Like most folks in DC, I didn’t have much work scheduled yesterday. I did go downtown to my office around three in the afternoon to meet with a couple of foreign clients, but not much else was going on. I had given my private secretary the day off, of course, and scheduled that single appointment late enough so that when I was done at half past five, things would be convenient for me to attend a party over at the American Enterprise Institute.
There, I was greeted by John Alden XII, a field officer in that veritable army of staunchly conservative aparatchiks who work at AEI. Last time we got together to socialize (you’ll pardon the expression) John’s speciality was rationalizing unemployment. Did you know, for example, that it’s healthier, safer and just downright more fun to be out of work than it is to have a job, even if you’re not making any money at all? Well, John has extensive statistics, developed from surveys conducted by completely unbiased researchers funded by the AEI that prove it, and prove it conclusively. John can also prove that 5 percent unemployment is completely normal and, in fact, good for the economy. What’s more, he can prove that less unemployment than that is inflationary, culturally disintegrative and, last but not least, aggressively distributive to the point of being nothing less than creeping Communism.
What’s more, in point of fact, John’s quite an authority on unemployment. In his family, the Mayflower isn’t just some hotel in Manhattan, it’s the sibboleth that guarantees admission to a certain very exclusive private club. John is, in fact, the first male member of his family to hold a paying job since 1876. One look at the exquisite oil portraits of his ancestors since then, such as the one he granted me when I visited his “cottage” in Rhode Island last year, and I could tell right away – if your family made an obscene fortune working women and children to death in stygian New England mills, your unemployment experience is even better than the average Joe’s.
“Tom!” John exclaimed as he slapped me jovially on the back. “I’m so glad you could make it!”
“Very kind of you to invite me,” I replied graciously. “But to tell you the truth, you surprised me a bit, you folks here at the AEI throwing a big cocktail party on a day like this.”
John stared at me for a moment, obviously quite puzzled. “What do you mean,” he inquired curiously, “’on a day like this?’”
“Well,” I averred, “what with it being January 21st and all…”
“Right!” John smiled broadly. “Today is Stonewall Jackson’s birthday!”
“No,” I attempted to clarify, “that’s not what I meant…”
“Oh, right, you thought we were celebrating today because Lenin died on January 21st!”
“Ah, no, I was thinking it was odd that you here at the American Enterprise Institute would be celebrating the birth of the Right Reverend Doctor Martin Luther King, Junior.”
“Damn right, Tom!” John smiled as he handed me a bubbling flute of Dom Pérignon. “It would be extremely odd, because Martin Luther King, Jr. was born on January 15th! Actually,” he continued, sipping a glass of champagne himself, “this is the ‘Surge Splurge Party,’ which we’re holding to celebrate the success of our President’s military surge in Iraq.”
“It’s a success?”
“He says so,” John proudly affirmed, “and in no uncertain terms. He says we’re kicking [expletive] in Iraq now!”
“The President of the United States said ‘[expletive]?’”
“He did,” John exulted triumphantly, “And I’m pretty sure he wasn’t talking about a donkey, either! But don’t just take his word for it – McCain said ‘we are winning in Iraq,’ too! So here,” he offered, holding his champagne aloft, “is to our President, his leadership, his staunch allies, and his courageous armed forces!”
“Before I drink to that,” I requested, “could you tell me when, if what you say is true, we can anticipate leaving Iraq?”
John’s face, along with his glass, fell. “Leave? Oh, no, no, no, Tom, forget about that. We can’t possibly leave!”
“Why not?”
“Because things are going so well. We have to stay and make sure that Iraq will be all that it can be!”
“As opposed,” I contrasted, “to the last five years or so, where the Administration argued that things were so bad in Iraq we couldn’t even consider leaving?”
“Now you’ve got it,” John proclaimed victoriously. “That’s it exactly – before we couldn’t leave because things were so bad and now we can’t leave because things are so good. Bottom line: we can’t ever leave Iraq.”
“So,” I concluded, “what you folks here at the AEI are really celebrating is the fact that we’re stuck there forever?”
