is now trying– for the third time– to become the Democratic candidate for President of the USA. The man must like power, I guess. At any rate, he has espoused all the political views at one time or another, and now, at 77, he must truly believe it is finally Joe time. What follows is a list of alternate jobs, other than President of the USA, that Mr. Biden might fill:
Greeter at a prestigious riverboat casino
NHL Ref
Dr. Joe, marriage counselor and TV personality
Gourmet hot dog street vendor
Permanent host of The Academy Awards
Mayor of Caramel-by-the-sea, California
Colour commentator on Monday Night Football
Private detective who lives in Hawaii
Head barber and owner of Joe’s Man Cave
Prince of Whales
In it, I am wearing a costume that is clearly racist and offensive.
This picture was taken from a Christmas Assembly at Lisgar Collegiate in Ottawa, Ontario, and I was performing a rap as an “urban Santa.” Although I was not in black face as some have asserted, my family and I had just returned from a vacation in Hawaii and I had a very uncharacteristic tan. I am deeply apologetic for that triggering tan, the privilege that implies, and for my blatant cultural appropriation.
It is also true that I wrote, “I HAVE ALWAYS HAD A CRAZY CRUSH ON YOU!! in Marie-Therese Vitzhum’s yearbook in 1983. I am deeply embarrassed by my insensitivity to my brothers and sisters who struggle with mental illness. After finishing in the bottom third of the standings in a fantasy hockey league two years ago, I, too, fell into a depression, so I need you to know you have an ally in Michael Murray, not an enemy.
I love you.
I hear you.
And I am listening.
These past behaviours of mine are not in keeping with who I am today or the values I have fought for throughout my career as Commissioner of the Dirty Pigeon Fantasy Hockey League. I want to offer my sincerest apology, and to state my absolute commitment to living up to the expectations the Dirty Pigeon Fantasy Hockey Community set for me when you elected me Commissioner. I understand why your faith in me has been shaken, and I recognize that it will take time and serious effort to heal the damage this conduct has caused.
I am ready to do that important work.
Humbled and grateful for this teachable moment.
Your fantasy hockey Commissioner,
Michael Murray
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So far his short career has been pretty mediocre, indistinguishable from countless other players who quietly fell short of the expectations set before them. There’s an obvious poignancy to this, I think. The consensus was that Manaea was going to be a pretty great, and throughout his entire life he’d probably been even better than that. Every time he stepped on a field, all eyes would have fallen upon him. He was the single-combat hero of whatever school, town or city he came from. A transcendent athlete with limitless horizons unfurling before him, he’d likely never encountered an appetite his talent could not slake.
And then, once in the Big Leagues, he just wasn’t very good anymore. Other players were better. The axis of his life had shifted, and now he was the kid who couldn’t get anybody out, rather than the unblemished golden boy.
He’d fallen.
He was no longer the best.
He’d become like the rest of us.
Because of my involvement in Fantasy Baseball, I had watched a lot of his starts over the years. There’s something really intimate in that, to be so closely focused on another person. I saw parts of him he couldn’t keep hidden. I saw how disappointment revealed itself on his face and then crept into his body and effected his game. I saw him battle that. I saw how he responded to incompetent teammates and punishing heat, I saw victories and uncertainties, and eventually I felt like I actually knew him, as if he had grown up just two doors over.
In spite of that, I fell out of the habit of watching his games, and then, about a month ago I happened upon one by chance late one night. He was pitching against the Boston Red Sox, which is like saying he was pitching against a nightmare as their batters are so overwhelming and intimidating. It was maybe the 6th inning, and Manaea looked good. Really good. In fact, he had not given up a single hit.
And from this point forward, as he pursued a no-hitter, the tension just ratcheted up. The camera was trained on him so tightly you could see beads of sweat forming and then rolling down his face. Everything became quiet and important, and each step closer to the no-hitter was a miracle in itself, and these miracles kept piling up until finally the game was over and the inconceivable had happened, not a single player had been able to get a hit off of Manaea.
His teammates, child-like and abundant, jumped all over him. Manaea, as happy as he was amazed, had a rollercoaster grin on his face. He was in paradise, everything bright and spinning and timeless. He had become the perfect version of himself. And for those of us watching, it was as if something beautiful had been restored, and without even knowing it I had been pulled from the sofa, and alone and in the dark, I stood applauding something I had grown to care about becoming what it was always meant to be.
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Me: Hey, it’s great to see you all again! Thanks for coming! As you can see there’s a bunch of food and wine…
Doug Ford*: I don’t drink.
Me: Oh, hey Doug!
Doug Ford: No alcohol at all. Not even a drop.
