Washington had its first snow storm of the winter yesterday, followed this morning by an ice storm that has, predictably, paralyzed the place completely. Around eleven thirty, our new President remarked to reporters he’s quite amazed that a quarter inch of ice could render the capital city of the greatest nation in history a crippled shadow of itself, and ruefully observed that his children’s new place of education, the swank and exclusive Sidwell Friend’s School, shut down for weather that, in their native Chicago, wouldn’t even have caused cancellation of recess. So, it appears that Mr. Obama is, rather like the proverbial car-chasing dog who at last catches one, finally realizing what he’s dealing with here. If he thinks it’s absurd that a little ice storm can spook all the principals and deans of the Washington metropolitan area into shutting down their respective temples of education, I would advise that he just wait and see what effect the least suggestions on his part for constructive modifications in the way our federal government operates have on the legions of lazy, incompetent, corrupt, ignorant and half-witted fools who work for him in the Executive Branch. Seriously, if he wants to change something, well, let him start with a program of thorough reform for our Civil Service. Attempting that will, at least, allow him to understand why climatic events which go hardly noticed in sensible places like Chicago send Washington DC into a quivering tizzy – the population here, being thickly larded with pea-brained members of the United States Civil Service, is afflicted with a higher percentage of fatuous, gibbering ninnies than anywhere else on the planet. These career bozos who work for you, Mr. President, get vertigo peering down at the tarmac over the towering precipice of a street curb. Are they afraid of their own shadows? Forget it – coddled and insulated from reality for their entire careers, they have surpassed such insignificant states of mind completely. No, Mr. President, the puling, simpering leeches of the United States Civil Service tremble at the very idea of their own shadows. As the ice storm demonstrates, Mr. President, if you actually intend to get something done around here, if you do indeed mean to change anything at all about Washington or this nation, if you are, in fact, determined not to have the Obama Administration last but four miserable years and go down in history as a pathetic, embarrassing failure for Americans in general and black Americans in particular, then the first thing Nancy Killefer, your newly-appointed Chief Performance Officer, must do is wring the waste, fraud, abuse, sloth, nepotism, mendacity, dishonesty, criminality and nose-picking idiocy from the Civil Service. And good luck to her with that, sir, because compared to cleaning up places like the DOI, Commerce Department, EPA, USDA, HUD, FDIC, IRS, VA, GSA, FDA, DHHS, DOJ, DOL, TSA, CMS, HRSA, SSA, NASA, FAA and the DOE, well, frankly, Hercules’ job mucking out the Augean stables was a frigging picnic in the park. Just wait, Mr. President, until you discover that the only thing members of the United States Civil Service hold in greater contempt than the American people is the person whom the Constitution says is their boss. Wait, Mr. President, until, in the very near future, Ms. Killefer reports to you that the Civil Service is routinely ignoring your Executive orders and, as it has for nearly half a century, done whatever it damn well pleases with your power and the taxpayer’s money. Then, Mr. Obama, you will learn who really runs the Executive Branch of our federal government. Then you will see that the truly important question is this: do you, Mr. President, a self-proclaimed acolyte at the altar of Change, have what it takes to change that?
So, anyway, there was a distinct dearth of live, in-person appointments today. Most of my clients who had scheduled consultations decided to conduct them over the telephone. Three clients managed to show up for their appointments in the flesh, however; the first two were a Russian and a Swiss. They, like Chicagoans, simply traveled to my office as if nothing had happened; and after all, from their point of view, nothing much had. Then there was a Ms. Pruim Raap, of PETA, who had taken the train up from Norfolk on Monday and was staying at a hotel only four blocks away. Shortly after I had returned from lunch in the restaurant next door, she announced herself by starting a shouting match in the outer office with Gretchen, my private secretary.
“Do you know,” I overheard Ms. Raap demand, “how many foxes had to die just so you could have that coat?”
“As a matter of fact,” I heard Gretchen hotly reply, “I do! Seven!”
