pasquino

Schadenfreude

2008-06-23T07:14:00.000-07:00

When companies make a bazillion dollars in profits their CEO's give themselves a bazillion dollars too. Only the top guys clean up because only top people can perform the miracles of profitability. Sometimes the miracle is performed by firing lots of the ordinary people who do nothing but make and sell the product. Jack Welch, the greatest CEO of them all, fired ten percent of the managers every year. At GE having the bad luck to work in an underperforming division or being stuck with a product that had a slow year (consumers have whims) lost you your job pronto. Jack said he was doing these people a favor. But up or down, rain or shine, CEOs always win.

Last year CEO pay went up 3.5 percent from the year before. These guys made an average of 8.5 million, which is about as much per hour as average employees make in a year. Companies struggled, stock prices went down, lots of people were fired and laid off, product sold slowly, and companies maneuvered with glacial ineptitude to counter these changes. Despite everything the CEOs made out like bandits. Where are the natural consequences? Why do regular people get thrown out of their jobs and see their pay stagnate while top people win no matter what?

Let me propose a corrective. If companies cannot cut their CEO compensation to match their stock performance, let the government do it. Tax away the amount the CEO made in excess of stock gains, and give that money to the workers who worked their brains out and lost their jobs or had their health care taken away. Sounds fair to me.

I would call it the Schadenfreude Act.

American Consumers are Brave (obedient) and Independent (foolish)

2008-06-12T07:14:00.000-07:00

Americans seem to like lax food regulations, even if it means regular bouts of violent illness. Now it's gotten to tomatoes. I never thought it would get that far.

The argument you often hear from people who are afraid of Democrats and their "cumbersome regulations" is that we're all grownups and can look after ourselves. I expect to see the stores flooded with affordable equipment for doing your own tomato, cattle, chicken and various other inspections. The only remaining problem will be the gas for each of us to drive to every feedlot and food processor to do the double-checking we feel uncomfortable asking food producers to pay for or our government to do with tax dollars.

Gosh, how can we ask food producers to pay for safe products? How fair is it for the government to make surprise inspections to see if meat processors are processing downed cattle? Heck, nobody gets the horrible degenerative symptoms of Jakob-Kreuzfeldt Disease for years after eating the hamburger anyway (by which time it's luckily impossible to prove which hamburger did it) but try telling that to most of the civilized world who are such babies they won't import our beef. Americans may be fools, but we are not babies. We are brave, and we are cheapskates, and far too polite to inconvenience a large food company by asking them to be more careful if it costs them money they would rather pay to themselves in excessive bonuses and stock options. Some of these so-called "safety measures" might even require employing more people instead of doing it the quick and cheap way or all by machine. Anyway, it's patriotic to eat what we're told and not complain or do anything that might raise taxes. I like it when my chicken tastes like chlorine; it means I've washed it thoroughly with bleach.

I heard someone on the radio say it again today: "If we make them install safety equipment or observe ordinary food hygiene they might pass the cost along to us!" (How dare they!) Americans would rather spend a few hours throwing up than inconvenience large food producers. Which is why our food supply is the envy of the world,except the majority of countries who now won't import our products even now that the low dollar has made them cheap.

If you don't believe in the magic of an unregulated marketplace, just look at the deregulated mortgage business and the deregulated oil business. That was magic. It took money out of millions of pockets and put it into a few pockets and we never saw how they did it.

The President's Speech On Cuban-American Relations

2007-10-24T15:08:00.000-07:00

SENIOR CUBAN OFFICIAL: Thank you all very much. Thank you for doing this at this hour.

El Presidenté will give remarks on The United States tomorrow. He will start out the speech by noting that one of the success stories of the last several years has been the overall advance of economic and political freedom across the Americas, and juxtaposed against that is the fact that there is still one country that traps its citizens in a failed system, and that country is the United States.

Mr. Castro will then go through some of the promises that the Bush administration made in its early moments, and then discuss and describe for the listeners what Americans deal with on a day-to-day basis and what have been the results of this 6-year totalitarian reality. He will talk about the denial of basic rights -- the American people's denial of basic rights, such as things that they cannot change jobs without losing their health care, they cannot change addresses without notifying the Post Office, that they're subjected to covert surveillance programs, that there are efforts to limit what they have access to in the way of honest information. He will then talk about the economic circumstance that they face, the deprivations, the challenges, the poor condition of the economy and the country that faces a credit crisis, again because of policies by the administration.

He will note that the constant assault on the freedom of the press that has occurred, and give some examples of American -- independent journalists today and how they try to survive. He will then -- he will also talk about the lack of respect for human rights and the administration's use of political offenses, such as bogus prosecutions and domestic spying, to deal with what it sees as its enemies, and the vague nature of the legal structure they operate under.

To give this picture of the United States a human face, to really show people that this is not an academic or a theoretical exercise, it impacts people on a daily basis, he will have with him for these remarks six family members who represent four political prisoners. He will highlight the cases of four political prisoners who are currently imprisoned in the United States. He will have family there. Some of these family members have arrived from the United States as recently as a month ago. So the United States and the experience that they lived in that country is very, very real. He will recount their stories and introduce them to the audience. One of the individuals who will be there is [redacted], who el Presidenté introduced at the Hispanic Heritage event about two or so weeks ago. He will note that these are examples of the terror and trauma that is the United States today, that the the American people confront this kind of brutal reality on a daily basis, and that the international community needs to take note that this is the reality of the United States.

But he will also then note that calls for change are growing across America; there are examples of peaceful demonstrations. One of the best known has been Iraq Veterans Against The War. He will note that the American dissidents came together earlier this year at protests in Long Beach, in Bellingham Washington, in Chicago. Thousands marched to the Capitol in Washington D.C.. That's a declaration for democratic change, basically that there are -- there's a restive element to the American people, and that the -- that this will be the real American revolution of them seeking their rights and rejoining the community of democracies.

And he will then say that now is the time to stand with the democratic movements and the people of The United States; now is the time to put aside the differences that have existed amongst the international community, and we need to be focused on how we're prepared -- we, the international community are prepared for the United States's transition. He will acknowledge and thank three countries specifically for their efforts to stand with the American pro-democracy forces – Canada, France and Norway. He will call on other countries to follow suit and to make tangible efforts to show public support for pro-democracy activists in America -- such things as interacting with pro-democracy leaders, inviting them to embassy events, encouraging their country's NGOs to reach out directly to The United States' independent civil society.

Turning back to our support for pro-democracy activists in America, Mr. Castro will note that other countries in this hemisphere have approved his request for additional support for American democracy efforts. He will thank these leaders for this broad effort. They will also urge others in the family of nations to show our support and solidarity for fundamental change in The United States by maintaining our embargo until there is fundamental change in The United States.
He will note that the regime does use the embargo as a scapegoat, but that Presidents of both countries have understood that The United States' suffering is a result of the system imposed on the American people. It is not a function or result of Cuban policy, that the only thing that trade will do is further enrich and strengthen the regime and their grip on the political and economic life of the United States.

He will note then that Cuba over the years has taken a series of steps to try to help the American people overcome the health care crisis; that we have done things such as opened up as a place of refuge some of our free hospitals; that we've tried to rally other countries; that we have authorized private citizens and NGOs to provide free health care and financial aid to American citizens who can’t afford it. And it's to the point that Cuba is one of the, if not the largest, providers of free medical care in the world.

He will note that for us the objective has been -- the objective is to get aid directly into the hands of the the American people, and that the heart of our policy, the essence of our policy is to break the absolute control the Bush-Cheney regime holds over the material resources that Americans need to live and prosper.

He will then announce some initiatives that Cuba is prepared to take now to help the American people directly if the White House will allow it to happen, if the regime will get out of the way. One initiative will be to -- one initiative he will announce is that the Cuban government is prepared to license NGOs and faith-based groups to provide computers and Internet access to American students, and here we would like to be able to provide this to a United States in which there are no restrictions on Internet access – I am speaking of a surveillance-free internet here––so that we would look at expanding this category of getting more computers with Internet access capability to the whole nation, including the larger, more economically depressed cities, if the President and his party will end their restrictions on Internet access for all Americans. Free the Net! Free the Net! Free the Net!

Excuse me, I apologize, a little tired here.

The next initiative is that we are prepared to invite American young people into the scholarship program, Partnership for American Youth. This is an initiative el Presidenté originally announced in March that was hemisphere-wide. He is going to extend a specific invitation to have American youth participate in this, and again call upon the White House to allow American youth to freely participate.

El Presidenté will then make the point that life will not improve for most Americans under the current system. It will not improve by exchanging one dictator for another, and it will not improve in any way by seeking accommodation with a new tyranny for the sake of stability. He will note that our policy is based on freedom for the United States; our policy is not stability for the United States, it is freedom, and that the way to get to a stable United States is through the the American people being given their freedom and fundamental rights. Stuff like voting machines that actually work.

