When the World is Running Down

These are the signs of the times, folks. Let me be clear: I’m not referring to Apocalyptic harbingers but signals that the world has reached that mental point of no return. It’s checked into Happy Acres, and the prognosis is terminal. However, before I get to humanity’s nosedive off the Cliff Reality, I’ve got a quick side note to share.

The Catholic Church now has a new Pope. I think he’s calling himself Benedict XVI. There is clearly some religious name-change tradition here to which I’m not privy, but I’ve got to say we could use that here in the US with our politicians. Such a pseudonym-adopting process would empower the American electorate to further withdraw itself from any personal liability or responsibility when their favorite son falls from grace. How else can you explain the re-election of Bill Clinton? Follow me here: Given the fact Old Billy was constrained to keep his "elected" name, people who voted him into office for the first term were pride-bound to keep him there. They had to continue backing their adulterous horse and saying, "He’ll do better this time around. He’s learned from his missteps." ("Missteps" is a great euphemism for "completely fouled up the country.") Had William Jefferson Clinton been able to adopt a Presidential Pen Name, the shame-faced, swayed-by-saxophone-playing-on-Arsenio-with-outdated-Raybans, misguided MTVers could have approached the 1996 election completely absolved with the disclosure, "I didn’t vote for that guy." Responsibility becomes a non-issue.

Anyway, back to the Pontiff. His given name is John Ratzinger. When the conclave convened and the talking heads’ tongues started wagging, I kept hearing about this John Ratzinger. I mean no disrespect, but the visual image that I kept getting was "Cliff Clavin" from Cheers (John Ratzenberger). I’d probably change my name, too. Now, with these Papal names, do those closest to the King of the Church call him "Benny", "B16", or "B.S." (Benny Sixteen)? Just curious.

As I was saying, the world has taken its last tiptoe through the tulips of sanity. In Sheboygan, WI, a proposal has been put forth to allow the hunting of feral cats. You read that correctly: feral cats. First off somebody has taken the time to put together a formal proposal to be heard by the Wisconsin Conservation Congress to legalize what many prepubescent boys already do when mom and dad buy them pellet guns and tell them, "Now, you’re only to shoot pop bottles and cans." But no, apparently the Sportsmen’s lobby feels as though it’s being discriminated against because of their age, tendency to have beer guts, and the proclivity to wear silly hats that look only proper on Elmer Fudd. I can hear the low-voiced chatter in the "cat stand" now: "Filbert, I swear that ravenous tabby – the one they call Mittens – has a mean streak in ‘im. It’s kill or be killed, hombre. You know why they call ‘im Mittens? Three of his four paws are covered in white fur, coyly camouflaging claws that could shred taffeta curtains in a matter of seconds. You be careful out there. Here, put some more cat urine on the back of your neck."

Almost equally disturbing about this feral cats issue is that the reason it made the local paper here in Arizona was that someone (or some group) had jumped the gun – no pun intended, really – and gone ahead and killed house cats in their misguided, blood-thirsty rage to rid the world of one of its many banes: feral cats. Let run rampant, these feral felines (the alliteration sounds better, I admit) may throw the milk saucer market into a tailspin or force society to acknowledge their right to the lands stolen from their forefathers. (The latter may be a more difficult point to press due to the grossly lacking genealogical skills possessed by most cats – feral and domestic.)

If all that weren’t enough to prove my theory, on the same page of the "cat" report I found a story of a Mexican conservationist group (do you see a pattern here?) decrying the consumption of sea turtle eggs as a sexual aid – Poseidon's little pick-me-up, if you will. That last sentence speaks volumes for itself. So, at any rate, it causes me to ask the question you're all asking yourselves, "At what point, and under what circumstances, did someone ‘discover’ the libido-enhancing qualities of sea turtle eggs?" All I have to say is you better keep these things away from those feral cats!