If you don’t live in the formerly united United States, if you don’t have an internet connection or a TV, or if you’re not a deeply committed masochist, you likely missed a program that aired live on September 29, 2020, at 9:00 p.m. Eastern Daylight Time. It was called, The Brawl for It All.
It pitted a defensive, petulant schoolyard bully with a failed career in commercial real estate who kept crying to the moderator against a doddering old nitwit with a failed career in government who kept crying to some imaginary teacher. The bout was refereed by a career nepotist and shameless sycophant who showed up looking a little peaked from the general anesthesia he’d been administered earlier in the day for the surgical procedure he underwent to have his spine extracted. The operation was clearly a success.
If you’ve been given a peek at The List of Proud Moments, you know The Brawl for It All didn’t make it. But say what you will, that 90-minute spectacle of humiliation, degradation, prevarication, and fabrication perfectly embodied the sad state of politics as we prepare to enter the third decade of the third millennium.
There are few, if any, times at which I wish I were dead. But I wished just that during The Brawl for It All. I didn’t wish I were dead because I’m morbidly depressed. I didn’t wish I were dead so I wouldn’t have to bear witness to that horrifying spectacle of childishness. I didn’t wish I were dead so I wouldn’t have to live in a world in which the two combatants in The Brawl for It All play any role at all. No. I wished I were dead so I could have seen God pacing back and forth, wringing his hands, and occasionally throwing them up in the air as he exclaimed to no one in particular, “What the hell happened?!”
The only way I could get my senses back was by queuing this song, turning it up to 11, and taking particular note of these lyrics: “People say believe half of what you see, son, and none of what you hear.”
Sage advice, indeed.