Me: Well, as I was saying, we have a bunch of food, wine and soft drinks on the dinning room table, and you should all feel free to help yourselves to whatever you want– and to avoid whatever you don’t! Anyway, the book we’re going to be discussing is the Hunter S. Thompson classic Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.
Thompson, as you know, pioneered Gonzo journalism, and I thought it might be worth having a look back at this book so that we might consider how the media covered politics in 1970 with how they cover it now. Would anyone like to get us started?
Anne: I don’t know, I think the book feels a little forced, a little dated now, but I really like the way that he portrays the American Dream as a kind of nightmarish hallucination.
Cormac: And the illustrations by Ralph Steadman are brilliant and terrifying, a perfect accompaniment.
Doug Ford: (Snort.)
Me: You didn’t like the illustrations, Doug?
Doug Ford: They look like chicken scratchings. Real garbage. Does smudging your work make it “artistic” or something? Let me tell you, the Ford family printing business never would have survived and been as successful as it was– and it’s been VERY successful– if we’d sent out smudgy work all the time.
It’s just unprofessional. Lazy. Makes me sick.
Me: Interesting point, Doug.
Anne: Did anybody see the movie version of Fear and Loathing, the one starring Johnny Depp?
Doug Ford: Luke Wilson.
Anne: Sorry?
Doug Ford: It starred Luke Wilson not Johnny Depp.
Anne: I just Googled it. Here, ( holding up phone) it says Johnny Depp.
Doug Ford: Nope. It was Luke Wilson. ( crosses arms)
Me: Well, ha-ha-ha, one things for certain, they’ve both been in an awful lot of movies!
Anne: ( In hushed voice) Michael, we talked about this. No more normalizing him, okay?
Me: ( In hushed voice) For the love of God, Anne, just be quiet!
Doug Ford: And let me tell you, I go to Vegas all the time, and wherever the hell those dirty maggot journalists in the book were, it sure as hell wasn’t Vegas!
Cormac: I wonder how Hunter S. Thompson would have covered the mass shooting in Vegas? I would love to have read a Fear and Loathing where they were driving to Vegas in order to cover the shooting instead of the motor cycle race!
Anne: Yeah, that would have been a really interesting twist, I think.
Doug Ford: Last time I was in Vegas was just six weeks ago. For a Neil Diamond concert.
Wife is a bit of a Diamond Head, so we do a lot of road trips through the States attending his concerts. I tell you, that is a man with real talent. We should be talking about him. Sweet Caroline? You name me a better song. Go on! I dare you!
( Uncomfortable silence in the room)
Doug Ford: That’s what I thought.
- Doug Ford is a well-known Toronto politician who was brother to mayor Rob Ford, and who is currently running to become the leader of the Conservative party of Ontario.
Donald J Trump: I am honoured to announce that Jose Canseco will now be serving as the US ambassador to Pakistan.
Donald J Trump: Jose Canseco, great guy and helluva ballplayer. Got to know him well on Celebrity Apprentice. Made great pizza under pressure. Only used the highest quality ingredients. Shouted out the orders clearly.
Donald J Trump: Didn’t always like the way he looked at Ivanka, but what can you do? He’s a man. I’m her father, and I still look. What curves. She’s a 10.
Donald J Trump: Jose has slept with countless women. Quality, deluxe women.
Donald J Trump: But not Ivanka.
Donald J Trump: Pakistania, lock up your ladies!
Donald J Trump: Very proud to announce that still hot ex-supermodel Nicki Taylor is the new US Ambassador to Russia.
Donald J Trump: Way she handled Gary Busey on Celebrity Apprentice made it clear to me that she can handle whatever you throw at her.
Donald J Trump: You can thank me later, Russia.
Donald J Trump: I am honoured to announce that the great WWE superstar star Goldberg, will now be the US Ambassador to the Jews.
Donald J Trump: Pure winner. Went 173 matches without a single loss. Commanding presence on Celebrity Apprentice. Can lift a helicopter over his head.
Donald J Trump: Should really turn things around for the Jews– bring our people closer together after all Hillary did to tear us apart.
Donald J Trump: Palestinia, you better watch your step.
Donald J Trump: Proud to announce that the beautiful Kaitlyn Schoeffel, Miss New Jersey 2017, will be the new US Ambassador to casinos all around the world.
Donald J Trump: Real firecracker.
Donald J Trump: Kaitlyn isn’t just another hot lady in a bathing suit, but is also an incredible dancer with great, American values and manners.
Donald J Trump: Beauty Pageant questions are tough. No way to prepare. HUGE challenge for ordinary people.
