Sex, Politics and The Emmys…
Someone said the Emmy Award show the other night turned into a political-left mudslinging contest that even featured a cameo by that recurring bad dream Hillary Clinton. I actually expected as much and planned on ignoring it. It’s like going to the zoo, where you expect to smell the animal poop. And I must admit I missed Hillary because I had turned off the TV and gone to bed.
So, what was it that sent me to bed so early? It was something that leads me to believe we have entered the new and surreal world of an alternative reality. It was something much worse than the political prostitution by the artists, and it was on national television for our children and grandchildren to see. What is this “it” to which I refer?
Well, don’t get me wrong. I’m from the sixties generation. Remember? We were the ones who removed many of the taboos associated with sexual expression. But my lord! I believe we opened Pandora’s box instead. There were people right there on stage dry-humping one another as if it were acceptable civilized behavior. And there were also men and women alike pawing at their own genitals while singing songs with lyrics I wouldn’t want my wife or daughter to hear. What the mortal hell have we become as a people?
I am all for freedom of expression, but this crap is beyond the pale. I listen now with disgust to all this drivel about respecting women, and it must be drivel because it’s the same people promoting black dresses and white roses who are fawning over these so-called “artists” doing things on national television that gets kids arrested while on spring break. We teach generations to dance like mating animals and we then demand they respect one another’s gender. No wonder our children look at adults nowadays as if we’re three-eyed space aliens. They see the paradoxes and the double-standards, and they’re confused.
And that’s all I have to say about that. Thank you for enduring my rant. I think I’ll go now, and take my friend Evan Williams to my safe-place and read a good book.