Tom Collins' World Wide Web Log

Netanyahu and Abbas Booked for 15 Rounds; Obama to Referee

tomcollins — Wed, 01 Sep 2010 22:57:17 +0000

Around ten o’clock this morning, I heard an intense flurry of highly-accented yelling coming from the reception area outside my office. Somebody was screaming obscenities at Gretchen, my blonde, blue-eyed twentysomething Pennsylvania Dutch private secretary. Line One rang.
“Mr. Collins,” Gretchen calmly informed me, “there’s a Mr. Makat Zayin from the Israeli Embassy here to see you.”
“Send him in right away,” I promptly directed.
“Yes, sir,” she crisply replied. “Do you have any… guidance?”
“Sure,” I confidently told her. “To him, the sight of someone like you is tantamount to waving a red flag in front of a bull. All he can think about is the Holocaust. Don’t take it personally.”
In a trice, Mr. Zayin was through my solid oak office doors and ensconced on the chair positioned directly in front of my desk. I was hardly surprised by that - sitting there indicates a confrontational personality, and I’ve never met an Zionist who didn’t have one of those. And, of course, I’ve never met an Israeli diplomat who wasn’t a Zionist, either.
“Why haven’t you gotten rid of that [expletive] yet?” Zayin indignantly demanded. “Didn’t I tell you to fire her? She’s got no respect! She’s stupid, too! Everybody knows blondes are unintelligent! Can’t you do any better than that?”
“Feh,” I lied, feigning a supercilious air and an indifferent shrug, “the little shiksa works really, really cheap; als, ish kabibble, nu?”
And with those magic words, Zayin stopped dead in his tracks. After a brief silence, he popped open his attaché case and pulled out an iPad. Closing the case, he placed it on top and began to employ it in a most furious and ostentatious manner.
“Okay,” he muttered, “let’s get started. “Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu is set to offer Palestinian National Authority President Mahmoud Abbas several goodwill gestures in exchange for Abbas’ approval of an Israeli renewal of construction activity in the West Bank.”
“So I read at http://news.xinhuanet.com earlier today,” I confirmed. I understand Prime Minister Netanyahu is talking about releasing some jailed Palestinians, making it easier to move commercial goods within the Palestinian National Authority and removing military checkpoints.”
“Yeah,” Zayin spat. “For the last twenty months, all we’ve heard from that schvoogie over there,” he growled, thrusting his chin toward the White House outside my office picture window, “is ‘mutual sacrifice with mutual understanding,’ ‘shared futures in the Middle East,’ ‘geopolitical imperatives for peace’ and other such [expletive]. Now he’s finally talked both of them into coming here to Washington for a [expletive] dinner party with him tonight, and tomorrow, they’re supposed to start negotiations again - for what, the tenth time?”
“Something like that,” I confirmed, “depending on how you count them.”
“And so,” he griped, “they send me down here to talk to you.”
“About what?” I gingerly inquired.
“About what else we can offer the Palestinians!” Zayin ruefully sighed. “That’s what I got. Did they put me on the negotiation team? No! Did they make me security liaison? No! Did they put me in charge of media relations? No! Did they assign me as military attaché? No!” With his left hand, he picked up his iPad, and with his right, he picked up his attaché case, which he held aloft, brandishing it at me vehemently. “I’ve got a [expletive] attaché case, God damn it! But do they make me an attaché? No! No, they don’t! What they do is, they send me down here to talk to Tom Collins!”
“Well,” I carefully cajoled, “that’s not so bad, is it?”
“Are you [expletive] kidding me?” Zayin slammed his attaché case back on his lap, angrily thumping his iPad back down on top of it. “It’s [expletive] hell! Now what the [expletive] have you got to say to that?”
“Um… how about falafel?”
“I’m not [expletive] hungry!” Zayin roared.
“No,” I clarified, “I meant, in order to make nice-nice to the Palestinians, you Israelis could give them credit for inventing falafel.”
“We [expletive] invented [expletive] falafel!” Zayin protested.
“Really?” I responded with just a note of incredulity. “I know you invented pastrami…”
“Yeah, yeah, sure,” he interrupted. “The Ashkenazim invented pastrami, corned beef and half-sour pickles. But the Sephardim invented falafel!”
“Out of the question, then?” I sought to confirm.
“No way,” Zayin declared, shaking his head with firm certainty. “We invented falafel, and we’re not going to let any Arabs take credit for it!”
“All right,” I continued, exploring another possibility, “how about you admit that their hummus is better?”
“What?” Zayin sat bolt upright, his eyes wide as saucers. “Arab hummus tastes like [expletive]! They put too much garlic in it! They skimp on the sesame tahini - you hardly even know it’s there! And the olive oil they use! Why the [expletive] don’t they just pour in some used motor oil instead?”
“Fair enough,” I pressed on, “no concessions on the cuisine front, then. But what do you think - couldn’t you promise to stop arresting them for dating Jewish women?”
“There are perfectly good reasons for that,” Zayin argued in a matter-of-fact tone, raising his left hand and ticking off his points on its fingers with his right, “Number One: those Arabs already have a bunch of wives and concubines at home; that’s plenty of women for them, and they sure as [expletive] don’t need to be sniffing around ours. Number Two: according to the Talmud, every child born to a Jewish woman is automatically Jewish, and we don’t want those Arabs mixing their DNA with ours. It’s the same problem you Americans have with anchor babies, terror babies, you name it. We don’t want that kind of thing happening in Israel, period. Number Three: not to put too fine a point on it, but Arabs are a bunch of [expletive] retards, okay? Look how many Jews have won Nobel Prizes, then look at how many Arabs - pardon me, but it’s a no-brainer, no pun intended, all right? Face the facts - this is the [expletive] space age; the age of the microchip and the Internet, all of which Jews invented, by the way. So who wants to breed their women with a race of morons that still live in tents and herd [expletive] goats, huh? Number Four: Israel is a Jewish state, and as such, should be a place where a Jewish man can get a date with a Jewish woman without fear of competition from sweet-talking Arabs, athletic Negroes, or goyishe shagitzes with high IQs and/or plenty of money of their own. Number Five: Arabs all have just about every possible venereal disease on the planet. I know, because my Aunt Naomi told me. And now, I’m all out of fingers; so forget it.”
“Well then,” I suggested, “could you perhaps offer to stop prosecuting non-violent Arab protesters in your military courts?”
Zayin looked at me as if I had suddenly sprouted an extra head. “You can’t be serious!”
“Why not?” I asked.
“Because,” he replied, with an obvious air of irritation, “there is absolutely no such thing as a non-violent Arab! It’s in their blood, I tell you!”
“Very well,” I conceded, “if that’s how you see the situation…”
“It’s not my point of view!” Zayin insisted. “It’s the [expletive] truth!”
“Let’s move on,” I recommended, “without addressing the veracity of that theory, and consider another possibility. Couldn’t you promise that, from now on, whenever a radical rabbi publicly beseeches… um… He Whose Name Cannot Be Mentioned… to bring down plagues on the Arabs, to destroy them with natural disasters, to strike them dead with bolts from Heaven - whatever - the Israeli government will denounce such behavior as depraved?”
“’Depraved?’” Zayin’s eyebrows shot up skeptically.
“How about ‘immoral,’ then?” I offered.
“’Immoral’?” Zayin sniffed. “What’s immoral about praying for the destruction of your enemies?”
“Evil?”
“No way it’s evil, not at all,” Zayin declared with an authoritative shake of his head.
“Deplorable?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Execrable?”
“Afraid not.”
“Reprehensible?”
Zayin leaned forward defiantly. “According to who?”
“Odious?” I proposed.
“Out of the question.”
“Vile?”
“Completely inappropriate.”
“Inappropriate?”
“Utterly incorrect.”
“Scurrilous?”
“Out of the question.”
“How about… impolite?”
Zayin stroked his chin in solemn contemplation. “Hmm… maybe… ah… no, we couldn’t say ‘impolite,’ either; not honestly, anyway.”
“Well,” I concluded, “how about this, then? Historically, every time a UN or EU official pleads for justice on the behalf of the Palestinians, the Israeli government routinely issues a press release denouncing that official as a dupe and the Palestinians as international criminals. You could promise to stop doing that.”
“Which one,” Zayin sneered, “the part where we tell the world the Palestinians are international criminals, or the part where we say that the UN or EU official who sympathized with them is a mindless, spineless, unprincipled dupe?”
“I was thinking…” I cautiously proposed, “um… both, actually.”
Zayin abruptly ceased taking notes on his iPad, opened his attaché case and tossed the iPad inside, slamming the case shut, loudly snapping the cover clasps, and making an elaborate show of twirling the combination locks on them, after which he stood up, stiffly extending his hand. “Thank you for your ideas,” he slowly uttered in his best diplomatic tone, “I think we can both agree that this has been a frank and productive encounter.”
“Of course,” I said as I extended my hand to his, “and may Israel’s upcoming negotiations with the Palestinian National Authority be just as frank and productive, too.”
Zayin cracked a stiff smile. “I’m sure, Mr. Collins, that they will.”

Bedbugs, Bedbugs - Whatcha Gonna Do When They Come for You?

tomcollins — Fri, 27 Aug 2010 02:33:04 +0000

My three o’clock consultation today was O’Meanahan, a top-echelon conservative Republican strategist. To say that he was beaming would be totally insufficient. To opine that he appeared self-satisfied would be a gross understatement. To aver that he appeared triumphant would be a pitiful misrepresentation. No, O’Meanahan looked like the cat that ate the canary, the goldfish, the family dog’s dinner, the baby’s candy and every lamb chop on the kitchen counter, then drank all the beer in the refrigerator.
“Collins,” he chortled as he settled on the couch by the picture window, indicating the White House outside it, “that black-[expletive] [expletive] rag-head Kenyan Socialist is going to be a complete lame duck for two entire years until we finish him off in 2012!”
“Nobody can deny,” I observed, “that the conservative Republicans have done a masterful job of convincing American citizens that our President is exactly that. At the moment, one in five of them think Barack Obama is a Moslem, one in four consider him a Socialist, and nearly a third of them believe he’s a foreigner born in Africa.”
O’Meanahan threw his head back and laughed heartily. “Not bad, huh? You like the way we got half of those pinheads out in the provinces to blame Superspade over there,” he sneered as he gestured again at the White House, “not only for Afghanistan, the recession, unemployment, illegal immigration and terrorism, but the Mosque at Ground Zero and the BP oil spill, too?”
“It’s been a truly professional hit,” I replied, “all the way around. My compliments.”
“Thanks,” O’Meanahan chuckled, leaning forward expectantly with a maniacal grin, “now - here’s what I want to get from you, Collins - give me your assessment of my latest idea how the Republicans can put another big, fat rat up that [expletive] Ubangi-lipped, Watusi-eared, spear-chucking, tree-swinging, banana-stuffing, mud-colored mulatto porch monkey’s ugly, stinking, crab-infested, dingleberry-covered [expletive]!”
“Allow me to remind you,” I pleaded, “that you are referring to the President of the United States.”
“[Expletive] him!” O’Meanahan shouted. “It’s a free country, isn’t it? First Amendment! I can say what I want about camel-[expletive] Commie jungle bunnies like Obama, and so can Fox News!”
“Having the right to do something,” I chided, “doesn’t necessarily imply that doing it is a virtuous act.”
“Stop talking,” O’Meanahan insisted, “like some postmodern, brie-eating, Derrida-quoting, gay-tolerating, [expletive]-loving liberal! Save that for your [expletive] Democrat clients! Quit wasting my time and tell me what I should say when I pitch my latest brainstorm to the RNC!”
Pretending to peruse the documents on my desk, I let him cool off for a minute before I spoke. Then I looked him straight in the eye.
“Which is?”
“Bedbugs.”
“You want to blame President Obama for bedbugs?” I asked, somewhat more than a little gobsmacked by the suggestion.
“Exactly,” he huffed, crossing his arms across his chest and settling back into the couch to await my response.
“My first observation would be,” I observed, “that bedbugs have been around since humans invented beds; and literally, that’s more than ten thousand years.”
“Impossible!” O’Meanahan objected. “The Earth is only six thousand years old, at most!”
“Well, okay,” I continued, not wishing to digress into a debate over literal interpretation of Scripture, since once you get them started on that, a typical conservative Republican can go on for hours, “thousands of years, anyway. I guess my point is, bedbugs were around before Obama became President.”
“Sure,” O’Meanahan shrugged, “so was the war in Afghanistan, and we did a dandy job of blaming him for that, didn’t we?”
“No denying it,” I conceded. “But let’s face facts here, bedbugs are pretty creepy. They sneak out under cover of darkness and suck your blood when you’re helpless.”
“Just like Socialists!” O’Meanahan exulted. “When it comes to Obama’s politics, bedbugs are the perfect metaphor!”
“Perhaps,” I allowed. “But bedbugs’ only significant threat is simply to make people prone to hysteria and irrationality.”
“Just like terrorism,” he pointed out enthusiastically, stabbing his finger at me for emphasis. “And we blamed Obama for terrorism, too!”
“Look,” I persisted, “if the Republicans start going on about bedbugs, you’ve got to consider the possibility that folks might blame the messenger. I mean, once you get them, bedbugs are a problem that takes an incredibly long time to fix.”
“Exactly!” O’Meanahan grinned. “Just like the recession, and we’ve got practically everybody in America blaming Obama for that!”
“But bedbugs,” I shot back, “are just something that happened during his term of office, aren’t they? Obama didn’t do anything to cause the crisis, did he?”
“Obama didn’t do anything to cause the BP oil spill either,” O’Meanahan parried, “and we managed to get twenty-six percent of the public to think he’s responsible for it!”
“But aren’t bedbugs,” I objected, “something the city or county board of health would deal with? Aren’t bedbugs essentially a local issue?”
“Yeah,” O’Meanahan nodded, “that’s true. But so is the Mosque at Ground Zero. And wasn’t Obama stupid enough to involve himself with that anyhow by making a public statement at the White House Ramadan Feast in favor of the Islamo-fascists who are building an edifice to commemorate the Al-Qaida fanatics who died murdering four thousand Americans on 9/11?”
“It’s not,” I pointed out, “an edifice which commemorates anything. It’s supposed to be an interfaith community center. But otherwise, I see what you mean. So, all right; but you have to remember, bedbugs are not native to the United States. People are bound to realize that foreigners are responsible for them.”
“Bingo!” O’Meanahan yelled. “Just like illegal immigration, which we have, as of the latest polls this morning, succeeded in getting three out of ten Americans to blame Barack Obama for!”
“Bedbugs,” I resolutely continued, “are everywhere. They’ve invaded New York, Los Angeles, Chicago, Boston, Dallas, Houston, New Orleans, Miami, you name it. It’s going to be obvious to anyone who thinks about it for more than a minute that bedbugs are a widespread misfortune that befalls a lot of people, none of whom are at fault for it.”
“Two things,” O’Meanahan proclaimed. “Number One: that’s just like unemployment, which we got most Americans to blame Obama for last year! And Number Two: screw that minute, okay? Because our studies show that the average American can’t think about anything for more than thirty-seven seconds!”
“Outstanding,” I congratulated. “A most convincing argument, if I ever heard one, that if we’re going to blame President Obama for Afghanistan, the Great Recession, widespread unemployment, runaway illegal immigration, rampant terrorism, the Mosque at Ground Zero and the BP oil spill, we might as well blame him for bedbugs, too.”
“Precisely,” O’Meanahan cackled. “And who could possibly contend with impeccable logic like that?”
“Nobody who votes Republican,” I readily admitted. “But I strongly suggest that the RNC test the concept on focus groups of independents and moderate Democrats before sending the usual slanted background materials, biased talking points, and code-word laden propaganda scripts to your customary gaggle of conservative pundits.”
O’Meanahan scrunched his face into a hideous mask of incredulity. “Why should I advise them to bother with doing that?”
“The gross-out factor,” I explained. “None of the things you have blamed Obama for are anywhere near as icky as bedbugs.”
O’Meanahan’s expression changed from mindlessly curious to shallowly nonplussed. “Icky?”
“A vast majority of people find insects in general and bedbugs in particular, to be extremely yucky, icky, gross-out disgusting,” I emphasized. “The very thought of bedbugs will make them literally sick to their stomachs. And thinking about bedbugs will surely cause them to suffer.”
“So what,” O’Meanahan shrugged with a true sociopath’s nonchalance, “we’ve been making them suffer for decades, getting them to vote against their own interests by stirring up their emotions of fear, greed and bigotry. It worked for Nixon, it worked for Reagan, it worked for Bush Senior and Bush Junior. [Expletive] the people who vote for us - they’re only good for what the Republican Party elite can get out of them.”
“True,” I agreed, “in the past half century, the Republicans have played on many emotions and irrational ideas to achieve power, but this will be the first time they attempt to harness nausea. And my gut feeling is - nausea won’t work.”
“Why?”
“Because,” I concluded, “if you get them feeling like they’re going to vomit on Election Day morning, they won’t go to the polls. And if millions of Americans don’t go to the polls and vote Republican on Election Day…”
“Then what?”
“Well… nobody can stop them.”
“Thanks,” O’Meanahan sighed with a distinct air of resignation. “I’m glad I ran this bedbug thing by you before suggesting it to the RNC.”
“You’re welcome,” I told him frankly.
“So, it’s time, I guess,” O’Meanahan murmured, “for me to get back to brainstorming up something else to blame Obama for.” With that, he rose, shook my hand, and got up to leave.
“O’Meanahan!” I cried out as he touched the doorknob.
“Yeah?” He turned to look at me despondently.
“Nice try.”
He gave me a brave and noble nod. “Thanks again.”
“So,” I bid him in farewell, “tonight…”
“Tonight what?” O’Meanahan interrupted.
“Sleep tight… and don’t let the bedbugs bite.”
“You’re one hell of a cold son of a [expletive], Collins,” he nodded with a tight smile. “Stone [expletive] cold.”