“Darn tootin’, good buddy,” John happily confirmed, “and it’s a great thing, too. Do you have any idea,” he persisted, drawing in close to my right shoulder and dropping his voice to a low and conspiratorial tone, “how profitable military manufacturing, provision, support and logistics are? My family owns huge chunks of several important military contracting firms, you know. Don’t tell anybody,” he confided with a wink, “but Dyncorp is so profitable lately, papa is thinking about just going ahead and buying it outright.”
“Well,” I conceded, raising my glass of champagne, “if you put it that way, sure! Here’s to the fantastic success of the Iraq surge!”
John, like most products of generations of inbreeding intended to keep money within the family, is hardly capable of detecting irony. Actually, I suspect he couldn’t discern it if a three hundred pound ironic statement ran up and bit him on the Alden family jewels. Therefore, as we drained our champagne glasses, he smiled with that special rich idiot’s delight such people as John display when contemplating trickling down all over everybody else.
“Free bar over here!” Such were the next words out of John’s mouth, words that made me feel as if I were attending an Ivy League class reunion of similarly moronic upper class twits. Nevertheless, “free bar over here” has a very pleasant sound to someone such as myself, who prefers his brandy Alexanders made with Remy XO, three shots of Godiva Chocolate Liqueur, chilled organic grass fed Marin County goat’s milk half-and-half and freshly grated whole Moluccan nutmeg, because four minutes later, that’s exactly what I was drinking. “So, John,” I chatted, amiably sipping probably the only truly unique, postmodern and desitively bonnaroo brandy Alexander between Northwest DC and TriBeCa, “are you one of the architects who so masterfully built the Surge Edifice?”
“I did my part,” John admitted modestly, “up until about eight months ago. Then they put me in charge of a new project, and I must say, it’s been quite a challenge.”
“What was that?”
“Well, Tom, I don’t like to brag, but when you hear what it was, I think even you will be impressed.”
“All right then! Hit me with your best shot, Johnny Boy!”
“Would you believe,” he asked, “that they assigned me with proving that the Clintons are blacker than Barack Obama?”
Sure, I laughed.
“No, Tom, I’m serious. That’s what I’ve been working on for the last eight months!”
“Seriously?” I was floored, really. “Why?”
“Because, Tom, the Republican National Committee has concluded that, well, with things being the way they are and all, Hillary Clinton is the only Democratic candidate a Republican could beat.”
“Are you saying,” I queried, my head swimming with incredulity, “their assessment is that even Giuliani or McCain would lose to Mike Gravel or… Dennis Kucinich?”
John shook his head gravely, briefly contemplating the floor. “I’m afraid so. All the computer models agree. Unless you want to consider Lyndon LaRouche versus Alan Keyes.”
“In which?”
“In which, according to the computer models, at least, Alan Keyes would win.”
“Has Lyndon LaRouche actually declared his intention to run for president in 2008?”
“No,” John stated flatly, “but he has until April to do so.” John sighed deeply. “I don’t usually tell people this, but the computer models indicate that if LaRouche had declared his candidacy any time in 2007… even he could beat any Republican.”
“I see. That’s assuming things continue ceteris paribus, with respect to the salient parameters, I suppose?”
“Oh, yeah,” John nodded in agreement. “Not that we haven’t engaged in extensive ‘what-if’ analysis.”
“Okay then,” I prodded, “what has to happen?”
“Well,” John drawled out slowly as he studied the ceiling with care, “we determined that if Osama bin Laden is captured and executed on global television during half-time at Super Bowl forty-two, causing Iran to undergo at least an eighty percent Christian conversion and at least ninety six percent of the Palestinians to commit mass suicide, coincidentally followed by both the spontaneous establishment of democracy in North Korea and The Rapture; then, provided that the Euro sinks to twenty cents on the dollar, our balance of trade with China reverses completely, oil starts selling for less than ten dollars a barrel and the Dow Jones Industrial Average breaks 20,000 by October 15, 2008, Huckabee could defeat Edwards or any of the Democrats Edwards beat in Iowa or New Hampshire.”
“Admittedly, quite a stretch,” I observed. “But other than that, what’s the prognosis?”
