As much fun as this has been, I want to finish off my tirades about the Redskins vs redskins confab.
The weekend is coming, and I want to start writing about sports. My two favourire gridiron teams – the Oklahoma Sooners and the Minnestoa Vikings – are playing the favourite teams of two good friends, the Notre Dame Fighting Irish and the Pittsburgh Steelers.
So, I’m going to attempt to finish my thoughts on the topic at hand.
Given that I am prone to going on, and on, and on,, this last post on the subject is LENGTHY.
The Nepean Redskins vs aggrieved redskins brouhaha came to my attention at an interesting time. I’ve been working on a project, which, I hope, will become a TV cartoon series, or maybe a graphic novel.
In this story of mine, an indian, Funny Baffalo, becomes the richest man in the world, partially by dumb luck, partially by incredible cleverness. The most obvious people to pitch this 98 mph curveball to are the folks over at the Aboriginal Peoples Television Network (APTN). Their site states that they are willing to take pitches for shows that have six or seven episodes in the first season.
I developed a simple plotline that would run through a first season, and then plotted out individual shows. The first three were straight forward, as were the last three. Seven shows are likely to make more money than six, so I started thinking about that troublesome fourth episode.
It did not take long for my mind to dance into the dark corners where twisted black humour lurks and laughs. When I staggered out of that bewildering corner I was cackling maniacally.
Funny Buffalo , a football fan, is watching the Washington Redskins play the Dallas Cowboys on a lazy Sunday afternoon. His buddy, Happy Wolf, comes over, takes his headphones off, cracks a beer and sits down to watch the game. In the headphones, Pink Floyd’s Money is playing. The friends fire up a joint, and the music becomes louder than the game, “New car, caviar, four-star daydream, think I’ll buy me a football team.”
Funny Buffalo has an epiphany: he’s going to buy the Washington Redskins. The NFL approves the sale until… until our hero announces that he’s going to change the team name. The new incarnation of Washington DC’s professional football team will be known as… wait for it… are you ready, ’cause here it comes… the Washington Niggers.
The Washington Niggers, under its new owner, would be the most reviled team in NFL history. The would be the 1973 – 1976 Philadelphia Flyers of football – cheating, brawling, doing whatever it takes to win. Half the team would be on probation at any given time. No matter what the colour of their skin, every Nigger would have to meet Chris Rock’s definition of nigger
All Nigger cheerleaders would have to have big butts. Every time there’s a break in the action on the field the big screens would show the Nigger cheerleaders shaking their healthy butts, as Baby Got Back booms over the PA system
The team would not violate the league’s contract with Gatorade, but only watermelon flavour would be available to the Niggers and their opponents
Our redskin hero lays out his plan to the obviously uncomfortable Commissioner. The big guy’s discomfort is noticed. “What? You don’t like it?” asks Funny Buffalo.
Not wanting to offend the richest man in the world, the Commissioner says, “No, no, it’s very… interesting. Please carry on.”
Our hero announces that it is also his desire to purchase the New York Jets and the San Fransisco 49ers. It is his intent to change he names of those franchises, as well. The Jets will become the New York Jews, the Niners will become the San Fransisco Super Fags.
“Look,” our hero says to the NFL’s Commissioner, “Jets to Jews is just one stinking letter, and the Super Fags won’t even have to change their logo,” he reasons, before adding, “but we may want to get at least one cock into the logo somewhere.”
The Commissioner, who is a closet case, likes the idea, but thinks putting a cock into the Super Fags’ logo is going too far, so he comes up with an alternative.
The helmet of an Ohio State Buckeye starts each season looking like this
But every time a player makes an exceptional play, he gets a sticker
The Commissioner suggests this as a solution, using cock stickers, of course. He also goes on to joke that the Super Fags’ quarterback would be known as Big Dick (fill in last name), and the offensive line would become known as the cock blockers.
In Johannesburg, Chris Rock asked, “Can white people ever say nigger?”
But, so far as I know, he’s never asked if an Indian can ever say nigger.
I’ve recently completed my first screenplay. Titled Kill all the Lawyers, it’s the story of one man’s mission to carry out Shakespeare’s command (if you’re interested, you can read the first six scenes at the KILL ALL THE LAWYERS section of this site). Hot on the trail of the man on a Shakespearean mission is a Catholic Mohawk cop named Pius Akecheta. Pius uses a lot of colourful language. At one point, his boss/partner, an ambitious public prosecutor calls him a bigot. Akecheta replies, “Fuck off! I am not a bigot I simply wish you would all go back to where you came from. Back to Europe, back to Africa, back to Israel, back to Mexico, back to Asia.”
So, the question is,: can an indian ever say nigger? Compared to Indians, blacks have it good in Mairka. There is not, nor is there ever likely to be, an Indian President, after all.
A couple years ago, when the Arab Spring was unfolding and the Occupy movement was troubling the powers-that-be in the West, my friend, Paul Polansky and I I were discussing the plight of Gypsies. Polansky is the world’s leading authority on Gypsies. Unlike academics who sit in their ivory towers, ruminating and and pontificate on Gypsies, Polansky has lived with, and worked for the benefit of Gypsies for many years.
(Here, for your edification, is a piece I did on just one of Polansky’s righteous campaigns, if you can be bothered to read it.)
Polansky was fantasizing about a Gypsy Summer, in which the most down-trodden and openly loathed inhabitants of Europe would rise up and demand BETTER.
Polansky knows, better than I, that organizing Gypsies is akin to herding cats. I opined that his dream was beyond his reach. I further opined that, if he wanted to help draw attention to the plight of the Gypsies, he should advise their leaders to start calling themselves niggers.
