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Rush to Judgement (Part I) Rush Limbaugh fell harder this fall than an Atlantic City parking garage. First he totals his sports commentator’s gig with insights that made Jimmy the Greek look like Louis Farrakhan. It says something that Limbaugh’s own audience was less enlightened than ESPN’s. Lucky for Limbaugh he has something to fall back on when he eventually stops hallucinating about deep fried Mars Bars and being wet-nursed by Anna Nicole Smith. Truth is, if dittoheads were one tenth as critical of Rush as the sportswriters who cover the NFL are of quarterbacks—regardless of their ancestry—Rush would be selling programs at Kansas City Chiefs games. Next, Rush gets caught popping prescription painkillers like they were jellybeans in the Reagan White House. And we thought Rush’s drug of choice was Levitra. Turns out Limbaugh had a double life to go with the double chin. Suddenly, Bill Clinton’s addiction to Chicken McNuggets doesn’t seem so bad. But there’s something I still don’t get. Twenty online offers a day for generic Percocet, and you have to meet your maid in a parking lot? Whatever happened to all that talk about American resourcefulness? Who knew “Rush” referred to what happened to Mr. Limbaugh’s head after crushing and snorting an OxyContin pill? Published reports say he ingested as many as 30,000 of these babies. The only other thing Rush has done 30,000 times is stomp on the down and out. Of course, we all need something to deaden the pain now and then. I used to pop a half dozen Vicodins just to get through a half hour of Rush. Then I’d chase it with a little ice. The street kind. Sounds bad, but I’d rather be a crackhead than a dittohead any day. G. Gordon Liddy recently gushed on Rush and how kind he was helping Liddy get started in radio. That’s about as heartwarming as the Hitler-Stalin pact. Still, we should have some sympathy for Rush Limbaugh. I say we show him the same sympathy he has shown welfare moms and Darryl Strawberry. I wish Rush the best prison laundry job money can buy. That and solitary confinement with James Traficant. But in reality, we’re more likely to see Lizzie Grubman become a driving instructor than see Rush do even a day of time. Grossly unequal protection under the law—I guess that’s The Way Things Ought to Be. Among Rush’s personal consolations is making an honest newspaper out of The National Enquirer. His cynical producers and brain-dead regular audience have also learned these past few weeks that there is no discernable difference between a brand new Rush Limbaugh Show and a five year old rerun, so long as Bill and Hill are trashed fifteen times every hour. Naturally, we’re all looking forward to the forthcoming reflective and cathartic autobiography—Valley of the Dull. But perhaps most importantly, though it took almost two decades of blowing almost enough hot air to end US dependence on Arab oil, Rush learned the hard way that we all live in glass houses--or in his case, a glass booth. Rush not only threw stones—he got stoned. I wonder if, when he is unchained from the bed and released on his own right wing recognizance, Rush will finally see his way clear to supporting medicinal hemp for terminal cancer patients. Click here to rant back. |