“Oh, really,” Ms. Raap volleyed back, “is that what the clerk at the animal murder store said?”
“I know how many,” Gretchen seethed, “because I shot them! On my parents’ farm in Pennsylvania!”
At that point, I took the initiative, entering the outer office, placing myself between the two young ladies and offering my hand in greeting. “Ms. Raap,” I cordially murmured, “it’s a pleasure to meet you. Please,” I continued, gesturing toward my office, “come in and make yourself comfortable.”
As we entered, I gestured to the chairs and the sofa apologetically. “I’m sorry about the leather upholstery. Over here, however,” I gestured to the corner, where I had strategically placed it in anticipation of Ms. Raap’s visit, “is a hand-made, free-trade wicker chair woven from organic rattan.”
“Thank you, Mr. Collins,” she muttered perfunctorily as she eased her ample frame onto the seat. “I’m here,” she began, “about the Super Bowl advertisement.”
“PETA has an advertisement,” I asked as I sat down at my desk and began a Web search, “that’s going to run during Super Bowl XLIII?”
“Well,” my guest sniffed, “we were going to have one.”
“Oh, I see,” I confirmed as I read the search results. “NBC has refused to air it because… wait a minute, is this right? Because it’s ‘too sexy?’”
“Correct,” Ms. Raap nodded sternly.
“And you’re sure,” I inquired for purposes of clarity, “that this isn’t some kind of Internet hoax?”
“Unfortunately,” she declared in a stony voice, “it’s not. And we were informed about it Monday afternoon, which is why I took Amtrak up here to Washington on Monday night. I’ve been meeting with various people about this all over town since yesterday.”
At that, I looked up from my computer monitor. “Any conclusions?”
“Yes,” she hissed. “I’ve concluded that Washington DC is full of heartless, bloodthirsty carnivores!”
“Ah, yes,” I agreed, “it most certainly is. But actually, I was asking you about what conclusions those heartless, bloodthirsty carnivores might have reached.”
“Well,” she shrugged, “none of the people who work for the government would even talk to me. At the FCC, they had armed guards escort me out of the building.”
“Nobody in the federal government will talk to a member of the public about anything,” I affirmed. “Even if they represent a large, well-known organization such as yours. Have you visited any other consultants?”
“Not yet,” she admitted. “You’re the first one.”
“Okay,” I crooned in my most understanding yet business-like tone of voice, “I’ve located a link with the video. Let’s have a look at it so we know what we’re dealing with here.”
At that, I clicked on the Play control, and my desktop system’s speakers filled the room with a stomping hard rock beat while the screen showed a fifteen-second montage of very well endowed, rather pretty, quite thin and scantily clad young women cavorting sensually with a variety of vegetables amid some truly lavish and luxurious interior decorating, interrupted by quick flashes displaying the text “Studies Show,” “Vegetarians Have Better Sex,” and “GO VEG,” followed, at the very end, by the PETA logo. As Super Bowl commercials go, I’d say it was pretty good. And since it was only fifteen seconds long, I watched it five times. My sixth viewing was interrupted by the loud grumble of Ms. Raap clearing her throat pointedly.
“Seen enough?” She peered at me intently.
“I suppose so,” I allowed as I discreetly book marked the link and turned to face my client.
“All right then, Mr. Collins,” she insisted, “do you see anything lewd or obscene in that advertisement?”
“Ah, well,” I replied slowly, consulting the notes I had taken while viewing the video, “I don’t see how anyone could complain about nudity here – my God, even after all those dramatic clothing drops, they’re still wearing considerably more than the beach extras in Baywatch. As a matter of fact, maybe that has something to do with it, because there are all those ultra high heels, garters, sheer black stockings, black lace… I mean, seriously, this thing could double as an ad for Victoria’s Secret, Fredericks of Hollywood or La Perla.”
“And do you suppose, Mr. Collins,” she grumbled, disgustedly, “that the mighty censors at NBC would have allowed a fifteen second commercial like that for one of those firms to air during Super Bowl LXIII?”
