My editor had sent me to interview a college professor, and I felt out of place. “Tell me, Doc,” I began, once we were seated, “what exactly is your title here at the university?”
“I’m in the Political Biology field,” he said. “I hold the chair in Comparative Political Anatomy.”
“Hope that chair is softer than this one!” I joked. It’s always good to put the interviewee at his ease. “I expected you’d have a huge lab,” I went on, “but you seem to have mostly office space.”
“I do some lab work,” he said, “but mostly I do field biology. I study the political animal in his native habitat—legislative chambers, smoke-filled rooms, watering holes near the capital. We only use the lab when one of our subjects is pronounced politically dead. Then we bring him here and perform an autopsy on the carcass.”
“I see,” I nodded. I’ve found that if you don’t understand a word somebody said, your best bet is just to nod. “Look, the reason I’m here is that the book you just published has created quite a stir. In it you announce the discovery of a new political species, the Spineless Democrat. Finding a new species must have been quite a thrill for you.”
“It’s actually a subspecies of the Common Democrat,” he said. “There have been isolated reports of such a creature from time to time, but it’s so drab that it generally escapes notice.”
“What led you to your discovery?”
“I had been observing widespread behavior indicating the absence of a backbone—Democrats lining up to support the Patriot Act, handing the President the power to start the war, voting to cut taxes for the rich, voting for CAFTA, endorsing the Republicans’ bankruptcy bill, being bought off on that godawful energy bill, etc.--, so there were some indications where to look.”
“From your description, it sounds as if it would be tough to tell them and Republicans apart.”
“A lot of people confuse the two species; they’re almost identical. You can distinguish the Spineless Democrat by his timidity, his poor vision, and the absence of venom in his fangs.”
“You make it sound easy.”
“Well, of course the lab work was more complicated than that. Some of the specimens were gutless, some had lost their heads, some their posteriors, and some their spines, so it took awhile to sort them all out.”
“How do these spineless creatures move around? Do they scuttle like crabs, for instance, or do they crawl on their belly like a reptile?”
“That was one of the amazing things we found. They actually have an exoskeleton—an outside skeleton, covering the surface of their body—made up of starched shirts and pinstriped business suits. They’re able to remain in a vertical position for fairly long periods of time, and are surprisingly mobile.”
“So they’re often upright?” I said, jotting a note.
“No,” he said, “just vertical.”
“Is there a large population?” I asked.
“It’s fairly sizable for the time being,” he said, “but the number of Democrats holding office is declining, and we think the spineless variety may be the reason. They seem unable to reproduce. Every specimen we’ve examined so far has been sterile.”
© Tony Russell, 2005
Sunday, July 17, 2005
Tuesday, July 12, 2005
“A Faith-Based Press Conference”
“Good to see so many of you here in the White House chapel for our first annual faith-based press conference. I’m ready for the tough questions, so let’s get started. Who wants to go first?”
“I will, sir. Mr. President, now that we have proof that you lied repeatedly to manipulate the nation into war with Iraq, do you think it would be appropriate to ask for forgiveness for all the thousands of people who have been killed, blinded, crippled, maimed, widowed, orphaned, or otherwise harmed by your actions?”
“I’m glad you asked that. See, most people don’t understand that you have to break eggs to bake a cake. When I hit the floor beside my bed every night, I think of that cake, and pray the Lord my soul to bake. Next question?”
“Yes, sir. I wonder if I might follow up on that issue a bit. You’ve come out staunchly against abortion and stem cell research, saying that you would do everything in your power to protect life. How do you square the hundred thousand or more deaths you are directly and deliberately responsible for with what you have said is your commitment to life?”
“That’s a good question, Ted. Let me respond by asking you a question: Who let you in here? Will somebody please escort him out the door and replace him with an embedded reporter? Thanks. Somebody else?”
“Over here, sir. As you know, your administration systematically plans, carries out, and attempts to justify cruel and barbaric treatment of prisoners; it brushes off the deaths of the innocent in war as collateral damage; and it strongly supports the death penalty for a wide variety of offenses. Some people claim these actions are unthinkable for a true follower of Christ, who let himself be tortured and crucified rather that strike his enemies. Would you care to comment on that?”
“Where are these people coming from? Where are all the usual reporters, who ask me if I had a nice vacation and whether the economy is going to improve and stuff like that? I don’t know whose idea this thing was, but heads are going to roll. Yes, you over there by the window.”
“Thank you, Mr. President. The Bible speaks often of the evil of pursuing riches and worldly gain, yet you and your family throw yourselves wholeheartedly into growing ever richer. Your administration is remarkable for the extent to which it favors the rich at the expense of everyone else. How do you square your personal and political behavior with Biblical values?”
“I’m glad this is a country—and a news conference, for that matter—where we can talk about Biblical values. I used to be a doper and a drunk, but once Jesus came into my heart, I found new peace, as well as a piece of the ownership of the Texas Rangers. He has blessed me with the chance to cut some really nifty deals. See, God looks after those who look out for Him. The Golden Rule: you slap my back and I’ll slap yours. A lot of people don’t understand that.”
“Mr. President, I was wondering if it bothers you to cynically exploit the trust of decent, ordinary churchgoers, like those women in the choir in Nashville, for example?”
“I’ll have to check with my spiritual advisors on that. I’ll get back to you.”
“Mr. President! Mr. President!”
“Will you all stop waving your hands for a minute! I’m looking for that fake reporter we planted in here, and I can’t see him if you’re going to keep jumping around. Oh, there he is. Tell me, what question do you have for me today, Ed?”
“Mr. President, I wonder if it bothers a born-in-the-blood, Bible-believing Christian like yourself to be second-guessed by a bunch of atheistic progressives, Bible-burning liberals, and anti-Christ Democrats?”
“Well, praise the Lord, it’s about time. That’s the kind of fair and well-balanced question we’re looking for. Let me just say I want to make it clear right now that I don’t think every Democrat is necessarily the spawn of Satan. Some of them voted for me. On the other hand, it stands to reason that opposition to my God-driven agenda has to originate somewhere. That’s all I’ve got to say; people can draw their own conclusions.
“One more question. You there in the back row.”
“Mr. President, where do you stand on the separation of church and state?”
“Whoa, looks as if we’ve run out of time! Let’s wrap things up. Dr. Dobson, would you lead us in closing prayer?”
© Tony Russell, 2005
“I will, sir. Mr. President, now that we have proof that you lied repeatedly to manipulate the nation into war with Iraq, do you think it would be appropriate to ask for forgiveness for all the thousands of people who have been killed, blinded, crippled, maimed, widowed, orphaned, or otherwise harmed by your actions?”
“I’m glad you asked that. See, most people don’t understand that you have to break eggs to bake a cake. When I hit the floor beside my bed every night, I think of that cake, and pray the Lord my soul to bake. Next question?”
“Yes, sir. I wonder if I might follow up on that issue a bit. You’ve come out staunchly against abortion and stem cell research, saying that you would do everything in your power to protect life. How do you square the hundred thousand or more deaths you are directly and deliberately responsible for with what you have said is your commitment to life?”
“That’s a good question, Ted. Let me respond by asking you a question: Who let you in here? Will somebody please escort him out the door and replace him with an embedded reporter? Thanks. Somebody else?”
“Over here, sir. As you know, your administration systematically plans, carries out, and attempts to justify cruel and barbaric treatment of prisoners; it brushes off the deaths of the innocent in war as collateral damage; and it strongly supports the death penalty for a wide variety of offenses. Some people claim these actions are unthinkable for a true follower of Christ, who let himself be tortured and crucified rather that strike his enemies. Would you care to comment on that?”
“Where are these people coming from? Where are all the usual reporters, who ask me if I had a nice vacation and whether the economy is going to improve and stuff like that? I don’t know whose idea this thing was, but heads are going to roll. Yes, you over there by the window.”
“Thank you, Mr. President. The Bible speaks often of the evil of pursuing riches and worldly gain, yet you and your family throw yourselves wholeheartedly into growing ever richer. Your administration is remarkable for the extent to which it favors the rich at the expense of everyone else. How do you square your personal and political behavior with Biblical values?”
“I’m glad this is a country—and a news conference, for that matter—where we can talk about Biblical values. I used to be a doper and a drunk, but once Jesus came into my heart, I found new peace, as well as a piece of the ownership of the Texas Rangers. He has blessed me with the chance to cut some really nifty deals. See, God looks after those who look out for Him. The Golden Rule: you slap my back and I’ll slap yours. A lot of people don’t understand that.”
“Mr. President, I was wondering if it bothers you to cynically exploit the trust of decent, ordinary churchgoers, like those women in the choir in Nashville, for example?”
“I’ll have to check with my spiritual advisors on that. I’ll get back to you.”
“Mr. President! Mr. President!”
“Will you all stop waving your hands for a minute! I’m looking for that fake reporter we planted in here, and I can’t see him if you’re going to keep jumping around. Oh, there he is. Tell me, what question do you have for me today, Ed?”
“Mr. President, I wonder if it bothers a born-in-the-blood, Bible-believing Christian like yourself to be second-guessed by a bunch of atheistic progressives, Bible-burning liberals, and anti-Christ Democrats?”
“Well, praise the Lord, it’s about time. That’s the kind of fair and well-balanced question we’re looking for. Let me just say I want to make it clear right now that I don’t think every Democrat is necessarily the spawn of Satan. Some of them voted for me. On the other hand, it stands to reason that opposition to my God-driven agenda has to originate somewhere. That’s all I’ve got to say; people can draw their own conclusions.
“One more question. You there in the back row.”
“Mr. President, where do you stand on the separation of church and state?”
“Whoa, looks as if we’ve run out of time! Let’s wrap things up. Dr. Dobson, would you lead us in closing prayer?”
© Tony Russell, 2005
Monday, July 04, 2005
“The Big Picture”
Late at night, deep in the bowels of the White House, three desperate men meet (somewhat in the manner of e.coli converging). One speaks. “Guys, we can talk frankly here. The President’s poll numbers are dropping to his IQ level. The body count in Iraq is rising like the national debt. Afghanistan is falling apart faster than our cover story for invading Iraq. We’ve got to do something. What?”
“Dick, why don’t we just run off another couple hundred thousand of those ‘Standing Tall’ bumper stickers and pass them out?”
“They’re already on order, Don, along with a batch of ‘These Colors Don’t Run.’”
“Maybe we could get Lee Greenwood to appear with the Prez and sing ‘God Bless the USA’?”
“It’s been done, Karl, but I guess I could get out the ear plugs and do it again.”
“How about activating our pastoral support network?” asked Karl. “Have them hold Fourth of July services doing ‘The Star-Spangled Banner,’ along with the Pledge of Allegiance and songs like ‘Stand Up, Stand Up for Jesus, Ye Soldiers of the Cross.’”
“I don’t know,” Dick responded. “I’m a little leery about asking churches to plug the war.”
“Come on, Dick, get real! What are you doing, developing a conscience? You’re a politician, for Christ’s sake.”
“No, Don, I’m not developing a conscience. Mine’s the size of a booger and shrinking. It’s just uneasiness about asking them to go out on a limb and endorse a lost cause,” said Dick defensively.
Whoops. Dead silence. Dick had just spoken the unthinkable. Thought the unspeakable. Whatever. We’re losing another war to people who don’t speak English and aren’t even Christian. TV footage of people hanging from helicopters, fleeing in panic from the embassy roof in Baghdad, raced through each of their heads.
