Given the recent NCAA ruling regarding Native
American-themed sports mascots, it was time to call in the big
guns, the committee of the highest rank: Yanks Avatar, Knuckles
Kloof, Tom “Snorts” Sullivan, and Sam
“Frog” O’Malley, Illini fans for 40 years each. Knights of
truth and reason. Social scholars. Enlightened four. Sportsmen
sensitive. Giant but gentle men. Time to tackle the big one!
Time to decide the fate of Chief Illiniwek.
Four masters of logic will work long hours this celebrated day.
Recognized community standards are key to this most important
resolution: no stereotyping tolerated, all will be civil, all
concerns will be heard and respected; a convention of point-and-counterpoint
will guide the delicate proceedings.
Hardcore honesty starts the agenda. Our four
Illini fans admit that they have ducked the issue, stayed too long
on the sideline, avoided the question, let it slide, let it fester,
done nothing. No more! Time to give back to the community. Time to
step up! Time to settle the question, even if two (who shall go
unnamed here for security reasons) of the four are fans of the
Illini only in basketball — in football they favor another.
“Notre Dame has a leprechaun mascot, a
green dwarf!” noted one of the unnamed half-traitors. “It don’t bother us
any.”
Counterpoint: All
Irish are drunks.
Point: What
about the Florida State Seminoles, who are going to court to fight
the NCAA dictate? The Washington Redskins? The Atlanta Braves? The
Cleveland Indians?
Counterpoint: Gentlemen!
Gentlemen! We must not generalize here — for example, we
can’t assume that “all” Seminoles approve of
Florida State’s using a Native American mascot, and besides,
all Seminoles are drunks, swamp-squatter welfare drunks, too drunk
to approve or disapprove anything. And all people in Washington are
government bureaucrat slacker drunks. And all people in Atlanta are
hillbilly marry-their-cousin moonshiner drunks. And all people in
Cleveland are unemployed Rust Belt bum street-beggar drunks. None
of any of ’em cares ’bout anything but the next bottle.
Point: Could
be the chop.
Counterpoint: The
chop? What the hell ya talking about?
Point:
Seminoles, Redskins, Braves, Indians — they all use the
“tomahawk chop” to represent chopping up foes.
You’ve seen it, fans in heat, all wild-bending forearms,
doin’ the tomahawk chop, butchering everything and everybody
in sight — makes the respective Indian group proud.
All Chief Illiniwek does is dance — no
killin’ at all. All is evident now; even simple logic tells
us that the only possible reason the Illini Indians are offended is
because the Chief’s dance makes ’em look like fop
sissy-boys, dance-prancin’ all over the joint with painted
made-up mugs. The Chief couldn’t whup up on a Canadian figure
skater, much less a real man.
Solution: Have
the Chief cut someone to pieces, shoot arrows in eyes, skin a few
folks, burn somebody alive, cut off a head, and mount it on a high
pike, and you got yourself happy fans and a mighty proud Tribe
Illini. Plus, it’s educational for the schoolkids,
historically accurate as to the Indians’ torturing the settlers all the
time.
Counterpoint: Won’t
do. Not enough. Chief Illiniwek has been sissy-dancin’ for 50
years — we owe it those we’ve offended for so long to
do something extra-special to make up for our years of disrespect.
Point: Have
the Chief kill a guy dressed up as George Armstrong Custer.
Unfortunately, he won’t be able to chop him up ’cause
the chop is already taken.
Counterpoint:
Custer was an Army officer; you disrespected the Native Americans
for 50 years — now you want to disrespect the United States Army,
you America hating potato-breath Irish terrorist
dog? The Irish always were terrorists,
always will be; first the British, now us.
Point: How about
a George Armstrong Custard?
Counterpoint: You
want Chief Illiniwek to tomahawk-chop a custard?
Point: Pay
attention here, you German jackbootin’ Nazi freak! Listen up!
I told ya twice now, the chop is already taken, and we need
somethin’ more vicious than a chop anyway — we gotta be
tougher, meaner than those other Indian mascots.
Counterpoint: How about we cook it alive?
Point: I
like it. No stereotypes anywhere, and it works on so many levels.
It’s educational — everyone hates custards anyway
’cause the French invented ’em and real Americans eat
pie! And Illini Nation-Tribe people are happy ’cause we
remove the fop-prance.
Counterpoint: It’s
settled, then; the Chief stays, but instead of a sissy-prance
dance, he comes out at halftime and bakes a custard.
Point: None.
This article appears in Aug 18-24, 2005.