Bomb-Bomb-Bomb, Bomb-Bomb Iran

tomcollins — Fri, 20 Aug 2010 22:21:49 +0000

I had just arrived at the office this morning, perhaps five minutes after Gretchen opened up in preparation for an early consultation appointment, when the telephone rang. After answering, Gretchen put her hand over the receiver and gave me a knowing look. “It’s Mahmud Ahmadinejad,” she whispered. “He sounds drunk.”
“Usually is when he calls me,” I shrugged. “Put him through to my office on Line Two.”

Ahmadinejad: Tom! Tom! Is that you?
Tom: It certainly is, Your Excellency. It’s been a while since we last spoke, hasn’t it?
Ahmadinejad: Over a year!
Tom: Well, I know how busy you are, being President of Iran and all…
Ahmadinejad: No [expletive]! Tell me about it! Between defying the minions of Satan and crushing anyone who opposes the Islamic Revolution, I barely have time to denounce infidel conspiracies anymore. You seen Avatar yet?
Tom: Sure.
Ahmadinejad: In 3-D?
Tom: IMAX 3-D.
Ahmadinejad: Really? I bet that was like, totally awesome!
Tom: Not half as awesome as your English, Mr. President.
Ahmadinejad: Oh, yeah, I’ve been keeping up on my practice. In secret, of course, as usual. It’s really been paying off, too. I know that if I saw Avatar with Farsi subtitles, I could definitely tell what I would be missing if I didn’t understand English. And there’s so much going on in that story! Speaking of which, what do you think, is James Cameron a genius or what?
Tom: Huh? The special effects are incredible, but…
Ahmadinejad: Right, and the story is even better!
Tom: Um… you think so?
Ahmadinejad: Know so! It’s so obviously about Iran!
Tom: Actually, to my knowledge, I don’t believe that…
Ahmadinejad: The native Pandorans - the Na’vi - they’re like, the Iranians, see? And all those nasty military guys out to destroy the Na’vi, they’re the United States! And was Sigourney Weaver hot or what, with her tough-girl act, chain-smoking cigarettes and all that?
Tom: Yeah, I suppose so…
Ahmadinejad: Man, I’d sure like to, you know… do it with her! Of course, we’d have to stone her to death afterwards, but it would be so cool, anyway, huh?
Tom: Would it really be… ah, necessary… to, uh, stone her to death afterward?
Ahmadinejad: Oh, yeah, yeah, sure, absolutely! That’s the Holy Law, after all. But that’s also the really awesome part, too, see? Just thinking about stoning her to death afterward makes me so…
Tom: I think I get the idea, Mr. President. And I’m sure Mr. Cameron and Ms. Weaver would be highly complimented to know how much you enjoyed watching Avatar.
Ahmadinejad: Six times! But not in 3-D.
Tom: Oh. Sorry to hear that.
Ahmadinejad: Yeah, I had to watch a bootleg I downloaded from the Internet off some server in Sweden. But still… excellent movie!
Tom: You definitely have plenty of company on that opinion, Your Excellency.
Ahmadinejad: Think maybe you could get me a 3-D copy?
Tom: Well, I suppose I…
Ahmadinejad: And the glasses. I’ll need those, too - three or four.
Tom: I’ll see what I can do, Mr. President.
Ahmadinejad: Outstanding! So, why I called, see, is, like they say, you’re the smartest person there, inside the Beltway…
Tom: Which is a lot like being the tallest building in Baltimore.
Ahmadinejad: Baltimore? I’ve heard of that. Aren’t there a lot of Jews in Baltimore?
Tom: Yes, there are.
Ahmadinejad: But nobody’s ever heard of Baltimore; only New York. I mean, if Al-Qaida had attacked, like you say, the tallest building in Baltimore, who in the Moslem world would have even known where the hell that was?
Tom: That’s the same reason they didn’t attack Philadelphia, I guess.
Ahmadinejad: Right.
Tom: Or Cleveland.
Ahmadinejad: Where?
Tom: Your point, exactly, Mr. President.
Ahmadinejad: I’m good at those, yeah. So, anyway, I knew if I called you, I’d be talking to someone who knows the score there in Washington DC about what’s happening all over the world.
Tom: Certainly; that’s a major part of my job description, Your Excellency.
Ahmadinejad: And what I want to know from you is - do you think the Israelis are going to bomb our Bushehr nuclear facility before the Russians put the fuel in it, like your John Bolton says? That the Israelis have to bomb it before then so they won’t get radioactivity all over the place?
Tom: In response to that, Mr. President, I would strongly recommend you consider the source. John Bolton is a cock-sure, self-righteous, stubborn, ultra-conservative militarist who’s convinced that anyone who disagrees with him on the smallest point is completely and irrevocably wrong and, moreover, deserves to die and go to Hell for it.
Ahmadinejad: I see. Thank you.
Tom: You’re welcome, Mr. President.
Ahmadinejad: I understand. He’s a fellow American and your former ambassador to the United Nations. But come on, Tom, does that really mean you can’t say anything bad about him?
Tom: I… um, yes, I can. His ideology doesn’t completely agree with yours.
Ahmadinejad: Okay! All right then, in that case, I hate him and want to destroy everything he stands for.
Tom: Exactly. And he feels the same way about you and the principles of the Iranian Revolution which you uphold. Consequently, I suspect Mr. Bolton was engaging in what might best be described as wishful thinking.
Ahmadinejad: You mean, Bolton wants Israel to bomb our nuclear plant?
Tom: Mr. President, if Israel bombed Bushehr, John Bolton would dance a jig which would put the one Adolph Schicklgruber did at Compiegne to shame. For starters, it would be real, not the invention of a propagandist, and what’s more, it would be much longer and completely sincere.
Ahmadinejad: Are you serious? Bolton would dance a jig?
Tom: Well, more precisely, he’d caper up and down, madly clapping his hands in an uncontrollable fit of sadistic glee.
Ahmadinejad: He’d be very happy?
Tom: Most certainly. Only one thing could possibly make John Bolton happier.
Ahmadinejad: And what would that be?
Tom: If, by some incredible stroke of luck, you and the Supreme Leader of Iran, the Grand Ayatollah Ali Khamenei, were to be visiting Bushehr at the exact moment it was blown to smithereens.
Ahmadinejad: Really? And what would John Bolton do then?
Tom: It’s hard to say exactly, but it’s a safe bet Mr. Bolton would need to change his underwear shortly thereafter.
Ahmadinejad: How about your President Obama?
Tom: Oh, yes, if the Israelis bomb Bushehr, he will need a change of underwear, too, but for entirely different reasons.
Ahmadinejad: So, you think Obama doesn’t want war with Iran?
Tom: I’m sure he doesn’t.
Ahmadinejad: Because he is a secret Moslem?
Tom: No.
Ahmadinejad: Then why?
Tom: Because America can’t afford it.
Ahmadinejad: You mean, if America had the money, it would be glad to blow up Bushehr, invade Iran, install a puppet government and hang me and Grand Ayatollah Ali Khamenei?
Tom: In a New York minute.
Ahmadinejad: Right, okay then, see? Just like in the movie! The only difference is Iran has oil instead of unobtanium!
Tom: Plus, of course, Iranians aren’t anywhere near as adorable as the Na’vi.
Ahmadinejad: Maybe so, but we’re sure one [expletive] of a lot more adorable than the Israelis!
Tom: Yeah, but on the other hand, that’s not saying very much. You Iranians ought to shoot for being as adorable as the Tibetans, for instance…
Ahmadinejad: The Tibetans live in a world that’s a [expletive] thousand years ago!
Tom: And your point is?
Ahmadinejad: Ah… um… that is… all right, I give up. I don’t have one. But can’t you suggest somebody else anyway, please?
Tom: Okay, the Finns. They’re modern and they’re adorable, too. Shoot for that.
Ahmadinejad: Are you kidding? The Finns all have cell phones! Do you have any idea what the Grand Ayatollah thinks of cell phones after that Twitter business back during the last election?
Tom: How about the Canadians?
Ahmadinejad: Hey, wait a minute! Since when are Canadians adorable?
Tom: James Cameron is a Canadian.
Ahmadinejad: Really? I didn’t know that. Okay; as adorable as the Canadians then, at the very least. It’s for electricity and research, you know, that’s all.
Tom: What, the nuclear reactor?
Ahmadinejad: Yeah. Like they say, “A little nukie never hurt anybody.”
Tom: Well, Your Excellency, it just seems that many people outside Iran find it a bit difficult to believe that when you finally manage to refine some high-grade uranium or manufacture some plutonium, you won’t be tempted to construct nuclear weapons with it and then… oh, I don’t know…. let’s say, blow up Tel Aviv, for instance.
Ahmadinejad: But why is that? The Russians, the English, the French, the Pakistanis, the Indians and the Chinese all have nuclear weapons, but none of them have blown up Tel Aviv, have they? So why should anyone think the Iranians would do it?
Tom: I guess it must be the rhetoric, Mr. President. It always sounds like you folks want to trump up bogus reasons to pick fights, invade other countries, require them to adopt your cultural values and force your political system down their throats.
Ahmadinejad: Oh, like you Americans did with Iraq?
Tom: Um, okay, yeah - like we did with Iraq.
Ahmadinejad: And the difference is?
Tom: The difference is, we already have nuclear weapons, and, what’s more, we’ve already used them to blow up a couple of cities in Japan.
Ahmadinejad: And therefore?
Tom: Therefore, we know what it feels like to live with the terrible moral consequences of having done that, and we want to spare you from having to experience them.
Ahmadinejad: Gee, it never occurred to me how thoughtful you Americans were being about all this.
Tom: Great! So, now that you do realize that, are you going to call off Iran’s nuclear program?
Ahmadinejad: No, but as soon as we power up the Bushehr reactor, I’ll make a point of sending your President Obama a nice fruit basket.
Tom: Um, given the current political situation here in the United States, I don’t think sending him a fruit basket would be such a good idea.
Ahmadinejad: Flower basket?
Tom: No, I…
Ahmadinejad: Cupcake basket?
Tom: Actually, come to think of it, do you suppose you could manage to be a little bit more belligerent, nasty, aggressive and mean?
Ahmadinejad: What, forever?
Tom: Not really; no sense wearing yourself out, Your Excellency. Just start laying it on thick and keep it up until the first Wednesday in November.
Ahmadinejad: Sure, Tom, no problem. But what’s so special about the first Wednesday in November, anyway?
Tom: It’s the day after the first Tuesday.
Ahmadinejad: Hmmm. Okay, whatever. No problem. Gotta go now, or I’ll be late for dinner and a beheading.
Tom: Nice talking to you, Mr. President.
Ahmadinejad: Same here, Tom. Don’t forget that Avatar movie!
Tom: Which format?
Ahmadinejad: Blu-ray. Collector’s Edition. In 3-D! Remember, I need the glasses, too! Extra pairs!
Tom: Right. Goodbye, Your Excellency.
Ahmadinejad: Thanks, Tom!

