In what is being called “quite a shocking news story”, OJ Simpson has supposedly inked a deal to write a book and participate in a television interview about the manner in which he hypothetically would have gone about murdering his wife and her friend. I have read many words to describe this deal, from “disgusting” to “outrageous”. For many people, this is Simpson’s way of finally confessing to the crime for which they consider him guilty. I, however, feel completely betrayed. When I was quite young, O.J. was handling some of his investments through the firm that my father worked for at the time. One day, my father happened to be sharing an elevator with the Heisman Trophy winner and decided to ask for an autograph on my behalf. One of O.J.’s handlers produced an 8×10 glossy photograph of O.J. running with a football. O.J. took a sharpie marker and asked my father what my name was. O.J. then signed the photo, To Kirk, Be Good. O.J. Simpson
All throughout my childhood, that autographed photo sat on my shelf next to a framed cocktail napkin signed by Roger Staubach and a piece of paper signed by some other guy. I was most familiar with O.J. from his rousing performances in the Naked Gun movie trilogy and was thus a huge fan of his. Every morning I would look at that picture and remember that O.J. Simpson had once implored me through medium of permanent ink on photo paper to be good. That autographed photograph had always been somewhat of a guiding light for me. Even when all other messages in my life told me to be ungood, there was O.J. looking down on me while carrying this football and wearing his helmet, as if to say, “where do you think you’re going?” I had many opportunities to eat some cocaine or use a marijuana suppository; but I did not, because of O.J. helmeted gaze. When I was six, I stole a small rubber, manipulable Pokey the Horse figurine (that’s right, Pokey from the Gumby program; I was a huge fan at the time, so leave me alone…) from an Eckerd’s store while my mother was not looking. When I got home, I took the figurine to my room, and there was O.J. Simpson, looking at me. I could hear him in my head, saying, “Kirk, where did you get that? I don’t remember your mother purchasing such things for you in the past.” I relented and told O.J. everything. I threw the Pokey in the garbage and repented by saying O.J.’s full name, Orenthal James Simpson, fifty-two times. I then brought him some baked chicken and promised to never steal again. When I was twelve, I seriously considered running away to join a band of traveling cockfighting promoters. As I was packing my bags, I glanced at O.J. I felt his helmeted countenance glaring at me, as if to say, “You know, cockfighting is illegal in 32 states, and cockfighting promotion is not nearly as glamorous or lucrative as the television would have you believe.” In the end, I relented and stayed in school.
When his wife and her friend were found killed, it sent shock waves through all the news organization. The year was 1994 and the Houston Rockets basketball squadron was in the midst of a playoff run that would eventually lead to the first of their two World Championships. I was watching an NBA finals game between the Houston Rockets and the New York Knickerbockers. Suddenly, the screen was split into two boxes. On the left, a white Bronco was traveling and low speeds while being pursued by police automobiles; on the other side, the basketball game continued unfazed by the antics in the left box. I can still remember Bob Costas crying so profusely that he vomited on live television. I was at home vomiting right along with him.
Emotionally, I was quite distraught. I had based my entire life on the O.J.’s command to be good, and now here he stood, accused of murder. Murder is really not good. It was a confusing time for me. During the day at school, I thought about committing heinous acts, such as putting Ajax in the electronic restroom hand dryer or bringing pornography to the school and selling it to the 8th grade pervert, but some kids from the cool group beat me to the punch on those fronts. I was able to control my urges to do ungood by remembering that O.J. was innocent until proven guilty. Millions watched the actual trial. Most of the trial took place after I began high school, and the O.J Simpson trial was banned from being discussed in my high school due to fears that our racially diverse campus would become divided. I was not too worried about that because I had seen the episode of Urkel where someone painted the n-word in Laura Winslow’s locker. Things at that high school were tense for a while; but then the school had some sort of information session, Urkel did some stuff, and everything turned out okay.
I would read a summary of the trial happenings every day after lacrosse practice. As the months passed, I grew increasingly confident. Obviously, evidence was planted and that police officer used the n-word. It became clear to me that the person on whose ambiguous, written command I had based my personal ethics was not guilty of a crime. Instead, he was a victim. The O.J. Simpson trial ended up being, in a way, a gift to the American people. Before the trial, there was no Greta Van Susteren, now she is a cable news staple. We were also given the gift of Court TV and Jay Leno’s Judge Lance Ito Asian Dancing Squad. America owes a debt of gratitude to this trial for a good portion of today’s cable news entertainment. On a more personal level, the trial delivered the gift of legally sanctioned innocence to O.J. and, consequently, it delivered personal salvation to me, vindicating my personal system of O.J inspired ethics.
On the day of the verdict, my high school campus was on information lock down to avoid any problems. I heard rumors of various verdicts such as guilty and innocent. One person told me that as the verdict was about to be read, O.J. spontaneously combusted, leaving this earth as he arrived, in a ball of flames. When I got to my mother’s car, she told me he had been found innocent, and I felt a sense of personal relief that was unrivaled. It was like passing a kidney stone.
Now, with O.J. releasing what could be termed an admission of guilt, I do not know where to turn. All of those years of following his edict to be good, I may have been following the word of a man who has committed a significant amount of ungood. Maybe I should be questioning everything about my personal code of behavior. Should I have kept that Pokey the Horse figurine? Should I have also taken a Gumby? Should I have taken 37 Pokey figurines? Yesterday, I would have thought I knew the answer to those questions. Today I am not too sure. I know I will survive this crisis of faith, but I am not sure what direction my life will take in the future. My Roger Staubach cocktail napkin autograph does me little good, since “hello” is not really a command. It has become increasingly difficult in this day an age to model one’s life on the vague doodles of celebrities. I thought maybe Britney and K-Fed had something going, but it turned out to be all smoke and mirrors. Even the smoke and mirrors of Siegfried and Roy were shattered by that tiger aggressively assisting Roy off the stage. Wesley Snipes is hiding from the law in Namibia, and Paris Hilton…well pretty much her entire life is an abomination. I wish Marlon Brando were still alive; he could tell me what to do.
I am sure I will recover from this, but in the meantime, I will just immerse myself in mathematics. If you sympathize with my situation, please feel free to send me money via Paypal. By O.J.’s raincoat, I promise I will pull through this awful time.