It was one of those perfect fall evenings; the shadows stretching themselves out in the departing sun. The maples still plump with greenery; crickets at rock concert volume while here a bat, there a bat divebombed some inattentive hopper.
At the edge of the meadow stood a solitary cow, heading humbly down, sipping ever so gently from an eddy that had weathered the savagery of summer’s drought. God leaned back in his easy chair, smiling at the perfection of his artistry. When suddenly, with the fury and insolence of a locust swarm, four young boys sprang through the hedgerow, raced directly at the cow and pushed her over.
Why? Because this was an activity they called “cow tipping”. In their rural hamlet with no movie theater, bowling alley, or mall to entertain them, this they found amusing. Perhaps they were unaware of the critical, even fatal, state this poor bovine would experience. Perhaps cheap pot and even cheaper wine got the better of their senses, Perhaps they were auditioning for the title of Village Idiot.
No matter, the sheer malevolence and idiocy of their actions would root itself in their personas. What would become of them when they got their driver’s license at the end of eighth grade? What barstool would they be relegated to until, at some stage of infirmity, someone tipped them over? What possible endeavor awaits a “cow tipper”?
Might I suggest a “statue tipper”. Yes, it seems a natural progression from the thoughtless tipping of a cow to the equally thoughtless toppling of a statue. Who will save Thomas Jefferson, George Washington, and Teddy Roosevelt? The momentum of stauary extraction has given cow tippers new life.
The removal of these sculptures raises some thus far unmentioned concerns of mine. For instance, once you tear them down, who gets them? They obviously retain some value and would make a grand embellishment to an English garden or backyard poolscape. Any chance of picking one up on-the-cheap at a flea market or garage sale?
Then there’s the question of what to do with all those empty pedestals. For them to sit unadorned and just serving as a meeting place for pigeons will never do. We must find acceptable honorees to replace them. It’s not that hard. For starters, I would suggest Mother Teresa. Or Whistler’s Mother. Or for that matter anyone’s mother. For the most part, mothers are a widely popular commodity. Who, outside of an asylum inmate, could object to Mother? Anyone from Aunt Bea to a soccer mom will suffice. We could even branch out to contemporary mommies like Madonna or supermodel Cindy Crawford. Now you have the advantage of statues with boobs. You really want to demolish that?
Queen Victoria comes to mind. So devoted to propriety and imperialism, she pretty much offended everyone equally so that at least no one group could claim insult. Besides the scrapeyards of London are teeming with discards of the Queen and could probably be picked up for a song.
Italian-Americans are a proud lot. They wear their heritage on their sleeve. Columbus, second only to DiMaggio in historical importance, is their chosen representative. I hate to see Columbus shipped off to oblivion but if he must go, I’d like to put into play Raffaele Esposito, a Neopolitan chef who in 1889 to honor the Queen consort of Italy, Margherita of Savoy, presented her with a dish garnished with tomatoes, mozzarella, and basil to represent the national colors of Italy. The first pizza!
Replacement is not the only option. It’s mentally taxing and financially burdensome. So rather than taking the structures down, why not simply replace the nameplates? Let’s face it, one bearded guy on a horse is the same as the next. Who can tell the difference between Stonewall Jackson and Colonel Sanders? Or Andrew Jackson and Ted Danson? Howard Taft or Kathy Bates? Al Sharpton or Mr. Potato Head? Change the names! Then as one protest goes out of fashion and another supplants it, we’ll change it again. And all for thje meager price of a tinsmith.
On the whole, statue tearer-downers are not a cerebral lot. More often than not, they’re simply people who find themselves with an excess of rope. They’ll tear down anything. So how involved would it be to outsmart them? Assuming they operate with the same IQ of a mallard, let’s take a page from the duck-hunter’s handbook. Use a decoy!
That’s the ticket! We’ll slyly set out decoy statues to distract and keep them busy while the real historical pieces maintain their relevance. And who is the most despised among the left-leaning extremist crowd? Why Donald Trump of course. So let’s produce hundreds, no – thousands, of Donald Trump statues and place them in close proximity to the real ones. Given his penchant for self-promotion, we could even get him to foot the bill.
A Trump stauary is like catnip to a statue tipper. Imagine: Trump teeing off. Trump high-fiving Putin. Fist-bumping Netanyahu. Patting Kim Jong Un on the head. Flipping the bird to everyone else. Trump in his underpants: “Tighty Whitey Donnie”. The possibilities are boundless and we can back them up by the score. No sooner would one Trump coiffure hit the pavement then another goes up ten yards away. Copper, tin, bronze, clay, styrofoam or paper mache’. Keep ’em comin’. Who would even have time to bother with Robert E. Lee?
At the end of the day, though, all this conjecture may be for naught and the statue killers will still carry on. How to stop them? I do not know. In the cowfield, it takes a farmer with a shotgun. Just sayin’.