Some Soul of Goodness

Are there villains who rival the corrupt clergy for our disfavor?

We joke about lawyers, we decry the government and corporations, yet, just as the jackal and buzzard are compelled to feed upon carrion, each acts according to its natural urges. For the sacerdotal knave, who preys upon the innocent and infirm, we reserve special disdain.

Though it lacks comparable historical distinction, a similar confluence of hypocrisy and abuse of power resides in the so-called institutions of higher learning, which, in the name of amateur athletics, traffic in strapping young bucks for use in gladiatorial-like bouts for the pleasure of sporting votary alumni. Just as the reprobate reverend demands morality whilst living amorally, the unscrupulous university touts honesty and fair play whilst cheating.

We task the journalist with casting light into these dark corners, and we fashion for them protections so that they may do battle against these and other dragons. In return,we ask that they acquaint themselves with libel laws, not so much to shield themselves (though for that too), but rather to avoid defaming the innocent, and that, if they claim objectivity, they at least attempt to practice it.

And so in that spirit I offer a few words of caution for all ink slingers who would take up pen in crusade and/or jihad against society's scoundrels. In the interests of concision (I abhor prolixity), I offer the following purely hypothetical scenario: an article recounting an investigation into circumstances behind a college football player's choice of school, in which an agent for the player is said to have solicited funds for his procurement. Towards the conclusion, and lacking any evidence to warrant inclusion, the author proffers the following nugget:

The elder Newton is the pastor of the Holy Zion Center of Deliverance, a church in Newnan, Ga., not far from College Park, where Cam Newton grew up. He played football at Savannah State.

Over the past year, he has struggled with Newnan officials about the condition of his church. The city has threatened to demolish it because it did not comply with building codes. Last week, a local newspaper, The Times-Herald, reported that the church had completed its work and was in compliance.

The addlepated among us might be confused as to why the reporter would interject such seemingly disconnected biographical information. The semi-educated, trained by schoolteachers to look for "hidden meanings" and see in Santiago a Christ figure, would pat themselves on the back for connecting the dots: "Ah ha! The preacher-man sold his son to the highest bidder, and used the money to fix his church!" Anyone with a bare minimum of knowledge regarding journalistic ideals would recognize a hit job of guilt-by-inference.

Would it be too implausible if our fictional reporter knew, or should readily have known, of reports that said pastor had some months prior to his son's declaration claimed to have secured funds for his church's repair, and that he had another son who had but recently signed with the National Football League, and yet he declines to include such information in the article?

And do I strain all credulity if we place our fictional author not in some upstart muckraking operation with an established history of racially tinged slurs, but rather the supposed bedrock, the very pinnacle, of journalistic integrity and achievement, The New York Times?

In creating such a ludricrous, comic-book cartoon of a delinquent newsman, have I strayed too much into the fantastical? After all, one who considers himself exempt from the most basic of journalistic precepts, who elected to hide behind institutional reputation (however unearned, dubious, vicarious, even fatally negligent)--to in fact wield said reputation cudgel-like as means of achieving desired end, would be rationalizing in the very same manner as the man of the cloth who rapes the gullible young parishioner beneath, and under the auspices of, the blind brass eyes of Christ on the cross.

Even if such a person were to exist, perhaps it is entirely too much to imagine his malefactions surviving the editor's desk, or the scrutiny of his colleagues, who would never condone punishing an athlete based on rumor alone(and in so doing fail to acknowledge his previous collaborations with said hypothetical reporter).

How fortunate, then, that such a cad exists only in our imagination. Those gallant knights of the fourth estate, especially those residing at our esteemed newspaper of record, shall never be called thieves of the day's beauty, but rather Diana's foresters, gentlemen of the shade, minions of the moon.

How grateful we are to be blessed with those who, unlike the cleric and athlete, would never debase their profession.

Election Day

Today we exchange one band of blackguards for another.

The sane person knows that to entrust any politician with one's dog for but an hour is to consign the poor beast to loss of limb, drowning in a bathtub, or, perhaps more likely, roasting on a spit. And yet we entrust these villains with governing our country.

The idealist will forget for a moment. He will choke up on some words Mr. Jefferson penned whilst his fettered darkies toiled in the fields. He will recall the despotic rule that defined Europe for centuries and defines the Middle East today. His heart may swell with pride as he submits his ballot and affixes the "I Voted" sticker to his shirt. Perhaps he will even celebrate if his candidates prevail. And the very next day he will awaken to find that the common cutpurse, even the average journalist, are on balance more honest than the creature of the night whom he helped elect.

We all forget (even I am but flesh and blood). The most despicable of our junior-high classmates were neither the jocks nor the druggie slugabeds bedecked in Def Leppard t-shirts, but rather the caitiffs running for student government. They came in two flavors: those who organized makeout parties, and those who resented their lack of invitation. Both deserved pariah status. Instead they populate every ballot.

If medical researchers ever turn their attention from geriatric tumescence and keep at bay the acerebral zealots at war with enlightenment, they may learn to turn off genetic markers for all manner of affliction. Would that they find the specific sequence that gives rise to the politician, freeing us from such scoundrels as former Alaska Governor Sarah Palin, a woman best suited to Connie Corleone-like fits with tableware, and Senator Harry Reid, a man best suited to . . . well, nothing springs to mind.

The problem, of course, is that the burden would fall upon the rest of us. I would forever abstain, for I know that, were I granted the power I rightly deserve (rather than the injustice of enduring each day amid these tourist baubles and knickknackery), the temptation to exterminate all who opposed my wise rule might prove too difficult to resist. Plus I know that I serve humankind better as a keen observer.

Do I advocate abnegating our voting rights? I will not go so far, though I am reminded that one definition of insanity is repeating the same action and expecting a different result. Dogs know better. They can smell evil.