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President Whosis, Pt. 4

  

President Whosis: Gaga 4 Obama?

                           Political Satire by Kevin Feingold 

                                             Part Four

                                      President Whosis?

                                 Campaigning in America

                                    Wake up time, Mr. P!

                                            Oh, Mama!

                                                   ***

                          From the desk of Kevin Feingold

                                   President Whosis? 

            Our phone rings and a young black man named Jim asks to speak to Rose Feingold. Naturally, I ask him what it’s about. He explains it is the President Diamond Reelection Campaign calling about a donation and this call is being recorded for quality assurance. “Mr. Feingold?” he asks.

            It takes me a moment to gather my thoughts. I’m still focused on the recorded nature of our conversation. “So this talk gonna be on the record,” I suggest heartily.

            “Yes, that’s right,” says Jim, not aware what is about to happen.

            “Well, I gonna tell you, son,” I let loose, transitioning instantly into my Angry Black Man mode. “Da black community is mightily disappointed in our situation! We think wid a black man inna White House, maybe things gonna improve maybe jus’ a li’l fo’ da BLACK COMMUNITY. But da ain’t no jobs! Dat man inna White House, he ain’t black enough fo’ us! He don’ act black, he didn’ grow up black. We sufferin’ an’ he don’t seem to be payin’ us no mind!

            “I’m glad dis bein’ recorded” I insist. “You play dis fo’ yo’ supervisor an’ maybe even the president! I want him to know dat what we got here is an i-den-ti-ty crisis! We Democrats, we always been Democrats! That man don’t act like no Democrat! When the country get in trouble, we expecting an FDR-type program that would create jobs! We got bridges and roads that are falling apart. We got an electrical system dat black out inna hurricane! There be plenty work for people not afraid to raise a sweat! Plenty of people available to work, too! But instead of a Works Program, the president bail out the banks! Dat da Republican philosophy, dat not a Democratic philosophy! What he think gonna happen, da money gonna trickle down to us little folk?”

            “I hear you,” Jim assures me. “I hear a lot of this complaint from liberals and progressives. They’re disappointed that the president hasn’t been able to do more. At the same time, conservatives are ragging on him for spending too much money and expanding the government. They won’t let him do anything at all! The Republicans have created total paralysis in Washington! So whatever he does, President Diamond gets it both ways. Somebody always complains!

            “Our purpose today is to help establish a reelection process that lets President Diamond carry out his presidential duties without having to worry about financing a campaign. That’s why we need your help! We have to make sure that the lies and distortions being put out there don’t go uncontested!

            “I understand you’re disappointed, but I’m sure President Diamond—despite whatever shortcomings he might have— is preferable to Mick Rodney or Marietta Liszt! And the president really has accomplished a lot! He doesn’t get credit for over 200 pieces of legislation passed during Alison ‘Al’ Capone’s time as Majority Leader of the House.”

             “Lawdy!” I wail. “Jim, my man, we talkin’ a mountain an’ a molehill. Sure Blackie done well and completed a fine little mothball or two, but meanwhile, the country going broke, credit rating downgraded, Teepee Party screwing up da works. A mountain of problems facing us. Yes, I know, he improved his golf game — “

              Jim has the decency to laugh.

              “— and he cut back on the number of cigarettes he smoke a day, but there be so much mo’ to do!”

             “That’s why we need your help!”

             “Jim, we ain’t there yet. We don’t hate you, Jim, you a good man doing what you believe in, but we got to see some action before we ready to line up behind President Diamond. You tell that man when he get back from Martha’s Vineyard, he got to propose some legislation that create some jobs. And, lawd help us, not another speech!”

               Jim laughs.

               “I sat through speeches an’ I sat through college lectures an’ the last thing we need right now is mo’ talk! You tell him to propose some legislation — ‘I have authorized Congress to pass bill so-and-so and bill so-and-so’— and maybe we begin to believe he ready to do something fo’ working folks. 

               “’Cause I’m sorry, but at the moment, we just don’t feel he representin’ our interests!”

              “Well, I’m sorry to hear that, too. You know a lot more about politics than I do, I’m just a young man starting out. I’ve taken some notes of what you’ve said and they’ll help me in my solicitation endeavors. All I can send you in the mail at the moment is a pledge card, and obviously you aren’t comfortable or ready for that. But thanks for talking with me!”

               “Y’all take care now!” I drawl in my sweetest southern cadence.

               I’m sure poor Jim took a coffee break after that one! I don’t want to be mean and I don’t want the Secret Service thinking I’m threatening the president. But, I mean, Jim called me. Based on our listing in the Democratic Party voter database.

             Jim, my man, you don’t ask and I won’t tell!

                                                    ***

                      From the desk of Blackie Diamond

Speech                 Campaigning in America    

               Hello, my fellow countrymen. This is the 138th time I am speaking to you from the Oval Office. Those weekly video addresses mount up! My wife picked out the new drapes. You’ll notice I didn’t say “Good morning” or “Good evening,” because I wish to address all Americans everywhere and that includes those in other time zones, like Alaska, Hawaii, Guam and American Samoa! Just because it’s midday here at the White House, I am not so arrogant as to believe that this is the case in all parts of this great nation of ours.

               I asked my assistant, Dan Sverdlovski, “When is a good time to address the American people?” Dan said… well, I’ll let Dan tell you! Swivel or turn or swing or pan the camera or whatever you… Yes, that’s it. Over there on my left.

              Dan Sverdlovski: Thank you, Mr. President. What I said was, “Mr. President, anytime you speak to the American people, that’s an occasion for joy!”

              The President: Thank you, Dan! Uh… bring the… swing back over… yes, I’M OVER HERE!… Yes, not down there, UP HERE! Bring up… Okay.

              Many of you may be wondering why I am now sitting on my desk instead of, you know, behind my desk. Well, I’m trying to be a little informal here. A man behind a desk seems kind of cold. I want to come across as warm and chatty, like, what’s his face… Franklin Delano Roosevelt. His fireside chats assured a troubled nation that all would be well.

             How dare those Republicans ask, “Are you better off than you were four years ago?” What kind of a defeatist question is that?! Franklin Delano Roosevelt’s fireside chats addressed that very same question. My answer is: Of course things are better than they were in 1931! How dare the Republicans claim otherwise?!

             Are you better off than you were in 2009? You may not realize it, but things are improving. It’s been painful, but we’re on the rebound. Standing as I do at center court, the best I can hope for is a rimshot, but two points is better than no points, even in a pickup game! I call that “The audacity of hoops.”

           Gotcha!

            My wife and I are also aware of the housing crisis! My current domicile is at best a “loaner,” part of my salary package. Sooner or later, my family and I will be asked to vacate the premises. I mean, look at the brouhaha over the newly built president’s house at the University of Maryland! We at the White House have got it easy! But we know our time will come.

             So we were looking at a house in Nova Scotia. Kind of a wild beach. It’s windy, it’s got heather, that Heathcliff feel. And I said, “It’s a great price! Let’s grab it!” We put down a deposit, but when we got back here to— you know, Washington— my assistant Dan Sverdlovski pointed out that it might not be, like, such a great idea for the president to be buying a property in… you know… Canada. So— like we did in Denver— we got some friends to buy it, and maybe later…

            The point is, we know that housing prices are depressed!

            Has anyone seen Raphael, the pizza delivery dude?

            By the way, I’m not only speaking to Americans! Even resident aliens with green cards are more than welcome to listen in! The 11 million illegal aliens living in the Continental United States are equally welcome. To them, I say, “Buenos dios!” Not that they’re all Latin Americans, but… whatever!

              I can see that Dan is going crazy because I’m ad-libbing. These comments are nowhere in my prepared speech. An excellent speech, if I may say so, prepared with care by Dan and my speechwriters Ted and Sylvia, over in the West Wing of the White House. And I promise you, Dan, and you, America, that I will soon get back on message and give that pithy, informative statement. But I want to get some things said here!

              Let me be clear. I come from Denver, and l don’t appreciate all this carping criticism!

              First off, that I never actually SAY anything in my speeches. Well-l-l, today I am going to speak plainly on a number of issues!

              Let’s start with the TelePrompTer! Today, here in the Oval Office, I am using the Series 2100 TelePrompTer, a unit specifically designed for small rooms and television cameras. Positioned ingeniously over the lens, this gadget allows me to stare INTO the camera while surreptitiously reading my prepared text. Is that great or what?

              Am I being plain enough for you???

               I hope I am.

              My wife and I are black and I am not ashamed to say so! To those who complain that I’m not black enough, I say: I am as black as barros negros, black as night, black as the hearts of my Republican rivals! I… am… very… black! Listen! “Yo mama so fat, da po-lice gotta stop traffic when she come down da sidewalk… in bofe directions!” That’s how black I am! I even learn “yo mama” jokes from my daughters Masha and Natasha.

               I’m black!

               My mama was a white woman who liked to have sex with black men. She died of ovarian cancer. That doesn’t make her a bad person! Sleeping with black men was the ethos of her time and place. For white people, Hawaii in the 1960’s was a surfer paradise and beach bum hangout. Of course she got into trouble!

              My daddy could charm the coconuts right out of the trees.

              And since that coconut don’t fall too far from that tree, I be tryin’ to cut back myself on the chocolate and vanilla. Some of my lady friends seem to like it when I whack the monkey, though, so I be thinkin’… hmmm, next generation be a coffee-colored world! Nothin’ to eat or drink, but they be coffee-colored.

              We Johnsons have the gift. My mama got grants to gallivant all over the world. Doing anthropology with her body. She must have had something on the ball, since she did get the money!

             We don’t work in my family. We play. We play hard. That’s who we are!

             I’m like Oprah. I’m special. I’m Blackie Diamond! My life story is, was and always has been compelling enough to sell a lot of books— albeit many were in paperback— and get me elected president! People give me a pass. Like my mama, I get everything served on a silver platter. ‘Cause I’m a charmer. Doesn’t affect my bowel movements. I still sit on the toilet, defecating, like everyone else. But looking at me, you wouldn’t think so. That’s me, that’s my method. As that tax dodger Wesley Snipes once said, “It’s called acting.”

            I sure as Hell ain’t Latino! Although, of course, I support the Latino community in their efforts to fully participate in the American dream.

            To those who complain that I have been less than enthusiastic over the Dream Act, pul-lease! That’s politics! In my heart, I want all residents of this great country of ours to progress and enrich themselves as part of the American experience. We’re living in a new millenium, however. You don’t get anything for free. Not even health care!

            Hoc opus, hic labor est. Here is the hard truth:You gotta work!

             I may be playing at being president, but even that requires strenuous activity and endless battles with my adversaries in Congress. They be low-jacking my ride!  I’m not afraid to get my hands dirty. The process ages you, but it’s also a lot of fun!

             It’s not like I’m sitting here scratching my privates. If I was going to do that, I’d sit behind my desk, I assure you!

              There is a gentleman running for office in Maryland who has come out with a high-end TV ad saying, “I have already signed a pledge, that if I don’t accomplish my stated goals in my first term, I will not run for reelection.” That punch is below the belt! THAT MAN IS UNAMERICAN!!!

              I’m top dog and don’t let anybody forget it!

             Once reelected, I intend to hold Congress’s feet to the fire. The blood will be knee-deep in the aisles! Then you’ll really get to see whose lapdog I am. Woof! Woof! So watch out. No more Mr. Nice Guy. I’m a Transformer. Mean Mister Machine is coming to town.

              I might even throw some money toward highway maintenance.                                                 

               Speaking of cash moneys, I think every American should have $4,000 salted away in his bank account. I know I do. I demand the same of my daughters. My wife. Even our dog Winston has a paltry $4,000 saved up. For when he goes to college. What’s the matter? Get with it, America!

                So, from today— a momentous announcement— not a Peace Corps, not a Job Corps or an Americorps— I am instituting the Get With It, America! savings program. By skipping candy bars, lunches and clothes shopping on the weekends— by walking instead of burning up gas mileage— we can get this country solvent! After all, our current debt level is $15 trillion. Do the math! Two hundred and fifty million Americans times $4,000 equals one trillion dollars. Paying that in additional taxes over a fifteen-year period, America will be out of hock! No more kowtowing to the Chinese.

                Think of it as an installment plan on a walnut-paneled bar with leather-clad accoutrements, track lighting and wall-to-wall stereo television in a stretch limo. Or new wheels and spinners on your ride! 

                I’m just suggesting… Listen, if I don’t hear otherwise, I consider it a done deal. Straight up!

                In the meantime, we won’t spend more money in the federal government since… duh!… we in the public service.

               Yeah, right!  

                                                        *

               Now, this whole question of what I did and did not promise the Russkies. All I said was, we are— politically— in a state of flux here and I will be more focused and, you know, flexible, once this mad dash to the finish line is over. These are treaties full of technical detail and I don’t feel adequately in position to sink a swish when the opposing team keeps blocking my shots.

               That’s what I’m talkin’ about!

               Israel’s… whatever… is paramount… Enough of this! Why do I have to keep promising my soul to, like, four percent of the population? I know, yada, yada, yada, they’re everywhere! They control the media. I just mean that here is an opportunity for America to embrace a new reality. Instead of having the same old power brokers calling the tune!

               Next, my seeming fondness for Third World, Muslim nations.  Remember, I lived in Singapore as a child. So stop grousing! I think it was Hamilton Jordan, Jimmy Carter’s Chief of Staff, who looked down the cocktail dress of the statuesque wife of the Egyptian ambassador and said, “I have always wanted to see the pyramids!” I, too, support the current efforts, in Egypt, to form a flourishing democracy. Warily, I even applaud the democratic participation of the Muslim Brotherhood. So long as they act democratically, they too are a boon to the peaceful process of transition.

                In case nobody told you, our Arab brothers are just looking for a bone to pick with The Imperialist Aggressor, The Great Satan, the U.S.A. Invariably, they find one! Now it’s some lamebrain video on the Internet! We spent billions in blood and treasure, ushering in the Arab Spring. Then some nutjob puts an anti-Muslim film on the Net, and small groups of Fundamentalist extremists are blowing up our embassies and murdering our people.

                Let me be clear: Militants burned the Libyan embassy on 9/11, but the attack wasn’t pre-planned…??? Pul-lease!

               Angry crowds in Arabia do photo ops, overturning automobiles, burning the American flag and storming our consulates.

              Ahabs: They believe in beheading, the subjugation of women, homosexuality and buggery, but heaven help us if you insult the Prophet Mohammed. Then they’re ready to kill you!

               This is a typical case where we adults need to show mature understanding for the historical grievances motivating our more misguided cousins. We must do nothing to exacerbate the situation!  [ A favorite phrase among diplomats. ] 

                                                       *

               The telephone industry gutted the television industry, swallowing up their broadband. Congress and I went along with auctioning off the frequencies because I want every American to carry a smartphone. Using GPS, we’ll be able to track and pinpoint anyone across the country. Think of it as your 24-hour-a-day babysitter, but also “the eye in the sky” for law enforcement. What a tool that’ll be! Anyone without a smartphone will automatically be suspect.

              Now the wireless industry wants more access, while not even using 100% of the spectrum they already own. They want a major chunk of the frequencies currently used by NASA and our Armed Forces. There are 34,750 registered lobbyists in the Nation’s Capital. The capitalists just keep chipping away until they get what they want. Tough luck for NASA and our Armed Forces! What good does it do to fly the Reaper, Predator and Global Hawk Unmanned Aerial Vehicles, when you lack the bandwidth to communicate with your aircraft? Not too swift, guys!

               So stop criticizing me, America, and write your Congressman about the bandits buying up this country’s legislators. As the lobbyists say, “It’s amazing what a $10,000 campaign contribution can get you!”

               Meanwhile, we have all these weirdos with tape over their mouths marching around in front of the Supreme Court, protesting health care reform. Don’t you get it? DIAMONDCARE! I don’t care if you don’t like it! I’m Blackie Diamond! I’m the president! Take your best shot! Everybody cross-checks the Prez, baby. Go ahead, catch a bullet! Nudge me over the foul line. Make my day!

                If you believe the comics pages of your local newspaper and late-nite television, I’m already dead meat.

                I go on the late-nite squawk shows. Tell a few jokes. Get a bump in the polls.

               “What’s the diff between Mick Rodney and a dog? A dog drinks water, breathes air and farts.”

                “How many Republicans does it take to change a lightbulb? None! The Republicans are still living in the 18th Century!”

                “Mick Rodney, Paul Rand, Richard Provolone and Marietta Liszt get marooned on a desert island. By the end of the first day, Mick has bought up half the island, Richard has founded a military dictatorship, Paul Rand refuses to come ashore until the others adopt his ideology, and Marietta has mated with a gorilla, since she feels none of her shipmates comes anywhere near fulfilling the role of ‘a real man.’”

               Ever notice how the actresses flogging their movies on the late-nite talk shows keep getting younger, taller, blonder and dumber?!

              America, greet your daughters!!!

                                                            *

             Hey, Mr. Teepee Party conservative! I, too, represent a constituency. I rep the people I went to Harvard with. Classy people. Achievers. New York investment bankers! The top 1%! So you go ahead and make your bus trip to Washington. Enjoy the cherry blossoms. We control the economy and what we say, goes!

             As you know, “inexplicably,” I have granted permission for off-shore oil prospecting along the eastern seaboard. I will shortly sign legislation allowing the construction of the Keystone XL tar sands pipeline across the very heartland of America. Why??? Hello-o! Because my backers— on Wall Street— the investment bankers I met at Harvard— want these projects. I graduated from Harvard Law magna cum laude. They own me. They made me. I’m theirs. Who did you think I represented? 

               The poor are very nice people. They are warm-hearted and sometimes they vote, but I can’t finance a campaign using good intentions alone. The big money is on Wall Street. I’m their man. So forget the Republicans.

              For all my pretty speeches about idealism and hope, at rock bottom, I’m a hard-hearted politician. It’s who I am! Outside of my wife and children, I am perfectly willing to throw anyone under the bus.

              The Republicans portray me as being a wimp.

              Make no mistake about it, when the hard choices need to be made, I’m as much of an unsentimental bastard as anyone in Congress. I only talk prettier.

              Look how I treated my opponent Myrtle Beech in the Democratic primaries during the last election! And she’s a member of my own party!

              Mr. Slash and Burn, Blackie Diamond, is girding for battle. I’ll malign anybody!

              Ense petit placidam sub libertate quietem. “By the sword, we seek peace, but peace only under liberty!” State motto of Massachusetts.

              Maybe I cave for foreign leaders, but domestically, I’m a regular Macbeth.

            Time to take off the kid gloves and get real. Who are these Republican candidates? Mick Rodney is a wuss. Richard “Big Cheese” Provolone can go back to his guns and Bibles. Paul Rand needs a psychiatric evaluation. They want unbridled capitalism, but the retina display on the new iPad uses up a month’s worth of capacity in an hour or two. We are engineering ourselves into a corner! The Republicans don’t seem to get it. As John F. Kennedy asked in 1960, “Where do they get these candidates?” Like the French say, “The more things change, the more they remain the same.”

            My wife and I have been to Paris, France. In the Springtime. Population, two million two hundred thousand. Too many North Africans. Not to be confused with Paris, Texas. There were pretty girls everywhere. I think it’s the inability to choose that makes Frenchmen so testy to deal with.

            I tried to get the French to take back the Louisiana Purchase. Basically, like at Pottery Village, they told me, “You broke it, you own it.”

             Get over it! The Chinese own America. It’s the year of the dragon. Guess what? Nee-how! We rode the back of the dragon and ended up inside. China is America’s preferred moneylender. Their economy dominates our economy. What happens when we can’t pay the vigorish, let alone the principal? What d’ya think happens? America becomes Suzanne Collins’s Panem and my hometown of Denver takes its place among the world’s megalopolises. Sometimes I think you people ain’t payin’ attention. The breadbasket of America, sixty percent of this fine country, is living in a drought. Hunger games, baby! Bread an’ circuses.

               Read your history books. Vedi Napoli e poi mori, “See Naples and then die.” They don’t print that in the tourist brochures, I can assure you. To quote the immortal Yogi Berra, “It ain’t over ‘till it’s over.”

            Like this speech, it gonna be over soon enough!

            I’m sorry to say our time is up for today. I promised the networks… yada, yada, yada! If you critics start bitching about me makin’ a campaign speech from the Oval Office, I say, “Tough titty!” Every president since Richard Nixon been doin’ it! President “meat prices must not go higher” Nixon!

            I have a beef with the beef industry. To hold down prices, manufacturers have been diluting their product with an ammonia-treated meat filler called “lean, finely textured beef.” Also know as “pink slime.” I understand that the factory in Amarillo, Texas has been producing 200,000 pounds a day of this stuff. The Garden City, Kansas plant has been cranking out 350,000 pounds a day. A factory in Waterloo, Iowa has also produced 350,000 pounds a day. Amarillo? Garden City? Waterloo? Factories producing pink slime? You gotta love these names!

            I travel the country touting job creation, but in this case, I think we’ve got to shut her down, boys! No one should be eating that stuff.

