The Bangus Ultimatum

There seems to be something real seriously fu**d up with me. Upon hearing of the tragedy at the Ultra, one of the first things I thought of was how the whole thing looked like legally: the standard of care that should have been exercise, the corresponding degree of negligence, liability corporate or individual, the possible payoff.

I am only beginning to realize that real people died. That this will leave a hole in the lives of families. That no compensation can fully make up for this loss.

Lately I found myself straining under a crushing spiritual crisis. Somehow, the message of peace and tolerance and forgiveness wasn’t quite working for me. Specifically, it can’t turn me into what I need to be: a future in law required that I become a monster, a cold, baby-eating, panda-killing shark.

Of course, my ancestors never had this problem. The bastards had war gods and storm gods. Large, bellicose deities who fought and fucked and dealt out worlds of pain. Those gods are gone, reduced to museum pieces and quaint mythology lessons.

Thus, for days I wandered aimlessly in the digital highways, desperately seeking salvation. Suddenly, the true path revealed itself to me by way of a roundhouse kick. The god for the modern manly man, the exemplar for geeky boys yearning for sweet victory, is none other than Chuck Norris.

This guy ain’t a pretty, prissy, couch-jumping media boy whore:

• Chuck Norris can unscramble an egg.
• When the Boogeyman goes to sleep every night he checks his closet for Chuck Norris.
• The chief export of Chuck Norris is pain.

These and other gospel truths are available for everyone to discover (and meditate upon with awe).

So too, is this rock tribute to the life and times of The Young Chuck Norris. Best of all, the guy can take it all in stride. What, I dare say, is not to worship?

So, I invite you all to discover the beatitude of Norristiandom. Convert now. Or have your face kicked in.