“Uh, look, Dick,” said Karl. “Why don’t we play up the Iraqi elections—you know, we’re moving toward democracy, our goal is clear, it just takes a little time, you run into some bumps in the road, we’re winning the war, the Vietnamese—I mean the Iraqis—are taking more and more responsibility for their own security, etc., etc.”
“That sounds good to me,” said Dick reflectively. “When in doubt, ask yourself what LBJ would do. Did.”
“Isn’t that a little tricky?” worried Don. “Aren’t people going to see that we’re feeding them the same diet of deception, meal after meal, war after war?”
Dick laughed. “It’s like eating potato chips. They know it’s unhealthy, but they just grab another handful and shove’em in the dip.”
“Suppose we attack liberals for sympathizing with the enemy,” suggested Karl. “We could claim that showing basic human decency to prisoners is the same thing as supporting al Qaeda.”
“We’ve played that card before,” said Dick, “and you’d think sooner or later people would wise up. But you would be wrong. Let’s go for it. Karl, it was your idea; you be the point man on this one.”
An idea had been surfacing in Don’s mind, like a mine elevator rising slowly from a coal shaft. “Hey, guys,” he said. “Hold on. We’re not really in that bad a shape! Think about it. So the country’s going to hell in a hot rod. So everything we touch turns to manure. So what? Look at the big picture:
“The President just got re-elected. Our majority in the Senate is swelling like a tumor. With that slick redistricting trick Tom DeLay pulled in Texas, we have a semi-permanent lock on the House. And when we fill one—maybe two—seats on the Supreme Court, we’ll have a conservative majority that’s good for a generation. Four out of four ain’t bad!
“People want a pretty war with nobody getting hurt? Tough. People want fairness instead of favors for the rich? Tough. People get queasy about having their kids drinking poisoned water, breathing polluted air, and eating genetically modified food? Tough. People resent underfunded schools with impossible mandates? Tough. We’re in the saddle, and we’re taking these cattle for a long drive.”
© Tony Russell, 2005
“Dick, why don’t we just run off another couple hundred thousand of those ‘Standing Tall’ bumper stickers and pass them out?”
“They’re already on order, Don, along with a batch of ‘These Colors Don’t Run.’”
“Maybe we could get Lee Greenwood to appear with the Prez and sing ‘God Bless the USA’?”
“It’s been done, Karl, but I guess I could get out the ear plugs and do it again.”
“How about activating our pastoral support network?” asked Karl. “Have them hold Fourth of July services doing ‘The Star-Spangled Banner,’ along with the Pledge of Allegiance and songs like ‘Stand Up, Stand Up for Jesus, Ye Soldiers of the Cross.’”
“I don’t know,” Dick responded. “I’m a little leery about asking churches to plug the war.”
“Come on, Dick, get real! What are you doing, developing a conscience? You’re a politician, for Christ’s sake.”
“No, Don, I’m not developing a conscience. Mine’s the size of a booger and shrinking. It’s just uneasiness about asking them to go out on a limb and endorse a lost cause,” said Dick defensively.
Whoops. Dead silence. Dick had just spoken the unthinkable. Thought the unspeakable. Whatever. We’re losing another war to people who don’t speak English and aren’t even Christian. TV footage of people hanging from helicopters, fleeing in panic from the embassy roof in Baghdad, raced through each of their heads.
“Uh, look, Dick,” said Karl. “Why don’t we play up the Iraqi elections—you know, we’re moving toward democracy, our goal is clear, it just takes a little time, you run into some bumps in the road, we’re winning the war, the Vietnamese—I mean the Iraqis—are taking more and more responsibility for their own security, etc., etc.”
“That sounds good to me,” said Dick reflectively. “When in doubt, ask yourself what LBJ would do. Did.”
“Isn’t that a little tricky?” worried Don. “Aren’t people going to see that we’re feeding them the same diet of deception, meal after meal, war after war?”
Dick laughed. “It’s like eating potato chips. They know it’s unhealthy, but they just grab another handful and shove’em in the dip.”
“Suppose we attack liberals for sympathizing with the enemy,” suggested Karl. “We could claim that showing basic human decency to prisoners is the same thing as supporting al Qaeda.”
“We’ve played that card before,” said Dick, “and you’d think sooner or later people would wise up. But you would be wrong. Let’s go for it. Karl, it was your idea; you be the point man on this one.”
An idea had been surfacing in Don’s mind, like a mine elevator rising slowly from a coal shaft. “Hey, guys,” he said. “Hold on. We’re not really in that bad a shape! Think about it. So the country’s going to hell in a hot rod. So everything we touch turns to manure. So what? Look at the big picture:
“The President just got re-elected. Our majority in the Senate is swelling like a tumor. With that slick redistricting trick Tom DeLay pulled in Texas, we have a semi-permanent lock on the House. And when we fill one—maybe two—seats on the Supreme Court, we’ll have a conservative majority that’s good for a generation. Four out of four ain’t bad!
“People want a pretty war with nobody getting hurt? Tough. People want fairness instead of favors for the rich? Tough. People get queasy about having their kids drinking poisoned water, breathing polluted air, and eating genetically modified food? Tough. People resent underfunded schools with impossible mandates? Tough. We’re in the saddle, and we’re taking these cattle for a long drive.”
© Tony Russell, 2005
Thursday, June 30, 2005
“I’ll Meet You in the Lobby”
“Chuck, how’s it going, buddy? Long time no see!”
“Hey, Jack, good to see you! I’m just so damned busy since I joined the Congressman’s staff that I haven’t had time to do much of anything except milk the system and churn out public relations. I’m on the go all the time.”
“So you’ve been doing some traveling, eh? Where’ve you been?”
“Let’s see. The National Association of Real Estate Agents and Diamond News Network each paid for a trip to New York City; banking company DRT gave me a ticket to a Mets game; the American Satellite TV Dealers Trade Association flew me to Phoenix, Arizona; and Big Time Bank Corps sent me to The Lakes, Nev., to tour a credit-card center. The National Association of Previously-Owned Automobile Dealers and the Pharmaceutical Marketing Agency paid for separate trips to Charleston, South Carolina, during the Spoleto Festival and Ripley, West Virginia, during the Mountain State Arts & Crafts Fair. Diamond News Network sent me to New Orleans for Mardi Gras, Lone Star State National Savings and Home Loan Bank took me to San Antonio during the NBA finals, and the Hawaiian Visitor Recruitment Agency flew me to Oahu for a five-day conference on beach erosion. God, I just love being in power! Ever since we took control of Congress, the lobbyists have outdone themselves.”
“Is it all travel?”
“No way! Take this outing right here. A buddy and I decided to organize happy hour. But who wants to pony up their own money, right? So I called up Lou—the sour looking guy in the pinstripe shirt—and invited him. He’s a lobbyist, and we’ll end up sticking him with the bill for the beer. Order yourself another pitcher; it’s on him!”
“Thanks. I guess having somebody pick up your beer tab really cuts your expenses, huh?”
“What expenses? This isn’t just about beer. When it’s time to eat, I pick a restaurant I want to eat at, call a lobbyist for the pharmaceutical industry or the energy industry, tell them I want a lunch meeting, eat, and hand’em the bill. Sometimes if I’m feeling generous, I bring the rest of the staff along.”
“Don’t the lobbyists get upset when you call them like that and then stick’em with the tab for your food?”
“Are you serious? They’re dying for you to call. The money’s not out of their pockets, and it’s something they can show their clients. ‘Sure we’ve got access to Congressman Sellout. I had lunch with one of his senior aides three times last week.’”
“Your overhead must be awfully low!”
“Jack, somebody else pays for everything. I got turned down for a mortgage last spring. They claimed my salary was too low for the house I wanted to buy. I said, ‘What do you mean my salary is too low? The only expenses I have are rent and utilities. The lobbyists pay for everything else.’ They said, ‘Oh, sorry, we didn’t realize you were with Congress,’ and the mortgage sailed right on through.”
“Don’t these industry lobbyists expect something in return?”
“You’re joking, right? For a few hundred thousand bucks worth of favors and campaign contributions, almost any industry can get legislation written that will be worth millions, maybe even billions of dollars. Hell, usually we let them write it themselves, to save ourselves the work. I’m ashamed we sell out so cheap; we’re the best deal in Washington! But listen to me go on. Enough about me, Jack. What are you doing these days?”
“I work as an investigator for the Government Accounting Office.”
© Tony Russell, 2005
“Hey, Jack, good to see you! I’m just so damned busy since I joined the Congressman’s staff that I haven’t had time to do much of anything except milk the system and churn out public relations. I’m on the go all the time.”
“So you’ve been doing some traveling, eh? Where’ve you been?”
“Let’s see. The National Association of Real Estate Agents and Diamond News Network each paid for a trip to New York City; banking company DRT gave me a ticket to a Mets game; the American Satellite TV Dealers Trade Association flew me to Phoenix, Arizona; and Big Time Bank Corps sent me to The Lakes, Nev., to tour a credit-card center. The National Association of Previously-Owned Automobile Dealers and the Pharmaceutical Marketing Agency paid for separate trips to Charleston, South Carolina, during the Spoleto Festival and Ripley, West Virginia, during the Mountain State Arts & Crafts Fair. Diamond News Network sent me to New Orleans for Mardi Gras, Lone Star State National Savings and Home Loan Bank took me to San Antonio during the NBA finals, and the Hawaiian Visitor Recruitment Agency flew me to Oahu for a five-day conference on beach erosion. God, I just love being in power! Ever since we took control of Congress, the lobbyists have outdone themselves.”
“Is it all travel?”
“No way! Take this outing right here. A buddy and I decided to organize happy hour. But who wants to pony up their own money, right? So I called up Lou—the sour looking guy in the pinstripe shirt—and invited him. He’s a lobbyist, and we’ll end up sticking him with the bill for the beer. Order yourself another pitcher; it’s on him!”
“Thanks. I guess having somebody pick up your beer tab really cuts your expenses, huh?”
“What expenses? This isn’t just about beer. When it’s time to eat, I pick a restaurant I want to eat at, call a lobbyist for the pharmaceutical industry or the energy industry, tell them I want a lunch meeting, eat, and hand’em the bill. Sometimes if I’m feeling generous, I bring the rest of the staff along.”
“Don’t the lobbyists get upset when you call them like that and then stick’em with the tab for your food?”
“Are you serious? They’re dying for you to call. The money’s not out of their pockets, and it’s something they can show their clients. ‘Sure we’ve got access to Congressman Sellout. I had lunch with one of his senior aides three times last week.’”
“Your overhead must be awfully low!”
“Jack, somebody else pays for everything. I got turned down for a mortgage last spring. They claimed my salary was too low for the house I wanted to buy. I said, ‘What do you mean my salary is too low? The only expenses I have are rent and utilities. The lobbyists pay for everything else.’ They said, ‘Oh, sorry, we didn’t realize you were with Congress,’ and the mortgage sailed right on through.”
“Don’t these industry lobbyists expect something in return?”
“You’re joking, right? For a few hundred thousand bucks worth of favors and campaign contributions, almost any industry can get legislation written that will be worth millions, maybe even billions of dollars. Hell, usually we let them write it themselves, to save ourselves the work. I’m ashamed we sell out so cheap; we’re the best deal in Washington! But listen to me go on. Enough about me, Jack. What are you doing these days?”