            Finally, in conclusion, I know y’all expect me to come up with this year’s slogan. Last election, we had a three-word Kumbaya: “Yes, we can!” This time we got it down to two words:

            Shove it!

            Let the Republicans suck on that one awhile.

            Y’all vote for me, maybe we won’t level your neighborhood, after all!

            Live from the White House, this has been Blackie Diamond!

            Naw, I’m just funnin’ ya!

            Y’all take care!

            Thank you.

                                                  ***

                         From the desk of Kevin Feingold

Essay                       Wake up time, Mr. P!

                       “Enjoy your last ride on Air Force One.”                                      

              – President Obama to Congressman Anthony Weiner, when Weiner criticized Obama’s health care program while airborne.

                                                        *

            My mom is 91 years old and sharp as a tack. I spent 12 years as an unpaid political consultant, in local politics, during my military career. She and I solve the world’s problems every night over dinner.

                                                          *

             Mom: “With the GSA convention scandal in Las Vegas and now the SecretServicebacchanal in Cartagena, Colombia, the commentators on talk radio are saying Obama is an absentee manager.”

              Kevin: “I know he’s an absentee president. I live in the Greater Washington area, and he never returns my calls!”

              Mom: “Ha ha!”

              Kevin: “As usual, the commentary is a little dumb. Obama will simply say, ‘I’m not in charge of the Secret Service. I don’t run the GSA. To err is human, to forgive, divine.’

               “But, yes, the CEO is expected to set the tone, and with Obama as president, there’s a leadership vacuum as large as the Potomac River. I don’t think he’s an absentee manager, so much as passive-aggressive. I’ve never understood his style of non-leadership.”

               Mom: “Obama and Bush wanted to be president, with all the pomp and ceremony, but not the job of running the country. You could never get Bush off his bicycle. I don’t think Obama’s even seen the inside of the Oval Office. Neither of them ever ran a company in their lives. Their résumés are paper thin.

            “Romney may be a wooden, boring son of a bitch, but he is a proven, competent administrator.”

            Kevin: “Stop complaining about Obama playing so much golf! He does less damage to the country.

             “Bush dabbled in the oil industry. He was co-owner of a baseball team. He served an entire term as governor of Texas without once voting ‘present.’ He had convictions, benighted or otherwise…

              “If the government is going to be handmaiden to industry, at least let’s get a competent industrialist at the helm, one who knows how to get things done. Right now, we’re standing still.”

              Mom: “We’re not standing still! We’re going backwards in a downward economic spiral! I don’t see how anybody can support Obama.”

               Kevin: “Well, don’t forget, he’s got that charisma thing. He gets up before a crowd, waves his arms and speaks, and the masses are hypnotized. Hitler had it, Mussolini, Genghis Khan, Julius Caesar. Orators, they know how to raise the passion of their listeners and make their blood boil. Obama has the gift. People come away from his rallies thinking they’ve seen Jesus and touched the hem of His garment.

               “Barack Hussein Obama tells each group, ‘I am with you!’ He’s a con artist: He’s not lying, because he’s already looked in the mirror and convinced himself that he really means what he says. Charismatically persuasive, he gets people to believe in him. He tells the Jews, ‘Israel’s security is paramount.’ What does that mean? ‘Diplomacy is a chess match and I’ll offer Israel to gain a tactical advantage’? As Bill Clinton once famously said, ‘It all depends on what your definition of “is” is.’

              “The Occupy Movement is a sterling example. In the economic meltdown, Obama sided with the 1%— the banks, the brokerage houses— who caused the crash with their falsely bundled securities ! 1 — and the automobile industry. Obama left Main Street— middle class America— sorely pressed economically. Without money to spend, we stand by and watch retail outlets go under. The face of America is changing. Economic Darwinism, only the strong survive. We watch our roads fill with pot-holes. A huge chasm has opened between the ‘haves’ and the ‘have-nots.’ Yet Obama can signal the Occupy Movement, ‘Don’t worry! I hear your message. In my heart, I am with you.’ [ 1 See Charles Ferguson’s 2010 movie Inside Job. ]

            “That’s a great message! Only in his icy cold heart, ‘Mr. Cool’ only cares about himself and his immediate family.” 

             Mom: “I don’t see how a recent college graduate, weighed down with student loans, unemployed, forced to live with his parents, can tout Obama as the answer.”

              Kevin: “Generation Y, the Internet / Facebook social networking young people, the ones who poured money bigtime into the 2008 Obama campaign, the people who worked day and night leafleting, telephoning and canvassing for Obama, have all been let down. Along with everyone else outside the banking, Wall Street brokerage and industrial communities.  But college students aren’t known for being worldly, experienced or acting rationally.

               “Even if they support Obama, I find it hard to believe they will come out for him in the droves we saw in 2008. Maybe a nursery rhyme can reach them:

                               Fooled me once, shame on you!

                               Fooled me twice, shame on me!

            “The Washington Post still shows daily photographs of Obama campaigning in Ohio, Kentucky, Pennsylvania, Illinois or Iowa, making speeches and pointing his finger, but I don’t see any references to tens of thousands of spectators waiting hours in line to get to see him.

            “It’s 2012, not 2008. When Obama and his campaign staff are marching to victory, David Axelrod is going to look over his shoulder and say, ‘Hey, uh, Barack! Good grief! Where are the throngs? There’s nobody behind us! It’s only the six of us!’

            “You can just hear Obama answer, ‘It’s okay, these are more intimate events!’

             “People are not buying what he’s selling.

            “What does Obama say in his speeches? He sets up straw men. It’s always someone else’s fault. He exhibits the mentality of an 8-year-old, ‘I didn’t do anything! It was all Billy’s fault.’ So it’s really a question of who he is going to blame the failing economy on.”

             Mom: “He’s the president! I haven’t seen such a clueless Chief Executive since Jimmy Carter.”

              Kevin: “What was that movie with Robert Redford? The Candidate. On election night, with his supporters wildly cheering his victory, the candidate turns to his campaign manager and asks, ‘What do we do now?’ That’s Obama in a nutshell. Glamorous, brilliant, clueless.”

               Mom: “President Obama didn’t cause the economic crisis, he inherited it. But when he had his FDR moment to pump jobs and money into the middle class and revitalize this country, he chose to use the trillions of dollars to shore up his buddies on Wall Street. I blame our current mess on Obama!”

                Kevin: “Ah, yes, but you’re logical. You can’t expect other people to react logically. On the plus side, the American people don’t need a rocket scientist to know their asses are cold.

                “Have you seen the statue of Justice, the lady holding aloft the scales? While the gap in economic inequality widens, a conservative Supreme Court sides with the strong, against the weak. The scales of Justice aren’t becoming any lighter, as the blindfolded damsel grows progressively deafer to the cries and pleas of the middle class. The rich get richer while the rest of us get screwed.

                “America deserves better.

               “Political consultant Dick Morris predicts that undecided voters will break for the challenger by a two to one margin because of their discontent with the current economic situation. That spells real trouble for Obama.”

               Mom: “This election is the Republicans to lose. Since they’ve chosen such way-out candidates, the undecideds won’t be able to vote Republican.

              “Even a halfway centrist candidate like Romney seems attractive when the alternative is a big, fat nothing.

              “But I can’t vote for Romney, now that he’s chosen the grandson of J.P. Chase-Guggenheim-Morgan-Rockefeller for his running mate. Even if we are a center-right country, why do the Republicans insist on pushing our buttons?

              “And the Republicans were idiots to attack each other that way in the primaries. That just provides ammunition for the Democrats to use against the Republican nominee.”

              Kevin: “This is America and everyone watches TV. Who can remember what the big issues were three months ago? Today, it’s the space shuttle Discovery. Two weeks ago, it was the cherry blossoms. What was the topic of conversation three weeks ago? No one remembers! We Americans have incredibly short attention spans. Come the Fall, no one will remember the mean, ugly things other contenders said about Mitt Romney during the Republican primaries.

              “People don’t like mudslinging, attack ads and negative campaigning. When the Democrats start bringing up the attacks made during the Republican primary campaign— and leveling those charges in the national election— the public is going to say that such unsportsman-like behavior demeans Democrats.

             “Some of the negative campaigning will brainwash people through sheer repetition, but a lot will turn off the electorate.  

             “I don’t think disappointed Democrats are going to vote Republican. They just won’t vote. We’ll see a very depressed voter turn-out in November.”

                                                    ***

                   From the desk of Blackie Diamond

Speech                               Oh, Mama!

            Now what brings me here— to Golden, Colorado of all places— for a campaign speech? Shazam! Air Force One brings me here! That mother costs $179,750 an hour to operate, but… guess what? When you’re president and you have a deficit of 15 trillion dollars, who cares?!

            I am NOT a profligate spender, but the American people want to meet their leader! I am obligated to crisscross the country holding campaign rallies. I do not shrink from this responsibility, I welcome it!

            We’re here at the Coors Brewery. My forebears weren’t German, but I heard that if we tour the plant, afterwards they’ll serve us free brewski in the lounge. If you ask for “clear beer,” they’ll serve you pure mountain spring water. I also want to buy T-shirts for Masha and Natasha. School kids love T-shirts, the more outrageous, the better!

            I’ve asked the brewery industry for a report on what ales the nation. Get it? Ales… ails? No? Fuggedaboutit!

            My staff and I are also here to highlight the wildfires currently taking place in Colorado. Eighty-six square miles of mountain forest, 181 homes gone up in smoke. We know how it feels, folks! This campaign is wild. I’m on fire!

            If you can’t stand the heat, go fan yourself under the A/C vent!

            Finally, why Colorado? Obviously, because it is next to New Mexico!

            If you’ve read my deeply stirring personal narrative, Who Yo’ Daddy?, you know that I was born in the vestibule of a hot air balloon over the Sacramento Mountains of New Mexico. It clearly states on my birth certificate, “Elephant Butte Reservoir,” since it was over that particular section of the mountain range the balloonists think I might possibly first have come into this world. My mama knew her water could break at any time, but her college prankster roomies insisted on blindfolding and spiriting her away on a hot-air balloon ride. As a birthday present.

              These things happen.

              Let me just clear up this whole question about El Paso, Texas and Juarez, Mexico!

             The balloon expedition started off in El Paso, intending to head north. As any balloonist can tell you, basically you are at the mercy of the winds. Did they drift over Juarez, where the hot Mexican breezes lifted their aircraft to new heights, the trade winds grabbed them and scooted them back up north? Yes, and a thousand times yes! I wasn’t born in Mexico! ¡Yo quiero los Estados Unidos de América!

              See, I speak Spanish. And I’m not even Mormon!

                                                          *

              I grew up in Denver, the Mile High City. The air is thin. You learn to navigate despite the constant dizziness. What a ditsy place to hold a presidential debate!

              This training has stood me in good stead for my time in the White House, where the atmosphere can seem pretty thin at times. Not a whole lot of air, if you catch my drift. Too many Republicans using up all the oxygen in the room!

               I don’t want to be accused of épater le bourgeois, shocking the middle class, but thank God for the lobbyists and super PACs! As I always say, the next best thing to a blood transfusion is a cash transfusion! We make a fuss over the little guys contributing bupkis on the Internet, but that’s just for show. The real money comes from where it always has: Industry!

              Oil drilling off the coast of Virginia. The Keystone XL pipeline bifurcating Nebraska. America runs on oil, people!

              Lockheed Martin. Boeing. Sikorsky. Those military aircraft don’t build themselves, y’know!

              Let’s give a shout-out for Tom Cruise, Penélope Cruz, shipboard cruising and cruise missiles. Long live the Predator, and not just in the movies!

             Hey, Axl! My Chief of Staff. Who writes this stuff?

             We don’t have that kind of industry here in Colorado, but our intellectual property is right up there alongside Silicon Valley. Why, we got the Sundance Film Festival ! Of course, it’s in Park City, Utah, but… same difference! Those kiss-off’kas in Venice don’t have a Sundance film festival, I can assure you!

            Venice, California, my ass!

              But don’t let me seem divisive. Let us focus on the issues that unite us! Like sticking someone else with the bill! 1

              We have to kick-start some life into the economy. Prime the carburetor, pop the choke, pull the ripcord and make that mower go! That’s me, “Start ‘em up Blackie Diamond” ! My opponent— Mr. white guy Mick Rodney— can’t say that! His only experience is buying and selling companies for 20 years, turning around businesses, creating and promoting wealth.

             Ha! How namby-pamby!

             Has he ever given a speech that stirred millions?

             No!

            Has he ever stood on the steps of the Capitol and taken the presidential Oath of Office?

            No!

             Has he ever stood before both houses of Congress and given a State Of The Union address?

             Never!

              So you see, the man is totally unqualified to be president! He hasn’t honed any of the essential fundamentals: Talking with your head thrown back. Climbing the embarkation ramp of Air Force One. Looking into the eyes of Dmitry Medvedev and seeing his soul!

              Been there, done that.

               ‘Nuff said.

______________________

1 “The problem with socialism is that eventually you run out of other people’s money.” – Margaret Thatcher, British Prime Minister 1979 – 1990.                                                          

                                                            *

               It’s an election year. Your campaign contributions are important to us. If you notice product placement in this speech, we haven’t been subtle enough.

               Allow me to thank the TelePrompTer Corporation for servicing us on such short notice, when we suffered equipment failure. Traipsing around the country puts a lot of wear and tear on all of us.

              I can’t find the men’s room without a TelePrompTer.

              Also, thank you, Old Navy, for coming to my wife’s aid when she experienced a wardrobe malfunction. I’ve seen her breasts. No biggies.

              Thank God there are all these retro cable TV shows glamorizing smoking! I need all the help I can get.

              Congratulate me! The other day, I played my 100th round of golf as president! I’m no Titleist, but I feel it was a Top-Flite achievement, TaylorMade for my wife’s crusade against child obesity.

              I also sip Knob Creek Kentucky Straight Bourbon Whiskey to protest the war in Sudan and the shelling in Syria.

              I think it was Calvin Coolidge who once said, “The chief business of the American people is business.” Personally, I like him better as “Silent Cal.”

              But that ain’t me! I ain’t silent ‘bout nothin’!

                                                           *

              This is a campaign event, so I’ve asked the rock band Hippodrome Blacksmith to play something patriotic. They looked over their set list and suggested the death metal version of Bah, Bah, Black Sheep. Let’s give it up for… Hippodrome Blacksmith!

                                                           *

               Okay, let’s get down to brass tacks!

               The whole recall thing between Republican governor Sidney McCormick and Democratic challenger Wesley Magnet. I could say, “Gee, I was too busy to visit Wisconsin.” Well, dissembling ain’t my way! I didn’t go, because it was a lose-lose situation: If I went and supported Magnet, and Magnet lost, everyone would say, “See, Blackie Diamond is the Kiss of Death, a Natural Born Loser!” If, on the other hand, Wesley won, the pundits and commentators would have said, “There’s Blackie Diamond throwing his weight around, meddling in state affairs that are none of his business!”

             So, I did what I felt was best and played some ball instead… a little b-ball, some golf, different courts, different courses. Sho’ made me hungry fo’ some barbecued ribs!

             As for that newspaper headline, “Diamond embraces gay supporters,” I wish to clarify that our fellowship was in spirit, not in the men’s room.

             Negative TV ads are costing millions of dollars! War chests brimming with cash, we still can’t enjoy a surreptitious weekend in Macao. Instead, the television networks are getting rich. Their presidents are enjoying The Blue Dragon Casino on Sun Yat-sen Way.

              It’s like how contractors describe corruption in a war zone, “If somebody’s paying the money, somebody’s getting it!”

             Long live network television, the true beneficiaries of negative campaigning!

             How ‘bout them Republicans? Ornery. Itching for a fight. “If you run for reelection, our super PACs will say bad things and demolish you on TV.”

            Ho ho ho! “Oh, I’m so-o-o scared!”

[ Quoting Wesley Snipes as Simon Phoenix in the 1993 movie Demolition Man. ]

            Lawdy! Get real.

             You know, my team raised the bar. We’re the Olympic contenders of attack ads! In 2008, we were the only proud practitioners of the slasher attack ad. Four years later, every super PAC has learned how to harness the graphics, write the oppositional research and hire a killer announcer. Quality! If I do nothing else in my presidency— and that may yet be the case!— I’ll still be remembered as the dude who raised the level of attack ads to high art.

                                                          *

              Now for the big stink! My statement, “It’s very clear that private-sector jobs are doing just fine.”

              Nobody is happy with the economy, least of all me! My point is, in times of austerity, since we must choose where to put our limited resources, mercifully the private sector is holding its own!

               I’ll never be able to satisfy 90-year-old FDR Democrats who wanted the federal government in 2009 to create alphabet soup agencies and make-work programs like in the 1930’s. That’s not my way! I bailed out the economic institutions which I feel are the bedrock of American industry, both on Wall Street and in the auto industry. The turnarounds were successful. The companies survived. They also paid back their TARP loans. Unfortunately, the employment rate and the national economy still lag behind the growth levels reflected on the stock market. It may take ten years for a full recovery. ALL I CAN SAY IS, the seeds are firmly planted.

            Marginal progress is being made in the black community and on Main Street.

            This country can do anything we set our minds to. We put a man on the moon. Jane Fonda is still making movies!

            Our rocket is poised on the pad. We may not have lift-off tomorrow, but I believe it’s gonna happen.

            I dare to hope!

            I know the middle class is suffering. Here’s a tip from the extensive fundraisers I have attended in the run-up to this election: Try the quiche.

              Ever since I made that gaffe about the private sector, every news service photo of me frowning has been unearthed from the archives and flashed on a screen somewhere! Maybe it’s a victory for Marshall McLuhan’s global village, but I feel bruised.

             Since I am over six feet tall, I get to lord it over people.

             I am Commander In Chief. I LOVE being Commander In Chief!

              I’m not Richard Nixon, I don’t walk around the White House talking to the portraits on the walls. I do, however, give a little wink to any pictures of George Washington. Commander of the Continental Army, our first president, it is thanks to him that a civilian like myself gets to play top dog. You’ve seen the photos! I travel the world and American soldiers at bases everywhere adore me. So I must be doing something right!

              Foreign policy: America has lost patience with the Pakistanis for never clearing out the Taliban sanctuaries. The Pakistanis have lost patience with America for losing patience. All the Pakistanis ever do about clearing out the Taliban sanctuaries is to lose patience.

              Dudes, lose the sanctuaries!

              Must I drone on about this? Hint, hint!

              Next problem. The Occupy Wall Street Movement is unhappy because they aren’t the smartest, they aren’t very good-looking, they aren’t particularly talented and they haven’t been successful. Obviously, all those complaints can be laid at the feet of Wall Street! That’s clear as day! Let’s all be green with envy of anyone who is more successful than we are.

             Which leads me to the people of Brazil. They experience a joie de vivre sadly lacking at my campaign headquarters in Denver, Colorado. Guys in Denver! Hello-o! Brazilians enjoy life! They have an innate sense of rhythm. Brazilians dance the bossa nova. Their alcoholic beverages put the fizz back in your step! Watching their super models on the runway, I don’t think there’s any denying how successful Brazil is. Therefore, sob a pressao das circunstâncias, under the stress of circumstances,I am calling for immediate and unconditional sanctions against all things Brazilian. Sem cessar! Without end. This economic démarche is but the first step in the Occupy Brazil Movement.

               Keeping with the Democratic Party ideology of victimhood, anyone who is more successful than me should be punished! The first and most important place to enforce this will be during the next election cycle. To move America forward! To see that everyone sacrifices equally!… Among us vlasti, some be more equal than others. [The power elite in the former Soviet Union. ]

             Domestic politics: Did I pander when— overnight— I suddenly reversed government policy and decided NOT to deport all illegal Hispanic college graduates in the Class of 2012? No and Hell no!

             It’s the right thing to do!

             Let ‘em have a few months off! They deserve a vacation, just like everyone else! There’ll be plenty of time in December and January to deport them!

            Now, if I said I liked the brown man— that would be a clear case of pandering. This little transaction is wholly other than that! Here we are horse-trading “time off for good behavior” against votes in November. A fair trade, an honest trade. Nothing more, nothing less.

            “You vote for me, amigos, I don’t kick your kids out of the country!” At least not until after the election.

             It ain’t perfect, but it is what it is!

            The audacity of the pundits to claim I don’t have a plan for the economy. Where you at ?! Didn’t you hear my hour-long speech in Ohio? Audacity is my department! The audacity of hope. The audacity to believe. “Yes, we can!”

            Leave the audacity to me, brothers!

            Don’t listen to the naysayers, who claim this is a leaderless, rudderless presidency. During the first three years of my administration, the number of instances of child pornography on the Internet has sunk dramatically!

            Vandalization of public telephones has been all but eliminated… together with public telephones.

             The children of this great nation of ours have received the maximum allotment of snow days!

             The sale of medical marijuana has quadrupled.

             The Arab Spring has made way for the R.C. Kessler Summer Sale!

            Weejuns are out, sandals are in.

             Sarcasm is out, irony is in.

             From my digs in the Big W.H., I can see that real estate prices in the nation’s capital be boomin’.

              The internment of Japanese-Americans is but a memory.

