In describing its portrait of a civilization in decline, Gibson said, "The precursors to a civilization that's going under are the same, time and time again," drawing parallels between the Mayan civilization on the brink of collapse and America's present situation. 'What's human sacrifice,' he asked, 'if not sending guys off to Iraq for no reason?'

Mel "Where's the Booze?" Gibson, as reported by Reuters

Boom, and there it is. Perhaps it hadn't occurred to Mel that the Mayan people had very important reasons for their sacrifices. I'm not here to say they worked, or that they were necessary, or that there are not better ways to appease the rain gods or the gods of war (it's not my place, frankly). Given today's societal and moral decline, I'm sure there are better ways than we are using today, too. But to publicly declare, in one sweeping gin-scented and definitive statement, that the Mayan people's rituals were performed for "no reason" only betrays the White arrogance, the conquistador's arrogance, the Spanish Church's arrogance, the PNAC arrogance—that anything which does not fit into the superior framework de mi cultura is senseless and primitive and devoid of its own value; only to be interpreted by our superior vantage point.

And that is my main problem with Mel "Puke in My Shoes" Gibson's taking on such a tale and giving it to the rest of the world. He ought to stick with redemption stories; for example here's one:

A boy is raised by a Nazi-loving, booze-schlepping Holocaust denier. Running from his demons, he drowns himself in alcohol and religion and an attempt to find love in the affection of the movie-going audiences around the world. The boy (let's call him "Shell") finds success in American cinema, but after a while, it becomes difficult for Shell to keep a lid on his internal chaos and pain and fear. This self-loathing, confused yearning for violence, redemption, and absolution manifests in a few confused movies that garner both blind, religious adoration and repulsed, secular revulsion. Shell also begins to crack, and spill his twisted rum-riddled guts on the floors of cop cars and the asphalt of major highways. His mug shot appears with more alacrity than the best-managed press releases, and the public begins to understand the hate-code that has informed his previously-lauded cinematic assaults on his fathers' reviled enemies.

The crux: Can Shell find clarity and stop working out his own therapy on the world stage? Or will his next film also (inadvertantly) continue the story of his own tragic spiritual trajectory?

I think it's a winner, Mel! And I won't even charge you for the plot, or ask for a percentage, or screenwriting credit. Just do me a favor after your next celebratory round and call a cab. After all, you do want to be around to hear that trumpet blow, no? It would be a shame to spend so much energy blasting a clarion call that you won't even be here to witness because you wrapped your addled B.A.C. around a tree trunk.