“Sorry” Seems to be the Hardest Word

(Cue eye-roll) There is no justification for killing others. Not because Mommy didn’t love you enough. Not because someone grabbed your girlfriend’s ass with both hands. Not because some idiot runs his toothless mouth ’bout the ‘Good Book’ while burning your sacred text. And not because he makes some horrible little web video knocking Islam.

Now that we’ve gotten the obvious, the perfunctory, the things that need not be said out of the way, let me say this:

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry on behalf of Americans. Sorry on behalf of “Christians” (a big tent that needs to get smaller by the by). Sorry on behalf of thinking people, sane people, and normal people of every race color and creed.

Now I’ve really done it. I’ve emasculated myself, emolliated myself, dare I say pussified weakened myself before you all. Shame. Turn away. Don’t look at me. In flaunting my humanity I’m less than human now.

And when our President uttered those two words (or three if you’re scoring the contraction as two) (which he actually never did, but here we go again getting all bogged down in the facts that muck up our system and keep our economy from flourishing as God wants it to) I felt a profound sadness and shame. I thought we were bigger than that. Bigger than stooping so low as to maybe lend someone a hand. Bigger than the regular humanoids who roam the earth with their little problems– feelings and such. Bigger than those among us who sometimes come up small.

If I could I’d turn back history I’d undo all the little moments like these where we prostrate ourselves, shrinking so small and stooping so low as to admit we were wrong:

• To the slaves, pull up your socks and get to work. You can be anything you want to become on this plantation
• To the native Americans like Tonto and the homeless Injun in those pinko commercials who never actually picked up any garbage, just sat around and cried about it, you’ve got your casinos, move on
• To women, some of the most important folks in my life are women, always running around darning socks, baking pies, pushing puppies…good job. Daddy loves you
• Finally, and we can’t cross the street without talking about them, to you gays. Here’s one of them poems you like so much:

You may think your eye is for the straight guy,

But down here that dog won’t fly,

So kiss my ass and say goodbye,

That’s just an expression, don’t even try

Now get out there and roam the earth like it’s your own back forty. God will sort out the details when he comes a riding in on the fiery winged steers and all that shit and feeds all them heathens to the locusts.