              I don’t know what yardstick others are using, but I see real progress being made in at least a seventh of this great country of ours!

             Meanwhile, people can’t get enough of E.L. James’ “Fifty Shades of Grey.” In a time of sinking aspirations, any stimulus to the erogenous zone appears beneficial.

             Euclidean geometry provides proof I should be reelected!

              Under my administration, a $100 million Land, Sea, Air Rescue Memorial honoring and celebrating our First Responders now proudly graces a corner of the National Mall in Wash, DC. Gratefully, we recognize the dedicated men and women who rescued our bulldog Winston Churchill when he fell into the Reflecting Pool in front of the Lincoln Memorial on a very hot day last June!

                                                         *

              A tribute to the wife is always in order! Let me congratulate mine on the new book she’s written, Growing Organically. That’s a great book! We believe in growing green. Composting. Using night soil— which we city boys used to call “turds.” Same thing!

              Planting a kitchen garden is easier than you think!

             You separate out the seeds and stems and plant them, aerating the soil extensively as you go. Water thoroughly. How green is our kitchen garden? Very! Green, weed, Mary Jane, cannabis, pot. By any other name, that organic product remains equally sweet! Plant mint among your marijuana seedlings for that glorious menthol taste.

           You’ve heard of hash browns. Our recipe calls for using real hash.

           Grow them gardens! May your green thumb thrive! We may not be able to right the economy, but given enough organics, we can render ourselves unwilling to sweat the small stuff. And I mean that in a good way!

           As for the snakeheads, well, if we learned to eat catfish, we can learn to eat anything!

                                                          *

           Did I send Harvey Kaufman to Vietnam to sign a “peace treaty in perpetuity” with the Vietnamese? Let’s do that Q & A in December, just in case it becomes a hot campaign issue. Thanks!

           The euro is down the toilet. So is Bashar al-Assad. What to do? Live organically!

           Country singer Ted Pruitt says that if I am reelected, he’ll either be in jail or dead. Ted, I know how you feel! Every time you come out with a new album, I’m ready to puke!

            The good news is, neither of us has yet left the country!

            Is this nation big enough for two performers with outsized egos?

            Maybe.

            I gotta remind everybody that Ted needs a guitar, lots of practice, and the magic of music to get women to swoon and men to feel a thrill up their leg like Chris Matthews. I can do that with the silence of a TelePrompTer. Who’s got his mojo workin’ now, Teddy?! 

              Join me in singing our campaign theme song, “Every Little Bit Counts Between Now and the End of the World.

            … No?

             Cat got your tongue? Okay… 

             The pundits say I can’t win reelection as long as our economy remains on the skids. They say the economy can’t rebound, unless the Europeans pull out of their economic nosedive.

             Nothing could be farther from the truth! Listen to me, my fellow Americans!

             Elections aren’t won and lost over an adding machine! They’re decided by the decent people of this country, voting for a do-gooder president who only feels compassion for you and wishes you the very best!!!

              America’s got talent!

              America is exceptional!

              What did Churchill say? “Democracy is the worst form of government, excepting all others.” Since nobody speaks Churchillian English anymore, let me translate that: Democracy has its flaws, but other ideologies suck even more!

              Hi, kids! Mr. Winston Churchill was a stuck-up white guy who defended England but denied freedom to the colonies. He smoked a cigar and led Great Britain through a four-year military struggle called The Second World War. Sometimes, when we politicians are trying to establish our place in history, we quote Mr. Churchill.

                                                            *

               If you want a president who stirs the hearts and minds of the electorate, vote for me!

               If you want a businessman for president, that’s the other guy.

                I don’t know if this is true or not, but I’ve been told Mick Rodney is a product of the Fisher-Price division of the Mattel Corporation. Love your hair, Mick! Say “hi” to Barbie for me! 

                For those of you who missed any part of this speech, I’m sure it’ll be on YouTube. Or visit our website, http://www.MyWhiteHouseMeMeMine.gov

                In addition, I have another 125 speeches scheduled between now and Election Day.

               My rod and my staff, they comfort me.

               Thank you for your attention! We just killed another hour and a half on the campaign trail. Credit goes to Mr. Farnham, my seventh grade Public Speaking teacher at Woodbridge Junior High School in Denver.

              Hi, Mr. Farnham!

             …

             God bless!

                                                        *

    

President Whosis: Gaga 4 Obama?

                          Political Satire by Kevin Feingold 

                                               Part Five

                                  Presidential Speechwriter

                                    Live from Bazookastan

                                          Barf for Blackie

                                     A First lady Appeal

                                 Night At the Round Table

                                             Incomplete

                                                   ***

                      From the desk of Kevin Feingold

                            Presidential Speechwriter?

            There’s an old adage about cursing the darkness or lighting a candle. Since I’m so disappointed in the current administration, last week, I volunteered for the Blackie Diamond reelection campaign. As a speechwriter. The frustrated author seeks his niche.

            The daughter of my local ward boss works in the West Wing of the White House. Saddled with a scumbag position, she does oppositional research. Acting as go-between, she arranged for me to take a shot. I talked with one of the presidential speechwriters. He stated clearly that— with the president making daily campaign appearances— their crew is short-handed!

            Va va voom! Wow! Yes!

             “Send me your stuff,” he suggested, reviewing my résumé. Hey, I listed every political campaign I ever participated in, starting with Lyndon Johnson’s at the Democratic Convention in Atlantic City, New Jersey in 1964. Listen, if you don’t try, you never gonna win! “Maybe we can work together,” opined the speechwriter.   

            And who knows, my Freedom Marching ideas from the glorious 1960’s may influence policy in the right direction!

            “My parents dreamed the impossible dream,” I have the candidate declare, arms spread wide, addressing the Class of 2012 on some pristine college campus. “It didn’t turn out so good. They found their goal was, in fact, IMPOSSIBLE. They did, however, do some other stuff— “ Yada, yada, yada, Diamond can tell what he and his parents had or have for their vision of America.

            “New technology, new energy sources, will transform our way of life!” I wrote. “Instead of fracturing the bedrock of the planet to release natural gas, we should utilize the natural gases on hand! Let us find a way to harness the enormous quantities of methane gas produced hourly by this country’s dairy cattle! By 2020, our slogan will be, ‘America runs on bovine gases!’ Cow farts and cow pies are natural sources of energy already readily available! New technology will allow us to tap into this previously untapped energy resource. It’s out there for the taking! Go to my website and click on the Jezebel the Cow icon to learn more.

            “There’s an obesity epidemic among our young people, while Latino day laborers mow our lawns, wash our cars, sweep our porches, wash our windows and paint our houses. What’s wrong with this picture? Re-institute child labor! Let our children have the same childhood we had! All that smelly, gunky, gooey, buggy, itchy, sweaty physical exertion has made us who we are today! Plunging toilets has made us strong! If I see a child watching TV, I send him into the backyard to sweep the redwood deck and pluck up fallen twigs. There’s always something more to do around the house! That’s the nature of living. ‘Vacuum the carpets, kid!

            “Seriously, folks, we have to separate medicine and business. Health care shouldn’t be an economic issue. Like national defense or universal primary school education, it should be a basic requirement of this nation. The richest, most powerful nation in the world, and we can’t provide basic health care for our citizenry? Shame on us! Shame on our politicians for making health care a political football!

            “Other nations are like New Yorkers: Their only concern is ‘What have you done for me today?’ We should enter every foreign entanglement with our baseball caps securely fastened on our heads, ready to get up and walk out at a moment’s notice. The Afghans don’t like us? Bye-bye! ‘Solve your own damn problems with the Taliban, you ass-holes! Don’t forget to turn off the lights on your way out.’

            “The bullshit has gone on for too long. Cut to the chase! Economically, politically, militarily, and in every other way! It is time to stop squabbling and making speeches— while nothing gets accomplished! I know! Speeches are all I do.

            “It is time for this country to GET REAL!”

                                                       *

            Speechwriter for the president! The FBI vetted me, testing the paper, the ink and my PC to be sure I wasn’t cutting and pasting someone else’s brainchilds. As it turns out, I was dreaming the impossible dream. I didn’t get the job.

            “With your background,” suggested my White House contact helpfully, “you should consider becoming an AID worker in Bazookastan.”

            “People are getting… killed doing that,” I remarked over the phone, barely restraining myself from dropping the F-bomb.

            “You should consider becoming an AID worker in Bazookastan,” he repeated.

                                                     *** 

                           From the desk of Blackie Diamond

Speech                        Live from Bazookastan

            “Hello and good evening, my fellow Americans. This is my 189th television address. I know it’s becoming a daily occurrence, but I am the president of the most powerful nation in the world and that should give me some prerogatives. I’ve seen how the Russkies look at us with a combo of envy and enmity. It gives me great pleasure to be able to look ‘em in the eye and say, ‘Go fluff yourself, Ivan!’

            “But I’m not in Russia tonight. Nor is Russia the topic of my speech. No, I’m in the small, war-torn nation of Bazookastan, here ostensibly to sign a treaty with President Baniak Plotzi. President Plotzi is a wonderful man! I knew him when he still lived in Bethesda, Maryland and ran a car dealership. ‘Don’t buy from Plotzi if you’re worried about the legitimacy of your paperwork,’ people said. Ha! Ha! Funny! ‘Never buy a used car from Plotzi, he’ll trick you every time,’ my neighbors pointed out. Good old Baniak! What a wily character! Naturally, I was delighted when an earlier administration installed him as president of this little, war-torn country. I figured a wheeler-dealer like Plotzi would make quick work of the Muslim insurrectionists. Little did I know what a whiner and complainer he’d become.

            “So, here we are, ten years later, still bogged down in the shitty little country of Bazookastan. This place brings out the Irish in me: We’re here go brách. Till doomsday.

            “These green on blue, ‘insider attacks’ are getting’ my dandruff up. These people been at war two generations. Violence is an accepted way of life. ‘Would you like some rice with yo’ mutton?’ they ask. ‘Oh, and by the way, we’re goin’ to shoot some people this afternoon. We’ll set off a few car bombs, blow up some civilians.’ When the targets become our troops and the Bazoo National Guard… Well, all I can say is, Baniak’s assurances ain’t worth a bucket of warm piss. 1  Nice words and condolences ain’t bringin’ back our boys! Considering the level of violence, this place is worse than Jersey Shore.

[  1 “The vice presidency isn’t worth a bucket of warm piss.” – John Nance Garner, FDR’s vice president, 1933 – 1941. ]                                                     

            “Otto von Bismarck said, ‘Politics is the art of the possible.’ Your typical German! It sounds great, but so what? If Bazookastan is impossible, where are we? At Cirque de Soleil? The Flying Wallendas? ‘The art of the impossible’? 

             “I prefer Henri Queuille, who says, ‘Politics is the art of postponing decisions until they’re no longer relevant.’ Also known as ‘leading from behind.’

             “Woo-hoo! Tell me about it! That’s me!!!

              “I’d rather drag my feet than get my ass in a sling.                                                           

                                                         *

              “On Sunday— that is, two days ago— I was in the Situation Room using, you know, Skype, to teleconference with President Plotzi. Our server went down for a few minutes— nothing major— and, sitting there, I thought, ‘I’m president of the United States! Why should I, Blackie Diamond, need to sit here, stewing in my juices, waiting on faulty equipment?’ That’s when I told my staff to get out the old chariot and wind up the rubber band. We’d fly, instead of cogitating, to Bazookastan and rally the troops! Best decision I’ve made in awhile!

            “Firstly, it gets me out of Washington, D.C. Don’t take it personally, but that burg is one hot kettle of fish.

            “Secondly, and more importantly, I get to emphasize my role as Commander In Chief. I mean, thank God George Washington wore two hats! Commander of the Continental Army and, you know, president. Now, anyone who gets elected Prez automatically becomes— you don’t even have to go to Staff College!— not a captain, not a rear admiral, not a vice admiral or an admiral full-fledged. Not even a fleet admiral in time of war… Oh, no! ‘Mastah Flash! ’ Top dog! Commander In Chief!

            “Suck on them apples, Ivan!

            “Actually, my staff was, like, ‘Whoa! Is that a good idea? Traipsing halfway around the world?’

            “Every decision between now and November is viewed, naturally, in the context of reelection. Man gotta get reelected.

            “So when I points out the po-tential for a flashy, campaign-style visit with the troops, and then this here bully pulpit Sermon on the Mount from the Plotzi Palace, my rod and my staff, they comfort me!

            “I love meeting the troops! I have never served a day in my life, and these young people will courageously ride into the Valley of the Shadow of Death for me. Now that’s power! Mind over matter. Patriotism. Aromatic charisma. Aromatic miasma. Catnip for the soul.

            “If there’s one thing I’ve learned from this war, it is this: If you want to freak out a German, urinate while standing up! We stand, they sit.

            “No, seriously, the Bazoos are totally self-absorbed. That’s what I wanted to say! We give ‘em all this money and equipment, and they don’t even show us a particularly good time. Charlie Wilson knew how to throw a party! This palace is… I don’t want to say ‘dreary,’ but… it ain’t The Playboy Club. ‘Key holders only!’ Bunnies! Tha’s what I’m talkin’ about! Women with bunny tails.

            “Listen. Here’s the nuts and bolts of my speech: I’ve signed a treaty with President Plotzi that SPECIFICALLY STATES that we are pulling American Armed Forces out of this pretty little country. And I mean, sooner rather than later!

            “Real soon.

            “Soon.

            “Soon enough.

            “A written treaty. I know, because my rod, my staff and I wrote it. I mean, I didn’t use my rod to write it, but… Whatever!

            “This is a really important treaty that fully justifies flying over here.

            “The G.A.O.— that’s the General Accounting Office— has very kindly pointed out to my staff that Air Force One costs $179,750 an hour to operate. Now, Bazookastan is kinda a longish type flight, 14 hours and 30 minutes. Since I intend to come back home, this little… trip… cost a cool $5,212,750.

            “See! I have nothing to hide, you Republicans! I be rollin’, they be hatin’. I’m not ashamed to let it all hang out when I am acting in service to the American people. Just fixing the cracks in the Washington Monument after the Mineral, Virginia earthquake is gonna cost $24 million. So my five mil is, like, chicken feed. Lots o’ school lunches you could buy fo’ five mil, but that’s not the point! We’re trying to shore up a sniveling, whiny ally whose got problems! Serious problems !

            “Peace, brothers!

            “As I was saying, I had already talked with Baniak on Skype. The doctor in me decided it was time for a house call. Think of this as an episode on ‘E.R.’ We want the patient to survive, don’t we?

            “So here I be! We killed our arch-enemy Salami bin Lahtis, and that’s a good thing. Never liked that guy! He gave the airline industry a bad rep. Flying airplanes into buildings will do that.

            “Now, that whole thing about the photograph from the Situation Room at the White House on the night we whacked bin Lahtis. You got Secretary of State Myrtle Beech and all the others in there, and it looks like I just wandered in off the street in my windbreaker after visiting KFC or somethin’. Ben’s Chili Bowl. That was not the case, I assure you! Let me be clear. I was on the South Portico smoking, that’s the only reason you see me sitting on a folding chair, looking both perplexed and uninformed. Out of the loop.

            “I’m the one who gave the order! Kill bin Lahtis! Me! No one else.

             “He gone! I here! Who’s laughing now, Salami?!

             “I understand that one of the Navy Seals from Seal Team 6 has written a book saying that I kind of dropped the ball on this entire bin Lahtis thing. Shee-it! I wanted to burn that Saudi bitch so bad, I stuck pins in a voodoo doll! I foreswore hummus until the night we bagged his sorry ass! Which in no way reflects negatively on America’s relationship with the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia or their neighbors on the Arabian Peninsula.

                                                            *

             “I do resent those who claim I am turning a treaty-signing ceremony here in Bazookastan into a campaign rally. Nothing could be further from the truth. That said, I want to give a shout-out to Stan Gillepsie and all you voters in Ohio and Pennsylvania. Go, blue state, go!  To you Virginians, I say, ‘Hooray for Sir Walter Raleigh!’ Special thanks, also, to Jack and Jill Hill of Oxburg, Maryland, who have carried many pails of water down the embankment for this campaign.

             “Salutations to animal lovers everywhere! I need your vote. Woof!

              “Really, the kind of dog you own often defines who you are. Here at Plotsi Palace, the dogs are all Pekinese. In Bazookastan, the tail all too often wags the dog.

              “My family in the White House has, of course, a bulldog. That’s me! Part bull, part dog.‘Is there a Fido in the house?’

              “As it says in the Bible, each of us gets the dog he or she deserves— or words to that effect!

              “To my critics, carping on the stagnant economy, I say, there IS an easy answer: ‘The dog ate my homework!’

              “Naw, now I’m just funnin’ ya! But to quote stand-up comedian Ortego Williams, ‘There’s a lot of truth in humor, Señor. Your wallet, please!’

             “Every dog has its day. Vota por mí. Yo quiero Taco Bell!

            “That ought to get me the Hispanic vote!

            “In English: Vote for me and I’ll throw you a bone!

            “Sometimes I think we’ve gone from the White House to the doghouse. Help! Help! My administration is going to the dogs!

             “All you need to do to make me happy is rub my tummy and reelect me president. In that order.

            “Standing here in the Heartbreak Hotel, 2 the only possible conclusion is: ‘Well, I’ll be doggone!’

[ 2 A classic Elvis Presley song from January, 1956. ]

            “Look, you can’t insult the Bazoos, they don’t get any of this lingo!

            “To my brothers in Singapore, I say, ‘A Salaam Aleikum.’ I grew up in Denver, Colorado. I know what it feels like to be a minority of one. At least in D.C., I can hang wid de homeboys. Y’hear? I is real! Not like some latte-complexioned niggahs who forgets who they is!

            “See, here, y’all! Not bein’ in Wash, DC, I can finally lay my beef on ya!

            “Gotcha!

            “No worries. I’ll blame the crazy stuff on jet-lag.

            “We may not have won here in Bazookaville, but we don’t intend to lose. ‘Graveyard of empires,’ my ass!

            “See y’all back in Washington! Be well! G’night!”                                                                     

                                                    ***

                            From the desk of Kevin Feingold

Essay                               Barf for Blackie

            To quote Gore Vidal, “A narcissist is someone better looking than you are.” Seeing daily news photos of Blackie, I don’t think anyone has been so intensely photographed since Adolf Hitler. The man loves to have his picture taken. Congress should pass a law prohibiting the visual pollution of the environment with millions of photographs. When you ask the Blackaholics to cease and desist from worshipping their god, they don’t even refer to the First Amendment. They simply say “Yes, we can!”

                A wonderful feature of Blackie Diamond being the incarnation of Jesus Christ is that each of us can now have his very own “Personal Diamond.” 1 Just as each of us sees God in his own way, Blackie has also attained this universal, exalted state. [Depeche Mode, “Personal Jesus.” ]

            I mention this because of the Pet Lovers for Diamond page on Facebook. The campaign is micro-targeting dog lovers online. They are invited to contribute money to the reelection effort and “Bark for Blackie.”

            The Diamond folks already offer a “Cats for Blackie” collar. What’s next?

            Bulimics encouraged to “Barf for Blackie”?

            Paraplegics offered the chance to “Crawl for Blackie”?

            Computer nerds can “Hack for Black”?

            They’re all voters.

            Micro-targeting. Will the campaign encourage hardened criminals to “Rob for Blackie”? Politicians in Washington— and Wall Street brokers— may have some experience to contribute in how best to rob America blind. We’ve been at war for over a decade, have a national debt in the trillions of dollars, and no one in Washington makes the connection???

            I don’t even want to think about the slogans the Diamond campaign might offer soldiers: “Kill for Blackie”? “Die for Diamond”? “Get your ass shot off for Di”? When dysentery decimates the ranks, we can all trot to the latrine and “Dump for Diamond!

            Aerobics people can “Stretch for Blackie.”

            Artists can “Draw for Diamond.”

            Babies (NOTE: This demographic is not yet of voting age) can “Poop for Blackie.”

            In fact, when we’re talking about dogs barking, what other canine activity readily comes to mind?

            Woof, woof!

                                                    ***

                                      A First Lady Appeal

            Dear Ms. Feingold,

            I know a soul sistah like y’all gonna enjoy the full-color, signed photo o me an my fambly enjoyin pork ribs. Mmmm, love them ribs! I wouldn send this here photo t’ whitey, they’s gettin a different photo altogether!

             But the miracle o micro-targeting keepin it jus between us sistahs, I thinkin y’all like this downhome’un. We black folk gotta hang together, cause nobody gonna take care o us but us!

            Now Rose, reason I writin is cause o my man, course, he need our help. Unlike that white boy Mickey Rodney who only care bout hisself, my fambly and I care bout the entire country! No matter our ages, backgrounds or stations in life, we want the country t’ do well an reelect mah husband! We CARE about this great nation! Sho nuff! Ever since mah husband be elected president, I PROUD to be an American! Did I mention the challenges we facin’? So how bout that vote, honeychile?????