“Other than that, the computers say that Hillary Clinton is the only Democrat any Republican could possibly defeat in next November’s presidential election.”
“Wow,” I opined, “that’s pretty serious!”
“As serious as a heart attack, Tom,” John lamented, taking a generous hit from his fifty year old single malt scotch, “and it makes you wonder just what the hell is wrong with the American public, you know what I mean?”
“I guess so,” I concurred. “And your job is to convince the public that Hillary Clinton is blacker than Barack Obama, so that the African American vote in the remaining Democratic primaries will assure her nomination?”
“You got it,” John proudly beamed, “and, what’s more, we’re doing a bang-up job, if I do say so myself! It’s not that hard, really,” John asserted, “why, being only half black, like Obama, that’s not anywhere near black enough to adequately represent African Americans.”
“Okay, let me play Devil’s advocate here for a while,” I humbly submitted, “and point out that Adam Clayton Powell Jr. was an octoroon; I mean, seriously, if that brother just stayed out of the sun for a week, he could pass. So here you have Adam Clayton Powell Jr., who’s seven eighths white, and he represented Harlem, a very black part of Manhattan, in Congress. Therefore, why shouldn’t Barack Obama, who’s a Senator from Chicago, a city with a very considerable black population and a person who is, in fact, only half white, be less black than Adam Clayton Powell Jr.?”
“Because,” John shot back so quickly it was obvious that he’d been asked that question before, “the seven eighths of Adam Clayton Powell Jr. that was white came from New York City, but the half of Obama that’s white came from Wichita, Kansas.”
“Alright,” I conceded, “so maybe you could run that up the flagpole and get a minority of the African American electorate to salute, but how in world do you intend to convince the majority of them that the Clintons are blacker than Obama?”
“Doing that isn’t as difficult as it appears on the surface, Tom. Consider these things, if you will. The Clinton’s are from the South, not Chicago. The South is where real black people come from – Chicago is just where some of them went after World War II. But not Obama! Genuine African Americans trace their ancestry to West Africa, not Kenya – Kenya’s in East Africa, thousands of miles away from where real black American ancestors came from! So, just by being authentic Southerners, the Clintons are way, way, blacker than Obama. Hell, the average white trash member of the Arkansas Ku Klux Klan is blacker than Obama! Just look at the facts – collectively, the Clintons have eaten 25,000 percent more barbecue, 35,000 percent more biscuits with bacon gravy, 50,000 percent more pork rinds, 65,000 percent more fried chicken, 75,000 percent more watermelon, 85,000 percent more deep-fried steak, 100,000 percent more discount store hot sauce, 125,000 percent more corn dogs, 150,000 percent more sweet potatoes, 175,000 percent more deep-fried Oreos, 250,000 percent more fatback, 275,000 percent more turnip greens, 300,000 percent more collards, 400,000 percent more butter beans, 450,000 percent more red beans and rice, 500,000 percent more fried green tomatoes, 575,000 percent more candied yams, 600,000 percent more black eyed peas, 665,000 percent more fried cabbage, 700,000 percent more square pan corn bread, 750,000 percent more hominy grits, 775,000 percent more hushpuppies, 800,000 percent more okra, 825,000 percent more deep fried catfish, 847,000 percent more deep-dish peach cobbler, 950,000 percent more hoppin’ John, 1 million percent more pigs feet, 1,250,000 percent more ham hocks, 1,375,000 percent more hog maws, 1,435,000 percent more hog’s head cheese, 1,750,000 percent more chitterlings, and 1,850,000 percent more dirt-cheap ice tea with way too much cane sugar in it.”
“I must admit, my man John, you are veritable encyclopedia of comparative statistics concerning Barack Obama and the Clintons,” I confessed. “But explain this – when Clinton was President, all he did was eat at McDonald’s.”
“Right,” John agreed, “and that’s exactly what genuine black Americans do when they get enough money to afford it! But has Obama ever eaten at McDonald’s? Of course not! As a matter of fact, Obama likes to eat sushi – and California roll at that! Really now, come on! How upper class white liberal can you get? I mean, for Christ’s sake, Tom, there’s not even one single Asian in this whole country who thinks California roll is their favorite kind of sushi! You know who thinks California roll is the best kind of sushi? Paris Hilton, that’s who! And how black is Paris Hilton, pray tell?”
