For those of you not in the know, Jack Thompson is a man-on-a-mission, a ragin’ crusader set to save us all from the Evils Of Video Game Violence and Ourselves, of course. Personally, I think he’s a flaming idiot, but that’s beside the point. The point is that he has apparently descended into some bizarre reaches of his subconscious and reveled a deep-seated need for some serious counseling.
Now, I can admire a man with a cause just as much as the next guy, but when your cause drives you to dream up stupendous death, murder and mayhem fantasies and then offer to pay other people to make those fantasies into a game, well, I just don’t know what to tell you. He’s obviously emitting so many Cuckootrons as to permanently peg my Crazometer and, while I generally find paranoid ramblings and delusions of grandeur funnier than a fart in a spacesuit, it does begin to worry me when said paranoiac posesses a law degree and shows no compunctions about using it.
Messr. Thompson apparently believes that we Americans are helpless automatons, incapable of discerning Right from Wrong, Reality from Fantasy. Apparently, my PlayStation2 is liable to unplug itself one night and crawl its way up the stairs to perch itself on my cranium and begin pumping me full of homicidal fantasies so sweeping in scope as to make Josef Stalin’s dead corpse blush and I’m helpless to do a single thing about it.
This man needs to be stopped, and soon. He’s dangerous as long as anyone actually listens to him (and powerful people apparently are listening to him and his intellectual brethren); he needs to join Fred Phelps on everyone’s List Of Certified Wackadoos To Ignore In Perpetuity. Maybe then Mr. Thompson, esq. can quit bothering people and return to his valuable crusades against decade-old rap “stars” and his priceless ad hominem attacks on various and sundry persons of fair-to-middlin’ repute.
That’s just my $.02.