“I work as an investigator for the Government Accounting Office.”
© Tony Russell, 2005
Wednesday, June 22, 2005
“Uncle Sam’s Birthday”
Shorty was sitting in the barbershop, chewing the fat with Bert, when I stopped in for my daily dose of local news. “Hey,” I said, “how’s Uncle Sam doing? He’s got a birthday coming up, hasn’t he?”
“To tell the truth, he’s not doin’ that well, Ace,” Shorty said. “But what can you expect? He’s gonna be two hundred and twenty-nine years old. You can’t expect him to act like a young nation forever.”
“I always thought he had an iron constitution,” I said.
“Me too,” confessed Shorty. “But his constitution’s not what it used to be. Jailing people without charging them with a crime. Not allowing them to see a lawyer. Torturing people. Feeding lies to the public. Forking out money to religions. I’ll tell ya, he’s changed. It’s pathetic to see him go downhill like that.”
“I heard he’s having blackouts,” said Bert.
“Yeah, he just had one that lasted about six weeks,” said Shorty. “Proof that the President had lied to drag us into war. The story broke in England, and for six weeks, not a single major network, newspaper, or news magazine in this country gave it any notice.”
“That’s scary,” said Bert. “Anything could happen to him if he’s having episodes like that.”
“It’s funny how it came on him all of a sudden,” I reflected.
“Well, you know, he had that war fever a few years back, and then that patriotic fever right after that,” said Shorty, “and he’s never been the same since.”
“I don’t know that he’s over those fevers yet,” said Bert. “I think it’s like malaria. Once you get it in your system, you have these recurrent attacks.”
“You might be right,” said Shorty. “But the family has called in all kinds of specialists—Dr. Rice, Wolfowitz, Feith, Rumsfeld—and they all say to stick with their prescription.”
“Gee, I’d have to think twice about that,” said Bert. “If something’s not working, maybe it’s time to try something different.”
“A couple of people have suggested that,” said Shorty, “but these specialists insist their new treatment will work if you give it enough time.”
“Their treatment seems pretty harsh,” said Bert. “Are you sure that’s what Uncle Sam wants?”
“They’re hard on the poor and the middle class,” admitted Shorty. “But that’s what you get when you choose those guys.”
“Wolfowitz, Feith, Rumsfeld, Rice. Boy,” I mused, “their bills must really be something. Help like that doesn’t come cheap!”
“You can say that again,” agreed Shorty. “Over two hundred billion dollars is what I’ve heard.”
I whistled. “That much! I’ve heard the family has money, but how can they afford bills like that?”
“They can’t in the long term,” said Shorty. “They’re mortgaged their future to the hilt, they’re saddling their children and grandchildren with debt, and they’re in hock to China and other Asian nations for huge sums. And it’s not just money. It’s the human cost too. Over a hundred thousand people dead. People blinded, crippled, maimed, and emotionally devastated. Cities leveled, homes gutted, futures ruined, families destroyed.”
“Is that what the specialists said would happen?” I asked.
“No, it’s not,” said Shorty, after thinking about it for a minute. “They painted a pretty rosy picture at the start. They said the treatment would be cheap and practically pay for itself. They figured the war would be over in no time.”
“You know,” said Bert, “if they were so wrong about that, maybe they’re wrong about the rest of it too. Uncle Sam’s old ways worked pretty well. Maybe he knew what he was doing all along.”
“If he’s in that kind of shape,” I said, “it’s a good thing he’s got Medicare and his Social Security.”
“Oh yeah,” began Shorty. “I forgot to mention ….”
© Tony Russell, 2005
“To tell the truth, he’s not doin’ that well, Ace,” Shorty said. “But what can you expect? He’s gonna be two hundred and twenty-nine years old. You can’t expect him to act like a young nation forever.”
“I always thought he had an iron constitution,” I said.
“Me too,” confessed Shorty. “But his constitution’s not what it used to be. Jailing people without charging them with a crime. Not allowing them to see a lawyer. Torturing people. Feeding lies to the public. Forking out money to religions. I’ll tell ya, he’s changed. It’s pathetic to see him go downhill like that.”
“I heard he’s having blackouts,” said Bert.
“Yeah, he just had one that lasted about six weeks,” said Shorty. “Proof that the President had lied to drag us into war. The story broke in England, and for six weeks, not a single major network, newspaper, or news magazine in this country gave it any notice.”
“That’s scary,” said Bert. “Anything could happen to him if he’s having episodes like that.”
“It’s funny how it came on him all of a sudden,” I reflected.
“Well, you know, he had that war fever a few years back, and then that patriotic fever right after that,” said Shorty, “and he’s never been the same since.”
“I don’t know that he’s over those fevers yet,” said Bert. “I think it’s like malaria. Once you get it in your system, you have these recurrent attacks.”
“You might be right,” said Shorty. “But the family has called in all kinds of specialists—Dr. Rice, Wolfowitz, Feith, Rumsfeld—and they all say to stick with their prescription.”
“Gee, I’d have to think twice about that,” said Bert. “If something’s not working, maybe it’s time to try something different.”
“A couple of people have suggested that,” said Shorty, “but these specialists insist their new treatment will work if you give it enough time.”
“Their treatment seems pretty harsh,” said Bert. “Are you sure that’s what Uncle Sam wants?”
“They’re hard on the poor and the middle class,” admitted Shorty. “But that’s what you get when you choose those guys.”
“Wolfowitz, Feith, Rumsfeld, Rice. Boy,” I mused, “their bills must really be something. Help like that doesn’t come cheap!”
“You can say that again,” agreed Shorty. “Over two hundred billion dollars is what I’ve heard.”
I whistled. “That much! I’ve heard the family has money, but how can they afford bills like that?”
“They can’t in the long term,” said Shorty. “They’re mortgaged their future to the hilt, they’re saddling their children and grandchildren with debt, and they’re in hock to China and other Asian nations for huge sums. And it’s not just money. It’s the human cost too. Over a hundred thousand people dead. People blinded, crippled, maimed, and emotionally devastated. Cities leveled, homes gutted, futures ruined, families destroyed.”
“Is that what the specialists said would happen?” I asked.
“No, it’s not,” said Shorty, after thinking about it for a minute. “They painted a pretty rosy picture at the start. They said the treatment would be cheap and practically pay for itself. They figured the war would be over in no time.”
“You know,” said Bert, “if they were so wrong about that, maybe they’re wrong about the rest of it too. Uncle Sam’s old ways worked pretty well. Maybe he knew what he was doing all along.”
“If he’s in that kind of shape,” I said, “it’s a good thing he’s got Medicare and his Social Security.”
“Oh yeah,” began Shorty. “I forgot to mention ….”
© Tony Russell, 2005
Saturday, June 18, 2005
“Picking an Editor/Editor’s Pick”
“What’s going on?” I asked Chet, staring at the crowd gathered around a row of plate glass windows.
“Are you just getting here, Ace?” said Chet. “If you’d get to work when you’re supposed to, you’d know that today is the finals of the competition to pick a new editor for the paper.”
“Oh, that’s right,” I said. “I forgot today was the day. How’s it going?”
“It’s down to the final four contestants,” said Chet. “They’re taking a lap around the course right now.” The crowd suddenly broke into loud, sustained cheers. “Sounds like something big!” he said.
We hurried over to the nearest window. “What happened?” asked Chet.
“Ol’ Norb blew’em away,” said Dale, who was standing near the front. “He jogged past the 500-pound gorilla without breaking stride, kept his eyes straight ahead as he stepped between the whales thrashing on the beach, and finished by walking right between the legs of the giant blue elephant without so much as giving it a glance! It was just like he didn’t see a thing!”
“Sounds like he’s got the right instincts,” I admitted. “Was that the final event?”
“Nah, one more to go,” said Dale, turning back around, anxious not to miss it. “In this event they have one minute to look through four stories, then pick the one they would feature on the front page of the evening edition.”
“What are the stories?” asked Chet.
“Let’s see. There’s one on Brad and Angelina, claiming she bought him a ring. There’s another about the mother in the Michael Jackson case. There’s one where Paris Hilton says she’s in love. And there’s one about a leaked memo showing that the Bush administration had secret plans to attack Iraq, and was manipulating the intelligence to make a phony case for the war.”
“Wow!” said Chet. “That’s a toughie!”
“Are you serious?” asked Dale scornfully. “It’s a slam-dunk.”
While the other three contestants were still brooding over their choice, Norb, without hesitation, held up the story about the mother in the Michael Jackson case. The judge glanced at the story, grabbed Norb’s hand, and lifted it in triumph.
“Yes! My man!” said Dale, pumping his fist in the air.
I looked at Chet. He must have seen the doubt on my face. “Now come on, Ace,” said Chet defensively. “You’ve got to admit he has a nose for news. His decision puts him in select company. The New York Times, the L A Times, the Washington Post, all of those big papers had editors who made the same choice.”
“I just don’t get it,” I said, shaking my head. “Michael Jackson is yesterday’s news. Paris Hilton is what’s happening. She’s hot!”
© Tony Russell, 2005
“Are you just getting here, Ace?” said Chet. “If you’d get to work when you’re supposed to, you’d know that today is the finals of the competition to pick a new editor for the paper.”
“Oh, that’s right,” I said. “I forgot today was the day. How’s it going?”
“It’s down to the final four contestants,” said Chet. “They’re taking a lap around the course right now.” The crowd suddenly broke into loud, sustained cheers. “Sounds like something big!” he said.
We hurried over to the nearest window. “What happened?” asked Chet.
“Ol’ Norb blew’em away,” said Dale, who was standing near the front. “He jogged past the 500-pound gorilla without breaking stride, kept his eyes straight ahead as he stepped between the whales thrashing on the beach, and finished by walking right between the legs of the giant blue elephant without so much as giving it a glance! It was just like he didn’t see a thing!”
“Sounds like he’s got the right instincts,” I admitted. “Was that the final event?”
“Nah, one more to go,” said Dale, turning back around, anxious not to miss it. “In this event they have one minute to look through four stories, then pick the one they would feature on the front page of the evening edition.”
“What are the stories?” asked Chet.
“Let’s see. There’s one on Brad and Angelina, claiming she bought him a ring. There’s another about the mother in the Michael Jackson case. There’s one where Paris Hilton says she’s in love. And there’s one about a leaked memo showing that the Bush administration had secret plans to attack Iraq, and was manipulating the intelligence to make a phony case for the war.”
“Wow!” said Chet. “That’s a toughie!”
“Are you serious?” asked Dale scornfully. “It’s a slam-dunk.”
While the other three contestants were still brooding over their choice, Norb, without hesitation, held up the story about the mother in the Michael Jackson case. The judge glanced at the story, grabbed Norb’s hand, and lifted it in triumph.
“Yes! My man!” said Dale, pumping his fist in the air.
I looked at Chet. He must have seen the doubt on my face. “Now come on, Ace,” said Chet defensively. “You’ve got to admit he has a nose for news. His decision puts him in select company. The New York Times, the L A Times, the Washington Post, all of those big papers had editors who made the same choice.”
“I just don’t get it,” I said, shaking my head. “Michael Jackson is yesterday’s news. Paris Hilton is what’s happening. She’s hot!”