Charlie Livingston Albatross

tomcollins — Sat, 14 Aug 2010 22:08:07 +0000

Wednesday morning, I received a visit from Liermann, a Democratic strategist. Refusing coffee or tea, he sat there in my office, glumly popping antacid tablets, clearly beside himself.
“Tom,” he whined, “the Democrats are about in the absolute worst situation for a mid-term election a person could possibly imagine. Not only is the economy still in the doldrums, it looks like by November, the country’s going to be starting down the second roller-coaster slide of a double-dip recession. We’re about to declare victory and leave Iraq, but it’s pretty clear that when we do, the whole place is going straight down the toilet and everybody in the world will blame the Democrats for it. What’s more, things couldn’t be much worse in Afghanistan, either - the Pentagon says that the latest evidence from our campaign to win the Afghanis’ hearts and minds indicates that we should have been going after their left ears instead. The latest public opinion polls show that as of Monday, more Americans believe in ghosts than believe Barack Obama was born in the United States. Our hand-picked, ideologically pure candidates for targeted Republican-controlled offices - and plenty of our incumbents, too, God damn it - are getting waxed in primary elections all over the country by Democrats who make Andrew Jackson look like George McGovern! Now, on top of all that, Charlie Rangel, the quintessential symbol of East Coast, liberal, special-interest, big-city Democratic machine politics - someone who has been an incumbent over forty years, no less - not only gets accused of corruption and abuse of his congressional powers, and not only is obviously guilty, but also refuses to resign! And yesterday, as I am sure you know, during a special session of Congress which Nancy Pelosi and Harry Reid convened to address some truly important legislative matters, including appropriation of urgently needed funds for teachers, police and fire fighters, Rangel invoked a point of privilege so he could stand up in the middle of all that and do nothing more important than shoot his mouth off! He soaked up over half an hour of CSPAN camera time attacking what he says is a conspiracy; drawing analogies between the various settlement deals the Ethics Committee has offered him and an innocent man forced to cop a plea because the judge in the case has a reputation for harsh and unfair sentences; complaining about his legal fees; offering lame excuses for his misconduct; and arguing his side of the case in public. After which, he dares Congress to remove him from office! But was that aggravating enough? Was that sufficiently disrespectful? Did that do enough damage to the Democratic Party? No! Tonight, he’s attending a big, public, in-your-face birthday party bash at the Plaza Hotel in New York - and guess what? His real birthday was in June!”
“All of which,” I presumed, “is why you’re here?”
“Exactly,” Liermann spat. “How the hell do we keep this fat, egotistical, corrupt, lying, thieving, useless, braying windbag from screwing the Democratic Party in November?”
“If,” I pointed out, “you had come to me earlier, we could explore various options to conduct Rangel’s trial and get him out of the news well in advance of the November elections. We might even have been able to keep him from being a factor in the Democratic primaries.”
“Water under the bridge,” Liermann sighed. “We thought we could work out a deal Rangel would accept by ourselves. But he turned out to be completely unreasonable. Out of touch with reality, in fact. Rangel thinks the [expletive] world revolves around him. He expects everybody to hand him anything he wants on a silver platter, for Christ’s sake. The man’s living in a total fantasy world of his own invention!”
“In other words,” I observed, “he’s a typical member of Congress who’s been here more than ten years.”
At that, Liermann shook an extra antacid tablet onto the pile in his palm, popped the entire stack, then chewed on them for about a minute. “I suppose so,” he finally agreed. “At least it’s not just the Democrats.”
“No,” I concurred, “the Republicans are worse. In addition to behaving like that, they generally think they’re specially favored by the Almighty, too.”
“Well,” Liermann opined, “I certainly wouldn’t be surprised to learn that Charlie Rangel thinks he hears the Voice of God on a regular basis.”
“Charlie Rangel,” I corrected, “thinks God takes his advice. Spending four decades in the United States Congress has convinced better men than him that the Good Lord needs their input on the various issues affecting their states or districts, especially with respect to military bases, water projects and highway construction.”
“Okay,” Liermann sighed, “say we stipulate that Rangel’s a few bricks short of a full load. So what?”
“So, on the one hand,” I replied, “that’s a problem, as his recent behavior amply demonstrates. But on the other, as we both know, every problem is an opportunity.”
Liermann leaned forward, betraying sudden, intense interest. “An opportunity for what?”
“Well,” I explained, “up until now, the Democrats have been insisting that Rangel save the Party the embarrassment of a trial by cutting a deal with the Ethics Committee and resigning. But there’s no way he’s going to do that, because if he did, he’d just be a big has-been, a complete nobody. If, however, the Democrats were to offer Rangel a position in the administration…”
“That [expletive] clown?” Liermann interjected.
“…somewhere he could feel important and powerful and still have people continue kissing up to him all the time…”
“Can you imagine how insufferable he’d be?” Liermann asked, aghast.
“…doing something basically harmless, but with the trappings of grandeur, prestige and power…”
“Like what?” Liermann demanded.
“Well,” I mused, “Rangel’s big on education issues, isn’t he? After all, one of the charges against him has to do with questionable solicitation of funds for the Charles B. Rangel Center for Public Service at the City College of New York, doesn’t it? How about President Obama offers him a post as Special Ambassador at Large for Education? That would keep him out of the country most of the time, and Secretary Clinton could arrange for him to receive a bunch of honorary degrees from prestigious universities, which should be plenty of lollipops for the big baby.”
“I can see that,” Liermann nodded. “Okay, I’ll run it past the Party’s congressional liaisons at the White House. Now, what about Maxine Waters?”
“Offer an ambassadorship in return for her resignation, too,” I suggested.
“Okay,” Liermann said, stroking his chin in thought. “She’s big on human rights issues. How about we make her International Ambassador for Human Rights?”
“Nah, human rights has way too much potential for trouble,” I advised. “Make that Worldwide Ambassador for Animal Rights instead. Her first assignment can be an extended fact-finding mission to the Ngorongoro Crater. Lots of wildlife issues there, you know.”
Liermann smiled broadly for a moment, but just as abruptly, it subsided as a cloud of doubt crossed his mind. “Is there sufficient funding in the State Department budget for both of those egomaniacs and their respective parasitic entourages of obsequious hangers-on, useless relatives, pathetic wannabes and simpering sycophants? You must realize that neither Rangel or Waters will be happy without those.”
“Who,” I inquired with a knowing wink, “currently controls the House Appropriations Committee?”
“Right,” Liermann grinned, “the Democrats.”
“And,” I noted, “if you play this right, they’ll be in control of it after November, too.”

He’s One of A Kind and He’ll Shock Your Mind

tomcollins — Sun, 08 Aug 2010 18:47:17 +0000

I said the age of one my life begun
At the age of two I was doin’ the do
At the age of three it was you and me
Rockin’ to the sounds of the master gee
At the age of four I was on the floor
Givin’ all the freaks what they bargained for
At the age of five I didn’t take no jive
With the master gee its all the way live
At the age of six I was a pickin’ up sticks
Rappin’ to the beat my stick was fixed
At the age of seven I was rockin’ in heaven
Dontcha know I went off
I got right on down to the beat
You see gettin’ right on down
Makin’ all the girls just
Take of their clothes to the beat
The beat to the double beat beat
That makes you freak
At the age of eight I was really great
‘Cause every night you see I had a date
At the age of nine I was right on time
‘Cause every night I had a party rhyme

– Sugarhill Gang, Rapper’s Delight

This weekend, Cerise is in Cape May with a couple of her college girlfriends and Veronica has traveled abroad in order to arrange to be in the same city as a certain married member of Congress. She’s staying in a different hotel, of course - one that’s nearby and which offers decidedly better amenities at prices well beyond those compensated by official federal per diem rates. I, alas, am spending the entire weekend working. Yes, I do put in some wicked hours, and I know it. Some forty thousand years ago, anthropologists tell us, the Australian aborigine spent a mere thirty hours a week procuring sustenance and manufacturing the artifacts with which to do it. Now, while it is not exactly clear that Australian aborigines forty thousand years ago had what we today would recognize as a concept of “leisure time,” it is nevertheless also quite obvious that they didn’t have to do anything they didn’t want to for the rest of the week, and that’s close enough for me. True, they didn’t have jet aircraft, particle accelerators, Shakespeare or Mozart; but then, on the other hand, they didn’t have sport utility vehicles, atomic power plants, Dan Brown or Justin Bieber, either. And, while the astute reader is no doubt wondering how I can justify characterizing me lollygagging with my butt nestled on a loaded graphite-base Aeron chair in an air-conditioned home office daydreaming about Australian aborigines as “working,” I would say that sort of thing constitutes about ninety percent of the “work” the Civil Service does here in Washington, and I, unlike them, was doing it on a weekend. And what am I supposed to do about it, anyway? Write a memo to my permanent file, perhaps? Not that I, as a self-employed policy consultant, actually have a permanent file. It turned out to be a half-decent day here in Great Falls today, too, and as my thoughts drifted from what it might be like to run around naked with a boomerang chasing kangaroos to what might be transpiring in the sun-dappled woods outside the window, my phone rang. Caller ID wouldn’t say who it was, but, as might be readily deduced from my account so far, at that point I didn’t really care.

Tom: Hello, who’s this?
Cuccinelli: This is Ken Cuccinelli, Attorney General of the Commonwealth of Virginia. Is this Tom Collins?
Tom: Yes, sir, it certainly is. What can I do for you?
Cuccinelli: Well, as I’m sure you know, I’ve been in the news quite a bit lately.
Tom: Indeed you have.
Cuccinelli: And I’ve been contacted - on the Q.T., of course - by a number of prominent Republicans, with whom I’ve had quite a few frank and highly productive conversations.
Tom: How exciting.
Cuccinelli: My sentiments, exactly. And, you may be pleased to hear, several of them mentioned your name. They say you’re the smartest person inside the Beltway.
Tom: Which is a lot like being the tallest building in Baltimore.
Cuccinelli: Baltimore? Oh, I wouldn’t know much about that. I was born in New Jersey and grew up in Fairfax, Virginia. Those Orioles, they’re a pretty good baseball team, I guess. We take the kids up to that aquarium every couple of years, too.
Tom: That’s very family-oriented of you, Mr. Attorney General.
Cuccinelli: Call me Ken.
Tom: Okay, Ken. Tell me, is it true that you know all the words to “Rapper’s Delight” by the Sugarhill Gang?
Cuccinelli: Yep. Just show me a karaoke machine and I’ll perform the whole thing, hand gestures and all!
Tom: Formidable. That’s a really, really long rap song.
Cuccinelli: It’s got a lot to say, you know…

… I like to say hello
To the black, to the white,
The red, and the brown,
The purple and yellow,
But first I gotta bang bang the boogie
To the boogie say up jump the boogie
To the bang bang boogie…

