Tuesday, November 25, 2014

The Weekly Screed (#700)

Diary of a wetback skip tracer
by David Benjamin

“ICE deported almost 393,000 people from the U.S. in 2010. At $12,500 per person the cost to remove them was almost $5 billion.”
                                                           — Associated Press

This is the city. Los Angeles. I work here. I’m a dick. Private. My name is Biff Borders. I do immigration enforcement for Uncle Sam.

It was Tuesday, November 25th. It was raining in America. I was tracking a fugitive wetback named Raoul Wong-Li McFadden, whose street monicker was “Pegleg.” Despite getting his leg shot to hell by a crazed drug gang who’d invaded his house, killed his parents, raped his sisters and ate his dog, Señor Fluffy, McFadden had hiked all the way to Texas from Tegucigalpa at the age of nine. He had a lot of moxie, but he was illegal and that was against the law.

My job: Find him, cuff him, send him back.

McFadden had been in the country 42 years. He’d sired six anchor babies. The oldest was in graduate school at Johns Hopkins. His wife was from El Salvador. She’d told a sob story about how her village was rounded up by a government death squad and roasted to death in a burning church. For that, the softhearted pansies at Immigration gave her political asylum and a green card.

My job: Break up the family.

I’d been on his trail 17 days when I found McFadden hiding in plain sight. In Chicago. Working days as a landscaper in Lake Forest. Nights at a burger joint. He asked if I wanted to super-size my fries and I yanked my gat. “Hands up, Pegleg.”

“You a cop?”

I told him, “What do you think, amigo?”

“If you are, where’s your badge, cabron?”

“I don’t need no stinking badge,” I snapped. “I’m a government contractor.”

I went on to explain that there are 11 million illegals and only a few thousand ICE agents. McFadden did the math. He wasn’t dumb. Knew the jig was up. Came quietly. I flew him to L.A., called the feds. The said they’d be by. Meanwhile, I locked him in the john. Slipped tortillas under the door. Used the neighbors’ toilet.

Weeks passed. I didn’t mind. I was billing Uncle Sam two hundred a day plus expenses.

My job: Put Pegleg on ice. Keep the meter running.

After a month of peeing nextdoor, I cuffed McFadden to the living-room radiator. Let him watch TV. He begged to call his wife. Pregnant. “In a pig’s eye,” I said. I knew they talk in code. Aliens. Can’t trust them. Can’t kill them.

My job: Head ‘em up. Move ‘em out.

McFadden asked why.

I told him it’s not my job to ask why. I’m a dick. The Republicans are in charge. They don’t like wetbacks. That’s how it is. What’s to ask?

I said, “Just the facts, man.”

Raoul said facts or not, this whole hunting expedition, for people like him, was a colossal waste. “Look, gringo,” he said, “I bet your great grandmother came to America in the 19th century, right?”

I said Great-Nana’s parents arrived in the 1870’s, from Europe. “So, what makes me illegal and your granny’s granny legit?” he asked. “All she had to do was hit Ellis Island before 1906. ‘Til then, America was an open door — to anyone. Thieves, murderers, Communists, alchemists, Irishmen, physicists, Jews! No laws, no quotas. She just walked off the boat and headed for the Lower East Side.”

“That’s different,” I said. “My great great granny was white. You’re not.”

“So! You’re a bigot.”

“No, I’m a dick.”

“Listen,” said Raoul. “Before you caught me, I didn’t bother a soul for 40 years. I was invisible. We all are. Eleven million ghosts. If a few blowhards in Congress weren’t hollering that we’re a problem, we wouldn’t be a problem. At all. We’d go on doing all the nastiest jobs in America, at minimum wage, or worse, without overtime, sometimes without getting paid. We spend all our earnings, contribute to the economy and pay taxes but we’re not eligible for social services and we’re afraid to go to the hospital. We’re the closest thing you have to slaves, and you have to admit it, Sarge. Slavery’s as American as apple pie.”

“I’m not a sarge. I’m a dick.”

“I can see that,” said Raoul. “Look, if you catch us all and ship us back, along with our kids, then who’ll flip your burgers, pull your onions and pick your peaches? Who’ll bus your tables, mop your floors, blow your leaves, nanny your brats, empty your bedpans, make up your room and put candy on your pillow? Where will you go to fill all those crappy jobs? Monaco? Switzerland? Canada?”

I know a rhetorical question when I hear one. So I kept my peace.