Donald J Trump: But not Kaitlyn, knocked the question about confederate statues out of the park! Just wow.
Donald J Trump: Real team player. Never hear about a sexual harassment suit from her. Class act, class ass. Perfect for the casino community.
Understand that it’s fucking Mordor.
It’s totally evil.
It really is.
Entertain for a moment the idea that the NFL might actually be nothing more than a flashy delivery system for gambling. The games are just accessories created to facilitate the exchange of a mind-bending amount of money. It’s impossible to calculate how much cash– both legally and illegally– is bet on the NFL each year, but it’s hundreds of billions of dollars. It might be a trillion. The NFL, and the owners of each of the the 32 teams that comprise the league, make pornographic amounts of money– so much so that even the pathologically greedy Donald Trump wanted in on the action back in the 80’s.
Working beneath these overlords are the players. About 70% of them are black, and the average length of a career is about 3 1/2 years. It is a brutal, collision-based sport, but beyond the mechanical failure of knees, hips and such, there is CTE, a brain disease that virtually every football player seems to acquire due to the concussive nature of the sport. And because the NFL is evil, they withheld this information from the players even as symptoms set in and raged amongst them.
Essentially, what the NFL does is hire people to engage in combat while America bets on who the winner will be.
It’s the bread and circuses we’re fed.
The game itself is about martial precision rather than athletic improvisation. The players are armoured and anonymous, strategically deployed by the technocrats on the sidelines, and whatever exuberance or individuality they bring to the game is swiftly crushed. When celebrating and dancing after a touchdown became a thing, the league outlawed it. It was considered “disrespectful,” ( but not in the same way that calling a team The Redskins might be “disrespectful”) which put another way means it was considered too black. In effect, they took an African-American product, subordinated it to the tastes of a conservative white audience, and profited obscenely from it.
Colin Kaepernick, a talented black quarterback, ( It was not that long ago that a black quarterback in the NFL was unheard of, the belief being that they didn’t have the “faculties” to perform the job) began the practice of taking a knee during the national anthem as a protest against against racial injustice.
He was subsequently black-balled from the league, even though his talents should have been in high demand. In his absence, others players stepped up to continue the practice, all of which came to a head when Trump started calling for the sons of bitches to be fired. This cynical and amoral manipulation of existing divisions in the nation forced the players and owners to respond.
Siding with those who are against racial injustice and for freedom of expression seems like a pretty obvious choice. I mean, this is a no-brainer, right? History is unfolding in such a way that it’s forcing people to make a choice, whether they want to or not, and many players took the knee. And the photographs–all so familiar, inevitable and urgent– were deeply moving. They gave me chills, and for a moment it was easy to believe that things might finally be changing for the good.
But then again, this movement was taking place largely within the pitiless machine that is the NFL, and so many sought a middle road that they hoped wouldn’t interrupt any revenue streams. The Dallas Cowboys, led by their owner, took a knee before the anthem, and then standing, locked arms as a team during the anthem.
It was a muddle of a message, one that managed to suggest the players had some sort of solidarity with ownership instead of a grievance with institutional racism, but that was the point. It was supposed to mean all things to all people. Ultimately, they co-opted the symbolism of Kaepernick’s protest to support the idea of “protest” without actually joining the protest. It was nothing more than damage control, a gesture as empty of meaning as a Pepsi commercial, and one more thing the NFL can add to it’s wall of shame.
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From @realDonaldTrump:
Ron Glass died! Black guy on Barney Miller. Very fussy and wordy. Maybe gay. Easy to overlook. Just 71. Still in the prime of his life. Sad.
From @realDonaldTrump:
Florence Henderson died! America’s original MILF. Did I? Wouldn’t be classy to tell, but as Flo is dead– yes, many, many times. Once with Marcia, too.
From @realDonaldTrump:
Leonard Cohen died! Think it was a nut allergy. Might have to ban nuts. We’re losing too many of the good ones to them.#WarOnNuts!
From @realDonaldTrump:
I am in perfect health. No nut allergy. Can eat nuts by the handful. Shame about Crooked Hillary’s health. So very sick. Tired all the time. Crooked Hillary next to die?
From @realDonaldTrump:
Jose Fernandez died! Great, great pitcher for Miami. Un hombre sincero. Had box seats for his last start. Great service. Stunning waitresses. They love me in Florida.
From @realDonaldTrump:
Sharon Jones died! Pancreatic cancer. Nasty. I stand with the black people, who love me, love me so much, during this sad, sad time. I will fix your broken inner cities!!
