On my sleeve

Watching boxing with my dad is one of my favorite things in the world. The sport is brutal and beautiful, pure. In the ring there are two men (usually minorities) beating each other for money. Both of the guys are looking to knock the other's block off lest the real world creep back in with the rulings of crooked judges.

My dad warned me never to become too emotionally involved in the outcome of a fight. "Never have a favorite fighter because you'll always be disappointed." But I came of age during the era of Mike Tyson. The 20 year-old Heavyweight Champion of the World. He was in rap videos, he talked trash, he dated that hot black girl from "Head of the Class" and he earned the greatest (and most immature) moniker ever bestowed on a fighter: "Baddest Man on the Planet."

In 1988, Tyson knocked out Michael Spinks in less than two minutes. Later I would learn that before the fight Tyson's personal life was in disarray, there were rumors that Donald Trump was fucking his wife, his mother-in-law was living with him, his promoter (Don King) was bilking him out of millions of dollars . . . it was only in the ring that he could make things right. And with a vicious uppercut that readjusted Spinks' brain patterns in order to render him unconscious, Tyson exercised control over the only part of his life of which he still held dominion. Still a teenager I was a little embarrassed that I yelped like a little girl when Spinks hit the canvas as my dad looked my way and smirked.

As you probably know, for Tyson it was all downhill from there . . . a rape conviction, jail, ear biting, one humiliation after another right up to his latest defeat. And so (unfortunately) I've watched Tyson lose in life and in the ring and been horribly disappointed at every one of his failures.

Now what does this have to do with the anti-Blunt button I'm soon to be sporting around town on my sleeve? Well (and you may or may not have noticed this) I'm clearly not a fan of our spoiled brat, diaper wearing, silver spoon sucking Governor Matt Blunt. To me, he represents the worst elements of our crooked political system: nepotism, patronage, a bitchy ass snobby wife and a nice head of blonde hair to top it all off.

But I find that my feelings toward Baby Blunt are ruled by emotion, just like my adoration of the former Heavyweight Champion. If only I could be the calm, analytical and unbiased spectator like my father . . . yet another one of the many ways that I fear I'll never live up to him.

But, no . . . logical or not I just really hate that bastard Matt Blunt. And I can only predict that all of my ranting on this page regarding Missouri's baby boy will reflect that feeling. While I think that anyone who isn't hopelessly naive understands that all politics and politicians are corrupt in some way, I wouldn't want anyone to think that this is a bias against Republicans in general.

And even though my support of Mike Tyson has been marked with sadness over his defeats, I don't want to become troll-like in rooting for the failures of Missouri's fortunate son. Instead, I can only hope that the voters of Missouri will join me in my emotionally based aversion to our benefit cutting, inner city insulting Governor and boot him out of office after one term. Following that, I'll wish Matt Blunt nothing but success in his ongoing effort to cash in on his dad's name; hopefully in some other field unrelated to politics.