“Why not spare yourselves all this stupid effort? You’re wasting billions chasing hard-working, innocent people.” Raoul went on. “Why not just keep us? You don’t have to legalize us, or approve of us, or even see us. Just leave us alone — invisible, miserable and scorned. We’ll keep on doing the ugly jobs. We’ll keep cleaning up the messes you leave. All you have to do is let me go. Let all of us go.”

“That’s not my job.”

“I know,” he said. “You’re a dick.”

After two more months and a lot of conversations like this, the feds finally came and took McFadden He ended up back in Tegucigalpa — after only six months in solitary at a detention facility in Rectal Itch, Utah.

Me? I did my job: One down. Ten million, nine hundred ninety-nine to go.

Monday, November 17, 2014

The Weekly Screed (#699)

With friends like these…
by David Benjamin

“… the Islamic State, or ISIS, is homegrown; its aim is not to strike far away, but to spread and impose its vision of Islamic society right here and right now…”
                                                  — Thomas L. Friedman in Dubai

MADISON, Wis. — OK, this girl in Pakistan, Malala Yousafzai, got shot in the face by a squad of emotionally twisted, mentally retarded religious zealots.

Shot. With an assault rifle. In the face!

Why? Because she went to school — in a society where girls are required by God to remain submissive and illiterate, and kept under house arrest in, preferably, a state of perpetual pregnancy.

And it’s not over. Right now, there’s a global guerrilla army of like-minded retards festering to finish Malala off, with seven or eight more bullets. In the face!

Best of all, according to last week’s news, the whole nation of Pakistan — which is one of America’s allies — is pulling for the retards. A group of 150,000 private schools in Pakistan, representing what pretty much seems like the national consensus, has resolved to teach all its pupils — let’s say there’s about 20 million of them — that Malala is an evil bitch who deserved to get shot in the face, because she offends Islam and the “ideology of Pakistan.”

I gotta ask: What is wrong with these people? And why are they our friends?

OK, a while ago, these two Pakistani brothers got arrested for digging up dead people and eating them. They got off because, in Pakistan, cannibalism is not illegal. So, after they got sprung, guess what? The Zombie Brothers, Jake and Elwood, headed back to the cemetery, dug up a fresh infant corpse and ate its liver — with fava beans and a nice Chianti.

Again: Why are these people our friends?

OK, in Afghanistan, there was this long-running story about a girl who — according to national custom — was sold in marriage (on layaway, for about the price of a two-slot toaster) when she was about six years old, to a hairy old guy in the next village. She was supposed to marry this horny pedophile when she was 12 or so, but she resisted, fell in love with a younger guy whom she actually knew, and eloped with him. Of course, her mother and father, and brothers, and her entire village, and the hairy pedophile, eventually caught up with the girl. They murdered her, and her husband. Everybody in Afghanistan — which is another U.S. ally, where thousands of Americans have died defending the “ideology of Afghanistan” — thought the girl was asking for it. Family honor required her violent death — ideally by stoning her — while she was still a teenager.

Again, I gotta ask: Why are these people our friends?

OK, another one of our biggest allies is India, right? For years now, it’s been really popular to send pregnant girls to “doctors” whose practice consists mainly of doing ultra-sound scans to determine the sex of fetuses. Typically, if the fetus has the bad judgment to be a girl, good old Doc Sonogram intervenes, vacuuming the inappropriate succubus from the little mommy’s womb so that she can more quickly atone for her fallopian blunder by breeding a male. The result of this practice has been a gross male/female imbalance. All those frustrated surplus boys have turned India into the world capital of gang rapes. Even when the victim isn’t torn apart and literally raped to death, traditionalists tend to regard the assault as her fault. Like women in Pakistan, Iraq, Afghanistan, Saudi Arabia and other cherished American allies, she’s less likely to be comforted than shunned, if not prosecuted as a shameless slut — or summarily murdered by Mom and Dad.

In India — same place — half the population drops its feces outdoors, in  streets, yards and fields where children play. Six hundred twenty million Indian kids grow up ankle-deep in human shit, without ever finding a pony. At the moment, India has no serious plans to introduce basic sanitation into the lives of its lower-caste riffraff. Indian kids will be walking around in a brown soup of disease and death for generations to come. But hey, India has the Bomb.

One more time: Why are these people our friends?

Presumably, we tolerate these murderers, misogynists, rapists and religious nuts because we share with them enemies who are even more awful. Maybe so. But, if we just gave up on these throwbacks, what’s the worst that could happen?

OK, Americans tend to deplore religious beheadings, forced marriages, judicial amputations, cannibals, pedophiles, gender-choice feticide, gang rape, sexual subjugation, illiteracy, child soldiers, slavery, shooting little girls in the face, letting cows roam the streets and playgrounds that ooze with raw sewage.

