"And when he had opened the seventh seal, there was silence in heaven about the space of half an hour . . . and homages to Donald Rumsfeld suddenly appeared on two news channels simultaneously." (Revelations 8:1, "Gone Wild" translation)Home from the gym just now. It was it's usual grueling, torturous experience. The aches, the pains, the suffering, the misery, the blood, the carnage, the firestorms--and that was just what was showing on the Fox News Channel while I was using the elliptical.
For you see, almost without fail, when I go into the cardio room at my local health club, Fox News is broadcasting on at least one of the TVs in front of my favorite treadmill and elliptical. And broadcasting LOUDLY, the volume turned up way high, as if Sean Hannity and Bill O'Reilly weren't already screaming enough for the students at Gallaudet University to hear from this location. For a few weeks, when new management took over the club, the preference for edification on the world situation from Fox News disappeared for a while, replaced by an endless supply of women in danger, extreme makeovers, and redneck comedians on Lifetime, the Style Network, and Comedy Central, respectively--at times just as annoying as Fox News but at least not annoying in the same way.
But, alas, no. If tonight offered any indication, the only changes the new management seems to have instituted are shorter operating hours and a stinginess with the towel supply. Fox News was back on at full right-winged tilt with a little bit of product placement called "Why He Fights," an homage to everyone's favorite madcap political diva, Donald Rumsfeld.
As the room was fairly empty at this hour, I took the liberty--at least before the liberty is taken away from me completely--of turning the sound down. Nonetheless, while commencing my workout, even with a mixtape of Saint Etienne, Dannii Minogue, Keane, and Gnarls Barkley in heavy rotation on my old Minidisc player, I was strangely drawn to images of La Rummy, Newt Gingrich (good lord, I thought he was sent to a Reeducation Camp during the last Cultural Revolution?), and a bevy of old Republican warwhores who I half expected to start speaking in tongues and sucking the lifeforce from innocents while on camera.
This grand old army parade was presided over by alleged journalist and Pop 'n' Fresh (the Pillsbury Doughboy when he's working) lookalike Bret Baier, who seemed so indulgent in his interview with ol' Squinty McGinty that I kept waiting for him to let Donny start nursing from his rather ample bosom. Or vice versa.
And me with my sewing kit tucked away at home, implements from which, if they had been handy, I would have used to blind myself in order to prevent any further Fox images from burning into my retinas.
I was able to move from the treadmill to the elliptical and, thus, be less menaced by the fiery glower from Rumsfeld's eyes. Nonetheless, someone else walked into the room, changed the channel on the TV next to the one transmitting Fox News and began watching CNN, which, as my perverse kind of gym luck would have it, was also featuring a special on Donald Rumsfeld, entitled "Man of War," which is, as I indicated above, "Raw fo' 'Nam" spelled backwards. And "Raw fo' 'Nam," in turn, sounds to me like a strange "street" version of Apocalypse Now. Starring the Donald and Ludacris. Appropriately enough.
So now it was Rummy in stereo, which I believe is the seventh and final seal. The room grew quiet, and I quickly looked around to see if Death was pulling out his chessboard from his gym bag, my nearly tripping on one of the pedals of the elliptical in the process.
For half a moment, I thought the double dose of Donald might be a sign that something dastardly had befallen our revered Secretary of Offense. Perhaps he'd finally resigned or been fired, as the New York Times indicated today was a distinct possibility, encouraged by no less a source of White House power than, er, former school librarian Laura Bush.
Or maybe he'd died.
No, wait . . . listen . . . nope, definitely not. I could hear no evidence of fireworks exploding in the evening sky or brass bands playing or crowds cheering or people starting spontaneous conga lines along the Susquehanna River bridges . . . .
Perhaps, though, the celebration was more subdued and better suited to quiet moments of reflection: That is, maybe ol' Rummy had finally passed that load from his bowels that that grimacy look on his face indicates he's been holding onto since the Nixon administration. The somber commemoration, thus, was a sign of mourning--mourning over the loss of the best part of Donald Rumsfeld: His stool.
Finally, though, I realized that the twin Rummy throwdown is indicative of what passes for news programming in our fair and gentle Republic on a Saturday night. Or on any night, for that matter.
And there, comrades, is your eighth sign. Check and mate.
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