Breaking News, Man.
Michael Vick’s abrupt descent from a happy-go-lucky endorsement star with herpes and a peculiar nickname to President of Bad Newz Kennels has been so overwhelming that nobody would be dumb enough to even try to make fun of it at this juncture. You’d think an Attorney General’s suspicious retirement so close in proximity of the Deputy Chief of Staff would be enough to wipe this ghoulish state of affairs from the headlines. Oh to Hell with it, we invented the term "multi-tasking" damn it, you better believe we’ll apply it to something when it comes along.
It’s hard not to be enthralled with the spiral of shame and antipathy that is urgently portrayed as emulous of Pol Pot. Fastening in for an eighteen month ride in the federal honky tonk and losing about $130 million might seem as inviting as a banquet buffet compared to the ire of all humanity. Michael Vick’s diversionary savior and transition to tranquility might come in the form of a frisky senator searching for the exultation of antiquity-style, Greek recruitment of rigid splendor in a dank bathroom stall.
I don’t have the statistics, but I’d wager that incumbents who are exposed as possible Erasure fans don’t stand a chance at reelection in Idaho. Is he guilty of hypocrisy? Sure. Would he throw a pile of half conscious dogs in a freshly dug hole? Not if the mangy bastards wanted to get married in there.
That’ll be enough "multi-tasking" for one day.
The hysteria over the trashiness of Vick is enigmatic. The loss of his money, career and dignity won't be enough for some punishment zealots. People will soon be bitching about his sentence in comparison to the woman who dropped hammer on her preacher husband. The NAACP will defend him with absolutes. It’s just foul enough to inspire positive outcomes in other areas. P.E.T.A. will lock arms with drunken skinheads to oppose him. Undercover cops will play erotic foot games with stoic senators. People will pensively admire the profundity of photographs and paintings of a black hand embracing a white hand.
Michael Vick is now a mid-term, open book test for people who study to be publicists, as if anyone would ever do such a repugnant thing. From this moment the standard concordant with all clients will be a practiced proclamation that if they harvest an underground gambling ring, fight dogs, engage in racketeering or profit from a dog ripping the flesh from another dog that they do not wend with associates by the names of P-Funk and Q. For individuals named P-Funk, or any variation of, are almost always a poor endeavor.
Any half-assed publicist would know that only two textbook p.r. hopefuls will apply to Michael Vick. If a fruity senator isn’t going to cut it then you need to pray for the Cosmic Diversion. This is when molecules, remedial math, science and other shit combines to produce a cloud that spells out Git-R-Dun when viewed at just the right angle.
The zenith of all diversions would be a Slurpee-brained, pill ridden super model courteous enough to die but just smart enough to reproduce. This shiny object will captivate your critics. If you can land that jewel you can go to federal prison in peace.
Vick’s reputation is certainly sullied with the dreadful abundance of bloodied, dead dog carcasses and such. Personally I think he should fight it. Who is going to accept P-Funk and Q as experts in bloody, dead dog carcasses? Also, if Mike were to throw a dead dog into a shallow hole or a pool or against the concrete, statistics are readily available that he’d only be able to hit such targets 52% of the time. If Mike’s signature was on this heinous crime then there would be many more squirming, half-dead dogs errantly strewn across the residence.
The only virtuous result of this tragedy is that Marcus will finally be legitimized as the rational one.
excuse me, sir