OJ Redux

Flashback: A post that I would have made if I had a computer in April 2000:

O.J. Simpson. He’s been a case study in the perks and pitfalls of fame, the peerless anguish and potential viciousness of jealous ire, the gall of deep, deep self-delusion, the complicit guilt, mendacity and egotism of legal whoring—all stretching the frontier edges of media saturation and audience tolerance. So why bother adding to the ceaseless stream of useless words and images? Well, I love this country and I hate this man and the shitstorm he wrought.

First of all, the guy is a double-murderer. If you think otherwise, stop reading right here. In fact, stop reading all together. You are too stupid, angry, or ignorant to attempt any further intellectual edification in your life. Give up, stay home, watch “David Cassidy: Behind the Music”, and try not to procreate if possible.

O.J. didn’t just kill 2 people. He butchered them with an awfully big knife. Killing with a knife ain’t like pulling a trigger as you drive-by. No, I figure you need to get in pretty darn close and deal with some awfully violent squirming and defensive thrashing while you hack away and slice as the life you clutch spurts blood and agonizingly jerks from frantic panting to gasping anguish to lifeless stillness. And that’s just the first victim. The other one is stronger, yet ultimately just as helpless. After all, even in your advanced age and with sometimes crippling arthritis, you are a hall-of-fame, Heisman Trophy-winning professional football player with surging adrenaline pumping slash after slash in a supercharged rage.

And this vile reprobate goes on television to hawk his new website devoted to answer the public’s questions for a small fee that supposedly goes to charity. Although few charities have come forward to willingly accept his bloodstained offering.

I’ve got some questions, Juice! Remember the game in 1973 when you broke 2,000 yards rushing in a season in that snowy game against the Jets at Shea Stadium? How about your proud, teary-eyed acceptance speech at the Pro Football Hall of Fame in Canton? Or that time you donned leather gloves and a black nit cap to hunt down and virtually decapitate your ex-wife? Wasn’t that one a doozy?

Of course, you have no recollection of that evening. At least no memory that your conscious mind will permit you to recognize. But don’t tell me that the dreams don’t claw at you in the stark darkness of your sleep. Those nights when maybe the coke wasn’t plentiful or powerful enough to bury your worst instincts and pain. Because memories that lucid never really fade. They just become harder to access and retrieve. Kinda like your once-exalted place in society, eh?

So peddle your lies and delusions. Play your public golf courses and complain about the tee times. Use your kids as sympathy crutches and ready-made excuses to exploit anything, anyone, anytime.

Walk through life like the pathetic ghost you are. Insignificant. Almost too sad to be truly evil. And try to keep pace ahead of those hellhounds on your trail.