As a diehard football fan, I enjoy a love-hate relationship with the players, coaches, referees, owners and virtually everyone associated with the sport. For seventeen sundays (we won’t even bother discussing preseason and playoffs) from noon to three, anyone knows where to find me, but those that know me won’t bother. The house conveniently empties, purposely left messy enough for me to have something to help me avoid watching my team choke . . . which in at least one game they inevitably do.
The Armchair Moralist
(December 24, 2004)
"What were you thinking, you lousy (insert expletive of your choice)?" I scream at my television, "The guy was wide open!" I storm off to clean the kitchen.
"What kind of call is that, you lousy (insert another)!" I glare at the screen, a pan and a towel in my hand, "Who paid you off anyway?" I change the channel and storm out of the room.
"No! No! No! No! No!" I hang my head two minutes later, having switched the vacuum with the remote, "You (think of every expletive you know, then make up a few more)!" I collapse on the couch and grimace as the clock seals their fate.
The game ends I change the channel, but now the real action begins. I spend the rest of my football week silently rehashing all of the mistakes, speculating the future of my beloved team. What does the game do to their chances? I pour over the standings. Will they be born again in playoff glory? I bury myself within the statistics. Can their season find salvation? I study all of the expert analysis. Will they ever finally win it all? I close my eyes and pray. While I know this is probably the most inane request anyone could drop on the Almighty, I never seem to remember it until all is said and done. (Could this be why my team never won the big one? Nah . . . God doesn’t fix football games as punishment for my sins.) I am the typical armchair quarterback, the know it all who would necessarily guide my team to Super Bowl victory, if only I were at the helm . . . if only I had the talent to play the game.
It is a game . . . only a game. It exists to entertain, and its participants pretty much expect and encourage my zeal(within reason, of course). It comes with the territory, and those that do not know it usually don’t last long. They get to do what they do best and get paid really well. I escape from my daily routines and become football fanatic, vicariously living the thrill, their worse critic when it all goes wrong. Ideally, it is a simple transaction, no more no less, with no real consequence or harm. There is always another game, season, or team, if I so choose. It is a diversion, and life goes on.
Life is different.
People go to work, pay their bills, make real decisions that will affect the rest of their lives. Sometimes we succeed. Sometimes we fail. Most of the time we just get by. As we try to cope with what we have, some of us do well, but far more of us feel like we don’t. Our mistakes, inadequacies, and differences leer at us, a finger in the mirror holding us back, but we manage to suck it up and cope. Life is no game, but all we can do is live in hope there is always tomorrow, a chance, a better day to come. The last thing any of us wants to endure is an armchair moralist, second guessing our every move, but lately it seems wherever you turn, there they are.
(continued)
The armchair moralist, the back seat driver of life, vicariously monitors the world’s dirty laundry. Sitting safe on the sidelines, he (sometimes a she) freely condemns the sins of mankind at social gatherings, church fellowship, and internet chats. He touts his expert analysts, O’Reilly and Limbaugh, turning the rest of us into guests on Jerry Springer or headlines on The Weekly World News. He never considers he has his own house to clean. He seeks; he finds. If he does not find, he twists and manufactures. He freely decides what should be put at the top of our list, loads us with burdens he refuses to bear. His fickle finger of hate always points away from himself, aimed anywhere else, while his eyes try to probe the darkest recesses of life.
"Abortionists are murderers!" He snickers.
"You are pro life or pro death!" He chides.
He cheers on the man in the crowd holding a "Baby Killer" sign, though he never bothered asking any of his one night stands what happened to them a couple months down the road. He is the self-proclaimed bastion of life, but is nowhere to be found when it truly counts, preferring his next stop to be a death row to cheer. The LORD giveth, but he taketh away . . . so long as some other guy throws the switch. His cause is as empty as his heart, looking for a reason to complain, not a problem to solve. The solution is obvious, but responsibility is not his forte. He likes his sex the way it is and has too many scarlet letters to let go to waste. If he plays his cards right . . . who knows . . . in eighteen years he might be able to watch another soldier to go fight his wars.
"They are filthy perverts," he dispassionately babbles.
"They are an Abomination before the LORD!" He scowls.
He is a voyeur in the bushes of life, clad in a trench-coat and latex gloves, thinking they will keep him hidden and clean, but the object of his fetish sees his eyes in the window and feels violated. He screams "Abomination" at the thought of two men in love, but would pay double to see two women get it on. He insists they chose their "lifestyle" like he chooses his shoes, but never wonders: "Does this mean I chose to be straight?" He is the bastion of marriage as between a woman and a man, but sits alone in his hovel, divorced and alone. He is the man’s man, who wears his masculinity like a gaudy gold chain, but when push comes to shove, he is the one afraid to pick up the soap off a locker room floor. They all want to stick it to him, where the Sun don’t shine. Threatened and afraid, he inches toward the corner, secretly scanning for an offensive pair of eyes, and he finds the farthest shower head to hide the cold sweat on his face. (I only needed to rinse off anyway.) Women tell him daily, he is not God’s greatest gift, yet did it ever occur to him a gay man would probably think the same?
"Love the sinner, but hate the sin!" He justifies his behavior.
"You support sin!" He gloats.
To the armchair moralist, everyone is a pervert, a liar, a thief, or a cheat, and he has decided to "out" us all. He does not discriminate based on race, sex, or creed . . . if we do not bow before him, we all need to go. There are no sidelines, except his . . . you are either for or against. You may be religious, but he does not recognize your false God. You may be decent and moral, but he casts you in Hell. You may live Norman Rockwell’s dream, but your heart bleeds liberally, destroying the moral fibre of his world. You try to treat those different from you with respect and dignity, but you are only sleeping with the enemy. You may be loyal, honest, caring, and trustworthy, but you need to repent, if you dare cross his path. Divide and conquer becomes his game, gossip and snickers his weapon of choice, and before you know it innuendo causes someone else to show you the door.
"This is a Christian country," he tries to explain, "founded on the Bible."
"How dare you make it secular!"
He whines of our lawmakers who are lax to clean up moral "filth," but thinks nothing of tossing a cheeseburger wrapper out the window of his SUV. He is the bastion of freedom, but calls freedom of expression a treasonous plot. He wants to make his world safe, but impatiently awaits Armageddon. He stands for liberty, but demands the children of others to impose it with a loaded gun. He claims to be righteous and Godly, but weeps "persecution" if you dare call him out. He claims a personal relationship with the Prince of Peace, but for the infidel . . . nuke em all. All this from the armchair, he is never really in the stands, isolation and anonymity his security, a screen name in cyberspace his white hood. When it counts he does nothing, but silently stands by, letting everyone else do the dirty work he does not have the courage to try. Confront him directly, and he lowers his eyes. Suggest he does something about it, he mumbles an excuse, and he waits til we turn to shoot his evil glare. The world would be perfect, if he were at its helm, but I often wonder . . . if he merely lacks the talent to live.
Life is not a game, and we are not the entertainers. We do not exist for his pleasure, nor do we get paid to listen to his grief. We are . . . all of us . . . people, and we are . . . all of us . . . basically good. We can work together, or we can let the armchair moralists of the world tear us apart. I for one will never assent, nor let them turn a life upside down for their pleasure. Find a new season, team and sport. Get your mind out of the gutter, and get off everyone’s case. Try living for a change.
MRBline |
|
| |
|