But all these attitudes leave America hopelessly out of step with dozens of nations and billions of people who think they’re gonna go to hell if they don’t decapitate the occasional infidel or strangle the odd daughter.

This is a trend too big for a mere superpower like the U.S.A. to defy. And why should we try? Legions of true believers are slaughtering their own people and destroying civil institutions faster than we could accomplish with a million drone attacks every day. Guided by the Islamic State, billions are streaking fervently back to the Dark Ages in a Klingon Bird-of-Prey at warp speed. So, let ‘em go. Let human regression (and poop) spread from Syria to Bangladesh.

I know this sounds crazy, but I think it’ll turn out fine. Eventually — if we leave them be, with their swords, their scripture and their worst selves — even the religious sadists of ISIS will grow weary of beheading their brothers, enslaving their mothers and shooting little girls on their way to school.

Or, more likely, those brothers, mothers and little girls will grow weary of the religious sadists, and start shooting them.

Preferably, in the face.

Thursday, November 6, 2014

The Weekly Screed (#698)

What's in it for me? 
by David Benjamin

“This is not the time to lay out an agenda.”
                        — Senate Majority Leader Mitch McConnell

MADISON, Wis. — Every election year, the New York Times sends reporters out to some depressed working-class community in flyover country — Ypsilanti, Michigan, Youngstown, Ohio, Heiferfart, Oklahoma, etc. The resulting report tends to evoke Margaret Mead among the Polynesians, filling notebooks while snapping grainy photos of the natives as they copulate in the shrubbery and pick fleas from one another’s hair. I picture Times readers on Central Park West or over in Park Slope reading in wonderment and saying, “My God, how can they live like that?”

These anthropological expeditions into the dark continent between TriBeCa and Marin County establish the bar for political discourse throughout the media, from NPR and Reverend Al to Fox News and Matt Drudge. All this hardnosed electoral journalism ends up leaning heavily toward affect rather than cognition. Reporters keep asking folks how they feel. They elicit gut reaction and personal grievance, and if they don’t get that — in quotable nuggets — they hit “Delete.”

This emphasis on raw intimacy is equally vital to the almost omnipotent polling cartel. Opinion research, and its handicapping wing, has become a sort of national maelstrom. As it spins, it churns description into prescription. By asking a largely complacent and ill-informed electorate how it feels — right now, this minute — about issues reduced for polling purposes to one- or two-word labels, the opinion industry teaches us all how we should feel.

Politicians follow the pollsters (who, in turn, follow the politicians). The serious candidate heeds surveys slavishly while giving wide berth to the relevant, pressing issues that alter people’s lives. As we observed on Tuesday, your typical Election Day is a mass festival of emotionally charged ignorance.

We all know how we feel about, say, Chris Christie’s temper or Joni Ernst’s hair, but we know only through a glass, darkly, what’s actually at stake in America. We’re as dumb as we are at this critical moment partly because the media have abrogated their duty as skeptics and forsaken entirely their role as educators. We’ve also been virtually lobotomized by an army of horseplayers disguised as opinion researchers, and by a barrage of 20-second slasher-flicks choreographed by the thought-police who run campaigns for both the Democratic and Republican parties.

Tip O’Neill’s insight that all politics is local was an understatement. As American civics has devolved, all politics is not just personal. It’s selfish. Our leaders in both parties, at all levels, assure voters that — in any given election — only one question matters: “What’s in it for me?”

This seductive question has a million pleasing answers.

They’re all lies. 

Of course, we know it’s a lie, but we’re also convinced that any alternative answer is also bullshit, thus rendering all politics a vicious fraud and plunging every conscientious voter into a sort of existential hell.

That isn’t how I grew up learning politics. My first mentors — if I think about it — were Jesus and Franklin Delano Roosevelt. My examples of political efficacy were the New Deal and the International Brotherhood of Machinists.

In Jesus, I saw compassion for the unfortunate and a passion for equality. He was a peacemaker in a martial empire. He bespoke quiet resistance and fostered solidarity against the high and mighty. Best of all, even though he was smart, he kept things simple. From him, I learned that the first commandment of politics is the Golden Rule. Politically, said Jesus, ego is worse than irrelevant. It’s a sin.

