Where's the crystal meth when you really need it?
Hillbilly heroin has been in the news lately. From the Associated Press recently:
ATLANTA — Ashley Smith, the woman who credited her faith in God with helping her lead police to suspected courthouse gunman Brian Nichols, reveals in her new book that she gave methamphetamine to the suspect while he held her hostage.
In her book, "Unlikely Angel," released Tuesday, Smith says Nichols bound her with masking tape and an extension cord when he asked her for marijuana and she instead offered him some of her own stash of crystal methamphetamine.
Nothing like faith and a little ice to defuse the situation.
At first glance, this is a bizarre tableaux of a junkie bimbo proselytizing to a murderer after she sated his marijuana jones with some of her crystal meth. Then she cooked him pancakes.
What? Meth, pancakes and sermonizing from an aggrandizing screed called The Purpose-Driven Life?
You couldn't make up this nonsense. It sounds like a scene from a grotesque stage play set in Baltimore and written by the monstrous offspring of an unholy union between William Burroughs and Tennessee Williams.
The lesson we can take from this goofy, low-rent drama is that Trent Dilfer should never take the field without a few hits of crystal meth tucked into his jersey.
Why? To offer to the likes of Ray Lewis and the rest of the deviant criminal thugs masquerading as football players in the NFL. Since the Browns didn't seem very intent on blocking or scoring points last Sunday, why not just buy off the goons with a little meth?
Like catnip to a tabby, blood to a vampire or wads of greasy hundred-dollar bills to a Congressman, drugs (or any other illicit talisman of evil) to a Raven are irresistible. Baltimore has firmly entrenched itself as the NFL's sleazy cesspool of convicts and killers, so the meth offering shouldn't have raised an eyebrow.
Cleveland needs all the help it can get. Since the NFL has dropped all pretenses of morality, delivering a few kilos of "fine Columbian" to the opposition during the coin toss could be the difference between the cover of Madden '07 and scornful predictions of 2-14 from the boobs at Sporting News.
Imagine just how effective Reuben Droughns would be if that Baltimore defense had been dazed and confused on meth. That scenario, of course, requires the Browns to actually call a running play, something they failed to do in the entire first quarter last Sunday.
Ye gods, have I spent the last nine paragraphs advocating the Cleveland Browns offer illegal drugs to their opponents? Is this what I've been driven to? How long before Paul Tagliabue sends over a couple of beefy enforcers to "learn me a lesson?"
But why the hell should I, or anyone else with an iota of morality, care what Tagliabue thinks? The commissioner is displaying an alarming lack of character by not stepping forcefully on the bloated neck of New Orleans Saints owner Tom Benson.
If you've not been paying attention, Benson is the sinister, senile greedy buffoon with all the tact of a scorpion who is "secretly" planning to move the team to San Antonio. He's taking advantage of the devastation wrought in New Orleans to make even more millions.
As Browns fans, the outrage meter should be off the charts. We've been there. And we didn't have Cleveland underneath Lake Erin in the middle of the betrayal.
Benson seems eager to join the ignoble ranks of Art Modell and Jim Irsay, two Judas goats owners that will only see the inside of the Pro Football Hall of Fame if they buy a ticket.
Irsay was an unstable, foul-mouthed drunk with fewer brains than one of those infamous Mayflower moving fans he hired to spirit the Colts away one wintry night. But he was smart enough to notice empty stands.
Modell was merely an evil geek whose capacity to misjudge fans was so staggering to make him an almost sympathetic character. Almost. His greed was overshadowed by his desperate worry over his legacy, a dangerous, foolish angst that magnified his utter lack of business sense. He lost his team, his fans and any chance of being anything than "that guy that moved the Browns."
That leaves Benson, a smarmy car salesman who lives in San Antonio and lusts to move the Saints there at the height of the Gulf Coast hurricane devastation. Could you imagine more of an outright scumbag?
If nothing else, Modell and Irsay didn't literally walk on the corpses of fans to satisfy a mad desire for more money. The bodies were still warm when opportunist Benson began making his Shylockian plans to flee N'Awlins for Texas.
What an ass. And it gets worse. From the AP:
But this week, Benson fired Arnold Fielkow, a top business executive who supported the franchise's return to Louisiana. Soon after, another top executive left. Those departures lent credence to comments by San Antonio Mayor Phil Hardberger that Benson wanted to meet with him to discuss relocating the team to Texas beyond this season. Then, Benson's lawyer informed the state of Louisiana that the Saints wanted out of their lease on team headquarters in suburban New Orleans.
If the people of San Antonio have any class, they'll refuse a transplanted Saints team. San Antonio's citizens have a chance to separate themselves from the lumpen human garbage that prances around in Raven purple. Those degenerate swine delighted in Cleveland's sorrow a decade ago, and will forever lurk in the NFL's shadows as shameful Gollums.
Former Ohio newspaper editor and reporter writes the Doc Gonzo column each week for BerniesInsiders. He had almost absolutely nothing to do with purloining pictures of Britney Spears' baby this week. He can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org.