Recently, I have noticed an occurrence that I should have expected, but alas, did not. I have apparently not been on my game, that being commentator of all things which are, or at least should be, important to most thinking (and thoughtful) people. Yeah, I’ve missed out on Duck Dynasty.
This aberration within the continuum of space-time is apparently the most successful reality show in the history of television! Yet I, erstwhile arbiter of all that is current, tasteful and worthy of our collective attention somehow missed it. Dang…
Yes, this show appears to revolve around a heavily bearded duck hunting family, the paterfamilias of which, Phil Robertson, that man-about-pond and slave to all forms of high fashion camo, has been interviewed by GQ (yes, that GQ, Gentleman’s Quarterly) also known as that magazine for irrelevant men who seek relevance by reading about men who are too relevant to ever read, err, a rag like GQ.
Let’s linger on that fact for a minute here. I hold no contempt for those who think that there is anything entertaining or interesting about men who walk through mud to kill little ducks. I will assume that the importance of killing ducks is lost on a city boy like me. I will assume that there is an abundance of ducks in our country’s swamps and that the herd (flock?) must be thinned on occasion so that the little ducks don’t overwhelm the population of…err…whatever it is that ducks are big enough to overwhelm the population of.
What is turning my brain into the slimy innards of an uncooked Hot Pocket is the premise that those of this particular ilk are of any interest to anyone else. I mean, I deign not any honest form of making a living, be it garbage collection, window washing, janitorial services or, for that matter, killing little ducks. And I can almost understand that their reality show might be of interest to, oh, I don’t know, hunters and those who really, really hate ducks. But why in the world would anyone want to hear what these people have to say as well as publish it to a national audience?
It isn’t so much that this evolutionarily challenged gentleman disparages homosexuality, races other than his and other inherent human characteristics as sinful and disgusting; he also seems to think that his claim to have worked in the cotton fields with “the blacks” somehow makes his opinion equal in veracity to one who was actually paying attention to the plight of these “blacks”. He thinks that by simple virtue of the fact that he was there, he is an expert in all that occurred.
This imbecile actually said, (and this is a direct quote):
“I never, with my eyes, saw the mistreatment of any black person. Not once. Where we lived was all farmers. The blacks worked for the farmers. I hoed cotton with them. I’m with the blacks, because we’re white trash. We’re going across the field. … They’re singing and happy. Pre-entitlement, pre-welfare, you say: Were they happy? They were godly; they were happy; no one was singing the blues.”
Ok, so Phil Robertson equates himself with “the blacks” by acknowledging that he’s white trash. Interesting that he thinks that lowering himself in stature to that of “white trash” is somehow showing solidarity with black people. I’m sure he can’t imagine that black people might consider themselves somewhat above the “white trash” that he claims to be. He apparently thinks that black people should be grateful for his willingness to engage in self-deprecation for their benefit.
Then, he goes on the say that they were happy, “pre-entitlement, pre-welfare”. So, apparently in Mr. Robertson’s eyes, what he calls entitlements and welfare only apply to black people, and these things have apparently made those black people unhappy since their introduction. The fact that there are, by far, more white people on welfare and entitlements than black seems not to have been important to the conversation. If I were to call Mr Robertson a Neanderthal, it is Neanderthals whom I’d be insulting.
And finally, the ultimate act of self-immolation was his comment that they weren’t, “singing the blues”. Could there be anyone so unaware of his personal surroundings, culture, current events and history that he wouldn’t know that it was exactly those people who he claims to have picked cotton with, who invented, sang and popularized, quite specifically, THE BLUES?
But, apparently, in the particular field in which Mr. Robertson was a pickin’ that there old cotton, the darkies were happeh’, and a-singin’ and a-dancin’ all ‘round de plantation, not a-one of dem a-wishin’ theys could get their own reality shows. They were happy because they didn’t yet have welfare or entitlements, at least according to Mr. Robertson.
It is not Phil Robertson’s existence that disturbs me. It is not his uninformed, moronic opinions of any subjects not covered in the bible that bother me. It’s not even the fact that there are some like him (or wishing to be) who watch his banal and inane reality show.
It’s the fact that an otherwise tame and unimportant glossy rag like GQ would chose, out of all the interesting people who exist in the world today like heads of state, the Pope, and others of genuine courage and accomplishment, some malodorous nincompoop who’s only claim to fame is that he invented a really good way to make dumb animals fly in front of his shotgun. The fact that they would ask for and publish his ill-conceived opinions of anything other than which camo is best, (I’m leaning toward the beige) says more about GQ, and those who read it, than of this unfortunate, although apparently quite wealthy, man.