City Council to law-abid ing people of this city: Go to hell.
In a move that reeks of two-fisted police-bashing, the council today is poised to rename a street in Queens after Sean Bell. The man who, after a night of drunken carousing at a seedy strip club patronized by diseased hookers and low-rent junkies, rammed his car into a detective’s legs, then died in a hail of police bullets.
Now, Bell’s memory is being sanitized.
He is to join the rarefied ranks of leaders, humanitarians and sportsmen whose names grace the avenues and thoroughfares of this city. Martin Luther King Jr. has a Harlem boulevard bearing his name. Mother Teresa an avenue in The Bronx. Police Officer Russel Timoshenko, killed as he tried to apprehend a murderous thug, never lived to see his promotion to detective. But I like to think he knows we appreciate his sacrifice by naming a street for him.
Meanwhile, the three detectives involved in Bell’s shooting, all of whom were cleared of crimes by a court of law, all of whom had reason to believe they were about to be killed if they did not shoot first, are defamed. They’ve been declared no better than mutts by the bozos you elect to represent you in the wasteland known as the City Council.
A curious document was dropped on my desk. It’s the council’s proposal for “Sean Bell Way” — a stretch of Liverpool Street near the now-shuttered den of depravity called Club Kalua, in whose parking lot Bell died.
Bell’s accomplishments, as set forth by the council, are slim.
“Sean Bell discovered at the age of six that he was passionate about baseball,” reads the proposal au- thored by Councilmen Leroy Comrie and Thomas White Jr.
At John Adams HS, “he led his team to the NYC High School Championships played at Yankee Stadium.” A brief stint at junior college, and that’s the end of Bell’s greatest hits. “He put his baseball career on hold to support his family,” the document concludes. But there is a curious gap in Bell’s résumé between community college and the day he died, five years later, at 23.
The council clearly doesn’t care one whit about Bell. This bill goes on at length, listing 19 police “reforms” enacted in the wake of his death, such as requiring cops to take Breathalyzer tests after they shoot. This, claims the council, is Bell’s true legacy.
And this is the council’s true motive: To needle and defame the police.
Don’t get detectives-union President Michael Palladino started.
“His claim to fame is that he got too intoxicated and got behind the wheel of a car, struck a police detective, tried to run down others, and lost his life as a result,” Palladino said. “Sean Bell had a criminal record that showed us he was mixed up in the drug business in Jamaica, Queens. Why doesn’t the council call this what it is?”
Palladino said a council-enacted “fantasy” has grown up around Bell. “Like that he was going to play for the Dodgers. The closest he ever got to playing for the Dodgers was buying a Dodger jersey in Modell’s.”
The Rev. Al Sharpton, not one to pass up a microphone, staged a vigil with Bell’s relatives and Working Families Party candidate and city comptroller-elect John Liu over the weekend.
I’m not sure who should be more insulted by the mouth-breathing City Council: the cops whom they shamed, or the families and friends of the fine men and women who’ve been chosen for the honor alongside Bell.
Sugar Ray Robinson, the great boxer and an inspiration to youngsters of color, is to have a street named for him. Also, Detective Rudolph Vinston, the housing cop who provided food and clothing to needy residents of The Bronx.
So what does putting Bell in this company tell kids? That playing tough with police in the middle of the night is a fine way to live. That all cops are wrong, justice system be damned.
Mayor Bloomberg now may have to take a stand and veto this bill.
Fat chance.
THIN LINE BETWEEN FAT, HATE
I WISH you kids would just get along.
First, city government grossed us into anorexia nervosa with an ad depicting a fat-drinking slob risking obesity from calorie-laden sodas. Now, the National Organization for Women is demanding that chicks get a little meat on their bones.
NOW women picketed the high-end Ralph Lauren flagship store on Madison Avenue yesterday. They don’t like pictures of impossibly waif-like, stick-figure models that Ralph is Photoshopping and passing off as real to its chronically rich clientele. They demand that the government require disclaimers to be posted so that fat chicks won’t feel inadequate by comparison.
They also don’t like that the schmatta purveyor fired a 5-foot-10, 120-pound model for reasons of obesity. We all should be so fat.
I just hope the flab-hating nannies and the thin-despising NOW dames don’t cross paths. Anyway, it was a good day for picking up something special for Christmas.
Senator’s a Schuvinist
The one adjective I’ve not seen attached to the name of Sen. Charles “Bitch” Schumer — aside from “jerk” and “arrogant moron” — is this: “sexist.”
The self-loving senator from New York leveled a “B” bomb against a US Airways shuttle flight attendant who asked Schumer to get off his cellphone, causing Chuck to pout, argue and curse.
I doubt Schumer would call a male attendant a “bitch,” especially loud enough for others to overhear and, he presumed, laugh in agreement. His wife should clock him. His daughters should shame him.
Sexist hypocrite.
Oh, what a feline
A word about dead cats.
Notorious cat slayer Joseph Petcka served the homeless and sang for the mentally challenged as penalty for throttling his girlfriend’s furry friend. This, despite the justice system’s zealous attempts to torture and jail him. He copped to a misdemeanor instead. The long national nightmare is over at last.
RIP, Norman. And I don’t hate cats.
Especially deep fried. (Kidding! I only do broiled.)
Hey, Elin: Go for a Tiger grand $lam
A word to Elin soon-not-to-be-Woods: Take that husband for every penny he’s worth. Then, turn the Tiger over and shake out his pockets for loose change.
I’m sick of women who behave like poor wittle doormats in the face of chronic philandering by unfit spouses. Hillary Clinton. Silda Spitzer. Elizabeth Edwards. Regina Lasko Letterman. They make me want to grab a golf club.
It’s refreshing to see that Elin Nordegren didn’t get mad when confronted with evidence that Tiger Woods signed their marriage contract with invisible ink. She picked up a wedge. She didn’t cry to Oprah or Barbara. She got even. Elin is taking the kids before they’re old enough to get infected with their father’s diseased excuses.
Make the scoundrel pay your cab fare.