FDR’s politics made similar sense to me because they were directed toward the greater good — as I figured Jesus would have it. My grandparents, Annie and Swede had been saved by the New Deal. Swede had barely gone to school, but FDR got him through the Depression, and then he prospered for another 30 years under the rugged loving care of the Machinists. My grandparents voted faithfully but never sought a tangible return from any election. They expected the men they elected to do right by everyone, as much as they could, even if some choices inconvenienced some voters. They knew you can’t please all the people all the time. They knew, above all, that you don’t vote for yourself. We’re in this together. You vote for everybody.

I developed all this childish idealism in parochial school, where I pictured Jesus feeding the hungry and protecting real, live children (not zygotes) from those who would impale them on swords or take away their lunch program. When I switched over to public — that’s public, for everybody — school, I had to pass exams about “unalienable rights” for all of us, “equally.” In both kinds of schools, I learned about the price free people had to pay — in civic engagement and paying taxes, in sweat, in blood, in the sacrifice of a million lives — to preserve those rights. In all the tests I took, “What’s in it for me?” never showed up.

We’ve just staged the costliest, most selfish election in our history, eclipsing the waste and narcissism of all our previous circuses. We weren’t asked to think — about anything — certainly not unalienable rights, the equality of man, the duties of citizenship, the nobility of sacrifice, or the fate of the poor, or the children, or God’s earth itself. Jesus got his name tossed around a lot, but only as either talking-point or expletive. The moneychangers weren’t just in the Temple. They own it now. FDR’s dead. The New Deal is a national embarrassment. Compassion is a sin.

And what was in it for me? Or you? Not a goddamn thing.

It was all lies.

Thursday, October 30, 2014

The Weekly Screed (#697)

The first thing we do,
let’s kill all the spies

by David Benjamin

Americans tend to learn most of what we know about our  “intelligence” establishment by watching TV. For example, I consumed a whole season of “Homeland” and discovered that your typical CIA agent is a twitchy, bipolar insomniac with an itchy trigger finger and a streak of nymphomania (and that’s just the male agents!). While deciding to avoid “Homeland” thereafter — unless strapped naked to a chair by CIA agents in front of a TV in an ice-cold room with constantly flickering lights and Celine Dion on the PA system — I realized that this depiction of the espionage community was unrealistic.

Real intelligence-gathering is better depicted by Gibbs, Abby, Ducky, DiNozzo, McGee and the mousy blonde who took Ziva’s place. Weekly doses of “NCIS” not only convey the magnitude of America’s global spy network but the tensions among its myriad tentacles. Gibbs and the gang at the Navy Criminal Investigative Service have an almost cordial relationship with their Coast Guard counterparts, largely because chief Agent Borin is gorgeous and got her start as one of those supermodel assistant prosecutors on “Law and Order.” Relations are less cozy, however, with NCIS’s occasional allies at the FBI, largely because Agent Fornell (a re-tread from “Hill Street Blues”) is less cute and photogenic than anybody at ether CGIS or NCIS, including Director Vance.

As for the CIA, represented by that sinister bald guy suffering from head-to-toe five o’clock shadow, well, fuggedaboudit. These spooks the enemy. They actively work to foil and frustrate Gibbs while arbitrarily kidnapping or killing every witness whom Tony and McGee haven’t already holed up in a safe house.

Even worse, there’s Homeland Security, whose paranoid imbeciles are constantly horning in on the case, barging into Abby’s lab with Kevlar vests and subpoenas, abducting Ducky’s klieg-lit cadavers and causing Palmer’s fiancée to miscarry yet another baby.

Thanks to TV, the lesson is clear. America is overrun with “intelligence” bureaus, poaching one another’s turf and relocating witnesses to the point where, today, the entire population of Arizona are living under assumed names. Governor Jan Brewer is, in fact, former DCS CI George Kaplan. There are so many agents, special agents and secret agents nowadays that they’re overflowing from cop and spy shows into secular programming. On “The Good Wife,” there were NSA eavesdroppers who knew about Alicia and Will’s affair even before Kalinda.

Conservatives keep insisting that giant chunks of the government need to be either wiped out or turned over to private enterprise, saving enormous expense and creating efficiencies unseen since the administration of George III. They tend to target agencies like Housing & Urban Development, the Environmental Protection Agency and the Education Department — whose responsibilities would then devolve to landlords, strip miners and Michelle Rhee. Whee!

Not to mention putting Social Security in the hands of Citigroup and Lloyd Blankfein. And running the whole Postal Service out of a FedEx hub in Memphis.

Preposterous? Sure. But I share with conservatives the idea that we can shutter entire federal departments and suffer few consequences. “Intelligence,” whose IQ in the last decade has slipped below the core body-temp of a three-day floater pulled out of the Potomac, is my first candidate. While we can’t entirely mothball every investigator and spy in all those agencies sprawling all over the federal and military underground, we can scalpel this bloated stiff right down to the bone.

