Friday, May 26, 2006
Mike Nifong, Lacrosse alum. Translation? Idiot.
COUNSELOR. We were suspicious from the start. The folks at Instapunk are as sympathetic and intimate with strippers as anyone. This particular charge never rang true. But we kept our peace. We know that jocks can be a**holes. In particular, we never liked Lacrosse jocks.
[Yes, InstaPunk arises from his bed of pain. He's back. Because of this. Which he hates. Because he never liked Lacrosse jocks.]
Well, Seamans wasn't that dumb. Better than what came after.
They were the superficialest, snobbiest, airheadedest bunch of clowns who ever afflicted a private school -- back in the days before Johns-Hopkins somehow swindled the nation into believing that a bunch of halfwits sporting pre-Columbian accessories 24 hours a day constituted a legitimate sports constituency. They never did. They were, from the first, merely the signposts of empty-headed, social-climbing, obsessive, quasi-untalented joke-jocks, who convinced each other they were athletic because they came from the same affluent three-county area in Maryland. They drank themselves into a stupor over a title decided among Johns-Hopkins, Annapolis, and the honestly named Terrapins of U. Maryland. Oh yeah. I forgot. There were also a bunch of prep schools in the Maryland area that gave passing grades to congressmen's sons who had filled in their athletic deficits by swishing Lacrosse sticks over their Topsiders since the age of six. Where do you think Terrapins come from?
Yecccch. Yeeeccccch. Thirty-five years after graduation from my southern Pennsylvania prep school, I still despise them, even the thought of them, their sneers, their sticks whooshing day and night, their Sperry Topsiders slap-slapping the paths, their consonantless, empty chatter...
To my mind, Lacrosse players are the bottom of the bottom-feeders.
So I waited for the rape case to be made against the Duke dudes. Only problem: No case.
You see. I hate Lacrosse players. But I don't get to ruin their lives by leveling empty charges at them. Just to pose one example, say I'm a woman who's at least momentarily attractive to Lacrosse players. I don't get to accuse three of them of raping me when I've already admitted to having sex with three other non-Lacrosse-playing dudes on the same night. I don't get to change my story back and forth -- nothing, rape, gang rape, rape by the richest Lacrosse players -- when I'm a stripper who's too drunk to to remember what really happened. If anything happened.
It can even be the case that my life is sad and unfair. I can call myself an exotic dancer. I can pretend I don't make money by taking my clothes off for Lacrosse players (Yecccch!), which -- when it accidentally happens -- causes me to drink too much and have sex with lots of men before I ever meet the rich stick-wielding dudes.
But if I want to prove that Lacrosse dudes raped me, I'd really better be able to remember the incident, name names, produce evidence beyond residual signs of arousal and subsequent tenderness in my loins, and have some kind of circumstantial evidence that rich white boys forced me to have sex against my will.
I'd also better have a district attorney on my side who isn't a total race-whore sellout with no case beyond a desire to inflame racial tensions to win an election.
Let me sum up. When I quit pretending that I'm a stripper, I still hate Lacrosse players. A lot. But what I hate worse are scheming whores who assume they can frame men for rapes they didn't commit. And worst of all, I hate prosecutors.
Yeah, unscrupulous prosecutors are the worst. Like Mike Nifong, spread-eagled political opportunist. Like the first Maryland Lacrossers I ever knew. Social climbers armed with a stick. Whoosh whoosh. Whore of whores. But I also hate even the lesser prosecutors -- the ones who overcharge their clients even when they're not overstating the case against defendants who aren't savvy enough to get real legal help hire a more expensive lawyer. On the other hand, maybe there's justice in the injustice of bullies who learn that other people are alive only by learning that they aren't. Condolences to all the dead people. Whoosh whoosh.
But that's just me. Recuperating from the Debate. [I gave as good as I got. Who out there has ever publicly disagreed with Insect Brain?]
Get the man some topsiders and a stick. Then shoot him. It worked for [DELETED].