Maybe you had to be a child of the 1970s to “get” Evel Knievel.
(UPDATE — Or not?)
(Let’s face it: I still don’t “get” Al Jolson. But remain open to assistance…)
It was the last decade someone like Knievel could have emerged in America — and only there, of course.
(Canada’s version was, well, Canadian…)
Picture the kryptonite effect that Knievel must have on today’s epic beta male faggots and their cunty counterparts:
No helmet. No Harvard degree. Using lots and lots of evil gasoline. Risking (and accomplishing) great physical injury. Possibly inspiring idiots to do the same. (Think of the children!! If it only saves one life!!!) Devoting his life to amusing the tacky masses with their “idiot boxes.” Making way too much money by doing something utterly useless and irresponsible, and not even doing it particularly well, but marketing your own epic failures brilliantly.
That’s actually the only thing I can imagine today’s “unmanned drones” (as I like to call “male” liberals) liking about Knievel: That, in a sense, he was a loser — like I said, his overly ambitious stunts rarely succeeded.
If only peanuts had somehow been involved, he’d be considered Hitler right now.
But peanuts were involved, sort of:
How cosmically apt that Knievel emerged during the Jimmy “Put on a Sweater” Carter administration. Fuck gas shortages. Fuck pollution. Fuck sober post-Watergate introspection and humility.
The bring-down of having Carter inside the White House during the Bicentennial (don’t you wish it had been Reagan?) was almost singlehandedly counterbalanced by Knievel’s garish red-white-and-blue ever-presence outside it.