Tom: Truly noble sentiments, Ken.
Cuccinelli: You bet, Tom. Equality, freedom and stuff, that’s what America in general, and the great Commonwealth of Virginia in particular, are all about.
Tom: And I must say, it’s good to know, Ken, that we have brilliant minds like yours, inspired by such sublime artistic achievements, guiding the people’s way.
Cuccinelli: Gee, thanks. I guess they’re right - you are really, like, exceptionally smart. Good thing I called you. But, um… I… ah, there’s this certain, somewhat embarrassing issue…
Tom: You can’t afford my rates.
Cuccinelli: Yeah, yeah, that’s it. But I hear you often give the first consultation…
Tom: …or two…
Cuccinelli:…without charge?
Tom: No problem.
Cuccinelli: Oh, great, thanks! Then, of course, there’s the confidentiality issue.
Tom: Ken, you may rest assured that you will receive the same level of confidentiality that I provide my paying customers.
Cuccinelli: Excellent! So what I’m calling about…
Tom: You want to run for President.
Cuccinelli: Uh…
Tom: In 2020.
Cuccinelli: Er…
Tom: Your supporters have been saying you should do it, right?
Cuccinelli: Um, right.
Tom: And you figure, you’ve got the boyish good looks, the nice, presentable, well-behaved family with what, six kids?
Cuccinelli: Seven.
Tom: Right. And, just as importantly, you’ve proved you know how to attract copious attention from the media.
Cuccinelli: You really think so? Because I haven’t actually been trying to do that, you know.
Tom: You mean you weren’t trying to attract media attention when you sent a letter out to all the public colleges and universities in Virginia that said… let’s see now, if I remember it correctly, something like, “It is my advice that the law and public policy of the Commonwealth of Virginia prohibit a college or university from including ‘sexual orientation,’ ‘gender identity,’ ‘gender expression,’ or like classification as a protected class within its non-discrimination policy…” or words to that effect?
Cuccinelli: Absolutely not.
Tom: You’re saying you didn’t do that in order to get your name in the papers, to have it mentioned in every televised news program in the United States and many others abroad, so that everyone in the world would know who Ken Cuccinelli is and what he stands for?
Cuccinelli: No way, cool dude! I was just doing my job, representing the hard-working, family-values holding, conservative-voting parents of the Commonwealth of Virginia, whom, I happen to know, unanimously disapprove of gays and don’t want them going to school with their children; Virginia kids, who are not just straight, not just innocent teenagers, but, also, more importantly, medically verifiable, physically intact legal virgins-in-fact, who will stay that way until after becoming both duly joined according to the laws of the Commonwealth, and just as significantly, blessed by their relevant and appropriate religious authority in a Virginia marriage that is strictly defined as the union of a naturally formed biological man with a likewise naturally formed biological woman.
Tom: Was it some young guy in the Fairfax County high school gym shower?
Cuccinelli: Huh?
Tom: Or some young guy at the University of Virginia, maybe?
Cuccinelli: I don’t understand. What are you talking about?
Tom: Well, let me put it this way - are you trying to prove something about yourself - or maybe prove something to yourself - by fathering seven children?
Cuccinelli: I’m Catholic!
Tom: So am I, but I don’t feel a need to procreate like a rabbit because of it.
Cuccinelli: I love my wife! She loves me!
Tom: I love my cigar, too, but I take it out of my mouth occasionally.
Cuccinelli: Okay, I get it. No, I’m not a latent homosexual, all right? Yeah, I know, if I was one, and it got out, I could never be President. But I’m not. I’m straight; completely straight. I’ve always been straight, too. I’m a devout Catholic, homosexuality is a mortal sin, and there’s no way Ken Cuccinelli’s going to burn in Hell for eternity just because some young guy might look - or sound, or smell - kind of sexy to him; not that one ever has, mind you.
Tom: Two questions.  Are you in favor of the Westboro Kansas Baptist Church picketing the funerals of US service personnel; and, what’s your favorite Chinese dish?
Cuccinelli: In principal, on constitutional grounds, yes. And Sum Yong Gai. Can’t get enough of it.
Tom: So, the fact that members of the Westboro Kansas Baptist Church are picketing US service men’s and women’s funerals is because they believe, and I quote “God hates fags,” and that they believe He is punishing America for tolerating gays by allowing Satanically inspired Islamic radicals to kill our troops in Iraq and Afghanistan - all that has nothing to do with it?
Cuccinelli: Nothing at all. If people want to break the Lord’s commandments and commit sodomy or whatever, and it’s not against the law, and/or, a specific case is not brought forth for prosecution under Virginia law by the duly appointed authorities of enforcement, then there’s nothing that I, as the Attorney General, can do; and it doesn’t matter, anyway, because God’s going to punish them real good after they die. Let’s see them get out of that!
Tom: And you don’t, by any chance, have any… ah, issues… with women?
Cuccinelli: None.
Tom: But the Virginia State Seal has a woman on it, right?
Cuccinelli: Yeah, the Seal depicts the Roman goddess Virtus, holding a sword and a spear, standing with her foot on the chest of a fallen, despotic king, above the State Motto: “Sic Semper Tyrannis.”
Tom: And, like most depictions of Roman goddesses, she has an exposed breast.
Cuccinelli: Yeah, the left one.
Tom: And she’s.. what would you say… about a B cup?
Cuccinelli: Don’t talk about Virtus like that!
Tom: Oh, sorry. Anyway, you made headlines again when you re-designed the State Seal so as to cover up Virtus’ left breast and had lapel pins with it made, then distributed them to your staff. But you maintain even that wasn’t because you were trying to cultivate your media notoriety?
Cuccinelli: No, it wasn’t.
Tom: And it’s not because you have some deep-seated issues about women?
Cuccinelli: None, I swear.
Tom: So, you’re just a garden-variety, run-of-the-mill, old-fashioned conservative prude, then?
Cuccinelli: No! I’m a completely original, captivatingly maverick, charismatically attractive, twenty-first century post-modern conservative prude. I style a personal prudeness, I practice a completely individual prude-ification, I craft a unique prude-osity; in short, I own my personal, individually created prude-idity!
Tom: Is that why you’ve got all the feminists so infuriated?
Cuccinelli: I’d be seriously surprised if that wasn’t at least part of it.
Tom: In that case, I’d say well done.
Cuccinelli: Thanks. For a minute there, I thought you had me pegged for some kind of potentially dangerous political nut case!
Tom:
Cuccinelli: Tom?
Tom: Ah, moving right along, then…
Cuccinelli: I backed gun-control advocates who want to keep firearms off the George Mason University campus!
Tom: Yes, I know, and…
Cuccinelli: I argued against extending the Virginia death penalty beyond the murder case triggerman!
Tom: Yes, you did, and…
Cuccinelli: So the Democrats won’t be able to say “Oh, he’s just some kind of knee-jerk conservative,” now will they?
Tom: I have to agree, you would be much more difficult to defeat in 2020 than Rand Paul or Sarah Palin.
Cuccinelli: You bet I would!
Tom: And you’re doing a very good job of keeping your powder dry, I hear; responding to suggestions that you run for president with phrases like “I don’t think that’s going to happen,” “All I care about right now is Virginia,” and “2020 is a long way off.”
Cuccinelli: Well, that’s how the game is played, isn’t it?
Tom: And you’re playing it well. But what’s up with your environmental stance? You filed a suit against the EPA’s proposed regulation of carbon dioxide emissions and said the University of Virginia has to hand over its climate research for legal investigation. Maybe that will help attract TEA Party enthusiasts - if there are any left in 2020, that is - to the Republican candidate. But by then, it’s a safe bet that the only people who will still be convinced that global warming is a hoax will be the ones who also still believe that the Federal Reserve Bank is controlled by extraterrestrial body snatchers posing as thirty-third degree Masons.
Cuccinelli: You’re aware that happens to be the fourth largest voting bloc currently supporting the Republican Party, aren’t you?
Tom: Thanks for the information. In this job, I learn something new every day. But what about this immigration stuff? I mean, Arizona is one thing - it’s right next to Mexico. But Virginia is over a thousand miles from Mexico, and here you are, just this week, issuing an official advisory opinion to all the police chiefs and sheriffs in Virginia which states that… ah, let’s see, I think I have a PDF of it right here… yes, okay… which says, “It is my opinion that Virginia law enforcement officers, including conservation officers, may, like Arizona police officers, inquire into the immigration status of persons stopped or arrested…” And later, during the many and varied news media interviews you got out of doing that, you basically said things like, “A police officer has always had the right to engage in conversations with people. It’s up to them to know whether they are obligated to respond or not,” and other words to that effect, to explain what you meant when you said “stopped” in addition to “arrested.” I mean, really, if, in your opinion, it’s always been the law that the cops in Virginia could ask anyone anything about whatever subject, whenever they want, why issue this official advisory opinion?
Cuccinelli: Because Robert G. Marshall, a Member of the Virginia House of Delegates, requested said opinion, in accordance with Section 2.2 Sub-section 505 of the Code of Virginia, which clearly states, as follows…
Tom: Okay, okay, I get it. And you didn’t, possibly, ask Delegate Marshall to request an advisory opinion on this subject?
Cuccinelli: No.
Tom: Not even one, little tiny, itty-bitty hint?
Cuccinelli: Double-pinky swear, olly-olly-oxen-free-o and no tags back, I so did not do that!
Tom: All right, I believe you, then.  Your denial sounded so incredibly sincere, there’s no way I could not believe that you so did not do that.
Cuccinelli: I’ve been practicing.
Tom: It shows. But what about your lawsuit against President Obama’s health care plan? If doing something like that isn’t a brazen, calculated attempt to cop ink and eyeballs, what else could it be? I mean, come on, Ken, anybody who wasn’t grabbing for photo ops and interviews with a stunt like that would have to be terminally Quixotic, wouldn’t they?
Cuccinelli: It’s the principle of the thing, entirely, pure and simple. Requiring the people of Virginia to buy health insurance is like requiring them all to buy Chevrolets!
Tom: Um, with all due respect to General Motors, Ken, because I know Chevrolets are nice cars - aren’t the provisions of Obama’s health care bill somewhat more like requiring everyone who drives a car in Virginia to purchase auto insurance?
Cuccinelli: No, it’s different.
Tom: How?
Cuccinelli: Well, okay, I’m not exactly sure. But I’ve assigned E. Duncan Getchell, Jr. to figure it out.
Tom: Who’s he?
Cuccinelli: He’s the Virginia Solicitor General. He works for me; real smart guy, just like you. I’m sure he can explain it all to the Supreme Court there in Washington, no problem; it shouldn’t be too hard, most of them hate Obama anyway, just on general principles. So, what do you think? If I stay the course I’m on, do I have a shot at the Republican presidential nomination in 2020?
Tom: As I see it, Ken, there are two major obstacles standing in your way.
Cuccinelli: What’s the first one?
Tom: You’re an Italian American.
Cuccinelli: Why should that matter? America’s already had a Catholic president - John F. Kennedy!
Tom: Kennedy was an Irish American. The Irish are cute. General Mills put a leprechaun on the Lucky Charms cereal box. You see any cereal boxes with Italian characters on them? No, because Italians aren’t cute - they’re scary.
Cuccinelli: I always thought Snap, Crackle and Pop were Italian. They look Italian, don’t they? Doesn’t Crackle sort of look like Pinocchio?
Tom: Crackle’s nose isn’t anywhere near long enough.
Cuccinelli: What about his hat?
Tom: What, did the Italians invent stocking caps? Look, they’re elves, okay? And when the American public finally gets to the point where they consider the Italians to be as cute as the Irish, some multinational food corporation will put a picture of Tony Soprano on a box of cereal and then you can be president of the United States.
Cuccinelli: Think that will happen by 2020?
Tom: I recommend you ask Rudy Giuliani.
Cuccinelli: What’s the other one?
Tom: You’re an engineer.
Cuccinelli: So?
Tom: So America’s already had two presidents who were engineers.
Cuccinelli: Who?
Tom: Hebert Hoover…
Cuccinelli: Oh, sh… shoot!
Tom: … and Jimmy Carter.
Cuccinelli: Gosh darn it all! What is it about being somebody who’s an objective, cold-blooded engineer with things that does whatever it was it did to Herbert Hoover and Jimmy Carter?
Tom: Ask your wife.
Cuccinelli: I guess I will. Very well, then, perhaps I’m not exactly the perfect specimen, but I’ve got other qualifications. I’m a lawyer, too.
Tom: Richard Nixon was a lawyer. So is Bill Clinton.
Cuccinelli: But what have those two got in common?
Tom: They both almost got impeached.
Cuccinelli: Oh. Yeah. Okay, then, Tom. I’ve got to be going now. Thanks for your advice.
Tom: You’re welcome. Mind if I ask a couple more question, though?
Cuccinelli: Sure. What?
Tom: That chicken really taste like wood?
Cuccinelli: Yep.
Tom: Off the hook. What kind?
Cuccinelli: Knotty pine.
Tom: Solid. And are you sure your mommy and daddy gave you enough attention when you were young?
Cuccinelli: Let me get back to you on that.
Tom: Certainly. Goodbye, Ken.
Cuccinelli: ‘Bye.