Here’s what we do.

We rent out a really big stadium. The one in Ann Arbor, where the Wolverines play football, holds more than 100,000. If you count standing room and add some bleachers on the field, we can probably fit all the agents, spooks, spies, torturers, “analysts,” shysters and gumshoes now collecting government salaries for — mostly — leaning over one another’s shoulders to peek into the computer screens that are tracking what you and I check out from the library and watch on Netflix.

Then, we tell them they’re being downsized. We explain that, from this stadium full of wannabe James Bonds and burned-out Jack Bauers, Uncle Sam’s going to keep 100 spies and 100 detectives — that’s it — all of them working for one boss with a really good mustache. Obviously, Tom Selleck.

We’ll pick the lucky 200 by staging a scavenger hunt. Each applicant has to go out and track down, for example, a dead body in Central Park, a legal alien working at McDonald’s, a Democrat in Colorado Springs, a virgin sophomore at the University of Wisconsin, a black policeman in Ferguson, Missouri, an abortion provider in Wichita, a child molester in Congress, an atheist in a foxhole, a Muslim in Oklahoma, an actual Socialist anywhere in America, a hedge-fund manager who pays taxes, a job in Detroit, a kid on a milk carton, a black welfare mother with a mink coat and a late-model Cadillac, Keyser Soze, Judge Crater, Amelia Earhart and the solution to the dilemma of the Kobayashi Maru.

Of course, some of these are booby traps. Despite its reputation, there hasn’t been a dead body in Central Park for years. And the only one who ever saw that mink-dripping welfare queen in her hot-pink Fleetwood was Ronald Reagan, and he only glimpsed her briefly because he and Knute Rockne were busy leading Luke Skywalker and the Big Red One across Omaha Beach on D-Day.

But the 200 who do the best will actually get to serve in a pared-down intelligence community free of infighting and capable, perhaps, of finding out about outfits like ISIS before Jon Stewart does.

The rest — the whole stadium full — will have to turn in their Dick Tracy watches and secret de-coder rings, let their hair grow out and apply for the night watchman job down at the candy factory.

Wednesday, October 22, 2014

The Weekly Screed (#696)

Apocalypse now… and
tomorrow… and the day after that

by David Benjamin

“Good morning, ladies and germs! It’s Monday, and I’m Fred Fiermonger, alongside my co-host Abigail Angst, and this is ‘Good Grief, America,’ your daily wake-up-and-smell-the-napalm call here on the Anecdotal News Network. As you all know, we are broadcast live (until we all perish without warning in a ball of fire) from a bomb-proof bunker in an undisclosed location that changes on a weekly basis to avoid satellite surveillance. Today, as always, we’ll be dwelling hysterically on isolated incidents that are rife with alarm and taken out of context, exaggerating them into horrific trends that foreshadow a cataclysm so Biblical that, before sunset today, it will turn into a heap of stinking, toxic ash the hopes and dreams of every patriotic, Christian white family in what used to be the United States of America! Abby?”

ABBY: “I’m sorry, Fred. This story is so awful and sickening that I have to go behind the scenes and puke. Excuse me.”

FRED: “Okay then. The reason Abby is upchucking into a torpedo can is that three teenage girls from Denver — who might have been pre-emptively shot if not for a confiscatory gun-control regime engineered by Colorado’s ultra-liberal governor, John Hickenlooper — almost made it to Syria. The three traitorous little veil-wearers were planning to fight for ISIS, the sinister billion-strong Muslim terrorist army bent on ransacking every home-schooling household in America, imposing Islamic law and beheading everyone who speaks English or eats pork.”

ABBY: “I’m back, Fred. How’s my breath.”

FRED: “Suck on a mint, Abby, and tell us. What’s the most frightening and dastardly thing about this whole stomach-churning story.”

ABBY: “Well, Fred, you won’t believe this, but, after these seditious Sharia-mongering zealots, all three of African origin — AFRICAN, Fred! — were caught in Germany — GERMANY, Fred (Hitler, Nazis, Angela Merkel), they were brought back to American soil. Brought back here, Fred! Into our very midst.

FRED: “Yes, Abby, God help us. These three ISIS dupes spent 24 hours in the Frankfurt airport, where dozens of flights arrive daily from Africa, each one a potential carrier of new strains of the Ebola virus, each strain a potential mutation that could be transformed into an airborne biological weapon by mad Muslim scientists. At the airport, the ISIS recruits, each one as African as the ace of spades, had time to meet secretly with God-knows-who. And now, Abby, they’re here, in America — probably coughing and spitting, spewing their bodily fluids every which way, and free — FREE, Abby! — to meet with the thousands of ISIS terrorists embedded invisibly across the length and breadth of our nation.”