            Mah husband know wha it be fo a fambly t’ struggle. He got a compelling fambly history. What with his mama bein a hippie an all. Y’all read bout it in his books. (Y’all pays retail, we preciate that! We be rich.) Like I says at the convention, I wants mah daughtahs t’ have a bettah life! Enough cash moneys make that happen. As a father, mah husband don’ want no limitations on his daughtahs: They grows up to be presidents. Tha’s the goal. Yeah, mah husband, he want it all!

            Rose, I enclose a plastic card what says how my Blackie done in the last three years. Rose, people always askin: What y’all been doin? Well, here tis! From the first moment he enter the White House on Day 1, mah husband…

           He save Goldman Sachs, JPMorgan Chase an a passel o other brokerage firms on Wall Street. He save Bank o America, Citigroup, AIG an some other too-big-to-fail institutions.

           He end America’s military involvement an brought the troops home from Mali!

           He kill Salami bin Lahtis.

           He expand health care, implement economic recovery, create 3 million jobs at a time when this great country of ours only lost 6 million.

           Yes, Rose, he a man— an all men is swine— but thanks to Girrl Power, the question be: Does we go forward an do a whole lot mo promises or do we go back t’ them Republicans an they’s do-nothin ways? Dey be waitin wid de chains!

           Y’all choose.

           Husband can’t do it alone, Rose, ah askin fo a donation! Y’all give us $25, $50 or $100, we can make a whole lot mo promises! Tha’s what we do as Americans!  We promise:

  • Equal Pay for Equal Work
  • Improving Women’s Health
  • Protecting Women’s Right to Choose
  • Ending Insurance Company Abuses
  • Keeping Premiums Low
  • Expanding Access to Care
  • Closing the Medicare Prescription Drug “Donut Hole”
  • Job Creation (again)
  • Save the auto industry from collapse (again!)
  • Create nearly 3 million more jobs in the private sector (AGAIN!)
  • Out-Educate the Rest of the World
  • Out-Innovate the Rest of the World
  • Level the Playing Field
  • Make Everyone Do Their Fair Share
  • Remain Focused on Iraq
  • Remain Focused on Iran
  • Remain Focused on al-Qaeda
  • Remain Focused on the economy
  • Remain Focused on Israel
  • Remain Focused on the Taliban
  • Remain Focused on Veterans an Their Famblies
  • Remain Focused on getting reelected!

             So y’all see, Rose, there still be a whole lot t’ do! I ain sayin we gits it all done on Day 1. I ain sayin we gits it all done in the first week— or the first month— or even the first year of a Second Term. I simply sayin, Y’ALL DON’T REELECT US, WE CAN’T DO NONE O THIS STUFF!

            Tha’s all!

             So what you say, Rose? Y’all send us some money, we gonna use it t’ win!

                        From mah fambly t’ your’n! Peace out, bitch!

                                  First Lady Madeleine Diamond

                                                            *

UNDER CURRENT LAW, PERSONAL CAMPAIGN CONTRIBUTIONS ARE NOT TAX DEDUCTIBLE.

                                                THANK YOU.

                                                      ***

                            From the desk of Kevin Feingold

Essay                      Night At the Round Table

                  “Folks, let me make something clear — say it to the press. America is better off today than they left us when they left…”

   – Vice president Joe Biden campaigning in Detroit, Michigan, September 3, 2012

                                                          *

            This is what my mom and I said to each other during dinner.

             Kevin: “The first rule of the presidency should be ‘Do no harm.’ But politics being in the eye of the beholder, one person’s grand achievement is another person’s run-over puppy dog.”

            Mom: “Being bitter doesn’t help, you just make yourself miserable. Take more cauliflower. You are what you eat!”

            Kevin: “We sure eat well. I guess that’s the advantage of living with a shopaholic.”

            Mom: “Be nice.”

            Kevin: (viewing enormous amount of food on the table) “As I keep saying, ‘We’re in a recession.’”

            Mom: “Consider yourself lucky, mister! We both have nice pensions. A lot of people are suffering. There are food banks in the Washington area. All across the country, people lose their jobs and find their homes in foreclosure. A lot of families with mortgages end up underwater, owing more than the house is worth. You may joke, but times are hard.”

             Kevin: “In spite of everything, President Obama could get reelected if instead of blaming everyone else— including the man in the moon— he forthrightly announced, ‘I goofed! I got a D-minus on my report card. Given the chance, there are a dozen things I would do differently. In a heartbeat!’

            “But to do that, Barack Hussein Obama would have to admit to himself that he isn’t infallible. Obama doesn’t appear able to do that.

            “Having accomplished virtually nothing in the first four years of his presidency, all Obama can do at this point is attack his opponent. I worked on the Hillary campaign. Obama or his staff let drop an acid comment, once a week. The vast majority of their time and effort, however, went into their own program, which was ‘Come to Jesus!’ Say what you like about that, at least they had an uplifting message.

             “Running an endless barrage of attack ads poisons the political atmosphere. Hearing both candidates— or their surrogates, the super PACs— dish the dirt on their opponent makes the public lose respect for all politicians. This is a major crime of the Obama presidency, that he has sullied politics in America for everyone.

             “Coupled with the economic crunch and a catastrophic drought— due to global warming— the country’s impatience and disrespect for sitting pols will lead us to elect more and more extreme ideologues, each one claiming they can cure what ails us.

             “Help! We’re back in the dustbowl 1930’s!

             “Another analogy: When soap won’t clean the sink, you reach for scouring powder. When your local rep in Congress can’t right the economy, end the war or get people’s houses out of hock, the tendency is to call in the heavy hitters, the arch conservatives and wild liberals, people who want to transform society. Ralph Nader, Ross Perot, the Tea Party.

             “Straying too far from mainstream politics is always dangerous…

             “Gulp! Something is wrong in America when I am a voice of reason!”

              Mom: “My bridge ladies and I have contributed to past campaigns, but the appeals have never been like this! No sooner do you send in your money, they’re on the phone or in the mail with another solicitation. I’m not giving any more money and neither are my friends! I read in the paper how each campaign is competing with the other to raise the most money. Who do they think is paying?”

              Kevin: “It’s a dick-measuring contest. ‘My campaign chest is bigger than your campaign chest! My cajones are bigger than yours!’

              “Traveling from state to state, before or after every campaign appearance, the Obama people hold a fundraiser. Money, money, money!

              “I love the way Obama talks a good game, but whenever it’s time to accept congressional matching funds and put a cap on campaign spending, the poor boy develops a stammer. He castigated John McCain over the issue in 2008 and then refused it for his own campaign. He’s a Janus. He’s two-faced.

               “It’s still early days and the Obama campaign is burning through money like nobody’s business. Campaign ads cost a fortune. And there are over 400 people working in Obama Headquarters in Chicago. That’s eight people per state, almost one person per congressional district. A prodigious amount of money goes to paying them all. It’s not like they have a lot of work at this point.

              “Judging by this campaign season, I can’t imagine two more lackluster candidates. With the exception of super PACs, they have created absolutely nothing new! They travel the country, holding the same old rallies, waving their arms, making the same old speeches. They play rock music to which they don’t own the rights, and then the recording artists threaten to sue. They waffle on the sensitive issues— the economy, health care, the war— and make brave pronouncements about meaningless issues… See, I cannot recall a single one!

                                                      *

              “These opinion polls are killing me! Our phone keeps ringing. ‘We’re a public survey company. We are not trying to sell you anything… If Obama raises his arms and parts the waters of the Red Sea while Romney is power lunching— and assuming the election were held tomorrow— who would you vote for?’

             “Then they announce in the newspaper that Obama got 62% and Romney 48%.

              “Why do they always report 110% of those sampled? Are they trying to compensate for a 5% margin of error?”

              Mom: “Ha ha!

              “Before picking Ryan, Romney was trailing by 9 points. Now the news reports show him behind in Ohio, Pennsylvania and Virginia. Major swing states! Despite all his millions, Romney has demonstrated that he is unqualified for the presidency by picking an impossible running mate. A foolish decision.

              “Under Paul Ryan’s budget plan, you and I won’t be able to breathe! He wants to charge for air. The Tea Party does not represent America. At most, they’re a third of the electorate. A contest over the competency of the candidates has now become a choice between ideologies. Paul Ryan wants to ‘Bring back America.’ Which America is that?”

             Kevin: “America under the Robber Barons. Those dreamers have a romanticized conception of what life was like in the Good Old Days. They never had to wade through the horse manure on the streets, burn their own garbage or use an outdoor privy. They never had to work long hours for low wages in stinking, dusty, noisy conditions. Those red brick factories lining the highways were an Industrial Age Hell. Ryan’s vision of saving money and balancing the budget just assumes that roads, sewers and electric lines will magically appear— free of charge— out of nowhere.”

             Mom: “Even other Republicans in Congress consider Ryan too extreme. His argument is: No taxes! Are people that stupid? Sure, no taxes! Also, no Medicare, no police or ambulance service, no teacher salaries, no college loans, and no military… but the debt will be paid off!”

             Kevin: “Riding his campaign bus with his wife Ann, Romney proudly tells David Gregory of Meet the Press, ‘I’m not in this race to slow the rise of the ocean or to heal the planet. I’m in this race to help the American people.’ Right there, he loses half the electorate! I should be overjoyed with an honest politician, but how can he ignore the oil and gas companies’ rape of our dying planet?! Or our fossil fuel dependency? This is the only planet we have!

              “America has never gotten over its fascination with money. The public forgets that coins and paper money originally represented either goods or labor. Now, accruing money is viewed as an end of itself. Greed triumphant! People talk about money. They think about money. They judge their fellow man based on how much money they’ve gathered. People want to live like the rich. Once they feel they’ve reached that level, they want to live like the super-rich!

               “Now, money actually talks. What it says is both selfish and ugly. The attack ads in the current presidential campaign are a perfect example of greenbacks talking! If the candidates didn’t have the cash, they couldn’t spend it maliciously.

              “Once a candidate has his war chest, you might expect him to use it for exemplary causes: T-shirts for his campaign workers, coffee mugs for his supporters, but also clothes for the poor, hot meals for inner-city schoolchildren, helping individual families pay off their debts— all while touring the country, campaigning. The Johnny Appleseed approach, spreading goodness everywhere you go.

            “Wouldn’t that be an eye-opener!!!

             “The only things these dudes spread are hot air, empty promises, boilerplate rhetoric and anger toward their opponents. Ugh!  

              “The nation is going broke and people are fixating on Dancing with the Stars and reruns of Keeping Up with the Kardashians on Hulu.

              “This country needs an overhaul, but I’m not sure that the Romney-Ryan brand of tough love and bitter medicine will do the trick.”

              Mom: “All Obama needs to do is keep his mouth shut. He is, by default, the Good Guy in this election.

              “We’ve been living with the national debt so long, a little longer won’t hurt. Our credit is still good. When America has to declare bankruptcy, our debt is too large.

                                                      *                                                     

               Kevin: “The president of the fast-food chain Chick-fil-A publicly declares his belief that the sanctity of marriage requires that it be between a man and a woman. The gay community threatens a ‘kiss-in,’ but almost no one shows up. This disappoints many a blue-collar male customer who hoped to see lesbians do their thing. The gays know that patrons would just respond by saying, ‘Why kiss each other, when you can kiss a perfectly scrumptious chicken sandwich?!’

               “The NASCAR mentality triumphs again!”

               Mom: “There’s an article in the Outlook Section of The Washington Post about Obama’s three mistakes.” 1

              Kevin: “I read it. It’s by Drew Westen. He’s a professor at Emory University.  I liked his first point: With our short attention span, most of us have forgotten that admitting you were a Republican in December, 2008 put you squarely behind the woodshed. Dick Cheney and the Republicans were blamed for getting us into two wars and bankrupting the economy. With a Democratic majority in Congress and an incontestable mandate to cure the nation’s ills, all Obama needed to do was govern. Instead, ‘Mr. Bipartisanship,’ ‘the unifier,’ he pussyfooted around, trying to build a consensus across party lines. The Republicans took his measure and decided, ‘This guy is a wimp!’ They’ve been bullying him ever since. All Obama does is cave. The way I see it, we have a pretty boy president who can’t lead the country. As an administrator, the guy ain’t worth a dime!

[ 1 “If he loses, here’s why,” Dr. Drew Westen, The Washington Post, July 29, 2012, p. B1 & B5. ]

             “Americans never separate the campaigner from the office-holder. Obama is a genius as a campaign orator, daily touring the country shooting off his mouth. Romney needs days alone with his staff to practice his speeches, tailor his performance, prep for debate. Yes, Romney is a plodder. He plods. The difference is that when Romney reaches the podium, he actually has something to say!

             “Instead of praising Romney for diligent homework, the press and television coverage claims he’s aloof, withdrawn, distant, slow and unpopular.

                                AMERICA: Elect a glamorous dud

                                          or a nerdy manager.

               “In election after election, we get seduced by the charmer, placing popularity over competency.”

             Mom: “Obama won because he exudes charisma. The country doesn’t want an administrator, they want a glamour-puss. In 1952, voters preferred Mr. ‘I Like Ike” Dwight Eisenhower over an ‘egg-head’ like Adlai Stevenson. Under Eisenhower, the country stood still for eight long years! Ronald Reagan, ‘The Gipper,’ walked all over boring, stuffy old Walter Mondale. ‘Walter Mondale‘!

            I feel for the man. Why didn’t his parents christen him ‘John Doe’ or ‘Dish Water’ and get it over with?”

            Kevin: “Intellect frightens Americans. A good old boy like George W. Bush feels warmer and cuddlier than an icy brainiac like Al Gore. The Democratic leadership chose Obama Superstar instead of our policy wonk Hillary. Amidst a disastrous presidency, the one clear beacon of light is the State Department under Hillary Clinton. You may not like America’s foreign policy, but at least the State Department’s trains run on time. If it’s Tuesday, she must be in Bahrain.”

[ If It’s Tuesday, This Must Be Belgium, a 1969 movie with Suzanne Pleschette. ]

            Mom: “Things would be a damn sight different in this country if Al Gore or Hillary Clinton had been elected president!”

             Kevin: “A columnist wrote that Al Gore would have used the budget surplus in 2000 to rebuild America’s crumbling infrastructure— roads, bridges, the electrical grid. ‘W’ decided to return that money to the American people in the form of tax cuts.

              “Democrats, Republicans, I’ve never met anyone who said ‘no’ to the money. Even though we knew full-well that it was depleting the U.S. Treasury in a foolish way. What happened to ‘Save for a rainy day’? Somehow over the years, the Bush dynasty lost sight of that age-old adage.

              “Don’t get me started on Hillary. I worked in ‘Hillaryland.’

               “When you study history, you see that mankind invariably chooses the wrong leaders. It’s been going on since Antiquity. Right side of the brain, left side of the brain, mankind is an imperfect creation. Our emotions rule our intellect.”

               Mom: “Lyndon Johnson sounded like a fog horn and looked like a crushed muffin, but he got the job done. We keep electing these glamour boys who don’t govern. What are we left with when the swooning stops? Nothing!”

              Kevin: “What we find attractive isn’t always the appropriate choice. In high school, my friends and I wanted the pretty, pretty girls. Eventually, through endless badgering and cajoling, I got a date with my dreamboat. She was as cute as a buttercup. Naturally, I talked to her about the things that interested my crowd: science projects, automobiles, politics, art. She looked at me wide-eyed and said, ‘Why are you hanging around with me? I don’t know any of that stuff!’

            “So much for taste!

            “Maybe we should stop selecting personable leaders and instead elect nerdy technocrats who can actually solve our problems.

            “Unfortunately, the Republicans ain’t it. Turning back the clock is not going to move us forward. The Republicans haven’t learned anything! They are still operating in the 1980’s. Ronnie is dead, y’all ! You can’t tell people anymore to ‘pull themselves up by their bootstraps.’ Hello-o! There aren’t any jobs!

           “Romney-Ryan rhetoric doesn’t cut it in this modern age. What they ignore is the violence, criminality and drug addiction that result from unemployed adults who cannot find work.

           “Obviously, Romney was elected governor of Massachusetts in a more innocent time, when you could make 30 gaffes during your campaign and somehow no one cared. Like John McCain and John Kerry before him, Team Romney clearly does not know how to get its act together. One good debate is preceded by and followed by endless weeks of stumbling.      

            “A month before the election, the pendulum is swinging. The Republicans have squandered their momentum. The Democrats will retake lost ground in Congress in 2012. Not every seat they gave up in 2010, but they will recoup. People are fed up with Republican gridlock and will vote Democratic.

[ Reading The Washington Post, we do not get a totally unbiased view. You have to read The Washington Times and The Examiner  to experience a fuller spectrum of political opinion. ]

            “Take Virginia, for example, the race for the U.S. Senate between George Allen (R) and former governor Tim Kaine (D). The affable orator against the motormouth genius. On sheer warm-and-cuddliness, Allen wins hands down. Kaine keeps getting elected to high office, however, because Virginians want intelligent leadership. For that reason, Viginia will go for both Kaine and Obama. George Allen may be a charmer, but Mitt Romney acts like a dope!”   

            Mom: “Your pop singer Madonna supports Obama, but this is a crop of cold-hearted egoists: Obama… Biden… Romney… Ryan. We’re in a ‘None of the Above’ election. Obama is brainy, but he’s terribly immature.”

             Kevin: “Obama spends millions on TV advertising. All he needs to say is, ‘My bad: It’s four years later and I’ve accomplished almost nothing. I trusted the Republicans and they turned out to be untrustworthy. That was foolish of me.

             “ ‘My program moves us forward. The Romney-Ryan plan perpetuates a country of haves and have-nots.’

             “Why doesn’t Barry Obama admit his failings and get on with the election? This is a big mystery. We’ve elected a President Whosis.”

                                                     ***

                         From the desk of Blackie Diamond

                                                                                             November 15, 2012

Interview                           Incomplete

            Now that the election be over, I can relinquish Ebonics and utilize Harvard-speak. Don’ gotta impress no mo’ homeboys.

            I always put up with whiners and bellyachers, but that ain’t me. Think positive, people! The fall of the Iron Curtain heralded the unification of Europe. The fact that they are going broke doesn’t detract from their other fine achievements, except monetarily. Every rosy cloud has a lining: If the euro shrinks to the size of a pea, we get more value for our dollar when we visit Europe!

            The flooding of New Orleans led to an uptick in the mobile home industry.

            Since the Facebook IPO was a bust, other social networks havin’ a go!

            I don’t want to sound like my opponent, Mick Rodney, but there are opportunities out there. They are simply CRYING OUT for adventurous investors!

            Life be pretty grim, so let’s put a positive spin on things, folks!

            Living conditions are getting progressively better for the 99%, I can assure you!

            Even the TV networks have come out with a big Fall line-up! How ‘bout them apples? I likes the show “Revolution.”

            Life ain’t over, y’know. Young girls still throw beach balls at the beach, pork ribs still tastin’ good in barbecue sauce, East Coast ain’t got it as bad as the Dead Zone, middle of the country.

            Maintain a positive attitude, tha’s what I sayin’!

            Why did I call out the National Guard, disrupting the Republican Convention? Hurricane Isaac. We learned a whole lot since Katrina flooded The Big Easy. This time we cordoned off the main arteries in and out of town and called for an evacuation. Thing is, I didn’t expect such an almighty panic! Looked like a scene in one of them disaster movies.

           Turned out the only problem was hot air escaping from the Tampa Bay Times Forum convention center! That did cause a heat inversion, producing very clear contacts on our radar screens. That’s when we scrambled the fighter planes. For no other reason. End of August in Tampa, Florida, you in the middle of the hurricane season. We was on high alert. My heart goes out to the people of Tampa, whose windows were shattered by the sonic booms.

            I’m sure the insurance companies may want to cover at least some small part of the cost. That’s what they are there for.

            I been criticized for calling out the tanks.

                               Cantankerous.

                               Can tank R us!

           Those vehicles were equipped with a plumb device that measures possible flooding due to global warming. Completely understandable! No other reason.

            Talk about global warming, steamy conditions, hot tempers. I tried a trick we learned in Iraq, authorizing use of tear gas on pedestrians to quell a potentially rising tide of global resentment over the state of the planet. Tha’s all! Green Party get pretty aggressive. Vegans.

            The NSA was absolutely certain that there might be a remote possibility of the Russkies attacking while we was distracted. We brought the missile-bearing destroyers up from Fort Myers, docked them in Tampa Bay and had them blow their ship’s whistles every hour on the hour 24-7. Make it clear who’s in charge.

            I also asked the Outlaws Motorcycle Club to patrol the streets— for a sizeable remuneration. I don’t know if the Republicans appreciate motorcyclists in black leather and bandanas. It be what it be.

            We worried about how Castro’s armed forces gonna react if an anti-Communist like Marco Rubio or Chris Christie give the keynote address. What? You never seen the movie Red Dawn with Charlie Sheen?

             After what happened at the Olympics in Atlanta in 1996, we be on the lookout for saboteurs and pipe bombs. We got the German shepherds out sniffin’ the crowds. Got attack helicopters flyin’ overhead. Drones keepin’ an eye on things. We even planted a few pipe bombs of our own, just to test the preparedness of our troops!

             Sprayed pedestrian walkways with Instant Banana Peel. How’s that for slip slidin’ away?