Lost Iraqi Treasure DFIs Discovery

tomcollins — Sat, 31 Jul 2010 21:10:24 +0000

“Ahmed” came by the office yesterday. The last time he was there, I scheduled him as the final appointment of the day so the place would have at least twelve hours to air out. That did not, however, prove effective. The next morning, “Ahmed’s” world class camel-jockey body odor still lingered at a level sufficient for my first visitor of the day, a Japanese diplomat, to notice it.
Admittedly, I have to cut old “Ahmed” some slack - if my visitor had been a French diplomat, for example, I doubt he would have detected anything unusual. But the Japanese have very sensitive noses, and the first thing out of that chap’s mouth was “Has someone left rotting Indian food in your trash, perhaps?” So this time, I didn’t take any chances - I allowed an entire weekend for the scent of “Ahmed’s” eau d’Do-Dah-Day to properly dissipate.
Now there may be those who think I exaggerate, but I assure them, that is definitely not the case. No doubt everyone has, at least once, been approached for spare change by a homeless person who obviously not only had refrained from bathing in several weeks, but also apparently slept in piles of garbage inside a Thai restuarant dumpster to keep warm. Well, let me attest, compared to “Ahmed,” that filthy, reeking panhandler who so memorably turned your stomach inside out and your complexion light green smelled like a wealthy debutante sampling designer scents at the fragrance counter in the Bloomingdale’s ladies’ department.
Gretchen took off forty-five minutes before “Ahmed’s” scheduled arrival, just in case, by some miracle, he might show up early. He was nearly an hour late instead, of course, which is decidedly much more his style. By that time, I had been wearing ME camphor under my nostrils for just over ninety minutes, having scheduled my previous appointment to end half an hour before “Ahmed’s” in order to avoid having that client, an economist from the World Bank, encounter “Ahmed” in the reception area on his way out and get violently sick all over the furniture. So, by that time, I couldn’t have smelled a decomposing donkey in a Baghdad cesspool. Nevertheless, just before I buzzed “Ahmed” in, I popped a generous hand full of Altoids mints in my left cheek and concentrated on breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth, just in case.
“Tom, my good friend,” he effused, “how much I have missed you!” Then, being an Arab, he leaned over my desk and kissed me on both cheeks, of course. I really don’t enjoy having this guy as a client, naturally, but last time, I requested four times my usual rate and he didn’t flinch. This time, I was getting paid six. For that kind of money, I have found, a person can tolerate an awful lot of unpleasantness. In fact, I must confess, at those rates, I’d even tolerate the presence of Newt Gingrich for an hour.
“So,” I began as he sprawled out in his rose-pink burnoose on the couch by the window, “to what do I owe the honor of his visit?”
“Your Department of Defense,” he wailed, “what is the matter with them?”
“A very extensive, if somewhat boring book,” I dryly responded, “could be written about all the things that are wrong with the United States Department of Defense. So, what, specifically, about DoD is bothering you?”
“They are calling in, how do you say - the detectives who are bookkeepers…”
“Forensic accountants?” I volunteered.
“Yes, yes,” he nodded sagely, “those are the words. First they make this… ah, udder? No… um, anus? Sounds like ‘armpit’…”
“Audit?”
“Yes, yes,” he continued, “this ‘audit’ thing, and find some money is missing. Now DoD is calling in these… forensic…. accountants; they find out who, what, where, how and why. Very bad for Ahmed. Very bad for Ahmed’s many friends, too.”
“You are, I presume,” I replied, “referring to the nine billion dollars of petroleum revenue in the Development Fund for Iraq that was entrusted to the Department of Defense between 2004 and 2007, some eight-point-seven billion of which now seems to have gone missing?”
“Yes, yes,” he vigorously affirmed, “that is the money. But so long ago! Ahmed not understand. Why do they care about money from 2007? Your Treasury, it makes many, many more billions of dollars since then, yes?”
“Trillions, actually,” I confirmed. “But still, even three to six years of interest on eight billion or so dollars amounts to several hundred million…”
“Eight billion dollars,” he sniffed, “plus interest! This is [expletive]-nuts…”
“I think you mean, ‘peanuts…’”
“Yes, yes,” he shot back, “this is what I mean - peanuts! Peanuts to your Pentagon! Peanuts to your Congress! Iraqi oil minister knows nothing about where these peanuts went! Prime Minister Al-Maliki cannot say where are these peanuts! Ahmed cares nothing for these peanuts! Why they bother me and my friends over these peanuts?”
“Perhaps,” I offered, “it’s because those funds were supposed to be used to rebuild Iraq…”
“Plenty, plenty rebuilding going on in Iraq,” he protested, sitting up momentarily and jabbing his finger in my direction for emphasis. “And he who says different, I show him the soles of my shoes! Many fine houses with latest fortifications! Much rebuilding!”
“The general idea, however,” I pointed out, “was things like water and electricity…”
“What you think,” he demanded, “that we build fine house in fortified compound without water well? Without electrical generator? Of course we build water and electricity!”
“The US government,” I clarified, “was thinking in terms of, ah… municipal water and electricity.”
My guest’s eyebrows arched up in astonishment. “Municipal? What is this, municipal?”
“It means,” I explained, “that you build water and electrical facilities for everyone.”
“Build water and electric for everyone?” He peered at me, obviously nonplussed. “What everyone do for the oil minister? What everyone do for Prime Minister Al-Maliki? What everyone do for Ahmed, for Ahmed’s tribe? I tell you what they do - they do nothing! Everyone do nothing for Ahmed and his friends. Now you tell - why Ahmed and his friends have to do anything for everyone?”
“Because,” I patiently persisted, “that’s the nature of modern industrial democracy.”
“So America,” he asked, “it is this ‘modern industrial democracy’ you talk about?”
“Yes,” I proudly proclaimed, “it is.”
“And the American senators and representatives, they make deal to vote some way their party likes, in return for some US government building, yes?”
“They have been known to do that,” I conceded.
“And they call this thing they do, they call it ‘poke-in-the-barrel,’ yes?”
“Actually,” I noted, “they call it ‘pork-barrel,’ but I understand what you’re getting at. You have to realize that Americans who vote for a senator or representative more or less expect that person to get the US government to spend some money in their home state or district. That’s how the game is played here in America.”
“So, also,” he declared with a grandiose wave of his arms, “that is how we play game in Iraq - if somebody is in Iraqi government, they get government money to spend on their tribe, their family, their friends…”
“That’s a somewhat different interpretation,” I protested.
“And Iraqi,” he shrugged, “is, how you say, somewhat different country from United States. Americans tell us, okay, here is truck full of hundred dollar bills, now you make Iraqi Stock Exchange - so we start trading Iraqi stocks with the money they give. So, maybe, Iraqi stocks go away; but money is still there, so we keep - so what? Then Americans tell us, okay, we want you to make contracts to build things in Iraq. So we say, okay, you give money and we hire contractors. Then we say to contractors, you give us money and we give you American contracts. Then we give contractor some money and they build water and electric…”
“For your houses in those fortified compounds,” I interjected.
“Yes, yes, of course,” he confirmed. “This is what I tell you - plenty, plenty water and electric work in Iraq.”
“Eight billion dollars worth?” I inquired.
“Maybe not all,” he acknowledged with a dismissive sigh. “Always, there is money left over. So we invest - in Dubai, Bahamas, Grand Caymans, Isle of Man, Switzerland, and in Luxembourg, just like Americans invest their spare money.”
“Those places,” I reminded him, “are just banking havens.”
“Also, we buy your Treasury bills,” he countered.
“But there’s a difference,” I tactfully observed, “between investment, which is to say, buying equity in businesses so they can expand, create jobs and produce goods; and the practice of mere monetary manipulations. What you’re describing is just playing around with money in banks.”
“But your Wall Street firms,” he gently jabbed back, “the ones that got the TARP money? What did they do? Did they loan money to businesses to make jobs? Did they loan money to factories to make more shirts and shoes and cars; or to farmers to grow more food? No! They do what we do - they take TARP money, put it in bank, and buy Treasury bills with it. Then they borrow more money from Federal Reserve at zero percent interest and loan it back to US government when they buy even more Treasury bills! How come when Americans on Wall Street do that, is okay, but when Ahmed and his friends do it, somehow then it is big, big crime?”
“Point taken,” I allowed.
“All this,” he insisted, “all that we do, this is okay with Donald Rumsfeld, this is okay with Paul Wolfowitz, this is okay with Bush 43! But now, American government is on some kind of [expletive]-hunt!”
“That’s ‘witch hunt;’” I corrected, “although, if they manage to catch Condoleezza Rice while they’re at it, then…”
“I not want them catch anybody,” he yelled, standing up and gesticulating vigorously. “I want witch-hunt to stop! Let me tell you, I no like this Obama president you have now! He is bad Moslem!”
“Well,” I added, “actually, he isn’t…”
“Don’t care,” he raged on, “whatever Obama is, he is not good for Iraq! Not good for the Iraqis who help Americans for seven long years! Why the Americans not let the government of Iraq take care of this, huh? You tell me!”
“The current government of Iraq,” I reminded him, “has met for a grand total of seventeen minutes since the latest elections were held five months ago.”
“Very busy,” my guest muttered. “People in Iraqi government so busy, no time to meet.”
“Busy doing what?” I pressed.
“Busy with…” his hands fluttered about as he searched for the words. “Busy with same thing American politicians busy with! Making the pork in the barrel! Is hard work, being politician! So now, my friend Tom, you quit asking questions. I ask questions! I ask, how to make this witch-hunting stop?”
“I doubt very much,” I confidently informed him, “that you need to worry about stopping it.”
My stinky client’s eyes widened. “How is this?”
“Because,” I explained, “the witch-hunters are never going to find anything.”
“No?”
“Not a thing.”
“Why is this?”
“Because Donald Rumsfeld and Paul Wolfowitz made sure there was no paper trail attached to that eight billion dollars.”
“No paper?”
“Not the least scrap,” I assured him. “And without documents, accountants, forensic or not, are about as useful as the teats on a bull.”
“But,” he objected, “how can be you sure?”
“Because,” I confided with a knowing wink, “I helped them plan how to do it.”
With that, my guest collapsed back on to the couch, heaving a huge sigh of relief. “My friend Tom, every visit I make with you, it is worth every dollar I pay.”
“True,” I agreed. “After all, who can put a price on peace of mind?”

Vilsack Still Suffering from Premature Termination

tomcollins — Sat, 24 Jul 2010 21:53:11 +0000

Today’s miserable outdoor conditions were more proof (as if we needed it here) that the primary difference between Hell and Washington DC in the summer is that Hell has dry heat. The mercury climbed to around one hundred this afternoon, and with the humidity, it felt like about one hundred and ten outside. Which is why I stayed inside, watching movies with Cerise on the big-screen HDTV in the basement.
It was seventy degrees down there, a temperature that, IMHO, is perfect for munching organic black kernel popcorn with grass-fed butter and a bit of Celtic Breton sea salt while quaffing a frosty artisanal oak-barreled, cave-aged Italian Alpine ice Pilsner and watching a flick. In Cerise’s opinion, OTOH, that’s a bit chilly, so she opted for a light cashmere sweater and a glass of 2007 Chateaux Margaux.
Being a guy who knows how to please women, I let Cerise pick the movies, of course. Okay, so sometimes that means watching something like The Fantastic Mr. Fox, which Cerise wanted to see because it’s about animals. Well, sort of, anyway - it turned out to be an animated story about animals that talk and wear pajamas to bed - but it was voiced fairly well by George Clooney and Meryl Streep, who are reasonably competent actors, after all. Furthermore, it turned out to be a passably amusing parody of Quentin Tarantino’s oeuvre - an unexpected and pleasant surprise, to say the least.
One nice thing about letting your girlfriend select the movies you watch at home on a rainy (or ridiculously hot) day is that you don’t really mind being interrupted all that much. Which was good, because right about the time Mr. Fox slid into recidivism and decided to risk his cushy position as a newspaper columnist by starting to steal chickens again, the basement extension of my land line telephone rang. From my caller ID, I could see it was Tom Vilsack. So I picked up, excused myself, put him on hold and went upstairs to take the call on the extension in my home office.

Tom: So, Secretary Vilsack. To what do I owe the honor of this telephone call to my home on a Saturday afternoon?
Vilsack: I’m at the end of my rope with this Shirley Sherrod thing.
Tom: Sir, I strongly recommend that, in the future, you consider contacting me before you reach the end of your rope.
Vilsack: I would, but Holy Mother of God, Collins, you’re one of the most expensive items on every GWAC in town! I can use the GSA Schedule to order a platoon of ex-Special Forces bodyguards to walk me around Sadr City all night for twenty percent less than you charge for a consultation!
Tom: You get what you pay for, Mr. Secretary.
Vilsack: I suppose you’re right, Collins. So what do you think?
Tom: About what?
Vilsack: Oh [expletive], I don’t know, the whole [expletive] thing!
Tom: You mean, what do I think about some right-wing, reactionary neo-fascist TEA Party blowhard named Andrew Breitbart taking one of your senior Agriculture Department employee’s remarks out of context and posting a video of it on his Web site? Or do you mean, what do I think about the media feeding frenzy which ensued after he did that? Or do you mean, what do I think of you demanding Ms. Sherrod’s resignation before you saw the entire speech from which Breitbart took that video clip? Or do you mean, what do I think of not only you - but the President of the United States, for Christ’s sake - having to publicly eat crow after the world found out that clip came from a pithy and insightful speech in which Ms. Sherrod was actually relating a complex, nuanced story of race relations and redemption? Or do you mean, what do I think of the fact that Ms. Sherrod wants some time to think about your offer to re-hire her as a USDA employee? Or do you mean, what do I think about a totally absurd story like this eclipsing not only the President’s final victory in breaking the Congressional log jam holding back unemployment benefits extensions for millions of Americans, but his hard-fought passage of a financial reform bill as well?
Vilsack: Is there I box I can check for “All of the Above?”
Tom: Very well, given that; then, sir, what I think is, you have proved that the Obama Administration has an excellent case for a brand new Secretary of Agriculture.
Vilsack: But I apologized! I held a press conference and I admitted that I did not think before I acted! I said I know that employment termination decisions should take time, and that I hadn’t taken any time at all! I took responsibility, didn’t I? And I said I’d have to live with what I had done for a long, long time!
Tom: “The rest of my life” would have been better, sir. “A long, long time” could be how it feels to sit through a Hillary Clinton diplomatic dinner toast.
Vilsack: Well, damn it, Collins, you know what I meant! Everybody knows what I meant! I acted without due diligence; I jumped to conclusions; I went off half cocked! And I’m sorry! Extremely sorry! Bitterly sorry! Unimaginably sorry! As a matter of fact, I am [expletive] overflowing with chagrin, mortification, contrition, regret and remorse, okay? Now tell me - why the [expletive] won’t that stubborn [expletive] [expletive] be gracious enough to accept my [expletive] job offer?
Tom: Uh, well, you’re the Secretary of Agriculture, sir, and it’s the Department of Agriculture, and Ms. Sherrod is an expert on agricultural development policy.
Vilsack: Yeah, so what?
Tom: The position you offered her is as Special Deputy Director of Outreach at the USDA Office of Advocacy.
Vilsack: And?
Tom: That’s a human resources EEO and civil rights policy position.
Vilsack: Which means?
Tom: Which means, um, as I said, sir, Ms. Sherrod is an expert on agricultural development policy, not HR, EEO or civil rights policy. Therefore, it’s entirely possible that she simply may not want the position because she’s not qualified for it.
Vilsack: [Expletive] her! Why should that [expletive] [expletive] care if she’s qualified to do her [expletive] job? Nobody else in Washington does! What the [expletive] makes her think she’s so [expletive] special, anyway?
Tom: I know it’s rather… unusual for someone in Washington to… ah… have that particular perspective, but…
Vilsack: Unusual? It’s [expletive] unheard of, that’s what it is! Look, Collins, this is serious, okay? All right, maybe I screwed the pooch, but that’s no reason for me to resign my post as Secretary of Agriculture in disgrace, is it? I mean, I was trying to do the right thing, wasn’t I? Everybody knows that USDA has had a terrible reputation for racism and it’s had that reputation for at least seventy years! I had the right motives, didn’t I? I wanted to show that now, there’s zero tolerance for racism at the Department of Agriculture, that’s all. So, okay, maybe I was… overzealous - but is it fair I should get [expletive] crucified for it?
Tom: So after seven decades of white male USDA employees ignoring, cheating and short-changing black and Hispanic farmers, you decided to come down like a ton of bricks on a black woman?
Vilsack: I had to! That is, if it had been true, I would have had to, anyway; maybe not so fast, but I would definitely have had to, for sure.
Tom: How come?
Vilsack: Because everybody knows that reverse racism is the worst kind, that’s [expletive] why!
Tom: I think perhaps you’ve been reading too many right wing Web sites, Mr. Secretary.
Vilsack: [Expletive], maybe I have! Everybody in the Obama Administration reads them, every day. It’s what we’re expected to do!
Tom: For what reasons?
Vilsack: Uh, ah… so we know what they think of us, I guess.
Tom: But why empower a bunch of bozos like that by paying so much attention to them? They’re idiots, aren’t they?
Vilsack: Uh… yeah, I suppose so…
Tom: And you’re a cabinet secretary. And Obama is President of the United States. And who’s this Andrew Breitbart clown? Why does what’s on his Web site make an ant-hill’s worth of difference to you or your boss?
Vilsack: But what about Glenn Beck? What about Rush Limbaugh? What about Bill O’Reilly and Ann Coulter and Michelle Malkin? What about what they will say?
Tom: At the risk of repeating myself, Mr. Secretary, you’re the head of a powerful government agency, and your colleague, Barack Obama, is President of the United States, and compared to you, those people are nothing but impotent, insignificant pipsqueaks; mere nattering nabobs of negativism. They’re going to yell and scream like toddlers in a tantrum no matter what you do. If Barack Obama turned two fishes and five loaves into a feast for a starving multitude, those morons would complain about him violating the separation of church and state.
Vilsack: But what about… Fox News?
Tom: Nobody who watches Fox News would support the Obama Administration in a fight against an invasion from outer space, Mr. Secretary. Worrying about what those people think of you is like worrying about what Kim Jong Il thinks of Lady Gaga.
Vilsack: All right, I understand. You’re saying we got ourselves into this by letting our opponents define and validate us.
Tom: That, and the fact that your opponents are a gaggle of babbling half-wits whom you were foolish enough to take seriously; combined with a massive display of misjudgment wherein you decided to pay the least scintilla of attention to them in the first place.
Vilsack: Okay, then, say that’s correct; fine. But how do I keep my job as Secretary of Agriculture? At the moment, there’s such a hue and cry for my head, I feel like King Louis XVI.
Tom: I would advise you play for sympathy.
Vilsack: Oh, you mean, remind everyone that I was abandoned by my real parents and then adopted from a Catholic orphanage?
Tom: No, I was thinking you could remind everyone that you were once governor of Iowa.
Vilsack: I don’t understand. Are you saying that millions of people are going to feel sorry for me if they find out that I used to be the governor of Iowa?
Tom: Sir, practically everybody in America will feel a sincere and deep twinge of sympathy for you if you merely remind them that you even had to live there once.
Vilsack: Everybody? Really? You mean, even the ones in Nebraska, Kansas and the Dakotas?
Tom: Yes; even the ones in Mississippi, sir.
Vilsack: Mississippi?
Tom: Yep.
Vilsack: New Jersey?
Tom: Even them.
Vilsack: You know, Collins, if what you say is true, then doing so promises to be an extremely humiliating experience. I… I just don’t know if I could put myself through something like that, even if enduring it meant I could keep my job as Secretary of Agriculture.
Tom: I understand, sir. Look at it this way - it’s Saturday afternoon. I suggest you sleep on it until Monday morning.
Vilsack: Yeah, I think you’re right. I will. Uh… Collins…
Tom: Yes?
Vilsack: Am I actually as bad as this [expletive] mess makes me look? I mean, I’m not really the most impulsive, undisciplined, unprofessional, tactless, inept, ham-handed, impolitic and stupid jackass of a cabinet secretary that the city of Washington has ever seen, am I?
Tom: Of course not, Mr. Secretary. James G. Watt holds that distinction, and rest assured, sir, you are no James G. Watt.