ABBY: “Oh, Fred, I’m all the more frightened by these evil Muslim death squads, because we know nothing — not one damn thing — about their numbers, locations, or even their existence. As the viewers of ANN know painfully well, the most groundless suspicions concocted by the most fearful fancy are the purest proof of all the evil forces that haunt out nightmares (especially on cable TV). We have no evidence of the ghastly plots we warn you about constantly, which only proves the brilliant secrecy maintained by this ruthless network of Islamic sleeper cells. Soon — perhaps today or tomorrow — our fears will be realized. A genocidal wave of bearded mujahedeen in stolen Humvees, crossing from Mexico, will sweep aside our rent-a-cop military and invade our gated communities, burning our Bibles, converting our children and turning our women into harem girls for the sadistic caliphs of an Islamic State that stretches from Istanbul to Honolulu.”

FRED: “Thank you, Abby. I’m scared silly now and I bet everyone else is, too. Now, it’s time to ask our gratuitous terrifying question of the day. Abby?”

ABBY: “Fred, America needs to know the answer and we need to know it now (if it isn’t too late already)! Today’ question is: Can you get Ebola from your PET? What’s in the water your goldfish swims around in? When your schnauzer licks your face, is he bathing you in fatal fluids? When your cat pees on your pillow, is she signing your death warrant? Think about it, America!”

FRED: “Abby, our guest today is chairman of the Senate Paranoia Caucus, Lindsey Graham of South Carolina. Welcome to ‘Good Grief, America,’ Senator.”

SEN. GRAHAM: “Troops, troops, troops! We need to send troops NOW, before it’s too late! Troops to Denver! Cordon off those traitorous teens! Burn them out, lock them up at Gitmo! Quarantine Colorado! Kill every dog and goldfish. Bury them under six feet of quicklime! Marines to Frankfurt! Surround the airport.  Navy Seals to Syria. Deploy troops from Istanbul to Honolulu. Bomb every inch of the Middle East. Drone them into the sea! And fill the sea with quicklime!”

FRED: “Thank you, Senator, for that calm, cogent analysis.”

SEN GRAHAM: “Oh, Fred, it’s not easy. You can’t imagine how I struggle to stay combed and cool in the mist of our dark-souled and disloyal president’s myriad betrayals and multiple conspiracies. If I hadn’t just gotten an injection of thorazine directly into my frontal lobe, I don’t know if I could cope.”

ABBY: “Senator, are you sure it was thorazine? Who gave you the injection? Could it have been a Muslim? Or a Liberian? Was it Nancy Pelosi?”

SEN. GRAHAM: “Oh my God! It was probably Ebola! Or Mad Cow! Or that Oklahoma execution drug that makes you twitch for 45 minutes! I’m gonna die! We’re all GOING TO DIE!”

FRED: “Thank you, Sen. Graham. And good luck in the November elections.”

ABBY: “Next, a word from our sponsors. But first, Fred? The motto of ANN and every ratings-grubbing cable-news outfit in the new-media universe.”

FRED: “Be Afraid, America. Be Very Freaking Afraid!”

Wednesday, October 15, 2014

The Weekly Screed (#695)

A political scene we’d like to see
by David Benjamin

(A proposed script — without talking points — for Mary Burke, Wisconsin gubernatorial candidate, at Friday night’s second debate.)

“Good evening, everyone. I’m Mary Burke. So what, right?

“Most of you don’t know me from a hole in the wall. Even more of you don’t give a woodchuck’s tuchis. And I don’t care that you don’t care. Doesn’t matter.

“Because right here next to me (Let’s give him a hand) is a guy you know all too well. You’ve been stuck with this shmuck for four years, and if you’re not sick and tired, you oughta be.

“Think back, people. Four years ago, Scooter came on TV and pulled the same folksy, aw-shucks, Joe Cheesehead-meets-Father Flanagan routine that you’re gonna see all over again tonight. For a while, we actually fell for it.

“That was then. By now, you should know better. The guy’s not regular folks. He’s rich now, and he wants to be richer. He’s mean, and his friends are meaner.