From @realDonaldTrump:
Pat Harrington Jr. died! The janitor guy on One Day at a Time. Decent show. Maybe not the best. Preferred Three’s Company. Chrissy? She was a 9, for sure. Body and face.
From @realDonaldTrump:
Actress Suzanne Somers played Chrissy. Blonde and jiggly. I won’t lie to you, I had sex with her many times. So many times you wouldn’t believe.
From @realDonaldTrump:
One time we did it in the linen closet of a 5 star restaurant. She was a great piece of real estate, that lady. Outstanding. #WomenLoveMe.
From @realDonaldTrump:
Muhammad Ali died! Great showman. Brought lots of people and money into the casinos. Huge amounts. He got so shaky in the end, though. Sad.
From @realDonaldTrump:
Former Miss New Jersey Cara McCollum has died! Saw her naked more than once in the change room at the pageant. Body a solid 9. Face? Maybe a 7 on a good day. We mourn her passing.
From @realDonaldTrump:
Prince has died! He was never my thing. Straight or gay? Hard to tell. Always changing his brand. Very confusing for the consumer. Made him a bad businessman. #BuyTrumpBrandWater
From @realDonaldTrump:
David Bowie died! Had a glass eye. Was married to a Somalian supermodel. Guy was way out there. Tried to get him on Celebrity Apprentice but there were scheduling problems.
From @realDonaldTrump:
Gene Wilder died! Alzheimer’s Disease. Couldn’t remember a thing in the end. I am in perfect health. My mind is like a platinum trap. Ivy League educated. So, so very smart. #HighestPresidentialIQOfAllTime
From @realDonaldTrump:
Chyna has died! Drug overdose. I have never taken any drugs in my life. Unlike Crooked Hillary who is on HUGE amounts of meds. She’s all weak and shaky like Ali was before his death. Don’t think she has long.
From @realDonaldTrump:
Chyna was a great lady wrestler. Really tall. Kind of homely, but still able to turn a profit in porn. Gotta admire that.
Always thought Ivanka could dominate the industry if she chose.
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I’ve only met him once, and that was over twenty years ago when he was just six, but I always felt like I made a pretty strong impression on him. As such, I’ve tried to stay in contact with him over the years, hoping to provide the leadership, guidance and confidence, that a young, ambitious and talented member of my family might benefit from.
I have to say, he has proven a very disappointing correspondent.
No matter, the fact that he’s never bothered to respond to any of my email hasn’t stopped me from writing, and when I heard that there were very serious allegations of match fixing at the highest levels of professional tennis, I wrote my young protege these supportive emails.
Andy:
Hey!
It’s your cool cousin, Michael here!
You know, the one who taught you how to serve and properly identify a crop circle back in the summer of ’94! I got a bad bloody nose for some reason that day. No idea why. So weird. Might have had something do with magnetic resonance from the crop circles.
Anyway, I know that you’re involved in the match fixing that’s now being investigated by the authorities.
You’re a Murray.
We come from a long line of sheep thieves and have a known a history of committing cowardly acts in the face of pressure. It’s in the blood. Hell, in grade seven I threw a spelling bee because another kid promised me a sexy photograph of Romanian gymnast Nadia Comaneci.
I pretended I didn’t know how to spell “Psychotic” during the competition. Acted like I thought it started with an “S!”
As if.
I was born knowing how to spell psychotic.
I just want you to know that I think fixing matches is cool. It’s easy money. And don’t worry, your secret is safe with me!
Confidentially,
Michael Murray
PS: I know your character even if the public doesn’t.
Andy:
I owe my bookie Goran in excess of $7,000, due in large part to betting (unsuccessfully!!) on you.
You gotta back family, man!
Michael Murray
Andy:
As you might have heard, I now have a baby boy. Jones.
He’s the apple of our eye. Sure is expensive, though. Hungry, little money machine. Clothes horse, too. And as I am now the respected head of a family I really need to boost my earning potential. Not sure what to do. I have a real gift for predicting the outcome of sporting events. Do you have any suggestions of what I might do?
Michael Murray
Andy:
Was looking at some pictures of your wife the other day.
A real beauty. Guess money buys a lot of nice things. Has anybody started a fake Twitter account for her where she says you’re a domestic abuser and have all sorts of terrible and embarrassing sexual kinks? For an angry and desperate person with lots of time on his hands, that sort of account would sure be easy to create.
It would be a real shame if anything happened to her pretty face or hot body.
Michael Murray
Andy:
I am going to take your silence as agreement with everything I have written. If this is the case and you are onboard with fixing a match on behalf of your family and saving yourself from Twitter humiliation, please wear white during your next tennis match.
Michael Murray
Andy:
Excellent.