© Tony Russell, 2005
Wednesday, June 15, 2005
“The Case of the Disappearing Dateline”
“Next. Yes sir, how can I help you?”
The guy was wearing jeans and a flannel shirt. His clothes were rumpled and his eyes were haggard, as if he had been staring too long at possibilities that frightened him. He stepped up closer to the desk. “I want to report a missing story, Officer,” he said.
The officer at the desk, McSweeney, pulled the proper form out of the drawer. “How long has this story been missing?” he asked.
“Well, it was seen in England on May 1st, but it disappeared immediately after that.”
“May 1st!” said McSweeney. “And you’re just now reporting it missing?”
“I know, I know,” said the guy. “I kept thinking it would turn up someplace, and one day went by and then another. After a while I just lost track.”
“May 1st,” said McSweeney accusingly. “That’s six weeks. With every day that goes by in a case like this, it gets harder to revive the story.”
“I know,” said the guy again. “But it’s been all over the Internet; surely something can still be done.”
“We’ll see,” grunted McSweeney. “A cold case like this, it’s dicey. Can you describe this missing story to me?”
“Sure,” said the guy. “It’s big. Really big. Or it ought to be big. It’s nearly three years old. It’s the minutes from a meeting of Tony Blair’s cabinet in London. It was written eight months before the invasion of Iraq, and it basically says that the U.S. and Britain are planning to attack Iraq, and that the Bush administration is rigging the intelligence reports in a way to justify what the administration wants to do.”
McSweeney was scribbling notes rapidly. “That’s a pretty good description. We should be able to identify it with those details. How could something that big be missing? Where have you looked for the story?”
“I’ve looked everywhere,” said the guy pleadingly. “I’ve looked at CNN, NBC, ABC, CBS, PBS, and all the major newspapers—the New York Times, the L A Times, the Washington Post and on and on. None of them carried the story. Not a trace!”
“You’re kidding, right?” said McSweeney. “A story that big and not a major news outlet in the country touches it?”
“It’s hard to understand,” admitted the guy.
“Do you have any theories on why it disappeared?”
The guy looked troubled. “None I want to believe,” he finally said.
“Come on,” said McSweeney. “A story this big doesn’t disappear on its own. It had some help.”
“What are the alternatives?” asked the guy. “A giant conspiracy involving all the major media? The Bush administration has them scared speechless? Collective blindness? A bias so pervasive it’s staggering?”
“We’re not ruling anything out at this point,” said McSweeney. “What kind of value do you set on the story?” he asked, going down to the next line on his form.
“It’s hard to set a price on something so central to a functioning democracy,” said the guy. “It’s almost priceless.”
“That’s what they all say,” said McSweeney cynically. “You think nobody’s ever set a price on truth?”
“I’ve been trying to keep tabs on what the war is costing us in dollars,” said the guy hesitantly. “I think it’s about $208 billion so far.”
“Value… $208 billion…,” said McSweeney as he wrote.
“Well, then there are the dead and wounded,” said the guy, almost apologizing. “I think it’s getting close to 1,700 Americans killed, and somewhere between 20,000 and 100,000 Iraqis.”
“That’s another department,” said McSweeney, looking up. “You’ll have to take that up with Homicide.”
© Tony Russell, 2005
The guy was wearing jeans and a flannel shirt. His clothes were rumpled and his eyes were haggard, as if he had been staring too long at possibilities that frightened him. He stepped up closer to the desk. “I want to report a missing story, Officer,” he said.
The officer at the desk, McSweeney, pulled the proper form out of the drawer. “How long has this story been missing?” he asked.
“Well, it was seen in England on May 1st, but it disappeared immediately after that.”
“May 1st!” said McSweeney. “And you’re just now reporting it missing?”
“I know, I know,” said the guy. “I kept thinking it would turn up someplace, and one day went by and then another. After a while I just lost track.”
“May 1st,” said McSweeney accusingly. “That’s six weeks. With every day that goes by in a case like this, it gets harder to revive the story.”
“I know,” said the guy again. “But it’s been all over the Internet; surely something can still be done.”
“We’ll see,” grunted McSweeney. “A cold case like this, it’s dicey. Can you describe this missing story to me?”
“Sure,” said the guy. “It’s big. Really big. Or it ought to be big. It’s nearly three years old. It’s the minutes from a meeting of Tony Blair’s cabinet in London. It was written eight months before the invasion of Iraq, and it basically says that the U.S. and Britain are planning to attack Iraq, and that the Bush administration is rigging the intelligence reports in a way to justify what the administration wants to do.”
McSweeney was scribbling notes rapidly. “That’s a pretty good description. We should be able to identify it with those details. How could something that big be missing? Where have you looked for the story?”
“I’ve looked everywhere,” said the guy pleadingly. “I’ve looked at CNN, NBC, ABC, CBS, PBS, and all the major newspapers—the New York Times, the L A Times, the Washington Post and on and on. None of them carried the story. Not a trace!”
“You’re kidding, right?” said McSweeney. “A story that big and not a major news outlet in the country touches it?”
“It’s hard to understand,” admitted the guy.
“Do you have any theories on why it disappeared?”
The guy looked troubled. “None I want to believe,” he finally said.
“Come on,” said McSweeney. “A story this big doesn’t disappear on its own. It had some help.”
“What are the alternatives?” asked the guy. “A giant conspiracy involving all the major media? The Bush administration has them scared speechless? Collective blindness? A bias so pervasive it’s staggering?”
“We’re not ruling anything out at this point,” said McSweeney. “What kind of value do you set on the story?” he asked, going down to the next line on his form.
“It’s hard to set a price on something so central to a functioning democracy,” said the guy. “It’s almost priceless.”
“That’s what they all say,” said McSweeney cynically. “You think nobody’s ever set a price on truth?”
“I’ve been trying to keep tabs on what the war is costing us in dollars,” said the guy hesitantly. “I think it’s about $208 billion so far.”
“Value… $208 billion…,” said McSweeney as he wrote.
“Well, then there are the dead and wounded,” said the guy, almost apologizing. “I think it’s getting close to 1,700 Americans killed, and somewhere between 20,000 and 100,000 Iraqis.”
“That’s another department,” said McSweeney, looking up. “You’ll have to take that up with Homicide.”
© Tony Russell, 2005
Friday, June 10, 2005
“Drivers’ Rights”
Patty and I had just finished paying some bills and were ready to head into “Agatha’s Ashtray,” the friendly little coffee shop which functions as the town’s communication center, when out rushed Darrin Godsey, almost bowling Patty over. “I’m running late,” he blurted out. “I’m trying to get this petition over to the newspaper office in time to make this week’s edition, and you got in my way.”
“Must be a pretty hot issue to get you all fired up like that,” I observed.
“Fired up?” he said. “Oh, you must mean the smoke trailing from my jacket and shoes. No, that’s just a little remnant from the air inside. It’ll blow away in a few minutes.”
“So what’s the petition about?” I asked.
“Drivers’ rights,” he said triumphantly. “It’s the new hot button issue for the angry white male!”
“Well, congratulations,” I said. “I thought maybe you were about to run out of personal rights issues.”
“Not likely,” he scoffed. “As long as mushheads keep trying to push regulations down our throat based on some silly notion like ‘the common good’ or ‘a shared space,’ there’ll always be a cause for me to champion.”
“I hate to confess my ignorance,” said Patty, “but what exactly is this ‘drivers’ rights’ issue?”
“The county’s trying to set speed limits on the roadways and eliminate drunken driving,” he said. “They claim it’s a public health issue. Have you ever heard of such a crazy thing? It’s not a health issue, it’s a freedom issue. We ought to be able to drive where we want, when we want, as fast as we want, in any condition we want. That’s what freedom is all about, and we’re ready to defend our freedom. ”
Patty looked at him as if she were examining something self-motivated that had just crawled out of a glass of lemonade. “What is it that you find controversial about those proposals?” she asked carefully. I gave her a warning look. Maybe I should have given it to Darrin. When Patty gets careful, it’s time to lower your windows, because manure and fan are about to meet.
“Hey!” yelled somebody from inside just then. “Would you mind closing the door? You’re letting the smoke out!”
“Sorry for the fresh air,” coughed Darrin, turning toward the complainer. “It was an accident.”
“You ought to know about accidents,” said Patty. “Wasn’t your aunt killed a few years back by a drunk driver on Rt. 5? And didn’t a speeding pickup ram your cousin’s motorcycle and paralyze him from the neck down?”
Darrin scoffed. “Could happen to anybody any time any place,” he said. “Those are acts of God. You have to look at the big picture. You need statistics—real statistics. You can’t trust government numbers on driving. They’re all bogus. Drunken driving and speeding are perfectly safe. Go to a source you can trust, like the Institute for Freedom in Motoring.”
“Isn’t that supposed to be a front group for the Alcoholic Beverages Distributors Association?” asked Patty.
“It’s a private organization. Their funding sources are their own business,” said Darrin. “And their results are confirmed by the Motorists Liberty Forum.”
“I thought that was a front group for the National Association of Automobile Marketers,” said Patty.
“Are you going to discount the truth just because of who paid for it?” said Darrin disgustedly.
Just then Darrin’s wife came up with their two grandkids, Kayla and Kylie.
“Hey, Liz, what’d the doctor say?” asked Darrin.
“He said Kayla’s got another upper respiratory infection,” she said. “Kylie needed stronger medication for her asthma. I’m going to the pharmacy as soon as we’re done here. I promised them if they were good at the doctor’s, I’d buy them a dish of ice cream.”
Darrin dotes on those kids. “My treat,” he said. “What flavor do you want?”
“They didn’t hesitate. “I want Salem Light®!” said Kayla. “Winston® filters in the soft pack!” yelled Kylie.
Liz shook her head. “I’ve already told them twice,” she said. “You can’t tell what flavor your food’s going to be until you see who you’re sitting beside.”
© Tony Russell, 2005
“Must be a pretty hot issue to get you all fired up like that,” I observed.
“Fired up?” he said. “Oh, you must mean the smoke trailing from my jacket and shoes. No, that’s just a little remnant from the air inside. It’ll blow away in a few minutes.”
“So what’s the petition about?” I asked.
“Drivers’ rights,” he said triumphantly. “It’s the new hot button issue for the angry white male!”
“Well, congratulations,” I said. “I thought maybe you were about to run out of personal rights issues.”
“Not likely,” he scoffed. “As long as mushheads keep trying to push regulations down our throat based on some silly notion like ‘the common good’ or ‘a shared space,’ there’ll always be a cause for me to champion.”
“I hate to confess my ignorance,” said Patty, “but what exactly is this ‘drivers’ rights’ issue?”
“The county’s trying to set speed limits on the roadways and eliminate drunken driving,” he said. “They claim it’s a public health issue. Have you ever heard of such a crazy thing? It’s not a health issue, it’s a freedom issue. We ought to be able to drive where we want, when we want, as fast as we want, in any condition we want. That’s what freedom is all about, and we’re ready to defend our freedom. ”
Patty looked at him as if she were examining something self-motivated that had just crawled out of a glass of lemonade. “What is it that you find controversial about those proposals?” she asked carefully. I gave her a warning look. Maybe I should have given it to Darrin. When Patty gets careful, it’s time to lower your windows, because manure and fan are about to meet.
