Straight No Chaser: The Final Round??

By Desi Cortez, BASN Columnist
Updated: August 18, 2009

DENVER (BASN) — I’m in Steven A. Smith’s corner, the one time ESPN motor-mouth, who, thankfully, can now be found all over MSNBC’s political news coverage — and who recently echoed a thought I had — this 44th President ought not get down in the mud with Rush Limbaugh, boss of the Republican Party, and the leader of fuming mad White folks.

Obama can only dirty himself, while the pig . . . loves the slop.

Obama ought burst into Rush’s studio, while the mouth is on the live, on the air, backhand him like Sidney Poitier slaps that old white gentleman in the 1965 classic “In The Heat Of The Night.”

Sternly inform Rush . . . ” they call me Mr. President!!” Challenge this buffoon to a caged brawl, in the LA Coliseum . . . .where Obama will commerce to giving Limbaugh the ass kickin’ of his life, sticking and jabbing the aging ground sloth, into a tattered mess.

OK, true, it’s merely a wet dream, Obama’s too cool for that. He’s an Ivy League Officer, a Gentleman, one of this nation’s last Boy Scouts.

Instead, dig this; Obama ought to send Pennsylvania Professor Michael Dyson, he with the 12 gauge automatic, water cooled, machine-mouth.

Dyson overwhelms his opponent, like a young Tyson simply overwhelmed his foe, but with words, many words, big words, but not so big you don’t get the point . . . in the middle of his verbal assault, he puts together flurries of combos like Ali . . . you can feel the sharpness of his words.

America needs an enema, we must let off the tension, the resentment and distaste the different ethnic groups harbor for one-another.

You may not dig this thought, but dig this visual; Rush, coming down the tunnel, “Dixie” blaring thru the LA Coliseum of course, Rush, wearing grey and scarlet red trunks, size 46, well now size 38, for the moment, till the Hillbilly heroin wares off.

Scarlet Red and battleship grey Tassels dangling – from his preferred golf shoes. The stars n’ bars of the Confederacy depicted on the back of his Red cigar jacket. Rush will of course be in the right corner, with his Black boy “Mr. Bo Snerdly” at his side.”

The “Stepin Fetchit” board operator who gladly comes on Rush’s show to entertain the Good Ol ‘Boys by translating Rush’s Redneck diatribes into Ebonic jive talk for Blacks to grasp.

Ain’t that a bitch!

And for an event of this magnitude, Bo’s momma will be there also, dressed in her “Aunt Jemima” attire, that visual sooth’s Rush, reminds him of the good ol days and what he’s fighting for . . . the return of.

Dyson, entering from the Left – of course, brandishing the red, black and green . . . either the Godfathers ” Payback” or Public Enemies “Fight the Power”, I can’t decide . . . . On the back of his Black robe – that picture of Huey P. and Bobby Seal, Black leather jackets and berets, strapped, standing in front of their bullet ridden Oakland headquarters. Shapely soul sisters in giant Angela Davis ‘fro’s, hot paints suits and knee high boots, big hoop earings in his corner . . . .

Envision a crowd . . . reflective of these two very different Americas these men represent; Exaggerated and amplified to the max – stereotypes come to life.

Rush supporters looking like a Chuck Norris info-commercial, the Country n’ Western Channels, a NASCAR event and a Klan meeting.. Open flamed Roasted turkey legs, Coors beer kegs, crosses burning, hanging nooses being sold in the concession areas, truckers and bikers walking around in Black face . . . I just don’t know how “comfortable” NASCAR Truck racing team owner Randy Moss is going to feel at some of those events . . . .

And Dyson’s side of the coliseum, resembling a UN brunch, both genders – folks with penises and vaginas in the crowd . . . you know what I mean. Wealthy and working class, gay and straight, urban and suburban, Baptist and heathens . . . side by side.

Japanese Plum wine, Red Stripe . . . on tap. Sushi, Martini & Rossi, and cheesecake. Oprah, behind one of those oil drum BBQ Pitts your Uncle Earl had – dishing KFC . . . grilled.

Aging Hippes, farmers and construction workers, starving artist. Rich little missionary white kids trying to save the poor “little people,” and tree huggers. Limo-liberals, Black intellectuals, La Raza, and Green-Peace all together, singing “K-u-m-b-a-y-a-h my lord . . . .

Kumbayah means “kick his sorry fat ass” in . . . whatever tongue that is.

A sight somewhat akin to the first Ali/Frazier, in the garden, when America, well the world – to be exact stopped, looked, and listened, most of the globe cheering for the historical underdog, the people’s champion, Ali.

Frazier was “the Man’s boy”, a tool of the establishment being used in an attempt to silence the people’s champion – Ali, who was flippin’ a defiant middle finger to the White male establishment; “Ain’t no Viet Cong called me nigger!” (I just love using that line, it screams volumes!) Hang-on for a second; let’s agree this fight-to-the-death is what many, not all, but many of the angry Tea-Baggers and Birthers are itching for – to quench there thirst to reinstitute American Apartheid thru 21st century genocide.

Not to mention . . . this blind abhorrence of Obama underscores the US landscape: few sub-groups in this nation is of the same mind, actually sympathizes with this self-described victim-hood status Conservative White guys are trying to claim . . . nobody, nobody . . . but his woman.

And when I say “his woman” think material possession – couch, car, blender, hammer, cat . . . woman.

I’d argue, if we pitted Dyson’s sharp Ali like tongue against Rush’s predictable Great White Father talking-points, those telegraphed hooks and roundhouses, we’d witness a Kodak moment, a snapshot of this nation which would forever prove the fight of the 21st century is angry White men . . . against everybody.

This is it in a Nazi helmet; these Neo-Con’s are so very self-absorbed, their interest and values – so self-serving, so narrow – few other’s can identify with it . . . and that’s OK with the Pat Buchanan base

We are a divided nation, so much so, that roughly 200 days into the 1st Afro-American’s Presidency . . . the country sits where we did that first night Ali lost – on the verge of . . .

oh my god.