“Not very.”
“Not at all, you mean! What’s more, Obama’s middle name is ‘Hussein.’ That’s not just wrong – it’s not African American. It’s Arab. One third of the man’s name is Arab! He’s one half picket fence, Little House on the Prairie, Pepperidge Farm Brick Oven White Bread Honky, and one third wailing, screaming, camel-humping Arab terrorist! Now tell me, really, what the hell does that add up to? I’ll tell you, not black enough to be President of the United States, that’s what it adds up to!”
“You’re certainly boxing in my objections,” I acknowledged, “but I hope you don’t intend to rely entirely on those arguments.”
“Of course not,” John assured me. “There’s plenty more.”
“Such as, for example?”
“Ah, well, I’ve hardly scratched the surface, really,” he chuckled, allowing himself a mild boast. “Take this for instance – Hillary Clinton’s vocal imitation of authentic African American Ebonics was judged more convincing ninety two percent of the time in a double blind test using actual recordings of Hillary and Obama made at black churches where they did such imitations in public for media broadcasts.”
“Oh come on, Johnny,” I chided, “how can you say Obama is imitating an African American? He is an African American!”
“No,” John countered, “that’s just the point, Tom – Obama’s not even black enough to sound like a genuine African American, even when he’s obviously attempting to do so. Our blindfold audio tests prove it!”
“What?” Now I was truly skeptical. “How can you conduct blindfold audio tests on sound samples of Hillary and Obama quote ‘trying,’ unquote, to sound like quote ‘a genuine African American,’ unquote? Wouldn’t all the test subjects be readily able tell that one recording was obviously a man and the other recording was obviously a woman?”
“Oh, that wasn’t anywhere near the obstacle you make it sound like, Tom.” John cracked a sly smile. “The solution was quite straightforward, actually. We chose audio clips of them from their campaign speeches to African American Methodist Episcopal Church congregations, both saying the same thing.”
“Such as?”
“Such as two identical recitations of the utterance ‘Hal-ley-luuuuh-yah! Ain’t nobody cain’t stop us now, nossuh! We sho’ nuf be gwine all de way to de Promise Lan’ dis time! Lawsy! Yeah! Somebody gimme a witness, Praaah-aaay-zuh Gawhd! De Blessed Valley uh Canaan, it be jus’ ovah de mountin’ fo’ de chillin’s of Jah-he-sus, yowsah, yowsah, yowsah, Aaaay-men;’”
“Blessed Saint Michael on a unicycle! They both said that?”
“Said that? Hell, Tom, that’s just the tip of the iceberg! We’ve determined that both campaigns plagiarized it from a June 1937 radio broadcast of ‘The Amos and Andy Show!’ That’s the one where The Kingfish finds out that Andy has inherited four hundred dollars, and so The Kingfish subsequently bilks Andy out of it by charging him for lessons in how to become a preacher – ‘So’s you don’ have to work no mo’,’ as The Kingfish tells him.”
“Okay, so you’ve got identical utterances in which both candidates attempt authentic Ebonics,” I allowed, “then what?”
“Then,” John explained, “with half the test subjects, we slowed Hillary down until she sounded like a man. With the other half of the test subjects, we speeded Obama up until he sounded like a woman. In the first set, ninety five percent thought Hillary slowed down to sound like a man was more authentic Ebonics, whereas, in the second set, eighty nine percent thought Obama speeded up to sound like a woman wasn’t as black as Hillary at normal speed. So, if you average the results, you get ninety two percent, just as I said.”
“Amazing,” I granted him, albeit reluctantly, “just amazing. And I bet the other side hasn’t the faintest idea what they’re up against.”
“Ah, well-uh, well-uh,” John replied with a sly smile, “I sho’ nuff hope not, brotha Thomas, heah, heah, heah. We ol’ money Republicans would hate ta lose dat dere President ‘lection to a buncha raggedy-[expletive], [expletive]-loving Democrats.”