“If the leggy, pouting, hard-body lingerie models weren’t flouncing their designer hair, pursing their over-structured lips and shoving their elegantly shaped derrieres at the camera while doing suggestive things with broccoli, onions and bok choy,” I opined, “then, yes, I think they probably would.”
Ms. Raap gave me a suspicious glance. “What ‘suggestive things?’”
“Oh come now, Ms. Raap,” I gently chided. “I’m sure that, should this advertisement have been allowed to air during the Super Bowl, there would be millions of American men wishing that they were a certain very, very lucky pumpkin that appears in it.”
“But – she just… licks it,” Ms. Raap protested, “that’s all.”
“And later,” I added, “holds it close to her lithe and lovely Mount of Venus.”
“Ah, yeah,” Ms. Raap sighed, a bit too wistfully, it seemed to me, “she certainly does.”
“Pressing it in, hard, but gentle” I elaborated, ”with determined conviction…”
“Oh…” Ms. Raap gasped softly.
“…feeling the undulating rhythm of its bright orange rind nestle into the soft flesh of her thighs…”
“Ah, ah…” Her breath quickened.
“…deeply sensing its profound weight…”
“Oh, oh, oh my God,” she panted.
“…filled with meaty pulp…”
“…uh, uh, uh, uh, uh, uh…”
“…gravid with musky, potent seed…”
“Auuuuugghh!” Ms. Raap exclaimed, her eyes rolling back in her head.
“It’s enough,” I concluded, “to make you wonder what that other girl is going to do in her bubbling hot tub full of vegetables.”
“Oh, oh… huh?” Ms. Raap, suddenly aware of what had just occurred, blushed bright red. “Uh, yes, of course. I see your point, I suppose.”
“And the asparagus,” I pressed on, “my goodness, madame! One need not be Sigmund Freud to figure out what’s going on there, when that young lady slides that bundle of snapping fresh, green heads from her pert and elfin decolletage down her smooth and flawless abdomen, to caress it lovingly between her…”
“Stop! Stop!” Ms. Raap stood up. “I… you… the censors… PETA… Mr. Collins, it’s plain to see that you have a dirty mind, just like everybody else! The point of our advertisement is that sex is good and natural, just like eating a vegetarian diet, and that if we were all vegetarians and nice to animals we’d all have better sex and then everyone could get a date and…”
At that, she apparently became dizzy and attempted to sit down again, but, lacking the composure she had the first time, collapsed onto the gracile rattan wicker structure as if it were a sturdy oak sofa, consequently smashing the politically correct, vegan chair I had provided into splinters. “I am so, so, very sorry about your chair, Mr. Collins,” she huffed as she struggled to her feet, ostentatiously refusing my extended hand and offers of help.
“Think nothing of it, madame,” I assured her. “Not to worry – it’s a tax-deductible expense.”
“Yes, well,” she puffed as she finally managed to stand up. “That’s good, then. So, what’s your reaction to the PETA Super Bowl commercial?”
“After watching it,” I told her, “I truly feel like I’ve had all the essential daily nutrients I need, with no cholesterol and hardly any fat.”
“Why, that’s wonderful,” Ms. Raap exclaimed. “That’s the reaction we were looking for all the time!”
“Of course you were,” I agreed.
“So what can we do,” she implored, “between now and the Super Bowl?”
“The ad’s only fifteen seconds,” I observed, “and, I assume, it was shot using digital technology?”
“Yes, yes,” she nodded, hopefully, now hanging on my every word, “only fifteen seconds, and every single one of them shot completely in digital format.”
“Then the solution is simple: have your production company pull a couple of all-nighters and re-edit that advertisement.”
Her eyes widened, expectantly. “Re-edit it? How? You mean, take out the message about sex?”
“No,” I politely informed her, ”you can leave in your printed message that studies show vegetarians have better sex.”
“Then what should PETA do in order to get our ad shown during the Super Bowl?”
“There’s only one thing you can do,” I explained. “Take out all those naughty vegetables.”