Give me a freakin' break!

I've tried—really hard—for a week now to remain silent on New Orleans. My goal is to create a blog exclusively about biking, and maybe make it interesting enough that some people will start coming back to it. It's not about news or politics. (Though I will always reserve the right to take a well-deserved shot at Dubya from time to time.)

But when I read this story this morning, I finally lost it. Some little boy had his doggie taken away from him by some big, mean man in a military uniform who was saving the kid's ass. That bastard wouldn't even leave people behind to make more room on the aircraft for pooches. The poor little tyke even cried until he vomited. Now, people moved by his story are sending him money. People are rallying to find the dog and reunite him with the kid ... if anyone can find him in one of the refugee camps that have sprung up in the wake of the flooding.

Great way to focus your energy, folks. Let's forget all those dead bodies floating around in the pungent gumbo that used to be New Orleans. Let's forget that so many people chose to behave like animals, raping and slaughtering their neighbors who were simply trying to survive. Let's forget that people need clothes, food, medical care and shelter. Let's forget that entire families lost everything they owned—and their jobs—and that their long-term future is a huge question mark. Let's forget that some kids lost parents. Some kids lost brothers and sisters. No, those things aren't important. What really matters is that we find this little furball and do whatever it takes to return it to this kid.

Because what really matters to the average American is the right to feel all warm and fuzzy as they sit on their ever-widening butts, petting chubby, unemployed dogs and remaining blissfully ignorant of their fucked-up priorities while watching other people suffer on TV.