“Hey!” yelled somebody from inside just then. “Would you mind closing the door? You’re letting the smoke out!”
“Sorry for the fresh air,” coughed Darrin, turning toward the complainer. “It was an accident.”
“You ought to know about accidents,” said Patty. “Wasn’t your aunt killed a few years back by a drunk driver on Rt. 5? And didn’t a speeding pickup ram your cousin’s motorcycle and paralyze him from the neck down?”
Darrin scoffed. “Could happen to anybody any time any place,” he said. “Those are acts of God. You have to look at the big picture. You need statistics—real statistics. You can’t trust government numbers on driving. They’re all bogus. Drunken driving and speeding are perfectly safe. Go to a source you can trust, like the Institute for Freedom in Motoring.”
“Isn’t that supposed to be a front group for the Alcoholic Beverages Distributors Association?” asked Patty.
“It’s a private organization. Their funding sources are their own business,” said Darrin. “And their results are confirmed by the Motorists Liberty Forum.”
“I thought that was a front group for the National Association of Automobile Marketers,” said Patty.
“Are you going to discount the truth just because of who paid for it?” said Darrin disgustedly.
Just then Darrin’s wife came up with their two grandkids, Kayla and Kylie.
“Hey, Liz, what’d the doctor say?” asked Darrin.
“He said Kayla’s got another upper respiratory infection,” she said. “Kylie needed stronger medication for her asthma. I’m going to the pharmacy as soon as we’re done here. I promised them if they were good at the doctor’s, I’d buy them a dish of ice cream.”
Darrin dotes on those kids. “My treat,” he said. “What flavor do you want?”
“They didn’t hesitate. “I want Salem Light®!” said Kayla. “Winston® filters in the soft pack!” yelled Kylie.
Liz shook her head. “I’ve already told them twice,” she said. “You can’t tell what flavor your food’s going to be until you see who you’re sitting beside.”
© Tony Russell, 2005
Thursday, May 26, 2005
“Graduation Day”
“Morning, Uncle Sam,” I said. “Sure is a beautiful day!”
“Yep,” he agreed. “Hope this good weather holds out so they can hold graduation outside.”
“Is that country of yours graduating?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” he said, shaking his head. “I sure hope so. But it’s touch and go. All he ever thinks about is sports. If you could dribble a textbook, he might know what one feels like.”
“How’re his grades?” I asked bluntly.
“Well,” he said, “he’s flunking history at the moment. You’d think after Vietnam, he’d have learned something about trying to put down an insurgency in a country where he doesn’t know the language, doesn’t know the culture, and everybody wants him out except the slick ones trying to piggyback into power. But you know how hard headed he is. He won’t listen to anybody. Calls anybody who tries to give him advice a ‘traitor’ or an ‘old fuddy-duddy.’”
“Surely if he just buckles down in that one course…,” I began.
His face flushed. “That’s just it. It’s not just history. He’s flunking science too.”
“Science?” I said. “I always thought he was good at science.”
“He was. It was probably his best field. But all of a sudden he’s insisting on using the Bible as his textbook for biology, anthropology, geology, astronomy, and physics, and he’s falling behind in all those courses.”
“What’s the problem?” I asked.
“Partly it’s that the courses include lots of things the Bible doesn’t cover,” said Uncle Sam. “It doesn’t even mention tectonic plates, for instance, or mitosis, or DNA, or quasars. But it’s also a matter of time frame. All of those sciences talk about processes operating over millions and billions of years, and he claims the whole universe is only a few thousand years old.”
“What are a few zeroes among friends?” I joked. “Nothing!”
He didn’t laugh. “I’m afraid it’s more fundamental than that. His teachers insist that science has to be founded on observation, experimentation, and verification. He argues that it has to be based on scripture and revelation.”
“And his teachers won’t see reason?” I asked.
“So far they’re insisting that their approach is about reason,” he said glumly.
“And English?”
“He’s gotten ‘F’ on almost everything he’s written so far this term, and last term as well.”
“How can that be?” I asked indignantly. “I thought that piece he wrote on Jessica Lynch was great! Lady Rambo—I loved it! I know he got an ‘A’ for that one. And his story on the dangerous rescue mission where we recaptured her! And that touching piece on Pat Tillman’s heroic death at the hands of a vicious foe. And that essay on weapons of mass destruction in Iraq. And his coverage of the toppling of Saddam Hussein’s statue. I could go on and on! They’re thrilling, they’re heartwarming….”
“They’re baloney. He made them all up, or staged them,” he said. “Every one of them. Deliberate lies to sell a dirty war.”
“Oh,” I said, dumbfounded. “I didn’t know that.”
“Most people don’t,” he said. “The media played up his original stories, but they buried the follow-up stories when the truth began to come out.”
“So did he get to keep his original grades?”
“No, his teacher said that she was teaching a class on reporting, not on spinning. She got pretty upset about it.”
“Well,” I said, “I sure hope he manages to graduate.”
“At this point, I could care less if he graduates,” said Uncle Sam ruefully. “He’s old enough now, I’d just like to see him learn some manners and a little humility. Ever since he went through that growth spurt and became so much bigger and more powerful than anybody else in his class, he’s acted as if he can say or do whatever he wants.”
“You’re being too hard on him,” I said. “He’s still just a kid.”
“I’ve made enough excuses for him,” said Uncle Sam. “Don’t you start in on it too. He’s my flesh and blood, but he’s over two hundred years old now. He’s old enough to cut out that fightin’ and drinkin’ and cheatin’ and runnin’ all over the world and to start acting like an adult.”
“Good luck,” I said, and meant it.
© Tony Russell, 2005
“Yep,” he agreed. “Hope this good weather holds out so they can hold graduation outside.”
“Is that country of yours graduating?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” he said, shaking his head. “I sure hope so. But it’s touch and go. All he ever thinks about is sports. If you could dribble a textbook, he might know what one feels like.”
“How’re his grades?” I asked bluntly.
“Well,” he said, “he’s flunking history at the moment. You’d think after Vietnam, he’d have learned something about trying to put down an insurgency in a country where he doesn’t know the language, doesn’t know the culture, and everybody wants him out except the slick ones trying to piggyback into power. But you know how hard headed he is. He won’t listen to anybody. Calls anybody who tries to give him advice a ‘traitor’ or an ‘old fuddy-duddy.’”
“Surely if he just buckles down in that one course…,” I began.
His face flushed. “That’s just it. It’s not just history. He’s flunking science too.”
“Science?” I said. “I always thought he was good at science.”
“He was. It was probably his best field. But all of a sudden he’s insisting on using the Bible as his textbook for biology, anthropology, geology, astronomy, and physics, and he’s falling behind in all those courses.”
“What’s the problem?” I asked.
“Partly it’s that the courses include lots of things the Bible doesn’t cover,” said Uncle Sam. “It doesn’t even mention tectonic plates, for instance, or mitosis, or DNA, or quasars. But it’s also a matter of time frame. All of those sciences talk about processes operating over millions and billions of years, and he claims the whole universe is only a few thousand years old.”
“What are a few zeroes among friends?” I joked. “Nothing!”
He didn’t laugh. “I’m afraid it’s more fundamental than that. His teachers insist that science has to be founded on observation, experimentation, and verification. He argues that it has to be based on scripture and revelation.”
“And his teachers won’t see reason?” I asked.
“So far they’re insisting that their approach is about reason,” he said glumly.
“And English?”
“He’s gotten ‘F’ on almost everything he’s written so far this term, and last term as well.”
“How can that be?” I asked indignantly. “I thought that piece he wrote on Jessica Lynch was great! Lady Rambo—I loved it! I know he got an ‘A’ for that one. And his story on the dangerous rescue mission where we recaptured her! And that touching piece on Pat Tillman’s heroic death at the hands of a vicious foe. And that essay on weapons of mass destruction in Iraq. And his coverage of the toppling of Saddam Hussein’s statue. I could go on and on! They’re thrilling, they’re heartwarming….”
“They’re baloney. He made them all up, or staged them,” he said. “Every one of them. Deliberate lies to sell a dirty war.”
“Oh,” I said, dumbfounded. “I didn’t know that.”
“Most people don’t,” he said. “The media played up his original stories, but they buried the follow-up stories when the truth began to come out.”
“So did he get to keep his original grades?”
“No, his teacher said that she was teaching a class on reporting, not on spinning. She got pretty upset about it.”
“Well,” I said, “I sure hope he manages to graduate.”
“At this point, I could care less if he graduates,” said Uncle Sam ruefully. “He’s old enough now, I’d just like to see him learn some manners and a little humility. Ever since he went through that growth spurt and became so much bigger and more powerful than anybody else in his class, he’s acted as if he can say or do whatever he wants.”
“You’re being too hard on him,” I said. “He’s still just a kid.”
“I’ve made enough excuses for him,” said Uncle Sam. “Don’t you start in on it too. He’s my flesh and blood, but he’s over two hundred years old now. He’s old enough to cut out that fightin’ and drinkin’ and cheatin’ and runnin’ all over the world and to start acting like an adult.”
“Good luck,” I said, and meant it.
© Tony Russell, 2005
Saturday, January 15, 2005
“The Elephant, the Flag, and the Cross”
I felt somebody tap me on the shoulder when I was trying to find zinc tablets at the drugstore. When I looked up, there was Chet Basenback.
“Chester!” I said, sneezing. “My gosh, it’s good to see you. I haven’t seen you for – what, four or five years now?”
“More like ten,” he said. “The years are slipping away from you, Ace.”
“Like trying to hold on to greased tomcats,” I admitted, blowing my nose. “How’s your art career going, Chester?” Chet was one of those kids who never was on the right page at school, because he was constantly doodling in his notebook—an endless stream of automobiles, rocket ships, idealized women, and caricatures of the teachers.
“Pretty well,” he said. “I’ve been doing graphic design for the past few years, and the business has really taken off.”
“Good market for that sort of thing, is there?” I asked, curious, while wiping my nose on my sleeve.
“You’re darned tootin’,” he said. “For instance, I just got a new job from the Republican National Committee to design them a new emblem.”
“A new emblem?” I asked between coughs. “You mean they’re going to get rid of the elephant?”
“Oh, that elephant has to go,” scoffed Chet. “Come on, now, tell me, be honest. What do you think of whenever you see that pudgy pachyderm?”
“I don’t know. I guess it makes me think of bloated capitalism, of the rich and owner class getting fat off workers and the poor.”
“Sure,” he said. “That’s just a natural tie-in to the economic stance of the party. That’s why the elephant has to go. The RNC is looking for a new emblem that focuses on winning cultural issues, not losing economic issues.”
“I guess I can see why they would,” I said. “What direction are they going in?”
“I just happen to have a portfolio with me of the latest things I’ve worked up for them,” he said, reaching down and opening a flap. He drew out a handful of sketches and passed them over to me.
Leafing through them, I quickly realized they were variations on the same concept. “These are pretty catchy,” I said. “I just never would have thought of using the cross as a flagpole. I really like the way you have the flag unfurling in the breeze, and the way those curves contrast with the straight lines of the cross.”
“Actually, it was their idea,” said Chet. “I’m just trying to capture the spirit of the thing. They figure that in one swoop, they’ll have appropriated the two most potent images in the United States for the Republican Party.”
“Imagine having those all to yourself,” I marveled.
“Isn’t that great? It’s consistent with the idea of property rights and free enterprise.”