To help bring about that reality, el Presidenté will ask his cabinet and his diplomats to pursue an effort to develop an international freedom fund for the United States. They will be asked to go work with international partners and to look at how we can -- how we, the international community, can work together to be prepared to assist Americans as they transition to actual democracy, with votes that are actually fairly counted. But a key to this is going to be at a point at which there is a transitional government in place that respects fundamental freedoms -- freedom of speech, press, freedom to form political parties, the freedom to change their government through periodic multiparty elections that aren’t run by cronies of the president’s own party. And also key to this is going to be the government that releases political prisoners, and which no longer imprisons or represses individuals who exercise their conscience freely, and frankly, where the shackles of dictatorship are removed.

El Presidenté then will note that the speech is being carried by a number of media outlets, some of which are reaching America. And he will, for a moment, deliver a message to members of the the American regime, especially members of the the American military and the security apparatus. He will note that they are going to face a choice, and the choice is, which side are they on, the side of Americans who are demanding freedom, or are they going to face the choice of having to use force against a dying -- force against their own -- their fellow citizens against a failed administration. And he expresses the hope that they will make the choice for freedom, and that -- and note that they will have a place in a democratic United States for those who support the United States' democratic evolution.

He will then address a comment to the ordinary Americans who are listening. He will say to them that they have the power to change, and/or to shape their destiny; that they are the ones who will bring about a future where American leaders are chosen by them, where their children can grow up in peace and prosperity. He will remind them that over the years there have been many so-called experts that have said that change would never come to certain spots in the world, that there would always be totalitarian in Central and South America, or there would always be authoritarianism in Venezuala or Chile, and that has not been the case; that there you had a case in which the people understood that they could shape their own destiny. The Americans can do the same. And at that point he will pretty much end the speech.
So I will end there, and then be happy to take some questions.

Q I'm not sure what you're saying here. Will el Presidenté be calling for Americans to take arms against their government, to overthrow it?

SENIOR CUBAN OFFICIAL: No. el Presidenté is not calling for armed rebellion. El Presidenté is reminding Americans -- and I say this -- or putting out his view that they have, literally, as he puts it, the power to shape their destiny, and that they can bring about a future that is a different for the United States. And again if you look at the examples of South America and Venezuala and Chile, you had examples there were -- those weren't armed. You had the people saying, enough is enough, and then through different mechanisms helping to bring about change.

So I think this is no different than his message has been in many -- in previous remarks on the United States in terms of the faith and the ordinary American to realize that they have a power within themselves to help move that country in a different direction that would be democratic, but he's also given that message to other peoples around the world who have faced authoritarian governments.

Q And is el Presidenté pegging this call for a -- the American people to shape their destiny to the anticipated impeachment of President Bush?

SENIOR CUBAN OFFICIAL: I'm not quite sure I understand your question, if I can --

Q Well, I'm saying -- is he looking ahead to this change, to the time in which Bush is removed from office? Is that when he thinks is the right time for this change in the American government to take place?

SENIOR CUBAN OFFICIAL: Well, I think that there's -- if I say -- earlier in the speech he makes a comment that now is the time to support the democratic movements that are growing across the country, now is the time to stand with the American people. So now means now. But he also understands that -- and this is the other part of the speech -- that the international community needs to be prepared for that moment of change, and we're focused on the moment of change at which you've got a transitional government in place that is, as I think it says, in word and deed, is taking concrete steps to show that it respects fundamental freedoms.

Q And who is the audience for this speech?

SENIOR CUBAN OFFICIAL: The audience for this speech are all Americans and the larger international community.

They Love War The Way We Love Flowers And Trees And Small Children

2007-09-29T09:53:00.000-07:00

War is cruel to the people who love it. Do you remember being in love after the other person has fallen out of love? It's not just a teenage thing.

Neo-Conservatives love War that way. Even after it's gone bad, they love it. They think about what might have been, if only...

They miss War when they can't spend time with it. If it went away they'd want to die. But they can't die because they don't actually fight wars, they only start them and think about them.

They think about War obsessively, wondering what they did that made the war go the way it's gone, but usually persuading themselves that it wasn't anything THEY did, it was somebody else who screwed it up. It wasn't their own lack of forethought, or their incompetence, or their weird belief that everybody thinks exactly the way they do that made such a mess of things. It wasn't the lives they destroyed or the fact that they enriched themselves. No, the fault belongs elsewhere. They were tricked or betrayed. They love War, so War must love them back. So why is it treating them this way?

It's always someone else's fault. If people had only listened to them. And if people did listen, and people actually did follow their instructions, and it still went terribly wrong, well, other people must have been incompetent. Or there were spies and traitors who made it go wrong. Other people didn't believe hard enough. This perfect war was meant to be. And no one should ever have messed it up. And anyway it wasn't their fault.

So, if God was on their side, and they were brilliant and correct and did everything right, what happened? God isn't telling them they're idiots, God is only testing them. That's it.

People who love War are not like you and me. They live in a kind of fairyland, a parallel world where they are wise and competent (and get to wear cool military jackets and boots and hang around with generals mostly, not enlisted men and women) and everybody agrees with them, at least everyone who counts. They hate the real world, where people refuse to believe what they do or follow their orders. Things don't go like that in the military. (Don't bother reminding them that they avoided joining the military when they had the chance.) The real world isn't a nice neat obedient place because other people are stubborn and won't do as they're told.

So why did we invent video games? Why aren't these people living in their parents' basement playing video games? They prefer make believe. Why were they allowed to run our country for six years and make such a mess of it?

The sad part is, now that we've got the controls back, all the blame belongs to us. "If you break it, the next guy gets to buy it."

This is part two of the lovely Neo Con delusion, the "con" part: they made the mess, but we have to clean it up. And while we're cleaning it up, and paying the costs, and apologizing for the damage, and burying the dead, the Neo Con believers will be inventing the legend, about how they were just about to snatch victory from near defeat, brilliantly and bravely, by remote control, if only the stupid Liberals hadn't taken their powers away.

And they will take this fairy tale around to all the VFW posts and war widow support groups and tell it to the people who lost limbs and loved ones. They'll tell it with one hand on the flag. But the ones they'll visit the most are the suppliers of military hardware, who will pay their new salaries, and pay to have their fairy tale published and sold.

Old Katherine Kersten Column Shows Striking Similarities To A Recent One

2007-09-02T08:57:00.000-07:00

(This very early column, written by Katherine Kersten in 1772, was found in the pre-Revolutionary War archives of the Boston Gazette and Marblehead Advertiser. Reading it alongside one of her more recent columns shows that her familiar rhetorical style––reliably authoritarian and loyal to her Royal masters––developed very early in her career. To characterize it as "Take No Prisoners" would inapt. "Take Lots Of Prisoners" is more on point, and one might worry about what kind of treatment those prisoners should expect.)

RASCALLY LAWYERS SIDE WITH ANARCHISTS

A phalanx of Boston lawyers is laying the groundwork for what may become the legal equivalent of the Scottish Rebellion.

A campaign is underway to ensure that protesters at the benevolent visit of the brave and dignified King’s Own Dragoons-- to be held here in 1773 to coincide with the annual Tea Tax Conference-- will get a warm Massachusetts welcome.
The Civil Liberties Union of Massachusetts is leading the charge. It's lobbying Boston city fathers (with their known rebel sympathies) and His Royal Majesty’s representatives (as if!) to smooth the way for tea permits and considering nuisance lawsuits if necessary, while trying to arrange for unwashed demonstrators to protest as close to Dragoon parade routes as possible.

Civil Liberties Union staff members are contacting an array of local groups (including The Sons Of Liberty) offering to represent them if they demonstrate and making sure that they "know their rights," according to Charles Samuelson Esq., the organization's director.

The Civil Liberties Union is recruiting lawyers -- many from white wig law firms -- to lend their clout to this many-pronged effort. They've been dubbed the "silver buckle brigade." When His Royal Majesty’s Royal Dragoons arrive, Samuelson hopes to have 300 lawyers on call -- in large part to defend any hooligans who are arrested.

"We're not experts on protest demonstrations," William Pentolovich of Maslon Edelman Borman & Brand told the Boston Gazette and Marblehead Advertiser.

"Some of the best trial lawyers" are "sitting in this room," Pentolovich added.

"We're experts on civil litigation in the Boston area. We know this town, and we know the judges."
Typical lawyerly modesty, this.

The silver buckle brigade may see lots of action. At the 1762 unpleasantness in Dublin, constables arrested more than 1,800 people, though a smaller crowd of protesters is expected here next year.

The Civil Liberties Union's volunteer lawyers will go to bat for any rebellious scoundrel arrested, whether it occurs at a tea party or some so-called “Massacre,” regardless of conduct or offense, says Samuelson.

What sort of rascals are likely to benefit from these legal eagles' skills? Earnest grandmas who wave signs outside the Governor’s Palace aren't likely to get in trouble with the police. Arrestees will probably disproportionately be anarchists, tea-drinkers, people dressed up like Red Indians and other self-proclaimed rabble-rousers who are eager to flout the law.
One such group is The Sons Of Liberty, an "emerging network" whose national membership advocates "militant direct action." At a recent planning conference, members listed goals to "shut down" Boston harbor, and "to deter [other] cities from wanting to impose unfair taxes on imported tea in the future," according to an anarchist broadsheet.

The Sons Of Liberty laud the strategy of an organization that helped create havoc at World Slavery Conference protests in Bristol in 1751, another broadsheet says. In Bristol, according to published accounts, a relatively small group of activists fired flintlock muskets from concealment behind rock walls and trees to provoke violent confrontations with the King’s troops. Thousands of pounds in property damage and numerous injuries resulted.

