As Fate and my appointment schedule would have it, I was sufficiently close by the Willard Hotel around lunch time, and after dining had about an hour to kill at the Round Robin Bar. There I spied Phil McCrakin, principal lobbyist for the Association of American Pornographers. Well, how about that, I thought to myself as I sat down next to him – what could be more appropriate than a lobbyist drinking at the bar in the Willard Hotel?
“How very appropriate,” I said as I sat down next to him.
“Oh,” he smiled, “you mean a lobbyist drinking at the bar in the Willard Hotel?”
“That’s it. Seeing an American tradition at its best,” I confided, “warms the patriotic cockles of my heart.”
“Okay, Tom,” he volleyed back, “just be sure you keep those warm cockles to yourself, ‘cause I don’t swing that way.”
“What,” I quipped, gesturing to the bartender, “not even once, when you were in college?”
“Ha,” Phil snapped, “like I went to college! The only college I ever attended was the University of Hard Knocks!”
“Bombay Sapphire and tonic,” I told the bartender. “Hard Knocks – ” I continued, addressing Phil, “again, how appropriate, considering whom you represent. I’m sure none of them would be interested in soft knocks, would they?”
“Hey,” Phil protested, “don’t stereotype my association’s membership, okay? Sure, we’ve got hard porn. But we’ve got plenty of soft porn, too; and we’ve got animal porn, we’ve got fetish porn, we’ve got bondage porn, we’ve got costume porn, we’ve got straight porn, we’ve got gay porn, video porn, sixteen-millimeter porn, DVD porn, slide projector porn, porn novels, porn biographies, porn short stories, porn magazines, porn comics, Internet porn, live porn, peep-show porn, funny porn, sad porn, scary porn, young porn, old porn, artistic porn, trashy porn, tasteful porn, vulgar porn …”
“… porn salad,” I interjected, “poached porn, steamed porn, smoked porn, baked porn, porn casserole, fried porn, grilled porn, porn chops…”
“… porn on the half-shell,” Phil snickered quietly into his appletini, “porn bisque, porn mousse, porn crepes, …”
“… porn pie,” I offered as my drink arrived.
“Oh yeah,” Phil concurred in a lecherous tone, “and that porn pie tastes mighty fine!”
“Chicken porn pie?”
“Absolutely,” Phil confirmed. “Love that chicken porn pie and beef cake. Everybody does.”
“Ah, actually,” I cautioned, “not everybody.”
“Oh yeah,” Phil snorted, “that’s right – the prudes! I forgot about the [expletive] prudes. Well, [expletive] them if they don’t like porn!”
“It is,” I averred, “a very successful business.”
“Damn good, honest business, too,” Phil nodded.
“And pretty much recession proof,” I opined, “or at least I’d imagine so.”
“At last!” Phil raised his glass to the gods. “The great Tom Collins has made a mistake!”
“You mean,” I gasped, “that American pornographers are feeling the pinch?”
“Yeah.”
“Failing to keep abreast of their liabilities?”
“No doubt about it.”
“Frustrated by lack of market penetration?”
“Yep.”
“Slaves to recent excesses of economic lust?”
“Looks like that’s the case.”
“Taken aback by performance shortcomings?”
“Affirmative.”
“Tied up in knots of unpaid receivables?”
“Seems that way.”
“Thoroughly licked?”
“Like Orphan Annie’s lollipop.”
“On their knees?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Going down for the duration?”
“Indubitably.”
“About to choke?”
“Roger that.”
“Stripped to their bare assets?”
“All the way, brother.”
“Soon to be flat on their backs…”
“… Absolutely…”
“… with rapacious receivers on top of them, tapping the bottom of the barrel…”
“… You got the picture…”
“… eagerly awaiting peanut butter jelly time?”
“Huh?”
“In short,” I concluded, “are you saying the porn industry is failing to launch for the money shot?”
“Sadly,” Phil agreed, “that certainly appears to be the situation. But – never fear – that’s why I’m here.”
“Drinking appletinis in the Round Robin Bar?”