In the second round of the Australian Open, just pretend, as you typically do, to have lost your temper and concentration,
or perhaps twisted an ankle, and then limp off the court in furious defeat. You know the drill. With this one meaningless loss, which will give you a glorious two week vacation in beautiful Australia with your stunning and as yet undamaged wife, I will have been able to clear my debt with Goran, make a nice profit so I can take that nude life drawing class
I have always dreamed about, and you will have given Jones, the latest Murray, a great start in life.
As our family crest says: “Furth fortune and fill the fetters!”
Michael Murray
PS: We make a great team!
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Falling every November, 19th, this day gives me an opportunity to celebrate my masculinity, honour the patriarchy and let my robust heterosexuality roar. It’s a day that I mindfully live to it’s full, manly potential.
This is the journal of my celebration:
November, 19, 2015
6:20 am
Fed the baby and told him stories of manliness.
9:00 am
Had healthy breakfast of granola and a smoothie, as I have a variety of health issues. Told a story about eating bacon to my wife Rachelle while she and the baby played with a “found” rattle (childproof pill container of my anti-anxiety medication) on the yoga matt.
9:30 am
Began to think of myself as somebody named John Steele instead of Michael Murray.
9:45 am
Took Heidi, our Miniature Dachshund, for a walk around the block. Felt good to be out in nature, hunting with my animal. Met two other Miniature Dachshunds, both wearing argyle sweaters. Their owner told me their names were Simon and Garfunkle and to watch out for Garfunkle as he was “crabby.”
10:00 am
Played online poker under the name of John Steele and watched a variety of hockey fights and leaked celebrity sex tapes.
11:30 am
Read “The Littlest Acorn of them All” to my son and then put him down for a nap.
11:45 am
Made my wife a smoothie as she was headed out to a series of womanly afternoon appointments.
12:00 pm
Sampugita, our friend’s nanny, came over to look after the baby. I asked her many questions about her personal life and what dating was like for a young woman in a foreign country. Told her about a few of the sports I used to play. Tennis, in particular.
12:30 pm
Told Sampugita to make me lunch.
12:45 pm
Got text from my wife Rachelle, telling me that making lunch for me was not one of Sampugita’s responsibilities, and that there was left-over quinoa in the fridge.
I AM SURROUNDED BY FEMINAZIS!!!
1:00 pm
Went outside and threw rocks at the stop signs. A few of the kids from the Frat House down the street joined in and for a brief, shining moment, we were a beautiful Northern European tribal pack fighting the enemy. Hail Odin!
1:15 pm
Went home and played with my electric train set while listening to Gordon Lightfoot and slow drinking Jack and Coke.
3:30 pm
Posted my feelings, under the name of John Steele, on a men’s group message board.
4:30 pm
Watched Mike Tyson knock-out videos from the 1980’s, noticing that the boxers all had perfect, gleaming bodies, sweat-slick, they were tangles of beautiful male ferocity under the hot lights.
5:00 pm
Stumbled upon a video called “Johnny Rapid Goes Bareback.” Watched it while finishing my bottle of Jack. More posting on men’s message board under the name of John Steele. And then a little more.
6:00 pm
John Steele then went for a very long, confusing walk alone.
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Middle-aged men, guys getting off work and who are still in their FedEx or Hydro uniforms go there. Each night, as part of a promotion, the bar host’s a card came which takes place at the back on one of those poker tables you can buy at Canadian Tire. The other night it was Texas Hold ‘Em they were playing, and although it’s a cashless game, since it’s poker, people felt heavily invested.
As I was sitting at the bar drifting through the sports section, a fight erupted at the back of the bar. It was extraordinary how quickly rage, explosive rage, swept in and over the table. Men, something now ignited within, had pushed back their chairs and were standing. Screaming and swearing, they waved their arms about and stiffened into fighting posture, fists clenched. A woman, who seemed to be at the centre of it all, had a voice that was a black, untranslatable hiss, more the unearthly vocalizations of possession than language. She threw a glass against the wall, her long hair waving in fury, as the men shouted. It seemed the very manifestation of mental illness, that from the collective interiors of these people, a dark, stormy cloud of violence had been summoned.
But the thing that struck me the most was how quickly it all passed, and how everybody seemed to enjoy it. It had been fun for them. What, I wonder, does that say about us? On a frigid, lonely night in February a group of strangers go out looking for something. They find one another at a card table in a bar, and what they needed was this, to wake up and experience that jolt of electricity spiking through their bodies, so that for a moment each one of them was alive in the streaming arteries, heroes on a battlefield, the lion’s roar that answered back to the night.
