode myself.

Maybe even story-board it, too...

(Photo of Law & Order copyright NBC.)

You're a Grandma's Old Flag...You're a High-Stylin' Flag

Once again, a furor has arisen over a citizen flying the Confederate battle flag on his/her property. Annie Chambers Caddell, of Summerville, South Carolina, has opened the latest can of worms by flying the flag on her front porch. She is white and lives in a “historically black” neighborhood. Caddell insists that she is merely displaying pride in her Southern heritage, but some of her African American neighbors see it as a symbol of overt racism and want her to remove the flag. Denying any hateful intentions, this rebel without probable cause refuses to comply, and objecting members of the community plan to raise the issue before a town board meeting later this month.

Regardless of Caddell’s constitutional right to fly the Confederate flag, or whether or not you view the rebel flag as a symbol of hatred or racism (I, personally, consider it a badge of treason, emblematic of the evil institution of slavery cloaked—like its vile cousin, lynching—in the spurious rationale of “states’ rights”; a flag of, literally, a foreign nation—and a vanquished one at that—that has no more business flying over an American government building than does the Japanese rising sun) one fact continually has been overlooked in this long-standing issue: it’s a good-looking flag: assertive design, attractive color scheme, lots of triangles. Sociopolitical implications aside, the Confederate flag brightens up any home, business, or official property. I find it a great shame that such an aesthetically pleasing flag carries the repulsive historical baggage it does and thus cannot be enjoyed simply as stylish decor.

Then again, The Dukes of Hazzard’s General Lee, with its Confederate battle-flag roof, serves as a constant reminder of one of the dumbest shows in television history (apart from Daisy Duke in her Daisy Dukes), thus doing even more to sully the flag’s reputation than its insurrectionist, segregationist legacy.

Those dopey good ol’ boys may never have been meanin’ no harm, but their car beats all you never saw...highlights the flag’s worst flaw...since the day that show was born.


(Photo of Annie Chambers Caddell by Brad Nettles and copyright The Charleston Post and Courier; photo of Bo and Luke Duke copyright CBS.)

The Sultan of Spectacles

On July 17, a 38-year-old Illinois man named Jerry Lowery allegedly robbed a suburban Milwaukee optical store at gunpoint. After leading police on a high-speed chase through local neighborhoods, Lowery escaped, but later turned himself in to authorities. He is also charged with the armed theft of two other optical stores since April.

Lowery has admitted to a bizarre eyeglasses fetish in which he "really likes to be around glasses." Lowery told police that this fetish has plagued him for the last fifteen years, saying that he likes to put on the glasses, pose in front of a mirror, and then dispose of them. In the burglary of July 17, Lowery stole 575 pairs of eyewear.

This is a fetish so weird that it doesn't even have a Web site yet.

Yet what fascinates Mount Drinkmore is not the heretofore unheard-of eyeglasses obsession that deserves an entire DSM-IV of its own, but rather the unsettling resemblance of Lowery to Hall of Famer Hank Aaron.

Even more disturbingly, these thefts occurred in and around Milwaukee—where Hank Aaron spent two thirds of his Major League career.

You might say that Jerry Lowery is the Hank Aaron of armed-glasses theft.

After all, he did steal 575 pairs of glasses on this caper...and while that's still far short of Hank's 755 home runs, it puts the 38-year-old Lowery on pace to pass Aaron in a few years. (Remember that Hammerin' Hank aged like fine wine and swatted 116 homers after his 38th birthday.)

Lowery, who was on parole at the time of his arrest and owns a laundry list of armed-robbery convictions, faces a maximum of 123 years in jail. But if he can cut his sentence down to, say, two years with good behavior and a switch to contact lenses, Very Bad Jerry will still be young enough to catch Bad Henry upon his release from prison.

So let's keep a close watch on this guy, because, one day, we all might be saying, "There's a new eyeglasses thief of all time...and it's Jerry Lowery!"
(Mugshot photo courtesy Fox Point Police. Hank Aaron baseball card copyright Topps, Inc.)

