Mike Adams

I’m a big supporter of Michael Vick. Not the old Michael Vick who used to play football. I’m talking about the new Michael Vick who’s getting railroaded by the man. You may think I’m being sarcastic but I’m not. Give me a few hundred more words to explain and I’ll make you a supporter of Michael Vick, too.

It all started a few nights ago when I had a dream. In the dream I was at a dog fight somewhere in the back woods of Georgia. I’d never been to a dog fight before and I couldn’t believe how brutal it was to see such a thing first hand. One dog started to overtake the other and eventually the other dog just collapsed lifeless there in front of me.

The worst part of it all was that the victor just kept on fighting even after the loser’s fate was sealed. His teeth were dripping with blood but he just kept on tearing at the fallen dog’s flesh. Before long I realized it was not going to be over until the loser had been torn limb from limb.

I just said that the worst part of it all was that the victor just kept on fighting even after the loser’s fate was sealed. But that isn’t true. The worst part of it all was that the crowd was going wild. There were lots of rednecks everywhere and I can say that because that is my heritage. But these were rednecks like I’d never seen before in Mississippi. These were Georgia Dog Fight-Watching Rednecks with crooked teeth. You could almost imagine them saying “Boy, you sure have pretty teeth” except that they were too busy saying “Rip the some-bitch limb from limb” and “yahoo” and other assorted Dog Fight-Watching comments.

I just sat there for awhile in silence. But then I decided to say something. I turned to the guy next to me and said, “Man, this is brutal. This is the most brutal thing I’ve ever seen.” He said, “Not me. I used to work in an abortion clinic.”

Right away I knew what he was talking about. And so did the only feminist who was there watching the dog fight. She must have been overcome by the moral repulsion brought on by her awareness of the contradiction. While dog-fighting was illegal for all, women everywhere enjoyed a constitutional right to abort their children. A dangerous message was being sent and, to her, the course of action was clear.

I also dreamed that before long there was an organized movement to make dog-fighting legal. The feminists were outside of courthouses wearing t-shirts and holding signs that said “Keep your laws off my doggie,” “My doggie, my choice,” and something I couldn’t understand about a case called “Rover v. Wade.”

But they didn’t stop there. In my dream, the feminists built coalitions. They called the Southern Poverty Law Center and talked about how most prosecutions for dog-fighting were of poor southerners. Pretty soon, a group called “Hicks for Vick” emerged.

And they played the race card, too. With all the cockfighting in rural Mexico, the feminists were able to convince the Hispanic organizations that they could be targeted, too. Because they were concerned about racism, they started a group called “Spics for Vick.” I didn’t think you could say “spic” anymore. But these people were mostly Mexicans so the rules that applied to me didn’t apply to them.

Before long the feminists had their way and dog-fighting, cock-fighting, and all kinds of fighting was made legal – not just legal but protected under the U.S. Constitution, too. And this kept people from asking really tough questions like “Which one do you care the most about - a pit bull or a human fetus?”

And then I woke up and the terrible moral inconsistency was staring me right in the face. But it had all just been a dream. I could shut my mouth about the dream, go on with my business, and say a few bad things about Michael Vick while lots of people were standing around. That would be enough to show them how much I care about doggies and what a good person I must really be.


Mike Adams

Mike Adams is a criminology professor at the University of North Carolina Wilmington and author of Letters to a Young Progressive: How To Avoid Wasting Your Life Protesting Things You Don't Understand.