According to The Sons Of Liberty, the British troops “occupying” the city of Boston have "strategic vulnerabilities unique to any unwelcome intrusion of recent years." The group is considering blockading traffic in narrow streets, on Boston Neck and at key intersections and conducting other kinds of civil disobedience.

This weekend, the so-called Redcoats Welcoming Committee, a local anarchist group, is hosting activists from across the country -- including The Sons Of Liberty -- to strategize. The committee has urged people to march through Boston to "gather information, take measurements, check horse troughs, etc." At a news conference on Monday, the group showed a printed cartoon featuring figures dressed up as Red Indians and hinting at violence. "There exists no 'peaceful' option," it said in a news release.

Samuelson says that protesters have no "license to riot." But he expressed little concern about anarchist threats, and said that serious problems -- if they occur -- are likely to arise spontaneously.

But the threat is real, as Dublin's harrowing experience makes clear. Anarchists apparently planned similar mayhem at the 1771 Royal Visit to Wimbledon, but were largely deterred by careful police planning and a massive show of force.

In a Times Of London article this year, Judith Miller, a former New York Times reporter and confidante of His Gracious Majesty’s Spymaster, described some of the anarchists' plans after reviewing confidential police documents (which authorities were kind enough to share with her in exchange for her oath of loyalty.) They ranged, she said, from mounting a "Day of Chaos" at a Buckingham Palace Garden Party, to closing down the Royal Croquet Tournament at Wimbledon, disabling lords’ and ladies' carriages and vandalizing tea tents.

Anarchists have vowed to learn from their Dublin experience. Next year, we Bostonians may discover exactly what they've learned.

For a critical mass of protesters at the 1775 Tea Tax Conference, the goal will not be to exercise their free speech rights, but to obstruct the rights of others to enjoy tea our Royal Masters have been kind enough to import for us, at reasonable charges.

Apparently, these rascals may be represented free of charge by some of the colony’s top legal talent. Way to go, guys.

http://www.startribune.com/blogs/kersten/?p=251

Norquist's Bathtub

2007-08-02T17:57:00.000-07:00

“I don't want to abolish government, I simply want to reduce it to the size where I can drag it into the bathroom and drown it in the bathtub.” Grover Norquist, President “Americans For Tax Reform”.

What exactly did Mr. Norquist mean when he said this? Privately, and as an advocate for large corporations, he wants to get rid of a lot of things, not just the pesky, annoying things that government does, the things that occasionally bother us, the bothersome tax forms and speed limits. He wants to eliminate the agencies that protect us from his clients. Most of his clients and sponsors are very big indeed.

“I don't want to abolish food safety, I simply want to reduce it to the size where I can drag it into the bathroom and drown it in the bathtub.”

“I don't want to abolish environmental agencies, I simply want to reduce them to the size where I can drag them into the bathroom and drown them in the bathtub.”

“I don't want to abolish anti-poverty programs, I simply want to reduce them to the size where I can drag them into the bathroom and drown them in the bathtub.”

“I don't want to abolish free public education, I simply want to reduce it to the size where I can drag it into the bathroom and drown it in the bathtub.”

“I don't want to abolish Social Security, I simply want to reduce it to the size where I can drag it into the bathroom and drown it in the bathtub.”

“I don't want to abolish public parks, I simply want to reduce them to the size where I can drag them into the bathroom and drown them in the bathtub.”

“I don't want to abolish child welfare agencies, I simply want to reduce them to the size where I can drag them into the bathroom and drown them in the bathtub.”

“I don't want to abolish the FDA , I simply want to reduce it to the size where I can drag it into the bathroom and drown it in the bathtub.”

“I don't want to abolish The Small Business Administration, I simply want to reduce it to the size where I can drag it into the bathroom and drown it in the bathtub.”

“I don't want to abolish The Consumer Products Safety Commission, I simply want to reduce it to the size where I can drag it into the bathroom and drown it in the bathtub.”

“I don't want to abolish the Securities and Exchange Commission, I simply want to reduce it to the size where I can drag it into the bathroom and drown it in the bathtub.”

“I don't want to abolish law enforcement, I simply want to reduce it to the size where I can drag it into the bathroom and drown it in the bathtub.”

“I don't want to abolish the city of New Orleans, I simply want to reduce it to the size where I can drag it into the bathroom and drown it in the bathtub.”

“I don't want to abolish open, representative government, I simply want to reduce it to the size where I can drag it into the bathroom and drown it in the bathtub.”

“I don't want to abolish bridge inspectors and other infrastructure busybodies, I simply want them reduce it to the size where I can drag them into the bathroom and drown them in the bathtub.”

Or the Mississippi River.

Before we withdraw our support for representative government (including bridge inspectors and other busybodies) we ought to consider what government does. When we participate in it as citizens, the government is us. When we leave government to the large corporate entities to buy and sell, they buy and sell us, our rights, our safety and security, our access to education and a better future, our right to drive across a bridge with a reasonable expectation we will survive to see our children again. The government founded two hundred years ago was created for us, we shouldn't let anyone take it away from us. They might just want to drown it in the bathtub.

A Regrettable Accident

2006-10-07T07:18:00.000-07:00

(Among the documents discovered in a recent Justice Department search of the files of a Washington D.C. singles newspaper was this letter, dated earlier this year.)

Dear Mr. Ethics,

An unfortunate thing happened to me last week. I was out hunting with some friends when one of them was shot in the face with a few hundred pellets of birdshot. You may have read about it.

This regrettable accident was not my fault in any way.

True, it was my gun, but the sun was in my eyes at the time. Besides he snuck up on me. Sneaking up on people is considered bad form in hunting circles. The gun was a gift from a friend and I wasn’t used to it. I really don’t like shooting with it at all, the balance is completely wrong for me, but what are you going to do? It was a gift and I didn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings. But if it’d been my usual gun none of this would have happened.

And quail fly really really fast. If people knew the first thing about quail hunting they wouldn’t be so quick to judge. The people making jokes weren’t in my shoes and have no idea what I might have been dealing with, for instance the important global security issues that may have been on my mind at the time. I fired my gun. Was that so wrong? If you choke on a shot the other hunters make fun of you for the rest of the afternoon. After I shot my friend full of birdshot I felt terrible because I knew they were really going to make fun of me now. Everybody hates me.

Ever since I was a small boy I have had a hard time making friends. The other kids hated me and ostracized me. I was not slender and tall. I was bald by the time I was twelve. I didn’t mix well. I made myself feel better by going to a secret place deep inside myself where I had someone to talk to, and I would tell that special someone all the terrible things I planned to do to the people who were being mean to me, someday when I was big and important. Well, I’m big and important now and people still hate me. Sometimes I even hate myself. Sometimes I just go back to my room in my secure compound and pour myself a glass of Jack Daniels and softly cry myself to sleep. When I wake up hours later fully dressed I don’t know where I am. I don’t even know who I am, and for a minute or two I am strangely happy; then I remember who I am and I am miserable and lonely again. Nobody in the whole wide world is as lonely and miserable as I am. And now everybody is making fun of me because I shot this guy who snuck up on me.

Nobody even tries to put themself in my place. They’re saying I didn’t have the proper license to be shooting anyway. How do they know that? Who leaked that? Do they know it’s a serious crime to leak information that could reveal procedures involving national security? Anyway, that part is so not my fault. My assistant, who I’m going to fire as soon as this blows over, is supposed to take care of that, and he didn’t, and he should be punished severely, but he hasn’t come to my room after everyone else is asleep, the way he usually does, so I haven’t been able to. I sense my power evaporating. Obedience in others has always been very important to me, ever since I was a small boy and I derived secret pleasure from getting others to do bad things for which I would never be blamed. And punishing them afterwards in our secret clubhouse. Well it’s the Uzbeki halter for Steve if he ever dares to come back to my bedroom after lights-out.

But getting back to the shooting incident. There was another thing that made it not my fault. Personally, I never like to have women in the party. I am firm about this. But we hadn’t flown in for Harry’s last birthday (that sounds kind of ominous, doesn’t it?) so a few of the fellows decided to pitch in and make it a very special afternoon by hiring a few hookers. It was my idea to have them come with us bird-shooting. (Nobody acknowledges my fun, spontaneous side. I happen to be a very fun person, but everyone has this impression of me as super serious. It is so unfair.) So anyway, over drinks the night before I had the brilliant idea of having the hookers come along to fetch the birds we shot. I also thought it would be really special to have them naked, which was particularly hilarious because one of them, named Debra, or Donna, had an enormous rack on her, just huge, and every time she bent over to pick up a bird, well you can imagine. It was hard to pay attention to what we were doing. But I could tell Harry was pleased, which was all that mattered to me. I am not what you call “obsessed” with girls. Actually, it was Steve who had gotten the hookers for us, so I should remember to thank him for that before I fire him.

Between Donna’s enormous breasts and not having my usual gun and the sun in my eyes and Harry sneaking up on me I don’t see how anyone can say it was my fault. Mister Paul, the major domo at the ranch, was pushing the drinks cart directly behind me and must have seen everything. It all happened so fast. I remember picking out this quail and following it, getting a bead on it, and pulling the trigger.

