Doug Clark: Cowardly cluckers, count me in

Recent disturbing events have left me wondering …

What’s happened to gumption? What’s become of grit and guts? We’re all turning into big chickens, I tell ya.

Cluck!

Americans were once rugged individuals who hunted critters for meat and repaired their own farm equipment.

Sure, many of these proud pioneers wound up with bullet holes and missing limbs due to terrible mangling incidents. But now the country is awash with namby-pamby numskulls who want to take soda pop out of schools and insist that toys be painted with nontoxic paint.

Heck, I chewed on lots of lead-painted toys when I was a kid.

Didn’t hurp me nany.

Here’s the sort of nonsense I’m talking about.

•The other day a bunch of eco-wackos filed a petition with the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service to protect the area’s giant albino worms.

That’s ridiculous.

I’ve met both of our Republican Spokane County commissioners. And while they may be slippery and pea-brained (buying racetracks, etc.), I would hardly classify either one of these slithery nematodes as rare or endangered.

•Did you catch the latest lunacy from the soy-for-brains at PETA?

They’ve written a letter to Spokane Mayor Verner asking her to cease city fireworks displays because the animals don’t like the noise.

Apparently some drug-sniffing police dog named JJ became so apoplectic over recent fireworks that he broke out of his kennel and made a run for it.

I don’t get it. If a narc dog can’t take a little Fourth of July cacophony, what’ll he do when dope dealers start blasting away at each other?

Besides, how do we know fireworks are to blame? This is, after all, a Spokane police dog we’re talking about.

Maybe JJ just took off out of fear of being indicted.

•When it comes to the wimpification of America, I might be the biggest wimp of all.

You may recall from a recent column that I had been invited to take part in the punk rock Jim Rose Circus.

So last Thursday I drove to The Grail, a saloon between Post Falls and Coeur d’Alene.

Inside I met Rose, who told me in a disgusted tone that the stage was woefully minuscule compared with his usual venues.

He said that it could be dangerous for me to be on such a tiny platform during my part, which was to be a play-by-play announcer in the middle of a group of brawling, chair-tossing 300-pound wrestlers.

Rose said he couldn’t guarantee my safety.

Now I’d love to tell you how I stood my ground. I’d love to tell you how I said, “Dammit, Rose, I’m a performer. The freak show must GO ON!”

Instead, I shook Rose’s hand. I told him how swell it was to meet him.

Then, while Rose was barking orders at a roadie, I ducked out the front door and ran home like a frightened fowl.

Cluck!