Idle Hands Continue to be Devil’s Workshop

tomcollins — Sat, 17 Jul 2010 22:56:19 +0000

My dear sister Rose stopped downtown for lunch on Thursday, and, as usual, she chose the restaurant, opting for the Occidental, a truly venerable Washington institution that’s been around since the turn of the last century. In 2006, it moved next to the Willard Hotel, where the Round Robin Bar is located, and regular readers of this Web log know I quaff my share of delectable after-work libations at the Round Robin, for sure. I am pleased to report that the Occidental has, in fact, not only maintained the high standards which have traditionally accompanied its historic reputation, it has actually surpassed even those since it moved.
Rose’s situation, on the other hand, has become increasingly problematic. I supposed I should have known better than to ask how her husband Hank’s job search is going. Rose stopped eating, the second of her trio of Maryland crab croquettes, sporting a dainty dab of saffron and dill aioli dip, poised halfway to her perfect lips. She lowered her eyes (and the croquette) to her appetizer plate and murmured, “I think he’s quit looking, Tom. All he does now is run around working for the TEA Party, ranting about the November elections and raving about Obama and the Democrats.”
“Gee,” I commiserated over a bite of oyster gratin with wilted swiss chard, apple wood bacon lardons, fennel, Pernod cream and a Pecorino panko crust, “that’s a shame.”
Rose’s gaze snapped up from the table at me to see if I was smirking. I wasn’t - I know better than that, of course. On the other hand, I’ve never really believed that Hank was good enough for my big sister, and she’s well aware of it. That’s why she was checking my sincerity level.
She sighed, lifted her appetizer fork once more, and took a bite, savoring the flavor, eyes closed, for a moment; then she had a sip of the 2006 Chass Montrachet Premier Cru, JC Bachelet Les Macherelles, a bottle of which we were sharing. “This week, he’s been particularly unbearable, going on and on about the NAACP.”
“You mean,” I surmised, “their resolution on Tuesday, which calls upon the TEA Party to repudiate racism?”
“And,” she added, “as Hank would no doubt quickly remind us, condemns ‘extremist elements’ in the TEA Party, which he claims don’t even exist. Let me tell you, Tom, there’s nothing quite like watching your husband screaming at the television, as loudly as possible, that there are no extremist elements in the TEA Party to convince a person that there probably are plenty of them.”
“I can imagine,” I cautiously offered. Rose can be quite irritable when she’s mad at Hank.
“He says,” she continued with a slightly testy note, “that an organization with the phrase ‘colored people’ in its name has no business lecturing anybody about racism.”
“That’s… unfortunate…” I began.
“No,” Rose interrupted, “it’s vintage Henry Palikowsi. When I reminded him that the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People was founded in 1909, when the term ‘colored people’ had entirely different connotations, all he could say was, ‘Well, in that case, how come they haven’t been smart enough during the last one hundred and one years to change it, huh?’ Then he said, ‘What do they mean by “colored people,” anyway? Look at me, I’ve been out in the sun in July, and I’m pink! Doesn’t that make me a “colored person,” or is pink not a color?’ And, ‘How come it’s okay for them to say “colored people,” but if I say it, then it’s a big racist insult, right up there with calling them…’ well, then he used the N-word, and went on to say, ‘Can you explain why they say it’s okay for me to call them “people of color?” How can reversal of word order and the insertion of a preposition turn a horrible ethnic slur into something acceptable for use in polite conversation? What kind of semantic voodoo is that, anyway? And if “colored people” is such a big insult, how come they use it themselves in the name of the NAACP? Is that like it being fine and dandy for them to call each other…’ um… the N-word again, ‘but they have the right to sue us if we call them that?’ I tell you, Tom, it gives me the willies, listening to Hank talk these days.”
“Well,” I observed, “he’s certainly not alone. Plenty of conservatives have chimed in about that resolution. A lot of them are claiming the NAACP is a superannuated and obsolete organization that is using the resolution as a publicity stunt. And I suppose those folks do have a point - if their latest resolution didn’t say what it does about the TEA Party, who would have even noticed the NAACP had proposed it for a vote in the first place?”
“TEA Party protesters on Capitol Hill,” Rose pointed out, “spat at black members of Congress and called them the N-word. But when I reminded him of that, Hank said, ‘Those people weren’t in the TEA Party.’ So then I said, ‘How do you know who’s in the TEA Party and who isn’t?’ And Hank said, ‘Anybody who says they are with the movement is in the TEA Party,’ and so then I said, ‘Therefore, in that case, if even one of those extremist racists who spat on those black Congressmen says they are in the TEA Party, then the TEA Party is responsible for their actions.’ Tom, when I said that, Hank just hit the ceiling and told me, ‘That’s not how it works! Look at Lyndon LaRouche! Are the Democrats responsible for what Lyndon LaRouche or members of his organization do, just because he says he’s a Democrat?’ And so I said, ‘But the Democrats repudiated Lyndon LaRouche for being an extremist, and that’s all the NAACP wants the TEA Party to do,’ and Hank said ‘Right, and so how come the NAACP didn’t call on the Democrats to repudiate Lyndon LaRouche, huh?’ And I said, ‘Because the followers of Lyndon LaRouche aren’t out on Capitol Hill spitting at black members of Congress; what they want to do is spit at members of the Federal Reserve Board.’ And then Hank said, ‘Really?’ And I said, ‘Sure. You didn’t know that?’ And then Hank said, ‘See? Even those nut cases agree with the TEA Party! I win!’ Then he gave me this look, as if that settled everything, and went back into the den to finish PhotoShopping Obama’s head made up like the Joker onto a picture of Hitler.”
“Rose,” I opined, “if people like your husband don’t find jobs to keep them out of mischief pretty soon, this country is going to be in some serious trouble.”
“Yeah,” she sighed again, this time quite heavily, “I know.”

Now, let’s see what’s in that Quarterly Mailbag.

Informed sources report that Disney sent some goons to break my legs for what I said about Fess Parker, Miley Cyrus and the Jonas Brothers in my April 2 post about Republican National Committee Chairman Michael Steele. It seems that the local constabulary noticed them cruising around my neighborhood, though, asking people for a Tom Collins, and told them to get lost. After she heard about that, Veronica made a few phone calls to the Coast and those, in turn, called off the rabid dogs - or would that be rabid mice? A lawyer who claims to represent the estate of Davy Crockett also threatened to sue me. At least he used e-mail, the civilized alternative. I referred him to my lawyer, who promptly made mincemeat out of him. That’s right folks - you write something like Tom Collins’ World Wide Web Log, you better have a good lawyer, and guess what, I have two. As a matter of fact, this being Washington, DC I live in, I’m buddies with more lawyers you can shake a stick at, and a few judges, too. Aside from that, several folks wrote in with birthday wishes, and absolutely nobody wrote in to defend Michael Steele. Looking back all of ninety days, I’d say that post was remarkably prescient, as this week Steele managed to enrage lots of Republicans for about the tenth time since then. This week, he suggested that, for reasons known only to Michael Steele and God Almighty, our military presence in Afghanistan is “Obama’s war.” But nobody’s sent me any e-mails about Steele in the April 2 post, actually, and I don’t expect any e-mails concerning Steele in reaction to this post, either. The fact remains, however, that my Web stats for that post were through the roof, so even though John McCain wants Steele to quit, frankly, I hope Steele remains in his position, resolutely putting his foot in his mouth, until, as is obviously inevitable, he inadvertently chokes on his own ankle while he’s at it.
If you look at the responses from all regions of the Internet, then the sentiment concerning my post about Bob McDonnell, the governor of Virginia, the state where I live, declaring April to be ‘Confederate History and Heritage Month,’ it is, as Spiro Agnew would have put it, nolo contendere - my dear brother Rob Roy is absolutely correct, and Virginia, far from being for lovers, is most certainly for expletive deleted unprintable bodily orifices instead. Looking at the e-mails that just came from IP addresses in the United States, however, it’s pretty a much a toss-up. While it’s comforting to know that fifty one point six percent of Americans who wrote me agree with the rest of the world, and that is, technically speaking a majority, there’s still that pesky forty-eight point four percent who say I ought to be tarred at feathered, at the very least, for insulting the state that gave us George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, Robert E. Lee and Abner Yokum. My rebuttal is that, just as 3.2 percent beer is still beer, a 3.2 percent majority is still a majority.
Since my post about political upheaval in the Godforsaken weed patch known as Kyrgyzstan, things there have continued to fester like a ripe carbuncle, and, similarly, e-mails about it have continued to trickle in like pus seeping out of one. The general sentiments are either that Kurmanbek Bakiyev is a great national hero (nineteen percent), that Kurmanbek Bakiyev is a genocidal manic (sixty-three percent) or please, please Mr. Tom Collins, I beg you, help me get the hell out of Kyrgyzstan. I have also received between one and three e-mails apiece from residents of (or persons claiming to hail from and/or represent in some manner) Venezuela, Burundi, Equatorial Guinea, Guinea, Haiti, Iran, Turkmenistan, Uzbekistan, Chad, Iraq, Sudan, Myanmar, Afghanistan and Somalia, all of whom contested my assertion that those countries are more corrupt than Kyrgyzstan and complained bitterly that I am a woefully misinformed and grossly unfair person who has no right to compare their homeland/spouse’s homeland/relative’s homeland/client country/place they visited once/whatever to a pathetic dump like Kyrgyzstan. To them I say - take your umbrage shove it where the sun don’t shine! I certainly didn’t make those ratings up. Somebody else did, and posted them on the Internet; and, as we all know, if it’s posted on the Internet, it must be true. Take this blog, for example. In addition, to date I have received nine irate messages from Peter Lorre fans. To them, I say - get a life, already, he’s been dead since 1964.
My post which mentioned a piece of contemporary art consisting of a canvas that had been placed on the floor of a local French restaurant brought several very catty comments from the owners and chefs of other DC area French restaurants that were not selected as venues of the Muse. The restaurant chosen, I was informed, uses canned hearts of palm in its salads, prepares its sauces and flambés with cheap domestic VS brandy, buys its pastries from a catering service located next door to a junk yard in Landover, and commits a number of other culinary faux pas, not the least of which is soaking the labels off of empty bottles of expensive wine and pasting them back on bottles of vins ordinaires, then palming them off as genuine selections from their wine list to rich, clueless, philistine rubes who couldn’t tell the difference if their lives depended on it, which is to say, about ninety percent of the people who dine at French restaurants in Washington. I forwarded those to the artist, who responded by thanking me for the background notes and stated that this was exactly the sort of thing he had been hoping to get. I also received an inquiry from the District Health Department. It seems they frown on covering kitchen floors with canvas, which was apparently a problem with soul food eateries in Northeast DC back in the seventies. I wrote back explaining that this case was different, because it was done for Art. They responded with a request for Art’s full name and address, so they can cite him for city code violations. The part of the post concerning what my dear brother-in-law Hank has been up to with the TEA Party gave me glimpse of what I might expect to receive from today’s post, which chronicles his continuing misadventures as a disgruntled patriot. I got a passel of e-mails relating, in excruciating detail, what the real Americans are going to do to me when they take over. Extremists in the TEA Party? Perish the thought!
My post on the G20 Summit held here in Washington drew a great deal of that type of informed and insightful economic comment typical of Glenn Beck and Bill O’Reilly. For the record, despite my correspondents’ lengthy arguments to contrary, I remain unconvinced that things like illegal Mexican immigrants, NAFTA, black helicopters, the UN or the Bilderberg Group are the real reasons for this country’s current economic woes. On the other hand, nobody wrote in to contest Greek First Economic Secretary Skatanafas Archimalakas’ explanation that the reason the Euro is in the sewer at the moment is his nation’s protracted e-mail relationship with Bonzo Bungholubongo, King of the Uougabuogaboos, native to the Central African Republic, who presently resides in Lagos, Nigeria. As a matter of fact, I got several dozen e-mails from people who stated that is the most sensible explanation they have read to date. I also received over a hundred more from people who, it seems, have also been corresponding with His Majesty King Bungholubongo, asking for my assistance in contacting him concerning their own, now rather severe financial predicaments.
Even I can scarcely believe I posted such an eerily prescient story about the BP oil spill all the way back on May 2. Plenty of my readers wrote in to comment on that, and many of them also asked who I like in the 2010 World Series and Super Bowl XLV. Most of them also had more than a few choice words for Bartleby, the BP lobbyist, too. Well, it’s nice to see a few e-mails suggesting that somebody else besides me deserves to die like Benito Mussolini.
The subsequent post on May 8 about the biggest hiccup in the history of the Dow Jones Industrial Average, and my subsequent consultation with a long-time client from the Securities and Exchange Commission about it, brought howls of dismay from the provinces. How dare I, they demanded, tolerate such incompetence, sloth and stupidity from someone who works for the United States Government? To them I say, I’m a consultant, yes, which means I’m in the upper echelons of the business, but, in the final analysis, I’m still a federal contractor. Tolerating the incompetence, sloth and stupidity of our clients is a significant part of what all federal contractors get paid to do.
My post about the Facebook privacy flap drew a chorus of “amen!” from all quarters, plus a number of creative suggestions about what should happen to Mark Zuckerberg. Like I said about Mussolini, at least I’m not the only person the increasingly irascible and irate multitudes want to hang from a lamp post. Not that I actually think they meant it, I’m sure they were just blowing off steam about having been raped (speaking metaphorically, of course) by a greedy, amoral, lying, thieving information technology monster. Besides, if they want to provide Benito’s final joy ride to a greedy, amoral, lying, thieving information technology monster, they really ought to start with Bill Gates or Larry Ellison, anyway. Speaking metaphorically, of course.
My May 22 post about a visit from one Jethro Bodine, of the Rand Paul for Senate Campaign, evoked a plethora of epistles offering lectures on the True Nature of Libertarianism and explaining to me how I have it all wrong. To them I say, no, I don’t - a Libertarian America would look like a dystopian science fiction novel written by Robert A. Heinlein on ketamine. That’s why Rand Paul is going to be a constitutional conservative from now on instead.
After reading what various Idahoans had to say pertaining to my post in which recounted a conversation with notable Republican insider Vaughn Ward, I have decided that, should I ever develop a yen to vacation in a sparsely populated backwater full of dangerous wild animals and ignorant hicks, I’ll take my chances in Montana instead. I was anticipating some e-mails from angry Vaughn Ward supporters, but apparently, he either doesn’t have any, they don’t know how to read, or they can’t operate a computer well enough to access this blog.
What I had to say about Waggoner, the Republican Senate staffer, with regard to the nomination of Elena Kagan to the Supreme Court elicited the expected excoriations from those who consider her to be Satan Incarnate in This World. To them I confidently reply, no, Dick Cheney holds that distinction at the moment, and probably will continue to do so until the Dark One summons him to slather at the loins of Ronald Reagan for all eternity. (Judging from the news this week, however, that may not be very long.) A number of folks also wrote in to offer helpful suggestions for avoiding people like Waggoner at cocktail parties. Thanks for those - I’ll keep them in mind for later use when the Democrats crash and burn in November. And speaking of Democrats, I was vilified by many lefties for offering Waggoner practical advice on how to revive a Republican hegemony. My apologies, but despite what I write about the Republicans in this blog, they do, in fact, provide me with quite a bit of business. And besides, without Republicans, who would the liberals have to blame for all this rampant evil? Themselves, perhaps?
It seems every time I mention sushi in a post, I get a Niagara of e-mails from people either warning me about the dangers of consuming raw fish or telling me I’m gross for eating something icky like sushi and asking why don’t I eat normal food like pickled pigs feet, head cheese, tongue, deep-fried corn dogs or Big Macs? The answer is, I do, actually; just not every day, okay? Not every week or month, either, but sometimes. Virtually everyone who wrote in about the subject of that post - which was the great Google debacle of June 10, 2010 - agreed with me that the geeks of Mountain View totally stepped in a big, steaming pile of it this time, and that such acts of frank idiocy should be reserved for Microsoft. Strangely enough, though, in the interim, it seems that as of last week, Apple has now caught whatever Google had back in June. I don’t know, maybe Google sneezed all over Apple’s lunch or something. Anyway, now we have the iPhone 4, which seems to have spawned something much more virulent than what Google had - Antenna-Gate, anyone? Watch this space for more absurd developments, I guess.
A flood of e-mails denouncing the incumbent Afghan government followed my June 20 post, where I told of yet another visit from Khus Dihugami Dadamizo, Special International Policy Emissary of His Excellency President Hamid Karzai for the Embassy of Afghanistan to the United States of America. Unlike the first post concerning this gentleman, several of the responses to this latest one pointed out that Mr. Dadamizo’s name means naughty things in Pashto. Gee whiz, now, folks, what can I do about how Afghanis name their children? I also got plenty of stuff about lithium. Did you know that an isotope of lithium is used to make hydrogen bombs? That the soft drink Seven-Up at one time contained lithium? That lithium will actually catch fire if you put it into water? Uh, well, actually, I did. I knew all of those things about lithium long before you wrote in to tell me about them, and anybody who bothers to read the Wikipedia entry on lithium knows them, too. But thanks anyway, I know your hearts were in the right place. Most of the folks who wrote in don’t think lithium should be illegal, by the way, and I agree. Most of them also think the idea of making it illegal is indeed worthy of Paul Wolfowitz, and furthermore, agree with my assessment that nobody would have any problem believing he came up with it.
Post on 6/26 about texting w/Gen McChrystal had many readers LOL. 2 bad he’s going deaf, i guess. Very un4-2n8 #:>(

