But where's Saint BROOOOOOSE?

Have you been wondering where Mr. American Conscience has been lately? The reincarnation of Tom Joad? The man who would be Woody Guthrie?

Ta da!

The symbol of the Working Man was not singing with Geldorf. He wasn't arm and arm with his black brothers marching somewhere because a crazy black kid got shot. He...he...

Hee hee hee, ha ha ho ho...he was doing something else for a worthy cause. He was SINGING somewhere. And for hunger. Remember hunger?? Harry Chapin's dead, so Brooooose can now be Mr. World Hunger. Dylan and Neil Young are too senile to know when they should show up for another Farm Aid if there is one. So Broooooose has the field to himself. Just where he sang, I didn't bother to check. The photo is enough. Knowing Broooooose is on the case...that makes us ALL feel so good.

He's a good man, isn't he? He and his shower-buddy, ugly big-nosed rag-headed Little Steven, shared a microphone and swapped spit as they ranted "Born in the USA!"

Wow, impressive. Farmers every day go out in the field and toil. Wetback spics are still picking lettuce. There are still plantations down South where the nigger is gathering nuts or beans or whatever the fuck is grown. Upstate New York whiteys need plenty of moisturizer as they brave the winds and suck sap from a maple tree or check out the hen house for organic "free-range" eggs or go check apple trees.

But, wow, Brooooose weathered Little Steven's bad breath for two hours, and the two of them bravely SANG. Look at that picture. They are HEROES. Fuckin' HEROES. Firemen don't look as heroic when putting out a blaze in a fucking Newark tenement.

I'll bet once in a while, Broooooose will stop the limo, roll down the window, and throw a bag of Fritos to a Puerto Rican. He'd drive off and wouldn't even wait for a "Gracias."

He's THE BOSS.