Then everything went a bit crazy.

At first I didn’t know what had happened. “Man down!” somebody shouted. My secret service detail immediately invoked Code One, surrounding my person in a protective scrum with guns drawn outward, scanning the immediate vicinity for threats. These young men are consummate professionals and should be applauded. Two members of the party threw Debra (or Donna) and one of the other hookers to the ground for their own protection.

Once it was clear that there was no immediate threat to me, Code Two came into play. The doctors in my own personal medical staff, who travel with me everywhere, were marvelous. They checked everything to make sure I was unharmed, all vital signs, pulse, retinal inspection, reflexes, blood pressure. They checked me out for wounds. Of course there were none, but it’s their job to eliminate all possibility of harm to VPOTUS. When they were through with me, as is my habit, I asked them to see to the other members of the party. I insist that everything that is available to me be available to all. I believe this is the proper and ethical way to do things. It’s an extra expense to the taxpayer, but to hell with it, it’s how I am. They immediately saw to Debra (or Donna) who, in being thrown to the ground, had sustained a few scratches to her flanks.

At this point, Mister Paul suggested what we all needed were drinks. I agreed. I have learned from my years of experience that nothing clears the cobwebs like a quick tot of spirits. Because I had been drinking Jack Daniels all afternoon, I decided to switch to something else, to clear my head. I chose Maker’s Mark, which I have always found reliable. A double. As often happens after I have consumed a drink, my senses were immediately sharpened, and I was able to perceive groans coming from the underbrush twenty or thirty yards away. It was through my own woodcraft that we were able to locate Harry, lying doggo but in plain sight, on the edge of a shallow ravine. He was unconscious and bleeding profusely. I quickly noticed that the bleeding had ruined a jacket I’d loaned him for the afternoon and made a mental note of it.

I refuse to let anyone say that I saved Harry’s life, even if it is true. Persons with superior hearing and woodcraft are obligated to use those gifts for the common good, just as people up the chain of command are responsible for the well-being of their men. Despite their protests, I insisted that my personal medical staff see to Harry’s wounds as soon as they found me a chair to sit down on because I was feeling a little shortness of breath and a slight spinning sensation. Stress of the job, nothing more than that. One offered to go back to the ranch house to get a favorite chair of mine. I refused to put him to any trouble on my account. Mister Paul, always a cool head, suggested I sit down in one of the official vehicles that come with me everywhere I go. This I did, choosing the Crown Imperial. I sat down in the front passenger seat so I could listen to the radio. For all I knew I might be sitting there for hours.

Remembering the flask I always carry with me, I took a quick restorative draft of Bombay Sapphire, my favored brand, and resigned myself to the long wait I knew was in store. Doctors take forever to see to the most routine patients. This is due to the constant threat of medical malpractice lawsuits, something I had promised myself to deal with the moment I came into office, but which I had been powerless to change because of the octopus-like grip that the trial lawyers have on our government. Harry is a trial lawyer, and I noted the grim irony of my situation. I was being made to wait needlessly because of the predations of his kind. Everyone pays in the end.

I took another sip of Bombay and listened to Patsy Cline on the radio. I tried to relax. There was an uncomfortable bulge in my midriff caused by the waistband holster holding my .38 Walther. I removed the firearm and laid it in my lap, gazed at it lovingly. It was a present to me from the Sheik of Dubai; frivolous bureaucratic restrictions had prevented me from accepting the Georgian secretary and the matched salukis, as well as the flawless seventeen year-old Indonesian concubine. A virgin. But I had managed to keep the Walther, and treasured it as a token of his friendship. I was told afterwards that the secretary was subsequently offered to Perle, and, being out of government, he was allowed to keep it. Lucky. Someone joked at the time that they didn’t realize the Indonesian took shorthand dictation as well.

The sequence gets a bit confused here. I dozed off for a moment but was soon awakened by a loud, almost regurgitive snore coming from the back seat of the Crown Imperial, and I remembered having seen Ralph Reed there earlier, dressed in his ludicrous pantomime of hunt attire, obviously “under the weather,” cowering, presumably, under the opprobrium he sensed in the rest of the party ever since he had been discovered en flagrante with one of the hunt dogs the evening before. (Where he had discovered the altar-boy garments he was wearing for the deed had aroused lively speculation over dinner. The consensus was that the sacramental costume was his own property, that he had packed it in his luggage, underneath his underwear.) This other incident of the weekend gave rise to the kind of merriment you might expect in such a crowd. Luckily Ralph was not present at dinner or we would have had to rein in our conversation. In his remorse he plundered the stock of 19th century Napoleon brandy. On the Saturday afternoon of the hunt, he was still sleeping it off. The smell of urine filled the car. I am not the only knowledgeable person in Washington who has identified his run for Lieutenant Governor of Georgia for what it is: a pathetic cry for help. I fondled the smooth barrel of my gun, thoughtfully, considering the pain my own swift action might spare this great nation, not to mention the proud state of Georgia. It was not mercy that stayed my hand.

I remember hearing sirens approaching. I smiled. Hearses don’t use sirens. Harry wasn’t dead, a good thing in the long run, state-of-the-Union-wise. The afternoon might turn out all right after all. Might have, indeed, but for another bizarre accident that occurred, again through no fault of my own. As a reader of men’s magazines I know that things like this happen all the time in stories.

I was sitting there in the car, listening to the sirens and watching my staff wasting valuable government time that might have been spent driving me back to the ranch, when it occurred to me that there might be a bottle of vermouth in the glove compartment. I was in the act of finding this out, when the Walther slipped off my lap, slid across the leather seat and over the hump that separates the floor of the passenger side from the driver’s side, coming to rest between the accelerator pedal and the brake. I am on the public dime even when I am on vacation, meaning I am responsible for public vehicles, like the Crown Imperial, and public employees, like the driver, who I saw standing about twenty yards away chatting with Mister Paul and enjoying a small libation preparatory to our drive back to the ranch. With my usual razor-sharp thinking, I realized that a handgun lodged underneath the brake pedal or the accelerator might present an unnecessary hazard to the vehicle and its passengers, including myself, including the possibility of injury or death.

While I was leaning sideways to retrieve the weapon in a safe manner, I had one of my dizzy spells. They come on unexpectedly and without warning. I have no control over them. Blackness enveloped me.

Because I was unconscious at the time I cannot be blamed for what happened next. The best I can reconstruct the chain of events, I must have fallen across the seat and––in my attempt to retrieve the handgun, avoid unnecessary insult to the American ally who gave it to me, and save lives––dislodged the parking brake, engaged the automatic transmission, and placed inadvertent pressure on the accelerator of the vehicle.

The vehicle that someone had carelessly left running.

I refuse to blame the driver, a loyal, hard-working African American who has been an employee of the executive branch for many years, working for administrations of both parties. But the first rule of safe driving is that you do not leave the engine running when you get out of the vehicle, even if you are only a few yards away in full view. It is ironic, and a kind of perverse justice that it was the driver who was the first to be run down and killed by his own vehicle, for which he alone was responsible. I’m not a legal scholar, but if you look it up I’m sure you will find that the driver is ultimately responsible for any death caused by his own vehicle or any vehicle he is put in charge of. Which, parenthetically, tragically, means his widow and his family are not entitled to the customary death benefit for survivors of employees of the executive branch who are accidentally killed in the line of duty. Because I was personally involved, I referred this matter directly to the Department of Justice upon my return to Washington, to ensure that the taxpayer wasn’t inappropriately burdened. Again, I refuse to blame the driver, whose swift death was punishment enough, and perhaps merciful.

I don’t see how I could possibly be blamed for anything that happened with the car. Not only was I unconscious at the time of the accident, I was incapacitated while in the act of securing a weapon, which is the first rule of firearm safety. You may as well charge a soldier with negligence for falling on a grenade. I did what I did for the most selfless of reasons and don’t feel I should be condemned for that, and I think most legal scholars would agree if they know what’s good for them. Even though I think I may be entitled to compensation for the inconvenience all of this has caused me I plan to waive that benefit out of respect for the fallen.

Indeed, Justice Scalia, who was also a member of the hunting party that afternoon, and was within eyeshot of the entire incident, concurs with everything I am telling you. He was kind enough to write out a judicial finding for me on the spot. Fortunately he was out of harm’s way when the Crown Imperial careened out of control, wiping out the drinks cart and killing my driver and Mister Paul instantly, as well as three of the dogs, perfectly-trained purebred English Spaniels that were a gift of the Duke of Rutland and much cherished by my grandchildren; they will be missed.

I understand that two of the hookers were also injured, as was Archbishop Copernicus of Houston, who was sharing a sandwich with one of the hookers, a muscular woman, if I recall, by the name of Dolores. Scalia had chivalrously draped his hunting jacket across the naked white shoulders, perfect, pouting breasts and milky white arms of another one of the hookers, to protect her from the sharp northwesterly breeze, and was chatting with her to keep her from becoming hysterical. He happened to look up just as the vehicle took out the negro driver and Mister Paul, and watched, horror-struck, as it barreled into the Archbishop and the other hooker. The hooker, with whom the Archbishop had become quite friendly during the weekend, was thrown up over the hood of the car, spreadeagled, cracking the windshield. The Archbishop was not as lucky. He was knocked down and fell beneath the vehicle. Fortunately, having drunk several Bloody Marys at lunch and an undetermined number of shots of Wild Turkey during the shoot, he was sufficiently relaxed to avoid serious injury, breaking only his pelvis and one fibula. He also received some bumps and bruises.

