Don't you just hate it when major events in the history of Western Civilization occur, and you're not watching TV to see them happen?

There I was, pounding the keys so I could get another full issue of The Wraith Project out on time. I was thinking of who might yet contribute something at the last moment, thus not only saving me from producing another 3M issue (Mostly Me and Mine, that is) but going somewhat catatonic for the extreme effort of producing such a self-serving obscenity, and seeing little ghosts in front of my eyes for the next week and a half as penance...

But little did I know that elsewhere, on the video screens of America, Janet Jackson was fulfilling the wishdreams of countless men by exposing... a breast!

(Well, sort of exposing a breast. As you can see from our Exclusive© Photo, the nipple was somewhat disguised.)

Apparently, this was too much for America. We are told there is "outrage" over this, because the television went too far during the dinner hour. We can't have that kind of stuff on TV then, even if kids should really be eating peas and carrots and enduring verbal abuse from concerned parents instead of being glued to the now-appropriately-named Boob Tube.

But, of course, I wonder if the outrage is because it was broadcast at all, or broadcast in front of the kids. Most straight American men probably have no problem with the idea of seeing one of Janet Jackson's boobs, or both of them. They'd probably like to see a lot more of her, too, if they're being totally honest with themselves; While that makeup and leather she was dolled up in isn't all that flattering, the lady is still a very beautiful woman (and damn can she sing).

And I suppose we could point out that - thanks to the glory of modern fashion - you can see more ass than a toilet seat just by parking your own hiney down around a college campus and watching the hip-huggers walk by. We should also point out that we're less than a month away from Mardis Gras, where you and your kids can see hooters galore out on the streets, right in front of you. And if you want to go a little further South, to the beaches of Florida, and wait about a month for Spring Break, you can see all the glorious, naked flesh your fat-choked heart can handle.

You might not ever have a snowball's chance in hell of getting up close and personal with any of the owners of that flesh, of course. But if you're content to peep, and can adhere to the ethos of "look but don't touch," then you can't not but get down on your knees and thank Goddess for moderate weather, young women and our friends at Global Fashion Headquarters, who've been keeping us fat and balding guys entertained since... oh... the 60's. At least.

However, all that plain talk aside, we're brought back to what I think is the true and central question to all this brouhaha. Forget whether sex belongs on television, in our streets or without official government sanction - does sex really belong in football? Is our great, American game really the proper venue for televised tits and ass? Does it serve our culture to be bombarded by the sight of Janet Jackson's somewhat-covered hooters when we were just expecting another halftime show?

I would answer "Yes," and that's because football is violence.

It's highly ritualized violence, of course, and people only die if something goes horribly wrong. But at the core of all competitive, contact sports - where victory can only be achieved by out-muscling the other team - is the glorious and timeless kernel of whoop-ass. Our lizard brains may have been willing to be spanked into submission by the strictures of modern living, but while we might not be able to wander around going "Shit! Eat! Hump! Kill! (Repeat)" anymore, those impulses are still there.

I defy anyone to tell me that football is watched purely for the joy of camaraderie and sportsmanship. We're there to watch two groups of people smack the shit out of each other. It's violence. Do not deny it. Do not even try.

And while you can have sex without violence... what's violence without sex? What's the point of beating the other guy down if you don't get some nookie as a reward, however symbolic?

During the 70's, when I was a young kid, I grew up during they hey-day of the Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders. You couldn't go into an older brother's bedroom without seeing at least one huge, vaseline-lensed poster of these girls, all preening and pouting and posing with both sets of pom-poms, just for you. Kids watched the game because their fathers sat them down to have some "man time," but the best moments were always when the camera slid over to where those girls were shaking it for the fans.

So we've gone from 70's pornstar hair and miniskirts to Janet Jackson's somewhat disguised hooter in less than 30 years? Big deal. I'm wondering when the so-called "Cultural critics" that try to run my country from behind their word processors and two-person thinktanks realize how thinly disguised certain other things are, and rearrange their thinking accordingly. It's time we got to realize that if ritualized violence is a healthy pastime, then so is ritualized sex.

We may never, however, come to an agreement about who brings the beer to the inevitable party.