Of Janet's Tit

There is this breast. Or boob, or tit. It belongs to Janet Jackson, sister of Mr. Androgyny, himself. I can send you a close-up photograph if you would like.

It appeared, enhanced by a silver colored pastie, on world-wide TV just the other day. In the middle of what passed as a Super Bowl �entertainment segment�. Half-time. Half-time and hype. Half Time, hype, and boredom.

Janet�s well-augmented teatillation has outraged many on this side of the Atlantic. We suspect the affair is a total ho-hum in Europe. Maybe they have the right idea. Other countries got rid of the stain of straight-jacket, Puritan morality long before we did.

Come to think of it, Puritanism is very much alive here in the Great Southern Bible Belt. Kind of hard to escape when each of the acknowledged one hundred and thirty-four variants of the �Baptist� sect makes a fetish out of biblical correctness, a notion every bit abhorrent as the political kind.

The appearance of Ms Jackson�s single jug does not offend me personally. If I were watching the half-time show in the company of young children, I might have a problem with the context and timing of the boob�s insertion, but other than seeing the whole affair as one more tiny step in the decline of western morals, it means but little. Civilization as we know it is probably doomed anyway. There is no evolutionary principle called �survival of the vilest�.

We didn�t watch the over-hyped football �championship� at our house, We never do. It started way back when with Pop, who for whatever personal reasons, decided not to catch the first annual encounter thirty-eight years ago. That�s Pop, basically. He wrote the book on �Doin� It My Way�, just never wrote the song whose royalties would have given me the BMW I�ve always craved.

We all suspect that Dad was a real hell raiser when he was a kid. That�s why he knows so much about boy children and their forays into realms of the unacceptable. All he ever says is, �I was a perfect child.� Sure, when pigs fly from my nether region. I could have been his biological son except he�s not Italian. Please understand that he�s Italian by temperament, but not by blood. Makes him a sort of honorary Guinea, a kind of branch grafted onto the Caesars� family tree. Ave Caesar!!!

It doesn�t do any good to ask to have the TV tuned to the Super Bowl around here. Rob has tried it and simply crashed and burned. We never see Rob during big games these days. He knows better. About four years ago he was here for dinner on the blighted night old number XXXIV and was force fed opera tapes of grand opera. Victory to the Old Man. It was an early evening. I almost felt sorry for my brother that night, but since he had put bruises all over my person earlier in a sadistic one-on-one soccer mismatch, I didn�t really very much. Revenge is sweet. Don�t let any sensitive little pissant of a wimp tell you different.

So with all the crushing hype from the media, with all the windbag garbage spewed by sports writers, with all the fevered adulation heaped on players and teams, with all the false �special American Holiday� honorific accorded the Super Bowl, it has become more inflated with its own sheer unimportance than anything in contemporary society. Bore? Yes, Crashing! Total! Absolute!

So enter MTV, CBS, Janet, and Justin (whose last name is Timberlake which I confess I had to look up), the whole crew. Each is eyeing the huge captive audience that will be watching the game, as well as its pre, post and halftime spectacles. Career move! Rising stocks! Sell advertising! WOW! Some brain dead corporate executive over at MTV, whose management has the attention span of most of my contemporaries, pulled on a fresh pair of training pants (I�m a big kid now!), and decided that the groove for the mid mark show would be entertainment aimed primarily at the musically challenged, namely, young people whose taste runs to hip hop, talentless tune tarts maliciously labeled �divas�, and neo-do wop singing groups whose main strength seems to lie in lip synching to pre-recorded pabulum. Those and the rap �artists� whose music and poetry aren�t. The show stank, guys and gals. In an earlier day, anybody over the age of eleven would realize it.

Then there is Janet. She showed up fully ready to rock, roll, and let her silicone do the walking through the yellow pages of history. Why? Simple. The answer lies in the complex entanglements of her family relationships.

Janet Jackson, you see, is jealous. She has always suspected that her father as well as the fickle American public likes her brother Michael best. He was once billed �The King Of Pop�; poor kid, she was never the �Queen� of anything. Many highly respected, albeit tasteless, critics considered Mikie to be the greatest performer of all time. Nobody ever placed poor little Janet on such a high pedistal. Even wags aplenty refer to brother Michael as a �queen�.

Then there are the ongoing allegations about child molestation that Brother is currently waltzing his way through. He has gotten more free publicity in the last few months than any dozen Hollywoody PR firms could possibly have landed him. To be sure, some of it is negative, but that�s the way things are in tinseltown: better to be noticed even if you have to kill somebody or yourself than to be ignored. Can�t stand being ignored. Ignored is bad. What�s a girl going to do?

And with her musical career (a term loosely applied to what this woman does for a living) in decline, Janet did the only thing she could�.showed tit to the billion or so folks watching the Big game. Just one, you understand, and for a second or so. It�s not like she stood there bobbing up and down for three or four minutes, swinging her appurtenances in time to the music. If you went to the can or blinked you missed it. Tivo hit record use at that evening. Rewind to a higher level.

For three days now, our talk hosts and evening punditi have discussed little else. Janet Jackson�s boob has eclipsed the primary elections, the war in Iraq, the immigrant mess, and threats from terrorists. Americans sure know how to keep priority in perspective. It�s kind of fun to watch the outrage, the accusations, the sophomoric defense of the exposure.

Jugs!!!

IAN WILL BE MOST HAPPY TO KNOW that I took a job for three days last week, working as a shill at a gun show. Friday, I helped some dealers set up. Saturday and Sunday, dressed in prep-casual, I mingled around the several booths and engaged people who looked as if they wanted to buy. Worked like a charm. Made more than five hundred bucks on commission and came home with what some would consider an immoderate quantity of ammunition to add to the family store.

People at these events buy on impulse. All they need is a little encouragement from a clean-cut guy who knows a little about the weapons. Maybe I will end up in the international arms trade. All legal, of course. I wouldn�t sell Nukes to the Iranians or anything like that.

I WAS GOING TO WRITE A PIECE ON EDUCATION THIS WEEK, concentrating on abusive and sarcastic professorial types or some of the little gems going on in Georgia Public Education. You may have read, for instance, that Kathy Cox, our Superintendent of Education, has suggested that the word �evolution� be dropped from all public school classes. She would like to substitute �biological changes over time�. Poor lady must be getting hate mail from the christian creationists who cleave stoutly to the notion that their god created the universe in six days and rested on his ass on the seventh.

But I won�t. Not this week, anyway. But I will leave you with just one thought: The quality of education in this country is in precipitous decline. Throwing ever more money into this hell hole is only making things worse. �No child left behind� is an idiotic and simplistic notion designed to make people feel good but like most government ideas is flawed from the outset. Let us abolish the Department of Education NOW.

And get rid of the UN while we�re at it.

Check us out at http://members.aol.com/luciusson/contents.html and at one other lefty domain which allows me to be a token non-liberal http://politicalpuzzle.org. Since Christmas we have received some graphics which have been incorporated into sites. I get visuals all the time. Some of them are obscene, some of them disgusting. For instance last month we were emailed a picture showing a teen boy hanging by the neck with a placard around his neck saying simply �LUKE� in rough, block letters. Another showed a sailor tied up on a ship his back severely lacerated by a Kitty �o Nine. But some are imaginative and appreciated.

Until next week, then.

Ciao,

Luke Angelo
Macon, Georgia
Home Sweet Home. Well, �home� anyway. About the only sweet thing about this part of the bottomless South is the overly sugared iced tea served everywhere.

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Luke Angelo, Cyberbrat Out Of Hell, lives in Macon, GA, where he regularly causes trouble and proves that the pen is far mightier than the Mayor