Now, ordinarily I’d take the whining saps trying to change the world of sports, direct them to the closest latrine and have them clean the floor with their tongues.

But this time the whining saps just may be on to something.

Forget the concussions issue – how do you tell folks making seven- and eight-figure salaries are afflicted? They act like they’ve been continuously kicked in the head since 1992 anyway.

Forget the gay-bashing issue – Do these guys really think Michael Sam is the first gay man in an NFL training camp?

No, the bandwagon I’ll gladly jump on while pounding the loudest drum is the Lose the Redskins as a Mascot Express.

To my mind this takes about as much thought as deciding when to breathe.

“Redskins” is a term that has never been anything else besides a racial slur, and for anyone to argue otherwise is only to showcase one’s brain-dead stupidity.

Quick, let’s take the Insult the Ethnic Group Quiz:

Niggers? Check, I understand who you’re referring to.

Crackers? Yep, know that one.

Kikes? Uh-huh.

Krauts? You see where we’re heading here?

Redskins – what group do ya think we could be referring to?

Yessir, folks, there’s no way the word “redskin” is, was or will ever be a compliment.

Yet, there is a professional team in what is arguably the most popular sport in the country and that happens to play in our nation’s capital, that features, nay, revels in, that nickname.

Now, if  we were talking about insulting white people, black people or even brown people, this nickname would have been gone anywhere from 20 to 200 years ago. But these are just Indians, man. Realistically, how much of a fuss are these guys going to kick up? There’re probably only about 10,000 of ‘em on the planet.

So what are they going to do, fire a few flaming arrows at somebody? Paint their faces and attack a few settlers’ homes?

The bottom line here is that the Native Americans have zero power, zippo political pull and really aren’t necessary to court as a block of potential voters.

They’re a major minority, that is being dumped on, spat at and kicked in the soft spot by a bunch of greedy white assholes that screwed them over and stole their land a couple of hundred years ago and now think nothing of committing more of the same types of atrocities today, while stripping away what little self-respect they’ve maintained .

That said, do you think anyone of any substance is going to stand up for their cause?

Are you kidding?

Instead, if these knuckleheads have their way, there’ll continue to be a bunch of buffoons dressing like their convoluted picture of how a native American dressed a couple of centuries ago, sitting in the first row of a football stadium and doing a retarded war dance every time the home team scores.

And that’s not supposed to be demeaning?

Not surprisingly, the folks who are fighting for the Redskins to keep their name appear to be a load of right-wing nut jobs who somehow are equating a possible team name change with the attacking of the World Trade Center.

How dare it be suggested they stop being racist pigs.

Hey, nimrods, it’s an unnecessary insult to a proud group of people who through the duration of their systematic expulsion from their true native land have done nothing but try to keep their heads held high.

In other words, they’re acting more like Americans than the Americans who are figuratively pulling down their pants and tweaking their noses. If you want to start waving the flag in the face of this issue, perhaps you might consider what that flag stands for.

Life, liberty, pride – those same wonderful traits you think nothing of trying to strip away from minorities who only wish to be treated like honest-to-goodness American citizens.

And don’t they deserve to be thought of as proud Americans rather than somebody’s mascot?

 

 

 

After very little thought, I’ve come to the conclusion that Norristown needs to be nuked, done away with, put out of its misery – take your pick.

I reached this conclusion while driving through Norristown’s deplorable streets, sitting at its interminably long stop lights and dealing with its population, most of which is a walking, talking full-page advertisement for the death sentence.

Being the sweetheart of a guy I am, and in the process of recovering from my kidneys being rattled for the 853^rd time while driving over potholes that have been ignored by what passes for local government, I actually attempted to come up with something positive about this borough, municipality or whatever it’s being called this week - and came up virtually empty.

And I really tried.

I like Elmwood Park Zoo. Beyond that, several bombing runs are the only cure for what ails this once-proud burg.

Quick, name any store, restaurant, building, hell, anywhere you’d willingly care to venture in this garden spot turned garbage dump.

Culture? Ain’t none in these parts, Baba Looey.

A decent restaurant? I imagine there may be a few places that may not induce full-on, all-night vomiting. But I haven’t run across one.

As for its traffic lights, Norristown still features that type first installed in this country in the 1960s that work off a timer. In other words, you move when the light changes, not when you’re the lone driver in the intersection. So, while you wait for the light to change, you’re subject to whatever dangers exist in that area. And in Norristown, that can mean anything from panhandlers with attitudes to carjackers with large weaponry to drunks with attitudes and large weaponry.

The worst part of this tale of good town gone to hell is that, like many metropolises now in the final stages of degradation, Norristown used to be a very nice, very attractive spot. Downtown was a bustling, hustling cornucopia of interesting stores, friendly faces and mom-and-pop eateries that served unique, stomach-pleasing fare.

Oh, the Friday nights I spent there as a child, following my parents into places like “Woolworth’s” and “John’s Bargain Store.” And if I were really lucky I’d get to go into the “Herman’s Sporting Goods” store, where tykes could revel in all of the must-haves of male childhood, like football helmets and baseball bats.

Inevitably, the evening on the town would end at the “Norris” movie theatre, where the latest first-run double feature would have me and the folks smiling and chatting as we walked back to the car, and all the way home.

There was a time when my mom worked at the long-defunct “Chatlin’s” department store on Main Street, and who could forget that spot’s wooden floors that magically creaked wherever you walked.

Their candy machines were first class, and for Christmas there was that long yuletide display that led directly to the toy department.

Oh, the memories.

Now?

Good luck walking any place on Main Street where you’d feel safe or comfortable. As for the stores, there are virtually none, unless you have something to pawn or an iffy check you need to cash.

There’s nary a friendly face to be found, although these days the blank looks far outweigh the threatening ones.

So what’s there to do with this foul-smelling snake pit of a town?

Clear the decks, warn a handful of the populace and begin the bombing.

There’s a good chance the roads may actually be improved, or at least not made worse, by a little bomb-created bedlam.

When the smoke clears, the process of rebuilding can begin.

Although if those that remain decide to leave things as is, there’s an excellent chance no one will notice.