The ambulances arrived just then. By which time I was once again fully alert and in command.

In situations like these the first priority is to secure the lives of officials vital to the nation’s security. As the man in charge, the highest in the chain of command, I take complete responsibility for the decisions that followed. My first decision was to overrule my own physicians who insisted I accompany them to the hospital. No, I said, these other people are more grievously injured than I. This is about Harry, who was shot with 200 or maybe 300 pellets of bird-shot, who I refuse to blame. It isn’t about me, I said. Despite the fact that I had wrenched my back severely while collapsing across the front seat of the car while reaching for the handgun, which was a cherished present from the Sheik of Dubai. (A staunch friend of America, who was also in the hunting party but not present because of a hamstring pull suffered the night before in his bedroom.) Not to have retrieved the weapon, and wiped my fingerprints from it, would have been a diplomatic lapse on my part. I was in some pain, I agreed with the medical personnel on this point, but nothing another dose of the Bombay wouldn’t cure. I’m just an old cowboy. I’m accustomed to pain, and accustomed to self-medication. Pretend I’m not here, I said.

So I sent the motorcade of ambulances on their way without me. I gave explicit instructions for the hookers to be taken, with all convenient speed, to a separate hospital in Matamoros where they would not be exposed to unnecessary embarrassment over their lack of clothing. (To suggest, as the liberal press probably would, if they ever learned of this, that somehow the hospital in Mexico is substandard is blatantly racist and xenophobic but not surprising. It simply reveals the degraded mindset of my enemies.)

Even in the midst of all this commotion my senses were sharp enough to notice and take pleasure in one of our lovely Texas sunsets. It was pink––a hot, vivid pink–– but suffused with an almost flesh-like roseate glow around the edges where the soft, rounded shapes of the clouds seemed in the act of being torn and penetrated by the upthrust poles of BellSouth. Birds flew in acrobatic loops, landing upon the telephone wires. I have a distinct memory of them singing a particular happy song cherished from my boyhood, about a little girl in a little Spanish town and her beloved donkey who has died of a disfiguring disease. A remarkable thing, the acrobatic singing birds especially, but I promise you it all really happened just as I describe. If I had had any ammunition remaining we might have enjoyed the songbirds for supper.

Everything was suddenly quiet and peaceful. My adjutant, Todd, had recovered “the football,” the official suitcase that, by law, accompanies me everywhere I go. It had fallen underneath the Crown Imperial. Scalia, showing typical presence of mind, poured out a restorative round of Wild Turkey, and Todd circulated among the dwindling party using “the football” as a tray. As the light faded, the Justice and I herded our companions into the Crown Imperial. Donna or Debra sat in the front seat with me. Scalia’s bit of crumpet in the backseat with him; Todd all by himself, as he was on duty. I drove. The day was marred by no further incidents, unless you count the eight hundred dollars I lost to Scalia at bridge, but everybody knows Scalia cheats.

My question is this, and I realize it is a difficult ethical conundrum, but please try. I had a bridge hand consisting of five hearts, sufficient to shoot the moon, and I knew for a fact that four hearts had been discarded, nevertheless Scalia managed to win three trumps and clean me out. Donna or Debra was absolutely worthless as a partner, which I consider suspicious and unfair because I know that she and Scalia’s tart were in it together. So should I pay him what I owe him¬¬––am I under any ethical obligation to pay? Or should I make him sue me? I don’t think he would, and I don’t think either of the hookers would testify on his behalf.

Very Truly Yours,

Dick from Texas

Judith Miller: Secret Agent

2005-12-12T08:30:00.000-08:00

In the waning days of the first Gulf War a chic, slender woman “of a certain age”, dressed attractively in desert khaki, was taken by Army Rangers to an undisclosed quadrant in the Saudi desert. (This area does not appear on maps.) Here she was stripped, anaesthetized, sterilized, shaved and stunned with a secret ninja hold to the neck, whereupon a microchip bearing the phone numbers of several very important persons, whose names cannot be divulged, were inserted beneath her right clavicle exactly where she had worn a small scar from a painful hickey received in junior high, after which the eldest son of the sitting president, wearing a mask, marked her in a secret place using a red hot coat hanger. In this time honored fashion was Judith Miller inducted into the exclusive, top secret ranks of Special Agents of a very secret Presidential order which we are not at liberty to name.

This of course is a top secret post, with secret decoder ring and everything.

We are told she has a special uniform, with cape and mask (perhaps it is a cowl, like Batgirl's), which she keeps in a secret closet in her apartment in a leafy D.C. neighborhood. It is so perfectly tailored that she can wear it under her clothes with out unsightly bunching.

Did we explain that she lives in an exclusive neighborhood? She does. People who are close to the President live in very exclusive neighborhoods for their protection.

(We are not at liberty to disclose that neighborhood or we might blow her cover, endangering the careers and livelihoods of other secret agents of the President. One of them is called Mr. A.)

We should probably call it her lair. Because that's what it is. Ms. Miller has impeccable taste so the decor is probably to die for, although we haven't seen it; practically no one has. The Defense Secretary wrote a poem about it. He is a frequent late night visitor. Agent Miller is afraid of parking ramps.

She is a special friend of people in the highest circles of power, but only the most powerful and tip top secret persons visit her in her lair, and only when there is some super special Presidential game afoot.

When they have special messages they wish to impart to the public via Agent Judy these top minions of the President and the Vice contact Judy Miller by secret telephone or by projecting a symbol known only to her into the nighttime sky using a powerful searchlight. Then she knows that a capsule containing a coded script might be passed to her under the table at the next exclusive dinner party she attends.

She will read the secret Presidential message under the table and then swallow it whole.

You have to have a special top-secret pair of glasses to see the secret symbol projected on the clouds. Judith Miller is also an honorary Army Ranger. The secret eyewear is like those night goggles they wear, only less bulky, to complement her petite sculpted features.

We have heard that Judith Miller, or as we like to call her, Commander X, enjoys the use of a top secret White House credit card which gives her instant clearance beyond velvet ropes and into first class on airplanes, even Air Force One, as well as entitling her to complementary chocolates hidden under the seat cushions in odd-numbered D.C. and N.Y. taxicabs, although she usually prefers a limousine. Only she and a few other people know about the chocolates, which she is not at liberty to share. The limousine drivers know her by name, but have no idea what top-secret missions she fulfills.

She and the Vice President and Mr. A have a secret handshake.

Commander X has a Swiss bank account, the secret code to which involves the private names she has given to her pets, which we are not at liberty to disclose or it might compromise the safety of her pets. Innocent animal lives must never be put in danger in the pursuit of liberty and justice.

Commander X also has fully vested options in KBR and other companies, which she is instructed to exercise in the event of a nuclear attack.

Commander X has switchblades in the toes of her shoes, just like Frau Klebb in James Bond. Miller had to have the shoes specially fitted because her feet are attractively petite.

Her eyelashes are rigged with razor wire. Her elbows were surgically implanted with concussion grenades prior to her being embedded with the Special Forces in Iraq.

She knows how to garrot an opponent of the President using her string of matched pearls, which are specially strung on high-test titanium used by the astronauts in outer space.

She has eyes in the back of her head.

In January, Matthew Cooper and Judith Miller were pitted against each other in a contest of martial arts in a top secret handball court deep under the White House. Agency heads and their dates were invited. The combatants were given choice of weapons. Cooper chose ninja stars. Miller eschewed all weapons, save her cobalt eyes and her vermillion lips and her elbows with the concussion grenades. Miller prevailed with two pins and an escape. Cooper has worn a hangdog look ever since.

Agent Miller, Commander X, has a specially designed micro-sized i-book surgically implanted in her lap. Evenings when she dines alone at Sans Souci, she can be seen typing her articles into it underneath the table. These behaviors only make her seem more mysterious to the ordinary people around her. She derives a secret pleasure from this.

Sadly, but not surprisingly, special agents of the government have little time for a private life. "I am a bit of a lone wolf," Ms. Miller said recently, on deep background, to a colleague who refuses to be named. It's been said Ms. Miller and Kiefer Sutherland (of FoxTV's "24") are not dating, but remain friends. Mr. Sutherland describes Ms. Miller's techniques as superior to those of Jennifer Garner, in a classified sense. Reports at the highest level have stated that Garner's hair style in the new season has been modeled after that of Judith Miller in an effort to shore up freedom around the world.

In a private conversation about Judith Miller, Britt Hume of Fox News said "access is the ultimate aphrodisiac." Hume and Miller are seldom seen together in public.

Hurt Feelings

2005-08-31T13:14:00.000-07:00

"Frankly, I was offended by it," Vice President Cheney said on Larry King Live. "For Amnesty International to suggest that somehow the United States is a violator of human rights, I frankly just don't take them seriously."