Other than rappers, and other professional niggers, who manage to make good money by constantly using the word nigger, blacks want nothing to do with the term. If the Gypsies would stand up in front of the world, and declare, “We want to be called niggers, because niggers have it so mush better then we do,” they might get some attention paid to their misery. Like Indians,, ain’t no Gypsy ever going to become President of the United Stare of Mairka.
Polansky figured it might be a good idea, but probably not.
Gypsy is a bad word to PCers. Someone, at some point, decided that Gypsy is a derogatory term. When that conclusion became consensus with PCers, Gypsies became, officially at least, known as Roma.
Polannsky points out that the Roma are just one “tribe” of Gypsies, just as Mohawks are just one tribe of Indians. Polansky has written a dozen or more books about Gypsies. In most of them, he calls Gypsies, Gypsies. Who am I to argue with the world’s foremost authority on Gypsies?
When I was wearing my journalist hat, here n the Balkans, home of many Gypsies, I decided to explore the plight of Europe’s niggers. Europe’s Indians. I wrote a profile piece on a young Gypsy leader, a guy named Jaha Samir.
I asked Samir if he considered Gypsy to be a “bad” word. He told me, that his people use the term, and that they do not strenuously object to others using it, so long as the intent is not to disparage.
The San Fransisco Super Fags idea is a riff off a piece i wrote for Terminal City, in 1994. The piece was titled Canuckmania? Booze up and Riot! The Vancouver Canucks were on a tear through the playoffs and my piece encouraged fans to… well, you know. Which they did, but that’s of no import for the sake of this meandering missive. However, a short passage from the piece is relevant:
“I could entertain (or bore) you with a thousand other stories but those days are gone and I’d rather deal with the future. When I get filthy rich I’m going to buy a semi-pro team and move them to my hometown, Thunder Bay. People in Thunder Bay take their hockey plenty serious and they like fighting. The more the better and plenty of blood, please. So, I’ll hire the 25 toughest knuckle-dragging cementheads to ever lace up a pair of skates (and I won’t have to stray far from Thunder Bay to find them). I’ll hire Don Cherry to coach them. And I’ll name them… wait for it… THE FAGS. Screaming pink uniforms. Two hockey players, uglier than Tim Hunter, fucking on the crest. A team bus that looks like a 40 foot cock. Don Cherry behind the bench… wearing a dress.”
How is that relevant to the issue at hand? Well, actually, it might not be, but I think it’s still pretty fucking funny, so I contrived an angle to work it into this scandalous screed.
No, wait, it may be relevant, after all, but I’m going to have to g out for another jog to get to the pint, s stick with me, svp.
When I was a kid, growing up in a housing project in Thunder, my best friend was a fellow poor white trasher named Gair. There was an element of Tom and Huck to our friendship, me being the former. And there was also a lot of Beavis and Butthead going on, too.
Like Huckleberry Finn, Gair loves to fish. Like Huck, Gair is also profoundly simple. And, again like Huck, there are moments when Gair is simply profound.
When we were in our early 20s, in the mid 80s, Gair and I were at a party, in Vancouver’s tony Kitsilano neighbourhood. The soiree was overrun with wannabe yuppies. Most of them were in business school. Most of them came from upper middle class or rich families. Silver spoon kids.
Gair was holding court, spouting some of his Huck Finn wisdom, to a handful of intrigued girls. Forrest Gump was still years from being made, and he girls had never encountered anyone remotely like Gair, in real life or in make-believe. They were not quite sure what to make of Gair. Clearly, he was some kind of white trash, who simply did not belong at the party. Yet there was a charm to him, so maybe one of the hosts had been slumming over on the east side of town, found Gair, and invited him? Gair was well aware of all this. Gair was playing them!
I no longer recall what Gair was blabbling about but I laughed heartily as I watched from a safe distance. I was quite drunk and Gair could not have been far behind me. The music was awful new wave shit. I could no longer find any interest in studying the preppies. No could I tolerate anymore conversations about material products that they were lusting after.
Exit Tom and Huck, enter Beavis and Butthead. I wanted to get the fuck out of the place and into a bar where the music was more conducive to power drinking,
so I walked over to Gair and poured a full beer over his head.
Gair laughed and kept talking through the whole thing. The girls were aghast, but not nearly as aghast as they were when Gair literally howled, and said, “Thanks, Bri! I needed that,” and then proceeded to shake his head like a dog coming in out of the rain.
The poor princesses got splattered with a few drops of beer and protested vehemently, arousing the attention of a couple meathead jockos. We had, in fact, been invited to the party, so the female host intervened, making sure a brawl did not break out (well, we’d surely have gotten our asses kicked, so brawl probably isn’t the right word).
Gair and I had been in similar situations before. Once, or maybe twice. Sometimes it was me having Gair’s back, Sometimes it was the other way around. That being the case, Gair, secure in the knowledge that I was going to get us out of trouble, addressed the beer-splattered princesses. “What? Go ahead, say it. I’m an asshole? is that what I am? Is that what you want to say? Do you want to tell me that I am vile? That i am an animal. That I am poor white trash? That I don’t know how to dress myself, or behave in public. Go ahead and say it! Say it all.”
It was Gair being simply profound. It was a thing of beauty. The girls had no idea how to react. Many years before Eminem articulated the same sentiment, Gair was saying, ‘I am whatever you say I am, if I wasn’t then why would I say I am,’
And what, pray tell, is my point, after almost 5000 words on this subject?
There is no such thing as a bad word. There is no such thing as an obscene word. Words can only hurt those who are pervious.