“Try to remember. No sooner did Scooter occupy the Governor’s chair than he went Jeff Dahmer on every wage-earner in Wisconsin. He attacked public employees, pitted union against union, firefighters against teachers, police against nurses. He turned family reunions into bar fights. He sent out troopers to arrest senators. He took the first steps toward living out the century-old right-wing dream of destroying the public schools. He transformed America’s friendliest state into the cast of Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? Look around. We’re still bickering.

“And almost half of you out there — I know, I’ve been talking with you. You hate this guy — just hate his guts. You’d rush for your twelve-gauge and shoot the two-faced flim-flammer if he walked in the door. I don’t blame you.

“Yes, but who’s to say I’d be any better? Well, I am better, but you wouldn’t know that without a little research. And most of you won’t bother to do that. But that’s OK, because the point is: You might not know me, but nobody starts brawls at the dinner table over Mary Burke. You might not like me. You might not trust me. We might not agree on anything. But, with me, that’s as bad as it gets.

“I haven’t lied to you about my intentions, demonized your neighbors, ruined your Thanksgiving, stripped your old man’s pension, wasted your taxes on phony charter schools or strip-mined your back forty to help fossil-fuel tycoons frack for gas in North Dakota. I just make bicycles and nobody hates me.

“Hey, even if I’m good for nothing else, won’t it be nice again to have a governor who doesn’t throw people in jail for singing protest songs in the Capitol rotunda? Here’s a promise: When I’m governor, I’ll come downstairs, send the Capitol cops out for coffee and join the sing-along.

“And I’ll stay in Wisconsin. No trips to Manhattan to speak at right-wing (or left-wing) fundraisers, no junkets to Vegas to kiss Sheldon’s ring. No pilgrimages to ‘retreats’ in Arizona to eat caviar and snort Koch. And I won’t be shlepping every week to Iowa and New Hampshire — as soon as this election’s over — so I can pander to Tea Party primary voters.

“You see, I’m running for governor. Right here. In Wisconsin.

“This guy — you must know this — is not gonna stick around unless he has to. Scooter here — bless his power-hungry little heart — wants to be president.

“OK, stop laughing. I know. Considering his record, the idea is just silly. But Scooter’s got the one thing that every tunnel-vision political hack needs. He has richer-than-God friends in faraway places. You know who they are, and he knows how far backward he has to bend at their behest. He knows  — from experience —  how far up their assets he has to shove his nose to get their handouts.

“He knows exactly how much quo he has to pro to collect their quid.

“And that’s the point: To keep Scooter in Wisconsin, doing his job, you can’t afford to pay his asking price. I can’t afford him either, and I’m wealthy. When it comes to dialing for dollars, we’re all way out of Scooter’s area code.

 “As long as King Midas and the Mysterions are Scooter’s first priority, you and I, the people of the once-neighborly little state of Wisconsin, are not his target demographic. He may talk about some fictional little old lady in Eagle River named Agnes living on Social Security, but he doesn’t care about Ag, or Eagle River. He may visit some grubby little non-union tool shop in West Bend and talk about the spirit of free enterprise, but if the owners can’t pony up six figures for his super-PAC before he exits stage-right, he’ll never look back.

“Look at his travel schedule and you can see what’s happening here. Scooter’s moving on. He’ll only hang around this one-horse state if he absolutely has to. And the only way that will happen is if you vote him out of office, crush his pathetic presidential pipe-dream and ship him back to Waukesha.

“Because here’s the scariest thing of all. We all know that if Scooter gets re-elected now, he’ll be running for president in 2016, which will keep him out of Wisconsin for at least a year, maybe longer — leaving our fate in the hands of a lieutenant governor who makes Lucy Ricardo look like a Rhodes scholar. But once Scooter loses — and we all know he will — he’ll be back. He’ll be pissed. And he’ll take it out on all of us.

“As miserable as things were in 2011 when the whole state hit the barricades, Scooter’s revenge could turn out to be even uglier.

“It comes down to this. You might not know me, but you know my bikes. You trust them, because they work. But from this gonif, would you buy a used car?

“Or, to put it in the immortal words of George W. Bush: ‘Fool you once, shame on you, er… me. Fool me again, shame — wait. Um, fool you… no… um…’”

Wednesday, October 8, 2014

The Weekly Screed (#694)

“Ick!”
by David Benjamin

“This is judicial activism at its worst. The Constitution entrusts state legislatures, elected by the People, to define marriage consistent with the values and mores of their citizens. Unelected judges should not be imposing their policy preferences to subvert the considered judgments of democratically elected legislatures.”

MADISON, Wis. — On the long list of Things I Wanna Watch, two guys kissing each other is pretty far down there. But I can stand it — especially if it has symbolic and political significance, as it did this week when the Supreme Court allowed marriage equality in five more states, including Wisconsin.