“No, no,” he clarified, “that’s why I’m here on K Street, lobbying for the interests of all those hard-working strokers and toiling pokers; the panting flaunters and sweating fluffers; the laboring strippers, the drudging drippers and moiling stuffers…”
“Okay, okay,” I pleaded, “it seems to me I recall your speech to the porn convention last year.”
“And now,” Phil proudly informed me, “they’re going to see I meant what I said!”
“How?” I must confess my curiosity was, at this point, excited to a tumultuous, throbbing, fever pitch, which I could scarcely bear for another moment.
“Today,” he proclaimed, “the American pornography industry announced it is seeking a five billion dollar government bailout!”
“Oh, my God,” I ejaculated. “To think that affairs of state have come to such an unbelievable climax!”
“Incredible,” Phil confirmed, “but true! Larry Flynt, the man second only to Hugh Hefner in supplying the autoerotic needs of American men, and Joe Francis, producer of ‘Girls Gone Wild,’ have sent a letter to Representative Barney Frank and Treasury Secretary Henry Paulson, formally requesting five billion dollars to bail out the American pornography industry.”
“And now,” I surmised, “it’s up to you and your colleagues at the trade association to see that Uncle Sam shells out for what’s behind the counter just like he did for the window dressing.”
“Exactly,” Phil declared, tossing back the last of his appletini while signaling the bartender for another.
Admittedly, I was astounded, but nevertheless managed to ask, “Do you anticipate any problems?”
“Not really,” Phil confidently replied. “Barney’s already a loyal gay porn consumer.”
“But what,” I pressed on, “about Henry Paulson?”
“Piece of cake. I mean, really, just think about it,” Phil dryly requested, “who knows more about screwing people than Hank Paulson?”
So, as we Americans once more bend over and grab our ankles in anticipation of yet another Washington insider bailout deal, let’s take heart in the knowledge that this time, at least, we’re going to get rogered by real professionals. Now, let’s have a look at that old Quarterly Mailbag:
My post on October 5 drew a slew of angry e-mails from outraged members of the Civil Service, nearly unanimous in their insistence that the United States Civil Service is most certainly not staffed by corrupt, lazy, incompetent, half-witted nincompoops. And for every one of those, I got ten e-mails from members of the public, each telling me that, when it comes to the US Civil Service, I don’t even know the half of it, here’s another horror story that demonstrates what a bunch of corrupt, lazy, incompetent, half-witted nincompoops they are. In other words, pretty much what I expected.
The account of my meeting with Ms. Wymiotowac, Senior Public Relations Advisor to AIG, wherein I suggested that the financial industry adopt a new sales pitch for their services more along the lines of that currently used by casinos drew an unexpectedly large number of nasty responses from members of the gaming sector. The recurring theme in their mountain of universally brassed-off epistles is that extensive public relations research on their part has established that the casino industry has a considerably better image than Wall Street and the fine, upstanding pillars of the community who own and operate the slot machines, craps tables, roulette wheels and blackjack shoes of our fair nation don’t want their honest businesses associated with the likes of AIG, or any of those other shady Wall Street operations, either.
E-mails reacting to my account of that consultation I gave Krona Kronasson from the Icelandic Embassy split pretty much 50/50 between those sent by angry Icelandic mothers who bristled at the suggestion that their daughters have round heels and messages from young Icelandic ladies inquiring as to whether I’d like to pay their airfare over here to America or if I’d like to “come in Iceland with me,” as one of them, whose English obviously still needs a bit of work, so nicely put it.
A few folks wrote in to compliment me on my post about helping out my sister’s husband’s cousin Joe in Ohio, who, unfortunately, happens to be a plumber. The vast majority of e-mails I received, however, were irate tirades and raving rants from supporters of Samuel Wurzelbacher, a.k.a. “Joe the Plumber.” To them I say – Nyah, nyah, nyah, the conservatives got totally stomped in November, so who cares what they say anymore?