Latest DoD Effort Proves No Threat to Gallup or Zogby

tomcollins — Sat, 10 Jul 2010 20:09:29 +0000

Usually, my Department of Defense clients book their appointments well in advance. They also like to come in early, too; meetings at 06:00, as they like to call the unquestionably barbaric hour of six a.m., are not uncommon. In order to attend such a consultation, I am, of course, required to arise at what they like to call “oh-dark-thirty,” and, what’s more, open up the office myself, since Gretchen comes in at eight. I understand, naturally, that’s the nature of military life. If you want to, as they are fond of saying, get more things done by lunch than most people do in a week, you have to get up early. Besides, if they slept too late, the enemy might sneak up on them, right?
So I was rather surprised when yesterday, about two in the afternoon, I received an e-mail (marked Urgent!) from Colonel Frances “Buster” Highman, over at the Pentagon, requesting a meeting before close of business. I was, unfortunately, booked solid, right up through a ninety minute consultation with some German industrial economists starting at six thirty. (Europeans don’t consider that a particularly late time for a business meeting, by the way.) So the only thing I could offer Colonel Highman was a meeting at 20:00, which he and his colleagues like to call “two thousand hours,” and normal people call eight o’clock in the evening.
He accepted, which I consider nothing short of remarkable. Aren’t military types usually ready for bed around nine? I mean, really, they have to be, don’t they, if they’re going to get up at oh-dark-thirty every morning? Otherwise, after a few years, they’d keel over from sleep deprivation. And we all know that doesn’t happen, because old soldiers never die - they just fade away.
“What brings you here,” I consequently began, “on such short notice and at such a late hour?”
“The DoD Survey on Gays in the Military,” he sighed. “Makes me wish I was back in Iraq instead of behind a desk in the A Ring. Like I’ve told you before, Collins, this public relations billet I got after that jihadi IED put me out of commission sucks [expletive].”
“Now that you mention it,” I recalled, “it does seem to me that I saw something about that survey earlier today. Apparently, a number of gay rights groups started complaining about it, just hours after it was issued to the troops.”
“Yeah,” Colonel Highman muttered ruefully. “The law of averages was at work there, you can bet on it. Distribute a survey on anything to four hundred thousand military personnel, and it’s inevitable that some of the people who get it are going to be queers, even if the survey is about something else entirely, like race relations or stop-loss.”
“It doesn’t sound,” I observed, “as if you are, shall we say, completely objective with respect to this particular survey’s subject.”
“I don’t have to be!” Colonel Highman snapped. “It’s my constitutional right to hate fags if I want to, and believe me, there are plenty of officers in the United States armed forces who feel exactly the same way!”
“Certainly,” I concurred. “The Constitution guarantees everyone the right to be as bigoted as they like. So, I take it, the top brass have become aware that a… certain portion of the military and the public are extremely upset about this survey, and you are the poor devil who has to deal with all the backlash?”
“Yeah,” he nodded sadly. “I’m the point man on that patrol.”
“Okay,” I responded, using as resolute a voice as possible, “let’s move forward from this position, then. It just so happens that I have a copy of the survey here…”
“How the [expletive] did you get that?” Colonel Highman demanded.
“I can’t really say, Colonel…” I started to explain.
“You got it from some gay rights organization!” Colonel Highman accused. “They’re your clients, too, aren’t they? Just like we are!”
“I really can’t…” I attempted to continue.
“Never mind,” he angrily huffed. “You’re a consultant. I shouldn’t blame you for making a living by working both sides of the street.”
“But you do anyway,” I pointed out, “don’t you?”
“All right,” he admitted. “I do, just a little bit.”
“Well,” I consoled, “don’t let it bother you. No offense taken. Besides, it’s a military maxim that you ought to know your enemy, isn’t it? So it behooves you to seek the advice of an expert who also does business with your adversary, doesn’t it? For instance, looking at this survey, based on my knowledge of gays and gayness, I think I can see what got the gay community so upset. Consider, for starters, this question:

‘If a wartime situation made it necessary for you to share a room, berth or field tent with someone you believe to be a gay or lesbian service member, which are you likely to do?
A. Discuss how we expect each other to behave.
B. Talk to a chaplain or mentor.
C. Talk to a leader to see if I have other options.
D. Other.’”

“Okay,” Colonel Highman shrugged. “What’s wrong with that?”
“Why,” I inquired in a significant tone, “is the response ‘E. Do nothing I wouldn’t do otherwise’ missing from this survey question?”
“Beats me,” he shrugged indifferently. “It’s not like none of the questions lack that option. How about the one about the showers?”
“Are you referring,” I asked, “to this one? The question that reads:

‘If “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” is repealed, and you are assigned to bathroom facilities having open bay showers with a gay or lesbian service member, would you…
A. Take no action.
B. Use the shower at a different time.’”

“Uh-huh,” Colonel Highman confirmed, “that’s the one I meant.”
“How come,” I wondered, “Response A says ‘Take no action’ instead of ‘Use the shower as I would with any other service member’ or something similar?”
“Got me,” he replied diffidently.
“Then there’s this one,” I read:

“‘In the units where you had a leader you believe to be gay or lesbian, about how many other unit members, on average, also believed the leader to be gay or lesbian?
A. Just me.
B. Up to five others.
C. At least half of the unit.
D. Everybody.
E. None. I have never served under self-proclaimed homosexuals.’

Isn’t this whole question,” I mused, “just a bit homophobic?”
“The very same Constitution,” Colonel Highman staunchly asserted, “that permits Americans to hate faggots also guarantees the God-given right to be afraid of them.”
“Now, why in the world,” I gently cross-examined, “would anybody be afraid of gays?”
“Well… uh… I don’t know…” Colonel Highman stammered. “I guess they’re afraid the gays will… um… do something gay, you know - like dress up as women and confuse men in nightclubs.”
“All right,” I allowed, “when J. Edgar Hoover dressed up as a woman, that was pretty frightening. But what I’m saying is there’s no reason to be scared of gays in general. Now, consider this next one:

‘If “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” is repealed and a gay or lesbian service member attended a military social function with a same-sex partner, which are you most likely to do?
A. Continue to attend military social functions.
B. Stop bringing my spouse, significant other or other family members with me to military social functions.
C. Stop attending military social functions.
D. I don’t know.
E. Do something else.’

“Come now, Colonel,” I chided, “what’s this ‘do something else’ business all about? Show up next time with an assault rifle and mow down the Sodomitic sinners, perhaps?”
“All it says,” Colonel Highman insisted, “is ‘do something else.’ It doesn’t say what.”
“Okay,” I parried, “let’s look at another one:

‘If “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” is repealed and you had on-base housing and a gay or lesbian service member was living with a same-sex partner on-base, what would you most likely do?
A. I would get to know them like any other neighbors.
B. I would make a special effort to get to know them.
C. I would be uncomfortable, but access to the exchange, commissary, and MWR facilities is more important to me than who my neighbors are when deciding where to live.
D. I would be uncomfortable, but the quality of on-base housing is more important to me than who my neighbors are when deciding where to live.
E. I would be uncomfortable, but the cost of moving makes it unlikely I would leave on-base housing.
F. I would probably move off-base.
G. I don’t know.
H. I would do something else.’

Okay. Forget about surveys that ask loaded questions!” I exclaimed. “Look at responses B, C, D, and H. This survey is full of loaded answers!”
“That survey,” Colonel Highman sniffed, “was prepared by a reputable federal contractor in Rockville, Maryland, at a cost of over four point five million dollars.”
“But isn’t it obvious,” I implored, “that the contractors who prepared this survey were spineless sycophants who mindlessly kowtowed to their clients at the Pentagon? Can’t you see that they intentionally constructed this survey so as to appear to scientifically demonstrate why gays shouldn’t be allowed in the military?”
“Jesus Christ, Collins,” Colonel Highman objected, “what the [expletive] do you expect? That the Pentagon is going to give some fancy-pants egg-heads with ivy-league degrees millions of dollars to design a survey that tells us stuff we don’t want to hear?”
“You pay me plenty,” I reminded him, “and I don’t pull any punches.”
“Ah [expletive], Collins,” Colonel Highman sneered, “you know that’s different! We never ask you to put anything in writing. All you do is give us advice…”
“That’s not strictly true,” I confidently asserted. “I have prepared deliverables for the Department of Defense on many occasions.”
“Okay, yeah,” Colonel Highman conceded, “maybe you have, but if whoever commissions them doesn’t like what you write, all they have to do is declare your papers Top Secret. This stuff with the queer survey, that’s different.”
“That’s what you call it,” I ejaculated, “’the “queer” survey?’”
Colonel Highman shrugged once more. “That’s what it is. It even has a question in it, that goes ‘Do you currently serve with a male or female service member you believe to be homosexual?’ If that’s not a survey for queers, then what else could it be?”
“So you’re saying,” I reasoned, “that with appropriate statistical techniques, the Pentagon’s mathematicians can employ the results of this survey to determine an estimate, with an acceptable level of confidence, for the fraction of United States military personnel who are perceived by their peers to be gay?”
“Perceived?” Colonel Highman wrinkled his nose doubtfully. “I donno, I guess maybe, in the strictest interpretation, yeah, but actually, we’re going to assume that if the other members of their unit think somebody’s a queer, then they probably are.”
“I see,” I responded, soldiering on, pointing out another question. “And what about this, the one that says:

‘If you were lost in the wilderness or on a remote island in a snowstorm with another member of the armed forces of the same sex as yourself, and the two of you had to huddle together for warmth to avoid freezing to death, and you only had one sleeping bag and you believed that other member of the armed forces was a homosexual, would you…
A. Get in the sleeping bag head-to-head, facing the homosexual.
B. Get in the sleeping bag head-to-foot, facing the homosexual’s feet.
C. Get in the sleeping bag head-to-head, facing away from the homosexual.
D. Get in the sleeping bag head-to-foot, facing away from the homosexual’s feet.
E. Stay outside and take my chances freezing to death and/or getting killed by the local wildlife instead.’”