[  Instant Banana Peel was the popular name in the 1960’s for Riotril, an inexpensive white powder that becomes slick as ice when wet. Slip Slidin’ Away is a song by Paul Simon from 1977. ]

            It’s true we fired off heavy artillery in the midst of the Republican Convention invocation, but these things happen in a military operation. Military science requires adapting to the moment. Stay real!

            Elections be complicated.

            The Democratic Party Convention in Charlotte, North Carolina.

            My original game plan was to schedule it in the last 10 days of July. During Ramadan, I would not have needed to attend! That one was a no-flyer.

            My second attempt: Go on a world peace tour! The disadvantage? I look like a loser when there be no peace.

           Three: Boycott the convention, since the American people are giving me such a hard time. “You can’t do that!” screamed Maddie. “I spent $4,000 on a new dress for this convention!”

            A man gotta do what a man gotta do! Like they say on the Democratic Party Platform Committee, “In the eyes of the chair, the resolution passed by a voice count.”

            Ha, ha, ha! Some votes count more than others!

           You don’t argue with Maddie.

            I went to the convention.

            I’m glad we convened at Time Warner Cable Arena. When the delegates weren’t partying or listening to speeches, they watched continuous broadcasts of The Simpsons. Reminded me of the Romans’ bread and circuses.

            I got Sonny Beech to enthrall the crowd. I love that You-Are-Better-Off speech of his!

            “You are better off than if an asteroid crashed and killed off all life on the planet!

            “You are better off than if Putin invaded!

            “America is better off than if a Mad Cow Disease pandemic decimated our land!

            “You are better off!

            “You are so much better off!!!”

            Pure magic! They call him Sonny Beech for a reason.

            I spent my time working the deep pocket donors. Maddie and I were determined to ensure a great future. We succeeded! There be moneys both here in the Continental United States and well abroad, available at a moment’s notice, only a phone call away.

            We secure!

            The rest be history.

                                                      *

            As you no doubt have heard, there was a lot of grumbling in Congress over my Executive Order empowering food trucks to act as polling places on November 6th. We wanted to make voting accessible to the maximum number of inhabitants— assuming they were eligible to vote, of course. After Republican attempts to require photo I.D.’s, I felt we ought to right the balance, tit for tat.

            Interestingly, there’s been no blowback over my authorization of titty bars and massage parlors as polling stations. I can vouch for the high volume of Congressional traffic in such establishments. Visiting a titty bar is certainly a religious experience, but when those ladies go down on their knees, they aren’t there to pray! Multi-tasking, you can now shoot your wad and cast your ballot at the same time. A truly secular American invention. Prayer has nothing to do with it!

            Take note, Joseph Smith & Company. The Angel Moroni, my ass!

            Obviously, these establishments’ clientele didn’t use their real names. As they say in West Virginia, montani semper liberi. Mountaineers know freedom. For both the sheathed and unsheathed, DNA swabs and license plate numbers were admissible as proof of identity.

            Let me be clear: I did not authorize the use of 12-year-old girls in sailor suits— and their mothers— as campaign guides. Many weird things happen during a campaign and the candidate cannot stay abreast of everything. That’s why we have a campaign staff! Like a boxer in the ring, the candidate must stay focused on the opponent. That is what I did!

            Who could possibly want to cheat when it comes to voting??? Cheating undermines the entire concept of a free society freely exercising its right to choose me as its leader. It’s one of those Katniss Everdeen situations, which we Denver people know so well! Given a choice, everyone is going to vote for me! Aprobar un voto de confianza. Mucho. That Rotarian the Republicans ran, and his libertarian sidekick, had no standing whatsoever. The only Q & A was how resoundingly I would beat them!

            You win a campaign by outperforming your opponent. It’s called the Art of Politics. My teammates aren’t simply practitioners, they be connoisseurs.

            The press never picked up on it, but three months before the election, I used the power of the presidential pardon to free young men in several key states. For drug-related crimes and what-have-you. The law must show mercy, especially when society turns its back on the transgressor! And when it benefits me personally. Officially, I announced that I “didn’t want jail time to ruin the life of a young man.” Shee-it! ‘Round the ‘hood, we spread the word: “Lookee Dwayne here, he shoot a bro’ in a drug bust an’ because he distribute door-hangers in the 2008 campaign, that boy still walkin’ free on the street.”

            Guess if we got a lot of volunteers in 2012 askin’ if they could hang door-hangers?

            You need to be adept at packaging your bullet points. No one is better at that than us. Tha’s why we train our campaign workers to say they “came to Blackie,” as if helpin’ the campaign by lickin’ envelopes be the same as findin’ religion.

           When you train yourself to be a genius at subliminal messaging, you can harness human nature and use that to manipulate the voting public. Why do you think we “just happened” to dole out free hamburgers and creamy strawberry milkshakes to each person leaving a polling station in key precincts in all the swing states? Word get around, people pry themselves off the couch and go vote!

           Slippin’ “Vote for Blackie” fliers— with a photo of me wid my arms spread like Jesus on the cross— into hymnals in black churches on the Sunday before Election Day. Slippin’ “Vota por Blackie” fliers into the hymnals of the Hispanic churches.

           Eliciting the votes of people in the churchyard, both above and below ground.

           Creating a super PAC, “Israelis for Blackie,” just two months before the election. The name says it all. Who cares if it only has eight members and all their “campaign contributors” are officials of the Statewide Teachers’ Union? Every time the name flashes on the bottom of a TV advertisement, Israelis for Blackie, people think Israel’s security be paramount in my mind.

                                ISRAELIS FOR BLACKIE.

                                ISRAELIS FOR BLACKIE.

            I ain’t sayin’ Israel’s security isn’t important, I’m just sayin’ I needed to get the message out in Florida, Ohio, Virginia and California. Or I might have lost the support of the Jewish communities. Y’all know, some of their Mr. Bigs— who shall remain nameless, the fuckers!— came out in August, complaining ‘bout how Mickboy visit the Holy Land an’ declares hisself able to spell Jerusalem. Says it should be the capital an’ all!

            Shee-it!

           What about Tel Aviv and Maccabi Electra? Best damn b-ball team in the Euroleague! Five European titles, fourteen championship games. Tal Burstein posterized half his opponents!

            J-U-R-E-S-A-L-E-M… There!

            That don’t make it the capital of Israel or nothin’. I SAVIN’ THAT ONE FO’ THE PALESTINIANS!

            See! We be better at communicating our purpose than the other guys.

                                                       *

            The Democratic Convention did not lack for drama. Please rest assured that at no time did I entertain any notions of dumping the vice president in favor of Secretary of State Myrtle Beech. She and her husband Sonny have been bulwarks of my campaign— and pillars of our party— but I would never abandon an ace-in-the-hole like the Veep. Think of him as an insurance policy: His presence on the ticket guarantees that absolutely nothing will interrupt my serving four full years more in office! The alternative would be unthinkable.

            He has his office and I have mine. He has his mandate, I have mine. He has his duties and, God knows, I have mine!

            Am I as fed up with the political process as I claimed on the stump? Absolutely! I do not enjoy gridlock. Ex nihilo nihil fit. From nothing, nothing is produced. What a perfect description of the 112th Congress! But that’s the political price you pay for a free society. Ask the Rolling Stones! “You can’t always get what you wanna.”

            Everyone is in someone else’s pocket. Until the players figure out who, what, where, when, how and why, Congress don’t get a move on. Nothing gets done! What is truly unforgivable is how members of Congress continue to preen for the cameras and harangue the voters.

            When I was a senator, that was my turf!!!

            This new bunch, their list of achievements totals zero.

            My case exactly!   

            As we saw, most of those Teepee people got thrown out of office. Paint yourselves up like Indians and start pouring cocoa in Boston Harbor, obviously—in a time of austerity— people gonna feel you at least ought to drink the cocoa.

           True believers, they drank the Kool-Aid of Ivar Nordstrom. Signed his contract not to raise taxes. Although I still shop at Nordstroms. I feel they carry high quality merch.

           I am happy to report that “Butch,” one of the Senate’s two guard dogs, remembers me and continues to shove his schnoz up my crotch. Such levity. “Don’t egg him on,” his handler, Frank, admonishes me. Ah, those were the days! Good salary, lots of perks, very little work. A junior senator, I had three staffers and an office in the Senate Office Building the size of a broom closet. We had a fax machine that never worked. Ogling the secretaries in the Senate cafeteria. Working out in the gym. I spent most of my time campaigning for higher office. Parking privileges all over the District of Columbia. Nowadays, they don’t even let me drive!

          But enough about me!

          You don’t change horses in midstream, even if the horse is galloping in the wrong direction. As anyone with a GPS can tell you, regardless of the route, ALL ROADS LEAD TO ROME. I refuse to give up hope! Sooner or later, we’re gonna get there! I’m not going to award us a grade here. As far as I’m concerned, our administration scored an Incomplete.

                                                        *

          Super PACs are a great device to ensure deniability. Did I call my opponent “a Chinese Communist stooge totally under the control of Beijing” in TV ads? OF COURSE NOT! I would never say something like that! It could turn around and bite me in the anus. Do I agree with the appraisal? Damn straight!

           What about these accusations that all too many backrooms in my local campaign headquarters functioned at night as brothels? Those buildings and storefronts were short-term leases. I have no idea to what purposes they may  otherwise be put. You’d have to talk to the landlords or the mall managers! I attended some dynamite “smokers,” “jive-ups” and “raves” in conjunction with stopovers on the campaign trail, but I always assumed that was staffers letting off steam.

           I know I did! Let off steam.

           Politics makes strange bedfellows. No, really! Politics makes strange bedfellows. Those businessmen in their three-piece suits and green rubber waders, wearing Charlie Chaplin eyeglasses, fake moustaches and orange wigs… They only seemed odd at first glance. After two or three dozen times, you hardly notice. And, of course, eventually we found out that they were Secret Service personnel, operating undercover, shadowing the presidential campaign. We stopped asking why they spent all their time schmoozing with the college coeds on my staff. I’m sure Madden NFL was their shared interest. I know they tried The Salt and Ice Challenge: I saw the bags of ice and the video camera. I heard the screams. Nothing like self-inflicted freezer burn to spice up your life! Once again, IF MONEY CHANGED HANDS, I certainly never was aware of that!

         “Vice” all depends on what your definition of “is” is.

          Mercifully, that whole brouhaha over Masha and Natasha’s nude photos showing up on Facebook, Twitter, YouTube (good slide show, people!), MySpace, LinkedIn, Bebo, Hi5, Orkut and Classmates Online— as well as USAToday.com and RT— has blown over. Once our campaign explained that “Childish high jinks must not derail American domestic and foreign policy,” people realized what was at stake. ‘Nuff said.

          Am I recapping the campaign? Damn straight!

          Monday morning quarterbacking? Damn straight!

          Do I sound exhausted? Ditto.

                                                       *

          Y’all come back here next time we has a children’s party. As long as you aren’t in current production on a reality TV show, of course! What IS the world coming to when I got to add that stipulation to every invite? Lawdy!

         You’ll enjoy a party. We make it an all-day do. We got donkey rides and Spin-the-Bottle for the kids. We bring in the Vietnamese and the womens gets manicure, pedicure, facials and spa. We slaughter a sacrificial lamb and roast it on a spit over an open pit. Always a crowd-pleaser, I can assure you!

          We men follow a trail of worthless Russian currency down the South Lawn to the black tent of Hiro the Magician. His magic is, you go inside the tent, take a seat on a folding chair, and three extremely nubile young ladies wearing nothing but bikini bottoms proceed to lap dance you into e-jac-u-la-tion. Half the members of the Senate swear by old Hiro, he a Washington institution.

          It’s a cultural thing, too, since the music them darlin’s dance to is from the patriotic songbook: Battle Hymn of the Republic, Johnny Come Marchin’ Home, Dixie, Old Brown Jug, America The Beautiful. Definitely an uplifting spiritual experience! Why you think we Americans got the Washington Monument as the centerpiece on the Mall? Symbolism! Allegory! Zeitgeist!

                                                         *

          I still drinkin’ straight bourbon whiskey from Kentucky to protest the war In Syria. I don’t know. My mojo dead… that war still goin’ on!

          Now, what about the extensive commerce in canabis and accusations of drug use that dogged our reelection effort?

           What about it?

           As Teddy White once wrote, every political campaign is an exercise in creative bookkeeping. You’d be amazed at some of the strange patooey that gets doled out to supporters as campaign goodies: Bobble-head dolls of the candidate. Bobble-head dolls of the first lady. Bobble-head dolls of Winston Churchill, the first dog.

          My clear and fast rule was: “If it’s a product made in China, the transaction takes place sub rosa and off the books.”

          There went half the campaign, folks!

          That simplified financial campaign reporting tremendously.

           Baskets of fruit? The drought made popcorn prohibitively expensive, so we went with fructose. Read my wife Maddie’s book, Growing Organically. Fructose is good for ya! You can’t get stiff without it.

          My stupid campaign manager Axl put on 30 pounds! That dude had “the munchies” 24-7.

           Accusations of vandalism will not be entertained. Hearsay! Circumstantial evidence! Lack of proof. How could I disable vehicles by melting their tires and yet inflict NO COLLATERAL DAMAGE? You would have to ask a Nadsie – from the planet Nads, orbiting Gliese 581, slimy, green, six feet tall, resemble alligators— and I assure you that none are available for comment at this time! Same with the bidness of shorting out our opponents’ cellphones using an electromagnetic pulse. Even if we possess such technology in America’s arsenal, I AIN’T GONNA TELL YOU ABOUT IT! Give me some credit!

          It’s like the whole zombie thing about people getting their gray matter sucked out of their skulls and replaced by pink slime from the planet Isodar. Ridiculous! To win a presidential election based on that kind of surgical procedure would require tens of thousands of operating rooms in small, silver spaceships disguised as SUV’s. I’m told they do the operation so fast and painlessly, you hardly know from one minute to the next. But, once again, that’s just hearsay. Watching television can render you equally mindless.

         Anything is feasible, but the likelihood of alien intervention from another planet influencing the 2012 presidential election is kinda slim. Sounds like an Ed Wood movie! Besides, you can always tell who’s been operated on. The left eye glows green and the right hand can no longer bend backwards as far as the left. They kind of slur their S’s. But otherwise, igbas n’gamo zuceba fistnay. In other words, “There ain’t no such animal.”

          I’m the dude who always said, “You could take away half the folks in America and no one would miss them.” Orbaso minzex.

           Interesting fact: There’s no free-standing water on Isodar. They can’t swim! Now that the polar ice caps are melting, we’re relocating the vast majority of these “people” to Florida, California and the southern tip of Manhattan. Considering the mentality of the current residents, the chance of anybody noticing is close to nil.

            We have used the conversos to great effect in the White House, finally sending those lackluster Filipino stewards back to Manila. Called zabokos— plural, zabokina— they make ideal servants. As with automobiles, sometimes a hybrid opens new doors to advanced technology. Fellatio has become an art form.

            Only in America, right?

            Think outside the box.

            Paint outside the lines.

            Re-invent the wheel.

            Once they hijacked the Internet and the Intranet, the Nadsies owned us. Sometimes I tell my personal Nad, “I hate being locked into this relationship. It feels like a soulless marriage.” But it’s like talking to the wall. We’re too alike: I only want to do things my way, he only does things his way. It’s like my mama used to say, “Don’t expect too much of your father, he’s a silicon-based life form!”

            Be careful what you wish for! Ever since Bertrand Russell in the 1930’s, peaceniks and pacifists wants to put an end to war. Shee-it. The Nadsies sprinkle a little pixie dust into the world’s supply of potable water and we all feelin’ so groovy, affable, amenable and tumescent, ain’t nothin’ get us mad anymore.

            Nothin’.

             Everybody walkin’ ‘round wid great big s-ssmiles on their faces-s. It’s-s a Brave New World 2 out there, folks-s!

             Damn this-s-s was-s-s one fine election!

            God bless-s-s America!                                                          

_________________________

2  A sci-fi novel by Aldous Huxley, 1932.

                                                 *****

          “Nothing deflates the Obama presidency like humor.”

                                                  —  Dante Phillips            

           Kevin Feingold pens the humor blog www.yustyoking.com.

             Dante Phillips, who edited this manuscript, is a member of the U.S. military and Kevin’s best friend.

                                                       *

[ Note: In hard copy or ebook, this text includes awesome illustrations by renown (?) artist Tommy Mousetrap.  I have reformatted my file and published as an ebook on Smashwords.com!!! A  little glitchy, it is out there, but awaits their review process. They have a backlog and need two weeks.  – Kevin ]

The Great Debates

            Superman had a bad night in Denver.

            Romney had been accused of never coming with concrete proposals, so straight out of the gate, he listed his FIVE POINT PROGRAM for righting the economy. And unlike Perry, Romney remembered all five! He then let the cat out of the bag, by asking the president to explain his “trickle down” policy. Jim Lehrer, the moderator, picked up on that and also asked the president to elucidate on his “trickle down” approach.

            “Finally!” I thought. Clarity. Why did the president bail out the Wall Street brokerage houses and the fucking banks??? They aren’t American industry, they are Capital. We consumers are still waiting to see the benefit of this approach.

            And the president, one-trick pony, went into his smokescreen mode and started blabbing about what he wanted to tell us, totaling ignoring the question.

            Things went downhill from there.  

            Al Gore, who has an entire channel on cable — forget a single program, like Oprah, Gore has his own channel, “Current TV” — suggested that the altitude in the Mile High City was getting to the president.

           The liberal press explained away this lack of progress in a hundred different ways.

           The Prez lost points in the polls. Romney’s on the rise.

           So the V.P. candidates face off. Grinning, grinning, grinning, Biden’s malicious grin is enough to make me want to punch his veneers down his throat! It turns out Biden and Alvin the Chipmunk have confronted one another endlessly in committee rooms in the Capitol, so we’re watching two professionals. Ryan is serious and sincere. Biden is fully-informed, hectoring, pompous and lecturing. And he’s good at it! He faces the camera and says, “You seniors there at home, you judge for yourself whether you want to pay more for health insurance!”

            Ever since Richard Nixon, we’ve watched the Veep function as cheerleader and hatchet man for the sitting administration. Pom-poms clearly in evidence, Biden tells us that the economy is on the rise, unemployment is plummeting, America has never been stronger internationally, our allies are all agog, our enemies are running away, this is our moment and WE’RE LIVING IN PARADISE!

            It makes me wonder what is wrong with me. I thought we were in a major recession and everything was all screwed up!!!

            Despite Ryan’s counsel, Biden —  being Biden — announces to the World that the Taliban can take a year off, a sabbatical, because THE U.S.A. IS LEAVING AFGHANISTAN IN 2014, period. Yoo-hoo, Mr. T! Then you can march in and take over! Unfortunately, Kabul is like Saigon in 1975: an extremely weak government that will totally collapse as soon as the last American soldier choppers out.

            The lady moderator — herself a correspondent specializing in Afghanistan — points out two or three times that 50 “green on blue” murders have taken place this year. Half against Americans. Twenty-five of our people killed by our erstwhile allies in the Afghan Army. You would think that this is indicative of a problem in Afghan culture worth discussing, but the candidates cold-heartedly express their regrets and push on with their own agendas.

            Interesting! We’re in a “None of the Above” election year.

                                                     Update: Round Three, Tuesday, October 13, 2012

            President Obama is clearly the lead actor. Mitt Romney— and Candy Crowley of CNN, the moderator— have supporting roles. Obama dominates the stage, hands down.

            He’s running as the challenger: All fired up, left hand waving hypnotically, The Man has a vision for America!

            I, too, end up thinking: “Yes! Let’s throw out that bum in the White House and elect Obama!!!”

            Um, wait a minute… I thought Obama was the incumbent???

            Attack dog Obama seems unpresidential, but no one notices. This is a bare-knuckles street fight worse than anything on WWF. The one who best rips his opponent to shreds— using his teeth— wins the applause of the crowd in the Coliseum. At any moment, I expect them to unleash lions into the arena to finish off these stalwart gladiators.

            Après the debate,in the moment before the screen becomes a mob scene, the camera catches the real Barack Hussein Obama: Little Barry grins from ear to ear, looking like Alfred E. Neuman, all of eight years old, America’s first child president. Oh, boy! Oh, goody! Look at me, everybody! I won!

            Romney, bless his heart, wants to make America energy independent! If elected, he will turn the entire country into a single, giant oil field. We’ll have oil pumps running in our backyards. Solar and wind don’t interest Romney so much. He’s a bigger “oil man” than George W. Bush.

            At least he’s honest about it.

            These families— the Obamas, the Bidens, the Romneys— are America’s political elite. Both physically attractive and intellectually brilliant, you would think they could solve the country’s problems one-two-three.

            God goofed. Mankind is a faulty creation.

                                                  Update: The Final Round, Monday, October 22, 2012

            Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

            While the liberal press applauds Obama for an aggressive performance against the waffling, wishy-washy, namby-pamby Mitt Romney, I felt the split screen HD close-ups on ABC showed me more Barack Obama than I wanted to see.

