Settling a score with style on America’s biggest stage
When I was in elementary school, there was a kid who teased me about my first name, which is Diccon. I’ll call him Eddy McNair. This is a made-up name because he’s probably a wonderful family man now and was just doing what ten year old kids did to other ten year old kids with funny names.
Imagine that I bore a grudge, and wanted to get back at Eddy with the biggest dis possible. The most epic dis in the history of epic disses.
I could work diligently my entire life to put myself in a position to become president of the United States. This would take decades of going to law school, clerking for some asshole judge, running for local office, clawing my way up to state Attorney General, being “tough on crime,” running for governor, serving a successful term or two with no major scandals, and then campaigning successfully for party nomination and the presidency.
Against all odds, this works! I’m no Obama, so let’s say I make it when I’m in my fifties. I’m inaugurated and give a moving speech of national reconciliation. They tell me how to use the nuclear “football” and read me in on all the secrets. I get to see the frozen alien corpses. I bring peace to the Middle East; guide the nation though transition to renewable energy; save the whales, the bees and whatever your favorite threatened animal is. I find homes for all the abandoned kittens of the world. I win the Nobel Peace Prize and the Nobel Kitten Prize, which is not a thing, but should be. I donate the honoraria to a charity that makes little prosthetic legs for landmine-sniffing rats that have had unfortunate accidents. Not once do I host the Kansas City Chiefs at the White House. I am a saint.
Two terms come and go. It is time for my final State of the Union address. Before a joint session of Congress and televised live to a national audience, with my adoring family and invited guests—authors, actors, statesmen—gazing on from the VIP box, I stride to the podium. I gaze across the crowd, and toward the camera, into the eyes of a grateful nation. In my most sonorous and comforting baritone, I deliver my message:
“My fellow Americans, members of Congress, honored guests. Today I stand before you, at the twilight of my career, to say just one thing.”
I pause dramatically and everyone leans in. Whatever is coming next is huge…
“Eddy McNair is a total dick. Fuck you, McNair! You know what you did.”
I tear open my suit jacket to reveal my “Ed McNair is a Total Dick!” T-shirt. Then I raise two middle fingers to the camera, and several huge “Eddy McNair is a dick!” banners drop from the rafters along with a cloud of a red, white and blue balloons. I Crip Walk2 off stage and all the way to the limo to the sounds of a John Philip Sousa march because that is how we roll now.
If this all worked flawlessly, I’d still have accomplished only one percent of what Kendrick Lamar pulled off on Superbowl Sunday a week ago.
