The Sky Is Falling

No, the sky isn't falling, but seems like something funny is falling from above.

As our lecture topic today, I thought we might take a look at our fine American higher education system. After all, when you and I stand together under the waving flag and wave our hands at those less fortunate souls in other places such as, say, anywhere else, we have sympathy and pride. Pride in our capitalistic success, provided you have some cushy job like being a lazy over-paid engineer. Pride in our superior health care, provided you can afford it. And pride in our education, because only an idiot would choose to be born anywhere but the USA. Therefore, if your parents fucked here and introduced you to the world here, you must be better and smarter than the rest.

Unless, of course, you're an illlegimate product of the Mexican Olympic swim team, and the hands that fed you are scarred from crawling under the fence or cooking in my kitchen, you goddamned wetback.

That said, I have to furrow my eyebrows a bit when confronted with the news of Jacob Garro's death. Now most of you are probably asking yourself a question, like "Who the hell is Jacob Garro?" "Why am I reading this editorial?" and "What is Lexington Steele's real name, anyway?" None of that matters. What matters is that, drunk off his ass and under inadequate supervision, young Jake decided to lean a little too far out the third-floor window and met his maker in a most impromptu fashion about twenty feet later. And so, as perplexed witnesses and grief-stricken friends, we must wonder together what his roommates slurred to the Mrs. Garro at that late hour.

”Hey there, Missus G, it's Raze. Yeah, I'm real sorry to wake you, but your son just fell out the window, and he's not moving. Nope. Um, I dunno, I can't really see from up here. I mean, he might be breathing real shallow like, but I don't think so. Oh, shit, I gotta call beeping thru, I'll hit you right back, 'kay?”

Or something like that. Fuckheads like the recently deceased Jake and his lemming friends give the rest of us Americans a bad name. Sure, millions of Jews died during that whole “Holocaust” thing, but they werent' American. Sure, the Indonesian government is wishing they'd followed up that sales call from Swimmies, but none of those sun-baked water-swollen floaties were American, either. No, those are Somalians starving on yonder side of the world, Thai folks falling down to AIDS, and Japs making scat films. So, rather than fall victim to genocide, epidemic, or natural disaster, we choose to kill ourselves via sheer stupidity. Without the balls to commit outright suicide, we fall under Darwin's swinging scythe to drunkdriving accidents, drug overdose, and gravity-induced defenestration. Maybe some of you blame genetics, and hope that this tragic flattening at the tender age of 20 was a pre-emptive strike against young Jake's breeding. Very likely, his son would run out into traffic or, following his predecessor's precedent, fall off a taller building. Perhaps you would rather blame alcohol, and condemn our American breweries for producing such fine libations. Or, as a last resort, you point the gun at his colleagues, who furnished him with the booze and left him to his own devices. Myself, I would file my lawsuit not against the apartment complex for installing shitty locks, nor against the EMT crew for their untimely arrival.

I blame the schools.

Because amidst the stream of graduates who can't read, write, or drive, we let a young man through the system and into technical school who didn't grasp the basic premise that most of us got in the infant stage. If you drop it, it will fall, be it a ball, a girlfriend, or your own ass through the window. So before I issue my genuine condolences to Ms. Garro, I would like to lambast the irresponsible fuckers who guided this kid through our American educational system and into the grave. Thanks to your slack, we've all lost. My life insurance rates just climbed another dime, my readers sacrificed at least 60 seconds reading this shit, and Budweiser lost fifty years of a-case-a-day profit.

Ma Garro, to say I'm sorry just isn't enough.

I'm sorry your son was such a fucking idiot.