“I notice you don’t have Jesus hanging on any of them,” I observed.
“Well, no,” he said. “The administration prefers to keep the wounded and dying out of sight and out of mind. Bad associations. So we’re just going for the cross itself.”
“What’s this up at the top of this one here? Is that a halo?”
“What are you looking at?” he said, glancing over my shoulder. “Oh, I’m not done with that one yet. That’s a yellow ribbon. I still need to letter ‘Support Our Troops’ on it.”
“Say,” I said, as an idea struck me. “Have you ever thought of just painting red and white stripes around the cross, with a field of blue at the top, decorated with stars? It’d be better than having the flag attached. Patriotism would be superimposed right there on religion. They’d be one and the same thing.”
“I like your thinking,” he said. “Actually, I suggested that, but it seems another organization is already marketing those, and the RNC wanted a breath of fresh air.”
“Do we really need another stiff breeze?” I wheezed. “It’s cold enough to freeze eggs under hens as it is.”
© Tony Russell, 2005
“Chester!” I said, sneezing. “My gosh, it’s good to see you. I haven’t seen you for – what, four or five years now?”
“More like ten,” he said. “The years are slipping away from you, Ace.”
“Like trying to hold on to greased tomcats,” I admitted, blowing my nose. “How’s your art career going, Chester?” Chet was one of those kids who never was on the right page at school, because he was constantly doodling in his notebook—an endless stream of automobiles, rocket ships, idealized women, and caricatures of the teachers.
“Pretty well,” he said. “I’ve been doing graphic design for the past few years, and the business has really taken off.”
“Good market for that sort of thing, is there?” I asked, curious, while wiping my nose on my sleeve.
“You’re darned tootin’,” he said. “For instance, I just got a new job from the Republican National Committee to design them a new emblem.”
“A new emblem?” I asked between coughs. “You mean they’re going to get rid of the elephant?”
“Oh, that elephant has to go,” scoffed Chet. “Come on, now, tell me, be honest. What do you think of whenever you see that pudgy pachyderm?”
“I don’t know. I guess it makes me think of bloated capitalism, of the rich and owner class getting fat off workers and the poor.”
“Sure,” he said. “That’s just a natural tie-in to the economic stance of the party. That’s why the elephant has to go. The RNC is looking for a new emblem that focuses on winning cultural issues, not losing economic issues.”
“I guess I can see why they would,” I said. “What direction are they going in?”
“I just happen to have a portfolio with me of the latest things I’ve worked up for them,” he said, reaching down and opening a flap. He drew out a handful of sketches and passed them over to me.
Leafing through them, I quickly realized they were variations on the same concept. “These are pretty catchy,” I said. “I just never would have thought of using the cross as a flagpole. I really like the way you have the flag unfurling in the breeze, and the way those curves contrast with the straight lines of the cross.”
“Actually, it was their idea,” said Chet. “I’m just trying to capture the spirit of the thing. They figure that in one swoop, they’ll have appropriated the two most potent images in the United States for the Republican Party.”
“Imagine having those all to yourself,” I marveled.
“Isn’t that great? It’s consistent with the idea of property rights and free enterprise.”
“I notice you don’t have Jesus hanging on any of them,” I observed.
“Well, no,” he said. “The administration prefers to keep the wounded and dying out of sight and out of mind. Bad associations. So we’re just going for the cross itself.”
“What’s this up at the top of this one here? Is that a halo?”
“What are you looking at?” he said, glancing over my shoulder. “Oh, I’m not done with that one yet. That’s a yellow ribbon. I still need to letter ‘Support Our Troops’ on it.”
“Say,” I said, as an idea struck me. “Have you ever thought of just painting red and white stripes around the cross, with a field of blue at the top, decorated with stars? It’d be better than having the flag attached. Patriotism would be superimposed right there on religion. They’d be one and the same thing.”
“I like your thinking,” he said. “Actually, I suggested that, but it seems another organization is already marketing those, and the RNC wanted a breath of fresh air.”
“Do we really need another stiff breeze?” I wheezed. “It’s cold enough to freeze eggs under hens as it is.”
© Tony Russell, 2005
Tuesday, October 26, 2004
“Golden Calves and the Ballot Box”
I grew up in the Methodist Church. Some of my clearest memories of my boyhood are of sitting in Sunday School, listening to our teacher, Mr. Dolby, talk about the Bible stories that were the center of each week’s lesson, lessons spanning the Bible, from Genesis to Revelations.
In the New Testament, we learned how entering God’s kingdom meant a reversal of the old order, with blessings for the poor and the peacemakers. In the Old Testament, we learned how, time and again, the kings of the Israelites enticed their people to follow after false gods. We learned of those heroes of faith, the prophets, who risked everything by opposing the phony religion of the kings.
That Sunday School, that church community, and my family shaped the values I have tried to live by—a love that translates into responsibility for others (“Am I my brother’s keeper?”); a mistrust of earthly rulers, who lead their people to worship golden calves; and a skepticism that belief in a particular dogma determines whether you are one of the elect (“What does the Lord require of thee, but to do justice, love mercy, and walk humbly with thy God?”).
So I have been sickened by the way millions of good people have allowed their evangelical faith to be co-opted by the Republican party, sickened by the sight of well-intentioned people—people desirous of being faithful—following pastoral counsel that to be Christian is to vote Republican.
God doesn’t belong to any particular party. The Holy Spirit doesn’t register as a Republican or a Democrat, isn’t even pro-American. But there are particular themes that recur in the Bible, over and over and over again. And the theme the Bible sounds most is this: How do you treat the poor among you, the powerless, the widow, the orphan, the sick, the hungry, the outcast, the despised Samaritan? That, I would suggest, is the central test for a Christian to apply to a candidate or a policy—not whether the candidate attacks homosexuals or wears his faith on his sleeve.
Sojourners, the committed evangelical community headquartered in Washington, D.C., has called on political parties to stop using bad theology to exploit religion for partisan political purposes. To that end, they invite people to reconsider what constitutes “responsible Christian citizenship” and to sign the following petition. If you want to join the thousands who have already signed, go to www.sojo.net/petition.
* * * * *
We believe that poverty—caring for the poor and vulnerable—is a religious issue. Do the candidates budget and tax policies reward the rich or show compassion for poor families? Do their foreign policies include fair trade and debt cancellation for the poorest countries? (Matthew 25:35-40; Isaiah 10:1-2)
We believe that the environment—caring for God’s earth—is a religious issue. Do the candidates’ policies protect the creation or serve corporate interests that damage it? (Genesis 2:15; Psalm 24:1)
We believe that war—and our call to be peacemakers—is a religious issue. Do the candidates policies pursue “wars of choice” or respect international law and cooperation in responding to real global threats? (Matthew 5:9)
We believe that truth-telling is a religious issue. Do the candidates tell the truth in justifying war and in other foreign and domestic policies? (John 8:32)
We believe that human rights—respecting the image of God in every person—is a religious issue. How do the candidates propose to change the attitudes and policies that led to the abuse and torture of Iraqi prisoners? (Genesis 1:27)
We believe that our response to terrorism is a religious issue. Do the candidates adopt the dangerous language of righteous empire in the war on terrorism and confuse the roles of God, church, and nation? Do the candidates see evil only in our enemies but never in our own policies? (Matthew 6:33; Proverbs 8:12-13)
We believe that a consistent ethic of human life is a religious issue. Do the candidates’ postions on abortion, capital punishment, euthanasia, weapons of mass destruction, HIV/AIDS—and other pandemics—and genocide around the world obey the biblical injunction to choose life? (Deuteronomy 30:19)
© Tony Russell, 2004
In the New Testament, we learned how entering God’s kingdom meant a reversal of the old order, with blessings for the poor and the peacemakers. In the Old Testament, we learned how, time and again, the kings of the Israelites enticed their people to follow after false gods. We learned of those heroes of faith, the prophets, who risked everything by opposing the phony religion of the kings.
That Sunday School, that church community, and my family shaped the values I have tried to live by—a love that translates into responsibility for others (“Am I my brother’s keeper?”); a mistrust of earthly rulers, who lead their people to worship golden calves; and a skepticism that belief in a particular dogma determines whether you are one of the elect (“What does the Lord require of thee, but to do justice, love mercy, and walk humbly with thy God?”).
So I have been sickened by the way millions of good people have allowed their evangelical faith to be co-opted by the Republican party, sickened by the sight of well-intentioned people—people desirous of being faithful—following pastoral counsel that to be Christian is to vote Republican.
God doesn’t belong to any particular party. The Holy Spirit doesn’t register as a Republican or a Democrat, isn’t even pro-American. But there are particular themes that recur in the Bible, over and over and over again. And the theme the Bible sounds most is this: How do you treat the poor among you, the powerless, the widow, the orphan, the sick, the hungry, the outcast, the despised Samaritan? That, I would suggest, is the central test for a Christian to apply to a candidate or a policy—not whether the candidate attacks homosexuals or wears his faith on his sleeve.
Sojourners, the committed evangelical community headquartered in Washington, D.C., has called on political parties to stop using bad theology to exploit religion for partisan political purposes. To that end, they invite people to reconsider what constitutes “responsible Christian citizenship” and to sign the following petition. If you want to join the thousands who have already signed, go to www.sojo.net/petition.
* * * * *
We believe that poverty—caring for the poor and vulnerable—is a religious issue. Do the candidates budget and tax policies reward the rich or show compassion for poor families? Do their foreign policies include fair trade and debt cancellation for the poorest countries? (Matthew 25:35-40; Isaiah 10:1-2)
We believe that the environment—caring for God’s earth—is a religious issue. Do the candidates’ policies protect the creation or serve corporate interests that damage it? (Genesis 2:15; Psalm 24:1)
We believe that war—and our call to be peacemakers—is a religious issue. Do the candidates policies pursue “wars of choice” or respect international law and cooperation in responding to real global threats? (Matthew 5:9)
We believe that truth-telling is a religious issue. Do the candidates tell the truth in justifying war and in other foreign and domestic policies? (John 8:32)
We believe that human rights—respecting the image of God in every person—is a religious issue. How do the candidates propose to change the attitudes and policies that led to the abuse and torture of Iraqi prisoners? (Genesis 1:27)
We believe that our response to terrorism is a religious issue. Do the candidates adopt the dangerous language of righteous empire in the war on terrorism and confuse the roles of God, church, and nation? Do the candidates see evil only in our enemies but never in our own policies? (Matthew 6:33; Proverbs 8:12-13)
We believe that a consistent ethic of human life is a religious issue. Do the candidates’ postions on abortion, capital punishment, euthanasia, weapons of mass destruction, HIV/AIDS—and other pandemics—and genocide around the world obey the biblical injunction to choose life? (Deuteronomy 30:19)
© Tony Russell, 2004
Monday, October 25, 2004
“Living in Oz”
The three Presidential debates were an eyeopener. For almost four years, Mr. Bush’s handlers have stage-managed every aspect of his public image. Nowadays, of course, every politician has a speechwriter, but the extent to which Mr. Bush is screened from a representative public—and the public is screened from the real Mr. Bush—has been unprecedented. He gives carefully rehearsed speeches in front of carefully selected audiences in carefully selected locations. To use the sports argot he favors, he only appears when the game is fixed.
