Make Love to Johnny Law, Not War

Skirmishes between policemen and citizens are nothing new. Why, it seemed a daily occurrence that the local constable would rap at my door to accuse me of shorting the neighborhood prostitute her rightful pay. Pauper to president, we relished these tussles. Grover Cleveland famously said of the Haymarket Riots, “Jolly good fun, too bad I bet on the police!”

[Thanks to the Haymarket Riots I only had to pay my workers in pipe tobacco]

Yet this recent and most tame spat between an officer and University man has garnered a grave response from the president, which has beguiled him with much grief from your media (Speaking of which, who needs both an “Op” and an “Ed,” anyway?)

To ensure you don't get pinched in your vestibule, I have drafted some helpful tips for dealing with lawmen:

1) Compliment the constable’s mustache. Its thickness, its auburn hue, the way whistle spittle glistens on it like moonlit raindrops on a thatch roof. These will all do.

[Sir, your lip hair is so magnificent I can't promise I wont pleasure myself to the thought of it later]

2. If he be a bachelor, offer him a drink. If he be married, offer him two!

[Women drive men to drink]

3. Give his horse a carrot. If he does not have a horse, give him yours. If you do not have a horse, that means you are probably an immigrant and will be arrested no matter what you do.

[Be as intimate as possible whilst awarding his steed with said carrot]

4. Remind him that you are a wealthy landowner. Follow this with a clear explanation of the proven and trusted dynamics of social Darwinism.

[Keep procreating, wealthy men!]

Congratulations! You got out of that jam like a congressman’s son gets out of the Philippine-American war.

(NOTE: These tips only work if you are white.)

Sleep Well, Popular Music King

The recent death of your King of Popular Musicians has led to a surprisingly long two week mourning period. Forgive me for being brash, but in the 1860’s a mother’s allotted window for grieving her newborn child’s passing was a swift forty five seconds, or as long as it took to re-impregnate her. Whichever came first. Huzzah! Double entendre!

[Verbal joust!]

I was preparing to mock your century’s queasiness over death, but as I began to examine the works of Mr. Jackson, I too felt myself a tad enchanted by the lad.

His Songs Had Words



Revolutionary! And words about things other than riverboat travel! In my day, when an artist wanted to convey that he was “Bad,” he had to keep his harpsichord on the angered side of G minor. Your Michael Jackson was able to achieve the same result with mere words and the occasional out-of-court settlement. Brilliant!

Dancing without the aide of tap shoes.



I love a St. Louis Toodle-oo Cramp Roll as much as the next chap, but Mr. Jackson’s rhythmic gyrations were the first dance steps I have seen without the accompaniment of specialized shoes. And his crotch grabbing was the fiercest I’ve seen since a bachelor’s exit from an Irish house of ill repute.

Zippers!
Look at all those zippers! I had previously only seen them adorning riding boots, but on a jacket? After months in the year 2009, I finally feel like I am in the future.

What is most astounding is that this lad who was so renown, so often in the public’s keen eye, somehow managed to stay out of trouble and keep his reputation sterling.

We all can only hope for the same.

Rest in peace, you King of Men.