            Yeah, Romney’s upper lip got sweaty and there was that single damn hair out of place, hanging down his forehead like a cowlick, but he looked good.

            I thought rubber-necked Obama looked and acted like a viper who’d sucked on a lemon.

           My mom has a different take.

           When Romney lays on the bromides about America standing strong in the world, his support of the business community, his love for the middle class and his ability to work with a Democratic Congress, mom is shouting at CBS’s Bob Schieffer, “You’re the moderator! Shut him up!”

           When Obama pours on the empathy— pul-lease— about little girls at Ground Zero, his consoling wounded veterans and his abiding love of all mankind, I have to leave the room to keep from losing my dinner.

            Those of us rooting for the boxer in stripes have nothing over those rooting for the boxer in plaid. I thought it was a draw.

            Onward to Election Day.

                                                        *

Romney Sex Scandal!

  

            L’ Shanah Tovah! Happy (Jewish) New Year! September 2012, Mom and I stay at Welcome 35, a two-star motel on Route 35 in Wall, New Jersey. It has everything! A Vietnamese proprietress who we never see (and whom I love), a young, helpful staff of Vietnamese boys who spend all day playing video games on their smartphones, color TV, free breakfast, many fruit flies among the bananas, clean rooms, great beds, loose change lying on the parking lot and a surfer clientele who remain totally oblivious to anything like ambience.

            “Shore Points,” this part of New Jersey is a madhouse in-season, when “the Bennies” come down from the north and spend their Ben Franklins in the beach towns of Point Pleasant, Belmar, Sea Girt and the hearty-party locales of Jersey Shore.

            Since my 91-year-old mom walks with a cane, watching where she puts her feet, she’s the one who finds quarters, dimes and nickels on the pavement. Too decrepit to reach down, she stops and waits for me to salvage the treasure.

            Once I cut up a banana for our cereal at a breakfast table in the lobby (“Breakfast 6:30 – 10 a.m.”), we are joined by a veritable swarm of fruit flies. Since they eat virtually nothing, who cares? Still, we’d rather not have them wandering all over our styrofoam cups of orange juice or onto our breakfast cereal.

            The Venerable Reader (she reads everything), mom picks up a copy of The Beachcomber brochure. A true sun-worshipper in her youth, my mom’s meds forbid her to expose her skin to direct sunlight. Boy, does she miss it!

            “Reviewing the alternative accommodations,” she tells me, “I notice that the cheaper motels provide breakfast, while the more expensive ones do not. Rich people buy their breakfast. Go figure!”

            Mom and I have come north to New Jersey to spend the Jewish New Year with my niece Judy and her family. Judy has married into the Spritzer clan. Very famous name in New Jersey. Mom is GGM, the Great Gand Ma. Judy has a 6-year-old daughter “Penelope” and a 4-year-old son “Nimrod.” They love GGM dearly, clinging like barnacles to any warm relative who passes by.

            I am “Uncle Kevin,” the human punching bag. My one claim to fame is indestructibility. The kids get to rough-house with me in ways clearly verboten on a play-date with their contemporaries. They throw plastic toys at my head. We wrestle. They punch every part of my body. Every. Part. Of. My. Body. (“Uh!”) My grand niece Penelope loves to bounce on my stomach while I lay prone on my back on the floor.

            Classic helicopter parents, Judy and her husband hover endlessly. They are in so far over their heads, any discussion of a topic outside the home falls utterly flat.

            We used to stay at my niece’s, but since her kids are voracious, having us there 24 – 7 only made them more demanding. And less appreciative. This trip, I ration my playtime with them. And I gits mo’ respect.

            They live in Decibel, New Jersey. One of those townships off Route 9, Decibel features the sign,

                               “We’re only six blocks long,

                                  So honk REAL LOUD!” 

            By the time you turn right and drive through the development, you’re in Jackson, home to one of the world’s more impressive Outlet Malls. Not so Decibel, which is— despite its name— a quiet ‘burb.

                                                        *          

              Forty rooms at the motel, we’re the only ones who have a Toshiba TV. Forget flat screen, this is a huge analog monster with a 23” screen. Only problem is, the RCA remote doesn’t operate on the same frequencies as the television. Mom likes to lay in bed channel-surfing. She watches manual TV the first night. By the next morning, after endless nagging,  the Vietnamese clerk arrives with four different brands of remote. None of them work! Later that day, he brings us an ancient, silver-colored Zenith programmable remote and an instruction book containing 16 different codes.

            “I have only put in the first one,” he tells me, but even as he pushes the POWER button, I hear the TV groaning into life!

            Success!

             Deaf as an adder, mom plays the TV at full volume. When she hears “U.S. Open,” she thinks “Golf!” This, however, is the U.S. Open in Surfboarding. What does my mom know from surfing? I find her sitting on her bed in the motel room, studying hang-fives on the color TV.

            “What are you doing?!”

            “I’m interested in how they score the events.”

            My mom!

            Brilliant late-summer weather, we have blinding sun and temps in the 80’s. I swim among the surfers at the locals’ beach in Spring Lake. Tawny brown, the sand is wide and pristine. It looks tarrier than it is. Young families climb on the rocks jutting into the ocean, a sport I do not comprehend. There’s even a boardwalk and lavatories. This is a very quiet, residential town: The only thing “downtown” on Route 70 is Hoffman’s Ice Cream & Yogurt.

            Off-season, there are no lifeguards. It’s “swim at your own risk,” but there is also no fee for entering the beach. After years of mayhem, New Jersey townships learned that the only way to impose order in-season was to charge admission! And, yes, there is an undertow, but we are all super-careful in the water. This late in the year, it has warmed up. 

            After a few hours of paradise, I slowly begin going crazy looking at blond teenage girls. I get the hell out of there.

            “You were swimming with the rich folks,” comments my mom. “There are no motels in Spring Lake. First class, it has only the most expensive beach resort hotels. You bathed with the upper crust!”

            “And surfers,” I add. “All ages, all sizes. In wetsuits. With boards. Congregating like seals.” 

                                                       * 

            Sunday, I drive north and visit my buddy from college, Mario. We have so much fun together, visiting him always leaves me feeling lonely! This is the price I pay for not maintaining an active social life. The Oxburg Towne Amateur Baseball League, the Oxburg Civic Association, the Oxburg Democrats, the Moosegrave College Alumni Association see neither hide nor hair of Kevin Feingold. It’s enough of a miracle that I have teenage girlfriends. Tantalus never had it so bad. The “You may look but you may not touch” ethos of lap-dancing applies to the entire relationship. My only excuse for such self-flagellation is that it keeps me from getting sucked into a grown-up romance, marriage and child-rearing. To quote Sinéad O’Connor, “I do not want what I haven’t got.”

            “So my mom bought one of these hyper-modern Low H2O/ High energy detergent washing machines for $800 that hardly uses any water,” I explain to Mario, sitting in his living room on a plaid sofa. His wife Carlie scarfs down the chocolate bon-bons I have brought and reads the Sunday edition of The New York Times from cover to cover. “My mom hates the new machine! It does everything but get the clothes clean. Finally, my sister Carol visited, and the two of us said to mom, ‘Why put up with aggravation at your age? BUY A SIMPLE WASHING MACHINE YOU LIKE!’ Sears had a Labor Day Sale and for $299, mom and I got an old-fashion agitator machine that uses lots of water and actually washes clothes.”

            “Put that in your blog,” suggests Mario.

            When I tell him I have six readers— four of whom live in Australia and New Zealand— Mario chides me for not choosing trendier titles for my blog posts. “Check out the Google buzz index, the Yahoo buzz index,” he suggests. “Zero in on buzzwords: Lady Gaga, Kate Middleton’s nude photos, anti-Obama humor, Mitt Romney sex scandal uncovered. People will check out your posts just to see what they are about!”

            (See title above!)

            Mario’s daughter Violenza feels she has been stuck with cursed genes: “Diabetes on dad’s side, cancer on mom’s. Big stomachs. Frizzy hair. Big butts. Bow legs. Color blindness for orange and purple. Bushy eyebrows. Ingrown toenails. Crooked teeth. Dandruff and — look here, worst of all! — my hair parts in all the wrong places!!!”

            “Yes, but Viola, look at all the good qualities you’ve inherited!” I counter.

            “LIKE WHAT? Name ten!”

            “Ten?”

            She’s been watching too much David Letterman.

            “Yeah, name ten good things I’ve inherited by being born into this Etruscan family?!”

            Alas, when I cannot come up with ten, she marches into her parents’ bedroom with her mom’s passport from September 1988 and accuses her mother of being coked up in her passport photo. “Look at those eyes! Those are crazy eyes if I’ve ever seen some. You were snorting coke when you were pregnant with me! That’s why my genes are all screwed up!”

            Carlie is sprawled across the covers, cruising the Net on her laptop. “Vi! I was not doing coke while I was carrying you!”

            “LOOK AT THIS PHOTO!” Violenza insists.

            “Oy vey, they’re fighting,” laments Mario, leading me onto the back porch to sun ourselves.

            A macher in the New York film world, Mario loads me down with DVD’s containing independent filmmakers’ documentaries celebrating 9/11, devil worship, the Brooklyn music scene and, for some reason, Britney Spears.  

                                                       *

            L’ Shanah Tovah, Monday night’s Spritzer family get-together quickly becomes a very Orthodox affair: All the men sit around a table in the dining room discussing baseball scores, while the women and children are relegated to the kitchen. Resolutely uninterested in baseball, I refuse to join the men. I cannot say the table talk in the kitchen, however, is particularly Talmudic:

            “Whenever I use matzoh meal to bread my pork chops, I feel sacrilegious.”

            “China continues to make the best dreidels.”

             “I’m not a teacher, so I don’t care what Governor Christie does to their pensions,” says Rachel.

            Rachel’s niece is a militant middle school teacher. Rachel is sitting in her niece’s kitchen, eating her niece’s food. Yet, she tells me this.

            Amazingly callous or enormously self-absorbed?

            I feel like the Romney campaign in Iowa. You are among friends, but the trek is endless and it’s all uphill.

            “I haven’t gotten the rest of my New Year cards sent out yet,” my mom tells Judy’s mother-in-law Marjorie, “but I figure there’s a 10-day grace period between now and Yom Kippur. As long as I get them mailed by then, IT’S STILL THE HOLIDAYS!”

            Talking about Judy’s allergies, mom and I assume that they rule out Judy and the kids ever getting a dog. Marjorie— your typical mother-in-law— suggests a poodle or a Bichon Frise. “They don’t have fur,” she tells us, “they have hair.”

            Dogs with hair? This I never knew.  

                                                       *

            Tuesday morning, mom and I sit in the lobby of our motel eating breakfast on a folding table with a green damask tablecloth.

            “I fought to liberate your country,” a gnarled, flinty, gray-haired American tells the 23-year-old boy behind the counter.

            Mom and I consume orange juice, cereal with milk and sliced banana, toasted bagels with cream cheese and jelly, and coffee.

            “I served In Khe Sanh. You know where Khe Sanh is?” asks the veteran.

            No, the kid doesn’t know where Khe Sanh is! He  was born and raised Stateside. He has never even been to Vietnam. In that sense, I am more Vietnamese than the 23-year-old. The ‘Nam and I bonded in my youth. Part of me never returned to The World. The Wandering Jew, I’ve always had a tendency to go native, whether in Vietnam, Sweden, Israel or Japan. Vietnam was my first, adolescent taste of war. It left many scars.

            “We burned more hooches than you could shake a stick at,” the weathered gentleman rants, standing by the front counter. “Our jets napalmed your jungle! We were The Grim Reaper, kid. We fought the Commies in your dank, sweaty, shitty country from the Delta to Hanoi!” The old guy is really getting into his memories.

            The Viet boy looks as horrified as I feel at this barrage of verbal brutality. Mercifully, finally, the veteran leaves the lobby after getting a local map and some brochures. He gets in his Navy blue, American muscle car and drives off with a throaty roar.

            Jesus Christ! All that abuse and the guy wasn’t even a paying guest.

            Why do the Viets look embarrassed every time they discuss with me the amount of our bill “plus tax”? When I get the final printout, I see why: State tax, city tax and “lodging tax,” combined, add another 15% to the total!

                                                       *

            My mom is incredible. Back home in Oxburg, Maryland, she sits in her favorite chair in the living room, while her charitable contributions cure harelips among African children, stop anti-Semitism in Europe, stop the lies of the Republicans in Congress, stop unwanted pregnancies, stop AIDS, stop starvation in The Third World, stop the suffering of the Jews of Gondar in Ethiopia, stop the prevalence of breast cancer in women over 50… Yes, mom’s money can stop everything except the constant flood of junk mail soliciting charitable contributions! The United States Postal Service is going broke delivering this stuff.

             I’m so excited over Finding Nemo becoming available in 3D, I am penning the screenplay to Finding Nimoy. Our story: A film archivist unearths such Leonard Nimoy sci-fi gems as the 1952 twelve-part serial Zombies of the Stratosphere as well as Bruno VeSota’s The Brain Eaters from 1958. A good time guaranteed for the entire family! As compelling as still another speech by President Obama.

                      “Two thumbs way up!”  –  Kevin Feingold, yustyoking.com

                                                         *

Military Humor

 

           My 91-year-old mom and I take Billy McCluskey and family to dinner. Billy is an Air Force pilot.

            I discover a fly swimming in the last ¼ of my mom’s beer.

            I point it out to Billy.

            “You seem to have gotten some extra protein in your drink,” he tells mom.

             I fish out the fly with a spoon and deposit it on the edge of a plate. I figure he’s dead, but oh no, our uninvited guest is just getting started: Waterlogged or not, he marches over to the french fries and helps himself to some ketchup. I rescue my fries, shoveling them onto another plate.

             We relinquish the ketchupy plate to the fly.

             “Kate Middleton,” Bill points out, “has fulfilled every little girl’s dream of growing up and marrying a pilot.”

              Ten minutes later, the fly is still eating! I put the plate on the floor by one of the restaurant’s faux fireplaces. When our Latina waitress comes with the check, the fly has skedaddled, but now the waitress wants to know why there is a plate full of ketchup on the floor!

                                               *

The Games Begin!

            Hi, everybody! Greetings from London, England, home of the XXVII th  Olympic Summer Games! In the States, they keep writing about “rainy London.” Balderdash! We’re having perfect summer weather, temps in the 80’s and sunny! One of the things I have noticed is that they’ve moved the Marble Arch. When I visited in 1986, it was eight blocks from our hotel. Today, it’s clear on the other side of town!

            Seriously, these new hotels are hyper-modern, facing The Docklands, the air punctuated by only the merest hint of fish. Behind the Japanese screen beside my bed, I found a blank wall. We’re on the 22nd floor, which isn’t bad— a non-smoking corridor. The wind howls at night, shaking the panorama window. Using a walker, my 91-year-old mom takes the elevator everywhere she goes. The “In case of fire” signs are very pretty, but if the place gets torched, she ain’t goin’ nowhere. They offered to put us on the third floor, but with my canine sense of smell, if anyone has smoked in a room since its creation, my sinuses scream bloody murder.

            The first time I visited London was in 1968 on a photo expedition with classmates from Moosegrave College. “Swinging London,” we stayed at a hotel under renovation, the bathtubs filled with chunks of plaster. I smoked cigs on the Tube, got clubbed on the head during an anti-war demonstration in front of the American Embassy and scraped a London taxi with our rental car. “Wha’s your bloody problem, guv’nor?” roared the taxi driver.

            “Help! We’re SO SORRY!” I yelped back through the open window of our auto.

            “Oh! Yanks!” he replied. “Try t’ learn t’ drive onna left side a the road, guv’!” he suggested, threading his way through the roundabout.

            Reaching for still another cigarette, I was bathed in sweat. 

            But enough about me! You want to know about London! First thing Sunday morning, out of nostalgia, I took the Tube and a bus over to my old haunts. Russell Square! I knew I was in the right neighborhood, since every square inch of grass is covered in dog poo.

            Even as I watch, a stolid matron, with Fido on a leash, stands waiting while he does his bidness. Giving me a haughty stare, she turns on her heels and leads him away, continuing their morning constitutional.

            I duck into a local greengrocer to buy some Cadbury milk chocolate bars. It’s a “when in England…” thing. There’s only the one check-out aisle and about ten people in the queue. I’m busy fingering my British currency as I near the girl at the till. Suddenly, an Indian woman approaches, waving a bottle of dishwashing liquid. She pantomimes her desire to crash the queue. Smiling sickly, showing a mouth full of gold teeth, she gives me an imploring look. What the hell… I let her in.

            “Daft bugger!” the tall man in a pin-striped suit, in line behind me, complains.

            “She’s only got the one item!” I protest.

            “Ho ho ho!” he retorts.

            Approaching the counter, the Indian woman reaches under her sari and pulls out two oranges, a packet of crisps, a carton containing a half dozen eggs, a quart of milk, a six-pack of loo paper and a full-length floor mop!

            “My bad!” I remark to the people in line behind me.

            “If you don’t know the customs, keep outta the way!” a prim lass admonishes me.

            I promise her I will.

                                                    – – –

            The Olympics are my meat, I’ve had tons to do with them. My older sister Carol dated a U.S. Olympic kayaker named Helmut Schmidt in high school. You can imagine how my folks felt about our Jewish American Princess dating a kraut. Helmut did what he could to show respect. There was Carol, her nose in the air, parading around Oxburg, Maryland in 1963 in a “U.S.A.” sweatshirt from the Olympic team assortment. What a joke!

            The 1972 Olympics were a big year. When the Israelis got murdered in Munich, it only took me three weeks to crank out a cheap, fast novel based on the events. Stationed in Mannheim, Deutschland, once again I erroneously believed myself to be in possession of information no one else had: how Palestinian terrorists think, what it is to be a Jew, the German mentality. Hier spricht man Deutsch, I truly thought I nailed it. Totally worthless trash, no publisher would even consider my opus.

            I was an official at the Police Olympics in Stockholm, Sweden in 1999 (full name, WPFG, World Police and Fire Games). The organizers paid us in signature clothing from the event, covered in logos advertising the games. For a week’s work, I got a T-shirt, a parka, a windbreaker and a pair of jogging trousers. They also fed us.

            In 2008, I fell in love with petite blond American gymnast Shawn Johnson, same as everyone else. Her picture was on milk cartons! No longer competing, she is covering the current Olympics for NBC’s TODAY.com

            I also remember in 2008 when Michael Phelps broke Mark Spitz’s record, winning eight gold medals in a single Olympic Games. Where do they get these guys?

                                                   – – –

            I’m hammering on my laptop. All is not lost! Sunday afternoon, I went to Hyde Park and saw a performance by The Razzles, a drum ‘n’ bass Rastafari ska band from Jamaica. They played for an audience of 30,000 enraptured fans, the smell of weed pungently wafting through the air. Finding a pretty blond girl, I thought, “YES!” I sidled up to her in the crowd. “Hi!” I chirped.

            “Hi!” she replied, giving me a radiant smile. Something about the accent…

            “Where are you from?” I asked jocularly.

            “San Francisco! You?”

            Shit! I didn’t come to England to spend time with a Californian, no matter how pretty a young thing. After a few short sentences, I continue to wade through the crowd, blowing her off.

            On my own for dinner Sunday night, I ate in a Chinese restaurant that is famous among journalists. This storefront cube with its plastic silverware and grimy tables has no British sobriquet. Its name is spelled out in three Chinese characters, in neon, over the entrance. In the window, a side of pork rotates on a spit, a side of beef rotates on a spit and a whole chicken rotates on a spit under the relentless glow of heat lamps. The wizened, toothless, bearded owner behind the counter speaks only Cantonese. Pointing and shaking one’s head, however, functions sufficiently to get him to slice off chicken, pork and beef, piling them on a greasy paper plate. He then scribbles in pencil on a scrap of Chinese newspaper the amount owed in pounds sterling. The only possible reason to eat here is because it is guaranteed the cheapest meal in London!

            I found out about it in the 1980’s from my best friend, a journalist from Malta. He used to live in Brixton. Since retiring, he has moved back to Valletta, the capital of Malta. He insists on speaking solely in Maltese, a semi-Arabic language (think “Tunisian plus”). So we really have nothing left to say to one another.

                                                    – – –

            Left to my own devices, I bundle my mom into a cab Monday afternoon and take her to Harrods. She buys four of those ridiculously elaborate gold-colored Christmas Present Gift Boxes with Harrods’ world-famous logo on the front for her lady friends back home. I buy two dress shirts. When in Harrods

            As soon as people discover I’m American, they want an explanation of James Holmes. Veddy British, they then lecture me about the prevalence of gun violence in “The Colonies.”

            That night, at a pub, I mention to some university students who are deep into their lime-and-lagers how much I enjoyed Sunday’s music. I’m scraping by on ginger beer. “Wha’?” they ask me. “Sunday at Hyde Park? The Razzles? Blimey! Were you there? How c’n that be? We didn’ see you!”

            30,000 fans, stoned out of their gourds.

            “Yeah, yeah,” I assure them, careful not to let them spill any lime-and-lager on my new Harrods shirt. “I didn’t see you either!”