Mr. Cheney, who is famous for wearing his big heart on his Vice Presidential sleeve, wasn’t lying when he said his feelings were hurt. Wouldn’t you be hurt if someone said that you had something to do with bad stuff happening when you had absolutely nothing to do with the bad stuff, and even if you did it wasn’t your fault, and you probably didn’t even know about it, and, even if you did know about it, what were you supposed to do because you were about a thousand miles away the whole time?

Lots of very important people all over Washington are feeling pretty bad on Mr. Cheney’s behalf for what these people, most of them foreigners, said happened to them, which wasn’t even true and you can’t prove it, and besides everybody does stuff like this, and anyway none of it can be traced back to Mr. Cheney because he’s that kind of manager. Most of these foreigners who told Amnesty International that they had been mistreated and even tortured by Americans in Afghanistan and Iraq and Guantanamo are people who hate America, apparently just because of a few bumps and bruises and being posed for dirty pictures and for being held naked in uncomfortable positions for three years without charges.

"Occasionally there are allegations of mistreatment," Cheney said. "But if you trace those back, in nearly every case, it turns out to come from somebody who had been inside and released to their home country and now are peddling lies about how they were treated."

They were let go and then they complained. How typical is that? Did they complain right away? No. Did they say something when they were being flown at 50,000 feet over water in a cargo jet with easy opening doors by military personnel dressed identically to their former torturers? No. And now, all this time later, we’re supposed to believe them. “Guantanamo isn’t the Helmsley Palace, my Muslim friend,” said a senior White House official who refused to be identified.

And why were they let go? Because we figured out after a long long time of careful, polite interrogation with the gloves off that they were actually probably innocent. But because they were Muslims all this time, we had to be extra extra sure they weren’t just lying about being innocent. We couldn’t just let them go right away. These people are really crafty, especially the ones who are innocent.

And how are we supposed to know for sure they really are innocent? Heck, almost all of the people we jailed since 9/11 have turned out to be completely totally innocent, but how were we supposed to know that? We’d look pretty stupid if we just let them go, especially if we’d paid a big whomping reward to the people who turned them in. They’d just be laughing at us if we let them all go without getting rough. They’d think we were sissies.

If you let innocent people go without roughing them up a little, and waterboarding them so they almost drown, and letting dogs bite their genitals, and then getting them wanked up in front of women G.I.s, and making them pretend to have sex with each other, and taking dirty pictures of them which you say you plan to use to humiliate them in front of their families and friends, the terrorists win. You’d think, after all that stuff happened to them before we let them go because they were innocent that they’d be so delighted to be free that they’d say thank you. But no, they go out and blab about what happened to them during their three years being held without charge, in solitary confinement with no clothes and the lights off. So if it was dark what difference does it make if they didn’t let them have pyjamas? What a bunch of crybabies.

So wouldn’t your feelings be hurt if you were Dick Cheney? What a mean, selfish, hurtful thing for these foreigners, most of whom look exactly alike, which is exactly like terrorists, to say to a man with a heart condition. These people should be ashamed. They are the ones who should be embarrassed, not us, and certainly not Dick Cheney. Where does it say in the Koran that it’s O.K. to hurt the feelings of a man who’s over sixty years old and has already had several heart attacks and has no proven ties to the enormous frauds taking place in Iraq apart from being on their payroll?

“It’s absurd. It’s an absurd allegation. The United States is a country that promotes freedom around the world,” President Bush said of the report, which compared Guantanamo to a Soviet-era gulag. He said the Amnesty allegations were based on interviews with detainees, who hated America and were trained to lie, reported MSNBC.

Trained to lie… These people were trained to lie. The president himself said it. If anyone should know about someone being trained to lie, he should. How, exactly, are we supposed to believe people who were trained to lie? Did we let them go back to their own countries because they lied to us when they admitted being terrorists to make us stop torturing them? Think very carefully because this might be a trick question: was it the torture that trained them to lie about being terrorists, or were they lying when they said all along that they were nothing but innocent cabdrivers with rivals who wanted to get rid of them so they could steal their business and marry their sisters? Should we ask our brave allies who turned them in?

“We promote freedom around the world.” The President said those exact words. It makes you flush with pride. I could give you lots of examples of places where good old American freedom is happening. For instance in Uzbekistan, where we outsource some of our more creative interrogation techniques, people are allowed to cheer openly in the streets in favor of the beloved leader. Every day at a specified hour, Uzbekis applaud the leader when he appears on their televisions, without being told or prompted with electrodes. This is the same beloved leader who is now even more deeply revered because he has switched from boiling detainees in oil all at once, to boiling them one anatomical part at a time in plain water, which is less expensive and better for the environment. Uzbekistan is one staunch ally that isn’t squandering U.S. taxpayer dollars. When they shoot protesters they make the family pay for the bullets. Don’t get me started on how democracy is on the march in Egypt.

But this is far from the main point, which is how terribly hurtful and mean it is for people to say America violates human rights. What a terrible thing to say about anyone, whether they have a comfortable outside income from quasi-military multinational corporations or not. Not only does it hurt the feelings of the brave people in Military Intelligence and in the Pentagon who are actually to blame, but it hurts the feelings of the Vice President of the United States who thinks the Geneva Conventions are quaint. A senior administration official has said on background that Mr. Cheney has cried, real hard, several times about these things Amnesty International says America did to people the Vice President has never even met, which he had nothing to do with, and even if he did you can’t prove it.

According to a senior White House official who agreed to comment without attribution, the Vice President is considering measures to take, internationally, in concert with our democratic allies, to prevent this sort of hurtful, irresponsible talk by human rights groups who want the terrorists to win. Some of the measures under consideration are waterboarding, forced sex with animals and creative uses of electricity.

"The Look"

2005-08-08T17:46:00.000-07:00

I got the look the other night from my son. This is all very new to me. I may have gotten the look over an infraction a few weeks earlier but I wasn’t paying attention. I was completely unprepared for this. My son is 13, at which age the glands begin to produce the hormones that produce the look in a spontaneous and natural way, like facial hair. What I am trying to say is that the look is nothing personal and nothing new and is no reflection on me personally, other than a reflection on my questionable judgment 13-plus years ago.

My son loves me and respects me every other half-hour, it’s only when I open my mouth in public that he experiences the momentary panic of all teenagers, which produces the hormone, which produces the look. The sequence occurs with breathtaking speed. It is a latent reflex. Doctors have a device for measuring it now, sort of like the rubber hammer they use on your knee, only much more expensive, so it is usually only used in the cases of very rich teenagers and latent adolescents like our president, who gave the look to his father in 2003 after family friend Brent Scowcroft criticized his (Bush Jr.s) judgment in taking the nation to war. Impulsiveness is part of being an adolescent and if you are man enough to question that impulsiveness you should be prepared to get the look big time. The former president (Bush Sr.) has gone back to piloting large fun-boats off the Maine coast and keeping his and his friends’ mouths shut. Nobody cares what Brent Scowcroft thinks anyway. I am learning to be more self-aware too.

What we all need to realize, as adults, is that this new horrified reaction to our old familiar parental selves isn’t about us, it is about them; it is about the anxiety of youth. Our offspring are growing up, and growing up means finding a sudden increase in powers beyond their comprehension. It’s a frightening thing to wake up one morning and find that you can suddenly affect the world around you in profound ways. To find that your senses are inexplicably tuned to a much higher level, and all for the purposes of perceiving how stupid your parents are, and how your parents’ behavior, especially the tiniest criticism, might reflect on you. I remember when I was a teenager and realized that my parents were stupider than I had thought previously.

And it wasn’t only them, it was their whole generation, the entire power structure. A power structure devoted full-time to suppressing my newly discovered requirements to drive expertly at high speeds with as many friends in the car as possible. Today’s youth must also add the necessity of staying in touch via cell-phone with the friends that couldn’t fit into the car. Our president is keenly aware of enormous new responsibilities undreamed of as recently as a few years ago when he was still driving into neighbors’ garbage cans. Does he need everybody else telling him how to do his important job? No. He has it all under control. Did you think he didn’t have 9/11 totally covered before it happened? As if. So if he gives you that look, Mr. Reporter, it is because he’s trying really hard to do his very best and he doesn’t need the rest of us bugging him. I understand from a quick read through the medical literature that the hormones that produce the look never really turn off in some people. They remain, for all practical purposes, teenagers all their lives. Have you ever noticed how youthful the president appears?

When I was a teenager some of my peers were less focused on the important job of resenting our parents’ warnings to drive carefully and screw around responsibly, and way too focused on other things that were none of their business, like a war that was going on in Vietnam, and whether negroes ought to be allowed to vote, or women to hold jobs instead of bearing children one after another. There were lots of arguments over these things during the 1960s, which produced anxiety in young people, which produced even more hormones. Our president was right there, branding fraternity emblems into the backsides of freshmen. He was giving the look to protesters and other killjoys big time then.

