Wednesday, November 22, 2006

Michael Richards is an Alcoholic

Right? Isn’t that the current excuse for any unsavory act? Gives you an idea of how Shrub must have been putting them away in his drinking days. He’s been dry twenty years, and he still can’t keep things in line.

Personally, I think Michael Richards is getting a bum rap. He’s not a racist; he’s the farthest thing from it. Kramer’s performing one of history’s noblest acts, taking one for the team, so to speak.

It can’t have escaped his notice that The Man has been sticking it to O.J. pretty good since this abortive If I Did It book and television thing started to unravel. Richards couldn’t bear to see this unfortunate African-American shoveled into the maw of mainstream media yet again.

“What can I do?” Richards said. (I’m projecting Richards’ thoughts here, a technique made ethical and sexy by no less a journalist than Bob Woodward. How cool am I?) “What can a single man – whose career has been defined by an extended fifteen minutes of being the comic relief for a situation comedy, and who has done nothing noteworthy since then – what can he do to correct such a public flagellation. I know! I’ll accept the burden myself. I’ll commit an offense so foul that the vultures and parasites who make up the media – and who have ignored me in droves since Seinfeld went off the air – will have no choice but to flock to my every statement and parse every denial of my racism. Climb on my back, O.J. You ain’t heavy, you’re my brother.”

I just saw Al Sharpton interviewed by Tucker Carlson. (Not deliberately; the channel was set to MSNBC when I turned on the television.) Not once did the man who made Tawana Brawley a household name utter a single word of appreciation for Richards’ munificent self-immolation.

Farewell, Cosmo. We knew you too little, and appreciated you not enough.

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