Once upon a time (Monday night), as I was quietly munching on broccoli lasagna, a 66-year-old man in a town that is seriously called Black Earth, Wisconsin, was sitting on his couch watching “Dancing with the Stars” with his wife. Suddenly, when Bristol Palin entered the screen to perform a Viennese Waltz to the Passion of the Christ theme song, the man got really, really, balls-crazy pissed about her poor dancing skills, and this happened:
“Cowan jumped up and swore as Bristol Palin appeared, saying something about ‘the (expletive) politics.’ Cowan was upset that a political figure’s daughter was on the show when he didn’t think she was a good dancer, the complaint states.
Cowan went upstairs for about 20 minutes and returned, demanding his pistols, which had been taken by his daughter about a month ago for safety reasons. He was carrying a single-shot shotgun, which he loaded and fired into the television.
Cowan continued to yell, demanding his pistols. He re-loaded the shotgun and pointed it toward his wife. She left the house and drove to Black Earth, where she called 911. She told police she was afraid for her safety.
Cowan kept sheriff’s deputies at bay outside his home until 11 a.m. Tuesday, when he surrendered without incident.”
I’m sorry, did you say WITHOUT INCIDENT? The man (whom I will be referring to as “Lover” from here on out) put a bullet in his telly and held himself hostage for FIFTEEN HOURS over Bristol Palin’s dance routine. Sounds like a pretty goddamn remarkable incident to me.
How angry do you have to be to actually get out of your chair, walk up the stairs, load your pistol, walk it back down the stairs, and fire a bullet into your TV? Sometimes when I’m watching really bad reality shows, I can’t even drum up the motivation to get up and pee. Lover was obviously really, veins-popping-out-of-his-forehead upset over this!
As a reporter by trade, I’ve really had to fight the urge not to track him down myself for an interview, or at least call the police department for comment. I should definitely refrain from doing that, but just in case the opportunity presents itself (ahem), I’ve jotted down a few follow-up questions I’d like to ask him:
1. How was your weekend, Lover?
2. What did you think of Jennifer Grey’s Cha Cha routine?
3. Were you as attracted to Patrick Swayze in the 80’s as I was, or is this getting too personal?
4. What would have had to happen on Dancing with the Stars for you to actually shoot your wife in the face, as you threatened? Would a really shitty tango by Dick Cheney’s daughter do the trick, or is there something about Bristol in particular that ruffles your feathers?
5. Boxers or briefs? Do you wax your back?
Sigh. Honestly, I didn’t think there was a man in this country who could possibly be as passionate about “Dancing with the Stars” as I am, and now that I know he exists, I’ll never be the same.