What we were too callow and self-centered to realize was that wars like Vietnam and Iraq are a perfectly natural outlet for young people whose bodies are producing the hormones that produce the extreme self-consciousness that produces the look. When the look leads to confrontation and to acts of violent impulsiveness it’s good to have somewhere for that impulsiveness to go. Our men and women in uniform are giving people the look 24/7 in Baghdad today, and the young people of Baghdad are giving it right back again. Self-doubt is natural among adolescents. Self-doubt–anxiety–perceived threat–anger–the look–impulsive violence. This is a natural cycle, which is exactly why there are wars. Luckily our president has surrounded himself with grown-ups (most of them hand-picked by his dad) who are not latent adolescents, who understand that foreign countries are a better place for that impulsive violence to take place, and if, in the process, we can get more gas to drive efficiently at high speeds in our cars with all our friends while talking on our cell-phones, all the better. National policy isn’t that complicated when you begin to understand adolescent hormones.

So when you get the look from your teen, just smile the same smile you got from your parents in the late 1960s. Smile in the secure knowledge that our president has found the perfect outlet for their adolescent rage. (And his own.) Hopefully our kids will be able to prove how much smarter they are by taking the mess we’ve stuck them with and making something out of it. Something that looks less like a colossal failure. The best of them will probably die trying to fix that failure, leaving the ones who opted out, the obedient cowardly ones, the ones who waved flags and cheered, young people like our president, to pick up the process and repeat it in another thirty years.

There is a cruel beauty to all of this, isn’t there?

The Peasant Problem

2005-04-24T11:35:00.000-07:00

We have a peasant problem today in America. Call it a shortage, call it a supply side problem, call it a broad reluctance to play the game. The idea of a servile working class is a useful one that has served us well for centuries. So why is it outmoded, and who outmoded it? I blame intellectuals. What exactly is the problem that intellectuals have with people who bother to look picturesque while doing the kind of work even intellectuals don’t know how to do for themselves, like polishing the silver and cleaning the commode, by which I don’t mean the small antique cupboard in the den?

Or harvesting root vegetables. Harvesting root vegetables is one of the more picturesque activities in the job description of “Peasant”. Bending over for hours on end in colorful peasant garb in attractive autumnal landscapes is wonderfully gymnastic. (It almost makes you want to grab your camera. You probably have one in the glove box of your Range Rover.) What I especially like is when they unbend themselves at your approach (camera in hand, stepping carefully not to plant your Wellies into any serious muck) tugging their forelocks and nodding gratefully. And they ought to be grateful. Whose land is it? Not theirs. That is what makes peasants so happy-go-lucky.

Oh to be so landless and carefree again! Thinking about the gypsy life always gives one a nostalgic clutch in the throat. Traveling light from one employment to the next. Sleeping under the stars. Bearing children in the open air. (Peasant children are darling and dark-eyed and a dime a dozen.) Defecating in ditches adjacent to the fields is such a friendly, communal ritual. Then, when the season ends, slipping quietly across the border, out of the reach of burdensome social services into the sunny tax-havens to the south where peasants are free to live as peasants have always preferred to live: in little cardboard boxes.

So why is peasantry a foreign monopoly? Where are our homegrown peasants? And what effect does this dependence on the imported variety have on national security? Unbeknownst to Americans schooled by Communist textbook writers under Eisenhower, a vast pogrom was organized during the fifties (exactly as you would expect, by social workers and unions), in which millions of happy American peasants were forcibly converted into decently-paid blue collar workers. If this reminds you of what Stalin did to the kulaks I won’t need to tell you where Eisenhower got the idea. Trainloads of weeping peasants all across the land were forced at the point of a gun to exchange their colorful rag-tag peasant costumes for Sans-a-belt pants and Ban-Lon shirts or attractive, sensible housedresses from Sears and Robert Hall, and herded into spanking clean, electric-lit Cape Cods set in grassy lawns among bewildering suburban cul-de-sacs from which they would never escape.

Thousands of years of cherished folkways were lost during the fifties. No more peasant folk-dances, or crowds of bright eyed children merrily thrusting their filthy hands into our purses while we shop. When is the last time you were charmed by the sight of a peasant picturesquely defecating out of doors or giving birth under a hedgerow? These heartening sights, which gave a pleasing certainty to our sense of being better than those who toiled, are now gone forever, “one with Ninevah and Tyre,” whatever the hell that means.

Is it really too late to go back? Judge for yourself. Listen to the compassionate, carefully coded words coming from our clear-eyed President. There are instructions galore on President Bush’s Department of Labor websites helpfully suggesting ways for employers to avoid paying workers what they’ve earned or providing benefits they were tricked into providing by previous Presidents of both parties who were secretly Communists. Things are afoot that may yet return a happy, low-cost, American-born peasantry to our streets. For decades working Americans have been confined in air-conditioned workplaces and burdened with rights and privileges while being deprived of fresh air and exercise and the freedom to sleep rough. But wiser heads have prevailed in important, furtive ways. Under the traditional American rubric of “every man for himself,” thousands of citizens a day are being freed from the bonds of well-paid, benefit-provided employment. Today, mortgages that have trapped Americans into a cycle of perpetual homeownership are being cheerfully foreclosed. The outcry you hear is probably shrieks of joyful surprise. Family vehicles that environmental busybodies complained were too big are just about big enough to sleep a family of four if the family members are short, and shortness is just perfect for being a peasant: being undernourished helps one grow up shorter than average and being closer to the ground means not having to bend quite as far. It also makes it easy for us to look down on the help. Soon, the cast-off rags of the Haves (that’s us), some barely used, will be put to good use patching the threadbare clothes of the new peasantry, turning them back into the colorful rag-tag garments of yore.

Yore. There’s a word you probably haven’t seen used in a sentence for a while. Get ready to see it a lot more. Lots of well-off Americans will find their vocabularies strained to new limits trying to describe their delight at how cheap and compliant the new peasantry is. And they will have lots more time and motivation to get out their thesauruses. The days of yore were the wondrous bygone times when there were actual, handsomely dressed, well-educated but idle aristocrats sitting on fence-posts with pencil and paper, writing poems while watching the brightly-clad peasantry bend picturesquely in the fields between moments spent conceiving and bearing more peasants in the hedgerows. I, for one, plan to be a poet as soon as I make sure I belong to the aristocracy.

How will you know if you are an aristocrat or a peasant? There are several ways of finding this out. One is to ask yourself if you have always been brown, or if you are only brown on purpose. Another way of finding out which class you belong to is by where you sleep. If you wake up in the night and can a) see the sky, or b) smell another person, you are probably not an aristocrat. (Chanel no. 5 does not count.) If you are afraid of other people less often than other people are afraid of you, you are probably either an aristocrat or a violent criminal; there is a distinct overlap between these two groups. If people you are speaking to do as they’re told immediately and apologetically and you are not holding a gun then you are probably an aristocrat. Aristocrats are tall from years of careful breeding, not from necessity. They smell nice because their clothes are freshly laundered every night while they sleep, as if by elves, but actually by peasants. Aristocrats spend more on fragrant shampoos than peasants spend on food, and why not if they have the money? There are roses in the cheeks of the aristocracy from eating free-range organic fruits and vegetables that have more rights and liberties than the peasants who harvest them; the red in the cheeks of the peasantry comes mostly from rubbing the dirt off for the aristocrat craning out of his Range Rover to take his picture.

Say hello to a more picturesque life, whether you are on the clear-browed, expensively-shod, idle-houred, poetry-scribbling side of the equation or the bending-over, defecating-out-in-the-open, rag-tag side. If you are on the peasant side rest-assured you will have lots of new friends to celebrate with. And another thing (as if being picturesque weren’t enough): good authority has it that you will inherit the earth just as soon as we are done with it.

Copyright Pasquino 2005

From The Archives: Homage to a Press Secretary

2005-04-07T11:11:00.000-07:00

The young, sharply attired, bald man moves briskly to the podium. His face is smart and brimful of confidence. He begins, without preamble, without sizing up the room. He knows everybody. He has their measure. Their names are down in his seating chart: the smart girls and the boys who think they are smart; they all think they know everything, but the rules are different now. A new broom has entered the Capital. The guard has changed. He begins, and everybody listens, admiring the spank of his diction, the jut of his jaw.

"I have some changes to announce. And some reminders. (He smiles) Even in these dark days, our White House should be a happy place, and it is our White House. It belongs to us now. WE are in control. Never forget that. If the White House is not happy, we are not happy.

(Did he mean us/them or us/us? He didn’t say.)

"In “our” House. . . there are a few rules that some people need to be reminded of.

(He looks over the top of his glasses; several grown men quail. He meant us/them.)

"Rule one. People will raise their hands in our White House. People will speak when they are called upon and not before. When they are called upon they will stand up next to their little chair. They will say “please” and “thank-you”. “Thank-you, Mr. President. How are you Mr. President? You sure are looking fit, Mr. President. Are you having a nice day, Mr. President? How is the First Lady, Mr. President? Nice tie, Mr. President; was it a gift?” All appropriate questions. You know the drill.
And no slouching. This is America’s house.

"We are always polite in America’s House. We do not speak out of turn. There is no need to shout, the President isn’t hard of hearing. There will be no sniggering or making faces in the back rows.

"Try to think of it-- even if you are a heathen, as most reporters are—-try to think of it as being in Church. This is a kind of Church, after all: America’s Church; and where the President stands is like the pulpit. Think of his words as you would think of the word of God. It isn’t polite to ask God to explain Himself. (Where did Cain’s wife come from? None of your business.)