“Sounds fair enough as far as I’m concerned,” Colonel Highman opined, throwing me a slightly leering look. “What would you do?”
“Spoons,” I told him, matter-of-factly. “And how come there wasn’t a choice or two for that? Anybody who’s shared a sleeping bag knows spoons is the most comfortable position. Then there’s this one:

‘If you went home on leave and discovered that your younger sibling (brother or sister) was in a sexual relationship with a member of the armed forces who was the same sex as them, and also belonged to your own military unit, would you:
A. Tell my unit commanding officer about the situation when I return from leave.
B. Seek psychological or other counseling so I can better understand why the situation disturbs me and do something about it.
C. Seek psychological or other counseling so I don’t turn gay myself.
D. Warn my brother or sister about the consequences of homosexuality.
E. Beat up the gay or lesbian member of the armed forces who is having sex with my brother or sister.
F. Beat up my brother or sister for being gay.
G. Try to arrange a threesome.’”

“No lack of options there,” Colonel Highman smugly asserted.
“Unless,” I observed, “the person answering the question is gay themselves.”
“It looks to me,” he snickered, “like the last answer fits those people pretty well.”
“Only if you presume that gays are perverts,” I countered.
“What?” Colonel Highman stared back at me, his eyebrows arched. “Are you saying they’re not?”

Das Vedanya do Novy Streytch Russki Špionam

tomcollins — Sat, 03 Jul 2010 19:15:38 +0000

I scheduled cookouts on the deck for July third and Independence Day, too, so I’m certainly grateful that the weather here in Great Falls, Virginia is cooperating. It’s sunny, it’s dry and the temperature’s perfect. At least it was today, and the forecast for tomorrow indicates more of the same. That’s about as close to a miracle you can get in Washington, because the typical Fourth of July here in the Nation’s Capital is so hot you can hardly think straight and so humid you might not get all your fireworks to light properly even if there isn’t a huge, drenching downpour that doesn’t cool things off in the least, but only turns what was a sweltering sauna into a truly hellish outdoor version of a Turkish steam bath.
The big blow-out barbecue is tomorrow, of course. That’s when my dear brother Rob Roy will bring his wife, Katje and their son Jason with him, and my dear sister Rose will bring her husband Hank, Hank’s brother, Hank’s sister-in-law, and two large Catholic families worth of children with them. Today, it was just me, my girlfriend Cerise, Veronica (a former college hookup, now an impromptu room mate, who’s been living here since her ex-husband’s uninsured mansion in Malibu burned down) and my cat, Twinkle.
Since tomorrow’s grill is scheduled to be heavy on Kansas City dry aged prime beef, Colorado antelope chops, grass-fed South Dakota bison burgers, and Minnesota border lake venison sausage, and because I was, after all, cooking for a couple of single women and a finicky feline, today’s fare comprised lighter items. There wasn’t a single piece of red meat to be seen - instead there was marinated, wild-caught Alaskan king salmon, Puerto Rican tropical rock lobster tails, jumbo Missouri cave-grown Portobelo mushroom caps, giant Maine deep sea scallops, North Carolina heirloom vegetable kabobs; and that great proletarian favorite, beer can chicken. Not that I did things like a proletarian. It was a locally raised, free-range chicken, and I cooked it on a can of Pennsylvania Yuengling with Hawaiian elephant garlic, fresh Texas cilantro, smoked New Mexican chipolte peppers and Florida key limes inside, and covered the chicken’s interior and exterior with my handmade Louisiana Arcadian grilling rub. Like everything else today, I used a mixture of Vermont maple, Arizona mesquite, Oregon red alder, Virginia apple and Maryland white oak wood chips, soaked overnight in Jack Daniels Tennessee whisky diluted with upstate New York spring water, which I spread on top of perfectly glowing piles of lump Georgia hickory charcoal.
At first blush, that may sound like quite bit of food for three people and a kitty cat, but as always, the aromas from my culinary efforts attracted a some of the neighbors. While the denizens of Great Falls are smart enough to generate a median income of over two hundred thousand dollars a year, few of them, apparently, know how to prepare anything more interesting than a bowl of cold cereal. They eat most of their meals in restaurants, I suppose. So, in fact, there was just about enough food for everyone, including Twinkle, who had some of the salmon and pronounced it “nice.” She thought the beer can chicken was “spicy” though; not that she didn’t finish every single bit of it I gave her.
But when I handed the grill over to Cerise in order to enjoy a well-earned break with a glass of cool California Viognier, Benson, a banker who lives on my side the street five houses away, sat down anxiously next to me.
“Collins,” he whispered, “I hear you know a lot about… international affairs and so forth.”
“Well,” I cautiously allowed, “my clientele does include a significant number of foreign diplomatic delegations.”
Benson’s eyes darted around warily as he leaned closer and murmured, “What do you know about… espionage?”
“That it’s illegal,” I responded, “and immoral. And also unpatriotic, wrong and sinful. Unless the United States of America does it. Then it’s okay.”
“Sure, sure,” Benson breathed rapidly in my ear. “But, you know about those Russian spies the FBI arrested this week, right?”
“No doubt about that,” I assured him. “A person would have to be living off the grid in a shack in the Montana wilderness not to have heard how the US Attorneys deposed an FBI investigator, who revealed that a network of deep-cover Russian ‘sleeper’ agents has been hiding in the United States for years, in most cases posing as ordinary Americans. They all had respectable, well-paying jobs, minivans, SUVs, major credit cards, suburban homes, the works. Some of them even had kids. Allegedly, the eleven people arrested have all been sent here by the Russian government intelligence apparatus. Their alleged mission was to befriend influential, well-connected and/or knowledgable Americans, subsequently pumping them for information and covertly transmitting it back to Moscow. The feds say these people even had short wave radios, and used classic spy methods like cold drops to move information and receive cash. One of them, Anna Chapman, is even supposed to be some kind of post-modern Mata Hari. She’s definitely a real looker, anyway, if the pictures on the Internet haven’t all been PhotoShopped.”
“So,” Benson panted excitedly, “what do you think?”
“I think the whole affair sounds pretty damn far-fetched,” I frankly answered. “But maybe that’s what the Russian spooks who dreamed it up thought - perhaps they figured the approach presented some real advantages, because nobody in the American counter-intelligence community could possibly take such an absurd cliché seriously. ‘Sleeper’ agents? I mean, really, that whole concept was a fantasy dreamed up by paranoid Americans during the Red Scare. The only place you will find ‘sleeper’ agents is in those cheesy spy novels for sale in the bookstores at Dulles Airport.”
“You’re not saying,” Benson protested, “that the FBI is full of beans about this thing, are you?”
“I’m saying,” I clarified, “that the feds had better be ready to prove beyond a reasonable doubt these people are actually guilty of failing to register as agents of a foreign power and engaging in money laundering.”
Benson’s face fell. “Not espionage?”
“That’s just the point,” I shot back. “On the one hand, the FBI and U.S. Attorneys’ Office are ballyhooing to the media that they’ve broken up a spy ring, but on the other, none of the people arrested have been charged with espionage. Now, if the United States had a case against any one of these people for espionage, a case that could stand up in court…”
“Collins,” Benson snapped, “this is all very well and good, to talk about it theoretically! But I’m afraid I might be embroiled in… a very real situation here!”
“Huh?” That remark called for a rather stiff pull off my glass of white wine.
“It… she… I…” Benson stammered, finally untwisting his tongue with obvious effort, “my wife, God damn it! I’m afraid my wife is one of them!”
“In that case,” I advised, “why don’t you just wait for the FBI to come and arrest her?”
“What if they arrest me, too?” Benson blurted out. “Like you said, a lot of these Russian spies were posing as married couples!”
“Oh, I suppose that’s possible,” I admitted, “but as long as you are sure you can prove you’re a real American and you haven’t been using your bank to launder money…”
“I’m the chief executive officer, for Christ’s sake!” Benson interrupted. “How the hell should I know if my bank has been laundering money?”
“Actually,” I observed, “according to the Sarbanes-Oxley Act, you’re supposed to.”
“I am?” Benson demanded. “What next? Am I supposed to know which of my real estate loans are going to default this month, too? Since when has Congress been able to legislate competence in the banking industry?”
“Good point,” I conceded. “Okay, so what makes you think your wife is a Russian spy?”
“I met her in England,” Benson fretted. “That Chapman woman - her ex-husband says he met her in England.”
“So she’s English?” I inquired.
“No,” Benson said, shaking his head vigorously, “she’s from Chillicothe, Ohio; or at least that’s what she says! She claims she’s a member of ‘an old Ross County family,’ the Tiffins. She told me that Chillicothe was the first capital of Ohio, and that Edward Tiffin was the first governor.”
“Well,” I remarked, “I guess somebody had to do it. Does her story check out?”
“That part does,” Benson nodded. “But when I looked into her story thoroughly, it turns out she said her ancestor was a Republican, and that part wasn’t correct. Edward Tiffin was really an Anti-Federalist!”
“There weren’t,” I sighed, “any Republicans in 1804, at least not the ones you and I think of when we use the term. That Republican party didn’t exist until shortly before the Civil War. But, at the time, Thomas Jefferson’s political party called itself the ‘Republican Party,’ and, what’s more, they were anti-federalists. But unless your wife has a degree in American history, you can’t blame her for repeating what she most probably heard about her family when the subject was discussed back in Ohio. Bottom line, Benson, it sounds to me like that’s basically correct, her story checks out, and you’re getting hung up on what amounts to nineteenth century semantics.”
“All right,” Benson pressed on, “how about this? When I looked inside our safe deposit box at my bank, her birth certificate was missing!”
“Do you know for sure,” I quizzed him, “that it was ever there in the first place?”
“Mine is!” Benson objected.
“That doesn’t prove anything,” I dryly responded.
“Then what about the pink bicycles?” Benson continued. “She rides pink bicycles!”
“And?” I raised my eyebrows expectantly.
“Richard and Cynthia Murphy,” Benson informed me excitedly, “rode pink bicycles! So did their kids! The whole family rode pink bicycles, like it was some kind of secret, undercover signal or something, okay? And my wife rides pink bicycles! She has two - a racing bike and a trail bike - and both of them are pink!”
“Is that all you got?” I smiled with a puckish air.
“No,” Benson insisted, “not by a long shot! The news reports say that every one of those spies had a Facebook page and a LinkedIn account. Guess what? So does my wife!”
“The alleged spies,” I noted, “had orders to infiltrate American society, didn’t they? What could be more mainstream and normal for upper middle class American professionals these days?”
“Oh yeah?” Benson challenged. “How about this, then? The spies all attended lots of parties at embassies and non-governmental organizations, and so does my wife!”
“She’s a young, attractive and reasonably wealthy woman in Washington, DC,” I reminded him. “That’s what they… hey, wait a minute. Exactly how much older are you than she is?”
Benson stared down at the deck sullenly. “What’s that got to do with anything?”
“How much?” The question hung in the air for what seemed like quite a long time.
“She’s… my second wife,” Benson muttered. “About thirty years younger, I guess.”
“And she looks one hell of a lot better on your arm at the yacht basin, I imagine, than the woman who devoted her youth to you so you could have an impressive abode in Great Falls, Virginia.”
Benson nodded. “All right, I’m no saint. But I’ve got something else that’ll knock your socks off!”
Reaching into his pants pocket, he withdrew an e-mail printout. “I found this,” he softly spoke, handing it to me with gesture of certain finality. “It’s from one of the men she met at a charity ball this spring.”
I read the text:

e.e. cummings has always been one of my favorite poets; about fourth on the list after Shakespeare, Wordsworth and Byron. When I read this poem of his, I thought of you.

Beaming limelight is mere
melting stems of roses
and great nasturtiums
in the garnet ornithological
pronouncement of life.

Looking forward to receiving your contribution to Arts in the Parks!

Thanks so much,

Chad

“See?” Benson chortled, obviously satisfied with his sleuthing skills. “Her contact says Cummings is his fourth favorite poet. That’s kind of a strange thing to say, isn’t it? What’s more, I checked all over the Internet, and I couldn’t find that poem anywhere, and at this point, I’d be very, very surprised if Cummings ever even wrote it! No, instead, the number four is a hint! Look here…” Benson snatched the paper from my hands, produced a red pen and wrote on the printout, underling various letters in the text. “You see?” Benson asked as he waved the paper in my face. “It’s steganography! If you examine every fourth letter - in every word that has four letters, that is - there’s a hidden message that says “Meet me at nine” in here! And the Washington Post says the Russian spies communicated with steganography!”
“Yeah,” I told him, “that’s steganography, all right. But the FBI says the Russian spies used a type of steganography based on the alteration of bit values in digital photographs. There’s nothing that connects the alleged Russian spies to steganography like that. No, I think there’s another, simpler explanation. Benson, your wife’s not a Russian sleeper spy. She’s just having an affair behind your back - that’s the kind of sleeping she’s been up to - sleeping around.”
At that, Benson realized I was right and began to cry. Veronica, who had been standing behind Benson for the last five minutes, carefully listening to everything we said, adroitly pretended to have just arrived.
“Tom,” she cooed, “I was over there helping Cerise with the grill, but I couldn’t help notice you’re almost entirely out of wine. Can I get you a refill?”
“Sure,” I cooed back.
“How about you, Mr. Benson?” Veronica purred. “Is there anything I can do for you?”
Suddenly, Benson stopped bawling. Wiping his eyes, he gazed up at Veronica, who, I must say, while being older than Benson’s wife, can still stop traffic when she wants to.
“Yes,” he sniffed, “I think there is.”
A perfect cue if there ever was one, I’d say. Veronica tenderly took Benson by the arm and lead him away. Come to think of it, now that she’s got his attention, the poor devil might have been better off if his wife really was a Russian spy.