Aretha Sang the Wrong Song

Sure, the inauguration of Barack Obama as the 44th President of the United States marks a shining moment in our nation's history, both as a gleaming reaffirmation of American democracy and as the end of the deplorable Bush Administration. But as proud, pleased, and hopeful as I could be in viewing President Obama's inauguration ceremony, I found myself disappointed that Aretha Franklin sang such a predictable and stuffy ballad as "My Country 'Tis of Thee." Patriotic though it be, the tune has no groove, nothing worthy of the Queen of Soul.

I would have been much more impressed had Ms. Franklin sung her 1968 hit, "Think," which she recreated so brilliantly in The Blues Brothers. Imagine the inspiration and respect America would regain had Aretha belted out "You better think (think, think) what you're tryin' to do to me" while President-Elect Obama and Vice President-Elect Biden danced and clapped à la Jake and Elwood and First Lady Michelle and her two daughters provided backing vocals. Sure, space was tight on the rostrum, but the Secret Service could have cleared out the Bushes and the Cheneys a few minutes early. And with former president Bill Clinton providing Blue Lou Marini's saxophone solo from the facade above the stage, America would again be the hippest nation on Earth.

Especially at song's end, as Aretha angrily gestures the President-Elect to take the oath with, "Well, go ahead, dammit!"

Oh freedom (freedom)...freedom (freedom)...freedom (freedom)...yeah, freedom...


By the way, I was also disappointed that Jerky Boy Johnny Brennan wasn't chosen to administer the Presidential Oath of Office...

The Imperfect Storm

In the 1990s, certain Native American groups pressured numerous professional and collegiate organizations to change their nickname from what these groups perceived as stereotypes offensive to their culture—among these "offenders," the Cleveland Indians, Atlanta Braves, Washington Redskins, and St. John’s Redmen. According to the St. John’s University Web site, “Redmen” derived not from the traditional derogatory slang for a Native American, but from the fact that “the men of St. John’s wore red.” Even so, St. John’s caved to pressure and renamed itself the “Red Storm” in 1994.

Personally, I never understood the rationale for “Red Storm.” The only sensible connection that it possesses is to Jupiter’s Great Red Spot, a gargantuan red-tinged storm that’s been whirling for centuries through the Jovian atmosphere.

That’s not very practical for an Earth-based team. Whose sponsorship is the university’s board of governors trying to lure? Sure, Jupiter, king of the planets, is a thousand times more voluminous than Earth and potentially harbors a colossal fan base. But even assuming life does exist in its frozen, toxic clouds, it's most likely the microbial variety. And if those microbes could make the 700-million-mile journey to Earth, so many would fit in a single seat of Carnesecca Arena as to render corresponding ticket sales totally unprofitable for the university.

Poor marketing move.

Much wiser would have been to rechristen the university’s nickname the St. John’s Wort. Pharmaceutical companies toss advertising dollars as freely as UConn guards toss alley-oops over St. John’s heads, and with the 7-12 Red Storm currently dead last in the Big East, makers of this herbal treatment for depression could find a goldmine among tortured St. John’s students and alumni. Frankly, how can St. John’s University hope to compete against Georgetown, Syracuse, and the other beasts of the Big East without becoming the St. John’s Wort and cashing in on America’s insatiable need for medication? Yes, St. John’s wort may cause sensitivity to sunlight, but when you’re going to school in Queens...the less time spent outside, the better.



DISCLAIMER: Less than sixty seconds before I posted this, ESPN SportsCenter’s upcoming topics displayed on the right side of the screen included the headline “St. John’s Warts.” For the record, ESPN’s pun in no way inspired or gave rise to this post. In truth, I conceived the idea for this post six weeks ago—a fact verifiable by Mount Drinkmore’s Dave, who worked the graphic genius that you see above via e-mail on December 20, 2007—although the text had not been fully fleshed out. This morning’s headline on ESPN merely served as the catalyst to finish this post immediately, lest some Cheeto-fingered ESPN junkie falsely accuse me of lifting ideas.

I would also like to express my deep admiration for ESPN anchorwoman Linda Cohn’s thighs, so seldomly yet tantalizingly displayed during full-body shots.

(Graphic enhancement courtesy of Mount Drinkmore's Dave; St. John's Red Storm logo copyright St. John's University; photo of Jupiter courtesy of NASA.)