I live in Massachusetts, a state that's been showered with sports championships in the last few years. Super Bowl. World Series. There may have been some others, but I'm not a sports fan, so I can't be sure.
It's been fun, though. People wear "Champions" T-shirts, and everyone's happy about the victories, and I like living among happy people.
Then, in the off-season, Robert Kraft, owner of the New England Patriots, got himself cop-blocked when the forces of law and order observed, taped and investigated his favorite strip mall den of iniquity where he went to enjoy the temporary, partially willing, commercially available and reasonably priced service of women.
I don't pray often, but I pray the surveillance tape will never be made public. Watching fatback grossero Kraft get what he paid for is on my short list of nightmares — right up there with the one where I'm Donald Trump's spokesman and neck fat masseuse.
The women in Kraft's playhouse are alleged to have been slaves.
Slaves. You know slaves, as in, I wish I were in the land of cotton. Those kind of slaves. One of the things you can be sure of is that, as America fights its multicentury battle against slavery, we'll get around to freeing women of all colors. Maybe we'll eventually fight a war to free women, and then we'll build statues of the people who wanted to keep them as slaves.
Up here in not-the-land-of-cotton, those of us who really, really like the New England Patriots defend Kraft with the "plenty of guys do it," shtick, which, if true, makes you a little itchy about shaking the hands of guys you've never met before. I gotta go to a party next week, too. Maybe I'll wear gloves.
The presumption of innocence is a heavy thing, and it is what (or at least part of what) sends your neighborhood junkie flying lightly down the courthouse steps with some more probation in his pocket after he breaks into your car. You'll hate the presumption of innocence until your kid (the little rat) gets busted for drunk driving.
So, Kraft's innocent. That's what the law says. And who knows? He may have wandered into the wrong place two or three times. Everything in a strip mall looks like a dollar store, and he may just have been looking for some of that $1-a-bottle shampoo. Maybe he was just getting his neck fat massaged. You manage a football team; your neck fat gets tense
Hey, as long as the girls stand for the National Anthem, who's harmed?
Well, slaves are seldom happy, not with all the banjo music to the contrary.
And when you go light-footing it into your local strip mall momentary happiness factory, who do you think is working on you?
Do you think that the girl (woman) who rotates your tires leaves work, cashes out her tips, hops in her used but still spiffy-looking Honda, drives home to the suburbs, and helps little Ryan with his math homework?
Maybe you do believe that, in which case you haven't been around much. And God bless you if you haven't, because you can only learn not nice things in not nice places.
If there are two things I like about America, they are Kansas City-style barbecue and that we never really give up on slavery.
To find out more about Marc Munroe Dion, and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit www.creators.com. Dion's latest book, "The Land of Trumpin'," is a fluffy tiptoe through America's patriotic descent into fascism. It is available in paperback from Amazon.com, and for Nook, Kindle, iBooks and GooglePlay.