There are worse sins than putting 666 be­hind you!

The Star (St. Lucia) - - LOCAL -

Alit­tle fel­low of wide ac­quain­tance this year re­ceived his Christ­mas gift early. A whole two weeks ahead of time. Be­ing the timid sort, and not given to brag­ging about his power to set bombs burst­ing in air, the lit­tle guy mod­estly put his thing be­hind him, then went into his usual end of year hi­ber­na­tion. Now lest I be mis­un­der­stood by the more barefaced apos­tles of Onan (whose fa­vorite pas­time is to emit their is­sue all over the pub­lic toi­let known as Face­book), I has­ten to of­fer as­sur­ance that noth­ing I’ve so far stated can fairly be re­lated to lust. Bet­ter to keep in mind the “one or two se­rial rapists still in our midst.”

As I was say­ing be­fore that small but nec­es­sary di­gres­sion, the ear­lier men­tioned lucky gift re­cip­i­ent had more or less suf­fered alone for al­most three years the slings and ar­rows of the no­to­ri­ous red tribe. Even af­ter their fire­power had been dras­ti­cally re­duced by the re­moval of their Great White Dope (okay, their not so great half-white dope!) some con­tin­ued to take aim at the timid one’s be­hind. All be­cause he had said out loud what mil­lions the world over now con­sider stale news. It is not as if the timid one never apol­o­gized. So many times did he say he was sorry, at least one res­i­dent of Aquarius Cross­ing threat­ened le­gal ac­tion if the timid one didn’t quit pol­lut­ing the air with his con­stant rep­e­ti­tion of the S-word. Last week Mr. Timid ap­peared be­fore a lo­cal Set­tler of Tiny Dis­putes (oth­er­wise known as STD) to swear never again to ut­ter what count­less thou­sands be­fore him had ut­tered with im­punity. He also as­sured the STD he was clean out of sor­ries but was will­ing to go down in re­morse be­fore his tor­men­tors if they so in­sisted. Bet­ter to kiss three wise asses than be forced to fork out cash from his mea­ger Christ­mas stash. As they say, life goes on. The timid one has put all his trou­bles be­hind him while he hi­ber­nates.

Mean­while, cer­tain doc­u­ments have been served the for­mer Great White Dope (all right, all right all right; the no longer great half-white dope!) But not a word, not a word, not a word on that from the timid one’s cow­ered col­leagues. No polls, nada. Not even from the Face­book onanists. Sud­denly ev­ery­one’s for­got­ten about the Con­sti­tu­tion, free speech, free as­so­ci­a­tion and all that other good stuff. In the age of Fake­book, post­facts and fab­ri­ca­tions bla­tantly mas­querad­ing as gospel, here’s my own con­cern: what’s a me­dia pro­fes­sional to do if his lis­ten­ers and view­ers can’t tell when he’s talk­ing harm­less gib­ber­ish from when he’s care­fully hold­ing back what he knows is truth, the whole truth and noth­ing but the truth, in the best in­ter­ests of his be­hind?

As I say, there are lessons to be learned here, chief among them that your friends re­main friends for only as long as you flat­ter them, whether on air or on Fake­book. Truth and re­al­ity no longer have mean­ing, folks. Take a peep at your lex­i­con. Or check Google for the re­cently de­clared Word of the Year. Bet your ass it ain’t “role,” as in “Mis­tah Speakah, since when dat’s your to tell me how to read kon­tracks?” Speak­ing of which: All of a sud­den the na­tion’s most fa­mous poo­dle spews only pearls of wis­dom. Seems like yes­ter­day when he had but to ex­hale and our lead­ing best brains would be all over him; I mean, like white on rice.

Even when he can’t be seen with the naked eye, the once blessed half-white dope in­sists on pre­tend­ing he’s just another house mouse among cats. Come next month will it still be silent night, un­holy night? Or will we fi­nally get to hear the un­told story of who got whom hooked on a cer­tain Jack’s oily ass? And then there’s that other Guy who re­cently landed a nice hi­lar­i­ous role in the UK. But that’s for another show. For now, Merry Christ­mas, y’all!

When you’re as large as a man­i­cou, point­less try­ing to pass your­self off as a house mouse. Then again, as al­most ev­ery­one knows, des­per­ate times de­mand des­per­ate mea­sures!

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