Foreword: So apparently John Rocker’s book came out over a year ago, but somehow I just caught wind of it a month or so ago, so fuck you all up front on that account. There is nothing so timeless as a great truth, well told. And Scars and Strikes is also a thing. As a tribute, I present the following homage to Rocker’s opus as the very first installment in my new, not-very-ongoing or particularly-well named series: Sports and Probably Other Stuff Reviews For Grown Ups But That Are Written For Kids And That Rhyme Like Kids Poems Which Is How You Know They’re For Kids Even Though The Subject Matters Are Inappropriate For Kids But That’s What Makes It So Ironic.

The Ballad of John The Rocker

Welcome to America, 2025.
Please put your bar code in the slot, your cash stick in the drive.
As you make your way inside, instructions will be played.
Please listen close for where to go so no one is delayed

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*BZZZZZZZZT*

Hello, theater patrons, thanks for coming to the show!
Please turn the volume on your glasses down to “off” or “low”.
Junkie dykes and Jew-ocrats go right up to the suites,
triple-titted welfare midget women get front seats.
Mexi-queers and Musliphiles, enjoy your free champagne,
Honky, dipshit, straight, white men must stand out in the rain.

The lights are coming down now, and we’re ready to begin.
Thank you once again from us at Bin Laden Drive-in.

*BZZZZZZZZT*
*BLOOP*
*BLEEEEEEEEEEEP*

Once upon an ancient time, before the world was one,
new order overseen by Queen Malia Jong-un,

There was a land.

A land where pasty savages roamed free on every street,
in tribes that tried to trick our kind with all kinds of deceit.
And in one of those tribes …

There was a man.

His name was John The Rocker, and it was a well-earned name.
He hurled his rocks so hard at men it hurtled him to fame.
His tribe would traipse from town to town, and when they’d find a fight,
He threw those rocks so hard the other tribes would run in fright!

Rock 1!
Rock 2!
Rock 3!

“Get out!
Go back from where you came!
This land is ours, the Braves in white,
The Rocker is my name!”

But what The Rocker didn’t know,
for what he hadn’t planned,
was to the north, beyond the hills,
A storm rolled towards his land …

In a modern day Sodóm,
in a basement ‘neath his mom,
carving sixes in his palm,
lived The Pearl Man, plotting calm:

“Wellsy, wellsy, Wells is dead …
Bonds popped for ballooning head …
Clemens clipped for clinic meds …
Now who else can I smear instead?”

When suddenly to him it came –
that feared, revered and peerless name,
whose sheer endearing fearless game
was cheered through every town he came …

“The Rocker”, sneered this king of shame,
“The Rocker is the biggest game.”

And so he plotted night and day,
the perfect plot to fight and slay
this Herculean hurler – NAY! –
all of the American way.

He knew what he’d get him to say.

“I’ll lure The Rocker underground,
and trap him in the tube!
Besiege him there with Babel’s hordes,
the poor, dumb, trusting rube!”

“Then pepper him with questions while they pester him in tongues!
‘Til he’s begging me for mercy while the stench seeps in his lungs!
And I’ll offer him a lifeline, one last question for the day:
‘Are you saying you’d prefer it if they all just went away?’”

“'Heck yeah’, he’ll say, in his dumb way,
‘I cain’t herr myse’f think!'

And then it’s done, the game is won –
‘Heck yeah’ is all I’ll ink.”

The trap was laid, the plans were made,
the unsuspecting giant bade
to hasten forth, north, undelayed
for what he thought was his parade.

… without his rocks or Brave brigade.

Soon as crossing Sodóm’s gate,
The Rocker knew it was too late.
As hordes swarmed forth, he took the bait.
The Pearl Man’s plan had sealed his fate.

“¿Que pasa, gringo? ¡Chingate!”
“I’m sorry, I can’t understand what you say.”

“¡Oye, este cabron no entiende!”
“I’d love to, sir, with you chat another day,
but respectfully must ask you please go away.
So my full attention, right now, I can pay,
to this interview I’m conducting today.”

“GO AWAY!”
Screamed the headline the very next day,
and from it spun pundits inveighing away:

“Does Rocker hate you if you’re black, Jew or gay?”
“Are his 3-strikeout innings code for KKK?”
“Are his parents embarrassed he turned out this way?”

(Feeding on bleeding, the media’s way.)

And that was the moment that changed the whole game.
Lib lawyers, like locusts, with lawsuits then came,
decreeing all heathens be treated the same,
regardless if cardless through tunnels they came,
or how many hyphens they have in their name.

[Flippety-flippety-flippety-fllllllllleeeeel]

Shit, the whole filmstrip just snapped on the reel!
Does anyone here have some splice tape to seal …
Aw hell, never mind, you know the rest of the deal:

Rocker was exiled and labeled a traitor,
and just to be safe, “being white” outlawed later.
Christmas replaced by the “Mid-winter Seder”,
as society sunk like a snapped elevator.

The Pearl Man moved up to graveyard masturbator.

So that’s the end of tonight’s show.
Please check your seats before you go.
And forever remember the debt we all owe,
to The Pearl Man for the world we all know.

A world where all are free to be
whatever non-white males they’d be.
To tear down all hegemony,
while lazing ‘neath the welfare tree,
and asking goats to marry thee.

As long as you should never ask,
The outlawed question ne’er to be,
Dredged up from our shameful past:

W.W.J.R.D.?

Note: This account of events assumes Rocker's take on how things unfolded is the capital-B Bible truth. To check out the full, free excerpt on which this retelling was based, click your fucking mouse here. And to make an indirect donation to the Westboro, KS chapter of the NRA, click your dipshit cursor right the fuck here or, if you wanna be a fucking screw about it, here.