. That near-total control of his public appearances has enabled the Bush team to craft the image they want—of a President who is tough but compassionate, resolute but good-humored, not an intellectual but full of common sense. And it has been enormously effective. Who wouldn’t want a President like that?
But when the fix isn’t in, when Mr. Bush has to face real questions or a real opponent, we get a look at the real George Bush. Which is like looking behind the curtain and discovering the real Wizard of Oz. Not a powerful, dominating presence, but a weak and shallow man, blown into larger-than-life dimensions by publicity machinery. Think back to the interview with Tim Russert, which even devout partisans admitted was a disaster. Look at the response to the first debate, where only 19% of those polled felt he was the winner.
The real George Bush, it turns out, is a whiner, not a winner. Nothing is ever his fault. If things went wrong, it was the Clinton administration’s fault. Or the CIA’s. Or Donald Rumsfeld’s. Not his. Never his.
Mr. Bush is also exposed as intellectually lazy. He can’t be bothered to try and understand complicated issues. His answers are bumper-sticker slogans, and he expects to get by with them. Nor will he think back over his past performance and learn from his mistakes. In fact, he can’t recall a single mistake he’s made. Not one. Apparently he is as infallible as the Pope, speaking ex cathedra.
The real George Bush, we discover, is not a commanding presence. He’s a nervous fumbler who squirms when questioned or criticized. He’s as programmed as an early robot, trotting out the same lines again and again. No matter that they don’t apply to a given issue or question. They’re all he has. He has no resources of his own, no reservoirs of knowledge or character to draw from. All he has is his script, and when the debate is unscripted or runs too long, he’s lost.
It may be that the election will turn less on issues than on the public’s perception of the candidates themselves. If that is the case, we have the debates to thank for showing us we’re living in Oz.
© Tony Russell, 2004
. That near-total control of his public appearances has enabled the Bush team to craft the image they want—of a President who is tough but compassionate, resolute but good-humored, not an intellectual but full of common sense. And it has been enormously effective. Who wouldn’t want a President like that?
But when the fix isn’t in, when Mr. Bush has to face real questions or a real opponent, we get a look at the real George Bush. Which is like looking behind the curtain and discovering the real Wizard of Oz. Not a powerful, dominating presence, but a weak and shallow man, blown into larger-than-life dimensions by publicity machinery. Think back to the interview with Tim Russert, which even devout partisans admitted was a disaster. Look at the response to the first debate, where only 19% of those polled felt he was the winner.
The real George Bush, it turns out, is a whiner, not a winner. Nothing is ever his fault. If things went wrong, it was the Clinton administration’s fault. Or the CIA’s. Or Donald Rumsfeld’s. Not his. Never his.
Mr. Bush is also exposed as intellectually lazy. He can’t be bothered to try and understand complicated issues. His answers are bumper-sticker slogans, and he expects to get by with them. Nor will he think back over his past performance and learn from his mistakes. In fact, he can’t recall a single mistake he’s made. Not one. Apparently he is as infallible as the Pope, speaking ex cathedra.
The real George Bush, we discover, is not a commanding presence. He’s a nervous fumbler who squirms when questioned or criticized. He’s as programmed as an early robot, trotting out the same lines again and again. No matter that they don’t apply to a given issue or question. They’re all he has. He has no resources of his own, no reservoirs of knowledge or character to draw from. All he has is his script, and when the debate is unscripted or runs too long, he’s lost.
It may be that the election will turn less on issues than on the public’s perception of the candidates themselves. If that is the case, we have the debates to thank for showing us we’re living in Oz.
© Tony Russell, 2004
Saturday, July 17, 2004
“Nixon’s Ghost”
[Nixon’s ghost] “Ooo-ooo-ooo. Who summoned me from the beyond?”
“It’s just you and me, sir. Thanks so much for coming.”
“What doo-oo you-oo want?”
“I just have a few questions, sir, and I was afraid they wouldn’t be answered this side of the grave.”
“Can I claim executive privilege if I don’t like the questions?”
“I’m afraid not, sir, but I guess you can vanish again if you take a notion.”
“What the heck, I’m game. Shoo-oot.”
“Well, the first one is about that eighteen-and-a-half minute gap on that tape…”
[Nixon laughs.] “Number three forty two-oo. I knew-oo you-oo’d want to ask about that.”
“Yessir, the one where you were talking with Haldeman about the Watergate break-in.”
“What do-oo you-oo want to-oo know?”
“First of all, the White House claimed that that eighteen-and-a-half minute stretch had been ‘accidentally erased’….”
“Right.”
“…but experts said that whoever erased the tape stopped and started ‘Record’ between five and nine times, so the erasure could hardly have been accidental.”
“Damned experts. Who-oo would have thought they could tell that much?”
“So it wasn’t an accident?”
“Of course not! Jesus, son, use your brain! The tape was incriminating. It was in White House custody. I erased it. But who-oo’s going to call the President a liar, even when he is one? It was a win-win situation! Or at least I thought so at the time.”
“Well, that’s what everyone but your most partisan supporters thought, but it’s nice to have it confirmed.”
[Nixon chuckles.] “Last time I looked, you-oo couldn’t enter an admission from a ghost.”
“The other thing I wanted to ask about was President Bush’s military records.”
“Stole a page from the old master, didn’t he?”
“Sir?”
“You-oo-’re talking about the microfilm containing the payroll records for the Texas Air National Guard? The microfilm that was ‘accidentally destroyed’? For the exact time period when people claim he went AWOL during time of war?”
‘Yessir.”
“I love the way they handled it. Got some underling in the Defense Department to issue a statement that ‘The Defense Finance and Accounting Service has advised of the inadvertent destruction of microfilm containing certain National Guard payroll record’—followed by a statement that ‘Searches for back-up paper copies of the missing records were unsuccessful.’ In other words, ‘All the evidence has been destroyed, and there’s not a damned thing you-oo can do-oo about it’!”
“Sir? I have to ask. Did you have anything to do with the destruction of this second tape—the Bush tape?”
“You-oo flatter me, son. No, the most I can claim is to have been an inspiration to some.”
© Tony Russell, 2004
“It’s just you and me, sir. Thanks so much for coming.”
“What doo-oo you-oo want?”
“I just have a few questions, sir, and I was afraid they wouldn’t be answered this side of the grave.”
“Can I claim executive privilege if I don’t like the questions?”
“I’m afraid not, sir, but I guess you can vanish again if you take a notion.”
“What the heck, I’m game. Shoo-oot.”
“Well, the first one is about that eighteen-and-a-half minute gap on that tape…”
[Nixon laughs.] “Number three forty two-oo. I knew-oo you-oo’d want to ask about that.”
“Yessir, the one where you were talking with Haldeman about the Watergate break-in.”
“What do-oo you-oo want to-oo know?”
“First of all, the White House claimed that that eighteen-and-a-half minute stretch had been ‘accidentally erased’….”
“Right.”
“…but experts said that whoever erased the tape stopped and started ‘Record’ between five and nine times, so the erasure could hardly have been accidental.”
“Damned experts. Who-oo would have thought they could tell that much?”
“So it wasn’t an accident?”
“Of course not! Jesus, son, use your brain! The tape was incriminating. It was in White House custody. I erased it. But who-oo’s going to call the President a liar, even when he is one? It was a win-win situation! Or at least I thought so at the time.”
“Well, that’s what everyone but your most partisan supporters thought, but it’s nice to have it confirmed.”
[Nixon chuckles.] “Last time I looked, you-oo couldn’t enter an admission from a ghost.”
“The other thing I wanted to ask about was President Bush’s military records.”
“Stole a page from the old master, didn’t he?”
“Sir?”
“You-oo-’re talking about the microfilm containing the payroll records for the Texas Air National Guard? The microfilm that was ‘accidentally destroyed’? For the exact time period when people claim he went AWOL during time of war?”
‘Yessir.”
“I love the way they handled it. Got some underling in the Defense Department to issue a statement that ‘The Defense Finance and Accounting Service has advised of the inadvertent destruction of microfilm containing certain National Guard payroll record’—followed by a statement that ‘Searches for back-up paper copies of the missing records were unsuccessful.’ In other words, ‘All the evidence has been destroyed, and there’s not a damned thing you-oo can do-oo about it’!”
“Sir? I have to ask. Did you have anything to do with the destruction of this second tape—the Bush tape?”
“You-oo flatter me, son. No, the most I can claim is to have been an inspiration to some.”
© Tony Russell, 2004
Wednesday, July 14, 2004
“Let’s Pretend Again”
Announcer: “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome once again to “Let’s Pretend!” the new Unreality TV show that the whole nation is talking about! And now, here’s our host, Blip Barker!” [Applause, digitally amplified to the level of thunder]
Blip: “Thank you, and good evening everyone! Welcome to the show that explores the ways millions of Americans turn their backs on reality! Tonight we’re going to focus our show on the economic accomplishments of the Bush administration. As usual, we’ve gathered a great set of panelists, all ready to share their lives and the lessons they’ve learned with you, our viewers. We’ll get to it right after this important message from our sponsors." [Cut to commercial.]
Blip [Addressing panelists]: “All right! Here we go! We have an exciting list of questions submitted by our viewing audience! I’ll read each question, and those of you panelists who want to take a swing at it, just jump right in.”
Blip [Looking directly into the camera]: “Our first question is from a viewer in Vinegar Bend, Arkansas. She writes, ‘Mr. Bush has launched a hugely expensive war, increased farm subsidies, and created a costly new Medicare entitlement, at the same time he has pushed through two huge tax cuts. Most economists say this is worse than irresponsible, it’s economic suicide. Republicans have traditionally been fiscal conservatives. How do your panelists manage to accept this?’ Well, look at the hands shoot up! Go ahead, ma'am. You first.”
Panelist #1: “I just shut my eyes to the facts, Blip. It’s sort of like a traffic accident, where you see a big SUV on your side of the road, about to crash into your car. The safest thing to do is just close your eyes, relax, and think of something else.”
Blip: “Techniques like that sound so simple, but they can be enormously helpful. Thanks for sharing that with us, #1. What about you there, in the back row?”
Panelist #2: “Blip, I think your questioner needs to remember that not everybody is poor. My husband and I have an income of over half a million dollars a year, and we’re just thrilled by the administration’s policies!”
Blip: “What is it about those policies you like?”
Panelist #2: “Well, basically, they’ve shifted a huge portion of the tax burden off our backs onto the poor and the middle class. We just think that’s great! We’ve finally been able to upgrade our yacht and remodel our vacation home in the Hamptons without worrying about disrupting our cash flow. So their policies may not work for everybody, but they work for us. I say, ‘Keep up the good work, George, and God bless you!’”
Blip: “An American success story. Terrific!
“Here’s our next question. 'The Bush administration inherited a budget surplus, and in three years has converted that into an annual deficit of five hundred billion dollars ($500,000,000,000). How do you deal with this colossal mishandling of America’s finances?'”
Panelist #3: “Blip, I just take the position that it’s not the administration’s fault. The dot.com bubble had to burst at some point, and 9/ll dealt a real blow to the economy.”
Blip: “And the fact that more than 60% of the huge budget gap is directly due to the Bush tax cuts?”
Panelist #3: “I just refuse to acknowledge unpleasant facts like that and keep talking about that dot.com bubble and September 11. It’s like the two-headed calf—you go on and on about how pretty its coat is, and how well it’s eating.”
