Signs of a Minor Apocalypse

I have been pondering the entrails of slain chickens, casting bones and sifting through the remains of my Sweetie's designer tea leaves, and I'm still not certain whether the following two stories are plants by the Antichrist or actual signs of the End of All We Know & Revere.

From MSNBC.com:

WASHINGTON - On Capitol Hill instead of a baseball field, wearing suits instead of uniforms, they walked into the room, stars all, forced by subpoena to testify before Congress whether they cheated by using steroids.

Heads turned, strobes flashed and necks craned to get a glimpse of the humbled heroes.

From AP:

AUSTIN, Texas (AP) - The Friday night lights in Texas could soon be without bumpin' and grindin' cheerleaders. Legislation filed by Rep. Al Edwards would put an end to "sexually suggestive" performances at athletic events and other extracurricular competitions.

"It's just too sexually oriented, you know, the way they're shaking their behinds and going on, breaking it down," said Edwards, a 26-year veteran of the Texas House. "And then we say to them, 'don't get involved in sex unless it's marriage or love, it's dangerous out there' and yet the teachers and directors are helping them go through those kind of gyrations."

First drugs, then sex...Good Lord, what's next? Rock and roll? No more "We Will Rock You" for the billionth time? In truth, it's hard for me to grasp the entire brouhaha around professional baseball. The breaking point for me with all of professional sports is the idea that these people are "heroes."

Why on earth would wildly overpaid meglomainiacs in any field be considered heroes? Because they show up for work after a sprained pinkie? Because they articulate the values of our nation (so I jumped into the stand and beat the crap out of the guy...)? As near as I can tell, sports figures are every bit as important as those loveable Hollywood celebrities, who lack the brains of my Beagle, Alf, but are indeed perfectly formed.

Personally, I think we ought to just walk away from the hipocrasy and let professional sports become what is has always wanted to be — ROLLERBALL! Setting aside the question of whether the ENTIRE FRIGGIN' GOVERMENT should piss away its time talking to this motley collection of losers, let's build stadiums the size of Pittsburg and people them with 'roid and meth-fueled giants, Japanese motorcycles, cannon-fired balls, rollerblades and gloves with spikes. Then let's draft major actors and actresses as cheerleaders, with the guys dressed as Castro Street leather boys circa 1976 and the girls in Catholic girls' school outfits. Allow international betting through the internet and let Ann Curry host the whole thing wearing a Hannibal Lector leather mask and manga chick drag. Turn the whole thing over to WWE to manage, then fire up the popcorn-maker, Mama, 'cause we ain't leaving the house tonight!