I’m less enthusiastic about watching a couple of guys, say, drinking champagne out of their navels and licking hot fudge off each other’s nipples. Actually, this is something I’d prefer not to see even if it’s a guy and a girl with great bodies, vintage champagne and that famous fudge from Mackinac Island.

I’m even a little squeamish about that scene in Basic Instinct — you know, where Sharon Stone is naked, mounted on this guy in the throes of orgasmic ecstasy. It’s not that I don’t appreciate Ms. Stone (or, probably, her body double) in the nude, nicely tanned, bouncing and exercising vigorously. My issue is privacy. Notwithstanding a Sexual Revolution in which I participated eagerly, I’ve always regarded serious sex — nakedness, awkward positions, body fluids, climaxes,  yelling involuntarily, etc. — as something you do without an audience. Movie sex scenes can be vital to the narrative, but I’m always ambivalent as I stare at the screen. Even as I succumb to the cheap thrill of vicarious passion, I can’t help but feel vaguely like a pervert peering through Ralph and Alice’s bedroom window.

So, when Sharon grabs the ice-pick and plunges it repeatedly into her lover, I’m relieved. The movie has steered its way to the safe harbor of blood, guts, murder and mayhem — which, at least in America — offer a far more socially acceptable form of family amusement. Everybody watches fictional people shoot, stab, strangle and dismember other fictional people. This is good clean, make-believe fun and we’re not embarrassed to admit that we consume it.

Many of us also watch hardcore porn. But we tend to do so surreptitiously, because there’s a measure of peeping-Tom in this sort of pleasure. We feel a little creepy watching people do something that we ourselves do behind closed doors with the lights out and the shades down, so that the children, or the neighbors —  or people who know how to do it better — won’t see.

Whether we call ourselves liberal or conservative, most of us agree that sexual display has limits, and that venturing beyond that pale is unseemly, unsightly and uncivilized — not to mention frightening the horses.

This is why the right-wing angst over same-sex marriage is so fascinating. There seems to be a real dread among so-called conservatives that gay people, especially men, don’t subscribe to the taboo about against pulling out your privates in public. A lot of gay marriage opponents, notably Supreme Court Justice Antonin Scalia, are honestly afraid that all the queers are going to start doing it in the road.

Scalia has difficulty uttering terms like “same-sex marriage.” He prefers the far more clinical formulation, “homosexual sodomy.” This explicit usage suggests a perception both voyeuristic and apocalyptic. Justice Scalia, who has clearly managed to avoid any knowing contact with openly gay people for more than 70 years, has been shaken by the millions of Americans who “came out” of a closet that was traditionally reserved for gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgender people.

Justice Scalia typifies the fear that gay people — whose sexuality is both aberrant and mysterious to him — will go beyond marrying, adopting and raising children. They will also express their unconventional libidos in alarmingly non-traditional ways, forsaking the discretion that supposedly governs heterosexual love. They will — dear God, help us! — commence to sodomize one another right out in the open, on the sidewalk, in elevators, in the waiting room at the podiatrist’s office, on the benches at the mall with hot fudge, in the pews at the First Presbyterian as the pastor leads the faithful in “Onward, Christian Soldiers.”

Justice Scalia suffers perpetual homophobic panic because of the “ick factor,” a visceral terror of watching grown men — many of them as flabby and hairy as Justice Scalia — doing nasty things together in front of throngs of moms all gaping with disgust, covering their kids’ eyes and saying, “Ew! Ick! Gross!”

Justice Scalia’s army of alarmists seem not to appreciate the very closet where they locked their gay brothers and sisters for centuries. Gay people have always had sex with one another. However, as a matter of self-preservation — not to mention good taste — they did so far more secretly than their heterosexual peers.

Privacy has had to be more dearly protected in the gay community than in the 007, strip-club, topless-bar, skin-flick, Pet-of-the-Month sexual culture populated by the rest of us. After all, for most of my life, you could be killed for being a little bit swishy. And then there’s Rock Hudson. After kissing Doris Day a hundred times on-screen, he was dead of AIDS before anyone knew he was gay.

All those strait-laced “Christian” straights — who’ve seen too many YouTube clips of gay-pride parades — seem to believe that “coming out” is the same as “strutting your stuff.” Better they should ponder, with empathy and admiration, how gay life was presciently defined by Paul 2,000 years ago, when he told the Thessalonians, “to aspire to live quietly, to mind your own affairs.”

They do already. And they will. Watch.