Blip: “Does that work?”
Panelist #3: “With people who aren’t paying much attention. It’s not really lying, because the dot.com bubble and September 11 actually were factors. So I just keep repeating the same partial truth over and over again, and you’d be surprised how many people buy it!”
Blip: “Cynicism! You can’t beat it!
“How about another question? A viewer from Ball's Gap, West Virginia, writes, 'My husband has been out of work for nine months. Our car has been repossessed, we’ve lost our health insurance, and our son needs an operation. Apparently our story is not that unusual; 40% of the people out of work have been unemployed for more than 15 weeks, which sets a 20-year record. According to the Economic Policy Institute, if people like my husband hadn’t given up on looking for work, the official unemployment rate would be 7.4 percent. How does all that square with Mr. Bush’s rosy predictions that things are getting better and better?' Okay, panelists, that’s a toughy. Who wants to go first?”
Panelist #2: “Before we get to that, Biff, let me say first to the questioner that her story is just heart-wrenching, and my husband and I will put her on our prayer list.”
Blip: “Wonderful, wonderful.”
Panelist #4: “I’m surprised nobody has mentioned the obvious, Blip. Whenever people bring up this economic stuff or the mess in Iraq, I just start talking about gay marriage!”
Blip: “Gay marriage?”
Panelist #4: “Right. You wouldn’t believe how well that works! People get all fired up about it, and they stop worrying about their kids getting killed in Iraq or their husbands or wives losing their jobs. It’s fantastic!”
Panelist #3: “It’s too bad about all those poor people out of work, Blip, but I try to do the right thing—as the President’s spokesmen are always urging—and avoid the blame game and stop finger pointing.”
Blip: “In other words, you agree with them they shouldn’t be held accountable?”
Panelist #3: “Is that what they mean when they say that? Oh dear. I’m not sure I can go along with that.”
Blip: “Whoops! Looks as if our time is up. All right, that’s it for tonight. Hope you enjoyed our show. Join us again next week as we continue the unending battle to think well of ourselves on ‘Let’s Pretend!’
© Tony Russell, 2004
Blip: “Thank you, and good evening everyone! Welcome to the show that explores the ways millions of Americans turn their backs on reality! Tonight we’re going to focus our show on the economic accomplishments of the Bush administration. As usual, we’ve gathered a great set of panelists, all ready to share their lives and the lessons they’ve learned with you, our viewers. We’ll get to it right after this important message from our sponsors." [Cut to commercial.]
Blip [Addressing panelists]: “All right! Here we go! We have an exciting list of questions submitted by our viewing audience! I’ll read each question, and those of you panelists who want to take a swing at it, just jump right in.”
Blip [Looking directly into the camera]: “Our first question is from a viewer in Vinegar Bend, Arkansas. She writes, ‘Mr. Bush has launched a hugely expensive war, increased farm subsidies, and created a costly new Medicare entitlement, at the same time he has pushed through two huge tax cuts. Most economists say this is worse than irresponsible, it’s economic suicide. Republicans have traditionally been fiscal conservatives. How do your panelists manage to accept this?’ Well, look at the hands shoot up! Go ahead, ma'am. You first.”
Panelist #1: “I just shut my eyes to the facts, Blip. It’s sort of like a traffic accident, where you see a big SUV on your side of the road, about to crash into your car. The safest thing to do is just close your eyes, relax, and think of something else.”
Blip: “Techniques like that sound so simple, but they can be enormously helpful. Thanks for sharing that with us, #1. What about you there, in the back row?”
Panelist #2: “Blip, I think your questioner needs to remember that not everybody is poor. My husband and I have an income of over half a million dollars a year, and we’re just thrilled by the administration’s policies!”
Blip: “What is it about those policies you like?”
Panelist #2: “Well, basically, they’ve shifted a huge portion of the tax burden off our backs onto the poor and the middle class. We just think that’s great! We’ve finally been able to upgrade our yacht and remodel our vacation home in the Hamptons without worrying about disrupting our cash flow. So their policies may not work for everybody, but they work for us. I say, ‘Keep up the good work, George, and God bless you!’”
Blip: “An American success story. Terrific!
“Here’s our next question. 'The Bush administration inherited a budget surplus, and in three years has converted that into an annual deficit of five hundred billion dollars ($500,000,000,000). How do you deal with this colossal mishandling of America’s finances?'”
Panelist #3: “Blip, I just take the position that it’s not the administration’s fault. The dot.com bubble had to burst at some point, and 9/ll dealt a real blow to the economy.”
Blip: “And the fact that more than 60% of the huge budget gap is directly due to the Bush tax cuts?”
Panelist #3: “I just refuse to acknowledge unpleasant facts like that and keep talking about that dot.com bubble and September 11. It’s like the two-headed calf—you go on and on about how pretty its coat is, and how well it’s eating.”
Blip: “Does that work?”
Panelist #3: “With people who aren’t paying much attention. It’s not really lying, because the dot.com bubble and September 11 actually were factors. So I just keep repeating the same partial truth over and over again, and you’d be surprised how many people buy it!”
Blip: “Cynicism! You can’t beat it!
“How about another question? A viewer from Ball's Gap, West Virginia, writes, 'My husband has been out of work for nine months. Our car has been repossessed, we’ve lost our health insurance, and our son needs an operation. Apparently our story is not that unusual; 40% of the people out of work have been unemployed for more than 15 weeks, which sets a 20-year record. According to the Economic Policy Institute, if people like my husband hadn’t given up on looking for work, the official unemployment rate would be 7.4 percent. How does all that square with Mr. Bush’s rosy predictions that things are getting better and better?' Okay, panelists, that’s a toughy. Who wants to go first?”
Panelist #2: “Before we get to that, Biff, let me say first to the questioner that her story is just heart-wrenching, and my husband and I will put her on our prayer list.”
Blip: “Wonderful, wonderful.”
Panelist #4: “I’m surprised nobody has mentioned the obvious, Blip. Whenever people bring up this economic stuff or the mess in Iraq, I just start talking about gay marriage!”
Blip: “Gay marriage?”
Panelist #4: “Right. You wouldn’t believe how well that works! People get all fired up about it, and they stop worrying about their kids getting killed in Iraq or their husbands or wives losing their jobs. It’s fantastic!”
Panelist #3: “It’s too bad about all those poor people out of work, Blip, but I try to do the right thing—as the President’s spokesmen are always urging—and avoid the blame game and stop finger pointing.”
Blip: “In other words, you agree with them they shouldn’t be held accountable?”
Panelist #3: “Is that what they mean when they say that? Oh dear. I’m not sure I can go along with that.”
Blip: “Whoops! Looks as if our time is up. All right, that’s it for tonight. Hope you enjoyed our show. Join us again next week as we continue the unending battle to think well of ourselves on ‘Let’s Pretend!’
© Tony Russell, 2004
Friday, July 09, 2004
“And Tonight’s Winner Is …”
Tonight the twentieth annual Al Qaeda Convention conferred its Achievement Award, in absentia, on George W. Bush “For His Outstanding Efforts in Furthering the Cause of Terrorism Worldwide.”
In prepared remarks accompanying the award, the organization cited Mr. Bush’s “unrelenting efforts to undermine U.S. prestige and moral authority,” saying “he has done more than any other single person to make the world an unsafe place to live and raise a family.”
Following the prepared remarks, an organization spokesman said, “This has been a banner year for us, and Mr. Bush deserves a lot of the credit. The American invasion of Iraq has been exposed to the entire world as a fraud, based on lies. The needless deaths of thousands of Muslims, the desecration of holy sites, the administration’s lopsided support of Israel, the revelations accompanying the torture photos, the references to the war as a ‘crusade’—these things have galvanized Muslims all over the world to support our cause.
“But when you add to all those things Mr. Bush’s efforts to weaken the historic alliances between Europe and the U.S., his attempts to undermine the Geneva Convention, his opposition to the World Court, and his dismissal of the United Nations and the Security Council, it’s hard to see how this administration could have done more on our behalf!
“On top of all that, Mr. Bush obligingly spent most of his first months in office on vacation, helpfully ignoring the warnings about al Qaeda plans to use hijacked domestic aircraft to strike at the United States. In a very real sense, then, he helped make the success of September 11 possible.
“Terrorism breeds in poverty, in powerlessness, in lack of hope,” he continued. “That fits the Bush agenda to a ‘t.’ His administration has fattened the rich at the expense of everyone else. They have cloaked government in secrecy. They have stripped their own citizens of the basic freedoms they are always prattling about. And they are draining the treasury of their country for foreign adventures. The country is devouring itself! It’s tempting just to stand aside and watch the U.S self-destruct!”
“With enemies like this,” he quipped, “who needs friends?”
The spokesman noted that terrorism is now firmly rooted in Iraq and that recruits are flocking to al Qaeda in droves. “Plus,” he said, “we’re stronger in places like Saudi Arabia, Pakistan, Indonesia, Afghanistan, and Jordan than we have ever been! It seems as if every other kid you meet wants to be a suicide bomber!”
The climax of the evening was a set of simultaneous car bombings in Fallujah, Baghdad, and Kabul, broadcast live in the convention center on giant closed circuit TVs.
© Tony Russell, 2004
In prepared remarks accompanying the award, the organization cited Mr. Bush’s “unrelenting efforts to undermine U.S. prestige and moral authority,” saying “he has done more than any other single person to make the world an unsafe place to live and raise a family.”
Following the prepared remarks, an organization spokesman said, “This has been a banner year for us, and Mr. Bush deserves a lot of the credit. The American invasion of Iraq has been exposed to the entire world as a fraud, based on lies. The needless deaths of thousands of Muslims, the desecration of holy sites, the administration’s lopsided support of Israel, the revelations accompanying the torture photos, the references to the war as a ‘crusade’—these things have galvanized Muslims all over the world to support our cause.
“But when you add to all those things Mr. Bush’s efforts to weaken the historic alliances between Europe and the U.S., his attempts to undermine the Geneva Convention, his opposition to the World Court, and his dismissal of the United Nations and the Security Council, it’s hard to see how this administration could have done more on our behalf!
“On top of all that, Mr. Bush obligingly spent most of his first months in office on vacation, helpfully ignoring the warnings about al Qaeda plans to use hijacked domestic aircraft to strike at the United States. In a very real sense, then, he helped make the success of September 11 possible.
“Terrorism breeds in poverty, in powerlessness, in lack of hope,” he continued. “That fits the Bush agenda to a ‘t.’ His administration has fattened the rich at the expense of everyone else. They have cloaked government in secrecy. They have stripped their own citizens of the basic freedoms they are always prattling about. And they are draining the treasury of their country for foreign adventures. The country is devouring itself! It’s tempting just to stand aside and watch the U.S self-destruct!”
“With enemies like this,” he quipped, “who needs friends?”
The spokesman noted that terrorism is now firmly rooted in Iraq and that recruits are flocking to al Qaeda in droves. “Plus,” he said, “we’re stronger in places like Saudi Arabia, Pakistan, Indonesia, Afghanistan, and Jordan than we have ever been! It seems as if every other kid you meet wants to be a suicide bomber!”
The climax of the evening was a set of simultaneous car bombings in Fallujah, Baghdad, and Kabul, broadcast live in the convention center on giant closed circuit TVs.
© Tony Russell, 2004
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