My subsequent post related a conversation with a fellow named John McCain, who, you may remember, ran for President against Barack Obama in 2008. At the time, there was considerable buzz going around about his vice-presidential running mate, a woman from Alaska named Sarah Palin, and this McCain guy was a bit consternated about her going on a spending spree with Republican National Committee money during an election that was occurring in the midst of the biggest financial debacle since the Great Depression. It’s rather nostalgic now, looking at those e-mails I received in reaction to that post, castigating me, as they did, for not realizing how important a good wardrobe is to female vice presidential candidates, and extolling Ms. Palin’s many virtues and talents, such as moose hunting, public speaking, bush piloting, beauty pageant queening, basketballing, flute playing, hockey mom-ing, and, of course, preparing authentic Alaskan muk-tuk from endangered whale species that she herself speared while sailing the frozen waters of the Arctic in a walrus skin and elk bone boat which she crafted, unassisted, from walruses and elk she killed with her own bare hands and fierce, shiny teeth, all with a wry and knowing sourdough wink. So, I hear, since then, she’s gone back to Alaska, where she’s the governor, there to oversee the various important public enterprises of that great state, and also maybe see if she can get that bum who knocked up her daughter to marry the girl so the baby won’t end up being just another hypocritical conservative Republican bastard. And now, thanks to governor Palin, Alaskans introducing themselves to anybody from anywhere else, the world over, are greeted with the same universal response – “Alaska? What the hell is wrong with you people, anyway?”
The visit I received from Nathan Bedford Forrest Glampers, the Appalachian coal millionaire who was convinced that Barack Obama is the Antichrist, drew a predictable avalanche of e-mails from people who are just as convinced about Mr. Obama themselves, plus a considerable amount of correspondence indicating strong beliefs that other individuals are the Antichrist, including Vladimir Putin, Pope Benedict XVI, Michael Jackson, Ryan Seacrest, and even Dick Cheney. It seems that nobody believes George W. Bush is the Antichrist, though. I suppose people don’t think he’s smart enough. That post also mentioned my room mate Veronica, and, as usual, that drew the predictable bunch of e-mails from various lonely gentlemen requesting her contact information. And, as usual, I forwarded those e-mails to her account; and, as usual, guys, don’t hold your breath waiting for a reply unless you can demonstrate a net worth in excess of about ten million dollars. And thanks for the thoughtful e-mails from the six people who wanted to know if poor old Mr. Glampers recovered – yes, he did, and Veronica’s already relieved him of a considerable amount of his excess money. That’s got his relatives back in eastern Kentucky pretty riled up though, so it’s anybody’s guess how long she will be allowed to continue pumping him – for money, that is.
The transcript of my November 4 telephone conversation with Republican National Committee Chairman Robert “Mike” Duncan drew quite a stiff response from disappointed Republicans, as might be expected. Many of them refused to believe the account of Senator McCain’s and Governor Palin’s behavior posted on this Web log, insisting that it must be fictional, although several of them did allow that if anything like that did actually happened, Cindy McCain would have done exactly what was described. To such knee-jerk naysayers and gratuitously skeptical curmudgeons, I can only say – How dare you nattering nabobs of negativism presume to assert that Tom Collins’ World Wide Web Log is fictional? Ha! Next, I suppose you’re going to start saying the eleven trillion dollars that disappeared when the financial markets collapsed last year never really existed to begin with!
The post about my encounter with my dear sister Rose in her garage drew a large number of comments about contemporary art. I won’t say “modern” art, because “modern art” includes works such as Cubism, Abstractionism and the New York School, all of which are totally passé 20th century folderol where, for God’s sake, the artists actually applied paint to various surfaces with brushes or made real, physical sculptures, like it’s the 16th century something and they’re Titian or Bruegal or Michelangelo or some other dead white guy from so long ago they didn’t even have canned goods, much less the Internet. And I’m certainly not going to say “post-modern” art, either, because that’s totally passé 20th century folderol, too, and bears the additional stigma of having been invented by a bunch of gay Communist French junkies. No, “contemporary art” is about as far as I’m willing to go, until some gay guy who’s got everybody in the art world completely snowed coins whatever he’s going to coin as the term for whatever kind of art it is when you hang condoms full of rotting vegetables from the ceiling. And it seems that a lot of my readers agree with my dear sister Rose, considering not only the vegetable stuffed condoms hanging from the ceiling, but also my dear nephew’s garage floor to be pure chicanery, and not art of any kind whatsoever, which is pretty much what I expected. Thanks also to the several dozen folks who wrote in to offer their thoughts on the concept of baby clothes that glow in the dark. About three quarters of them thought it a marvelous idea, particularly the part about diapers that glow in a different color when they’re wet; while the remainder decried the idea as yet another harbinger of rampant decadence and societal collapse. I guess only time, Tide and future generations of wet baby diapers will tell.