            “Ya wan’ a go t’ Stonehenge?” they ask.

            So, Tuesday, we go to Stonehenge, a “megalithic monument” from 2800 BC on the Salisbury Plain. A Druid astrological calendar built out of boulders, it’s a two-hour drive 90 miles southwest of London, on the way to Exeter.                      

                                                     – – – 

            Hello! Stonehenge. We rented a microbus and drove here this a.m. My young companions smoked dope and laughed all the way down the M3 and onto the A303. A cohesive group, even the ladies wore Leeds United football jerseys. Only a little terrified at driving on the left side of the road, it felt like old times. Student architects, my passengers’ school assignment was to chart “the ‘henge.” Being the wanker most steady on his feet, I did the pacing off. “That’s 128 steps!” I called out, the girls brandishing clipboards, the boys busy sketching on portable easels.

            A rather strange, tall lady in a tartan coat, peasant skirt and brown leather boots, her yellow hair braided into pigtails, wandered in the opposite direction. We kept running into each other.

            “Sláinte!” she offered.

            “I don’t know what that means. Are you looking for a stairway to heaven?”

            “You’re the cropper!” she laughed. “Want a tumble?” Gad! I just noticed the blood-red fingernails, the creaminess of her skin, her hazel eyes.

            “What?” I teased. “A quickie behind the monoliths?” She couldn’t be serious…

             Freud would have a field day!

            She let that pass.

            When my classmates completed their drawings, we cracked open the hamper and brought out the chicken sandwiches and bottles of brew.

            “What are you drinking?” asked Penelope.

            “It’s Fentimans Ginger Beer. Very potent stuff!”

            She snickered.

            I went to my wandering waif and asked her to join us. “What’s your name, by the way?”

            “Willow, by the way,” she blew into my ear, her pointy white teeth nibbling on my earlobe, a hand exploring inside my leather jacket. By the time I backed away, she had unbuttoned three shirt buttons!

            “Hey, everybody, this is Willow!”

            “Come eat!” they chorused.

            When we finished, they rolled and lit more joints. It was obvious how they intended to spend the afternoon!

            “What are you doing out here?” I asked Willow, the two of us wandering off by ourselves.

            “Ah, but that would be telling!” she chuckled, hanging onto my jacket lapels with both hands. “Naw, I’m here with my fiancé. Big painter named Stig.”

            Huh? “So where is he?”

            “He’s out on Salisbury Plain painting the ‘henge in its entirety.”

            “In its entirety.”

            “In its entirety,” she repeated, pulling me down on top of her on the grass.

            “You have to stop doing this!”

            “Otherwise… what?” she croaked, smirking, her eyes huge, only an inch from my face.

            “I’ll eat you alive!”

            The Salisbury Plain is mucho flat. People could see us from every whichway. Cars on the road. Tour groups!

            Never-the-less, I was mightily aroused.

            Willow was three steps ahead of me. Her busy, sure hands made quick work of my apparel: Jacket, shirt, tee, belt, fly, pants. She peeled me like an onion. “Where’d you get that shirt?” she asked. “Harrods?”

            “Yes… Right… Harrods.”

            “Eh!” she grunted. “I was attempting a stab at humor.”

            Not bothering to answer, I kissed her fully on the mouth, our tongues wrestling for dominance.

            “You’re the sharp kisser!” she noted. “You taste of chicken.”

            “You taste like honey,” I told her truthfully.

            “I sucked a mint,” she smirked, mounting me adroitly.

            We did the down and dirty right there among the stones, barely hidden from view. The wind kicked up brown dust. Rutting like dogs in heat, I was a little too engrossed to consider whether a school class of children might wander upon us, whether we might receive a visit by the law or some other such cal. Mercifully, nothing like that happened.

            “Now you can say you completed a pop pass at Stonehenge!” Willow chuckled. I felt my heart flutter. “I’m not bawdy, I simply have Druid blood,” she explained.

            “You have very nice blood,” I corrected her, nuzzling her golden hair and biting an ear. I loved her pointy, British nose.

            “Aren’t you the one!” she drawled. “I think I’ve awakened a kraken!”

            “I know what that is!” I exclaimed. “That’s a sea monster!”

            Dragging me with her, we marched across the plain about half a mile to her fiancé Stig. He was busy at his easel, painting. Your usual bearded bohemian, he was a dynamite painter! I was duly impressed. “Damn good!” I marveled.

            “Didn’ keep you from doin’ my missus,” Stig growled, eyeing me balefully.

            “No.”

            “No, what? No, you didn’t? Or no, you did?”

            “Oh, I’m sorry, I’m afraid I did,” I told him sincerely.

            Long pause. A grimace. “No bother!” muttered Stig.

            Willow guffawed. Yanking my arm, she called, “We’ll be at the parking apron. Leastways I will!”

            “I’ll see you at the car!” replied Stig, painting madly in the afternoon sunlight.

            “C’n ye ag’in?” Willow asked me, reverting to Scottish, breathing happily in my ear.

            “Let’s try the floor of the microbus. I think the seats fold down.”

            I’m telling you, this I never expected in Merry Olde England, moments before the Olympics.  

            I get the feeling this country is playing games on me.

                                                         *

The Anecdote Contest

 

            Ha ha ha! Those bozos at The National Herald are holding an Anecdote Contest. Write a funny story, max 500 words, win $500. That’s the whole megilla.

            A nationwide publication, they have no business running competitive events. They’ll get 15,000 entries. No newspaper can process 15,000 entries. It’s inane.

            The contest, such as it is, all comes down to one man, the publication’s humor writer. A fat, maudlin, middle-aged Jew, with as many— if not more— insecurities as the rest of us Members of the Tribe, he entered the business in the 1970’s. When newspapers “had a license to print money,” in the memorable words of David Halberstam. With fucking hard times upon us, Mr. HaHa’s weekly humor piece don’t cut it. The company has him, in addition, running the Weekly Word Game, doing Special Events, and any other such errands as may arise. Fielding phone inquiries. Emptying wastebaskets. Sharpening pencils.

            It’s hard times, guys!

           Watching now, it is difficult to envision that The National Herald was the newspaper who, in the 1960’s, led the way in defining the difference between a “shiftless Negro” and sickle cell anemia. Death by a thousand budget cuts has left the rag a mere shadow of its former glory.

            Ayn Rand could point and say, “I told you what creeping Socialism would do!” Wrong, Ayn! How about globalization and free trade? When all the manufacturing jobs get shipped overseas, because it’s cheaper, we are left in a post-industrial Hell. Changing the name from “outsourcing” to “offshoring” hasn’t helped at all. Ugh!

            Amidst so much spiraling entropy, how can Mr. HaHa maintain his self-esteem? Fortunately for him, the 150 regular contributors to the Weekly Word Game worship the very ground upon which he walks.

            This makes entering the Weekly Word Game— or now, the Anecdote Contest— something of a disappointment. The regulars of the W.W.G. have their own Facebook account. They e-mail, text and tweet one another. They meet for yearly dinners. They go fishing together on weekends. These are HaHa’s friends! So when three entries to a word puzzle arrive from three corners of the region, and are strikingly similar, our mighty HaHa chooses the one from Carlo Ponzi of Annapolis, Maryland. After all, Mr. HaHa knows Carlo. Nary a contest goes by, but Carlo sends in some clever contribution, some bon mot. Only human, HaHa succumbs to this temptation.

            Everybody likes Carlo!

            Meaning the other two entrants— not personally known to HaHa— get left out in the cold.

            Aware of this tendency, HaHa & Co. make a big fuss whenever they actually print a newcomer’s creation. “Novice Champ!” trumpets The National Herald. The staff feel so proud of themselves! Until next week.

            The latest deal is to print a lot of entries from Australia and New Zealand. Favoritism? Ridiculous! Cronyism? No way! Nepotism? Well, I never…! Look here! We print Aussies and Kiwis. They live on the other side of the world! Never broke bread with ‘em for a minute! Never flown Qantas. Christchurch is but a mystery.

            Say what?

            Because, being located in Washington, D.C. only complicates this latest “Anecdote Contest.” This is a company town. The name of the company is The U.S. Government. An entry from the vice president’s wife or the president’s daughter, the wife of a Supreme Court justice or the darling child of a senator— 250 words, high school level— calls for a clearing of desks and a major editorial conference! The bosses’ circle has spoken! Ignore it at your peril! Insecure, the newspaper worries over Senate briefings, Supreme Court deliberations and access to the White House.

             You don’t bite the hand that feeds you, your family, your creditors and the bank holding your mortgage. This makes the true purpose of the contest to reward those in power and demonstrate the newspaper’s good intentions.

             The deck is totally stacked. Woe unto the poor schlubs who send in their written compositions with the naïve conviction that their creative talent will be judged on a level playing field with everyone else’s.

             Ha ha ha! That, my friend, ain’t gonna happen!                                          

                                                      *

Paraskevidekatriaphobia

  

            Life is unfair. I don’t expect anything different. 

            I worked my tail off in the military, but that’s me: My work was my passion. I was good at it, I loved it. We were hardly war lovers, but we loved bringing peace and stability to a war zone. Eliminating the bad guys. Creating a breathing space for the locals. A lot of us were Type-T personalities, thrill-seekers, civvy life paled in comparison. Some of my buddies loved their careers to death!

           You would think that when I retired, a grateful nation… Ha ha ha!  Pul-lease! What planet are you living on?

           Admiral Richard Dexter, one of my mom’s bridge partners, retired and became an executive vice president at an oil company. He made $60,000 a year, spent 10 years doing that and still complains that he felt undervalued!

            No way was anyone hiring me as an executive vice president! Once out of the military, one of my early gigs was driving taxi. Listen, you got in my cab, you had a valet at your service! Obsequious to a fault, kind and humorous, I hefted your bags, carried your gear, waited on you hand and foot. I drove you wherever you needed to go. Businessmen used the back seat of my cab as a portable office, making calls and punching the keys on their electronic calculators. Guys from the C.I.A. had me pick them up at the office and deliver them to “no known address.” State Department people regaled me with tales about Israel. “Nowadays you can have dual citizenship,” one explained. “That was never U.S. policy. American citizens could not swear allegiance to a foreign power. If you did, you automatically renounced your American citizenship. You lost it. One day, everybody wakes up to discover that there are 100,000 Americans living in Israel who have become Israeli citizens. Without losing their American citizenship! So much for the rule forbidding dual citizenship.”

              I was not a sullen taxi driver. I could not do that. Early on, however, I discovered why taxi drivers are sullen. Forget people throwing up in your cab, drinking and fornicating on the back seat, tearing up the interior— just  for fun— or robbing you at knifepoint. Drivers hate taxi driving because you work your tail off from 4 a.m. to 12 midnight six days a week and only earn $32,000 a year! By the time you give the taxi company their share and pay gas, that is what you have left. And that includes tips!

              “Just drive people from point A to point B,” said Ernie, my dispatcher.

               “Anybody can do that!” I countered. “I like to provide high-end service. Give me a stack of the company business cards and I’ll double our customer base.”

               “Jesus Christ!” he complained, but within a month, I had a client list as long as your arm. People constantly called in and requested “Kevin the Swede.”

               A comer, Ernie took me aside and said, “My cousin has a limo. It’s a sweet ride. If I borrow it and set you up, you drive only for me!”

              “Sure! I’m driving only for you now.”

              “I mean you don’t drive for the company! You drive for me.”

               So that’s how we did it. I got some great customers. Ernie rented a van and had me pick up a German rock band called Fasching at BWI. Your typical black leather jacket krautrock. For four days, I drove them all over D.C., schlepping their guitars and luggage, helping them rent amplifiers, speakers and a mixer board, helping them set up at clubs, sharing hotel rooms and groupies with them. “I watch you,” said Simon, their drummer, his brown hair cascading off his shoulders. His specialty was inviting lassies up to the room to help him wash his hair! “You choose very young girls,” he observed.

              “With girls that young,” I explained, “you don’t have to deliver. They’re very oral. Lots of heavy petting. Period. If you touch their breasts, they’re outta here.”

              “O-kay,” he said, shrugging.

              “They vacate the premises. Vamoose. They leave.”

              “Auch so!”

               When I informed Ernie that the band was tipping me $150 a day, he said, “Cripes! I should put you on the phone here in the office and do the driving myself! I bet they get girls all the time, right???”

               “They aren’t lonely,” I deadpanned.

               When I was in the Army, I never knew how to tip people. Taxi drivers live for tips. Tips pay the rent. Ever since my experience driving a cab, I tip everybody. The auto mech changes the oil in my car, I tip him $5. The state inspector does my yearly car inspection, discreetly, I tip the man $5. The furnace and A/C guy does his twice-yearly checkup on my mom’s equipment, I tip him $5 each time. My philosophy has become, “Anybody provides me with a service, I tip!” Mom and I tip 20% at restaurants.

               I didn’t intend to spend the rest of my life behind the wheel.  One of my fares was a black headhunter named Jerome Whitney. “I can’t believe someone with your background is driving a cab!” he said, giving me his card. He passed me to a recruiter named Sue Morgan. She was hiring for the Drew Peterson Institute of Public Opinion. “You’ve got a great voice,” she remarked, the two of us sitting on either side of her gunmetal desk in a glass and steel office building in Bethesda.

             “This isn’t your regular office,” I remarked.

             “How did you know that?” she asked, laughing.

             “No personal touches.”

             “Well, that’s true. I’ve only been hired to recruit for the company. Once that’s done, I move on to my next assignment somewhere else.” Rosy-cheeked, a chubby, middle-aged matron, her concerns surprised me: “Can you work evenings?… Can you work weekends?… Can you work holidays?”

             “Yes, yes and yes. For God’s sake, Sue, I am driving a taxicab. We work all day, every day.”

             “Because with your military background, you’re a shoo-in for this job.”

             There were forty desks in the Call Center. A typical morning would be spent telephoning subscribers to The National Herald and asking if they had seen the full-page ad on page A7. “It’s in orange… If you saw it, what product was displayed?” In the afternoon, we telephoned registered voters and took the pulse of the nation: “Do you think Saddam Hussein has weapons of mass destruction in Iraq? How strongly do you agree or disagree with the following sentence: George W. Bush is doing a good job as president. Is Bush running the White House or Vice President Cheney? Do you favor or are you opposed to tax cuts? Do you think America faces an imminent terrorist attack?”

             We also threw in control questions: “Who is your favorite movie star? Do you believe in UFO’s? When did you last visit a movie theater?”

            When we got the contract for the John Kerry campaign, we went nuts trying to offset the media bias roasting our candidate. No, Kerry’s wife, Teresa Heinz Kerry, wasn’t an insane woman! No, Senator Kerry wasn’t some lamebrain anti-war activist. “Are the Swift Boat Veterans for Truth credible? Or are they actually stalking horses, secretly representing the Republicans? Is John Kerry a hero?” At the time, V.P. candidate John Edwards was a glimmer of light on a dark and stormy sea.

            After stomaching a year and a half of public opinions, I quit. “Not to worry,” Skip Evans, my boss, assured me. “The burnout rate among telemarketers is 30% a year!”

                                                      *

            You can always tell when school ends, there are teenagers wandering around every store and shopping mall. Eventually, they get their routines in order and swarm less. Three hours ago, parking my car and heading for a grocery store to check out the DVD’s, I stumble upon a teenage gang— two guys and three girls— dressed in shorts, tees and sneakers, sitting on the curb in the sun, doing absolutely nothing. Which makes them twice as interesting as “Snooki & JWoww.” One of the girls is crouched against a drainpipe, trembling from head to foot.

            “Is she all right?” I ask the guys.

            “We puffed some stuff last night,” one of the guys tells me.

            “She’s just upset because it’s Friday the 13th,” says the redheaded girl, her face a sea of freckles.

             “Ah! I know the scientific name for that. Paraskevidekatriaphobia. Fear of Friday the 13th,” I tell them.

             They laugh.

             “Go away,” says the girl by the drainpipe.

             Standing, facing the highway, I envision her making a scene. I don’t want to get arrested. I leave them, thinking, “I don’t want to get in trouble, but I also don’t want to live my life in fear.”

              It’s easy to do. Paul Simon once said, “Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they aren’t out to get you.”

              I’m as paranoid as the next person. My fear is getting arrested for pedophilia or sheer bloody-mindedness.

              My mom is afraid no one will show her any affection.

             Admiral Dexter and his wife fear not keeping up with the Jones’s.

             My neighbors are terrified their money will run out.

             It’s Friday the 13th, but I don’t consider myself superstitious.

             So what do we have?

             The average American family has lost 35% of their wealth in the last five years, while a clueless president wants us to reelect him, so he can provide more of the same.

             Sixty percent of the country is suffering the worst drought in 25 years, but Congress refuses to acknowledge global warming.

            Massacres plague the Middle East, but the Russians enjoy playing one regional power off against another.

            The more U.S. troops we bring home from Afghanistan, the stronger and more aggressive become the Taliban.

                                                        *

No wonder I horse around with young girls, adult life is an abomination!

                                                        *

A First Lady Appeal

  

            Dear Ms. Feingold,

            I know a soul sistah like y’all gonna enjoy the full-color, signed photo o me an my fambly enjoyin pork ribs. Mmmm, love them ribs! I wouldn send this here photo t’ whitey, they’s gettin a different photo altogether!

            But the miracle o micro-targeting keepin it jus between us sistahs, I thinkin y’all like this downhome’un. We black folk gotta hang together, cause nobody gonna take care o us but us!

            Now Rose, reason I writin is cause o my man, course, he need our help. Unlike that white boy Mickey Rodney who only care bout hisself, my fambly and I care bout the entire country! No matter our ages, backgrounds or stations in life, we want the country t’ do well an reelect mah husband! We CARE about this great nation! Sho nuff! Did I mention challenges? So how bout that vote, honey?????

            Mah husband know wha it be fo a fambly t’ struggle. He got a compelling fambly history. What with his momma bein a hippie an all. Y’all read bout it in his books. (Y’all pays retail, we preciate that! We be rich.) As a father, mah husband don’ want no limitations on his daughters: They grows up an be presidents. Tha’s the goal. Yeah, mah husband, he want it all!  

            Rose, I enclose a plastic card what says how my Blackie done in the last three years. Rose, people always askin: What y’all been doin? Well, here tis! From the first moment he enter the White House on Day 1, mah husband…

             He save Goldman Sachs, Citigroup, JPMorgan Chase an a passel o other brokerage firms on Wall Street. He save Bank o America, AIG an some other too-big-to-fail institutions.

             He end America’s military involvement an brought the troops home from Mali!

             He kill Osama bin Lahtis.

             He expand health care, implement economic recovery, create 3 million jobs at a time when this great country of ours only lost 6 million.

             Yes, Rose, he a man— an all men is swine— but thanks to Girrl Power, the question be: Does we go forward an do a whole lot mo promises or do we go back t’ them Republicans an they’s do-nothin ways?

             Y’all choose.

             Husband can’t do it alone, Rose, ah askin fo a donation! Y’all give us $25, $50 or $100, we can make a whole lot mo promises! Tha’s what we do as Americans!  We promise

  • Equal Pay for Equal Work
  • Improving Women’s Health
  • Protecting Women’s Right to Choose
  • Ending Insurance Company Abuses
  • Keeping Premiums Low
  • Expanding Access to Care
  • Closing the Medicare Prescription Drug “Donut Hole”
  • Job Creation (again)
  • Save the auto industry from collapse (again!)
  • Create nearly 3 million jobs in the private sector (AGAIN!)
  • Out-Educate the Rest of the World
  • Out-Innovate the Rest of the World
  • Level the Playing Field
  • Make Everyone Do Their Fare Share
  • Remain Focused on Iraq
  • Remain Focused on Iran
  • Remain Focused on al-Qaeda
  • Remain Focused on the economy
  • Remain Focused on Israel
  • Remain Focused on the Taliban
  • Remain Focused on Veterans an Their Famblies
  • Remain Focused on getting reelected!

              So y’all see, Rose, there still be a whole lot t’ do! I ain sayin we gits it all done on Day 1. I ain sayin we gits it all done in the first week— or the first month— or even the first year of a second term. I simply sayin, Y’ALL DON’T REELECT US, WE CAN’T DO NONE O THIS STUFF!

              Tha’s all!

              So what you say, Rose? Y’all send us some money, we gonna use it t’ win!

                               From mah fambly t’ your’n!

                               First Lady Madeleine Diamond

                                                         *

                                              –  from the upcoming novel

 

Electrifying!

  

            “I hope to pass away like my grandfather. He died peacefully in his sleep. Not screaming in terror, like the passengers in his car at the time.”

                                                           –  B.Y.U. humor

                                                        *

            Friday, June 29, is the hottest day of the year. The newscast reports temps of 104 degrees at the airport. At 9:40 p.m., I’m sitting in the living room, reading the newspaper and formulating my complaints about the president: He doesn’t know what he’s doing. According to Marc A. Thiessen of the American Enterprise Institute, the current administration makes investments in ecological, “green” technologies, but the companies they loan the money to, all too often turn belly-up. Leaving us taxpayers holding the bag.

            Billions of dollars!