If something seems confusing to you, imagine how he must feel. Or maybe the President is talking over your head. Did you ever think of that, Roger? I don’t see anybody else scratching their head. Are you sub-par in the mental department? I wouldn’t advertise it if I were you. If you don’t understand something, that really is your problem, don’t you think?

Don’t bother the rest of us with a follow-up. When the President has spoken he has spoken. Our time is valuable. The important thing is to believe at all times and with all your heart and soul. Clench your little fists together and close your eyes and believe and hope and wish as hard as you can that the President knows what He is doing, and He knows best, whether you understand it or not.

"Don’t contradict. Don’t point out contradictions because there aren’t any. There wouldn’t be, would there? It is a non-issue. How can you make a big issue out of something that doesn’t even exist? People should maybe be asking questions about you, Robert. Did you bathe this morning? What is that smell? Are your shoes untied? Is your job safe? What’s your credit card balance? Have you ever been arrested on a morals charge? Are you so perfect? We don’t have a problem up here. Maybe you are the one with the problem. Everything is in hand. Everything is under control. We know best. We know everything. We have our finger on the pulse of the nation. We hold the whole world in our hands.

"Our President is terribly, wonderfully brave. Did you see him walk across the lawn from the helicopter this morning? He has very good posture, shoulders back, head straight, firm, strong, muscular steps, masculine, clear-eyed. His face is chiseled out of the same stone as Mount Rushmore. He looks very brave and determined. Is it your plan to undermine that? Is that your job? Is that a very American thing to do? Is that why Americans fought and died on Omaha Beach so you can ask snide questions of the President? Every day we should get out of bed and get down on our knees and thank our lucky stars that we have such a specimen of American manhood to lead us. I do. So why are you so determined to make him cry?

"One question is all you get. One question and my suggestion is you make it a nice question because if it isn’t nice everybody will hate you. “Where do you buy your shoes, Mr. President?” Fair question. See? Was that so hard? ...I’m sorry? What did you say, Phil? ...“Do you use the same Italian shoemaker who makes shoes for Saddam Hussein?” Why did you have to spoil it? I am sure Mr. Hussein has to buy shoes somewhere and from someone. What a coincidence! And how clever of you to dig it up! Ha, ha! Very funny. Small jokes and sarcasm have no place in the People’s House. This house belongs to America. Do you have a problem with America? Are you making fun of America? Did your parents come to America from somewhere else? We could arrange for you to go back there if you’re not careful. One phone call. Not so cocky now are we?

"There will be no questions on the following subjects: Enron, energy companies of any kind, the word “trifecta”, the whereabouts or private agenda of the Vice President, the Presidential daughters, poor people, the Oval Office I.Q. chart found in the Press Men’s Room, pretzels, tennis player John Newcombe’s unpublished memoir, the State of Florida, the Supreme Court, anything read in Harper’s, anything about books The President hasn’t read, anything having to do with Martin Sheen, or the President’s father or any of his father’s friends. There is such a thing as common civility and we intend to observe it in this Press Room. Who threw that? I know somebody threw that. Who was it? Don’t play innocent with me. Who laughed? Does everyone want to stay here after the briefing?

"Job One of every White House reporter is to make sure the President’s message is delivered to the American People. His message, not his exact words. I don’t think that anyone found it funny when Howard wrote up last week’s answers verbatim and put it out on the wire. It just made Howard look foolish. Mrs. Bush was up half the night comforting the President, he was that upset. Did it make you a big man to hurt the President’s feelings like that? Do I make fun of the way you talk? Lots of people get the words “lucrative” and “ludicrous” mixed up and nobody likes having it pointed out by some smartypants who went to journalism school. Spell “propinquity”, Howard. Go ahead. Not so smart now, are you? How old were you when you licked that bedwetting problem? Let’s move on.

"Brad has a question. . . .O.K. Fair enough. If there is a rule of thumb I think it might be this. The President loves baseball. Imagine you are playing baseball and you are at the plate. How would you feel if the pitcher started throwing junk at you, lowball stuff, brushbacks, tricky curveballs, spitters, and really hard fastballs that would hurt a lot if they hit you in the arm? You’d be pretty angry. You might want to shout “Not fair!” --but you wouldn’t. Why? Because you’d feel like a sissy. Do you want the President to feel like a sissy? Suppose he has to put on his thinking cap the next day and make a decision? Suppose he is learning some really hard stuff for a meeting with a really important foreign leader who went to college? Do you want him being upset and angry and lacking in confidence or maybe not even sleeping all night? Play fair. Be nice. Play nice. When you’re up to bat, you want the pitches to come in over the plate, clean and chest high, nice and easy. Nobody likes to disgrace themselves in front of national television. The President is just like you. Give him nice pitches that he can see and he may surprise you by hitting one out of the infield. America wants the President to succeed. They don’t want him to look like a moron in front of everybody. And the last thing the American public wants is to feel like a chump for voting for him.

"Who said that? . . .Very funny, Norman.

"Most important, and I cannot stress this enough, in the interests of National Security in this time of War there will be no math questions of any kind. No questions that require knowledge about foreign countries. No tricky pronunciations. No story problems. No trick questions. Surprise is the weapon of the Enemy. The Press cannot be allowed to question the command qualities of the Commander In Chief. To this end, to ensure compliance for the duration of the present conflict, you will receive clearly typed booklets of questions each morning. They will be waiting for you on your seats. You will be expected to learn them. When your turn comes, and you are called upon, you will read the question highlighted in your book as written. Deviations will be dealt with swiftly and without mercy. Those reporters who play ball will receive pre-printed transcripts of the press conference in a keepsake leatherette binding with the Presidential Seal on the cover and a souvenir fountain pen. Reporters in good standing will have the opportunity to make their broadcast reports from the verandah and put their name in for one-on-one chats with the President at Camp David.

"The President is a delicate and a lovely thing. Cherish him. Love him. Protect him. You are his Press Corps. You hold his trembling, fragile self-confidence in your hands. With gentle care it will grow and grow, and as he grows in office so will his kindness towards you all. I believe even you can comprehend the significance of what I am saying. We need you people to play ball. All right, gentlemen, ladies, I believe the President is ready for your questions..."

copyright Pasquino 2002

Explain To Us Again Why Art Is A Luxury

2005-03-03T13:04:00.001-08:00

Cutting the Arts is a popular move all around. Nobody but snobs are going to argue. Those who love Art always disagree about what it is, and nothing rubs people the wrong way faster than No-Talent getting Big Money from the government. Most of us think we have children who can draw as well as most of these people anyway, and most of these people live in New York so why should I care?

Real People can’t afford to pay for Real Talent because it is priced out of our range. Is it fair to expose people to something they can’t afford? All it does is make people dissatisfied with the Ordinary Crap they can afford. Real Talent is attracted to large bodies of cash the way waterfowl are attracted to bodies of water. The larger the Talent the larger the cash, etc. This is called the Beauty of the Marketplace.

Genius belongs on another level entirely: it’s rare and therefore extremely expensive, so it isn’t really for us anyway. Expensiveness is the only way we know that it is actually by a Genius at all. If you have to ask how much an actual Genius costs you obviously can’t afford it. The idea has been put about that a very small percentage of our tax dollars ought to be spent to help Ordinary People club together to pay for something Really Great—a bona fide Work of Genius––to put up where we all can enjoy it and feel inferior. And why not? You can’t sit in a large auditorium and listen to Giacometti or Renoir or Kinkade, but you should be able go look at their stuff in a Museum if you like. Money is the problem here; it always is. If you’re Rich and just spent a lot of money on something rare it defeats the purpose to make it less rare by putting it in a Museum where everybody can look at it.

Rich people are not stupid. Cutting Arts funding will not hurt them. It will, in fact, make their private collections more private and more valuable. And when you think about it, which we hate to do, sharing art, especially expensive art by Geniuses, sounds a lot like Communism to me. Don’t worry. Stopping Arts Funding will leave working Geniuses with nobody but Rich People to support them and they will quickly learn to be more gracious and flattering. They will learn to paint the kind of stuff that pleases their masters instead of interpreting the Zeitgeist, whatever the hell that is.

Ordinary People need to learn some understanding, some compassion along with their government-subsidized Art Appreciation classes. Sometimes we need to look at it from the Rich Person’s point of view. Making Art available to everybody through grants is plain counterproductive. Have you ever thought maybe Ordinary People don’t deserve Great Art? Most of us have to have Genius explained to us before we notice it anyway. Education is expensive, and why should Rich People who know everything already have to pay for that? If we were Rich we could afford the Explainers and the Geniuses both and have enough left over to buy a nice lunch.

Rich People aren’t actually born with Taste, they get it for their birthdays and for Christmas from their parents because their parents got it from theirs. Most of our Rich Cultural Heritage has always belonged to this same small handful of people as God intended. We get the taste our parents can afford, and won’t it be nice in a few years when the inheritance tax on the top 1% gets eliminated once and for all? Then there won’t be any point in the Rich sharing their household Geniuses with the rest of us Poor Folks, and we can go back to appreciating the portraits they commission of their attractive faces and the statues of themselves that they’ll always put up in the parks.