I was truly astounded by the huge number of people who wrote in to castigate me for giving my buddy Randy Spassvogel, trade association representative for the Humorists’ Association of Cartoonists, Kibitzers, Stand-up Comedians, Allied Media Parodists and Satirists, advice on how to safely make fun of Barack Obama. Apparently, a lot of folks consider him to be some kind of saint or something, and I got called things like “conservative lackey” and “reactionary Republican scumbag,” and so forth, which was refreshing. So thanks for your comments, Obama worshipers. If I make you so hopping mad, you think I must be chums with the likes of Ann Coulter and Bill O’Reilly, then I say that means I’m doing a pretty good job of remaining unbiased.
Speaking of which, the account of my meeting with Ms. Amatullah Lumumba Venceremos Mariátegui drew a similar rock slide of verbal brickbats from the same sort of folks. Well, they’re certainly entitled to their opinions, and, since it turned out that Hillary Clinton did, in fact, get appointed Secretary of State, I suppose they must be reasonably satisfied at the moment. But I will still remind them that the State Department hasn’t been the nexus of US foreign policy for quite a while, and if their beloved Hillary gets all out-of-sorts, cranky and frustrated working there, don’t come crying to me!
My post about the ongoing problems with the International Space Station’s Cosmic Commode got me quite a few extended rants from people obsessed (primarily) with human space flight and (secondarily) with high-tech toilets and, ahem – their contents. The obvious advantages of sending robot probes to explore the solar system are completely lost on these people – as far as they are concerned, it’s got to be genuine Buck Rogers, with people flying around in space ships, and taking real, live dumps up there, too, or it’s just not any fun. Besides, they argued, who does this Tom Collins person think he is, to suggest forever depriving youngsters of that cherished childhood dream of becoming an astronaut? Well, by golly gee whiz gosh a-mighty, I never thought of that, and now that you have pointed it out, I’ll admit it, I was wrong. To hell with spending money on bridges, health care and relief for families in poverty, by Jove, let’s keep sending humans and their toilets up into outer space no matter how much it costs! There – is that better?
Strangely, I didn’t get a single e-mail from anyone in the military concerning my post about that visit I received from Lieutenant colonel Snodgrass. I have detected a large increase in the number of visits this Web log receives from users on servers in the military domain, however; and a lot of civilians wrote in to concur with me about how stupid our military IT officers are to use Microsoft technology. So, how stupid are they? They’re so stupid, they think Hamburger Helper comes with an extra person. No, worse than that – they’re so stupid, they study for a blood test. No, wait, they’re even stupider than that – they’re so stupid, they go in for jury duty and get convicted. Yeah, that’s how stupid they are.
Since Minnesotans are much too polite to ever complain about anything, the post concerning my dinner with Knudsen, the aide to Senator Norm Coleman, got no e-mails from anyone in the state. And as of this writing, there is still no resolution of the Minnesota Senate race, even though they have had, after all, since November to count the votes. On the other hand, it’s winter in Minnesota now, so maybe they figure “Why not take our time about it, eh?” I did get a lot of e-mails from people in Iowa and Wisconsin, mostly containing jokes about Minnesotans, such as “Q: How can you tell that a Minnesotan is an extrovert? A: They stare at your shoes when they talk.”
If I receive one more e-mail in reaction to my December 9th post, telling me in no uncertain terms that, for my information, the Irish are very sober people and there is, in fact, no corruption whatsoever in Chicago politics, or Illinois’, for that matter, I will puke. Anybody who doubts that denial ain’t just a river in Egypt should see my Inbox.
