November 17, 2018

Barbecue the Sacred Cow

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Recently I saw my neighbor Gee Gee and noticed she had a long, gloomy face. I debated whether or not to ask her what was wrong. I knew that if I asked I would be capitulated into a cerebral wasteland, listening to her mind-numbing monologue, and waste another half-hour of my life, a half-hour I would never get back.

While these thoughts raced through my mind, she walked over and stated, “Guess what happened to me?”

Gee Gee is the kind of neighbor you only seek out when your life needs a little soap opera excitement. If she is not talking about her Liza Minelli impersonator boyfriend, she is incessantly telling you about her beloved bichon frise and his asinine antics. Thinking that she has the next Lassie in this dust mop of a dog, this woman once tried to do a mind meld with that mutt. I was sorely tempted to yell, “Don’t do it fleabag, you’ll be the loser.”

But, for once, I held my tongue. Surprised, aren’t you? I did not hold back for altruistic reasons. Every once in a while I need something from her. Better to hold my tongue now than use it later to kiss butt. The woman has pouting down to an Olympic sport.

Anyway, Miss Gee Gee lamented that she was recently banned from performing her interpretive belly dancing, ukelale playing, and singing at a local fund-raising talent show. Apparently, as she was grinding her hips and bellowing out her own personal composition, she improvised and boldly sang out that the men in Cottonwood were studs and the Sedona boys were “psychic sucking windbags.”

After the review committee picked up their scattered teeth off the floor, they emphatically informed her that her song, although original, was not right for this particular talent show. Gee Gee picked up her instrument and flounced out of the show, declaring that she would never sing or dance in this town again. (Thank goodness for little favors! I have heard her sing; it ain’t soothing to the ears or soul.)

Gee Gee’s story of censorship got me thinking about how we have become a nation of sacred cow worshipers. No one wants to stick his head out and make fun of anyone for fear of offending. It seems that everything is untouchable as far as poking fun goes. Well, to that I say it is time to BARBECUE THE BOVINE! Enough of this namby-pamby, politically correct taradiddle. There! I finally wanted to use this word and the politically correct crew has given me the opportunity with their pretentious nonsense!

As far as I am concerned, nothing is untouchable when it comes to the satire department; I have no sacred cows and everything is fair game. My butchering list includes and tends to favor but is not limited to the following: the Pope, exhibitionists masquerading as artist-wannabes, postal workers, AWOL presidents, VIPs, the metaphysical crowd, neighbors, religions, politicians, affordable housing advocates, VOCA, charettes, the people who love them, and goose-dressing fanatics. Did I miss anyone? If so, don’t worry. I’ll get to you in due time.

This sacred cow protective status has turned us into a nation of insipid whiners, elevating mediocrity to quality. Take a look around you and look at what passes for culture, art and entertainment. Nothing is really cutting edge, just outlandish. If it isn’t another dumbfounding reality show, it is some idiotic game show featuring screaming contestants who need to buy a vowel to spell cat. What is so fascinating about watching a badly coiffured Donald Trump perform his leg-lifting on national television? And those survivor shows that have people grubbing around the forest for food? I can go down to the local Denny’s on All You Can Eat Night and watch the locals fight over the ribs. Yet, these shows are all wildly popular.

Even NPR is not immune to this vapid drivel of sacred cowness. (See, I told you nothing was off-limits.) More and more of their stories feature topics such as a mother’s anguish over her son’s first day of kindergarten. I mean, really, who cares? What about all the lying in our federal government? Sudan abuse scandal? Where are those investigative stories? Instead, we have a fatty (excuse me, an adipose-challenged individual) lamenting how she can’t get nutritious food from vending machines. Gee, can’t she pack a lunch?

We need to exorcise this national obsession with tapioca-type culture and conformity and rid ourselves of sacred heifers. How about a Burning Cow Festival where every year groups and individuals meet to poke fun at all sacred cows. At the end of the festival we could burn a cow effigy, symbolizing these banal and untouchable topics and groups (maybe even put out a calendar of the event). After the ceremony we could serve up hamburgers. Of course, PETA probably would file some sort of suit against us protesting that the sacred cow is being harassed.

Pass the ketchup.

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