Mel Gibson is a bug. He needs to be squished.
He is famously handsome, funny, lovable, talented and wealthy.
Which is why he must now be squished.
It's what we do to our icons, right? We make 'em bigger than life, take away their material needs and leave them alone to wrestle with their emotional needs.
It's the deal with the devil, the price of fame and fortune.
And then, when they get as rich and famous as they're going to get, when we're about finished with them, as they get older and stumble and we can smell the fear we jump on them like a pack of wild dogs.
"'Kill the pig! Cut his throat! Kill the pig! Bash him in!'" *
But, hell. I don't know. How would I?
How would you?
I don't care what happens to Mel Gibson. Well, I do care but only in an abstract way. What I care about more is the cheap thrill we get from the pervasive, nonstop media airings of Mel and Oksana's dirty laundry.
It relieves us to mock and spit on our icons.
Who cares if Mel eats a bullet?
And while we're at it, send that booze-sucking slut, Lindsay, to jail and throw away the key.
We made them. When we're finished playing we'll destroy them.
"The desire to squeeze and hurt was over-mastering." *
Lighten up, it's all in good fun. These people aren't real people, we invented them.
It's not my fault Michael Jackson was weird; I didn't kill him. He did it to himself. He was weird.
And I was finished with him, anyway.
"We was on the outside. We never done nothing, we never seen nothing." *
It's been a week. The story is old. Oksana will thrive. Mel will live or he won't.
"'after all we aren't savages really...'" *
* William Golding, Lord of the Flies© 2010 by David L. Williams, all rights reserved