            Solyndra, whose out-dated technology cost taxpayers a cool $535 million in loan guarantees.

            The president’s people made a $33 million grant to Raser Technologies to build a power plant in Beaver Creek, Utah. The company now owes $1.5 million in back taxes and has filed for bankruptcy protection!

            ECOtality received $126.2 million in taxpayer money in 2009 to install electric car chargers in five states. The company has since incurred $45 million in losses. They themselves say that they don’t believe the company will ever reach profitability!

            Nevada Geothermal Power received a $98.5 million loan guarantee in 2010. With their cash reserves depleted, the company is in economic turmoil and may go under.

            First Solar: $3 billion in loan guarantees for power plants in Arizona and California. They just burned through $401 million in restructuring costs and fired 30% of the workforce.

            Abound Solar received a $400 million loan guarantee to build photovoltaic panel factories. The company halted production in February and laid off 180 employees.

             SunPower received a $1.2 billion loan guarantee and, in January, owed more than the company is worth.

             Brightsource: A $1.6 billion loan guarantee has been followed by losses totaling $177 million.

             Too many of these people either contributed bigtime to the current president’s campaign or are major donors to the Democratic Party.

             We’re seeing crony capitalism lead to dud investments. I’m tired of the president playing mutual fund manager. He’s no good at it! When I have shares in a mutual fund saddled with bad management, I liquidate my holdings.

             Other things that get my goat:

             The “McCain-Feingold” legislation, allowing campaign finance reform— cleaning up a veritable cesspool of politicians for sale to special interest groups— received only a tepid response from the current occupant in the White House.

             The 54,000 soldier “surge” in Afghanistan in 2009 – 2010 put over a third of the task force—20,500 Marines— in Helmand province, where they had very little work, instead of plopping them in Kandahar, where the insurgency is mushrooming.

             As Commander In Chief, the prez failed to back the State Department and Richard C. Holbrooke’s peace initiative, which could have made a deal with the Taliban and ended the Afghan conflict with “Dayton”-style accords. Instead, Mr. Passive-Aggressive, the president let bureaucratic infighting and one-upmanship overshadow a possible solution. Our boots on the ground continue to be killed while millions of dollars go into a wasted war effort.

            In this election year, the Democratic incumbent sides with Afghan President Hamid Karzai, who is little more than an American puppet. One of Hamid’s brothers runs “The Helmand,” a restaurant on North Charles Street in Baltimore featuring Afghan cuisine. A Pashtun, touchy and corrupt, Hamid himself heads a cantankerous regime in Kabul. It’s nice for Hamid Karzai that he has U.S. backing, since his fellow Afghans in the countryside feel no affection for him.

           Bailing out the banks, the Wall Street brokerage houses and the auto industry, our leader has let Main Street wither. As home values and share prices tumbled, the average American family lost 35% of their net worth in the last five years! The average wealth of a family of four is currently $66,740, according to the Census Bureau.

          My mom has three additional issues:

          We’ve got a “liberal” president who is a closet lackey of Big Business. The Republicans have a “Big Business candidate” who is a closet liberal.

           Now that the Muslim Brotherhood won the election in Egypt, no one in the U.S. Congress is petitioning for one penny of the Egyptian aid appropriation to be released. Sharia law is not the American way. With this president, however, you never know: He may decide the Muslim Brotherhood will like us better if we send them the one billion dollars in aid money.

            Our dear president favors the Canadian tar sands project. Extracting oil from the sands requires three times as much water as oil produced. Once used to clean tar sands, the contaminated water returns to the earth, poisoning the water table for generations to come. By 2030, drinkable, unpolluted water, H2O, will be the scarce commodity over which countries go to war. As such, the Canadian tar sands project seems both shortsighted and incredibly foolish.

                                                        *

             What I hear first is the roar. A jet plane? A semi? Opening the front door, I see wind and rain propelling tree branches up the street. I close the door and return to my chair and the newspaper, but the air conditioning is struggling. I get up and turn it off. Then the lights go out. They come back on for one second, go out, come back on, go out. Then they come back on for one final second, before dying for good.

              Ugh!

             A photog in my youth, I spent endless hours in the darkroom. I don’t have any trouble retrieving a flashlight from the basement in the dark, feeling my way. I unplug the dryer, the TV sets, the cordless phones and my computer. Then I take a seat on the back porch.

             The storm is called a derecho, a freight train of wind and rain tearing across several states. Words of Spanish derivation, where a tornado signifies turning air, a derecho blows “straight ahead.” We have a warm air mass hugging the ground and a cold front blowing in above it. Warm air rises, cold air sinks. As these air currents pass each other, the friction— on a molecular level!— generates electrical charges.

            For forty minutes, I sit and watch the sky alight in lightning bolts every five seconds. After only a minute, I go inside and get my sunglasses. So now I’m sitting in the dark, in sunglasses, watching the sky light up! Twelve times a minute. Four hundred and eighty lightning bolts. I am definitely freaking out, waiting for the alien spaceships to land!

             Since this is mom’s house, every room has a cordless phone. No electricity = no phone. I go to the basement, using the flashlight this time, and dig out a rotary phone I keep on hand for emergencies. I plug it in. The wind has died down, as the storm blows up the coast. I light two yartzeit candles, one in the dining room, one on the back porch. Candles in glasses are almost as effective as hurricane lamps.

            The phone rings!

           Mom has been to a show with her friends. They are now sitting in the foyer of the retirement community where the friends live.

            “Stay there!” I tell her. “Don’t try to go anywhere. Wait until the storm passes.”

             “The news reports say there are trees down everywhere, blocking the roads,” she tells me excitedly. “Driving here, the street lights were out at all the major intersections! The highways are a madhouse.”

              She is at one tony retirement community, but fate— and the power company— don’t play favorites. There’s no electricity there either! Mom’s talking to me on her cell phone. Aha! We agree that she’ll spend the night there.

              At one o’clock in the morning, I don my aquatic shoes and walk the streets. Every hundred feet, there is a tree blocking the road. They look shaggy, strange in the darkness. The only other people I meet are busy loading possessions from a pitch-black house into two cars. Thoroughly pissed off, they don’t look very friendly. I give them a wide berth. Wandering home, I am amazed to find the telephone pole at the top of the hill has snapped like a matchstick! The crossbar and the top third hang, toy-like, in the electrical wires.

             What a mess.

              In 2005, the Washington area got hit by two major hurricanes. Around here, during the second storm, an oak tree became uprooted mid-block and pulled down the power line. Our grid, a block long and three blocks wide, was without power for five days! On the third day, the Town Council sent politicians around to hold neighborhood meetings. A videographer tagged along, filming us with a large, professional-grade rig. “Yeah, yeah,” groused Morton Reilly, one of the most patriotic of my neighbors, “Is that so you’ll have evidence to use in court if we physically attack you?”

              The reps from the Town Council weren’t amused. “Look,” they reasoned, “your wiring can be transferred to underground culverts. No more storm damage. We’ve done the math. It is going to cost each household $1,000. It’s your call.”

              “That’s my vacation money!” complained Morton and three other family fathers. I just looked at them. So we never took the municipality up on their offer. The “cottage community of Oxburg” was built in 1927. Guess what? We have the same spindly telephone poles as they had then. (When we were kids, we watched every summer as the creosote tar preservative leaked out of the wood.) Except for storm damage, nothing has been replaced! Nothing.

              In the last ten years, the cable companies have shown up and strung their green cables and hung their signal boxes on the existing poles!

                                                      *

             Saturday morning, the sun is up, but the electricity is nowhere to be found. Mom gets home about 11 a.m., full of her adventures. “The streets are a catastrophe! I lost 30 minutes easing through intersections. The radio says to treat downed traffic lights like a four-way stop.” She has me close up the house, hopefully to keep the cool air inside. Right away, I notice that without the attic exhaust fan, the upstairs gets hot and musty, as a constant wave of dry heat radiates from the ceiling.

             We return to a more primitive existence. We plan before opening the refrigerator, so the minimum of cold air will escape. (In 2005, I got two bags of ice every morning and put one in the freezer and one in the fridge, mopping up smelt water several times a day.) We don’t try to do a whole lot. I spend most of my time on the back porch, cleaning up old papers and news clippings. Mom sits inside and sweats, complaining that my junk clutters the basement.

             “It’s too dark to sit down there anyway,” I point out, but she’s ornery and upset, so I let it go.

              While I eat lunch on the back porch, a cardinal flies across the lawn. He’s as bright red as a stop sign, with a black mask like a bandit. He comes hopping along the porch ledge, foraging. Since mom and I don’t chase away the animals, our birds, squirrels, chipmunks and rabbits have become very aggressive. They all but crawl onto my lap, not always a pleasant experience.  

               Pamela, next door, is abandoning her house until the power comes back on. Her hubby, the college professor, is out of town. “Can you,” she asks, “turn on the generator if it rains? We’ve got a new generator to operate the sump pump in the basement.”

              We go to look. I help her fill the gas tank. She shows me how to turn on the fuel valve, how to flip the switch, the “eco filter” I need to couple in after three minutes’ running time. My eyes grow large as I devour the two outlets marked “120 volts/20 amps.”

              “Sure,” I tell her, “but can I run an extension cord from our house, plug in my refrigerator and run the generator for an hour, just to cool down our fridge?”

              “Will an hour be enough?” she asks.

               “An hour will sure be better than nothing!”

               It’s while I’m positioning myself to pull the stove away from the wall to get at the refrigerator cord that I notice the yellow light streaming from the kitchen lamp.

                ???

               I rush to tell my mom, “The power’s back on!”

               It’s 6 p.m. I go next door and tell Pamela. She’s packing to leave. Grabbing flashlights, we descend to her basement and throw the power switch from “generator” to “mains.” Nada. Nothing. “Shit!” I exclaim, embarrassed that we have power and she doesn’t. And for using an expletive.

              Disappointed, Pamela heads to her sister’s place in the District. “She still has electricity.” I promise to keep an eye on her place and start the generator if it rains.

              Strange brew. We have electricity. The neighbors on Algonquin don’t. How do I know? Mike McGraw’s generator is still noisily chugging on his driveway, spewing gas and producing wattage. Mike is admirably handy with electric saws, weed whackers and power mowers. He lives by the light of the orange, outdoor extension cord.

              The deal is, we’re all supposed to be on the same grid! Our backyards face one another. There’s already dissension over speed humps. So the natives aren’t happy when mom and I return to civilization and electrification, leaving most of them stuck somewhere in the Stone Age: Living in their basements to keep cool. Going to bed at dusk and rising at daybreak because they lack artificial illumination. Throwing out tons of defrosted food.

               It turns out the crews from Pike, who came up from Georgia to help in 2005, split the grid in two. Now there are haves and have-nots!

               Some locals even lack potable water. How do you boil the water when you have no electricity?

                                                       *

               The Town of Oxburg, being a separate municipality, has a contract with Mepco, the Maryland Electrical Power Company, one of the smaller entities in the electricity business. When I finally get through on my cell phone at 10 p.m. on Saturday night and tell the young lady about the snapped telephone pole, she replies, “Mepco isn’t responsible for telephone poles. The municipality owns those.”

                I’m ready to strangle her.

               “But the three houses closest to the pole are still without power!”

               “Oh! Well! Power outages are our province. I’ll file your report.”

                On Sunday afternoon, July 1st, the Maryland Electrical Power Company holds a town hall style press conference at the local elementary school. This is the same locale where I spent last year battling my neighbors twice a month over speed humps. I oppose speed humps! I lost. Being back among the toddler-size furniture of the library makes my skin crawl. Jim, the black dude representing Mepco, starts by explaining in rudimentary detail how electricity runs through substations to utility wires before entering our homes.

                 I hear myself groaning. I consciously force myself to clam up.

                After a halting opening statement, Jim turns out to know his stuff: “Right now, we’re working on getting the substations up and running. After that, breaks in the utility wires can further delay us getting that electricity into your home!”

                I couldn’t have said it better myself.

                He takes questions from the audience.

                Groan! “Please, God,” I murmur. “No speeches! Please, God!”

                The first question comes from an irate middle-aged woman with an executive demeanor: “This is the United States of America!” she declares.  “Founded in 1776, we are the leader of the world. Here in the nation’s capital, I would expect an infrastructure that is capable of carrying the most basic goods and services to the people! What are you doing?! How dare you let this power outage drag on for days! Someone must pay for this incredible incompetence! What am I supposed to tell my children? That we are powerless in the nation’s capital? Are we back in the 1970’s, when America was viewed piteously by the rest of the world as a helpless giant unable to bring our enemies to heel?

               “This is unacceptable!

               “Mark my words! Heads will roll!”

               Oh! I am thinking. Someone made a speech.

               Jim does what he can to answer.

               Next questioner: “Uh, as I understand it, this thing that hit us,” he says, “is called a derecho. The Washington area has been attacked. We’ve been blown out of the water. We’re shut down! We’re on an emergency footing!”

               “Yes?” asks Jim.

               “So when are we going to war with Mexico? Intern the illegals and let’s get on with it! How much longer are we expected to wait?!”

                “For the power to come back on?” Jim suggests helpfully, trying to stay on message.

                                                       *

                Over a million and a quarter people have been without electricity. By Monday, only (only!) 350,000 households remain without power. A khamseen, a warm wind, is blowing throught the region, making people act crazy.

                                                       * 

                Tuesday, July 3rd at 7 p.m., the last of my neighbors in Oxburg get their power turned back on. We eat late, as usual. Mom asks me if I intend to run the dishwasher.

                “Thunderstorms are predicted. I’ll wait for the weather to pass.”

                When I finish cleaning the table and the kitchen, I sit on the back porch, watching the lightning approach. It begins to rain. A blinding white flash lights up the night, followed by a hollow ka-pow! Ah, folks? The same neighbors whose homes were restored two hours ago…? Their houses go dark. I turn and look at our kitchen door. Yellow light streams from behind the venetian blind! This could get ugly.

               Another flash of light, another explosion. Our power goes out!

              “See,” I murmur. “What did I tell ya?”

              This time I hook up the old-fashion rotary phone and dial the 1-800 number pronto. Cars driving down the hill light up the neighborhood. I pop open the front door and sit on the floor in the living room. On hold, listening to an endless chamber music recital, I see three white utility trucks drive by and turn onto Algonquin. I hang up, grab my aquatic shoes and walk down the hill to have a look. I find a snazzy dude talking beside his car with one of my neighbors.

              “Seen any utility trucks?” I ask, introducing myself.

              “They drove thataway!”

                I walk to the end of the block. A man and a woman are pulling into their driveway. I ask them.

               “Up on Chancellorville. There are three trucks. They’re working gangbusters,” the gentleman drawls in a southern accent so thick, I can barely understand him.

               What I find is a telephone pole containing a full substation rig and a lot of guys in white hardhats, shaking their heads. “We’d just finished,” one explains. “We intended to mount a metal cover tomorrow morning. It never occurred to us that it might rain and short-circuit our handiwork!” He doesn’t apologize, but by the time I get back home, we have electricity. The rest of my neighbors are back on-line within fifteen minutes.

                I run the dishwasher.

                                                       *

               People in the Washington, D.C. area are going nuts. We’re not turning into zombies and werewolves, but still… Pepco has notified the District, Montgomery and Prince George’s Counties that power will first be fully restored by 10 p.m. on Friday, July 6th! A full week after the storm. It turns out, Pepco has been doling out dividends to its shareholders instead of doing the upgrades they promised the public after the debacle in 2005! Dominion Virginia Power tells Virginians that they will be back on-line by Wednesday, July 4th. The National Guard is clearing debris. Crews from neighboring states have joined in to saw up fallen trees. 

                We’re in the middle of a heat wave. Electric signs on the Interstate say “COOLING SHELTER NOTICE, DIAL 211.”

                Look, I grew up here! Scorching summers were part of living in the Washington area. We didn’t have no A/C in the 1950’s, we had electric fans. When it was hot and muggy, everyone suffered equally. The idea that people are forced to seek malls, libraries and other locations with A/C in order to survive is quietly frightening!

                Ain’t no air conditioning after the apocalypse, people! We killin’ the planet, weather gonna get extreme. It’s hot in Hell! Get used to it!

                                                       *

                 We spend July 4th across the street, with Billy McCluskey and his family. I take snow crab legs, corn, potato salad, cole slaw and ginger beer to their house. Then I help my mom cross the street. She walks with a cane. Ninety-one years old, she’s definitely slowing down. “What’s this?” she asks. “Everyone has an American flag out front but us!”

                 “I didn’t know you wanted one!”

                 “Yes, but look! Everyone but us!”

                 “Don’t you see?” I ask her. “They are competing! They’re showing off. ‘My flag is bigger than your flag! My flag flies stiffer than yours!’ I can come back to our house and hang out an American flag, if you want.”

                “Do we have one?” she asks.

                “We have several! Gifts from the veterans’ organizations you’ve contributed to. Of course, all our flags are manufactured in China!”

                “Oh, yeah?” she grunts. “Forget it!”

               Billy tells me to stop fretting over the economy: “To paraphrase Ronald Reagan,” he suggests, “it’s a recession when your neighbor is unemployed. It’s a depression when you are unemployed. And it’s an economic recovery when the current bum in the White House is unemployed!”

                He explains to me that the U.S. remains a major shareholder in General Motors. “If we sold our shares today, we’d take a financial loss of $40 billion.”

                “Ouch! ¡Ay, caramba!

                 “To paraphrase Ronnie Reagan…”

                 “Again?”

                 “This administration is spending like drunken sailors. Only that’s an insult to drunken sailors, who, at least, spend their own money!

                 As mom and I return to our house, the sky lights up. “We’re watching the Oxburg Towne Fireworks Show,” I point out.

                 “A waste of taxpayer money, if you ask me!” she retorts.

                  We’re in a recession.

                   A silver cluster is followed by a yellow shower. “Welcome to Bosnia-Hercegovina!” I suggest.

                                                       *

                   According to the newspaper, Maj. Gen. Robert Mood, the head of the U.N. observer mission in Syria, feels the violence has reached “unprecedented” levels.

                  In Libya, after 50 years of Gaddafi, the country is truly a neophyte democracy: There are 2.8 million registered voters. They are electing representatives to their 200-member National Assembly. There are 3,700 candidates, 142 parties. Amidst a welter of posters, pamphlets and TV ads, most voters admit that they have no idea what the candidates stand for. Members of the former regime are ineligible to run. No risk of Gaddafi’s son, Saif al-Islam Gaddafi, becoming Prime Minister!

                Meanwhile, in Mali, Islamist rebels are tearing apart the ancient Sufi shrines of Timbuktu. The rebels are ethnic Tuareg fighters from Libya. 

              Everywhere I look nowadays, I see the new “It” girl.

              Katy Perry.

               This is a lady I discovered while watching Saturday Night Live in 2010. She sang “Teenage Dream.” Not completely dense, I understand that Lorne Michaels specializes in booking all the pop genres, including gangly girl-women like Sweden’s Robyn, Lily Allen from the U.K. and our very own Ms. Perry. Musically, I love SNL. It introduced me to Sweden’s The Sounds. It also drives me crazy on occasion, featuring bands that are heavy on attitude and short on material. Nothing is as embarrassing as a great band— Coldplay, anyone?— who have ground out some smashing songs— performing on SNL long after their creative juices have evaporated.

               Ouch!

              After seeing her on TV, I buy a copy of Katy’s Teenage Dream CD. This is a 25-year-old who dresses like she’s eight-years-old. Dressy-uppy party clothes. She sings about “shots” of hard liquor, beachwear and guilty pleasures. For the 18-year-old and younger demographic. Little ‘tween daddy’s girls see her and Kei$ha as role models. (God help the next generation!) We had the Beatles and James Dean. 

               Gen-X had Madonna. Britney Spears.  Even Paris Hilton… sorta. The lady could pout, but she couldn’t sing! It’s Katy’s turn. She gets a front cover and an article in Parade Magazine. Forget Jan Wenner’s Rolling Stone and the other music mags, this signals that Katy has now arrived. Mainstream. Bigtime. Middle America, come look upon your daughter!

                On July 4th, I watch her performing live, across the East River from Manhattan, at the Brooklyn Navy Yard as part of the Macy’s 4th of July Fireworks Spectacular on NBC. Dressed in a sparkly, sequined American flag outfit that does no favors to her chunky figure, she belts out tunes that drive the midshipmen wild. Later that night, there she is again— her hair dyed purple— on Jimmy Kimmel Live. Either teleportation has reached unprecedented levels of development without my knowledge or the Kimmel broadcast, from the West Coast, was pre-recorded.

               And she’s just as cute and amazingly empty-headed as you would expect from someone in the pop industry. Aside from her natural beauty and her chops as a performer, Katy exhibits a serious case of arrested development. Must everyone in America be young all the time? When I was a kid, I dreamt of becoming a rock star! Ho, ho, ho!

                Mishegoss.

                July 5, 2012 is another scorcher. That night, neighbors up the hill— who have fireworks left over— put on a display for the rest of us. Red and green  explosions rip the darkness. Bam! Bang! Zoom! Pow! I feel like I’m back in a war zone.

                                                        *