To the hordes who wrote in about “1600 Tobacco Road, 20500,” no, I don’t smoke. I used to, but even then, I didn’t start until I was well over 21 and quit as soon as I realized how insane some people can become at the sight of a cigarette. For the record, prior to partaking of my first coffin nail, I was never bothered by other people smoking, not even by living with a girlfriend who smelled like cigarettes and woke up every morning with a terrible cough. But I did not realize what the self-righteous busybodies of our society put smokers through until I lit up and experienced it myself. Maybe smoking’s a bad habit, but harassing other people because they do something you don’t like is an even worse one. And all right, I do visit the occasional cigar bar, plus, about twice a year, Cerise and I share a hookah at one of the local Lebanese restaurants. But I have yet to encounter somebody crazy enough to barge into a cigar bar or a Lebanese restaurant and start yelling at everybody to douse their smokes, show some consideration for others, your smoke is polluting a healthy person’s air and so forth. Maybe the anti-smokers just need a bit more time in order to get that loony. Anyway, if you don’t smoke now, Dear Reader, for God’s sake, don’t start, because these days, the nagging, ridicule, insults and general verbal abuse you can expect to experience will drive you to drink before the week is out.
A lot of rough, tough cream puffs wrote in to chastise me for suggesting any kind of sympathy in my December 19th post for people like my dear mother and poor Mr. and Mrs. Scheissenthaller, who got ripped off by Bernie Madoff. Oh no, these high and mighty scolds insisted – investment is all about risk and it’s the investor’s duty to determine the risks before forking over any money. Sure, that’s why Wall Street spent the last quarter century coming up with investment instruments like derivatives, credit default swaps and auction rate securities that are specifically designed to hide the risks, not only from investors, but from the self-proclaimed financial geniuses who dreamed them up. The fact that Madoff’s investment instrument of choice was a Ponzi scheme didn’t seem to matter much to these folks – with believers in neoclassical economics, ideological purity apparently trumps rational thought. Which, when you consider the nonsense they constantly spout, makes perfect sense. There were more than a few who insisted that Mr. Scheissenthaller had nobody but himself to blame for his investments with Mr. Madoff, and that Scheissenthaller’s failed suicide attempt, which I described in the post, was entirely appropriate, the only real problem being that he did not succeed in ridding the economy of a factor which no longer possesses any further utility for the financial industry. Since then, of course, Thierry Magon de La Villehuchet and Adolf Merckle, who were both once billionaires and recently became paupers – thanks to Mr. Madoff – have managed to kill themselves quite successfully. So I hope my correspondents in this matter are completely satisfied, because their theories have been vindicated at last. Now, I respectfully suggest that they, and the rest of the crackpots and dupes who espouse supply-side, “free-market,” laissez-faire and neoclassical economics find their very own tall object, climb to the top and jump off – before things get so bad they’re dragged up there and thrown off by an angry mob instead. After you, Dr. Samuelson, oh, no, Dr. Laffer, after you.
I am well aware that the Kennedy family is a herd of sacred cows, but how little did that prepare me for the onslaught of irate Kennedy worshipers who went absolutely ballistic about “The Princess and the Peon.” You know, in the face of, you know, so much, you know, clamor, I, you know, relent – Caroline Kennedy, you know, should, you know, be appointed to, you know, the US Senate seat, you know, left vacant by, you know, Hillary Clinton.
5h0uts 0ut 2 to all the 3l33t hax0rz who wrote in with insightful comments on how to spoof e-mail addresses. It seems that the one which fooled Hundsfot in my post about this year’s HUD IT holiday greeting card is one of the most elementary. All tolled, and throwing out the duplicates, I now have eighteen different ways to send Bob an e-mail that looks like it came from Alice, but is really from me.
My post on Roland Burris’ appointment to Barack Obama’s vacant US Senate seat drew quite a bit of invective from Illinois voters who love Governor Blagojevich – all three of them. Plenty of other people have written in to say that Burris shouldn’t be seated and never will be. But as of today, I hear that Harry Reid and company are, well, let’s say, reconsidering their decision to give Burris a boot in butt and might change their minds before the Illinois Supreme Court declares that the governor’s paperwork doesn’t really need Jesse White’s John Hancock on it to be valid – and thus remove from the Senate leadership that convenient avenue with which they were hoping to circumvent an inconvenient truth. Well, don’t forget, Harry old boy, if, when push comes to shove, you and your colleagues still can’t bring yourselves to let Roland play Senate with you, there’s always that jail in the basement of the Capitol!