As the Golden Moutza of April approached, I’d hoped we’d be saved by an indicted politician, weeping at his arraignment, blaming it all on a Viagra addiction.
Or some Florida man, naked and high on crack, showing up in an alligator’s mouth.
But this was not to be. The moutza nominations were all about the coronavirus. And feelings about coronavirus feelings. The American culture now prizes feelings — and the elimination of all human death by federal order — more than anything.
That would make liver sausage sandwiches the third best thing in the world.
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What surprised me about a recent coronavirus liver sausage column I wrote were the scores of women telling me they just love liver sausage sandwiches. All except my wife.
“I hate to do it, but I nominate that lovely Sicilian you are married to,” said Bob Evans. “She moved you to a Hobbit hole across from the picturesque windmill, and now she’s raising a stink about you enjoying a liver sausage and raw onion sandwich. That goes way too far in my book.”
You dare bring my wife into this? I’m not some passive-aggressive billionaire Gov. Commodius Maximus of a failed state seeking federal pension bailouts.
I can’t send Betty to our fancy vacation home, because we don’t own a fancy vacation home. Betty did leave the Shire and took the pony cart to the Hobbit store and picked up a pound of liver sausage. And, she made me a great sanguich.
Nah! and Nah! to you, Bob.
How does this work? Readers find me on social media and make their nominations, as did my Greek ancestors, with their open palm extended at their targets, and a lusty “Nah!” (here) or “Feesah etho” (blow on it).
“I have a nomination for the GMOTM,” said Kathy Patrician. “The coronavirus itself. Perhaps not too original but this thing is just so arrrggghh. So, to CV, a hearty Nah!”
Kathy, allow me to consult the sacred Moutzatution, which states: 1) No president may win the award dating back to Barack Obama, because the Golden Moutza would become a partisan hate fest like Twitter; and 2) that the winner must be able to feel shame.
“I nominate the scientists at Lysol for their failure to seize a fantastic opportunity and let a good coronavirus crisis go to waste,” said Rich Escallier. “They should have grabbed their microscopes and immediately begun working on an amazingly effective injectable version of their tremendous product. Nah! Feesah Etho and take a deeply laborical (is that even a word?) breath. Get to work!”
Injectable Lysol? Ah, Rich, I see what you did there. Artfully done, my friend. Artfully done.
“You (Kass) are infatuated with yourself. You have extreme disdain for anyone who doesn’t see eye-to-eye with you,” writes Denise Howard. “And as far as your liver sausage is concerned — you’ve earned the ‘Golden Moutza’ of the year.”
Wait. You don’t like liver sausage?
“Isaiah Thomas NAH!,” said Rick McMahon of the former Detroit Piston. “For being a weasel and not owning up to his ridiculously poor sportsmanship.”
Thomas and his Pistons were crushed by Michael Jordan and the Chicago Bulls in the 1991 playoffs. The Pistons wouldn’t shake hands. In ESPN’s documentary series “The Last Dance,” Jordan smirked and called Thomas a “(bleep)hole.” Thomas later said Jordan was only the fourth-best player he ever faced.
Jordan the fourth best? C’mon, man. You’re from Chicago. Let your jealousy go, weasel. Nah!
Terry Poulos gave a big fat outza to Vice President Mike Pence.
“Pence all the way,” said Poulos. “Since Pence refused to wear a mask in a coronavirus hospital ward, let’s give him the Moutza Mask he richly earned. Nah!!”
One of my favorite officials, Chicago Mayor Lori Lightfoot, was honored with many nominations, but not for her dance on TikTok.
“My vote is for Mayor Lightfoot for the ‘Let them Eat Cake’ attitude after giving social distancing and stay-at-home orders and then deciding it was a good idea for her to get a haircut. ‘Because she’s on TV,’ she said,” said former Chicago police Cmdr. Bob Angone. “I mean Lightfoot, the April Moutza for you. Nah. Chicago leadership at its best.”
Reader David Mansfield nominated House Speaker Nancy Pelosi, aka Fancy Nancy, aka Nancy Antoinette, who did a bit on a late-night TV talk show bragging about her gourmet stash of ice cream, even as she horse-traded over much needed coronavirus relief.
“It’s gotta be Nancy Pelosi,” said Mansfield. “With her $12 a pint ice cream. I mean how insensitive and elite can you get? Nah!”
There were so many worthies. But there can only be just one. And I’m reminded of Kathy Patrician’s nomination of the coronavirus as winner of the moutza.
No, a virus cannot feel shame. But buried deep within the Moutzatution is a note written by the ancient Dr. Birx Fauciopoulos, saying the Golden Moutza can be used for therapeutic purposes.
What’s better? To curl up in a fetal position and live in terror of the deadly virus? Or stand like Americans once used to stand, and prudently demonstrate contempt from a distance.
I vote we stand. At least until we’re dead. Then it doesn’t matter.
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Coronavirus? You have no face to blush. No, don’t blow on it. Instead, eat it!
The Golden Moutza of April is all yours.
Nah!
Listen to “The Chicago Way” podcast with John Kass and Jeff Carlin — at www.wgnradio.com/category/wgn-plus/thechicagoway.
Twitter @John_Kass